Dukes to the Left of Me, Princes to the Right

by Kieran Kramer

  “Nothing in the second crate,” she told him a minute later.

  “Nor in mine.”

  They were both at work on the third box when they heard a few men talking loudly and occasionally guffawing out front.

  “They’re coming home from the pub after a hard day’s work,” Nicholas said. “They won’t notice anything amiss.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “No, actually,” he said. “You’re never sure in this business.”

  “Don’t tell me that.”

  “It’s part of the fun.” He chuckled.

  “You call this fun?” Her fingers stumbled from file to file.

  “It makes for a good story later.” He pulled out a file and scanned it. “Damn. I thought I had it. But it’s the wrong number thirty.”

  They searched another fifteen seconds.

  “Another thirty.” Poppy yanked a file out and thrust it at him.

  He threw it open. “Is your mother’s name Marianna?”

  “Yes,” she cried, her voice cracking. But then her heart nearly stopped—she heard shouts outside.

  “Mr. Harlow. How are you this evening?”

  “Harlow, you need to get out more.”

  Several other male voices in the street echoed the raucous greeting.

  From the front of the house, a Yorkshire accent called back, “Off with ye, lads. Go piss on someone else’s tree. I’ll nowt have ye drinkin’ o’er here.”

  From behind the house, the chickens started cackling. Poppy grabbed Nicholas’s arm. She couldn’t speak. Calmly, he scooped up the papers and handed them to her.

  “Hide these as best you can,” he whispered.

  She did as she was told, shoving the papers into her bodice. Her heart was hammering, and her breath caught in her throat.

  The man who lived here was coming down the front walk. She heard his shoes crunching the gritty pavement.

  Nicholas moved like silk, silently and smoothly, putting the file back in the crate and returning everything to its place. Without another word, he moved the small braided rug and pulled up a ring on the floor.

  “Down,” he ordered her.

  Poppy stuck her leg down the dark hole, fumbling for a ladder with her foot, and finally found one.

  “Keep going,” he hissed.

  When she heard the front doorknob rattle and then the front door swing open on squeaky hinges, she had to suppress a little cry. She stumbled through the dark and hit the bottom of the tunnel. Behind her, she felt a whoosh of air as the trapdoor shut silently above her head.

  She sensed Nicholas’s presence rather than saw him.

  Yes. They were going to be all right.

  She threw her hand out and felt nothing but air to her left, so she blindly moved that way. The tunnel smelled of damp earth and decay, like a tomb.

  One step at a time, she told herself. She moved forward and was astounded to realize she wasn’t afraid. The truth was, she’d never felt so exhilarated in her life.

  * * *

  As he descended the ladder, Nicholas was mentally reeling. And not from their near miss with the house’s occupant. He’d had such close calls before. This was his second time in the tunnel, so he navigated it a bit easier going out than he had coming in. When he caught up with Poppy, he grabbed her hand.

  “We’re all right,” he whispered, and gathered her close.

  She clung to his neck like a drowning sailor, the papers in her bodice a small, stiff wall between them.

  “You’re very brave,” he murmured in her ear.

  She was still clinging, but she was also nuzzling—his ear, to be specific. “I love breaking into houses,” she whispered.

  “You do?” It was another shock. He gave in to temptation and caressed her backside.

  “Mm-hmm.”

  He pulled her hard against him, and they kissed in the pitch-black darkness—kissed as if they were both starving and this kiss were their last meal.

  Finally, reluctantly, he pulled back.

  “Why do you make me feel so wanton, Your Grace?” she whispered. “We’re underground. We’re in someone else’s tunnel. And you’re the most exasperating man I know. I should be running from you, but instead, I—”

  “You what?”

  “I crave your kisses,” she said simply.

  Somehow that humble admission touched him like nothing she’d ever said before. She was so brave. And true to her feelings.

  He pulled her to him for one more kiss. “I want you, too. Actually, I’m desperate for you. You’re the most maddening woman I know, and I wouldn’t have you any other way.”

  “Really?” She placed little kisses along his jawline.

  “Really,” he said, caressing her waist. “But—”

  “But back to business.” She pulled away, her tone firm and Service-like. “I’m ready for my orders.”

  He led her to the portion of the tunnel leading upward. Rain was falling hard now, and droplets of cold water dripped down on their heads.

  “This Mr. Harlow can see out his back windows,” he said. “We can’t leave until we know he’s not looking,”

  “How can we do that?” she asked.

  “There’s a peephole at the top. We’re lucky, really, for the rain. It’s gotten darker and he’ll probably light a lantern. We’ll be able to see him more readily, and hopefully, he’ll retreat to his office behind the blanket.”

  “I hope so.” Her whisper was thin.

  “We’ll stand together on the ladder because we have to leave together. And we obviously have to leave fast. You’ll go first. Head to the barrels and pick up your milkmaid’s pail before you go.”

  He heard her stifle something that sounded rather like a snort. “We’ve got chickens to get around,” she said. “They’re all huddled in the shed.”

  “You’re supposed to be terrified.”

  “I am. But it’s still funny.”

  He chuckled, too. “You’re right. It is. But meanwhile, I need you to be our lookout. Leave as soon as the coast is clear. I need to slide that false wall back into place, and I’ve got to do it quickly.”

  It was a good ten minutes before Poppy moved. But when she did, Nicholas was right behind her. She did a marvelous job of tiptoeing around the chickens without disturbing them. Then she clambered over the side of the coop and ran to the barrels.

  The rain was falling in sheets, disguising any noise they might make. Nicholas took three seconds to replace the wall and sprang over the coop for the barrels, where he picked up the logs and the canvas roll.

  He caught up with his partner in crime, who was already walking rapidly back up the alley to the north. When they reached the corner, they slowed their pace. She was breathing hard, she had rivulets of water running down her cheeks and nose, and her hair was a god-awful mess.

  But he thought she’d never looked so beautiful.

  CHAPTER 32

  When Poppy arrived with Nicholas back at the hackney on Pearl Street, the driver barely spared her a glance. Nicholas had assured her he’d paid the man well not to ask questions. On trembling legs, she clambered in first with her little bucket, Nicholas not far behind with his logs and canvas roll.

  Only when the vehicle lurched forward did she let herself fall apart … just a little. She fell against Nicholas’s equally wet shoulder and began to laugh.

  “I can’t believe—” She giggled. “I mean, I really can’t believe—” She sat up ramrod straight and stared at him. “Did we just do that?”

  Nicholas, even rougher-looking now than he was earlier, arched a brow. “Yes, we did, and the papers bulging out of your bodice are proof.”

  Dear God. She’d forgotten about the papers in all the excitement. She pulled them out—luckily, they were mostly dry—and tossed them on the opposite seat.

  “I don’t know if I can look at them quite yet. I need to recover.”

  “I do, too,” he said. “And not just from breaking into that house. From you. You’re
delicious as a sodden milkmaid.”

  There was a beat of silence, and she let out a breathy sigh. “You’re appallingly good-looking in your workman’s disguise. Especially when wet.”

  “Am I?”

  “Yes.” She splayed her hands against his chest and stared into his eyes.

  He tugged on one of her bodice laces and stopped, the lace taut in his hand.

  She looked up at him.

  And stopped breathing.

  Something in his eyes melted her heart. He leaned forward … she met him. And they kissed. In the middle of it, Poppy realized it was the best kiss she’d ever had. Because that kiss told her everything her heart already knew.

  She was in love.

  With Nicholas.

  * * *

  A few seconds after the most riveting kiss he’d ever had, Nicholas admitted to himself that doing Service work with Poppy was much more exciting—and yes, more risky—than working alone.

  But the risk seemed worth it.

  She was becoming rather an addiction, and he’d have to be careful. After they married—a future he refused to consider wouldn’t come to pass—he was to deposit her at Seaward Hall. But he was already asking himself how he could go back to work in London knowing she was sleeping in his bed, having his children, arranging flowers from his garden, and having adventures in his castle.

  Because he was sure she would. Life at Seaward Hall would never be dull with her in residence.

  “I’m ready,” she said, her lips cherry red from their kissing. She moved back to the other seat. “Tell me what surprised you at that house. Something did.”

  “I’ll say.” Nicholas was still trying to take it in. “The house belongs to Mr. Groop. I immediately recognized his handwriting on the files. And on his desk, I saw a scarf he often wears to his office.”

  Poppy held her hand to her mouth. “Heavens, what was it like, knowing you’d burgled your own employer’s home?”

  “Like entering the Prince Regent’s bedchamber,” he said, “something completely off limits and, quite frankly, a place you never want to see.”

  “How did you find my mother’s file when all you had was those cryptic numbers to go by?”

  He enjoyed seeing her eyes sparkle with excitement.

  “Part luck,” he said. “Part knowing Groop and his quirks. His hobby is learning everyone’s birthdays, and he enjoys playing with numbers. So I did some mental arithmetic with my own birthday to see if I could find my file. I tried a few different combinations, and one worked. It turns out he adds the digits comprising the year, month, and day to come up with that mysterious number. It was easy enough to get your mother’s number using the same formula.”

  Poppy leaned toward him, her eyes sparkling. “Did you see your own file?”

  He hesitated. “Yes. But I didn’t have time to read it.”

  “I’ll bet you wanted to.” She chuckled.

  “I’m not so sure.”

  “You were completely focused on helping me, and for that I thank you.”

  The grateful, overlong look she cast him warmed him at the center of his being. “You’re welcome,” he said gruffly.

  She smiled, and there was an easy silence between them. He wasn’t used to enjoying being with a woman so much. She put on no airs. Yet she was always a lady to him.

  Even at her most wanton.

  “He goes by Mr. Harlow at home, apparently,” she said.

  “And puts on a broad Yorkshire accent.”

  Poppy’s brow furrowed. “Why would my mother have anything to do with Mr. Groop?”

  “Let’s look at the papers and find out. But I must warn you”—he pulled her across to his seat and looked deep into her emerald eyes—“it appears as if Revnik wasn’t the only one working for the English government.”

  Poppy’s mouth dropped open. “You’re jesting, aren’t you?”

  “No. Your mother had Groop’s address. Not many people do. I never have.”

  Poppy shook her head. “Let’s look through the papers,” she whispered.

  Together they did just that.

  “Twenty years in the Service,” Nicholas said, scanning one page. “She was known as the Pink Lady.”

  Poppy’s lips were a round O as she read another page. “My mother. A spy for the English.” She put the papers down and stared at Nicholas. “But she never acted like a spy. She acted like a mother. And a wife. And a friend.” Her eyes got a little shiny. “I—I didn’t even know she loved pink so much that she’d choose it as her spy name.”

  “She might not have. She might have chosen it because she never wore pink. To throw off anyone who got hold of the name.”

  Poppy sniffed. “You’re right, actually. She never did wear pink. Except in the portrait. And that was probably a clever little thing she did for the Service, in honor of her spy name.”

  It was one thing Nicholas loved about the Service. The people who worked for it were resourceful. Brave. And clever.

  “Remember,” Nicholas attempted to reassure her, “even though she was employed by Groop, she was still your mother. And a wife. And a friend.”

  Poppy shook her head. “But I still feel hurt. It’s as if … I didn’t know her.”

  The atmosphere in the carriage grew decidedly gloomy, like the weather outside.

  “Of course you knew her,” Nicholas insisted. “You know me, don’t you? And I happen to do secret things. It doesn’t change who I am. You can trust me.”

  “That’s true.” Poppy bit her lip thoughtfully.

  He was flattered she agreed.

  “And how about you?” He grinned. “You’re in the clandestine business at the moment. Are you any different? Or are you still … Poppy?”

  She gave a little shrug. “I suppose I am. I wonder if Papa knew?”

  “That’s hard to say.”

  “But when you love someone … shouldn’t you tell them everything?”

  He had an unbidden, brief recollection of that entire night he’d spent with Natasha at the Howells’ residence.

  “Sometimes,” he said carefully, “to protect that person from harm, you don’t tell them everything. It’s not because you don’t love them. It’s because you do.”

  Not that he loved her, but he hated to disappoint her. And he knew of many Service people who shielded their loved ones from harm by keeping secrets close to their chests.

  “If Mama took her secret to the grave,” Poppy said, “then I suppose it’s not mine to reveal to Papa.”

  “I tend to agree. But I’ve also learned, never say never about anything.”

  They resumed their perusal of the papers. Poppy took her time, seeming to cherish each page. Once she was through reviewing one sheet, she’d pass it carefully on to Nicholas.

  “This is my mother, after all.” Her eyes glowed with quiet pride. “I want to read everything carefully. Apparently, she was an expert at her job.”

  A moment later, she held a paper aloft and grinned. “Ta-da! The receipt we’ve been searching for.”

  She thrust it at Nicholas, and he read it carefully. “It does appear Lady Derby commissioned the painting,” he said. “But … I hate to tell you—”

  “What?” Poppy placed a hand on his arm, her eyes wide.

  He spoke as gently as possible. “Now that we know your mother worked for the Service, this receipt could be a falsified document she carried in St. Petersburg. It would validate to anyone questioning her activities that she was a legitimate client of Revnik’s. In other words”—he paused, hating to disappoint her after all their hard work—“the painting probably belongs to the Service. I’m very sorry, Poppy, if that’s the case.”

  She stared at the receipt. “I hate the Service,” she whispered. Then she looked at him, her mouth determined. “I know this receipt is real. Mama mailed it to Groop for safekeeping.”

  “I’m not saying she didn’t, but—”

  Poppy put out a palm to stop him. “She knew Revnik would use the por
trait to convey a message about the mole, but Mama paid for it. And she wanted to give it to Papa.”

  She had a bold, clear light in her eye. “If you’re right, Nicholas—and Mama was still Mama when she was doing things in secret—that’s how she would have worked. She’d have selflessly allowed the government its bit, but she would have been thinking of Papa more.”

  She folded the receipt and put it back in her bodice. “In fact, I’m sure Mama’s the genius who came up with the idea of painting the mole’s identity into the portrait. Who was to know Revnik would die of the smallpox, and she shortly thereafter?”

  She had both hands on her hips, her eyes flashing green fire now.

  What was she, Nicholas wondered, Athena come to life?

  He wanted her more than ever.

  And he respected her more than ever.

  “I wouldn’t dare to disagree with a person showing such conviction,” he said softly. “You’ve already proven to me that your gut instincts are good, so I’m not at all disheartened by these new revelations, are you?”

  “Absolutely not.” She threw back her shoulders. “It simply means I have more work to do before I can get Mama’s portrait back.”

  “Which I still have to retrieve, you know.”

  “Steal is the right word, actually.” She gave him a cool glance. “It’s mine. Not the government’s. But I’ll stay true to Mama’s wishes and allow the government a first look.”

  He grabbed her upper arms and pulled her close, his heart gripped by her passion. “You’re bloody marvelous, do you know that?”

  She laughed. “It’s Mama’s influence.”

  It was hard to kiss and grin at the same time, but they managed. And they managed a lot more than that. The carriage rolled up to 17 Clifford Street at the exact moment he put his mouth over her bared breast and ran his tongue around her puckered nipple.

  “We’re getting much too brazen,” she whispered, and pulled her bodice up hastily.

  “And you love it,” he said.

  “I do, actually.” Her tone was cheeky.

  Perhaps one day they could take a trip to Sussex to his small property there. They’d bring Aunt Charlotte to chaperone and feed her a large meal with lots of brandy-laced trifle, and then he’d take Poppy on a small picnic by a stream, but it would be a feast of a different kind …