by Cara Elliott
“Ah! How about this?” Caro slapped her palms together. “It’s a gift to the Sultan from Napoleon, who is trying to win allies in the Mediterranean. The Sultan’s Janissary Guards have been making a test flight along the coast, to make sure it is safe for His Imperial Highness. And they stopped for the night at the ruins.”
“Perhaps you should give up poetry for prose,” said Anna dryly. “You are showing a frightfully good knack for imagining exuberant adventures.”
“Really?”
“Perhaps I will hand over Sir Sharpe Quill’s pen and travel to Baden-Baden after all.”
Caro laughed, the sound signaling that any hurt feelings were now forgotten. “You would soon become terribly bored. And besides, it’s much more fun to read Emmalina’s exotic adventures than to actually have to sit down and write them.”
“Thank you for reminding me of that fact.” Anna blew out a long sigh. “Let’s pursue this balloon idea…”
The lively discussion was still in full flight when their mother entered the library well after the breakfast hour. “La, I’ve been looking all over for you, girls.” Her eyes narrowed in disapproval as she slanted a look at the massive oak bookcases crammed full of scholarly volumes and arcane manuscripts. “What are you doing in here?”
“Discussing Sir Sharpe Quill’s latest novel,” answered Anna as she quickly hid her notebook in her lap.
Lady Trumbull thought that learning anything other than needlework, sketching, dancing, and perhaps playing the pianoforte was unnatural for a young lady. That the late baron had taught his daughters all about literature, history, science, and philosophy still provoked a litany of bitter recriminations about Things That Discouraged A Gentleman From Making A Marriage Proposal.
Popular novels, were, however, exempt from censure. The ton had deemed them acceptable entertainment for the fairer sex.
Their mother’s expression relaxed ever so slightly. “I grant you, such silly adventures are mildly amusing, but I’ve got some exciting news that will quickly put all thoughts of novels out of your head.”
Anna felt a prickling of unease run down her spine.
“I just received a letter in the morning post from my dearest school friend, the Countess of Dunbar…”
A “dearest” school friend who had pointedly ignored the baroness when the Sloane family had been dancing on the razor’s edge of poverty, thought Anna with an inward sigh.
“Just look!” went on Lady Trumbull, a triumphant flourish producing the missive in question. The paper was indeed festooned with the remains of an ornate red wax seal. “Of course, it is only a Scottish title, and not nearly as impressive as Wrexham’s earldom, but still…”
A title is a title, mouthed Caro, careful to mask the impertinence by brushing a lock of hair from her cheek.
The paper fluttered again, emitting the discreet crackle that only expensive stationery could achieve. “I am sure you girls are all agog to learn what exciting news it contains.”
“I am holding my breath,” murmured Anna. Whatever it was, she was certain that she wasn’t going to like it.
Lady Trumbull inhaled deeply and held her breath for a moment, savoring the coming words like a fine wine. “We are invited to a shooting party for the month of August at dear Miriam’s castle in Scotland.”
Scotland. Anna cocked an ear. A country house party in the remote wilds of the north was not something that would normally send her mother into a fit of raptures. Not unless…
“And she informs me that the other guests will include several Prussian nobles—and a prince!”
Of course. The party included eligible men. Now that Olivia had captured an earl, their mother had apparently raised her sights to royalty.
“Which prince?” asked Caro curiously.
Lady Trumbull waved off the question. “Oh, Schlezzie-Whatsie or some such thing. All those little German fiefdoms are so dreadfully confusing.” Turning a beatific smile on Anna, she continued, “What matters is that Miriam says he is rich, handsome, charming—and unmarried.”
Anna looked down at her lap. In the past, she had accepted the fact that her beauty must be bartered in order to provide for her family’s security. However, things had changed.
“And since Lord Andover has not come up to scratch, Anna…”
The truth was, after fueling his courage with one too many glasses of claret, Andover had broached the subject of marriage to her several weeks ago, though he had been wise enough to do it in private. Wisdom, along with a kind nature and self-deprecating sense of humor—that was more than most ladies were offered. And yet it wasn’t enough. She had gently but firmly informed him that while she valued his friendship, she did not think they would suit as husband and wife.
He had actually seemed rather relieved, mumbling something about perfection and pedestals.
“You have every right to look elsewhere,” finished their mother.
Elsewhere being Dunbar, Scotland.
As if she didn’t have enough worries here in London. Now that Andover had gracefully withdrawn his attentions, two other gentlemen had become more ardent in their attempts to win her regard. Both were very pleasant, and yet…
A quip from Caro interrupted her musings. “So, grouse and pheasants will not be the only hunted creatures on the windswept moors. The royal party of foreign blue bloods is going to find itself fair game.”
“Bite your tongue, Caro!” admonished their mother. “A lady must never, ever give voice to such vulgar speculations.”
“Especially when they are true,” retorted the youngest Sloane in a low whisper.
Anna shook her head ever so slightly in warning.
“Don’t be impertinent. Men dislike ladies who express opinions as if they possessed…”
A brain? thought Anna.
“…any understanding of the world,” said Lady Trumbull with a huff of exasperation, “As I’ve told you repeatedly, you must try to follow your sister’s example. She understands exactly what is expected of a paragon of propriety, and does not disappoint.”
“Yes, Mama,” said Caro after a tiny hesitation. For the moment, she seemed to have taken the talk on controlling impulsive urges to heart.
Turning her attention to Anna, Lady Trumbull softened her tone. “Now my dear, when you think of it, a retreat to the quiet of the country for a month will be a welcome interlude for rest and relaxation after the whirlwind weeks of the Season.” The predatory smile did not bode well for the unpronounceable prince and his peace of mind. “Don’t you agree?”
Anna was about to respond with a careful calculated list of reasons why the invitation ought to be rejected. But the words “retreat,” “quiet,” and “country” suddenly stirred second thoughts.
A remote Scottish castle. A month of precious few distractions, save for the prince and his party of noblemen—and they would be easy enough to deal with.
Perhaps meeting her deadline was not yet beyond hope. Her writing had always been a source of solace and satisfaction, providing an escape from the pressures of the real world. That she was suddenly struggling with her story was a little frightening, especially with all the other uncertainties tugging at her emotions. So the date had become a talisman of sorts. If she could reach it, all of her usual well-ordered discipline and detachment would return…
“I think,” said Anna slowly, “that Lady Dunbar’s hunting party would make a lovely getaway from London.”
Caro stared at her in confusion.
“Excellent, excellent! I knew you would adore the idea.” Clapping her hands together, Lady Trumbull lost no time in turning for the door. “I shall go write to Miriam right away.”
“Are you mad?” hissed Caro as soon as their mother had left the room.
Anna smiled.
“What about your deadline—” A look of dawning comprehension suddenly lit her sister’s face. “Oh, brilliant!”
Peace and quiet. A respite from the swarm of suitors in London.
“Yes, I rather thought so myself.”
Chapter Three
Ignoring the censorious stares from a trio of dowagers, Devlin continued whistling an aria from Mozart’s Don Giovanni as he sidestepped around their elegant barouche and turned down the side street. The morning hours were not often cause for songful celebration. For the most part he passed them sprawled in bed, sleeping off the long evenings spent drinking, gaming, or…indulging in other more engaging activities. Today, however, the grumbling protest from his weary bones took second fiddle to a more cheerful melody—the whisper of money.
Even though the blade of bright sunshine that cut across his path did make him wince.
It was, he decided wryly, an interesting question to ponder whether he, like the Vampyre in John Poldari’s novel, grew weaker in daylight…
But not at the present moment.
The early start had been impelled by the thick wad of bank notes that were at present making such a pleasant sound within in his waistcoat pocket. Thorncroft had, with surprisingly little argument, agreed to fund his request for a pair of special turn-off pocket pistols from Joseph Manton’s shop. Delighted with the stroke of luck, Devlin was itching to get his hands on them without delay and examine the workmanship, for the weapons were exquisitely crafted—not to speak of sinfully expensive.
But however superb, he had already come to the decision that he was only going to buy one. The other half of the funds would be spent at a nearby shop, procuring a special assortment of…
A high note of the aria died on his lips as a frown strangled all further sound.
He stared for a long moment at the front of Manton’s shop, trying to quell the erratic quickening of his pulse as he suddenly recognized the figure standing there. Shaking off the physical response to the person in question, Devlin made himself concentrate on the practical question her presence raised. What was she doing there? Ladies did not usually linger in front of a gunsmith’s display window.
Lightening his footsteps, Devlin approached in silence. “Planning on murdering someone, Miss Sloane?”
Anna started, nearly dropping the small notebook in her hands, and then whirled around. “Some men,” she snapped, “deserve to be shot.”
“More than a few,” he agreed, angling his head to try to catch a glimpse of what she had been writing.
The covers quickly snapped shut.
“If you like,” he went on, “I could draw up a list of the most offensive characters.”
Chuffing a rude sound, Anna darted one more look at the pistols on display before shoving her pencil and notebook into her reticule. “Come along, Nettie,” she called to the young maid hovering near the corner of the storefront. “Let us be on our way.”
Devlin shifted his stance just enough to block her path. “It’s unusual for a lady to have an interest in firearms. I confess, I am curious as to why.”
“There is an old adage about curiosity killing the cat,” she shot back.
He smiled, which appeared to annoy her even more. “Then it is lucky that I am an imp of Satan.”
“Why is it that I have a feeling Luck has nothing to do with your choice of habits?”
Because your wit and your tongue are lethally sharp.
Keeping such thoughts to himself, he merely said, “An interesting question. But you haven’t yet answered mine, and I asked first.”
A glare, which he countered by stretching his smile into a grin.
Her nostrils flared as she drew in a sharp breath. “Not that it is any of your business, but I—I am looking to find a special gift for Wrexham.”
A reasonable reply. So why did he have the feeling that she was lying?
“Manton’s pistols are frightfully expensive,” responded Devlin, carefully watching her face. “Dare I assume that the poor-as-churchmice Sloane family is now no longer under the hatches, thanks to the generosity of your older sister’s new husband?”
A light breeze ruffled the ribbons of her bonnet, and for the space of a heartbeat a flutter of a shadow seemed to hang on her gold-tipped lashes.
“Indeed, knowing the earl’s noble nature, I would imagine that you and Miss Caro are now in possession of a very generous dowry.”
Her cheeks darkened to an angry shade of red. “You are not only impertinent, you are offensive, Lord Davenport. Kindly step aside.”
“But of course.” He slowly shifted, deliberately dragging his boots over the paving stones to make a loud rasping sound. It was ungentlemanly to goad her into a temper, but the fire in her eyes was mesmerizing to watch. Heat blazed in a burnt-gold swirl of sparks, turning their deep green hue into a pool of molten jade.
“Allow me to make amends for my churlish manners by offering a recommendation on which of Manton’s models the earl might like.”
“On second thought, I have decided to look elsewhere for a gift,” replied Anna tightly.
“A simple but elegant watch fob, perhaps? A bejeweled cravat stickpin would not be at all in keeping with the earl’s sense of style.”
“I can’t help but wonder something, sir,” she said in reply.
“Which is?”
“Why you take such fiendish delight in tormenting me.”
“Perhaps because you react with such delightfully explosive ire.” Devlin waggled a brow. “Most young ladies are afraid to stand up for themselves. But not you.”
She brushed past him without comment.
Devlin watched her stalk away. Miss Anna Sloane was known for her effortless grace, and yet there was no other word than “stalk” for her stiff-legged gait. Which in itself spoke volumes about her state of inner agitation.
Again, he wondered why.
Turning, he moved to where she had been standing and made a careful study of the display window.
Interesting.
Devlin stood for some moments deep in thought, alternating his gaze between the weapons laid out on the dark green felt cloth and the fast-fading reflection of a feminine figure glimmering in the paned glass. Anna had been quick, but not quick enough. He had caught just a fleeting glimpse of the page, a flutter of white and graphite, but he had the distinct impression that it had not been writing, but rather a drawing that she had been scribbling in the notebook.
A drawing of a turn-off pocket pistol?
He frowned. It was conceivably the sort of firearm a lady might tuck in her reticule…
Assuming she had reason to fear for her safety.
Anna Sloane in danger? For an instant, his hands fisted, but he quickly dismissed the idea as absurd.
Absurd.
She was the very soul of tactful charm and grace. Even the Mamas with daughters on the Marriage Mart found it impossible to dislike her. That was because, mused Devlin, they couldn’t help but notice how kind Anna was to the plain or painfully shy girls who decorated the ballroom back walls like so many fragile pastel blooms. He, too, had seen how she had discreetly asked her own swains to favor them with a dance or take them in to supper.
In truth, she was so kind and considerate to everyone—granted, with one notable exception, but he readily admitted the fault was his—it was almost as if she were too good to be true…
“I have been reading too many adventure novels.” Devlin blew out his breath along with the harried growl. “Clanging chains, subterranean dungeons, evil villains, damsels in distress…ye gods, perhaps I should send Sir Sharpe Quill a few ideas for his next book.” Some of the things he had been thinking were outrageous enough for the pages of London’s favorite author.
The glass caught the mocking curl of his lips. Speaking of advice, the fellow definitely needed some help with his sex scenarios. Given the exotic settings, the virile hero, and the bold-as-brass heroine, they were surprisingly…tame.
The workshop door opened with a muted tinkling of bells, drawing Devlin from his musings.
“I’m surprised to see you here, Davenport,” said the Duke of Leverett, as he and his gunkeeper exited the premises. “Thought you wer
e too dipped to be able to afford any of Manton’s creations.”
“I’ve come into an unexpected windfall,” he replied.
“Then use it to pay off your debts, man,” snapped the duke.
Devlin suspected he owed the fellow money but couldn’t quite remember for what. “Actually, there is an alternate way to settle my accounts,” he replied. “I could use the funds to purchase a double-barreled coaching gun.” A pause. “And then use it to eliminate all my creditors. Poof! My troubles are gone, and I end up with a very fine precision instrument.”
The duke took a step back and looked as though he might faint.
“A jest, Your Grace,” murmured Devlin. The man was notorious for having no sense of humor. “Merely a jest.”
“A damnably bad one,” groused the duke, as he crabbed his way to the street and waved for his carriage. “You’re a disgrace to the peerage.”
Lifting his shoulders in a shrug, Devlin cocked a sardonic salute. “Shocking isn’t it, how low the standards have fallen.”
“Go to—”
“Yes, I know—go to the Devil,” murmured Devlin. “I do wish someone would come up with a more original insult.”
“You look very lovely, Mademoiselle Anna.” Josette stepped back to survey her handiwork. “That is, if I may say so myself.”
“You may indeed—you deserve all the credit,” said Anna. She slowly turned in front of the cheval glass, setting off a soft swish of silk and satin. This was the first ballgown that her French maid had taken charge of designing, and the result was quite striking.
“I look…different.” Somehow more worldly, more mysterious, though she couldn’t quite describe why.
Josette nodded sagely. “It is a matter of subtle details. Fabric, cut, color, texture. Your Mama had you swathed in unflattering styles that made you look like a morsel of spun sugar. Too sweet! Too fluffy! And as for all the girlish ribbons and bows…” The maid’s hand gestures eloquently expressed what she thought of such decorative frills. “I have put most of them in the rag bin,” she confided.
“I am happy to defer to your judgment on fashion,” said Anna, still taking in the fact that a few yards of fabric could make such a difference.
