It little helped his black mood to see Miss Mattingale being run ragged by Lady Derring and her crowd. As he watched in seething silence, the pert companion was kept busy fluffing pillows, fetching glasses of lemonade, and, in the case of one sharp-tongued young beauty, fanning the creature while she lolled on her blankets looking smugly pleased with herself. He was considering going over and putting a stop to the nonsense when Prince Bronyeskin suddenly appeared at his side.
"I am sent by the ladies to collect you, Lord Falconer," he said, his accent lightly musical. "You will come now, yes?"
In answer Adam turned his head, his lips pressed together in cold disapproval. "And you call yourself her friend," he said, his voice tight with leashed fury.
A dark blond eyebrow raised in princely irritation as Bronyeskin glanced toward the languorous brunette. "That one?" he asked, his mouth curling in disgust. "That one I do not know, nor do I wish to. She is . . . common."
Although Adam shared the prince's estimation of the young lady, he wasn't about to let him off the hook so easily. "You know perfectly well I was referring to Miss Mattingale," he said, swinging around to confront the younger man, his eyes blazing. "How can you stand by and do nothing when she is treated like a blasted lackey!"
Ice-blue eyes regarded him challengingly. "How can you stand by and do nothing, my lord, if you are so offended?"
Adam flinched, furious because, curse it all, the man was right. He dipped his head in curt acknowledgment. "Point taken, your highness."
"Da." The Russian gave a cool nod. "I can see that it is. Why you do nothing, I cannot say. For me, I must bite my tongue and act the proper guest, or my little queen will box my ears. But never fear, my lord," he added, his voice soft with menace, as he studied the young woman, "I will have my revenge upon the oh-so-lovely Miss Clarvale, that I do promise you."
Again Adam was struck by the prince's resemblance to his friend, Lord St. Jerome; warriors, the pair of them, and neither to be trusted when they had that particular tone in their voices. Hoping to relieve the tension of the moment, he flashed Bronyeskin a look of polite inquiry.
"And how do you mean to do that?" he asked, regarding the other teasingly. "Without getting your ears boxed, that is?"
In answer, the prince gave a slow smile. "We Russians are not so big the fools as you angleechankas like to think," he said coolly. "We do two things very well: We fight like demons from hell for what is ours, and we know when and where to take our revenge. A little something you might wish to share with your prince and his circle. Good day to you, Lord Falconer."
The odd conversation was much on Adam's mind later that evening as he sat in the library, staring into the flames dancing in the fireplace. The soft summer afternoon had given way to a sudden storm, and wind and rain lashed against the leaded glass windows as fierce thunder boomed across the valley. The others were in one of the drawing rooms, playing whist and chatting, but he'd slipped away, seeking solitude to brood over what Bronyeskin had told him.
The prince's remark haunted him, and he wondered if it had aught to do with the coming congress in Vienna. He knew the Russians were fiercely determined to get back Poland and other lands lost to them, and knew as well the Austrians were equally determined to keep those same lands out of the Czar's sphere of influence. A break in the alliance at such a crucial juncture would play directly into Napoleon's hands, and that—
"I say, a word with you, Falconer, if I may."
The diffident voice shattered Adam's concentration, and he glanced up to find his host hovering before him. Biting back a sharp retort, Adam managed the semblance of a smile.
"Of course, my lord," he said, hiding his annoyance as he set the book he'd been pretending to read to one side. "What is it?"
"Don't wish to accuse, you understand," the earl muttered, looking every day his age as he eased himself onto the club chair facing Adam. "Daresay you must have had a good reason for doing so, but I might have wished you'd asked permission first before taking them. It would have been dashed awkward if I sounded the alarm needlessly, eh?"
Adam leaned back, trying to make sense of the earl's rambling conversation. "And what is it I am suspected of having taken?" he asked at last, his voice carefully neutral.
"The papers from my dispatch box, of course," Lord Derring replied, then paled at Adam's lack of expression. "Never say you don't have them?" he said, trembling.
Adam snapped to attention. "Which papers?" he demanded, his preoccupation with Bronyeskin forgotten in light of this alarming development.
"Not quite sure, to be honest," the earl admitted, shrugging his shoulders and tugging at his cravat. "Hadn't had a chance to study them in any great detail. Arrived the same time as his highness, so I had but a moment to peek at them. They were from the Secretary, or at least they carried his seal. Mentioned Blücher, though, as I recall." He sent Adam an apologetic look. "You'd know more about that sort of thing than I."
Adam remained silent for several seconds, digesting the enormity of what he had heard. "Are you saying these papers are missing?" he asked, his voice carefully controlled.
In light of his response the earl abandoned all pretense and slumped in his chair like a broken puppet. "If you don't have them, then aye, I would have to say that," he said, rubbing a hand across his ruddy face. "When I went into my study this morning to catch up on my correspondence, they were nowhere to be found. They weren't in my dispatch box, which is where I am certain I left 'em. Even checked the shelves, just to be certain, but they weren't there. Suppose this means I shall have to write the Secretary after all. Not looking forward to it, I can tell you," he added glumly.
Envisioning Viscount Castlereigh's probable reaction to discovering one of his dispatches had gone missing, Adam could well imagine the trepidation the earl was experiencing, but at the moment he had far greater concerns. "Who has access to these papers?" he demanded, deciding to send off a letter to the duke without delay. His grace had several highly placed friends in Whitehall, and they would know better what ought to be done.
"No one. I keep them locked in my dispatch box," Derring answered, frowning at Adam. "Weren't you listening?"
"Where?"
"Eh?" The earl blinked at Adam's snarled demand. "Oh, in my study. Locked in my desk, to be exact."
"Then why the devil did you think I had them?"
In answer the earl drew himself upright. "Well, stands to reason, doesn't it?" he replied with a sniff. "The world knows the Regent and the Secretary don't get on, and are always keeping secrets from one another. You're the Prince's man; thought perhaps you wanted a look at the papers so you could see what was what. Besides, who else but you would be interested?"
Adam didn't bother cursing the earl for his appalling stupidity, any more than he bothered answering the accusation that he was the Regent's man. He was England's man, pure and simple, and he could think of several groups who'd do murder and more for a glimpse of the Foreign Secretary's correspondence.
"Have you told anyone the papers are missing?" he asked, shifting his mind to the matter at hand.
"Of course not!" the earl retorted indignantly. "Ain't a dashed loose screw, you know! I told no one other than my wife and Leeds, my valet. And I suppose I may have mentioned it in passing to my idiot of a son," he added, scowling. "Not that that dolt knows anything of value, mind."
In other words, Adam thought, bitterly, he had told the whole bloody world. He was about to make a caustic remark when he remembered the conversation he'd had with William the day he'd encountered Miss Mattingale in town. The young dandy had taken him to one side, asking if his father had seemed distracted to him. He recalled thinking at the time that the action had seemed deliberate, but he'd never pursued the matter. Now he could kick himself for his carelessness.
"When did you have this conversation with your son?" he asked, taking care to keep suspicion out of his voice.
"Not long ago, after the lot of you returned from the trip to the mead
ow," the earl provided. "Why?"
"No reason," Adam answered. So, the son mentioned his father's unease before the papers had been discovered missing, he brooded, tapping his fingers on the arms of the chair. It might be a coincidence, or perhaps something a trifle less innocent. In any case it might be worth his time to have a word with the younger man, and with his malicious friends as well. As near as he could tell they traveled about like a pack of jackals, one seeming incapable of acting without the goading of the other.
"What's to be done, do you think?" The earl's plaintive question interrupted Adam's reverie.
Adam took a few minutes to plan. The storm was still raging, but with luck it would have moved on by morning. A messenger traveling by coach could be in London late tomorrow evening, if he left at first light, but a good rider supplied with fresh horses along the way could make the same trip several hours faster.
"First we must get immediate word to Lord Castlereigh," he said, meeting the earl's gaze with stern authority. "If the missing papers contained sensitive information, the sooner it is known, the better. Send your most trusted servant to London with word tomorrow morning, and since speed is of the essence, send him by your fastest coach."
Derring nodded, clearly relieved to have someone other than himself in command of the situation. "Yes, my lord. What else?"
"Speak with your wife, valet, and son. Threaten to divorce the first, dismiss the second, and murder the third if they so much as breathe a word of this to a single soul. Our best hope is that our thief thinks his crime to be undetected; that will give us time to plan and then time to move."
"Eh?" The earl gave a disapproving frown. "Are you quite certain, Falconer? I think we ought to do the opposite. Sound a hue and cry, by heaven, and drive the devil out into the open, and then hand him over to the gallows."
"And if we drive him to ground instead? What then, my lord?" Adam inquired, taking cold satisfaction in the distressed look that flashed across the older man's face.
"Just so," he said softly. "We say nothing. We appear to do nothing. We let our friend think us as ignorant as babes, and then when he thinks himself safe enough, we spring our trap."
"What trap?"
Adam's smile took on a decidedly wolfish quality. "I will let you know."
Exhausted, Elizabeth trudged up the stairs to her room. She'd just come from Lady Cossinley's room, where she'd spent the past two hours rubbing the elderly lady's temples with eau de cologne. The poor woman was afflicted with the megrims, and she was so pathetically grateful for Elizabeth's assistance, she couldn't find it in her heart to be angry. But as strong scents gave her a headache, her own head was now pounding like a native's drum, and she much doubted anyone would offer to rub it for her. She pushed open the door to her room, coming to a startled halt at the sight of Alexi lounging uncomfortably on her chair.
"Alexi!" she exclaimed, quickly closing the door behind her and casting him a furious glare. "What on earth are you doing here?"
"Waiting for you, little queen," he replied, rising coolly to his feet. "You did not come to dinner and no one would tell me where you were, so I came to find you myself.
"And look at you," he added accusingly, striding across the small room to gently cup her face in his large hands. "So tired, so pale. What have you done to yourself, little rebyonuk?"
The tender endearment was almost Elizabeth's undoing. It annoyed and frightened her to feel her eyes filling with tears, and she hastily blinked them back.
"I am not a child, Alexi," she said, turning away from his obvious concern. "I was attending the dowager Countess of Cossinley, who had taken ill. Now you really must leave my room," she added, casting him a stern look over her shoulder. "You must know this will not do."
As she feared, Alexi remained where he was standing, his arms folded across his chest and a resolute expression upon his face. "You . . . what is phrase . . . ah"—he nodded—"you refine upon nothing, my Elizabeth. I was but assuring myself a friend was all right. Who but your fierce lord could find fault in this? And if anyone else should find fault, what do I care? I am a prince. It is for me to say where I will go."
His imperiousness had her longing to bash a bed warmer over his skull. "And I am a companion, your highness," she reminded him, rubbing her head and wishing desperately for the dinner she had missed. "I care very much what people may think. I've no desire to lose this position, and my reputation along with it, if you do not mind." She stopped rubbing her head as the middle part of what he had said penetrated the pain in her temples.
"Which fierce lord are you talking about?" she demanded, her hand dropping to her side as a terrible suspicion dawned.
"Falconer, but of course," came Alexi's easy reply as he beamed at her. "He was as displeased as I to see these parasites treat you like the lowliest of serfs. I know I promised you to behave, karalyevak, but I will not see you worked to death."
"Alexi. . ." she warned, refusing to be diverted even as he reached out to capture her hand in his.
"Elizabeth." To her surprise, he carried her hand to his lips for a tender kiss, his expression abruptly solemn. "When my sweet sister died, you took her place in my heart. I love you. I will not see you hurt, even if it means I must displease you. Now come, say you will do the sensible thing and marry this marquess and make me uncle to your children."
"Alexi!"
"What?" Alexi's pale blue eyes widened in innocent surprise at her strangled shriek. "It is the best answer, yes? He must have a care for you to be so angry with the others. It means he wishes to marry you, for if he wishes anything else, I will have to kill him. Honorably in a duel, of course." He added this last part with an aristocratic lift of his chin.
"His lordship is a peer of England, you dolt." Elizabeth was so tired as to forget herself. "You cannot kill him without risking an international scandal. And he might kill you, you know," she reminded him, remembering several conversations she'd overheard regarding the hard-faced marquess. "I've heard talk, and he is said to be the deadliest shot in England."
"In a shooting gallery, killing little birds in the meadows." Alexi dismissed the danger with an arrogant wave of his hand. "I have hunted wolves in the snows of Russia, syestra, and survived in the thick of battle. Who should fear whom, hmm?"
Elizabeth opened her lips to protest, and then closed them in feminine frustration. "This is foolish beyond all bearing," she told him, planting her hands on her hips and glaring at him in reproach. "No one is killing anyone, do you hear me? I am pleased his lordship is concerned, but you must understand it implies nothing; it is simply his way. He told me that he considers it his duty to protect those weaker than himself. Rather like another thick-headed male I could name." She gave a meaningful sniff should he fail to take her meaning.
Instead of taking offense, Alexi looked thoughtful. "This is so," he said, rubbing his jaw with his hand. "A man's duty, a prince's duty, must always be to the people who have need of his strength. I had not the thought angleechankas would feel as this. I find this interesting." He gazed off into space for a few moments, and then sent Elizabeth a disapproving frown.
"But why are you standing there arguing with me, kooreestachka? " he demanded, hurrying forward to drape a protective arm about her shoulder. "You should be in bed!"
Elizabeth didn't know if she should laugh or scream. "And so I should be, sir, if you'd be so good as to leave!" she said as he guided her toward the narrow bed shoved against the room's sloping walls. "Go away, do, Alexi, and don't call me a little chicken!"
"As you wish," he agreed, shoving her gently onto the sagging mattress. "But perhaps it is a little chicken I shall have the servants fetch you, hmm? And some bread and cheese as well?"
The thought of food had her mouth watering. "That would be wonderful, Alexi, thank you," she said, hoping she could stay awake long enough to eat it. It was past midnight, and she'd been up and about her duties since early that morning.
"It is my pleasure, little queen," he as
sured her, brushing a brotherly kiss over her curls. "Into bed with you, now. I will send one of the servants up to have a care for you."
After he'd gone Elizabeth got up and wearily saw to her night's ablutions. She'd donned her nightgown and robe by the time the maid arrived with her food. Too exhausted to care what damage might have been done to her reputation by Alexi's stubbornly protective nature, she devoured every morsel of food on the tray before climbing back into bed.
She was about to blow out the candle when she remembered her father's letter. The milliner had sent word through one of the footmen that her brother would be making another run at high tide, which meant she had two days' time in which to draft her response. With the masked ball tomorrow night the house would be in utter chaos, and it was unlikely she'd have a moment to herself. If she wanted the letter to reach her papa within the month, she'd have to write it now. She thought about closing her eyes and saying to the devil with it all, but her sense of duty was too strong. Muttering heartfelt imprecations beneath her breath, she tossed back the heavy covers and scrambled out of bed.
She kept her writing desk in the bottom of the wardrobe, and after dragging it out she retrieved her father's letter from the hidden compartment. She was about to unfold it when she noticed something amiss; something so small and insignificant, it took her a moment to understand what she was seeing. When she'd tucked the letter away she'd carefully pressed the small circle of wax back into place, sealing it closed. The letter was still closed, but the circle of wax was no longer quite as it had been. A small red stain showed the wax had been disturbed, and she could think of only one way such a thing might have happened. Someone had opened the letter.
Five
Elizabeth stared at the wax seal in horror, her heart pounding and the breath lodged painfully in her throat. She tried to think, but her mind refused to function, and for a mortifying moment she feared she would disgrace herself by succumbing to the vapors. In the next moment her usual sense of logic asserted itself, and she breathed a shaky sigh of relief.
The Sinister Spinster Page 6
