by Sandra Heath
The horses shifted nervously, and the alarmed postilion vaulted to the ground to try to pacify them. Rooks, startled from the evergreen trees, circled noisily overhead, but their cries were lost in the dog’s ferocious din. But then, as swiftly as it had appeared, the dog disappeared again. One moment it was there; the next it had gone. Valentin’s mouth was dry and his hand shook as he lowered the window glass to look cautiously out.
Gwilym was still beneath the holly tree, still smiling, and something about him struck a nerve in Valentin. “Why do you grin?” he cried in halting English. “Is it your dog?”
“I have no dog, sir,” Gwilym replied. “Dalmatians can be dangerous,” he added, “and should be regarded with caution.”
Valentin regarded him uncertainly. “What do you mean?” he demanded.
“Why, nothing, sir.” Gwilym spread his hands in innocence, then turned to limp away toward the alley.
Valentin felt a cold finger pass down his spine, and shivered as superstition swept over him. He was so intent upon Gwilym that he didn’t realize the postilion had come to the chaise door.
“You wanted me to take a message to the house, sir?”
With a start, Valentin looked down at him. “Here,” he said, and thrust the note into the man’s outstretched hand. “Give it to Mr. Bailey. No one else.”
“Yes, sir.”
Valentin watched the man go up the garden path to the door, which soon opened to his knock. Valentin saw the housekeeper’s gaze move toward him, and then how she shook her head at the postilion.
Clearly she was saying that she, not a bumptious English groom, would deliver any note to Mr. Bailey. The postilion held his ground, however, and after a second glance at the carriage, the housekeeper withdrew inside.
A few minutes passed, then John Bailey appeared in the doorway. He was wearing a color-streaked leather apron, and the sleeves of his shirt had been rolled up above his elbows. He’d been called from his workroom in the cellar, and wasn’t at all pleased, but had come instantly on being told that “a foreign gentleman” was at the gate.
He glanced toward Valentin, who inclined his head coolly. John broke the sealed note and read. His face waxed pale, and even across the garden Valentin could see how his tongue passed over suddenly dry lips. There was the briefest of nodded acknowledgments, then John withdrew into the house again.
Mrs. Lewis bestowed a final haughty gaze upon the postilion, who turned on his heel and came back to the carriage. A moment later the horses were stirred into action for the final few miles to Castle Griffin.
Valentin looked at his watch again, and to his dismay the hands still pointed to eleven o’clock exactly. He shook it, then listened. There was no tick. He wondered if he’d forgotten to rewind it, but a quick test soon proved this was not so. For some reason the watch had simply stopped.
His thoughts went back to the nighttime visit he and his uncle had paid to the Winter Palace, and something his uncle had said: By the bones of Saint Joseph, I wish I knew what was wrong with this cursed watch. It has given me nothing but trouble ever since I went to that place, yet my watchmaker tells me there is nothing wrong!
Had his uncle come here to Nantgarth? Something told Valentin that he had.
A little later, Fleur was just on her way downstairs for a late breakfast. She had lain on in bed in the hope of arousing Athan’s conscience about his treatment of her the night before, and it had not been an agreeable surprise to learn that he’d gone out riding some time before.
Feeling a little foolish, and more than slightly angered by his obvious indifference—for that was how she viewed it—she made her maid’s life a misery for a while, then ordered a bath that required a number of footmen to prepare. She then lingered in the rose-scented water, plotting how she would make Athan sorry once she was his wife.
Now, wearing a buttercup yellow muslin gown and with her gleaming red hair piled on top of her head, she descended the great staircase to the main hall, where ancient stonework and richly carved oak paneling darkened what little light pierced the tall arrow-slit windows.
A blue-and-white embroidered shawl trailed on the steps behind her, and there was a battle gleam in her eyes. Athan had behaved abominably toward her during the night, and had slighted her this morning, so on his return she would do all she could to plague his conscience. Soft little sighs, heartfelt glances, maybe the shimmer of unshed tears, all should be guaranteed to make him repent his harshness.
She heard the carriage at the door and paused at a spot on the staircase where a shaft of daylight struck from one of the high windows. A footman hastened to the main doors, which gave off the great hall.
Valentin strode in like a victor marching triumphantly into his vanquished foe’s domain. He made a splendid sight in his gaudy uniform, seeming all gold braid and shining icon; there was something of the wild hordes from the steppes about his hussar-styled hair, the little side-plaits swinging to his military gait.
If he had wanted to make a devastatingly attractive impression upon Fleur, he could not have done better than this. Aware of her elegant figure highlighted on the staircase, and guessing who such a lovely redhead must be, he strode to the foot of the steps and swept the sort of a lavishly dashing bow that brought echoes of the Winter Palace into Athan’s Norman fortress above the Taff.
He straightened again, gazing up at her with melting dark eyes that seemed to strip her of every last garment. “Miss Tudor, I presume?” he said softly.
Fleur’s hand crept to her throat, and her heartbeat quickened. “You must be Prince Valentin Andreyev,” she replied.
He smiled. “Your servant, mademoiselle,” he breathed.
Fleur’s cheeks warmed, and her green eyes became lustrous as she returned his smile. “Welcome to Castle Griffin, sir.”
“It is the greatest of pleasures to be here.” Oh, what a pleasure, he thought, sensing the absence of virtue from her character. Here was a woman to warm his bed and then be discarded for the worthless creature she was.
Fleur gazed back at him, thinking how handsome and dashing he was, and once again imaging herself as a princess in St. Petersburg. She already played with fire by keeping Freddie Forrester-Phipps dangling in the hope he might steal General Tudor’s wealthy daughter from Athan, so why not burn her fingers a little more with this exciting man ...?
Chapter Twenty-three
Ellie could not help but know something was wrong. Her uncle had barely spoken since her return from her ride, and even now, at dinner, he was sullen to the point of being morose. She had tried to ask him what was the matter, but he’d insisted all was well.
But it wasn’t all well, and she knew it. She’d inquired of Mrs. Lewis if anything had happened while she’d been out, and had learned of the mysterious young man in uniform whose carriage had stopped at the house.
The fact that this young man had driven on toward the castle implied that he might be Prince Valentin Andreyev, whose presence was expected there. Ellie was curious about the note that had to be put in her uncle’s hand and no one else’s, and thought it very odd that not a word had been exchanged with the prince.
She would dearly like to know the contents of the note, and could only construe that it was connected with Prince Paul Dalmatsky, who, let it not be forgotten, was Prince Valentin’s uncle.
* * *
Dinner at Castle Griffin was no less awkward, consisting of fragmented conversation in French, in which Fleur was adequate but no more, and her mother entirely without knowledge. There were many awkward pauses, interspersed with Valentin’s insensitive vainglory, Fleur’s subtly flirtatious laughter, Athan’s almost monosyllabic responses, and Mrs. Tudor’s silent disapproval. Fleur’s mother, clad in fussy orange lace, knew exactly what was going through her daughter’s head, and found it hard to credit that even now Fleur was prepared to play close to the edge of discretion.
First there had been the foolishness with this Russian’s uncle, then the presumably continuing d
alliance with Freddie Forrester-Phipps, and now this. Many a fault Mrs. Tudor had shown over the years, but she’d always had the wit—and cunning—to confine herself to one man at a time.
Fleur was feeling reckless because of Athan’s continuing coolness. She was afraid of losing him, but instead of behaving with the utmost decorum, she couldn’t help trying to be fascinating. She wanted to make Athan jealous, so he would regret having admonished her so cruelly.
At the same time she was so strongly attracted to Valentin that she intended to have him, no matter what. And so she was delightful and beguiling, a sparkling figure in sapphires and midnight taffeta, her red hair haloed in the light of the candelabra on the table.
If Athan’s eyes had not been so fully opened about the woman he had engaged to marry, he might not have been so shrewd an observer now. He was superbly turned out in a black velvet evening coat, quilted white waistcoat, and white pantaloons. A simple pearl pin put the finishing touch to his white silk neckcloth, and had he tried, he could not have made a more subtle contrast with his male guest’s gaudy uniform.
Watching Fleur with Valentin, Athan knew it was only too possible that she was involved with Freddie in some way. She might be General Tudor’s only child, but her character and way of going on were such that he knew she must never become Lady Griffin. The betrothal had to be ended, and Fleur and her mother sent away from the castle.
If he had to set them up in a house somewhere, then he would. Anything, provided they were not here, and provided he was no longer engaged to Fleur. But ending a betrothal was no easy matter, and if Ellie were to then become his wife, she would be condemned too as the cause of Fleur’s downfall. Ellie had to be shielded, so he would have to deal very delicately with Fleur. Perhaps a solution would come to him overnight. He prayed so, for he did not know how long he could continue to suffer these two women beneath his roof—or Prince Valentin Andreyev, God rot his treacherous Russian soul.
The meal at an end, the quartet prepared to adjourn to the drawing room. Fleur made certain Valentin escorted her, thus leaving Athan to conduct her mother. Fleur and Valentin swept on ahead, placing a convenient distance between themselves and the others. Fleur immediately came to the point. “When shall you come to me, Prince Valentin?” she inquired in French, her tone brushing close to huskiness.
“You waste no time, mademoiselle,” he replied.
“I do not think you are a man to bother with the frills of seduction, sir.”
The glimmer of a smile played around his sensuous lips. “And you, it seems, are not a woman to bother about the frills of being betrothed.”
Her green eyes met his. “Would you prefer it if I were?”
“That would make me a fool, mademoiselle.”
“Athan has an appointment in Merthyr the day after tomorrow. He will be away for two nights.”
“How very accommodating of him,” Valentin replied softly.
“Yes, but I want you now, sir, tonight. When it is a little more dangerous.”
Fleur trembled with sexual excitement. She would always thrive on breaking the rules, and right now she could think of no rule better to break than that of monogamy. She wanted to punish Athan by putting fresh horns on him.
“I will take you on the floor here and now, if you wish,” Valentin answered. “That will make it certain that your future husband knows you are angry with him.”
“How perceptive of you, to be sure,” Fleur replied with a toss of her head, but then gave him a sideways glance of considerable sensuality. “Will you come to me tonight?” she asked softly, glancing back in case Athan and her mother had come up a little closer than anticipated, but they were still several yards behind.
Valentin nodded. “But it will be late. I have some business to conduct first.”
“Business?” She was curious.
“Nothing with which to concern your pretty head,” he assured her.
“What time?”
“The small hours, I fear.” He smiled. “But I promise to reward your patience.”
“I’m sure you will, sir,” she breathed, gazing at him and picturing herself as his princess.
“One thing I ask.”
“Yes?” Her lovely green eyes caressed him.
“Show a little more prudence from now on. You are a very accomplished flirt and clearly an experienced temptress, but it will not do for Lord Griffin to perceive it too. Be reserved with me, perhaps even a little cool, so any suspicion he may entertain will be completely allayed.”
Fleur looked sharply at him. “Are you saying I’m obvious, sir?” she demanded.
“But of course not,” he answered smoothly. “I’m just thinking of you, my dear. A rift with him will harm your reputation, and that will not do at all. I think too highly of you to want that.”
She softened again. “And I of you, Prince Valentin,” she said, the words little more than a wistful sigh.
As they walked on, he thought what a faithless trollop she was and decided to give her no consideration at all between the sheets. He wasn’t in the least concerned with her reputation, but he was concerned with what he’d heard of Athan’s ability with a pistol. A confrontation at dawn with seconds would not be a sensible way to end this visit to Britain.
Behind them, Mrs. Tudor had witnessed the lengthy exchange, and could stand no more. “Forgive me, my lord,” she said to Athan, “but I fear I have a terrible headache. Would you please be so good as to excuse me for the rest of the evening?”
“By all means, Mrs. Tudor. I’m sure Fleur will be so occupied being the perfect hostess that Prince Valentin will not take too much note of your absence.”
She looked uncertainly at him, then gave an awkward smile. “Thank you, my lord.” Catching up her orange lace hem, she hurried away in the direction of the staircase that led up to the private apartments.
Athan was about to walk on after the others when Gwilym stepped out of the nearby shadows. Athan gained the impression he had been there for some time. “A word with you, sir?”
“Gwilym?”
The horse charmer came closer. “I think you should know, sir, that the prince has requested a saddle horse to be ready for him at about half past eleven.”
Athan was startled. “He intends to ride at that time of night?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What do you know of it?” Athan asked, seeing something in the youth’s eyes.
“Just that he is going to Nantgarth House to see Mr. Bailey.”
“Is he, be damned. How do you know?”
“I just do, sir.” Gwilym hesitated. “I can see that he does not arrive there,” he offered.
“Meaning what, exactly? A nasty fall?”
“I can make his horse do anything, sir,” Gwilym reminded him.
“Well, leave well alone tonight. I prefer to know what he is about, and intend to follow him. See that my horse is ready too, but keep it out of sight. I don’t want him seeing it and realizing he’s been rumbled.”
“Right, sir.” Gwilym was about to turn away, but then hesitated. “You must beware, sir. Prince Valentin comes from the spotted dog.”
“I know, Gwilym.”
The youth nodded. “It will not be resolved until St. Petersburg, but you will know happiness before then.”
“I trust that is as much a promise as a prediction?”
“You will be happy before this coming dawn.” Gwilym smiled, then melted away as silently as he had come.
* * *
It was pitch dark as Valentin rode out of the castle and followed the narrow lane down toward the humpbacked bridge over the brook at the bottom of the valley. He knew which way to go, having memorized everything while being driven to the castle earlier in the day. He reined in once, thinking he heard hooves behind him, but when he listened, all was quiet.
So he rode on, over the bridge where the brook was swollen from the mountains, then left at the fork with the track that led up to the church he’d noticed high on the
side of the mountain. The lane led through trees, and he heard a vixen scream and owls hooting. Overhead the moon and stars were hidden by clouds that scudded swiftly, and now and then he felt the touch of raindrops on his face.
At last the trees ended, and he saw Nantgarth House and the china works ahead. He rode slowly to the gate, not wanting to make more sound than necessary; then he dismounted and tethered the horse to the holly tree. The gate opened silently, and his spurs jingled faintly as he walked along the path. The door opened at his approach, John having been looking out of the parlor window.
Putting a finger to his lips, he beckoned Valentin inside, then along the entrance passage to the kitchens, where he took a lighted candle from the mantel and led his unwanted visitor down the steep spiral steps to the cellars. He paused at the door of the workroom.
“It is not my habit to reveal my work before it is finally complete.”
“I don’t care about your habits, sir. I just need to see the tureen.”
With great reluctance, John unlocked the door and led Valentin inside.
Out in the alley, Athan dismounted and left his horse well out of sight of Valentin’s. He had seen John admit the Russian to the house, and the fact that no light appeared at the parlor window seemed to indicate they had adjourned either to the kitchen or the cellar.
Both of these could be observed from the wharf, so he made his way quickly down toward the canal. He was outside the double doors to the cellar when John’s candle shone briefly beneath it, and then the workroom door closed before the muffled sound of voices ensued.
Athan was about to test the cellar doors, to see if by any stroke of luck they had been left unbolted, when to his astonishment he heard someone pulling the bolt across. Then one of the doors opened softly, and he saw Ellie’s pale face in the darkness. Like her uncle before her, she put a finger to her lips and beckoned him inside. They went to the workroom door and pressed their ears to the wood to listen.
John was speaking to Valentin. “You are your uncle’s nephew, sir, a veritable cut from the same damnable cloth,” he said in French, a language he hadn’t employed since fleeing from St. Petersburg.
