Merlins Maidens - Secuced by Spy - Pickens, Andrea

by Seduced by Spy (mobi)

  “Indeed.” Her gaze remained on him for a touch longer than necessary. “Still, I cannot imagine anyone—not even a saint—putting up with her whims for long.” She toyed with an end of her shawl, slowly twisting the fringe around her fingers. “Are you, perchance, a saint?”

  “Just a humble tutor, milady.”

  “Then you won’t mind carrying the bags up to our quarters?” With a gesture as silky as his accented English, the Comte De Villiers withdrew a purse from his waistcoat and shook out a coin. “As a token of gratitude—”

  “Lord McAllister’s generosity is quite enough to cover extending hospitality to his guests,” replied Orlov.

  “Ah, but in my experience, a man in your position always finds an extra bit of money welcome.”

  Orlov had already taken up two of the traveling valises, leaving no hand free. “Thank you, but consider it a gesture of goodwill, sir.”

  “A saint, indeed.”

  Jervis said nothing but flicked open his snuffbox and inhaled a pinch. “Do try this blend, Sylvia. It was made up especially for me by Lord Brimfield, who is, as you well know, the leading arbiter of taste in such things.”

  Orlov maintained a suitably subservient expression as he moved to follow the dowager’s butler up the stairs. Through lowered lashes, he noted that the other two men were, despite their assumed nonchalance, watching him. Had they noticed Lady Sylvia’s undisguised interest?

  Whatever their pedigree, men were wont to revert to animal instinct when a female was involved.

  Like dogs sniffing around a bone, he thought sardonically. De Villiers had been almost comically condescending, the deliberate wave of white-laced cuff and well-tailored sleeve no doubt meant as a marked contrast to his own frayed coat. The other gentleman’s reaction was a touch more subtle perhaps—he had merely ignored the existence of a servant.

  But of course, the air of tension could be due to an even more primal force of nature than sex—the urge to be King of the Jungle, the dominant male.

  As the new arrivals followed, Orlov heard Lady Sylvia reply to her friend. “That Lord Brimfield has singled you out with a special mixture is a mark of particular favor. He is quite influential with the Carlton House set.” Orlov heard the soft rustle of silk. “Do give me your arm, Randall. I find myself utterly fatigued from the journey.”

  “A rocky road,” murmured Jervis. “But now that we are here, things should become smoother.”

  “Hmmph,” she replied in unconscious imitation of the dowager.

  “Mais oui, Sylvia…” assured De Villiers.

  The rest of the words trailed off as Orlov walked across the carpeted landing and into the hallway leading to the guest quarters. Yet the echo of the Frenchman’s accent was amplified to an unpleasant pitch with every step.

  Damn. His penchant for irony was quick to collide with the need to view anything out of the ordinary as highly suspicious. All the cursed comte needed was a black velvet cape—lined in blood-red satin—to appear the perfect villain stepped straight from the pages of a gothic novel. Truth could be stranger than fiction, he reminded himself grimly. The scene he had just witnessed raised a number of unsettling questions.

  He would have to keep his eyes and ears open in order to read between the lines.

  “The lady is in here, Mr. Oliver,” said Rawley, his reedy voice a trifle breathless after the climb. “While the rooms set aside for the gentlemen are just ahead.”

  Orlov placed her valise in front of the painted pine armoire, then stepped aside as Jervis escorted Lady Sylvia into her quarters. After a barely perceptible hesitation, De Villiers continued with the butler, passing through a set of doors to the far end of the hallway.

  “I had forgotten how horribly rustic the place was,” said Sylvia under her breath. “But then, Lady Octavia has always been lacking in any sense of refinement.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Oliver.” Jervis dismissed him without a look. “The other bag belongs in my chamber. And do have a care, please. There are several porcelain snuff jars which are exceedingly fragile.”

  The cheval glass reflected a picture of languid grace—an impression heightened by the gentleman’s pose. Bracing a shoulder against one of the carved bedposts, he crossed his legs and ran his fingers through his hair, carefully combing the fair curls back into the à la Brutus style currently in vogue with the bucks of the ton.

  “Oh, after that, perhaps you would be so good as to give the coachman a hand with the rest of our luggage,” he added. “The coach carrying our servants was delayed this morning by a cracked wheel, and won’t be arriving for another hour or two.”

  Nodding agreeably, Orlov withdrew, but paused outside the door to refasten a buckle on the gentleman’s valise. Just as he expected, Lady Sylvia was quick to resume her complaints.

  “Perhaps this was not such a good idea after all,” she muttered. “I had hoped that age and encroaching infirmities would have softened Lady Octavia’s attitude somewhat. But it appears she is still as spiteful as ever.”

  “I have yet to meet someone who is immune to your charms,” said Jervis. “Do not abandon your efforts just yet.”

  Orlov could not make out the reply.

  “Is there a reason for the bad blood between the two of you?” continued the gentleman.

  “The dowager dislikes most everyone! But I think she has taken a particular dislike of me because I am welcomed into the highest circles of Society. While she is not.”

  “Indeed? You had not mentioned that before.” Jervis prodded her to go on. “Have you any idea why?”

  “On account of a youthful indiscretion.” There was a degree of malicious satisfaction in Lady Sylvia’s voice. “And she dares to look down her nose at my activities in Town.” Orlov heard her reticule thump down upon the dressing table. “I was not forced to leave Town in disgrace. The gossip has it that her family had no choice but to marry her off to a hairy, half-heathen Scot, no matter that his title was a minor one and his only lands this godforsaken estate.”

  Godforsaken lands that the younger lady had just taken great pains to come visit. Orlov grimaced. The new information added yet another unexpected twist to the mission. Whether it was meaningful or not was impossible to tell, but at this point, nothing could be ignored…

  “Trouble, Monsieur Oliver?”

  “Nothing I can’t deal with easily.” He rose from his knees, slowly and deliberately enough to provoke a spark of annoyance in the comte’s eyes. “There—the buckle is now as good as new.”

  “You are very clever with your hands?” It was phrased more as a question than a statement.

  “Necessity inspires ingenuity.” Of all the roles he had played in his profession, that of agent provocateur fit him like a glove. A good many people—Shannon included—would agree that he had a real knack for getting under a person’s skin. “And I like to fix things.”

  “You must be very useful to your employers.” Up close, De Villiers was not quite as foppish as he first appeared. Beneath the exaggerated lapels of his sky-blue coat and the intricate folds of his starched cravat, his shoulders were solid slabs of muscle. And though his height was only average, the chiseled taper to a narrow waist made him look smaller than he really was.

  He slapped a kidskin glove lightly against his thigh. The snug buckskins revealed the contours of more than male pride. “I wonder that you would wish to endure the hardships of this part of the world when your services would be welcome far closer to London.”

  “One man’s paradise is another man’s purgatory.”

  “Chacun à son goût,” said the Frenchman softly before moving on to rendezvous with his friends.

  Each man to his own taste, translated Orlov silently.

  If the comte had come here expecting to savor an easy victory, he was in for a rude surprise.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The arrival of the two other traveling coaches heralded a flurry of unusual activity in the castle. While Rawley oversaw the serving of
a cold collation of refreshments for the London lords and ladies, the personal maids and valets set to sorting out the luggage and seeing it conveyed to the upper floors.

  Not without a fair amount of grumbling over work that fell beneath their dignity, noted Shannon. Drawn by the sound of strange voices, she had left the children doing sums in the schoolroom to take a quick peek into the entrance hall. By the load of baggage still remaining on the slate tiles, it looked as though a regiment had taken up residence, rather than a half dozen members of the beau monde.

  They were, she imagined, already in the drawing room. As for Orlov, he was nowhere to be seen.

  It was not until the supper hour that she caught her first glimpse of the guests. The harried butler had paused in his puffing just long enough to convey Lady Octavia’s request that she and Orlov continue to take their meals with her. The positions of governess and tutor were often awkward ones when it came to protocol. They were not quite servants, not quite social equals. In the end, it was left to the discretion of the family on how to treat the relationship.

  That the dowager was not one to stand on ceremony was fortunate, thought Shannon. It afforded the opportunity to subject the guests to a closer scrutiny than circumstances would otherwise have permitted. She scraped her hair back and fastened it in a prim bun at the nape of her neck, then stepped back from the looking glass to assess the effect. A governess was supposed to appear colorless. Her dress, a shapeless design cut in a drab shade of iron gray, was suitable for her station. And after adding another few hairpins to tame an errant curl, she decided she looked the part.

  The bulge of the small pistol was hidden by the heavy folds of wool. As was the blade strapped to her leg.

  “Ah, there you are, Miss Sloane.” A rap of the dowager’s cane summoned her closer. “Come meet the guests.”

  Shannon crossed the drawing-room carpet, aware of a momentary lull in the conversation.

  “This is Lady Sylvia St. Clair, Angus’s sister-in-law.”

  If the lady in question was annoyed by the breach in proper etiquette concerning the introductions, she hid it well.

  “Her companions are Miss Helena Talcott and her sister, Miss Anna.” To the three ladies, the dowager added, “Allow me to present Miss Sloane.”

  They acknowledged her with tiny nods.

  The gentlemen, who had been examining the old fowling piece hung above a painting of a hunting scene, proved rather more forthcoming as the exchange of names was made.

  “My sisters are Helen and Annabelle,” murmured their brother with a quick wink. He had a broad, friendly countenance, though the redness of his nose and a puffiness around the eyes seemed to hint at a tendency to overindulge in spirits. He had a glass of whisky in hand rather than sherry.

  “Sloane?” he continued after a sip of his drink. “Are you perchance related to the Shropshire Sloanes?”

  “No,” murmured Shannon. “I doubt you are acquainted with my branch of the family.”

  “The ladies are all enjoying champagne. May I pour you a glass, Miss Sloane?” Shannon thought she detected a flicker of annoyance in Lady’s Sylvia’s gaze as Lord Jervis moved to the sideboard.

  “Just water, thank you.”

  “Ah, but we are celebrating.”

  What? she wondered.

  He went ahead and filled a crystal flute with the wine, prompting yet another question. Was he the sort who refused to take no for an answer?

  “Miss Sloane has very strict notions of propriety.” Orlov moved in quickly and lifted the glass to his own lips. “While I, on the other hand, confess to having slightly less lofty standards.”

  Biting back a titter, the younger Miss Talcott fixed the tutor with a bold stare that was a bit forward for a young miss just out of the schoolroom. The gentlemen did not look quite so amused.

  As for the dowager’s relative, her topaz eyes seemed to reflect the same mysterious effervescence as the champagne.

  “A man after my own heart,” announced Lady Octavia. “Come here, Mr. Oliver. And bring the bottle with you.”

  “Allow me to propose a toast.” Lady Sylvia raised her glass. “To family, and to friends, both old and new.” Her gaze never left Orlov.

  “Santé,” said the Frenchman, his mouth turning up at the corners, as if savoring some private jest.

  “Móran làithean dhuit is sìthm,” countered the dowager in Gaelic.

  De Villiers offered a silent salute.

  “Lead me in to the supper, Mr. Oliver, before the soup gets cold.”

  The dowager’s demand once again upset protocol, forcing Talcott to offer his arm to Shannon. He did so with good grace, and indeed, he seemed loath to relinquish his hold on her when they came to her chair.

  “Lady Octavia says you attended school near London.” He seated himself beside her.

  “Where?” asked Helen quickly. “Perhaps we have mutual friends.”

  Shannon did not wish to keep the attention focused on herself. “I cannot think so. It is a very small academy, and one that does not attract students from the higher circles of Society.”

  “Your family does not come to Town for the Season?” asked the comte.

  Shannon kept her eyes on her plate. “I am a governess, sir, not a belle of the beau monde.”

  Good manners demanded that the subject be dropped. De Villiers tried to draw the dowager into conversation, but his attempts were rebuffed with brusque replies. To relieve the stirring of silver and china, the Londoners fell to discussing the highlights of their journey—a topic that only seemed to drive Lady Octavia deeper into her uncharacteristic silence.

  Intimidated? It was not like the dowager to retreat from any challenge. And yet, the elderly lady was definitely subdued. Once or twice Shannon even noticed the soup spoon shake in her hand. She wondered if Orlov had any inkling why. They had not yet had the opportunity to confer about the new arrivals.

  Was he as surprised as she was to find a Frenchman making up one of the party?

  “What of you, Mr. Oliver?” Jervis suddenly directed his attention to the tutor, his tone taking on an edge of mockery. “Did you, too, attend an obscure institution of higher learning?”

  “I suppose, milord, it would depend on how familiar you are with the educational offerings in England.”

  The subtle barb did not miss its mark. Jervis colored ever so slightly as Lady Octavia answered, “Mr. Oliver attended Oxford.”

  Shannon wondered if he was deliberately tweaking the London lords. Most likely the answer was yes, she decided. His arrogance was like a second skin, and the ladies seemed to be finding his attitude intriguing. Especially Lady Sylvia.

  “Ah, a serious scholar,” remarked De Villiers. “Are you, perchance, fluent in French, monsieur? I should find it pleasant to converse in my native tongue.”

  “I know Greek and Latin, of course, but modern languages are not my field of expertise.”

  “Which is?” inquired Lady Sylvia.

  “English literature and ancient history,” he replied smoothly.

  Jervis patted a napkin to his mouth. “Rather dry subjects, to say the least. I prefer more active pursuits than holing up in a library to study moldering manuscripts.”

  “Those who do not recall history are doomed to repeat it.”

  “Bonaparte would agree with you,” remarked the comte. “By all accounts, he is a keen student of the subject.”

  Before Orlov could form a reply, Lady Sylvia interjected her own comment. “Mr. Oliver does not have the look of a man who spends all of his time in a dark, stuffy room.”

  “Do you hunt?” asked the elder of the Talcott sisters. Like her brother, Helen had thick auburn hair and wide hazel eyes. Her features were pretty enough, but her face was a bit full and her nose a trifle sharp—she would never be thought beautiful, especially in comparison to Lady Sylvia. Perhaps that was why her mouth appeared pursed in a perpetual pout.

  “On occasion,” answered Orlov. “Do you—”

  �
�Then you must join us on a shoot,” interrupted Jervis as he sliced off a morsel of pheasant. “Tell me, have you noticed much game in the area?”

  “I have seen plenty of grouse on my morning walks.”

  “I was thinking about something more challenging than birds.”

  Orlov allowed a small smile. “I would imagine that these moors offer plenty of sport.”

  “Excellent. I look forward to seeing how well scholarly skills translate to stalking roe deer.”

  Shannon sipped her mushroom bisque. No, you do not.

  The meal proceeded without further incident. As Lady Octavia remained unresponsive to polite conversation, the London contingent turned to discussing the merits of a recent exhibit of landscape painting among themselves. Though Orlov listened politely, he was aware of how pinched the dowager’s expression had become, and how deeply her eyes had sunk in their sockets. As if she had withdrawn to some inner place of refuge.

  Why? It was yet another unanswered question. He felt his grip tighten on his knife. And there were too damn many of them for his taste.

  When she rose abruptly and suggested that the ladies leave the gentlemen to their port, he pushed back his chair as well. “Allow me to assist with the tea service, milady. I am sure that these gentlemen would prefer to relax in some privacy.”

  Jervis seemed to realize that such an arrangement would leave the tutor alone with the ladies. “Let us not stand on ceremony,” he announced. “We will take our postprandial drinks with you in the drawing room, if that is agreeable, Lady Octavia.”

  She shrugged her bony shoulders. “Suit yourself. But be advised that if you wish to blow a cloud, you will have to do it on the terrace.”

  After escorting the dowager to her favorite chair by the fire, Orlov contrived to brush by Shannon. “Keep the gentlemen occupied here for the next quarter hour.”

  “Why?” she whispered.

  “I want to make a quick search of the comte’s quarters, while his servant is still at supper.”

  She looked uncertain. “I am not sure how—”