by Cara Elliott
“I much prefer to sketch handsome men.” Tracing a finger over the teardrop-shaped pendant nestled between her breasts, the comtesse added, “And beautiful baubles.”
“Lord Dunbar has a lovely collection of Renaissance jewelry on display in the Sculpture Room,” said the prince.
The comtesse batted her kohl-darkened lashes. “Oh, really? Perhaps you would help me locate it sometime tomorrow. I find it impossible to navigate my way around the castle.”
“The prince likely has many official documents to review and decisions to make during his leisure time,” interrupted Devlin smoothly. “While I, indolent idler that I am, have no responsibilities at all. So I would be delighted to serve a guide whenever you like.”
“How accommodating of you, sir. I, too, have no responsibilities, so it seems we are well matched.” Lady de Blois tapped his sleeve coyly with her fan. “I imagine there are many fascinating things to see here, especially for two people with no other distractions.”
Anna couldn’t help but notice that Devlin’s gaze was glued on her décolletage.
“Indeed there are.” He smiled.
A wolfish smile.
“Perhaps we should leave these two to arrange their Grand Tour while we discuss books, Your Highness.” Forcing her eyes away from the sinuous stretch of Devlin’s lips, Anna suddenly felt compelled to show that that she, too, knew how to flutter a flirtatious look. “Shall we find a quiet spot to sit and talk? I would love to hear more about medieval manuscripts.”
“I could ask one of the servants to fetch an example so that I can point out some of the artistic nuances,” said Prince Gunther. “That is, if you are sure that I will not be boring you.”
“Oh, not at all,” answered Devlin for her. “Miss Sloane greatly enjoys expanding her knowledge of the world…” His pause was almost imperceptible. Quite likely only she noticed it. “…intellectual and otherwise.”
Anna tried to remain annoyed, and yet his Be-Damned-to-the-Devil sense of humor couldn’t help but provoke an inner laugh.
He must have sensed her reaction, for as she passed on the prince’s arm he flashed a roguish wink.
She pretended not to see it.
“Enjoy perusing the painted pages,” he murmured.
“Enjoy admiring the baubles,” she shot back.
His laugh was light as a zephyr and lasted only an instant. And yet its sound seemed to tickle against the nape of her neck long after she had crossed to the other side of the room.
Rising early, determined to spend the day at work in her room while the others spent their hours in play, Anna made her way down to the breakfast room. Given the copious amount of wine consumed by everyone the previous evening, she was sure that she would have little company.
However, the sounds coming out through the doorway announced that she was wrong.
“…an emerald ring!”
Anna recognized Lady de Blois’s voice, although this morning it was more shrill than sultry.
“The stone was very large, and very valuable.”
As she entered the room, she saw Lady Dunbar, flanked by her solemn butler and housekeeper, facing the comtesse. “Perhaps it inadvertently fell from your dressing table?” suggested the countess in some concern. “Have you made a careful search of the room?”
“My maid has looked,” replied Lady de Blois, clasping her hands to her chest. “It is nowhere to be found.”
“I am quite sure it will turn up,” soothed Lady Dunbar. “Please, come sit in my private parlor and have a calming cup of chocolate while Givens and Mrs. Gorman organize a thorough combing of your quarters.”
“Very well,” sniffed the comtesse. “Cook may send some pastries too. I am feeling faint.”
“Yes, yes, of course.”
“This way, madam.” The silver-haired butler offered his arm and led her away into the corridor.
“Dear me,” fretted Lady Dunbar as the housekeeper moved off with a muted jangling of the massive ring of keys fastened to her apron. “Pouring rain and missing gems—this is hardly an auspicious start to the party.”
“I take it the comtesse has lost a piece of jewelry?” murmured Anna.
“So it seems. I would venture to guess that it’s simply snagged in a fold of her evening gown, or has dropped from the dressing table and lodged in some crack or crevasse.”
“Yes, of course,” agreed Anna, forcing a far more unsettling suspicion concerning Devlin and his need for money back into a dark corner of her mind.
“Well, I had better go join Mrs. Gorman in overseeing the hunt.” Taking her leave with a distracted wave, Lady Dunbar hurried away.
However discreet the search party was, the news soon spread through the upper floors, and Anna was shortly joined by a number of the other guests.
“Do you think we have a thief in our midst?” Her mother seemed to be relishing the thought even more than the deviled ham and eggs heaped on her plate. “How very exciting.”
Caro paused in buttering her toast. “Actually…” She shot a quick look at Anna. “I think it’s a very silly suggestion. The comtesse has likely misplaced it and is making a fuss over nothing.”
“She does seem to have a flair for the dramatic,” commented Devlin, as he entered the room and paused by their chairs to straighten his cravat. His hair looked a little damp and windblown, as if he had been out riding.
Damn the Devil for looking so…divinely disheveled.
Anna swallowed quickly to loosen the sudden constriction in her throat, and then couldn’t resist doing a little needling of her own. “You were the one who had the closest look at her baubles. Is it your opinion that one could have come loose from its settings?”
Their eyes met, and his were dancing with mirth.
No man ought to have such a molten gold gaze. She felt herself falling, falling, into a liquid pool of sun-warmed honey…
“Alas.” Devlin exaggerated a sigh. “I did not ask permission to make a thorough examination of her jewels. However, from what I could see, they looked quite well made to me.”
“Mark my words,” said her mother darkly. “I say there’s something havey-cavey afoot here.”
“Let us not look for trouble where there is none, Mama,” cautioned Anna, shifting her attention away from his half-mocking smile. “I’m sure your dear friend Miriam would not wish for us to stir up any rumors.”
“A very wise suggestion,” agreed Devlin.
Lady Trumbull looked miffed, but contented herself with a bite of her sultana muffin.
“What are your plans for the day, sir?” asked Caro quickly. “Has the weather cleared enough for a hunt?”
“There is still a light mizzle falling, but our German guests have decided they are hardy enough to brave the elements, so we British fellows can hardly fail to do the same. All but the elderly baron and Lord Dunbar have agreed to meet in the Gun Room shortly,” he answered. “And you, ladies?”
“Lady Dunbar has arranged for carriages to take us on a shopping expedition into town,” replied Caro.
“I hear there are some lovely woven blankets and shearling muffs in the shops,” said their mother.
“Are you looking to make some purchases as well, Miss Sloane?” he inquired politely.
“I haven’t decided,” she replied tartly, a little unnerved by the effect he was having on her rebellious body. “I may simply pass the day with a book.”
“That may be the wisest decision of them all, judging by the clouds hovering on the horizon.” Devlin inclined a casual bow. “Now if you will excuse me, I had better fortify myself for the moors with some hot porridge and coffee. Enjoy your day of leisure.”
“Leisure? Ha!” Setting down her pen, Anna flexed her hunched shoulders and slowly massaged the crick in the back of her neck. The muscles were knotted, but the pile of finished pages more than made up for the twinges of discomfort.
“Well, at least I am making some progress,” she announced to the inkwell.
Th
e silver-capped crystal did not echo her satisfaction.
“You have no idea how much mental effort is required to create a story,” she added. “It is very hard work.”
Her stomach growled in agreement. It had been several hours since the midday meal.
Deciding to reward her diligence with a break for some tea and pastries, Anna set off for the main parlor, where a collation of light refreshments were laid out for the guests throughout the day. After nuncheon, most of the ladies—including Caro, who had decided to visit the local bookshop—had gone on the shopping expedition with Lady Dunbar. And with all but a few of the men off tramping the moors, the house felt eerily empty.
It was silly, she knew, but the silence seemed to be whispering to her as she made her way through the corridor.
She was simply faint with hunger, Anna told herself. And her mind was half-lingering in its own inner world of imagination.
The suggestion was too brash—even for one of the Hellions of High Street.
She tried to ignore it, but the rustle of her skirts kept repeating the message.
A lady ought to be a little dangerous.
Exhaling an oath, Anna hurried across the landing instead of turning for the stairs and darted into the corridor housing Devlin’s rooms. At the midday meal, she had confirmed that he and the two other single gentlemen quartered here had elected to be part of the hunting party. So there was hardly any danger of being caught.
She promised herself that she wouldn’t spend long.
Just a quick look around.
For what? A horde of stolen jewels hidden in a waistcoat pocket? Priceless paintings rolled up and stuffed in a boot?
Shutting her ears to the voice of reason, she carefully counted her way down the doors. A peek at the housekeeper’s chart had revealed which room was his.
Holding her breath, Anna pressed the latch…
Only to find it locked.
Pulling a hairpin from her chignon, she offered up silent prayer of thanks to her late father. His expeditions had often taken him to wild places, and he had thought it important to teach his daughters basic survival skills so that they could fend for themselves if need be. Opening locks was one of them.
A deft jiggle released the catch.
Hoping her luck would hold, Anna slipped inside.
Considering Devlin’s dissolute reputation, the sitting room was surprisingly tidy. The furniture was free of rumpled clothing, the decanters appeared untouched, the desk was neat, with papers and books arranged in orderly piles.
Though she was curious as to what he was reading, Anna forced herself to head into the bedchamber. Averting her eyes from the large canopied bed, she opened the massive armoire and hurriedly checked through the clothing and bandboxes for anything suspicious.
Finding nothing, she looked around a little guiltily. It appeared she had let her imagination run wild. There was really nothing out of the ordinary about the marquess’s personal effects. Granted, a bejeweled ring—assuming it had actually been stolen—was small enough to hide anywhere. But suddenly it felt absurd to have fantasized that the man was a thief.
After taking a half-hearted look inside the chest of drawers, Anna was about to leave when she remembered the adjoining dressing room. It was unlikely that there would be anything other than an assortment of sporting boots and oilskin cloaks within the small space, but since she was here…
“How odd,” she murmured, giving the door latch another jiggle.
It, too, was locked. Which made no sense at all.
Once again, the hairpin made quick work of manipulating the levers. With a soft click, the door swung open several inches.
Pressing her hand to the waxed wood, Anna felt her pulse kick up a notch.
The thump, thump, thump began to hammer in her ears as she tentatively gave it a small push.
“Oh, stop acting like a peagoose,” she muttered. “There is likely a perfectly plausible reason for locking…”
As a dappling of daylight from the narrow window illuminated the alcove, she froze in place, staring in mute shock at the sight before her eyes.
A small worktable had been set up in the center of the space. An unlit argent lamp sat on a pedestal next to it, the oil-fueled glass globe angled to cast its intense light over the square of white felted wool that covered nearly the entire surface.
Swallowing her surprise, Anna ventured a step closer and leaned in for a closer look at what lay upon the fabric.
The pocket pistol from Manton’s shop had been disassembled, and all the parts laid out in an orderly grouping on one side of the table. But it was the weapon on the other side that wrenched a tiny gasp from her throat.
It was a copy of Mr. Manton’s design—and yet, it wasn’t. Some of the small metal workings had been made out of steel. But the majority were crafted out of beautiful burnished gold.
Hardly daring to breath, she carefully picked up a magnifying glass from among the set of precision tools wrapped in chamois and peered through the lens at the exquisite detailing of the half-finished model. Along with the intricate decorative patterns etched on the surfaces, some of the pieces were also covered by delicate indigo blue enamelwork highlighted by seed pearls. Looking up, Anna saw a number of glass vials containing powdered pigments grouped together with an assortment of small tweezers and paintbrushes.
“Good Lord,” she whispered.
Even more astounding than the partly finished golden pistol was the sight of a colorful miniature bird lying half assembled in the middle of the felt. Its eyes were two emeralds, and the tiny wings had been fashioned with a deft artistry that created the illusion of myriad feathers. Next to the golden claws was a bewildering array of impossibly small gears and levers.
The marquess wasn’t a thief, he was…
An artist? An alchemist with otherworldly powers to transmute ordinary elements into magic?
Feeling a little dizzy, Anna put the magnifying glass back in its place and slowly circled the table, checking to see if there was anything else that could shed light on what Devlin was doing.
It was then that she spotted several books stacked by the lamp. She opened the top one and saw that it bore Lord Dunbar’s bookplate, indicating that it had come from the library downstairs. Thumbing to the next page, she read its title—
A History of Automata
Being a Detailed Account of Ingenious Mechanical Devices
Throughout the Ages
The term “automata” was vaguely familiar. Her father had several books in his library on the subject. It referred to complex mechanical devices that performed some sort of movement, mostly for sheer entertainment—a majestic eagle that flapped its wings, a lute player who could strum his instrument, a ferocious tiger that could paw its prey. Popular since ancient times, there were, she knew, some very clever and complex constructions.
Intrigued, Anna paged through the chapters of the book in her hand, stopping occasionally to study the detailed engravings of various examples, including an elaborate thirteenth-century Arabic model of a jewel-encrusted peacock fountain and an eighteenth-century French flute player. But much as she wished to read the text, she needed time to think over what she had discovered before confronting the marquess.
As she closed the book a folded piece of paper fell out of it. Smoothing it open, she read over the list of names carefully before putting it back between the pages.
Ye gods—what is the marquess up to?
Reluctantly placing the book back atop the others, she quitted the dressing room and relocked the door. After checking that the corridor was clear, she reset the main lock and hurried back to her own chamber.
Shrugging out of his hunting coat, Devlin draped it over one of the armchairs of his sitting room and went to pour himself a drink. The first swallow of whisky burned a trail of welcome fire down his throat, but as he turned away from the sideboard, a tiny chill teased against the nape of his neck.
Something wasn’t quite right.
>
The desk blotter was slightly askew, and a pillow on the settee had been shifted several inches.
Setting down his glass, Devlin moved into his bedchamber, and the sensation grew even more pronounced.
His eyes were attuned to notice minute details, but even an unschooled gaze could see that someone had been in here going through his belongings. And whoever it was hadn’t been particularly skilled at it. The clothing in the armoire hung at odd angles and several lids of the bandboxes were not quite closed.
Ignoring the chest of drawers, he quickly crossed the rug to check the dressing room door. That the bolt was in place brought some measure of assurance that his secret was still safe.
Until he fitted his key into the lock and clicked it open.
Damn. Damn. Damn.
The intruder had been more careful in here, but not quite careful enough. His work-in-progress was undisturbed, but the tools and books showed small signs of tampering.
Frowning, he crossed his arms and considered the conflicting evidence. On one hand, the clumsiness of the search betrayed an inexperience in spying. On the other, the lock-picking skills said otherwise.
“Damn.” Uttering the oath aloud, Devlin lit the lamp and angled the beam of light into every nook and cranny of the far wall. He worked his way back methodically around the rest of the room’s perimeter, then concentrated his efforts on the area beneath his work table.
There, between a narrow joint of the floor planks was a colored thread caught on a splinter. He picked it out and carefully folded it in his handkerchief, though the chances were slim that it meant anything. Tucking it backing his pocket, he redoubled his efforts. But after a thorough search turned up no other clue that might help him identify the intruder, he finally gave up and returned to his sitting room.
Picking up his whisky, Devlin set the amber liquid to swirling in a slow, spinning, vortex. He disliked being at a disadvantage. However, for the moment there was nothing to do but wait for his unknown adversary to make the next move.
Or was there?
After a meditative sip, he returned to his temporary workroom and took out his most powerful magnifying glass from a wooden case beneath his paintbox. Fishing his handkerchief from his coat, he smoothed out the snowy white square of cambric and arranged the thread in its center.
