by Cara Elliott
In truth, he was an excellent dancer, lithe and light on his feet. For someone who claimed to be an indolent idler, he had a panther-like grace, an impression sharpened by the rippling of muscle beneath the tailored black wool of his evening attire.
“If you are fishing for flattery, cast your lures elsewhere, sir.” Anna tried to sound stern, but there was, she admitted to herself, something exhilarating about crossing verbal swords with the marquess. Yes, his clever, caustic tongue could cut like a rapier, but the fact that he expected her to be able to defend herself with equal skill was in itself a great compliment. It added an unexpected edge to their thrusts and parries.
And interestingly enough, their recent clashes had given a hint of hidden steel beneath his devil-may-care…
“You wound me, Miss Sloane,” murmured Devlin, once they had spun by a pair of other couples.
“I doubt that I’ve drawn blood. And if I have, it could only be a pinprick to your vanity.”
He laughed in a low, intimate way that stirred thoughts of rumpled sheets and musky perfume. “If I were a puffed-up popinjay, the injury might be mortal. However, as I can readily laugh at my own foibles, as well as those of others, I don’t think I can be accused of taking myself too seriously.”
“I grant you that, Lord Davenport. Your faults may be legion, but overweening conceit is not one of them.”
“Ye gods, praise from you? I think I may need smelling salts to keep me from falling into a swoon.”
“I have a feeling that very little in this world could render such a shock to your sensibilities, sir.”
Another laugh—which sent another frisson of heat tingling through her body.
“By the by, it wasn’t praise,” Anna added softly, telling herself that it was too dangerous to play with fire. No matter how pleasantly seductive the sensation was now, she would only end up getting burned. “It was merely an observation.”
They danced through a slow turn in silence before Devlin replied, “I, too, have made an observation, which brings us in a roundabout way to what I wished to discuss with you.”
“At last,” she responded, “we stop spinning in circles.”
“Indeed, the dance is almost at an end.” His hand tightened on hers as the tempo of the music quickened into its crescendo. “My apologies again if I have subjected you to a tedious interlude.”
It hadn’t been tedious, it had been…tempting.
Too tempting.
“You had better get to the point, sir, before it’s time for us to part company.”
“Very well.” And yet, he hesitated as their bodies whirled in perfect harmony with the lilting rhythm of the waltz.
For a moment Anna felt as if she was dancing on air.
“Is there a reason you were making a sketch of the pocket pistol in Manton’s display window?”
The question brought her girlish reverie thudding back down to earth. Thud, thud, thud. Her heart began to hammer against her ribs.
“Your eyes must have been deceiving you, sir.”
“On the contrary, I have excellent vision.” His steps skimmed smoothly over the parquet. “So I would say that the deception must lie elsewhere.”
Anna swallowed hard, unsure of how to reply.
Damn the man—he must have a basilisk gaze to go along with his Lucifer smile.
“You’re a bad liar, Miss Sloane,” he whispered. “The question is why.”
“W-why…” she repeated, trying to gather her wits. “W-why…why is it any business of yours what I put in my private notebook?”
“It isn’t,” replied Devlin calmly. “However, given the oddity of young lady being so intrigued with a firearm, it occurred to me that you might feel yourself in some imminent danger.”
Ha! The only imminent danger was to her peace of mind. And for that, bullets and gunpowder would provide precious little protection.
“Are you?” he pressed.
Anna hitched in a breath as the violins finished their last notes with a flourish and the music came to an end. Laughter rose from the crowd milling near the punch table, the gaiety punctuated by the sharp-edged clink of crystal.
The urge to echo their amusement rose up in her throat. Lud, the evening was fast descending from drama to farce. The only thing more absurd than the notion that she might be threatened by some unknown enemy was the idea that Lord Davenport might feel honorbound to offer aid to a damsel in distress.
“No,” she answered.
The surrounding couples were beginning to drift away from the dance floor in a muted rustle of silk and well-tailored wool. Looking up through her lashes, she saw that Devlin had fixed her with an inscrutable stare.
“No,” she repeated a little more forcefully. “Ye gods, the idea is absurd.”
“True. But stranger things have happened,” he murmured.
“Perhaps in novels,” she shot back. “Not in real life.”
“And how much experience have you had in real life, Miss Sloane?”
She lifted her chin a notch. “Enough to know that we had better not remain standing here together in the center of the room, else risk becoming fodder for the morning gossip mills.”
Devlin didn’t move.
“I see my sister near the entrance to the card salon,” went on Anna. “If you will kindly escort me there, you can shed your suit of shining armor and walk away without the weight of noblesse oblige making any further dents on your shoulders.”
His lips twitched. “I imagine armor can be cursedly uncomfortable. As can a conscience. That’s why I make no pretensions to possessing either.” Devlin finally offered her his arm. “I was not about to suggest you look to me for help. If you are in trouble, you had best turn to your older sister’s new husband. It is Wrexham who is the perfect hero, not I.”
“I shall bear that in mind, should I ever be in peril.”
To her dismay, Devlin seemed in no hurry to end their tête-à-tête. Rather than taking a direct line toward Caro, he chose a roundabout route through the leafy shade of the decorative potted palms. The fronds cast a fluttering of knife-edged shadows, making it impossible to read his expression.
Muddled grays, charcoal blacks—the play of hues seemed to mirror the marquess’s own inner thoughts, which he kept shrouded in darkness.
Let them remain wrapped in whatever sins he chose to live with, Anna told herself. It was of no interest to her.
Liar. The leaves caught in a current of air, the low whisper echoing Devlin’s earlier word. Liar, liar, liar.
“About the pistol, Miss Sloane…” Like a mastiff with a bone between his teeth, Devlin seemed stubbornly unwilling to let the subject drop.
She thought quickly—surely she could improvise.
“Really, sir, I hardly think I owe you any explanation. However, to put an end to your tedious interrogations, I shall explain.”
He waited.
“If you must know, my sister and I are writing a play, to be performed at an upcoming house party to which we’ve been invited. Amateur theatrics are always a source of entertainment at such gatherings, and Caro thought it would be amusing to come up with a fanciful plot involving pirates and a kidnapped heiress in need of rescuing.”
A cough—or was it a laugh?—caused her to pause. “Forgive me,” Devlin murmured, clearing his throat. “Do go on.”
Odious man. Why he took such fiendish delight in tormenting her was a mystery. But at the moment, all she cared about was escaping from his devil-dark gaze. “My maid, who is a very talented seamstress, is willing to help with creating costumes, and so, well, we thought that having colorful props, such as pasteboard pistols, would add to the spectacle. I happened to be passing Mr. Manton’s shop, and decided that accuracy would be a nice touch.”
“Accuracy. Yes, that’s rather important when it comes to pistols,” said Devlin dryly.
Ignoring the comment, Anna hurried to add, “But it is all meant to be a surprise. So I would ask that you not make mention of it to anyone, sir.”
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br /> “I’m good at keeping secrets.” Devlin smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. Lurking beneath the thick fringe of his lashes was something deeper and darker than humor. It was…
Puzzling. The marquess had a surprising number of hidden facets, which was at odds with his image as a frivolous, indolent rake.
“I’m glad to hear it,” she answered. “Then may I count on your silence?”
Devlin led her through a sliver of space between two of the potted trees, and all at once they were back in the gilded light of blazing candles. “Very well. But be advised that when you ask a favor, you must be prepared to grant one in return.”
On that note, he turned and walked away.
Pasteboard pistols. Devlin chuckled under his breath. The explanation was diverting, but just as much a lie as her earlier denial.
Which raised the question of what she was really hiding.
But intriguing as that conundrum was, he had another more pressing matter to deal with at the moment.
Taking the steps of the carved staircase two at a time—a lapse in manners that earned a reproving stare from the head footman stationed in the entrance hall—he made a quick check of his pocketwatch. He was going to be late, though not unconscionably so. Thorncroft would expect no less. They were both becoming familiar with each other’s habits.
His were likely more irritating, he thought with an inward smile. However, the other man had no choice but to tolerate them.
Once on the street, he flagged down a hackney and arrived at St. James’s Street just a few minutes past midnight.
“How kind of you to show up,” said Thorncroft, looking up from perusing a sheaf of papers.
Devlin closed the door to the private meeting room and poured himself a drink from the decanter set on the sideboard. “A passable port,” he said after a meditative swallow. “But given the distance I’m being asked to travel, you might have chosen a better vintage.”
“Beggars can’t be choosy,” retorted the other man.
Taking a seat in the facing armchair, Devlin stretched out his legs and crossed them at the ankles. “I wouldn’t have to dance for my supper if you weren’t such a nipcheese about paying me for my services.”
“You are well compensated for your efforts, Lord Davenport. Perhaps if you curtailed your other habits, you would have more blunt in your pocket.”
“My other habits, as you so charmingly refer to them, have proved exceedingly useful to you in the past.”
“Some of them,” stressed Thorncroft. “However, let us not waste time in trading barbs. I’ve several papers here that you must read. For obvious reasons, I can’t allow them to leave the room.”
Devlin heaved a pained sigh.
“You do know how to read, don’t you?”
“It will cost you extra.”
Thorncroft stifled a snort of laughter. “I shudder to think what you would charge if I asked you to look at the original German versions.”
“Best not to ask,” agreed Devlin as he accepted a handful of documents. “All these? Ye gods, pour me another drink.”
Silence settled over the room, broken only by the intermittent crackle of paper. A half hour passed before he looked up. “The prince appears to be a thoroughly amiable, if thoroughly feather-headed fellow. Who would want him dead?”
“That is what we are hiring you to find out,” answered Thorncroft a little testily. “We aren’t sure that anyone does. The report the Foreign Office received is awfully vague, but given that the fellow is a relative of our Royal family, we have to take the threat seriously. To begin with, there are any number of Scottish radicals who would like nothing better than to foment a crisis by striking a blow at the British Crown.”
“With the King mired in madness and the Prince Regent even more of a wastrel than I am, the Scots should simply sit back and let House of Hanover destroy itself.”
Thorncroft waggled a warning finger. “Watch your tongue, lest I have you arrested for sedition.”
Devlin shrugged.
“The Scots are not the only potential threat,” went on Thorncroft. “As you should know, Russia and the Kingdom of Saxony are our key Eastern allies in the fight against France. However, their rulers are currently at each other’s throats over some sliver of land, and the prince may be used as a pawn in the squabble. We can’t afford to have any ill befall him on British soil, lest the entire region blow up like a powder keg in our face.”
Devlin reread one of the documents. “According to your envoy’s report, there may be a paid instigator within the prince’s hunting entourage.”
“Perhaps. Several French émigrés will also be attending the party, so we can’t overlook the fact that one of them may be an agent of Bonaparte.”
“Or he may have a spurned mistress who is out for blood.” He tapped his fingertips together. “In other words, you haven’t uncovered any real clue, so I must consider everyone a suspect.”
“Yes. But in truth, it is more than likely you will have nothing to do but drink and flirt for the coming month.”
“And freeze my bones in the damp, desolate moors,” muttered Devlin.
“Whisky will chase the chill from your blood,” quipped Thorncroft. “And the Countess of Dunbar is inviting a number of ladies from London to visit, so I’m sure you’ll find someone willing to warm your bed.” He paused. “Apparently two rich heiresses will be among the guests. If for once you play your cards with some skill, you may end up with a long-term solution for your money problems.”
“The question is whether the price I would have to pay is worth the blunt. What makes you think I wish to be encumbered with a wife?”
“Because your clever little hobby is rather expensive, that’s why.”
Devlin straightened from his slouch. “How—” he began, and then snapped his teeth shut. Bloody Hell. He should have guessed that the Foreign Office would make a thorough investigation of his habits before asking him to undertake this mission.
Thorncroft looked pleased with himself. “Yes, yes, I know all about those exquisitely detailed mechanical objects that you design and build. I became curious after you sold us that ingenious telescope and folding slingshot. Where did you acquire such skills?”
“Never mind,” growled Devlin. He wasn’t about to reveal any more private secrets. “Now, might we return to the business at hand?”
“But of course.” Thorncroft first took a sip of his brandy. “By the by, did you know Dunbar Castle houses a very fine collection of seventeenth- and eighteenth-century automata?”
Devlin spun his glass between his palms, and watched the ruby-red liquid swirl around and around. “Is that a bribe?”
“Consider it a bonus.”
“You are too kind,” replied Devlin sourly. He didn’t like feeling manipulated, but he couldn’t really blame Thorncroft for being good at his job.
Thorncroft raised his drink in mock salute. “I am. I’ve just paid you a King’s ransom to do little but dance, drink, and tinker with your mechanical creations.”
“And what if I do discover something havey-cavey is afoot?”
“We don’t expect you to rouse yourself to perform any heroics. One of our operatives will be stationed in the town. You have only to alert him of the details and he will take care of ensuring the prince’s safety.”
“Sounds easy enough.”
“Yes, as I said, you will likely have nothing to do but enjoy a month of pampering and pleasures at Dunbar Castle.” Thorncroft set a small packet on the side table. “Here are funds for the journey. I’ve arranged for a traveling coach to call for you in the morning.”
Chapter Five
Bedbugs,” said Lady Trumbull darkly, as the ostler closed the door to their coach. “The inn came highly recommended by Lady Herrington, but I am sure the bedsheets had bedbugs.”
“I’m sure you are mistaken, Mama,” soothed Anna. Their mother was a fretful traveler who tended to find fault with everything. And the journey n
orth to Scotland had been a long and tiring one. “The scent of fresh lavender perfumed the linens.”
“Yes, yes,” agreed Caro. “It was quite sweet.”
“Well, if you girls are sure.” Their mother retrieved her embroidery from one of the bandboxes on the floor. “How much longer until we arrive?”
Caro consulted the map. “No more than a few hours, I think.”
“It can’t be soon enough,” sniffed the baroness. “It feels as if we have been bouncing over these rutted roads forever.”
Thank heaven the Earl of Wrexham had put his well-appointed barouche at the family’s disposal while he and Olivia were visiting Rome for their wedding trip. The interior was spacious, the seats were soft, the lap robes were warm—Anna dreaded to think what expressions of horror a hired vehicle would have drawn from their mother.
Heaving an inward sigh, she opened her book to resume reading where she had left off the previous day. But after a few minutes, she found her attention wandering to the square-paned windows and the rain-drizzled landscape outside the glass.
Scotland was, to her eyes, a starkly beautiful country, its austere angles and muted earthtone colors possessing a rough-cut appeal. The wind-carved granite had a chiseled strength, and the hardscrabble heather covering the mist-shrouded moors showed a rugged toughness in withstanding the force of the salt-tinged squalls blowing in from the North Sea.
“What a dreary place,” announced Lady Trumbull. “I do hope that Miriam has plenty of entertainments planned.” Her face suddenly brightened. “Ah, but if the weather is too beastly for hunting, the prince and his party will be forced to remain indoors.”
“It would have to be a full-force gale in order to convince the men to give up their shooting,” observed Caro.
“Hmmph.” Lady Trumbull smoothed at her skirts. “I have never understood why they would want to be tramping around in the cold and mud, when they could be indoors enjoying the company of the ladies.”
“Perhaps because there is some primal force that still resonates inside them—at heart they are hunters and gatherers,” murmured Anna.
Her mother made a pained face. “Nonsense, my dear. The gentlemen invited to Dunbar Castle are civilized aristocrats, not heathen savages.”
