“Likely she is unaware that he is absent.”
The dowager’s furrowed brow dug to deeper depths. “Strangely enough, she seems informed of that fact. Which only makes me more convinced that her situation is extremely pressing.”
The spirits took on a sharper burn in Orlov’s mouth. Mere coincidence? Cynicism had long ago sharpened his suspicions that such chance occurrences were rarer than hen’s teeth.
Shannon seemed to be of the same mind. “You say she is bringing a party of friends. Are you acquainted with them as well?”
Lady Octavia shook her head. “Sylvia makes no mention of their names. But I am sure they will be her usual entourage of silly fribbles and Tulips of the ton.”
“Is she pretty?” he inquired.
“Before you get any ideas, young man, be warned that she hasn’t a feather to fly with.”
Fearing that perhaps their interest in the impending visit was appearing too sharp for mere strangers, Orlov decided to add a more frivolous note to the mood. “If I were looking to marry—for money or for beauty—I should not have to let my gaze stray too far.”
“Have a care with your flirtations, Mr. Oliver.” She waggled a bony finger. “I might say yes, and then where would you be?”
“In heaven,” he replied with an air of angelic innocence.
“Hmmph!” Try as she might to be stern, her snort sounded suspiciously like a chuckle. “The devil you say.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Orlov saw that Shannon appeared to be listening to the exchange with only half an ear. Her gaze had swung around to the alcove overlooking the stone terraces. The interior was unlit, but he knew from an earlier exploration that a narrow doorway, locked and barred from the inside, allowed access to a small walled herb garden.
She suddenly rose, and without explanation disappeared through the darkened doorway.
“Fie, sir!” Lady Octavia twisted at the fringe of her India shawl. “I fear you have wounded Miss Sloane’s feelings with your silliness.”
“Miss Sloane is all steel beneath those dowdy gowns. She has no tender sentiments toward me. And even if she did, she is quite capable of defending her heart from errant thrusts.” He said it lightly, but his muscles tensed, and he shifted in his seat, ready to spring to action at the slightest hint of trouble.
“Really, Mr. Oliver. I have seen her little dagger, but I can’t quite picture her wielding one of my forefathers’ Viking broadswords.”
“She might surprise you,” he murmured, slipping a hand inside his coat to loosen the hidden knife.
“The young woman is trained as a governess, not a Death’s Head Hussar.” The dowager sighed. “A very competent one, so far as I can tell. But an embroidery needle is probably the only weapon she has wielded with regularity. More likely she is shedding a private tear or two.”
More likely she was shedding her shawl and climbing around the manor walls to see if she could spot any trouble, he thought wryly. But in the next instant, the humor of the situation quickly faded. At the idea of her encountering D’Etienne alone, he could not longer sit still.
“I had best go see if she is in need of… comfort.” Cold comfort it would be if she stumbled up against the Frenchman’s ruthless blade.
But before he could move, Shannon slipped back into the room. “Forgive me.” The smudge of dirt on her sleeve was almost imperceptible, as was the scrape on her knuckles. “I felt a sudden draft and thought I should check that the windows were all properly fastened before you took a chill, milady.”
He quirked a brow in question.
“And indeed, a latch had come loose. I set it back in place, and checked that the others are snug.” She smiled at Lady Octavia before slanting him a meaningful look. “No harm done. But we should ask the gardener to tighten the hinges and bolts. I will make a note of it.”
“How very thoughtful of you, Miss Sloane. It appears that my son has hired not only a governess but a guardian angel.”
“You might need divine intervention, milady, to keep you safe from my advances,” murmured Orlov, seeking to divert the dowager’s attention before she spotted the telltale leaves clinging to the hem of Shannon’s skirts.
Catching his glance, Shannon reached for her notebook and pencil, shifting just enough to cover the bits of brown.
The teasing earned him another sharp reprimand from the dowager. “Though with my advancing age and infirmities,” she added with a sigh, “I would not mind being swept off my feet. I am finding it deucedly difficult to move around like I used to.”
“You don’t appear to have slowed a whit.”
The elderly lady met his wink with a thoughtful look. “Another splash of whisky, if you please. My ancient bones cannot bear too much excitement in one evening.”
Shannon rose to refill Lady Octavia’s glass. The man could charm the scales off a snake. And it seemed that no female between the ages of eight and eighty was safe from his flirtations. Save, of course, for herself. But then, she knew the truth about him.
“Now, it’s time you tell me something about your history, Mr. Oliver.” The dowager squinted through the cut crystal. “Miss Sloane has given an accounting of her background, but you have yet to give any hint of your credentials.”
Shannon set down her glass, curious to hear how he would explain himself.
He didn’t bat an eye. “My mother’s family is from Yorkshire. I attended Oxford where I studied philosophy and the classics, along with a spot of English literature. I had hopes of reading for law or perhaps the church, but as my family suffered a series of severe financial setbacks during my first year, I was forced to give up my scholarly endeavors and make my own way in the world.”
“A pity. I imagine you would have been quite good at either profession,” mused the dowager. “So you became a tutor?”
“No. As I was quite skilled at riding, I joined a traveling circus of acrobats. Our travels took us through the Low Countries and along the Baltic coast. Where, I confess, in Hamburg I became enamored with a merchant’s daughter and signed on as driver for a trade caravan headed East. Alas, it turned out she was engaged to the head purser, so I found myself stranded in Warsaw.”
“And then?” urged the dowager, clearly fascinated by the tale.
“I worked at a number of odd jobs which allowed me to travel to even more exotic places. I spent quite a bit of time in St. Petersburg and Moscow.”
“Doing what?”
“Oh, serving as a secret agent for Tsar Alexander, among other things,” he replied with a perfectly straight face. “Then I made my way down to the Black Sea and Constantinople. It was quite an education in itself.”
Lud, the man ought to turn his hand to writing horrid novels, thought Shannon. Her own pencil paused on the page. With such a fanciful imagination and uncanny ability to lie through his teeth, his outrageously romantic tales would no doubt have the ladies of the ton swooning for more.
“After all that, I would think that teaching would be a trifle boring,” remarked the dowager.
“I have had my share of excitement in life.” As Orlov lowered his lashes and assumed a soulful smile, he looked innocent as a choirboy. A look he no doubt had perfected in the cheval glass. Shannon almost found herself believing his story. “I am quite content to put my experience to work on Master Prescott’s behalf.”
“How fortunate to have found you. Or rather, for you to have found us.” Lady Octavia set aside her glass and slowly rose from the leather armchair. “Much as I have enjoyed the evening, I shall leave you and Miss Sloane to work out the fine points of the weekly lessons while I seek my bed. Haven’t the stamina I once had.”
“What a bouncer,” hissed Shannon as the dowager tapped her way down the hallway. “How did you ever come up with those stories?”
He fixed her with an inscrutable look. “What makes you think they are lies?”
“Oxford?” She said it with pronounced skepticism.
“Merton College, to be more preci
se. Professor Henry Gilmartin is a renowned scholar on the Socratic tradition.”
“I thought…”
“Think what you will.”
He was right, of course. She really knew nothing about him, save for the bare-bones facts of his last few exploits. It had been her own imagination that had fleshed out the man. Assumption had shaped his character, sculpted his features to fit her own perceptions. Art and reality. She had painted a portrait of him in her head. Maybe she needed to look a bit more closely at the actual shape of her subject.
“Have I a bit of haggis on my chin?”
Caught staring, Shannon quickly looked back down at her notebook and resumed sketching a floor plan of the manor house. Yet somehow the pencil moved from the straight lines and right angles of the walls to scribing a fanciful curling of squiggles. A lock of hair took shape, then an ear, a nose, a sinuous curving of lips. Damn. Her impulsive doodlings were likely no more accurate than the other views. Her skills were too clumsy, his character too complex to capture on paper.
“Anyone I should know?” He had moved swiftly, silently across the carpet. “With fangs like that, it looks to be a wolf in sheep’s clothing. Or, perhaps, the other way around.”
She snapped the pages shut. “We have wasted enough time in frivolous banter. The moon is full tonight. I mean to make a more careful survey of the grounds and see if I can spot any signs of surveillance.”
“I’ll come along. Two pairs of eyes are better than one.”
“No.” Her objection was a touch shrill. Somehow his closeness caused her body to tighten, her breath to quicken. “We ought not leave the children’s rooms unguarded. In fact, we had better be extra vigilant. There was no sign that the window had been tampered with, but it was a chilling reminder that D’Etienne can strike at any moment.” She drew a deep breath. “In the morning, we ought to see about setting up a series of trip wires to signal an alarm in one of our bedchambers. It won’t be easy with children and the animals, but some of the access points can be covered.”
A change came over Orlov. Subtle but sure. He no longer looked the lounging drawing room rake. His body tautened, taking on a coiling of muscle, a predatory alertness that sharpened his gaze to a frightening intensity. A wolf. Though he had left off wearing the gold earring, its bared fangs seemed to glint from the loosened strands of hair.
“I’ll go, while you keep a watch over the corridors,” he said. “I am at home prowling over wild hills such as these.”
“I’m quite capable of making my way over the moors,” she said tartly. “As you should well know.”
His eyes narrowed at the reference to Ireland. “I recall your exploits. Just as I recall that in hand-to-hand combat, I was the one who came out on top.”
Their gazes locked, a silent clash of steel and will.
“Damnation,” he said softly, seeing that neither of them was willing to flinch. “Let us not be at daggers drawn with each other, Shannon. Pride must give way to pragmatism. I am asking you to be reasonable—I am not questioning your strength or skills. But if you look at the situation with a dispassionate eye, you have to agree that it makes more sense for me to venture out while you stay here. Both tasks are equally important.” He paused. “If we are to make this mission successful, we must work together.”
She wished she could counter his logic, but no arguments came to mind. “Very well. But let us set a time for the surveillance. An hour should be sufficient. If you haven’t returned by then, I will assume the worst and act on one of our alternative plans.”
“If I fail to come back, don’t try to be a bloody hero. Get the children and Lady Octavia into the carriage as quickly as possible and drive hell for leather to your comrade’s inn at Dornach.” Orlov took her arm, lightly, but Shannon was aware of the force pulsing from his fingertips. Beneath the casual show of grace, they were hard, callused from constant contact with roughened steel. “Despite what you may think of me personally, golub, I am very good at what I do.”
“I trust that is so.” Trust. Lynsley’s word echoed in her ears, a chill reminder that she must always be on guard.
“It is.” Releasing her, Orlov turned for the hallway, moving quickly, quietly. In an instant he was naught but a blur in the shadows.
Shannon crossed her arms, goosebumps prickling her flesh. The draperies fluttered, mirroring the strange shiver running down her spine. She was suddenly glad he was not stalking her.
Whatever his faults—and they were legion—Orlov was a formidable adversary.
Mano a mano.
She hoped it would not once again come down to that.
Chapter Twelve
Orlov looked over Prescott’s copybook exercises. “Excellent. Your penmanship is already quite good.” A dappling of sunlight from the mullioned schoolroom window danced across the page. “We will move on to a longer passage… but not until the morrow.” He capped the bottle of ink. “I think we have had enough scholarly lessons for the day. Care to try your hand at some more vigorous activity?”
The lad moved like a flash to put his books back on the shelves.
Chuckling, Orlov set the box of pens and rulers beside the varnished globe and followed his pupil down to the gardens.
“Are we going to learn to duel with pirate cutlasses?” asked Prescott eagerly.
“Not just yet, Blackbeard. As we are landlocked at present, let us begin with some other skills.” Seeing the lad’s face fall, he added, “Boxing and riding will come in very handy when you go ashore seeking plunder.”
The thought seemed to cheer up Prescott considerably. “Aye, aye, sir. Where do we start?”
Orlov spelled out a program of drills. There was an ulterior motive to the games he had planned. It wouldn’t hurt to have the children trained in the rudiments of self-defense. An unexpected move, a sudden twist or slip, might take even a trained killer like D’Etienne by surprise. It could even mean the difference between life and death.
Stripping off his coat, Orlov demonstrated a few balancing exercises before moving on to the basics of throwing a punch. “Hold your hand just so, Master Prescott.” His fist angled upward. “And jab with the knuckles. Here and here. Hard as you can.” He straightened. “Now you try.”
“Like that, sir?” Prescott’s blow landed flush on target.
“Exactly,” he wheezed. “Try it again. It’s a useful trick to know if, say, a stranger ever seeks to grab hold of you.”
“And as you can see, Emma, it is quite effective, even against a far bigger opponent.” Shannon and her student stepped out from the shadows of the boxwood hedge. “I do hope you are not suffering too many bruises, Mr. Oliver.”
Orlov hadn’t heard them approach. He looked up, rubbing at his ribs. “Only to my pride,” he murmured as she held out a hand and helped him to his feet. “This bloodthirsty buccaneer would put Captain Morgan to flight.”
Prescott grinned. “Will you show me another punch?”
“On the morrow, lad. For now, go practice the balance exercises I just demonstrated while I have a word with Miss Sloane.”
“Mr. Oliver is going to teach me some riding tricks, too,” confided Prescott to his sister. “I want to learn how to flip backward off of a galloping horse.”
“Let’s not put the tail before the head, lad. That will take a good deal of practice,” said Orlov wryly.
Emma slipped free of Shannon’s hand and ran over to him. There was, he noted, an elfin, ethereal air about her. Finespun curls, pale as northern moonlight, danced in disarray from her loosened braid, framing porcelain features and light blue eyes whose hue was soft as a rainwashed dawn. She might have been a swirl of Celtic fairy mist, save for the look of fierce resolve peeking out from the fringe of quicksilver lashes.
“Will you show me, too, sir?” she demanded.
He smiled inwardly. The similarities between the newly paired teacher and student were uncanny—the same jutting chin, the same stubborn stance, the same utter fearlessness.
&
nbsp; “If Miss Sloane agrees,” he answered, lifting her into his arms. Her skinny little body felt so fragile against his chest. Vulnerable. Overpowered by a sudden surge of anger that anyone might threaten such an innocent life, Orlov hugged her tighter, breathing in the fresh scent of lavender soap as her fairy curls brushed his cheek. “However, like your brother, you will have to prove yourself ready for such a feat of acrobatics.”
Emma’s hands fisted in his collar. She looked up, shy, solemn, and nodded.
Orlov smoothed a smudge of dirt from the tip of her nose. Then, suddenly embarrassed at his odd reaction to her tentative smile, he tossed her high up in the air, catching her in tangle of muslin and wool. “It will take a good deal of hard work,” he said gruffly, bringing her back down to earth, “before either of you are ready to attempt it.”
Emma straightened, trying to look very tall. “I can keep up with Scottie, I know I can.”
“Then go with your brother and have him show you the exercises I taught him.”
Shannon, meanwhile, had perched a hip on the stone wall and was eyeing him with an odd expression. “Is your shoulder troubling you? I saw you grimace just now.”
Damn. She didn’t miss much.
“Not at all,” he replied somewhat snappishly.
Her brow quirked slightly at his tone, but she merely asked, “How are you finding the duties of a tutor?”
“More exhausting than jumping through hoops at Astley’s,” he admitted. “Are children always so energetic?”
She cocked her head. “Have you not had much experience with them?”
“God, no.” He exaggerated a grimace.
“Yet you seem to have an excellent rapport. I would have guessed that you had younger siblings.”
He shook his head. “Nor any progeny of my own—that I know of.” The offhand words quickly chased the smile from her lips. “The truth is, I’ve no idea how to treat the bantlings, other than as I would any adult.”
“Which is what they prefer.” Her voice was taut, all trace of camaraderie banished by his rakish remark.
Seduced by a Spy Page 12
