Dukes to the Left of Me, Princes to the Right

by Kieran Kramer

  “I must agree,” Lord Derby said.

  “All agreed, say aye,” piped up one of his Parliamentary colleagues.

  A fair number of people in the ballroom raised their hands.

  Poppy’s cheeks bloomed pink. “I have proof, Papa. Here’s the receipt.” She pulled yet another paper from her bodice. “It proves Mama commissioned this painting from Revnik, and she paid for it.”

  She held it out to her father. He and his colleagues peered at it.

  Lord Wyatt cleared his throat. “That’s a fake,” he said calmly to the company. “I’m not free to say more, but this portrait belongs to England, and I hereby confiscate it on behalf of His Royal Highness’s government.”

  CHAPTER 45

  “You can’t take it!” Sergei cried.

  “I agree. That’s outrageous!” Count Lieven crossed his arms and stuck out his chin.

  The crowd began talking madly.

  Please, Poppy begged the universe, please make sure we get Mama’s painting back in the family. It belongs with us.

  The countess raised her hand. “Stop everything,” she said. “Let us show the company the painting first. It is why we held the ball.”

  Nicholas unveiled the portrait, and there was a collective sigh of admiration from the crowd in the ballroom.

  Poppy could look at the painting all day if she had to. It was that wonderful.

  “It’s lovely, no?” said the countess. “Revnik was a master.”

  “Indeed he was,” said Poppy, echoing the murmurings of approval from the ballroom floor. She yearned to put that portrait in her father’s library above the mantel so he could see it every time he looked up from writing one of his speeches.

  Nicholas and Lord Derby were both staring, transfixed, at the canvas.

  “Th-that’s my wife,” said Lord Derby.

  “It is, Papa.” Poppy had tears in her eyes. “And that’s you, facing her. See your special cuff links?”

  He peered closer. “I do.”

  Nicholas met Poppy’s eyes. His were full of something glad and determined.

  Could he have uncovered the identity of the mole? She hoped so, but from what she could see, it was simply a painting … of her parents on an extraordinary night.

  Papa cleared his throat and addressed the company. “My wife must have commissioned the painting when we lived in St. Petersburg. We went to a magnificent ball at the Winter Palace.”

  Poppy laid a hand on his arm. “Mama wanted to remember that night with you.”

  Lord Wyatt stepped forward. “Nevertheless, the portrait is now in the custody of the Prince Regent’s government, and I will take it.”

  “No, you won’t,” Nicholas intervened, his voice steely and his expression intimidating. “Who are you to say Lady Poppy’s receipt is faked?”

  Lord Wyatt’s mouth thinned. He had no answer.

  Nicholas held up the receipt. “It’s perfectly proper. I have no doubt we can compare this signature of Revnik’s to another genuine one and it will be a clear match. Now get out of our way. The painting belongs to a private party. England will have to negotiate with Lord Derby and his daughter Poppy for access to it.”

  “You’re mad!” Sergei stood before Nicholas. “May I remind you the painting belongs to me and my sister? And I’m determined we should depart with it right now.”

  “No, Sergei,” Poppy cried. “My intuition is very good—like my mother’s. And I’m sure she commissioned this painting.”

  “Dear Lady Poppy,” Count Lieven said kindly, “both you and the English government still have offered no real proof that the painting belongs to either of you. The government says your receipt is fake. You deny it. Who are we supposed to believe? At the very least, an inquiry will have to be made into this painting’s provenance.”

  Lord Derby put his hand on Poppy’s shoulder. “My dear, he’s right. We have no proof beyond your receipt, which is in dispute. I suggest the painting remain in the possession of the Lievens, who will guard it until the matter is settled fairly.”

  Poppy couldn’t bear to part with the painting.

  But it was slipping away. She just knew it! Lord Wyatt had an almost fanatical look in his eye. He was determined to get it. And so was Sergei. He was flexing his hands as if at the first opportunity he would grab it and run.

  She looked at Nicholas.

  His eyes were warm, loving, and … and—

  She looked at the portrait. She wanted it, yes. For Papa and for her.

  But …

  She didn’t need it. She needed to cling to the people in her life that she still had. She needed to love them, and let them love her. She needed to immerse herself in life.

  With Nicholas.

  We’re not going to get it, are we? she said with her eyes.

  He took her hand and squeezed it. Don’t give up hope, his gaze said back.

  But then Aunt Charlotte appeared at the edge of the crowd. “I believe I can prove who the portrait belongs to,” she said, her voice ringing throughout the room.

  Aunt Charlotte?

  Everyone turned to her beloved chaperone.

  “What gives you the right to say that?” the countess demanded.

  Poppy’s heart lurched. Her aunt looked so serious, so afraid, yet so determined when she gazed around the room, her white wig slightly askew on her head.

  “A Spinster,” Aunt Charlotte began in her most confident voice, “never reveals details of her private life if she can help it. You see”—she smiled knowingly—“it’s usually much more interesting than other people’s, which can lead to a fair amount of jealousy. But tonight—luckily for you—must be the exception to that rule.”

  “Go on, then, sister,” said Lord Derby, who’d walked to Aunt Charlotte’s side and held her hand.

  Aunt Charlotte took a deep breath. “As much as I’ve tried these past weeks—amid all the hoopla about his art—to forget Revnik ever existed, I must admit that he was one of my great loves.” She looked up at her little brother. “I met him in St. Petersburg, Archie, when I came to stay with you for a month. In fact, I met him when I was with Marianna the day she commissioned the painting. She told him she wanted it painted for you. I accompanied her on many sittings to Revnik’s studio, which is how our affair developed. But it ended abruptly, as love affairs are wont to do.”

  Poppy moved next to her father and held his hand tightly.

  Aunt Charlotte gave them both a sad smile. “He saw you together that night at the ball at the Winter Palace. He told me he wanted to capture that moment, when Marianna looked up at you and … love shone from her eyes. Those were his exact words.”

  Papa was silent, struggling under the weight of strong emotion. Poppy squeezed his hand harder.

  Aunt Charlotte perked up. “I went back to London. My life was there, and I was determined to put Revnik behind me. Marianna wrote me and told me he was almost finished painting her portrait—for you, Archie, she told me once more—but I never saw it. I assumed he’d never finished it and that it was lost to us.”

  Poppy’s heart filled with more hope. “Do you have her letters, aunt?”

  Aunt Charlotte nodded, tears in her eyes. “I most certainly do, dear. And I’ll share them with whoever needs to see them, if it will help establish the Derby claim to the painting.”

  The crowd started talking again, loudly, about who owned the painting.

  Aunt Charlotte raised her hand.

  “You may speak,” said another of Lord Derby’s Parliamentary friends, who nodded in her direction.

  “I tell people when they can speak,” asserted Countess Lieven.

  “I was only adjusting my wig,” Aunt Charlotte said. “No one tells me when I may speak.”

  And she glared at both Lord Derby’s Parliamentary crowd and at the countess.

  Poppy was so proud of her.

  “I believe my letters from Marianna are enough,” Aunt Charlotte went on, as blithely as if she hadn’t cut down Very Important
People mere seconds before, “but there’s one more possibility.” She paused. “While Revnik and I were lovers, he told me something he claimed he’d told no one else: he sometimes left a message somewhere on his paintings, usually in a mirror.”

  Everyone gasped. There was a small mirror in the background of the portrait.

  Poppy looked at Nicholas. Was his instinct telling him the same thing hers was?

  She was sure that painted mirror held an important message.

  CHAPTER 46

  Nicholas was intrigued. He already knew Lord Wyatt was their mole. The little figure in the background of the painting, the one exchanging documents with a Russian envoy, was his very image.

  No wonder Wyatt was desperate to claim the painting on behalf of the government.

  Later, Nicholas would wonder if Lord Wyatt’s grand new estates in Cornwall and Devon were bought with money he’d obtained selling secrets. He’d also be there to support Lord Derby when he found out the disturbing news that someone he admired and respected was working against England.

  But right now Nicholas could only think of Poppy and her mother’s portrait. He gave Lady Charlotte his full attention.

  “Revnik told me what look like shadows and reflections in the mirror are words written backward,” she explained. “But one must hold a looking glass up to the image to see what it says.”

  Poppy’s strawberry lips were parted. Nicholas could see the questions in her eyes. Could Revnik have left a message? And to whom would it be addressed?

  Nicholas could also see in Lord Derby’s face a desperate desire to have another chance, in any form, to connect with his long-departed wife through Revnik’s masterpiece.

  “Quickly,” called the countess to a footman. “Bring us a looking glass.”

  A moment later, the countess had one. She approached the painting carefully and held the looking glass to the small, painted mirror.

  “A gift,” the countess read slowly, carefully, “to a devoted mother and wife, Marianna, who honors her husband Archibald with her undying devotion and love … from Revnik.”

  Thank God.

  Poppy looked at her father. Both of them had tears in their eyes. “It most clearly is our painting, isn’t it?” Derby said to her.

  Poppy nodded her head, and this time, Captain Arrow came to her with a handkerchief and wiped her eyes for her.

  Where had he come from?

  Poppy couldn’t wipe her own tears because she was holding on to the painting again, as well as her father’s hand, and Nicholas was behind her, still squeezing her shoulder.

  “Thank you,” she whispered to Arrow.

  “My pleasure.” He smiled, and Nicholas swore half the ladies in the room sighed aloud.

  “I have faith,” Arrow said very deliberately to her and Nicholas, “that I shall see you more often, Lady Poppy.”

  “Oh, you will,” said Lord Harry, who was suddenly nearby. He gave Nicholas a meaningful look.

  Harry was proud of him, Nicholas could tell.

  “I look forward to getting to know you, too, Lady Poppy,” said Lumley, ever cheerful. “As a matter of fact, we showed up a few minutes ago to do just that. You and Nicholas were walking down the stairs with the painting, and I said to Harry, ‘She’s the one. She’s as dangerous as Drummond—but much prettier.’ ”

  “Thanks.” Nicholas was ready to pummel his friend. All in fun, of course.

  Poppy blushed and gifted Lumley with a lovely smile that made Nicholas’s heart beat faster.

  Lord Derby cleared his throat and leveled his gaze at him. “I’m glad we have that settled, Drummond, but why is it, exactly, that you’re accompanying my daughter out the front door of the Lievens’ residence?”

  Nicholas stood tall. “Because I love her, sir.”

  There were gasps all around.

  Lord Derby stared at him as if he were a lunatic. “I’m supposed to believe this, after you abandoned the engagement you entered into with her?”

  “I wouldn’t let him marry me, Papa,” Poppy blurted out. “I refused him. I told him I would find a way out, no matter what he did. Even when he threatened to carry me to Gretna.”

  There were more gasps.

  Poppy moved closer to Nicholas, who put down the painting and squeezed her tight.

  The girl was being entirely too brave and honest. Which, come to think of it, was probably why she always seemed to wind up in trouble. But Nicholas wouldn’t have her any other way.

  “Why, Poppy,” her father asked her, “have you evaded marriage for three long years?”

  She drew in a deep breath and looked at Nicholas. “Because I never met the right man, Papa. I was content—happy—to be a Spinster. I wanted to marry for love and love alone. Or not marry at all.”

  Nicholas watched as she looked then at Beatrice, Eleanor, and Lady Charlotte. All of them seemed to share a secret smile.

  The crowd shifted almost noiselessly. Two women sat on the floor, plopping grapes in their mouths, as if this were a fabulous Greek play and they were the audience.

  Nicholas hugged his true love close. “I’d like to ask Poppy to marry me, Lord Derby. With your permission.”

  Lord Derby looked thoughtfully at him.

  “Please, Papa. I love him.”

  Nicholas could sense Lord Derby was troubled. After a tentative moment—after the earl had shared a good, long silent moment with his daughter and then with Nicholas—his mouth curved up.

  “You have my permission, young man,” he said.

  Nicholas grinned. “Thank you, sir.”

  Poppy threw her arms about her father’s neck and kissed him. “Thank you—you and Mama both,” she whispered. “I swear it almost feels as if she’s stepped out of the painting and is standing next to me right now.”

  And then she went to Nicholas.

  Their eyes locked, and he knew he was exactly where he was supposed to be. She was more beautiful than he’d ever seen her, all because her expression was more tender and fierce and loving than he’d ever seen it before.

  He held tight to both her hands.

  “Poppy?” Her father’s voice was thin. “Are you sure marriage to Drummond is what you want?”

  “More than anything,” she said, her voice carrying strong and true throughout the room.

  “Life will be one great adventure with your daughter, sir,” Nicholas told Lord Derby.

  “I know exactly what you mean, son.” Lord Derby chuckled, then looked at his child. “I believe you’ve chosen the right man, my dear, and actually”—he looked back at his Parliament friends—“it’s time for me to retire. I’ll have grandchildren to get to know.”

  “But what about Prinny’s next blunder?” cried one of his colleagues.

  “And reforming the demmed corn laws,” shouted another.

  “Shut up,” Lord Derby replied, his eyes back on Poppy.

  She smiled up at him, then looked at Nicholas.

  And he saw the whole world in her eyes.

  EPILOGUE

  “I can’t believe we’re married,” Poppy said, looking down at Nicholas. She was bursting with love for him. And desire for him. All the time. Which made it terribly hard to remember to put her clothes on.

  He laughed up at her. “You’d better be glad we are married. Minx.” He caressed her arms, sending a warm surge of happiness through her. “You’re enjoying the marriage bed, aren’t you?”

  “Of course.” She loved the new sensation of having him inside her. And she especially loved making him groan with pleasure. He was a marvel, her man—and she was absolutely addicted to him.

  She stretched her hands above her head and felt like a cat with a bowl of cream. “We’ve done this well into the dozens of times.”

  “Yes, this,” he said with an adorably crooked smile. “I love this. And we’ve only been married—”

  “Seven days and—”

  “Eight hours,” Nicholas finished for her. “It’s even more remarkable when you consi
der two of those days we spent careening north in a mail coach.”

  “And I loved every minute of it,” she assured him.

  “Did you?” His eyes lit up like a boy’s.

  “Of course.” She smiled and ran a finger along his jaw, remembering how avid he’d been to hold the blunderbuss and how disappointed he’d been when he hadn’t had to fend off any highwaymen.

  Now that he wasn’t in the Service, he had to find adventure somewhere, and he’d always wanted to ride on the mail coach.

  “But darling”—the word was new and splendiferous to her—“is it possible to stay in bed too long? I mean, could we become ill?”

  “The only effect I can think of occurring from loving your wife over and over is—and it’s not an illness—is the lady becoming with child.”

  Poppy’s eyes widened. “Thank God that’s all.”

  She really had been worried. Except for a daily walk to the beach, they’d hardly been out of bed since they’d arrived at Seaward Hall, three days after marrying at St. Paul’s in London. Papa, Aunt Charlotte—and all of Poppy and Nicholas’s friends—had waved them off.

  They’d had the castle to themselves. The servants had welcomed Poppy as if she were their duchess, even though she wouldn’t be for years. But she would be mistress of the house in the meantime—Lady Maxwell, wife to Lord Maxwell, who was heir to the Duke of Drummond.

  Groop was still Groop. Even though he was also Uncle Tradd, the proper duke. The Service was his life, and he would remain in London, behind the scenes as always.

  Poppy looked out the window at the cliffs, the long stretch of shoreline with that massive rock jutting from it, the one where Nicholas used to play, and the expansive, ever-restless sea. “It’s certainly a lovely view,” she murmured.

  “Yes?”

  “And the castle is majestic.” She brushed a lock of hair out of his eyes and smiled. “If in a bit of disrepair.”

  He grinned. “Ah, well. The massive dowry you’ve brought me will help with restoring it. Although”—he sat up on an elbow—“I told your father to hold off. I have plans for this place. And I’m clever enough to restore it in limited fashion on my own. Groop—”