by Cara Elliott
“The fault is mine,” apologized Anna. “I couldn’t sleep and went down to fetch a book from the library.”
“A book?” The maid eyed the two stacks of novels and travel guides piled on the desk.
“Yes, well, I was hoping to find something boring, like an essay on agriculture, to help put me to sleep.”
“Ah, oui.” Josette nodded. “It’s true—a novel can be so entertaining that it keeps you up all night.” She made a clucking sound as she surveyed Anna’s face. “And you, mademoiselle, ought to be sure to have an early evening. You are looking—how do you say it in English—a bit mountained.”
“Peaked,” corrected Anna.
The maid repeated the word, then added, “When I suggested dark hues to highlight your fair coloring, I did not mean for you to put purple smudges under your eyes.”
“Forgive me for reflecting badly on your artistic genius.”
Josette grinned. “I am passionate about the things that matter to me.” She carefully shook out the wrapper and set it aside for cleaning. “If that offends you,” she added in a softer voice. “I am sorry.”
“Passion is important,” mused Anna. “It makes you feel alive.”
“Oui.” After pulling out a sprigged muslin morning dress, Josette bent down to choose a pair of matching slippers. “However, if I don’t have you ready to go down to the breakfast room while the prince is still there, your Mama will have my head on a platter.”
Other than the prince, who was cheerfully wolfing down a plateful of shirred eggs and sausage, none of the gentlemen of the party had yet made an appearance at the morning meal. Most of the ladies had also chosen to sleep late, for the pouring rain promised to keep everyone indoors for the day.
It was, decided Anna, a good thing that their mother was among them, for she would have been aghast to see Prince Gunther push back his empty plate and politely take his leave without engaging in any flirtations.
“Forgive me, ladies, but I must see to oiling my fowling guns,” he explained. “Just in case the weather clears.”
After finishing their tea and toast, Anna and Caro decided to wander to the library, which was said to house one of the best private book collections in all of Scotland. The vast main room was empty, noted Anna, save for the elderly baron, who was napping in one of the armchairs, the London heiress’s father, who was searching for a sporting book on races at Newcastle, and—
Lord Davenport?
“Are you an avid reader, sir?” inquired Caro, spotting the marquess as he emerged from one of the many alcoves. “There looks to be a wealth of wonderful old volumes here.”
“Not really. I was only hoping I might find a new novel by Sir Sharpe Quill somewhere here,” he replied with a theatrical flourish at the shelves.
The mention of her nom de plume set off a prickling of alarm at the back of her neck. Still, Anna did not miss the subtle shift of his other hand as he quickly shoved a small book into his coat pocket.
Why the secrecy? she wondered. Unless he meant to take it with him when the house party was over.
“Actually, there won’t be a new Sir Sharpe novel available until after Christmas,” said Caro.
“Indeed?” drawled Devlin. “You appear extremely well informed on the author’s publishing schedule.”
“Um, yes, well, I am a very devoted fan,” stammered Caro.
“And you, Miss Sloane?” he asked, turning to her.
Anna forced herself to release the pent-up breath in her lungs.
“Are you a devoted fan as well?”
The mischievous glint in his eyes might only have been a quirk of the candlelight. Still, his gaze stirred an uncomfortable tickle as it flitted over her face. “Like most young ladies,” she answered, hoping he wouldn’t notice the tightness of her voice, “I find horrid novels amusing.”
“Ah, but I would venture to guess that you rarely behave like most young ladies.”
She felt a flush rise to her cheeks. “No guessing is required to know that you, sir, rarely behave like most gentlemen.”
“Touché,” he murmured.
“Now, if you will excuse us, sir, my sister and I are anxious to explore Lord Dunbar’s collection.” Having no desire to continue the verbal duel, Anna looked at Caro. “I’m sure we shall find a complete set of Robert Burns’s poetry somewhere on the shelves.”
“There is also a fascinating selection of picture books on ancient armor located near the back wall,” said Devlin.
Anna’s feet tangled in the fringe of the carpet, causing her to bark a shin against the leg of a worktable. “W-w-what makes you think I have any interest in armor?”
“Given your fascination for weaponry, I thought you might enjoy them,” said Devlin. “The engravings are quite detailed, and who knows, they might serve as inspiration for the play you two are writing.”
“Play?” repeated Caro blankly.
“Oh, yes, the play,” exclaimed Anna quickly. “There is no medieval scene in it, so a suit of armor would be out of place.”
“Oh, come—use your imagination, Miss Sloane.”
“Mine is clearly not nearly as vivid as yours, Lord Davenport.” Taking pains not to limp, she set off for the sanctuary of the shelves, hoping her sister would have the good sense to follow along instead of lingering in conversation with the marquess.
Caro did—but only because her curiosity was piqued. “What play?” she whispered.
“He spotted me sketching a pistol in Mr. Manton’s display window. I had to make up as story as to why,” replied Anna in equally low tones.
“Come to think of it, writing a play for the guests to perform could be quite a lark,” mused Caro.
“Not for me. In case it has slipped your mind, I’ve got a deadline, and precious little time in which to finish my manuscript.” She made a face. “Speaking of which, after I find a book describing the historical ruins in this area, I had better spend the rest of the morning in my room, working on the next chapter.”
“And I think I shall search out a copy of Shakespeare’s Midsummer Night’s Dream and have a look at the play within a play.”
Lord Dunbar’s assistant secretary helped them in locating the desired books, and after a longing look at the rest of the magnificent collection, Anna reluctantly returned to her quarters.
Work, she reminded herself. She had come here to work, not to moon over a rakish rascal’s kisses and the terrible temptations they stirred inside her.
Sharpening her pen, Anna slapped a fresh sheet of foolscap onto the blotter and uncapped her inkwell. The best way to exorcise the Devil was through writing, and she had come up with some interesting ideas for a new plot twist.
And yet, as the nib touched the paper, she hesitated for a moment, thinking about fact before starting in on fiction.
The fact was, Davenport was acting very havey-cavey. Prowling around the castle in places he had no right to be, stealing a book from the earl’s library…which yet again raised the unsettling question—what was he up to?
It was no secret that the marquess was always desperately in need of money. It was assumed by the ton that he meant to marry a rich heiress. But perhaps he had other ideas on how to refill his coffers.
Hmmm.
Some time later, she was still musing over the conundrum when Caro’s light knock pulled her out of her reveries.
“Any progress?” Her sister’s brows shot up as she spotted the blank page. “Um, is there a problem?”
“Men,” muttered Anna through her teeth. “Or, rather, one gentleman in particular.”
“Let me guess.” Caro’s mouth curled up at the corners. “Did he steal another kiss?”
“No!” She slapped down her pen. “I have a feeling that he may be planning to purloin something far more valuable than that.”
“Ooooo, the plot thickens!”
“Stop that,” groused Anna. “It’s not a jesting matter.”
Her sister’s grin disappeared. “You’re serious
?”
She nodded. “Quite.”
“What makes you think that?”
After hearing the terse account of the previous evening’s hide and seek, Caro pursed her lips. “It’s intriguing, but hardly incriminating. Maybe he was just restless after visiting the prince’s quarters and decided to explore the ancient part of the castle.”
“I know, I know.” Her fingers began to drum on the blotter. “At this point it’s pure speculation, and yet I feel certain there is some mischief afoot here. I just have to find the proof.”
Caro’s reply was uncharacteristically restrained. “That has an ominous ring to it. You are beginning to sound like Emmalina.”
“I am Emmalina.”
The comment drew a laugh, but it quickly gave way to a quizzical huff. “Yes, yes, but she is the devilish side of you that exists only on paper. The real you is too carefully composed to do anything rash.”
Am I?
“You wouldn’t want to do anything risky that might expose your secret,” went on her sister. “Playing sleuth with Lord Davenport could be dangerous. Whatever he is up to is no concern of yours.”
“But I can’t help being curious,” murmured Anna.
“You know what they say—curiosity killed the cat,” pointed out Caro.
“Cats have nine lives,” she countered, feeling rather pleased with her cleverness. “Ha, ha, ha.”
“That may be so, but racy romance novelists have only one,” shot back her sister. “And trust me, just a small slip could prove mortal to your reputation.”
“Perhaps I don’t care about my reputation,” muttered Anna.
“You wouldn’t be able to write any more books.”
The quill seemed to stir against the blotter, adding its own flutter of warning.
Anna didn’t wish to confess her fears that her inspiration may have gone missing for good, so instead she merely muttered, “Hell’s bells, since when have you become the Voice of Reason?”
“Now that I’ve turned the age to be admitted into the adult world, perhaps I’ve decided that certain excesses of emotion ought to be left in the schoolroom.”
She sighed. “You are right, of course, to counsel caution. I won’t do anything rash. However, don’t become too much of a stick-in-the-mud.”
“I doubt there is any danger of that happening. Exercising restraint is deucedly difficult.” Caro cracked her knuckles and began pacing in front of the hearth. “I swear, I was sorely tempted to punch Lord McClellan in the nose this morning.”
“Talk about slaying one’s reputation in one fell swoop,” said Anna dryly. “What did he do to provoke your ire?”
“He saw me leaving the library with the volume of Robert Burns’s poetry as well as the Shakespeare play and a book of the Bard’s sonnets—and made a very mocking comment about simpering schoolgirls and their silly infatuation with poetry and true love.”
“I’m surprised you didn’t cram the books down his throat, along with making him eat his words.”
“I was sorely tempted,” grumbled Caro.
“I’m very glad to hear that you haven’t become too staid in your old age,” said Anna.
“I fear there’s little chance of that.” Her sister grinned. “As Josette says, a lady should be a little dangerous.”
The word stirred an uncomfortable prickling in her fingertips. “Which reminds me that I had better get back to work on Emmalina’s adventures, else I really will be in peril of missing my deadline.”
“I, too, plan to spend the rest of the day writing,” said Caro defiantly. “A satirical ode about gentlemen who have no more sense of romance in their soul than a garden slug.”
Chapter Eight
The unrelenting rain continued, keeping the guests cooped up indoors for the rest of the day. Cards, billiards, and backgammon provided diversion for the gentlemen, while reading, letter writing, and playing the pianoforte kept the ladies occupied. By suppertime, however, everyone seemed a little restless.
“Is it my imagination,” murmured Caro, as she and Anna entered the drawing room with their mother, “or is the champagne flowing a little faster tonight?”
“Given the dreary wetness outside, Lord Dunbar does appear anxious to add a bit of sparkle to the evening’s proceedings,” answered Anna.
Caro repressed a laugh as the elderly Scottish baron became a trifle too animated and nearly spilled his wine down the ample cleavage of Lady Hohenzugger, the older and stouter of the two German nobles. “Things are already getting more than a little effervescent.”
“Don’t giggle, girls,” commanded their mother in a low voice. “It’s most unbecoming.”
“Yes, Mama,” answered Anna.
Lady Trumbull was distracted from further chiding by the approach of Prince Gunther and Colonel Polianov, the Russian attaché. In contrast to the prince’s fair-haired Nordic good looks, Polianov was dark—dark hair, dark eyes, dark scowl twisting his handsome mouth.
Anna had met him only in passing, but her impression was that the man did not possess a sense of humor.
“Ah, good evening ladies,” said the prince cheerfully. “I am so glad to see you in particular, Miss Sloane.”
Lady Trumbull’s lips curled up in a cat-in-the-creampot smile.
“You see, the colonel and I are hoping you can help us resolve a little disagreement.”
“Da,” added the colonel brusquely. “His Highness thinks the Russian word ‘олень-самец’ means ‘stag’ in English. While I am quite certain it means ‘doe.’ I have been informed that you are familiar with my native language, so perhaps you could confirm that he is wrong.”
“Damned if you do, damned if you don’t.” Devlin had come up right behind her, and his whisper was only loud enough for her to hear.
The marquess was certainly not lacking in a sly sense of humor, thought Anna, however caustic and cutting it might be.
“Actually, the prince is right, sir,” she answered, trying to ignore the pulsing heat of Devlin’s presence. It felt as if the silk of her gown would burst into flames if he came any closer.
“You must be mistaken,” replied the colonel.
“I don’t claim to be fluent in your language, sir, so that may well be true,” answered Anna diplomatically. “Perhaps there is a Russian-English dictionary in Lord Dunbar’s magnificent library that you might consult for a definitive answer.”
“I shall inquire.” Clicking his heels together, Polianov inclined a curt bow and walked off, not before giving the prince a daggered look.
“Dear me, what a dreadfully serious fellow,” commented Prince Gunther, with a wry grimace. “Please accept my apologies, Miss Sloane. I did not mean to put you in an awkward position.”
“Thank goodness she sent him scampering off to vent his ire on the bookworms and dust motes,” said Devlin loudly. “That grim face and grating voice were ruining my appetite.”
“But not your thirst,” murmured Anna softly.
He grinned and took another swallow of his wine.
“The Russians do have a penchant for melancholy,” said the prince. “Their brooding makes Shakespeare’s Hamlet look like a jolly fellow.”
“By the by, Your Highness,” asked Devlin abruptly. “Is there bad blood between you and the colonel?”
Prince Gunther looked perplexed. “I’ve never met the fellow before. Why do you ask?”
“Idle curiosity,” he answered with a shrug. “His manner seemed decidedly unfriendly. But then, Russians appear to dislike everyone.”
The comment drew a laugh from the prince. “True,” he agreed. Turning to Anna, he offered his arm. “I, other the other hand, do not wish to appear as churlish, so to make amends for subjecting you to such unpleasantness, please allow me to escort you the refreshment table.”
Leaving her mother beaming in delight, Anna walked with him across the room and accepted a flute of champagne. “No doubt you are disappointed that the shooting has been delayed,” she said, to make po
lite conversation.
“I do look forward to seeing Scottish moors, for in hunting circles they are renowned for both their beauty and their sporting challenges,” he replied. “However, I am happy to have a chance to explore Lord Dunbar’s library. It, too, is famous among those of us who appreciate the art of medieval illuminated manuscripts.”
His answer was unexpected. She hadn’t been led to believe that he had the slightest interest in books or art.
Her face must have betrayed a spasm of surprise for he smiled over the rim of his glass. “Most people assume I’m a frivolous fellow because I am an avid sportsman. But I also believe in exercising the mind as well as the body.”
Intriguing. The tiny bubbles of the wine tickled against her tongue. So, she was not the only one who had hidden facets.
“I gather that you, too, have an interest in intellectual pursuits, Miss Sloane?” he went on.
“Yes,” she responded. “I am fascinated by history—”
“And firearms,” interrupted Devlin. He held out his empty glass for a servant to refill. “Perhaps we should invite you to accompany us on the hunt. Are you fond of shooting?”
Only rascally rogues who make a habit of teasing me to distraction.
“Or do you just prefer to make drawings of weaponry?”
“You are an artist of weaponry?” exclaimed Prince Gunther. “Lord Dunbar’s collection of antique armaments is said to contain many unique examples of Scottish claymores and crossbows. For someone interested in the subject, they must afford some superb opportunities for sketching.”
“Lord Davenport is jesting,” she replied tightly. “Please pay no attention to him. I assure you, my drawing skills are no more than ordinary.”
“You are far too modest,” said Devlin. “From what I saw, your rendering of a pistol was extremely accurate.”
“Oh, but pistols and poniards are such dreadfully boring subjects.” Lady de Blois, the widowed French comtesse who had accompanied her sister and brother-in-law to Scotland, sidled up to the table. A buxom blonde, she was wearing an emerald-colored velvet gown with a plunging neckline and a glittering array of matching gems.
