Shaking off very ungovernesslike thoughts of his curved lips, she closed her book. “He is only advising the ladies on technique. But if you wish to watch the others display their prowess, I see no reason why we can’t take a break from our classroom lessons.”
Orlov tested the flex of the bow, then chose a thinner cord. “See how this suits you, Lady Sylvia. If it is too stiff, I could shave a bit off the ends.”
She drew back on the string. “It is perfect.”
“As is your technique,” he replied. “I am glad I am not on the opposing side in this battle.”
“Lady Sylvia is a veritable Diana,” said De Villiers with a smile. “A graceful goddess of the hunt.”
“I should say she is more like an Amazon,” said Jervis loudly. “Bold and beautiful. But like the ancient figures of mythology, doomed to go down in defeat to the men.”
“Actually, the Amazons were said to cut away one breast in order to better shoot their bows,” murmured Orlov. “I, for one, am immensely pleased that Lady Sylvia is a more modern female.”
Jervis flushed with anger. “A gentleman does not make mention of bodily parts in the presence of ladies,” he snapped.
“Forgive me.” He grinned, taking care not to look the least bit contrite, and bowed low to the ladies. “I seem to have forgotten all the rules that Polite Society plays by.”
Annabelle smothered a laugh in her glove.
Jervis clenched a fist, only to have Talcott place a restraining hand on his arm. “It was just a jest that flew awry, Randall. The fellow didn’t mean any insult.”
Muttering darkly about manners, Jervis stalked away.
“First we must decide the placement of the target,” said Lady Sylvia. “Shall we start at thirty paces and move them back after each round?”
The suggestion was met with approval from both sides. The stableboy helped Orlov carry the wooden easel and sack of straw the appointed distance. As he squared the painted canvas on its bracket, he saw Shannon and the children cutting across the field. Her sweeping stride set the tall grasses to swaying, giving the illusion that she was floating on a shimmering sea of greens and golds. No amount of gray serge could disguise the bellicose beauty of her bearing. Lady Sylvia might bear passing resemblance to Diana, the Goddess of the Hunt, but Shannon was Athena personified. A flesh-and-blood Goddess of War as well as Wisdom.
The archery match momentarily forgotten, Orlov stood at attention, savoring the sight of the sunlight setting off sparks of gold in her windblown hair.
“A magnificent creature, non?”
He turned.
“Toiling as a governess seems a poor use of her talents.” The comte’s smile had a wolfish quality that set his own teeth on edge.
“I doubt that the position of cher amie would be any more appealing to a female of Miss Sloane’s temperament.” Orlov knew he ought to be encouraging an intimacy, but the thought of the Frenchman’s hands or lips anywhere near Shannon’s body was repulsive. “She is fiercely independent.”
De Villiers leaned an elbow on the cross bar. “Oui.”
“Her services are not for sale.” He kept his voice even, but some flare of emotion must have shown in his eyes, for the Frenchman drew a thumb across the painted circles, letting it come to rest in the center of the bull’s eye.
“Ah, but perhaps you did not offer the right price, Monsieur Oliver.”
A sudden fury welled up inside him. Orlov went very still, willing it to subside. Jealousy? Surely not. Cupid’s arrows would never find their mark in him.
Still, for an instant, his hands clenched so tightly that he feared the bones might crack. But then he mastered his feelings and was back in command. Loathing—for his own momentary weakness and the comte’s hauteur—gave him the strength to appear amused by the Frenchman’s retort.
“In for a penny, in for a pound.” Baring his teeth, he barked a cold laugh. “You are welcome to try your luck,” he said. “But it may cost you more than you think to penetrate Miss Sloane’s defenses.”
De Villiers was no longer looking so smug. Where a moment before the comte had smelled blood, now he was not so sure. Still, his reply had an arrogant edge. “My purse is deep.”
Flashing a mocking grin, Orlov resumed his adjustments to the target. “I was not speaking of money.”
The children’s approach put an end to the tête-à-tête.
Emma reached him first, her face flushed with the effort of racing through the meadowgrass. “Are you going to play Robin Hood and vanquish the evil sheriff?”
“Nay, my fair maiden.” He swung her up in his arms, feeling the softness of her sun-warmed curls touch his cheek. “I am sorry to disappoint you, but no heroics for me. I am simply assisting the ladies in a friendly competition with the gentlemen.”
“Miss Sloane had us studying about famous archers in history.” Prescott skipped away from Shannon’s side, eager to share his morning’s lesson. “Did you know that William Tell shot an apple off of his son’s head? And that five thousand English bowmen defeated a force of twenty thousand Frenchman at the Battle of Agincourt?”
“Lud, you are a bloodthirsty little buccaneer.” He chuckled, ruffling the lad’s hair. “The only target at risk today is this sack of straw.”
“They begged to be allowed to watch the match.” Shannon shot him a look of apology. “I saw no harm in it.”
He nodded. “A practical display of skills is always educational. But keep them well off to the side.” To the children he added, “Mind Miss Sloane. No larking about, or you will find yourselves back in the classroom.”
“Yes, sir,” they chorused.
“I will take her, and let you get back to your duties.” Her hand brushed against him as she gathered Emma in her arms. She must have felt the coiled tautness of his muscles, for her brow furrowed in silent question.
Orlov shook his head ever so slightly. Whatever her inner misgivings, she heeded the warning and turned away without comment.
“Mr. Oliver!” Lady Sylvia gave a wave. “Are you about ready?”
All of the London party looked to be growing impatient to begin. The Talcott sisters were fussing with their skirts while Jervis stood with their brother in the shade of a live oak tree, flexing his shoulders.
He walked slowly back to the line that had been drawn with powdered chalk.
“Fraternizing with the enemy?” Even in teasing, Sylvia’s tone had a brittle note to it.
A strange choice of words. He looked up sharply. Or had all the waiting and watching pulled his nerves to the snapping point?
“De Villiers,” she added. “Arnaud has been insufferable in asserting that the ladies do not stand a chance against the gentlemen. I am counting on you to give us an extra advantage.”
“An unfair advantage,” called Talcott as he peeled off his coat. “There was nothing said about expert advisors. It seems unsporting of you, Sylvia… unless, of course, Miss Sloane would like to offer us her services.”
“You don’t need a governess, Mr. Talcott,” replied Shannon.
“Indeed, let us not be childish in quibbling over the fine points of the competition,” said De Villiers. “We are willing to take our chances against Mr. Oliver, mes amies. Aren’t we?”
The thrum of a bowstring punctuated the rustling of the leaves. “Yes, let us see just how well the tutor translates theory into practice.” Jervis snapped off another imaginary shot, then waved a mocking salute at Orlov. “Would your protégés care to go first?”
“Why not?” Lady Sylvia stepped to the line and held out her hand.
Drawing several arrows from the quiver, Orlov sighted down each shaft in turn before choosing one. “The breeze is blowing in from the right. I would factor in at least a hand’s span to your aim,” he murmured.
Sylvia fingered the feathers, then nocked it in place. In one smooth movement, she drew back the bowstring, drew a bead on the bull’s eye, and let fly.
“Oh, bravo!” Helen clapped. Sylvi
a’s shot looked to have lanced through the target just outside dead center.
“Your turn, Lord Jervis,” said Orlov. “You will be hard-pressed to equal the lady’s shot.”
Jervis pretended not to hear the barb as he fussed over his choice of arrows. When he finally made his selection and took aim, his hands were surprisingly steady.
Interesting, noted Orlov. So the London lord was able to keep anger from interfering with his performance.
A sharp whoosh signaled his shot. A moment later, the arrow hit home, matching Lady Sylvia’s accuracy.
“A point for the gentlemen,” announced the comte as Jervis strutted away from the line.
Neither Helen nor De Villiers could come closer than the outer ring. Annabelle and her brother missed the target completely.
Another round ended with nearly the same results.
“Archery is hot work.” Talcott patted his flushed face with his handkerchief. “Shall we take a break for lemonade?”
“And perhaps a quick review on the basics of grip and aim,” said comte dryly.
“Will you show me how to hold a bow, Mr. Oliver?” It was Emma who asked, earning a look of undisguised annoyance from Annabelle, who had just opened her mouth to make the same request.
“Very well, my dear.” Orlov dusted a bit of powdered sugar from his hands. “Finish your biscuit and then let us move over there, behind the apple trees, where we won’t disturb the adults.”
“I should be happy to offer my advice, Miss Annabelle,” said De Villiers. “Seeing as your advisor has deserted you.”
Jervis spread a blanket, removed his coat, and loosened his Belcher neckerchief. “Come have some lemonade, Sylvia. We have no need to sharpen our prowess.”
“A temporary truce? Oh, very well.” She accepted the proffered glass and sat down beside him. “Miss Sloane, would you be so kind as to bring the baskets over here.”
It was not phrased as a request, but Shannon made no objection. After giving Prescott permission to climb into the branches of the shade tree, she dutifully set to work laying out the collation of cold meats and bread.
“Mr. Oliver.” A tug on his hand brought his gaze back to Emma. “I am ready. May I try a shot at the target?”
“First you must show me that you have mastered the basics of handling a bow.” Orlov flexed the length of yew, which was half again as tall as she was. “Then you must be able to draw the string.”
Her chin rose. “I’m very strong.”
“And very determined.” He laughed. “For now, I shall show you the proper grip. Later, we shall see if we can find a more suitably sized weapon in the attics. Then you and Scottie can have your own competition.”
She flashed a gap-toothed grin, seemingly satisfied with the compromise, and carefully wiped her palms on her skirts.
“Put your hand here,” he instructed. “And here.”
Emma’s stubby little fingers struggled to keep the bow upright.
“Try again,” he murmured. But much as he tried to pay attention to her efforts, Orlov found himself distracted by the rising discord between Annabelle and De Villiers.
They seemed to be arguing over some fine point of technique. The girl’s voice turned from a tone of whining to outright defiance, and the comte was clearly losing his patience. He snapped a sharp rebuke and out of the corner of his eye, Orlov saw her try to jerk away. Both were gripping the feathered end of the arrow, while its tip cut a dizzying pattern through the air.
“Fie, sir. I really don’t need any more pointers from you,” cried the young lady.
Annabelle Talcott would do well to listen to someone, he thought. Before she got herself into real trouble. But neither her sister nor her brother appeared to be paying her ill-mannered outburst any heed.
A giggle drew his wandering attention back to Emma. He smiled and shifted her fingers on the bow, but for some reason, the hairs on the back of his neck were standing on end. Puzzled, Orlov angled a quick look over to the nearby woods. An inner alarm warned that a threat was lurking nearby. Yet nothing seemed amiss.
“Watch out!” It was Shannon’s voice, sharp as steel.
Orlov ducked, knocking away the bow and instinctively shielding the child with his body. For a moment, he heard only the soft swish of the long grass, the gentle rustlings of the leaves, and Emma’s squeak of protest.
Then the sound of racing feet.
He tensed and twisted, trying to spot the danger. He saw a blur of brown skirts, Shannon’s spinning limbs…
His own arms and legs suddenly went numb as Annabelle screamed, “It slipped!”
At the same instant, Shannon dove, flattening him to the ground. The buzz of the arrow, like an angry bee, cut through the roaring of blood in his ears. He was dimly aware of fabric ripping.
“For a man with no claim to sainthood, you came perilously close to playing the role of Sebastian.” Shannon rolled off his back and sat up.
He saw a small gash on her arm through the torn sleeve. “So you rushed in where angels should fear to tread? Damnation, that was dangerous—”
She tugged down her cuff. “A critique of my tactics can wait until later.” Her voice dropped a notch. “Let us make light of the incident. There is no sense in frightening the children.”
A reminder to keep an emotional distance from the danger? Orlov knew she was right, but the soft stirring of Emma’s fragile little body against his chest made detachment impossible. His heart was still pounding with a fury that threatened to fracture his ribs.
Never had he faced such a diabolical adversary. He felt helpless fighting shadows and suspicions. It seemed that any one of the London party—including a spoiled young miss—must be viewed as a threat.
But perhaps the most dangerous enemy of all was himself. This mission had become personal. Was his nerve finally betraying him?
A sidelong glance at Shannon sharpened his resolve. Time enough after this mission to decide whether the moment had come to hang up his dagger. Right now, he had a job to finish.
Red-faced and gasping for breath, Jervis and De Villiers were the first to reach them.
“Good Lord, is the child hurt?” demanded Jervis as he dropped to his knees in the tall grass.
“No. Thanks to Miss Sloane,” said Orlov, his body still clenched in a protective cocoon around Emma.
“Mr. Oliver, Mr. Oliver, let me out! I don’t like this game!” came a muffled little voice.
He unbent enough to allow her face to peek out over his arms. “You are right, elf. It’s a silly game. We won’t play it again.”
“Mr. Oliver is more used to rough-and-tumble wrestling with boys,” said Shannon, gently lifting Emma from his grip. “Here, let me wipe a smudge from your cheek.”
Suddenly reminded of Prescott, Orlov jerked his gaze along the edge of the orchard, finally spotting the lad still in his perch overlooking the picnic.
“Scottie, come down from the crow’s nest,” he called. “Our ship is about to set sail for home.”
Talcott huffed to a halt, trailed by the ladies.
“I—it was an accident,” cried Annabelle, her voice wavering between fear and defiance. “Monsieur De Villiers wouldn’t let go of my hand. I—I didn’t mean—”
Shannon silenced her with a stare. “No hysterics, please. None of us imagines you did it on purpose.” Turning to Helen, she said, “Kindly take your sister away and wave a bottle of vinaigrette under her nose if she is in danger of fainting.”
The two Talcott ladies retreated in a swish of silks and sobs.
“I had better go and see if I can keep the floodgates from bursting,” growled their brother. He blotted the sheen of sweat from his brow. “Bloody hell. There are times that I think the chit is more trouble than she is worth.”
“Miss Annabelle has an unfortunate tendency to exaggerate,” said the comte tersely. His face was so bloodless it looked as if it was carved from marble. “And to allow her violent emotions to go unchecked. I feared her temper w
as getting out of hand and was trying to remove the weapon from her grasp.” A flicker of his gaze was the only sign of his own emotion. “Are you sure the child is unharmed?”
“Quite.” As he spoke, Orlov signaled a silent warning to the comte to say no more about the danger in front of the little girl.
Lady Sylvia looked shaken, but her eyes were on Shannon rather than Emma. “Where did you learn such astounding moves, Miss Sloane? I swear, I’ve never seen such a display of acrobatics—not even at Astley’s Circus. You flew over that wall as if on wings.”
“It was nothing nearly so dramatic. In the heat of an emergency, everything seems to be moving fast. Things often become blurred.”
Orlov knew it was no such thing. He, too, had seen her hit the wall at a dead run, vault into a spinning handspring flip, and land on her feet without missing a stride. An instant later, she had flung herself forward, flattening him and Emma in the nick of time. The arrow had whizzed by harmlessly. Or nearly so. The cut on her arm looked to be only a scratch.
“And yet you sound so calm, mademoiselle,” observed the comte. “As if you have a great deal of experience in handling a crisis.”
Shannon answered without hesitation. “I am a governess, Monsieur De Villiers, so of course I am trained to deal with all sorts of contingencies.” She smoothed a tangle of hair from Emma’s cheek. “Dealing with children is a dangerous assignment. They are always straying into trouble, so I have been taught to always stay on guard.”
“Ah. Of course. When you put it that way, it makes a great deal of sense.” De Villiers inclined a slight bow. “You are a credit to your training. mademoiselle.”
Lady Sylvia looked less sure. Eyes darting from Shannon to Jervis, she bit at her lip. “No amount of training can explain how you managed to outrace an arrow.”
“Indeed not,” replied Shannon. “I had a quite a head start. Seeing how erratic Annabelle’s actions were, I had a feeling that an accident was about to happen. So I decided to take action, no matter how foolish I might look. Better safe than sorry.”
Jervis placed a hand on Lady Sylvia’s shoulder. But whether it was meant as a comfort or a warning was unclear. The London lord had turned just enough to hide his expression.
Seduced by a Spy Page 18
