Feeling his eyes intent on her face, Shannon quickly composed her thoughts. “I imagine that you, too, could rail against the unfairness of life. It can’t be easy—a gentleman of title, and no doubt of wealth. And yet here you are, forced to abandon your homeland, your heritage, and take refuge in a foreign country.”
“Not easy, no. But like you, I am a pragmatist, and make the best of the situation. There are worse places to land than in London. And several of the more influential émigré families saw to it I was introduced into Society.”
“Have you known Lady Sylvia and the others for long?”
“We are casual acquaintances.” His answer evaded the question. “When Lady Sylvia invited me to join in the journey to Scotland, I accepted. It appealed to my sense of adventure.”
“So, you are not intimidated by the unknown.”
“Nor are you. It is another thing we have in common, Miss Sloane.” His dark lashes were long and thick, and he used them with the same subtle skill as a lady. “There had to be a great many other teaching positions available closer to London.”
“None that offered the same rewards.”
“Back to money.”
“They say it is the root of all evil. But I daresay that those who have it would not be quite so smug if they were to awake one morning and find themselves penniless.”
De Villiers let out a low bark of laughter. “I am sure that one of Aesop’s fables says much the same thing. However, as I am not nearly as erudite as Mr. Oliver, I cannot recollect it. No doubt he could recite it to us verbatim.”
“Actually, I believe he said that his expertise does not include French.”
“Quite right.” As he shifted his hand on the stone, the winking of moonlight caught the flash of gold. The crest cut into the burnished metal looked to be a gryphon. On his pinkie was a smaller ring, the single ruby appearing nearly black in the shadows.
“As Miss Annabelle remarked, the man does have an admirable set of muscles for a scholar.”
“Mr. Oliver believes in the ancient Greek ideal—mens sana in corpore sano.”
“A healthy mind in a healthy body.” De Villiers paused. “Yes, he did mention his expertise in the classical languages. Speaking of which, I cannot quite place his accent? Has he studied abroad?”
She, too, could dodge direct query. “Even to an English ear, a Yorkshire accent sounds quite exotic.”
“Ah. That must explain it.”
After exchanging a few more trifling pleasantries, the comte offered to escort her back to the warmth of the blazing log fire. Shannon was quick to accept, and once inside, she took her leave from the rest of the party, pleading fatigue and the need to rise early for lessons.
She was tired, and the day had left her with much to mull over. Draping her shawl over her dressing table, she began to pull out her hairpins. For a moment, she found herself staring at her own face in the looking glass. In the flicker of candlelight and half shadows it was hard to reflect on exactly what she saw. Was it a subtle shift in perspective, or were her eyes not as sharp as she thought?
Perhaps in the morning things would appear clearer.
Moving to the window, Shannon took a last look out over the gardens as she tied her hair back in a simple plait. The sky was still clear, allowing a wash of pale moonlight to cast a silvery shimmer over the ornamental plantings. There was a stillness to the leaves, an air of quiet—
Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a sudden slip of movement. A flutter of lace beneath a dark cloak.
Lady Sylvia. And she was not alone.
Shannon dropped her brush and shot for the back stairs. Hurrying down to the kitchen, she passed through the pantries and eased the scullery door open. Her slippers were soft and she managed to creep noiselessly around to the privet hedge in time to hear Sylvia’s tone turn more agitated.
“… of course I did not know they would be here!”
The man’s reply was low, and too muffled for Shannon to make out the voice.
“Well, I suggest you think of something, and fast. Miss Sloane is too bloody sharp for my liking. She has eyes like daggers.”
Flattening herself to the ground, Shannon slithered closer to the edge of the shrubbery, trying to identify the lady’s companion.
“I am not imagining things.” Lady Sylvia’s shrillness carried clear enough through the chill, but the man had his back to Shannon. Blurred by the fluttering leaves, his size and height were too indistinct to make out. He could have been any of the three male guests. Or a stranger.
“Oh, easy for you to say,” said Lady Sylvia in response to his muddled words. She listened for a moment longer, then gave a grudging nod. “Very well, I’ll trust you to handle things. But try to do it without delay. The sooner we can quit this moldering pile of rocks, the better.”
Her companion shifted, throwing himself deeper in shadow.
“We had better not linger out here any longer. Someone might spot us.” Clutching at her cloak, Lady Sylvia nearly stumbled over a twist of ivy vines in her haste to retreat.
Shannon made a sure-footed return to her own room without being seen. As the door closed silently on its freshly oiled hinges, she decided that Orlov ought to be informed immediately of this latest development. If he had not yet left on his nightly patrol, perhaps he could—
She stopped short at the sight of Lady Octavia sitting on the bed with an ancient pistol in her hands.
“Who are you?” demanded the dowager.
Shannon didn’t answer right away.
“And don’t bother repeating that farrididdle about being a governess arranged by my son. I have stayed silent, trying to decide what it is you are up to, but now that Sylvia and her party are here, I dare not sit back any longer.”
“Lady Octavia, it is very late, and perhaps you have become a trifle confused, what with all the recent upheaval of your quiet routine. If you would care to have another look at the letter—”
“I have not been tippling at the sherry,” said the dowager grimly. “I may appear a doddering old fool to someone as young as you, but I’m still sharp enough to know my own son’s handwriting.”
Shannon drew a deep breath, then let it out in a wry sigh. “I shall inform Whitehall that its forgers are not quite as good as they think.”
The weapon wavered just a touch. “You have been sent by Whitehall? Prove it!”
“I cannot,” she replied. “I work strictly undercover. Nothing must connect me in any way to the government.”
Lady Octavia’s eyes remained narrowed. “And Mr. Oliver? He works for Whitehall as well?”
“No. This is a joint venture, so to speak. I am not at liberty to say who he works for, but I assure you he is—”
“A friend, not foe.”
Shannon looked around to see Orlov silhouetted in the doorway.
He stepped into the room and drew the door shut. “And like my lovely colleague, I cannot produce any official orders from my superiors in St. Petersburg. I can only offer my word as a gentleman.” He raised his candle, just enough to illuminate a gold-lashed wink. “In a manner of speaking.”
The dowager’s frail shoulders relaxed, and her weapon dropped. “Demme, why didn’t you say so in the first place?”
“We were under strict orders not to alarm you,” replied Orlov.
She made a rude noise. “As if your skulking around in the night was not cause for concern, young man. Though I did wonder whether the two of you were simply covering up your amorous exploits.”
“Alas, my colleague is of the opinion that this assignment must be all business, no pleasure.”
Shannon was glad that the dim light hid the flush of color rising to her cheeks. “As you see, Mr. Orlov—that is, Oliver—has enough serendipitous wit for the two of us. In any case, there is nothing remotely pleasurable about the situation.”
Orlov’s expression turned deadly serious. “No, indeed. The children and you may be in grave danger, milady.”
; “I suspected as much.” If anything, the glint in Lady Octavia’s eyes grew a touch brighter. “From that sly puss Sylvia?”
Shannon and Orlov exchanged looks. “We cannot say for sure.”
“What do you know?”
She hesitated, but he merely shrugged. “No sense in keeping it a secret.” Moving a step closer to the dowager, he dropped his voice to a low murmur. “The French are desperate to stop your son from working with the British military. They have dispatched one of their top agents to come here.”
“To kidnap the children?” asked Lady Octavia.
“Or worse,” answered Shannon. “To be blunt, we believe he will do whatever he thinks is necessary to achieve his goals.”
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Orlov’s profile take on a harsher line in the limning of moonlight.
“We are not exaggerating the danger, milady,” he said. “Monsieur D’Etienne is a remorseless killer.”
“Hmmph.” Lady Octavia blinked and then checked the priming of her pistol. “Then we shall have to make sure that he never gets the chance to do his dirty work.”
“Precisely. We have been working diligently to ensure just such a thing.” Orlov softened his words with a slight smile. “Miss Sloane and I are heartened to know we may count on your firepower should it come to that. But for now, we would like to ask you to leave the offensive forays to us.”
The dowager set aside the pistol—quite reluctantly. “So you wish for me to act as if nothing was amiss around our guests.”
“An ancient Chinese general wrote a little book that is still considered the bible of warfare, milady,” said Shannon. “One of his precepts states ‘Be tranquil and obscure.’”
“And if I remember correctly, another one says, ‘Although capable display incapability.’” Lady Octavia mused for a moment. “Angus is also an admirer of Sun-Tzu, Miss Sloane. And I suppose the man’s thinking makes a great deal of sense. Even if he was a heathen foreigner.”
“So, in the spirit of international harmony, I propose we follow the fellow’s teachings,” suggested Orlov.
“I will do my best,” replied the dowager solemnly.
“As will we, milady.” Shannon repressed a shiver as she carefully removed the flint from the ancient firearm. “As will we.”
Chapter Fifteen
Weapons were much in evidence the following morning, as the London party insisted on arranging their archery games immediately after breakfast. With Euan, the elderly footman, as a guide, Jervis and the comte headed to the attics and soon reappeared with an armful of sturdy yew bows and leather quivers filled with arrows.
“Lud, these were probably used against our forefathers at the Battle of Culloden Moor,” quipped Talcott as he fingered the feathered shafts. “They look as if they could penetrate a suit of armor.”
“And most likely did. The Scots have a rather bloodthirsty history,” said the comte.
“Neither the English nor the French have a spotless reputation when it comes to violence.” Stepping into the entrance hall, Orlov bowed to the ladies before adding, “One has only to look at the current conflict.”
“Are you, perchance, a Quaker, Mr. Oliver?” asked Jervis in a needling tone. “For you certainly sound like a man who shies away from a fight.”
“Alas, no. Though I admire their patience and pacifist principles, I am of the opinion that violence is sometimes a necessary evil.”
Lady Sylvia smiled in approval. “A very gentlemanly sentiment, Mr. Oliver. It is hard to find fault with your thinking.”
Jervis flushed, while the comte seemed to be taking amusement in some private joke. Talcott, who did not look at all happy at having been roused before noon, gave a peevish grunt. “Are we ready?”
“Yes. Why don’t you help Randall and Arnaud with the bows, while we ladies fetch the picnic hampers prepared by Cook.” She turned, pausing just long enough to flash a coy appeal. “Seeing as you are on our side, perhaps you would be kind enough to lend us a hand, Mr. Oliver.”
Lady Sylvia seemed to be taking a conspicuous delight in goading her London friends into an ill-humor this morning. The reason was not clear to Orlov, but as it suited his own purposes for the moment, he had no objection to playing along.
“I would be delighted to do so,” he replied, offering his arm with a flourish. He did not miss the dirty look darted his way by Jervis.
And by Annabelle. Robert Talcott’s fondness for the bottle was no doubt exacerbated by his youngest sister. She was a little hellcat, spitting adolescent anger and frustration. Clearly she thought her beauty ought to have men groveling at her feet. That the ones around her were paying more attention to an aging widow and a prim governess was obviously infuriating.
As he escorted Lady Sylvia to the kitchen, Orlov reminded himself to seek a private moment or two with the girl. In her present mood, she might easily be coaxed into talking about others in intimate detail.
The chance came during the walk to the orchards. Still in a childish snit, Annabelle had refused to keep pace with the other two ladies. On the pretense of checking that he had remembered to add a wood file and carving knife to the last basket, Orlov dropped back and waited for her in the shade of the walled herb garden.
“I could not help but see that you seem to have little enthusiasm for the upcoming game, Miss Annabelle. Are you feeling out of sorts?”
“I am surprised you noticed aught but Lady Sylvia’s walking dress,” she replied rather waspishly. “Really, a lady of advanced years ought not wear such a low-cut bodice.”
“When a lady is past the lush bloom of youth, she must resort to desperate measures,” murmured Orlov.
“You do not appear to think she has withered on the vine.” Her voice was still sulky.
“I must go out of my way to be polite. As a hired servant, I can hardly afford to offend my employer’s relative.”
Annabelle’s face brightened as she thought on his words. “Yes, I see what you mean. How very boring for you, sir.”
“Sometimes.” He flashed a rakish smile.
She sidled a step closer. “Except when you are stealing kisses from that stiff-rumped governess?”
“I overstepped the bounds of propriety. As you saw, she quickly put me back in my place.”
“Silly cow. Be assured I wouldn’t kick up such a dust over a little harmless flirtation.” Clutching at his shirt, she suddenly lifted herself on tiptoes and planted an awkward, open-mouthed kiss on his lips. The picnic basket swung wildly, striking a glancing blow to his leg before tangling in her skirts.
Easing back from her embrace, he gently pried it from her grip. “Allow me.”
Annabelle’s eyes had a dangerous glitter. He quickly took her arm and started to walk. “Much as I would like to deepen out acquaintance, this is neither the time nor place,” he whispered.
“My friend Catherine is tupping her Papa’s head groom,” she said boldly.
“Risky.”
“Cat says it is ever so… exciting to do something risky.” He saw the erratic flutter of pulse at her throat. “I allowed Johnny Wollton to put his hand up my skirts last month, but he’s only a boy and is not half so handsome as you.” She pressed her hips against his. “Would you like to touch me, Mr. Oliver?”
“What do you think?” His own mind was racing as he added a throaty laugh. He would have to handle the little hellion with kid gloves, else the situation could turn embarrassing. Or worse. Damn. If one of the London party caught him ravishing a highborn young miss, there would be hell to pay. A duel, an arrest on charges of assault—there were any number of ways the mission could be compromised.
Annabelle gave a toss of her head and smirked.
She was like a headstrong filly, he thought. Someone ought to take the reins and offer some guidance before it was too late. Wildness was not the same as spirit. And with her unbridled recklessness, the chit could well end up hurting others, as well as herself.
“However, I have to be very, ve
ry cautious,” he warned. “Your brother could have me transported if he catches me with you. Not to speak of Miss Sloane.” He couldn’t resist adding, “She watches me like a hawk. I fear any transgression will be reported to the dowager.”
“Oh, pooh!” she chided. “Have you never taken a chance in life, Mr. Oliver?”
“One or two,” he said with a straight face.
“That’s more like it.” As they crossed the grass to where the rest of the party was waiting, Annabelle gave a sly flounce of her skirts as she passed Lady Sylvia.
The lady did not look amused.
Talcott swore, and Jervis snapped his bowstring before turning away.
Orlov was tempted to laugh aloud. He had meant to stir up a few waves, not a full-blown typhoon. The waters were looking dangerous at the moment. He would have to steer a careful course to avoid being caught in the crosscurrents.
“It rained arrows?” Prescott’s eyes widened and Emma shuddered.
Shannon paused in reading from the history book. “It is a figure of speech,” she explained. “But according to eyewitnesses, the sky was darkened by their numbers. And to the French soldiers on the field of Agincourt, it must have felt as if the heavens had turned against them.”
Prescott rolled his pen between his fingers. “Mr. Oliver says the English archers were the most feared warriors in the world until someone figured out how to use gunpowder in firearms.”
“Indeed.”
“Papa is a wizard with gunpowder,” said Emma. “Is he a feared warrior?”
“He is a famous scientist,” replied Shannon evasively.
The little girl seemed satisfied with the answer. Her brother, however, looked up from his quill with a pensive expression.
She quickly turned the talk back to arrows. “Even today, the Red Indians of America are extremely skilled with a bow. With one shot they can bring down a buffalo, which is said to be even bigger than one of your great, hairy Highland steers.”
“Might we watch Mr. Oliver in action?” Like countless other females, Emma had been won over by Orlov’s charm, thought Shannon. He needed no weapon to slay hearts, save for a sinful smile.
Seduced by a Spy Page 17
