Some dusty old book. John let that go by. Devlyn was an intelligent man, well-read, with a sure if conventional taste in art. He was also John's oldest friend, and probably knew him best. They had begun running together at five or so, as soon as John was old enough to escape the confines of the village and make his way up the hill to the Keep. But Devlyn, no doubt, understood this passion for old books less than John's earlier passions for adventure and art. A book is for reading, Devlyn said once, trying to puzzle this out, for conveying information. When it gets old and starts to fall apart, I'd buy a new edition so I'd have all the pages. But that's when you start wanting the book—when it's no longer usable.
So John took a certain pleasure in retelling a few of his Alavieri adventures. No one who had encountered the Vatican curator could ever think of the rare books trade as anything but the height of intrigue.
He didn't mention that moment, however, when Alavieri confessed his great misfortune of seeing and losing what he claimed was a work of Shakespeare. John was discreet by nature, and close by business habit. All he needed was Alavieri to hear that the Shakespeare play might have survived the Terror. He'd send an army of Jesuit warriors, not just a pack of thieves, after John.
He looked up to find Devlyn studying him. He was an observer, was Devlyn, and knew something was up. "Exciting, no doubt, these acquisition trips of yours. But now you've this new title, and it's sure to bring you more business. You've got a fleet of—what? Seven ships?"
"And the Coronale," John murmured, so as not to slight the lady.
"You could send them all out with their cargo, and spend all your time in London as a consultant and dealer. You don't have to make these trips, risking your life with the lunatics you keep meeting along the way."
"Alavieri's no lunatic," John replied defensively. "He's the best in the world. I'd give my right arm for half his ability and knowledge."
Devlyn raised his hand as if calling a halt to this. Still he gave it an ironic consideration. "Let me see if I have understood you correctly. You admire the man—a priest, by God—who tried to kill you over some old book?"
"It was nothing personal. I daresay, had he his druthers, he would let me live, and perhaps even take me on as a junior partner of sorts. But the Jerusalem is more than an old book. And the book business is—"
"More than cutthroat."
"Well, yes. But I assure you it is no more dangerous than free-trading, and I did that for years. It is surely less trying than smuggling guns to the Calabrian resistance. And Alavieri is only slightly more ruthless than Bonaparte."
"Somehow that doesn't reassure me. Whenever you leave on a voyage, I go out and look at that old raft we built, and think probably it is the last time I will see you."
Devlyn, John realized yet again, had a deep streak of pessimism down the middle of his practical mind. And it was disconcerting to find bits of maudlinity in a man of sense. But then, Devlyn had always cherished mementoes of his past. In one of the barns, next to the old raft, he kept the aeroballoon the princess had stolen from France. And he had kept John busy over the years, tracking down and retrieving the mediocre family portraits the late Lord Devlyn had sold to pay his gambling debts.
Restlessly John twisted the sapphire signet ring on his left hand. It had left a pale circle against the tan leather of his skin, mute evidence of the amount of sun he had gotten since he started wearing it seven years earlier. He shoved it back into place, and flexed his hands. He felt confined suddenly, both by his old friend's concern and the new change in his circumstances. Baronets, he gathered, weren't supposed to take risks.
"You're a fine one to talk, Devlyn. You were how long at war?"
"Nine years in the army. Seven at war, I suppose."
"And nary a scratch."
Devlyn shrugged. "But I am lucky."
"And I am smart. I earn my luck."
"Well, perhaps you are right. I must say, I never thought you'd earn a title, never in all my days." And so, with less than grace, Devlyn gave up. The role of the older advisor had never suited him anyway; he was no model for the staid and secure life, since he was married to a princess. "Just be cautious, won't you?"
A tiger kitten wandered through the door, wended its way around Devlyn's chair, and finally came to nuzzle at John's boot. He wriggled his toes to scratch the cat's throat. "I'll be here in cautious old England all summer, as it happens. Nothing very interesting will occur, you may be sure."
"Then you'll be able to come to Tatiana's charity ball next week."
Though he was here for that very purpose, John knew Devlyn would expect him to demur. He bent to pick the kitten up, and to hide any eagerness his expression might betray. "I hadn't considered it, actually."
"Do me this one favor, lad, and come. It will be nigh unbearable otherwise. All our charitable neighbors will be there."
The kitten was digging her claws into John's breeches, and he distracted her by stroking the stripe between her golden eyes. This set off a low chorus of purring. "You have charitable neighbors? Intriguing. And I thought I knew the neighborhood well."
"Social-climbing neighbors, then. They'll make a contribution to Tatiana's school, just to have a chance to say they have visited with the princess in her home. But Tatiana's Russian, remember, and her idea of neighborhood is rather commodious. She's got some coming from as far as Exeter." He tore off a piece of the newspaper and balled it up, tossing it up and catching it. The kitten stopped purring and started watching. Then, with a growl, she leaped off John's leg and seized the ball of paper, tumbling to the floor with it. Devlyn took the loss of his toy dispassionately, then observed, "Now that you are a respectable baronet, you have no excuse."
The Devlyns had always invited John to their parties, and sometimes, if he was in a defiant mood, he accepted. But Dorset wasn't as accepting of unconventionality as London, or perhaps they just knew him better. The mysterious past that fascinated a few London hostesses was no mystery here where John grew up. He might be a hero of sorts to the wilder youth on the South Coast, but to the gentry he was just the criminal upstart son of an apothecary. It would be entertaining, at least, to see how they would treat him now that he was titled.
Titled. Good Christ, what was the Regent thinking?
Devlyn must have sensed an opening, because he added, "Tatiana wants your consultation on decorating the ballroom."
"That, I suppose, is the clincher? In order to receive such a commission, you think I will jump at your invitation? I know nothing about decorating ballrooms."
"You need only endorse the plans she has. She thinks you have buckets of good taste. I expect it's the company you keep. Come, she will want to greet you anyway."
Devlyn led him back through the dark library, into the sunfilled great hall, past the bust of Napoleon John had gotten after Marshal Ney's execution. He remembered, back when they were boys, that the Keep was almost empty, stark even beyond the usual spare precision of a Palladian home, the only evidence of life the figures writhing on the Michelangelo-inspired dome. Now that Devlyn had hired a staff, bought back most of the lost furnishings, and installed a new generation of Danes, the great dome no longer echoed with loneliness.
The primary reason for this change was approaching them even now, running down the stairs with a hand skimming over the oak bannister, her red hair loose about her shoulders like a girl's. The Princess Tatiana called out gaily, "John! Just in time for my party. Come see what I mean to do to the ballroom."
Devlyn smiled sympathetically and murmuring, "Better you than I," headed back to his refuge on the balcony.
But this was, after all, what John had been waiting for, a chance to get the princess alone.
Between them was none of the complexity that characterized his relationship with Devlyn. From the first, when the Russian princess had boarded his sloop for her secret voyage to England, they had been something akin to friends. She had the same ease that made her cousin the Regent an unexpectedly good companion: She
noticed no one's class but her own, treating everyone with equal, imperial charm. John liked that, and liked her, and in this, as in most things, he would do her bidding.
"I'm no expert on decorating ballrooms, God forbid. But I will walk with you there."
So he let her bear him away to the empty space at the back of the Keep where he and Devlyn used to skate in their stockinged feet. Unlike the rest of the house, this austere room had resisted Tatiana's efforts to make it comfortable. It was so cavernous that their footsteps echoed like gunshots against the panelled walls, and they had to speak softly to keep their conversation from resonating. The sun through the tall windows glanced off the marble floor, but the light brought with it no heat. Even in his coat, John was shivering from the chill that rose from the stone.
But Tatiana was of a hardier race, and though her muslin gown was insubstantial, she never noticed that she had left her shawl behind. She stood bare-armed in the middle of the room and gestured around, proposing to make the cavern a romantic wonderworld via a crimson silk ceiling drape and a fountain of champagne.
She spoke with that gallant optimism that never failed to charm John. But he was a realist, and could calculate to a shilling or so how much a ceiling of silk would cost. "At this rate, your highness, there will be little profit left for your school."
"I was hoping," she said, giving him a sidelong glance, "to meet that friend of yours, and persuade him to give me a good price on French champagne."
"No!" John shut his eyes, hoping to blot out the picture of Tatiana bargaining with a bloodthirsty South Coast smuggler. That she would probably win the negotiations did not make the vision more appealing. "Princess, please. Let me take care of getting you the champagne. Consider it my contribution."
Tatiana looked ready to argue the point, so he added, "Part of my contribution."
"But I did so hope to meet Shem the—what do you call him?"
"Shem the Shark. No. No. Devlyn would have my head if he knew I'd even mentioned knowing that one."
"Oh, if you insist."
She shrugged, conceding him the point. And for a moment he almost believed she was the one doing him a favor. Then he reminded himself how much champagne for three hundred—and a fountain—would likely cost him, and forced himself to interrupt her description of the planned school building. "Just a moment, if you please. In return for the champagne, I hope you will grant me a small concession."
"Anything!"
Her promise was rash but sincere, and so he said, "I would appreciate it if you would invite a Mrs. Ada Rush to your ball. Of Bincombe. And her husband, of course. And any guest she might have staying with her this summer."
"Mrs. Rush." She scuffed her slipper on the marble dance floor and considered this. Then she looked back up at him, a wicked light in her eyes. "When did you start pursuing married women?"
Annoyed, he said, "I'm not pursuing anyone. It's merely a business proposition I mean to make."
"Certainly not with the Rushes. They don't collect art. She collects earbobs, as I recall, and he has quite a variety of cows. But they are not known for their art acumen."
John had never been deceived by the princess's frivolous manner. He had stopped underestimating her the day she got him a royal commission with a single offhand remark. In an earlier century, this woman might have made herself a tyrant like her ancestor Catherine the Great. So, though he generally guarded the truth jealously, he revealed a bit of it to her. "It's the guest."
"I thought as much." From the curve of her mouth, he could tell what else she was thinking, and she didn't disappoint him. "A lady guest?"
"As a matter of fact, yes."
She smiled sweetly. "I really ought to have her name to put on the invitation, John."
Reluctantly he said, "A Miss Seton."
"Miss Seton. Jessica Seton? Oh, good. I met her in London. Very pretty. Blonde, you know. They call her the Golden Girl, though she's not such a girl anymore. An heiress too, I hear."
John didn't travel in the same circles as heiresses, but he knew enough about society to take note of this. A pretty heiress and still a Miss? The two were usually mutually exclusive. "It's only a bit of her inheritance I'm interested in—the artistic part."
Tatiana made a disappointed face. "Do you think of nothing but your art?"
"Very seldom. Will you invite them or no?"
"Well, of course I will. I shall even mention your name—"
He cut off her sentence with an upraised hand. "I'd prefer the invitation came from you."
"You don't want it known that this graciousness is at your behest?"
"Just so. I want no one to know."
"No one? Not even Michael? But I tell Michael everything,'" she said, with that limpid innocence that occasionally fooled even Dryden.
But not today. He responded just as innocently. "You do? I'm glad. I was sure you wouldn't tell him about the Lieven brooch."
"It wasn't the Lieven brooch!" Mere words couldn't express her outrage; she had to stalk up to him and glare, so effectively that he fell back a step laughing. "The Denisov brooch. Peter the Great gave it to my great-grandmother. That Lieven witch took it from our rooms when my parents were exiled. I remember her rummaging around, pretending that she was there to help me, and all the while she was stealing my mother's jewels!"
"Appalling. And then when you saw it on the countess's bosom, you could hardly be blamed for expecting her to return it."
"And she offered me only insult in recompense! If I were a man, I would have gutted her like a fish!" Her hand sliced the air in a tight curve, and John, who had seen many fish gutted—though no countesses, as yet—could not help but appreciate her artistry.
The princess's violent Romanov ancestry would out, though fortunately usually only in rhetoric. At the time, however, he hadn't been so sure she wouldn't carry out her threats. He had been working for the Foreign Office then, positioning spies and laundering funds, and was steeped in the philosophy that the end justified the means. It was no great jump to decide that preventing the gutting of the Russian ambassador's wife justified a discreet little jewel theft. "I'm pleased that Michael understood. He's not usually so flexible."
"Understood?" She glanced at him exasperated. "Of course he didn't understand. I never told him."
"So I thought," John murmured. "Then we've established, haven't we, that there is at least one thing you haven't told your husband." He let the spot of blackmail work its way in, then added, "What's one more?"
"You're a rogue, John Dryden."
"Takes one to know one, your highness." And with a bow, he left her in the empty ballroom, sure that she would do as he bid.
CHAPTER FIVE
Dead shepherd, now I find thy saw of might:
"Who ever lov'd that lov'd not at first sight?'
As You Like It, III, v
Jessica pulled Ada behind an elaborate Oriental screen that served to hide the entrance to the kitchens. Though they had to keep moving aside for footmen carrying trays of food, from here they could see the whole ballroom and talk without being overheard or being drowned out by the orchestra. "Tell me who is here tonight."
Ada was taller, and could see easily over the top of the screen. She swivelled her head to survey the ballroom from one end to the other, and then waved her hand in dismissal. "Oh just the usual Dorset crowd, this early. No one very interesting yet—or eligible." She cast a sidelong glance at Jessica. "Still on the hunt, are you?"
"Don't call it that. You make me sound like a bird of prey. I'm just curious, and I thought that since you know everyone, you would tell me if anyone intriguing is here. I haven't even met the princess yet."
"Well, there she is." Ada gestured to the right with her fan. "She doesn't look like a princess, does she?"
Jessica stood on her tiptoes to peek over the top of the screen. Ada's fan was pointing at a small, slender woman with dark red hair, directing the footmen from the ballroom stairs. Her apricot silk gown was defying gr
avity, the little lacy sleeves hardly clinging to her shoulders. "Well, I don't know what a princess is supposed to look like—not like our own royal ladies, I expect. At least, she is marvellously pretty. And she has a dazzling dressmaker. I love that dress. I wonder how she keeps it up."
"Glue, do you think? It's just that when I think of a princess, I always expect a crown. She might have got one, had she married one of the royal dukes instead of Devlyn. I can't blame her," Ada said thoughtfully. "He's over there." The fan jammed towards the cardrooms, at a tall man in formal dress. "I'd choose him over a prince any day."
Devlyn, though admirably well-shouldered, was taken, and thus of no use to Jessica. She gave into her accustomed candor, for Ada already knew everything about Uncle Emory and his obstinacy. "What about the gentlemen here? Surely some of them are worth considering." A stir at the entrance caught her attention, for as the butler introduced the Earl of Tressilian, all conversation ceased. He was a dark, brooding man in full Navy splendor, and as he walked to the princess and lifted her hand to his lips with seductive grace, Devlyn started purposefully across the ballroom.
"Him, for example."
Ada was made of stronger stuff, though. "Your uncle wouldn't even need to get poison pen letters to disapprove of the earl! A grieving widower with difficult children and a drinking problem?"
"He's out of mourning, isn't he?" Jessica said a bit sullenly. "And he doesn't look foxed."
"Of course not. They say he only drinks alone, late at night." Ada laughed out loud as Devlyn reached his wife and without much ado led her away from the Navy man onto the dance floor. "Ooh, do you think they will duel? That would certainly cap the princess's party, her husband and her most illustrious guest meeting at dawn!"
"I don't think so, Ada. Lord Devlyn hardly seems the sort to shoot a man who merely smiles, however heartbreakingly." On second thought, Jessica decided, Tressilian wasn't the sort of man to make a comfortable husband. "Damien," she added with a chuckle, "goes mad with envy whenever he sees that one. A real Byronic hero, right down to the brooding mouth. But you are right, Tressilian is not the sort to please Uncle Emory. What about that one there?"
Poetic Justice, a Traditional Regency Romance (Regency Escapades) Page 5
