by Cara Elliott
“Most likely it has simply rolled into some hidden nook or cranny and will turn up before then.”
“Perhaps.” A Gallic sniff expressed quite the opposite sentiment. “Though I think it far more probable that it’s tucked in someone’s reticule or pocket.” Lady de Blois flicked a gloved finger over the folds of his cravat. “Maybe I should demand to run my hands over your coat and waistcoat, Lord Davenport.”
“Alas, you would be greatly disappointed, Lady de Blois.”
“Oh, I think not.” Her lashes fluttered. “And do call me Marie-Helene. After all, country house parties are notorious for their informality.”
Notorious. Her understanding of the English language was either mediocre or superb.
“I am called—”
“Le Diable,” she said. “The Devil. But surely your parents gave you a more proper Christian name.”
“Devlin,” he supplied. “Though I’ve been told they considered Lucifer, as I put my mother through hell in birthing me.”
“Ah, so you were trouble from the start.”
“So it would seem.” As he spoke, the supper bell rang, signaling it was time to move into the dining salon.
“Since we are seated at opposite ends of the table, it seems we must continue this fascinating conversation at a later time,” said Lady de Blois. “Midnight is a charming hour, don’t you think?”
“An interlude of black velvet skies and diamond-bright stars, cloaked in the mystery of moonlight.”
“La, you are a poet as well as a rogue,” she intoned.
“Merely parroting the words of one,” replied Devlin.
She regarded him with a faintly quizzical look before saying, “I am quartered on the third floor of the west wing. My door is the first one on your left as you enter the corridor. I shall not linger over tea with the ladies while you gentlemen enjoy your postprandial port and cigars. So don’t dally too long.”
The assignation should have stirred some enthusiasm in his thoughts—not to speak of his privy parts. However, the prospect of dallying with the lady no longer seemed quite so attractive.
Perhaps the combination of Scottish malt and French champagne was setting off an adverse chemical reaction.
Mayhap I should switch to Spanish brandy or German wine.
“A bientôt, Devlin,” she said in a throaty whisper.
“Yes, until later,” he murmured.
“Drat it.” Freeing the tangled pin from her topknot, Anna tossed it on the dressing table. Several more pings followed.
“Was your evening’s ensemble not a success?”
Anna whirled around as her maid emerged from the dressing alcove. “You really need not wait up for me in the evenings, Josette. I am quite capable of undressing myself.”
“Forgive me if I am disturbing you. I was just putting away some freshly laundered nightrails. Things have been slow in the scullery because of all the extra work.”
“I did not mean to sound snappish,” apologized Anna. “I seem to be a little out of sorts tonight.”
“Your gown…”
“Earned effusive compliments from most of the men present,” she said, turning back to the looking glass to unknot the ribbon in her hair.
Josette carefully plumped the pillows on the bed. “But not from the dark-haired one they call the Devil?”
A harried exhale momentarily fogged her reflection. “W-what makes you say that?”
“Very little goes on upstairs that isn’t discussed downstairs, mademoiselle,” replied her maid.
“But of course. What a buffle-headed question.” Anna loosened the last of the pins. “My wits don’t seem to seem to be working very well of late.”
Josette maintained a tactful silence as she retrieved the ribbon from the carpet and twined it into a neat coil.
Biting her lip, Anna watched the slowly undulating flame of her candle as she started to brush out her hair, hoping its soft sway might help soothe her unsettled emotions. With a pang of longing, she realized how much she missed the company of her older sister. Olivia’s steady good sense and sage wisdom could always be counted on to help untangle any problem.
Despite the flicker of firegold light, Anna felt her spirits sink deeper into darkness. It was dreadfully hard having no one to confide in. Caro was not yet experienced enough to give advice about men, and as for her mother…
Mama and I are as different as chalk and cheese.
A sniff slipped out of its own accord, causing the candleflame to waver.
“Is there a reason you are feeling…I think you English call it blue-deviled?” asked Josette softly.
“Oh, please.” Anna forced a smile. “I would rather not hear the word ‘devil’ any more tonight.”
“Ah.” Her maid perched a hip on the edge of the dressing table and tucked her skirts around her legs. “Men.”
“Men,” she echoed. If anyone had experience in the vagaries of life, and all its hard-edged realities, it was Josette. Drawing a deep breath, she ventured to add, “They can be awfully confusing.”
“Oui,” agreed her maid. “At times, one is tempted to strangle them—or rather him.”
“Oh, I can’t tell you how comforting it is to hear that,” quipped Anna. “I thought perhaps it was just me.”
“Trust me, if there is one sentiment all women share, it is that.” Josette folded her hands in her lap. “If there is anything you wish to talk about, I am happy to listen.” A pause. “Be assured that I don’t gossip, mademoiselle.”
Anna hesitated, but somehow felt that her maid could be taken at her word. “I ought to be able to ignore him. And yet, the Devil—that is, Lord Davenport—has the infuriating ability to make me lose my temper. And I never lose my temper.” She frowned. “It’s very puzzling.”
“You wish for me to offer an answer?”
“Very much so.”
“It’s because you are very attracted to the man. Perhaps you are even a tiny bit in love with him.”
“But that makes no sense,” said Anna.
Josette’s low laugh caused the pale curl of candle smoke to dissolve in the darkness. “That is the first thing you must understand about love, mademoiselle—it makes no sense. It comes from the heart, not the brain, and the heart can be very stupid about these things.”
“I see there is much I have to learn on the subject.” Anna was acutely aware of the thump, thump inside her chest. “I wish there were a book on the subject that, you know, spelled out the rules.”
“There are a great many that claim to know the secrets. But I daresay they wouldn’t do you much good. Love is not like a recipe for pigeon pie. There is no list of ingredients that can be mixed together to create a perfect result. It is different for every individual. You simply have to trust your instincts.” Josette’s mouth tweaked up at the corners. “Trust your passions.”
“But passion can lead a lady into trouble,” mused Anna.
“Yes, yes, I know. You English are cautious. Perhaps too cautious. We French believe that—”
“A lady should be a little dangerous,” she finished.
“Oui. Risk makes you feel more alive.”
“I—I think I know what you mean,” said Anna, as the memory of the afternoon made her skin begin to prickle with heat. “It must be the same for men, Lord Davenport seems engaged in some strange—” Catching herself, she decided that her speculations were not something that ought to be mentioned. “Oh, never mind. I am quite likely wrong.”
Josette rose. “I think perhaps you have enough to occupy your thoughts for now, so I shall bid you good night. Shall I lay out your nightrail before I go?”
“No, thank you,” replied Anna. “I wish to make a few notes in my journal before I retire.”
“Then I shall see you in the morning. Bonne nuit, mademoiselle.”
The evening could hardly be termed “good,” she thought wryly, as the latch closed with a soft snick. Upsetting wasn’t quite right either, though the sight of Lady de Bl
ois flirting shamelessly with Devlin had made her stomach feel rather bilious.
Josette thought her confused emotions had something to do with love?
Love? Oh, surely not. Granted, her body seemed to respond to the marquess with enthusiasm, while her mind was ordering quite the opposite reaction. And granted, Josette had spoken with the cool assurance of a woman who knew what she was talking about.
Still, it seemed illogical.
But as logic wasn’t proving helpful in solving any of her conundrums, Anna decided to add some of her maid’s observations on love to the notes for her current manuscript—the ideas offered some interesting ways to add some spark to her main characters. Emmalina and Alessandro were getting a little too predictable.
After scribbling a few quick pages, she sat back and closed her notebook. The hour was late, but her nerves were still too on edge for sleep. Instead, she rose and unlocked the bottom drawer of an old tea chest that was serving as a decorative plant stand. Hidden beneath a portfolio of blank writing paper lay the finished pages of the latest Sir Sharpe Quill adventure.
Gathering up the last few chapters, Anna curled up in the armchair by the hearth and read through the scenes. Things were shaping up rather nicely, she mused. The pacing felt right and the setting’s description was wonderfully exotic, thanks to a book of engravings on the Ottoman coast that she had found in an antiquarian bookstore just before leaving London.
There was just one small bothersome detail. Emmalina needed to fire off several shots with one of the new military-issue rifles, and while Anna knew that the cartridges and firing mechanisms differed from those of a standard musket, she wasn’t quite sure of the exact details. She could, of course, omit any mention of them. But she liked to get things right.
Perhaps there was an illustrated book on modern weaponry in the earl’s library. Shuffling the manuscript pages back in order, Anna went to relock them in her hiding place. She would check on the book first thing in the morning, while the men were out hunting. But as the key turned, the metallic click suddenly reminded her that the prince had mentioned bringing one of the latest model German hunting rifles with him, in case the opportunity arose to stalk the hills for the famous Highland stags.
The weapon would likely be stored in the Gun Room, and with the gentlemen having to rise so early, the place was certain to be deserted at this late hour.
It was worth a look, Anna decided. Taking up a pencil and her pocket sketchbook, she changed into a pair of soft-soled slippers and tiptoed out into the corridor.
Devlin hurried down the stairs, anxious to escape the cloying cloud of perfume that seemed to be shadowing his steps. He had managed to extract himself from Lady de Blois’s clutches before having to take a tumble in her bed. But it had required some dexterous moves on his part. She hadn’t been pleased by the excuse that the prince and his friends needed him to make up the right numbers for a late night card game. He had promised to make amends.
Thank God I have no gentlemanly scruples about breaking my word.
England’s needs must, after all, come before those of a randy widow.
Or was a lust for sexual dalliances the only reason she had come north?
That was only one of the many questions needed to be considered as he reviewed what progress he had made in his investigation.
Given the circumstances, Devlin decided he had hadn’t done too badly. Through casual conversation and careful observation during the evening gatherings, he had ruled out well over half the guests as possible suspects. The group of family and friends who had accompanied the young London heiress were conventional, conservative aristocrats who would likely expire from shock at the idea that they might be involved in any murderous plot. As for the local gentry, none of them possessed the imagination or boldness to attempt an assassination.
The German party who had accompanied the prince to Scotland presented more of a challenge to assess. But in the end, he had decided that they were likely just what they seemed—a pleasant, good-natured group of friends who seemed genuinely fond of their royal companion.
That left the French contingent, the ill-tempered Russian colonel, Lord McClellan…
And the Sloane family.
The baroness was a very unlikely villain. Again, a lack of imagination.
The two sisters were a different story, though. Caro, with her charming exuberance, did not seem to possess the necessary deviousness to carry off a crime. Anna, on the other hand, had both the cleverness and the self-control to be…dangerous.
Shaking off his suspicions, Devlin told himself that the French party were the far more likely suspects. He was aware of the fact that on a number of occasions, an exiled French aristocrat living in England had turned out to be a secret agent of Napoleon. Some did it out of idealism, some did it out of greed. He had a feeling that both Lady de Blois and her brother-in-law were not as plump in the pocket as they wished to appear. To begin with, he had taken a careful look at the comtesse’s emerald necklace during one of the earlier amorous moments.
The jewels were paste.
And lurking beneath the trilling laughs and sensual smiles was a steely coldness that seemed at odds with her efforts to appear a seductive Siren.
That they might be working in tandem—one to create a diversion, one to create havoc—was a thought that couldn’t be dismissed.
Still mulling over the comtesse and her behavior, Devlin turned down one of the side corridors, intent on taking a shortcut to his quarters in the men’s wing. The passage led down a short flight of stairs and past the side portico. Just around the next corner was the Gun Room, where all too soon, the hunting party would be assembling in the wee hours of the morning.
No rest for the wicked, he thought wryly as he rounded the turn.
Up ahead, a faint pool of candlelight spilled into the corridor from a half-open door.
Strange. It seemed a trifle early for a ghillie to be up and checking the fowling guns or loading the cartridge bags. On instinct, Devlin ducked into the recessed doorway of a storage closet and cocked an ear to listen.
Nothing. No cocking of hammers, no shifting of canisters, no thumping of canvas. The silence made the situation even more suspicious. He waited, watching the erratic flicker of the light moving within the room.
Finally, after several long minutes, a figure emerged and drew the door shut.
First pistols, and now muskets and rifles?
Despite her protests to the contrary, Anna Sloane must have a very vivid imagination.
That, or something far more nefarious than a play was being scripted inside that clever little head.
Chapter Twelve
The following morning dawned gray and unsettled, with ominous clouds in the distance threatening rain.
The mood was somber as well, as the group started to climb into the hills. Or perhaps, observed, Devlin, everyone was simply suffering the effects of too little sleep and too much brandy.
A dull ache was pulsing against the back of his skull, though not from a surfeit of spirits. Much as he wished to believe Anna incapable of being involved in any serious wrongdoing, her activities were becoming too alarming to ignore. Her explanations simply didn’t ring true.
And yet, Devlin couldn’t quite bring himself to accept that she was the agent in charge. She must be working with someone.
But whom?
Surely it had to be someone she knew from London. Colonel Polianov? His rudeness might only be an act, for the Russian government was meddling in German politics and had good reason to wish ill to befall Prince Gunther. Or maybe the young heiress’s father and Anna were having a clandestine affair, and the man had drawn her into an international intrigue.
Ye gods, he thought in some disgust, his conjectures were growing dangerously demented. There had to be a more reasonable answer.
“This way,” called McClellan, interrupting Devlin’s brooding. “Watch your step. The stones are slippery.”
Ducking low to avoid sna
gging his hat on a branch of thorny gorse, Devlin made his way up the narrow path. He had deliberately chosen to bring up the rear, as it afforded a chance to keep an eye on all the rest of the hunters. But given the patches of fog and swirls of mist obscuring the moors, there wasn’t much to see. The men ahead were naught but ghostly silhouettes.
“The grouse will likely have far more sense than we do,” he grumbled, “and won’t seek to stir from their nests.”
“Ja, it is gloomy,” came a disembodied voice from just ahead. Count Rupert rose from his crouch after making a final adjustment to the buckle of his hunting boot. “But I think I see a peek of sun to the east.”
“Wishful thinking,” said Devlin.
The winds had suddenly shifted just after daybreak, blowing a new squall in from the sea. However, the prince had been anxious not to miss another day on the grouse moors, so Lord Dunbar had prevailed upon his wife’s cousin to carry on according to plan. A few of the gentlemen—the sensible ones, thought Devlin glumly—had demurred. But loath though he was to forego the comforts of a roaring fire and glass of whisky on a rainy day, he had felt compelled to come along. After all, Thorncroft was paying him well.
“You don’t like hunting, Lord Davenport?” asked the count.
“Not when it’s colder and wetter than a witch’s tit.”
The other man looked puzzled for a moment, and then began to chuckle. “Ha, ha, ha. You English have a very peculiar sense of humor.”
“Would you two stop cackling over bawdy jokes and pay attention?” called McClellan testily. “This is excellent terrain for the hunt, and if we spread out in a line parallel to the trail, the beaters and dogs can try to flush some birds before it’s time to return to the castle.”
Though several sarcastic quips came to mind, Devlin took his assigned place without comment. The prince, he noted, was positioned at one end of the line, next to Vicomte de Verdemont.
