"Poor stranger?" Adam drawled as he and the prince walked away.
Bronyeskin gave an elegant shrug. "A prince may be humble when it suits him."
"Evidently," Adam agreed, "and this time I must insist you tell me what babushka means. I asked Miss Martingale, but she refused."
The prince's lips twitched in a half smile. "It is a scarf to cover the head," he said, shooting Adam a look of shared camaraderie. "But since it is often older peasant women who wear such things, the word has another meaning. Grandmother," he clarified, blue eyes dancing in mischief.
Adam was unable to prevent the snort of laughter that escaped him. "God help you if her ladyship ever learns that," he said, imaging the older woman's likely response. "Just as He should help you if Lady Derring remembers the language of diplomacy is French, not English."
"That one sees only her own reflection." Bronyeskin dismissed such a possibility with a regal shrug. He spent the next several minutes at Adam's side, searching the crowds for Miss Mattingale.
"Pah!" he exclaimed, his hands fisted on his hips as he glared about him. "Where is my little queen? I see no sign of her."
"Nor do I," Adam returned, suspicion giving way to genuine alarm. By his reckoning it had been over fifteen minutes since he had first noticed her absence, and who knew how long she had been missing before then? He began searching the ballroom to see if he could discern who else was missing, and it was then he noted that there was no sign of either Derwent, Colburt, or Derring's half-witted son. The trio was easy enough to recognize; they'd come dressed as Roman senators.
"Those bastards!" he growled, his temper slipping its leash as a killing rage filled his head. "If they have dared hurt her, this time by God I shall call them out!"
In a flash Bronyeskin was transformed from indolent prince to the deadly warrior Adam knew him to be. "Who?" he demanded, his eyes growing hot with murderous intent. "Who are you speaking of? If someone has threatened my Elizabeth, they will die!"
"Our host's idiot son and his repellent friends," Adam answered, striding purposefully toward the hallway leading to the rest of the house. "They've not harmed Elizabeth that I know of, but that's not to say they've not thought of it. And if there is any killing to be done, your highness, I shall be the one to do it."
"By what right?" Bronyeskin easily kept pace with Adam. "I claim Elizabeth as my sister. If she has been hurt, it is my honor to take the life of those responsible. Do not think to interfere, Falconer, I warn you."
Adam remained silent. Who would kill whom would be something they would resolve later; at the moment finding Elizabeth was all that mattered. With Bronyeskin at his side, they searched the conservatory, the music room, and were walking toward the morning parlor when they heard a burst of raucous male laughter from the room to the prince's left. Moving as one, they threw open the door and dashed inside, both of them battle-ready and spoiling for a brawl. Charles Colburt glanced up from the billiard table, where he was about to take his shot.
"Good evening, Falconer, your highness," he drawled, his pale blue eyes bright with mocking laughter. "Come for a game, have you? Pick up a cue and join us."
Without being aware of moving, Adam was on him. He grabbed him roughly by the front of his toga, throwing him against the wall and holding him there with one hand. "Where is Miss Mattingale?" he demanded furiously. "Tell me, or I'll break your damned neck!"
"What?" Charles plucked ineffectually at Adam's iron grip. "Have you run mad? Let go of me! Why would I care where that icy bitch has gone? I—" His protest ended in a gurgle as Adam's hand released his costume and closed instead about his throat.
"One word," he warned, shoving his face closer to Charles. "Just one, and I'll kill you. Again, where is Miss Mattingale?"
"I don't know!" Charles choked out, terror obvious in his bulging eyes. "None of us do! We've been in here for the past half-hour! Upon my word we have!"
"I—I saw her leaving the ballroom, my lord," Geoffrey Derwent volunteered hesitantly, his attention divided between Adam and Bronyeskin, who had drawn his sword from its scabbard and was looking eager for an excuse to make use of it. "She was making for the hallway leading to the north wing."
"What is there?" Bronyeskin asked, his voice silky even as he brought the point of his sword up and rested it against the dandy's trembling chin.
"The library and Mama's drawing room." William had stumbled to his feet. "Perhaps she's gone there?"
Recalling how Elizabeth was dressed, Adam sent him a cold look. "How do you know it was she and not some other lady?" he demanded, keeping his hold tight about Charles's throat.
The younger man looked puzzled. "I don't, I suppose," he admitted. "But it was a lady wearing a domino. If none of the other ladies have gone missing, who else could it be?"
However much he might have wished to do otherwise, Adam was forced to concede William's point. With almost painful reluctance he released his grip from about Charles, dusting off his hands as he stepped back.
"If I find out you have lied, any of you," he warned, glancing at each man in turn, "you will regret it."
Bronyeskin appeared even less willing than Adam to quit the field. Resheathing his sword, he turned to Charles, his eyes as cold as death. "We will talk later, you and I," he said, his voice rife with the promise of violence. "If you are fortunate, I will only cut out your tongue. If not, I will take instead your heart."
"You might at least have let me kill that one," he complained to Adam after they were back in the hallway. "The world would thank me for it, I assure you."
Despite the seriousness of the situation, an appreciative smile touched Adam's lips. "Undoubtedly," he agreed, "but in the meanwhile what of Elizabeth? We will make better time if we divide the search. Which do you prefer, the library or the drawing room?"
"The drawing room," the prince decided. "Elizabeth may have fled there for a few minutes' rest."
"It's the library for me, then," Adam said. "Whichever of us finds her first, we shall bring her back here."
"And if we do not find her?" The other man studied him grimly.
Adam didn't have to think before responding. "Then we tear this damned place apart until we do."
Six
"Blast!"
The unladylike epithet burst from Elizabeth's lips as she set down her flickering taper and pulled off her mask and enveloping domino. Both might serve their purposes as an effective disguise, but their very effectiveness rendered them all but useless when it came to moving about with any degree of stealth. Considering the amount of Horrid novels she'd devoured featuring similarly attired villains and heroines creeping about any number of crumbling castles and palazzos, Elizabeth thought the authors of the Minervian Press had rather a great deal to answer for. Such dexterity of movement was clearly a work of fiction, and they were doing their readers no favors by perpetuating so obvious a fraud.
Still grumbling, she extracted her letter from the bodice of her gown and turned to eye the ceiling-to-floor shelves of books. The shelves were tucked in the corner of the room farthest from the fireplace, well hidden in the shadows of the room. It took her a few minutes to locate the folding step chair and drag it into place, and another few moments to locate the book she'd selected as her temporary safe. The book was a treatise on horticulture, and if the layer of dust coating it was any indication, it hadn't been opened in the fifty years since it had been printed.
She climbed up on the top step, teetering slightly on tiptoe as she reached for the book. Her fingers closed around the spine and she began tugging it cautiously toward her.
"There you are!"
The sound of the outraged male voice behind her had Elizabeth jerking in alarm, and her balance was instantly lost. With a cry, she went tumbling back.
"Elizabeth!"
In the next moment a strong pair of arms was closing about her, and a hard male body was cushioning her fall as she landed on the floor in an ignominious heap. The book struck her shoulder, but e
ven as she was gasping in pain, she found herself on her back and gazing up at the marquess. She blinked up at him, fear giving way to wild fury. She forgot about the letter, the disparity of their ranks, even their current scandalous position, and reacted purely out of instinct.
"You idiot!" she cried, doubling up her fist and punching his velvet-clad arm as hard as she could. "What do you think you are doing? You might have killed me!"
"What am I doing?" Hot, gold eyes glared down at her out of a face that was surprisingly pale. "What are you doing?"
"Dying of fright, you beast," she retorted, her heart pounding as she fought to draw in sufficient breath. With the return of sanity came an uncomfortable awareness of the proprieties, and of the letter still clutched in her hand.
"I meant, what are you doing in here?" Falconer demanded, his jaw setting in a way that was becoming far too familiar. "We have been searching for you for the past half-hour!"
By we she assumed he meant he and Alexi, and wondered how best to turn the knowledge to her advantage. "Mrs. Tremaine thought she recalled a book from her last visit," she said at last, striving for what dignity she could muster. "She was certain it was here, and I promised her that I would try to find it for her."
"And so you decided to look for it in the middle of a ball." He continued to glare down at her in apparent disapproval, not seeming any more aware than she of the impropriety of their situation.
"Can you think of a better time?" she demanded. "I thought the room would be deserted, and I wouldn't have to worry about any unfortunate interruptions." Her chin thrust out in a deliberate show of pride. "It would seem I was mistaken."
As she expected, his lean cheeks suffused with hectic color, and she saw the moment he became aware they were lying on the floor, her limbs tangled with his. He levered himself up at once and reached for her.
"A moment, sir, if you please," she said, playing the part of innocence outraged for all she was worth. "I need to adjust my gown. If you would be so good as to turn your back?"
He was on his feet at once, presenting his rigid back to her as he turned to face the opposite wall. It took Elizabeth less than a second to slip the letter into the book and close it again.
"Thank you," she said, making the silk of her gown and petticoats rustle as she flipped them down over her ankles. "Now, if you would be so good as to assist me to my feet, I shall return to the ballroom." And she held out her hand imperiously.
He turned back to her, his expression shuttered. His strong fingers closed about hers, their touch gentle as he tugged her effortlessly to her feet. He next bent down to retrieve the book, his brows lifting as he glanced at the title.
"What book were you looking for?" he asked, raising his head to study her.
"A book on the older families in Yorkshire," Elizabeth replied, recalling the title of the book next to the one she had grabbed. It had been her first selection, but the dust on it wasn't nearly so thick as it had been on the other one. She didn't want to risk her safety on some guest developing a sudden interest in a long-dead relation.
Falconer silently held up the book, and she pretended to study the title for the first time.
"The Scientific Gentleman's Guide to Soils and Crops in Derby," she read, and gave an impatient exclamation. "All that, and I chose the wrong book?" She picked up her skirts and moved toward the chair. Her way was blocked almost at once.
"What are you doing?"
She didn't have to feign the annoyance brimming inside her. "Getting the book, of course," she said, tilting back her head to meet his stony gaze. "After nearly dying, I am not about to return to Mrs. Tremaine empty-handed."
His lips compressed in a thin line. "You didn't almost die," he retorted. "And you're mad if you think I will allow you to climb up on that thing a second time. Stay here."
He climbed on the chair, scarcely straining as he reached up to return the first book and retrieve the second. "Here," he said, thrusting it at her with obvious ill grace. "And the next time you need something on the very top shelf, have a servant fetch it for you, for heaven's sake."
As much to remind herself as him, Elizabeth sent him a frosty glare. "A servant did fetch it, my lord," she informed him aloofly. "I fetched it."
The reminder had its desired effect, and he remained silent as she redonned her mask and domino. A few moments later they were hurrying toward the main staircase, and Elizabeth took the opportunity to begin fretting about Alexi.
"I hope his highness isn't overly upset," she said, worrying at the thought of the havoc a concerned Alexi could cause. "He is even more protective than you are."
She sensed more than saw the heated glare he sliced her way. "I will leave it to Prince Bronyeskin to make his feelings known," he told her in icy accents. "But if I may be so bold, his highness wasn't the only one to be upset when it appeared you had vanished without a trace."
There wasn't time for Elizabeth to puzzle over the stiff words, as Alexi was upon them.
"Elizabeth! Duragoy!" She was scooped up in his arms and subjected to a hug that would have had a bear gasping for air. "Where have you been?" he demanded, blue eyes stormy as he set her on her feet again. "How dare you worry your Alexi so!"
Alexi's powerful hug jarred Elizabeth's injured shoulder, but she managed not to cry out. Covering her involuntary wince, she subjected both men to her sternest look of disapprobation.
"I vow," she lectured, shaking her head at them, "was there ever such a pair? One would think this was the wilds of Africa, to hear the two of you ranting on! I couldn't have been gone above half an hour! What do you think could happen in so short a time?"
Alexi gave one of his shrugs. "Half an hour can be a lifetime, little queen," he told her coolly. "And if you wish that sabaka, Colburt, to continue breathing, you will not remind me of the things that can befall a beautiful woman.
"But," he added, as Elizabeth opened her mouth in automatic protest, "it is grown late, and we must return you to the others before your absence is noted. Come." And he placed a hand on her shoulder, turning her toward the stairs.
This time she was unable to suppress a gasp, and both men instantly surrounded her.
"Elizabeth! What is it?" Alexi demanded, his touch gentle as his worried gaze swept over her.
"It is all right, Alexi," she soothed, unable as always to resist his genuine concern. "A simple bruise, nothing more. A book fell from the shelf and struck my shoulder. I shall rub it with mint and chamomile before retiring and it will be fine."
"If you are certain . . . " he began, and then broke off, frowning. "But I do not understand. How could a book fall from a shelf?"
"Not now, Alexi," Elizabeth said, twining her arm through his and leading him away. "As you said, it is best I return to the ballroom before my absence causes tattle." She was halfway down the hall before realizing the marquess wasn't with them. She paused and cast a confused look over her shoulder.
"Aren't you coming with us, sir?" she asked, thinking how grim and alone he looked standing there in the flickering candlelight from the wall sconces.
"I will be along shortly," he replied, remaining in the center of the shadow-filled hall. "Good evening, Miss Mattingale. Mind you take proper care of that shoulder."
Deciding there was no understanding the masculine mind, she allowed a still scolding Alexi to guide her back to the ballroom. They parted at the door, and Elizabeth made for the small figure of a lady draped from head to foot in a colorful mound of shawls.
"Here you are, Mrs. Tremaine," she said, smiling as she carefully set the book in the older woman's lap. "I found the book you were asking about."
The elderly lady started, peering down at the book through faded blue eyes. "Oh, thank you, Miss Mattingale, thank you indeed," she said, her thin voice warm with gratitude. She used a gnarled finger to trace the gold letters stamped deep in the maroon leather. "Er—did I request a book?"
"Yes, Mrs. Tremaine, you did," Elizabeth replied, praying she wouldn't go
to eternal perdition for lying to such a sweet lady. "Just before dinner, if you will but recall."
"Oh. Oh, of course," Mrs. Tremaine responded with a vague nod. "Then I am sure I must have wanted it. Thank you again, my dear," she added, flashing Elizabeth a shy smile. "You are very kind."
Elizabeth gave a weak smile in response before settling back to listen to the music, her conscience paining her along with her throbbing shoulder.
Idiot! Ham-fisted fool! Adam cursed himself furiously, his hands clenched at his sides as he stormed up and down the flagstone balcony overlooking the Derrings' gardens. Every time he pictured Elizabeth jerking back and falling, he felt physically ill. If he hadn't been quick enough to catch her, she could have been seriously injured, a fact he was certain would haunt his dreams for some time to come. As it was, she'd been hurt anyway, and he knew it was entirely his doing. If he hadn't come bursting into the room like a jealous husband in search of a wayward wife, she would never have lost her balance. He was strongly tempted to confess his sin to Bronyeskin, figuring the thrashing the prince would give him was no less than he deserved.
When he'd done cursing himself for his appalling stupidity, Adam decided it was time to return to the ballroom. There was still the matter of the missing papers to consider, and after observing his two chief suspects together, he was more convinced than ever that they couldn't be involved. Miss Mattingale, he was certain, was far too proud to do such a thing, while Prince Bronyeskin was too much the aristocrat to sully his honor with something so sordid as espionage. That meant the thief had to be someone whose motive for taking the papers were less obvious. He had only to deduce what that motive might be, and then he'd have his thief.
Feeling better now that he'd come to a decision, he turned back toward the French doors leading back to the ballroom. He hadn't taken but a few steps when the sound of soft, feminine laughter, echoed by an answering masculine chuckle came from the shadows. Lovers, he thought with a sigh, and since they were between him and the doors he could either risk causing yet another scandal or find some other way back to the ballroom. It took less than a second for him to choose, and he slipped quietly down the balcony's wide stone steps and out into the moonlit garden.
The Sinister Spinster Page 8
