Sinfully Yours

by Cara Elliott

  Yes or no?

  Taking a moment to think, Anna bent down to retrieve a cast-off stocking from the carpet. Creating compelling stories was something she was very good at. This simply required a slightly different twist.

  “Actually, I would,” she said softly. “I can’t help but notice Lord McClellan’s interest in my sister—”

  Caro made a rude noise.

  “And a lady can’t be too careful about knowing what a man is really like,” she finished. “Our mother thinks only of a title, so I feel that I must be the one to consider the man behind the trappings of privilege.”

  “It is very wise to look at a man’s character as well as his purse, mademoiselle. The world can be a harsh place for those of our sex, So yes, it is important for a lady to keep her eyes open so that she may look out for herself.”

  Once again Anna was grateful that her maid was so sensible and pragmatic, rather than a flighty featherhead.

  The reflection in the looking glass showed Caro appeared thoughtful as she mulled over Josette’s words. Which was all well and good, mused Anna. Such advice helped temper her sister’s natural exuberance.

  “Speaking of Mama,” said Caro, slowly twisting around in her chair. “She said that the carriage ride gave her a beastly headache and she means to spend the evening in bed.”

  How fortuitous. Not having to contend with their mother’s ham-handed matchmaking would be one less distraction from her newfound sleuthing duties. “What a relief,” she replied with a wry smile. “I can pass the evening without fear of finding myself engaged to the prince before bedtime.”

  “According to his valet, the prince is not likely to ask for the hand of an English lady,” murmured Josette. She took a moment to shift the box of hairpins. “Nor, for that matter, the hand of any lady.”

  It took several ticks of the mantle clock for the maid’s meaning to sink in. “The prince does not…favor females?”

  “Apparently he much prefers to spend his time with the other members of his club, a very small and exclusive group of gentlemen who are interested in rare books and fine art.”

  “You appear to be intimately acquainted with the details of his private life,” mused Anna.

  Josette gave another lift of her shoulders. “As I said, servants do like to gossip. Especially when trying to impress one another.”

  Ha—yet another reason Devlin had to admit that having a lady as an ally was useful.

  The tick, tick seemed to grow louder in the flutter of silence. “Voilà, your toilette is finished, Mademoiselle Caro,” said the maid, stepping back and casting a critical eye over both her charges. “The two of you look very well. Now you had best hurry to join the others.”

  “Thank you,” murmured Anna, as Caro slid off her seat and fluffed her skirts. “We are very fortunate to have a person of your skills, Josette.”

  Devlin surveyed the room over the rim of his drink, trying to quell his impatience. He was never impatient, and most certainly not when a lady was concerned.

  But this was no ordinary lady, he reminded himself.

  A fact that he wasn’t quite sure was very good or very bad.

  His brain, however, had little time to parse the question. As Anna floated through the doorway in a rippling of shimmering sea-green silk, it went utterly blank, and all rational thoughts sunk into…

  Some depth of demented crosscurrents he had never experienced before.

  Breathe. Basic instincts seemed to be the only messages emanating from his head. His lungs slowly obeyed, and the rush of fresh oxygen seemed to dispel the sensation of drowning, drowning, drowning.

  Turning away, Devlin gulped down a swallow of wine to steady his shaking hand.

  “Where were you today?” growled McClellan, bringing him back onto firmer ground.

  “I was feeling lazy,” he replied. “We indolent idlers are not used to the rigors of tramping your moors. Satan must have been Scottish to have formed such hellishly steep climbs and bone-chilling mists to torture us soft Sassanach creatures.”

  McClellan’s mouth twitched, showing the man wasn’t completely devoid of a sense of humor. “Aye. How perceptive of you to have noticed that his cloven hooves are those of a shaggy Highland steer.”

  “Actually it was more of a lucky guess,” drawled Devlin, the exchange stirring his senses back to some semblance of normal. “Next time I am in his presence, I shall be sure to take a closer look.”

  “A closer look? And here I had assumed the two of you were already intimately acquainted.”

  McClellan was drinking a dark red-gold whisky rather than champagne, and his eyes were already a little overbright. “It’s never wise to make assumptions when the Devil is involved,” said Devlin. “All too often you will find that his red-hot pitchfork ends up jabbing you in the arse.”

  “Is that supposed to make me fearful, Davenport?”

  He widened his eyes in mock surprise. “Good Heavens, no—it’s supposed to make you laugh.” He lifted his glass to his lips, this time to take a smaller sip. “What reason would I have to make you fearful?”

  “A good question,” answered the baron.

  “What is a good question?” asked Caro, as she and her sister approached.

  “Lord McClellan and I were just discussing theology,” replied Devlin.

  At that, the baron did let out a snort of laughter. “Good and Evil is such an interesting topic, but let us not bore you ladies with such talk.”

  “Oh, Lord Davenport is never boring,” replied Caro, in a voice that left little doubt as to what she was leaving unsaid.

  Devlin remained silent, noting the glitter in the baron’s eyes was now more like a dancing of fullblown flames. Heeding his own advice, he decided not to make any assumptions on why the fellow seemed in a volatile mood.

  “I’m sure that Lord McClellan can converse intelligently on a number of topics,” interjected Anna. “Like the poetry of Goethe. I happened to note that the assistant secretary had set several volumes aside in his name when I visited the library this morning.”

  Caro’s expression went through an odd little series of contortions. “You read Goethe’s poetry?”

  A flush rose to McClellan’s cheeks. “Unlike much verse, his work at least strives to capture the full range of human emotion.”

  Rather than respond with a caustic comment, the younger Sloane sister swallowed hard and asked, “Have you a favorite, sir?”

  Anna quickly hooked Devlin’s arm. “Let us leave these two to debate poetry. If you will kindly escort me to the refreshment table, I have a question to ask you concerning card games.”

  “Card games?” repeated Devlin, once they were out of earshot.

  “I had to make up something that wouldn’t stir Caro’s suspicions,” she replied. “It won’t be easy to keep her from guessing something havey-cavey is afoot.”

  “You claimed to be good at intrigue.”

  “And so I am.” Drawing him to a secluded spot by the bank of windows, she quickly explained what she had learned from her lady’s maid.

  “Interesting,” he conceded, “though at the moment I don’t see what relevance it has to my mission. If the prince is in danger, it’s because of politics, not personal peccadilloes.”

  “I’m not sure it does have any relevance,” answered Anna. “Save for the fact that Josette is privy to a great deal of gossip, and I’ve come up with a plausible reason for asking her details about the private lives of our two most likely male suspects.”

  “One of whom is now, thanks to your encouragement, conversing with your sister.”

  Anna waved off the comment. “Even if Lord McClellan is our villain—which by the by I think unlikely—he has absolutely no reason to suspect that Caro knows anything about his secrets.” Her gaze lingered for a moment on the gardens outside the glass. Moonlight mizzled the orderly rows of ornamental bushes with a silvery light, softening the spiky edges of the sturdy hollies and yews. “If I were truly pragmatic, I might
even point out that allowing her to befriend McClellan would also make him less likely to be suspicious of me.”

  Damnation. She was frighteningly familiar with thinking out how a villain’s mind might work.

  “Be that as it may,” she went on, “my maid may prove helpful.”

  Devlin nodded slowly, unable to think of any reason for objecting. It was an excellent idea, but he didn’t like it a whit. “As long as you are—”

  “Careful. Yes, I know.” She slanted a look around. “We’ve spent enough time together. You ought to go flirt with Lady de Blois, as we planned. She’s been watching us and looks miffed, which will work in your favor.”

  A glance showed Anna was right. In the past, the provocative pout, the revealing gown, the flick of a fan would have stirred the desire for a casual dalliance. Now it did quite the opposite.

  There must be something in the Scottish air. A Gaelic curse perhaps, meant to rob all Sassenach males of their manhood.

  “Davenport?”

  “Throwing me to the wolves?” he murmured.

  Her flash of teeth had a faintly predatory gleam. “There are no wolves in Scotland, remember?”

  “Perhaps not the four-footed kind.”

  “You don’t sound overly pleased with giving chase. I thought you said all rakes were hunters,” said Anna.

  A clever quip seemed to elude his grasp. Instead, he quaffed the last of his wine and set the empty glass aside.

  “You will need to keep her occupied for at least a half hour, after I retire from the card table. It will be too chilly for a stroll outdoors, but perhaps a walk to the conservatory to a look at the specimen plantings—”

  “Thank you,” he interrupted, “But as you so politely pointed out, we rakes have experience in pursuing our quarry. I don’t need you to plot it out for me.”

  “My apologies,” she said, sounding a little flustered. “I—I was merely making a suggestion.”

  Her face turned a very sweet shade of pink. It took all of his mental discipline—not overly steady except with his automata—to keep from leaning in and pressing his lips to the ridge of her cheekbone, where the color was at its most intense.

  “You are adorable when you are angry,” he murmured.

  Her lashes dropped, not quite quickly enough to hide a flutter of…

  Of what?

  “I—I’m not angry,” she answered.

  “Shall I make another guess?”

  “I would rather you didn’t.” Her eyes once again darted away to the windowpanes. Rain had begun to tap against the glass.

  Devlin was suddenly aware that the thud of his heart was turning a little erratic. “Dare I hope it’s jealousy?” he said, just loud enough for her to hear. The teasing note belied how much he wished to know what she was thinking.

  The pink hue paled and then deepened to scarlet. “I…” she began.

  “My interest in the widow is purely professional,” he murmured.

  “But she’s very worldly,” replied Anna, watching the mist curls through the plantings.

  “And very manipulative.”

  “She’s very beautiful.”

  “In a tawdry sort of way.” Devlin shifted, forcing her to meet his gaze. “Trust me, her charms hold no seductive powers over me.”

  Her throat tightened as she swallowed. “A half hour, sir. I need a half hour to have a look around her room.”

  “You shall have it,” he assured. “But remember your promise—if there’s any danger of being seen, you must retreat. If there is a conspiracy afoot here, none of the varlets must suspect that you know of it.”

  “I understand.” Anna stepped back. “You really ought to go. We wouldn’t want Lady de Blois to think your interest in me is anything more than casual.”

  The minutes seemed to be mired in molasses. Anna stole yet another glance at the case clock, willing the gentlemen to finish their port and cigars and rejoin the ladies.

  Caro caught her eye and drifted over to take a seat next to her on the settee by the curio cabinet. “Is there a reason you are so concerned with the clock?” she asked between sips of her tea. “A tryst with one of your many admirers, perhaps? I hope it’s the prince. He is far more pleasant than the colonel.”

  “You heard Josette. The prince is…well, he is not likely to make Mama’s wishes come true,” replied Anna.

  “That may be. But the colonel’s interest is undeniable.”

  She was about to assure her sister that she had no interest in Polianov, but quickly thought better of it. He was one of Devlin’s prime suspects, and so she fully intended to encourage his attentions.

  “We ought not be too harsh on him. Granted he hasn’t made a favorable first impression, but that may be due to his feeling uncomfortable expressing himself in English. Beneath the outward stiffness, he may be quite interesting and amusing.”

  Caro arched a skeptical brow. “Perhaps you’ve put too much sugar in your tea.”

  “As Mama would say, don’t be cynical.”

  “Then I shall be blunt instead,” retorted her sister. “I think the man is a pompous bore.”

  Repressing a chuckle, Anna glanced around at the clock again. And found Lady de Blois watching her with a cat-in-the-creampot smile.

  The sound of a satisfied purr was almost audible.

  She looked away quickly, feeling her insides curdle at the thought of the widow sinking her claws into Devlin.

  I have no right to feel possessive.

  And yet she did.

  Her palms began to tingle as Anna recalled the shape of his shoulders, the feel of his muscles. The idea of another lady exploring his body was…

  She heard herself let out a sharp hiss.

  Startled, Caro nearly dropped her spoon. “Are you feeling ill?”

  “My tea has too much lemon rather than too much sugar.” Anna set her cup down. “I wonder what is keeping the gentlemen tonight?”

  “Lord Andover once confided to me that most of the time they linger over port and cigars is spent telling bawdy jokes,” offered Caro. The corners of her mouth crept upward. “Perhaps Polianov is telling a rather lengthy one. In Russian.”

  Anna was too tense to let out a laugh. She rose and feigned an interest in the curio cabinet’s display of Renaissance medallions while she tried to compose her emotions.

  If her heroine Emmalina was too wise to fall in love with a rakish rogue, then surely that should mean that her own brain could function just as well as an ink and paper one.

  Shouldn’t it?

  The question was still plaguing her thoughts when at last the gentlemen made their entrance into the drawing room, trailing a faint fugue of spirits and spiced smoke.

  Devlin went to sit with Lady de Blois. It was all according to the strategy they had devised beforehand, but still Anna felt a twinge pinch in her chest at seeing the widow sidle closer and lay a hand on his thigh.

  Her brooding was interrupted by the colonel, who greeted her in Russian.

  Maybe her offhand remark had some truth to it. He smiled broadly when she replied in kind.

  “You speak my language very well, Miss Sloane.”

  “Not nearly as well as you speak English, sir,” she said. “But it is gallant of you to say so.”

  His chest puffed out a bit. “I have had a great deal more practice than you have.”

  In what? The sinister whispers of intrigue and murder?

  Anna forced a smile. “I should like to visit your country some day. The city of St. Petersburg must be very beautiful. I have heard it is called the Venice of the North.”

  His eyes lit with a gleam—one sparked by hard-edged speculation, not any softer sentiment. “I am very delighted to hear of your interest. It is indeed a beautiful city, with magnificent buildings and all manner of sumptuous balls and entertainments.” The colonel came a little closer and she could smell the sweetness of the wine on his breath. “I think you would feel right at home.”

  The man’s sudden overt
interest in her was a little alarming. During the course of the past Season she had experienced a broad range of flirtations, from frivolous to serious, and something felt false about the colonel’s attentions.

  The realization stirred a pebbling of gooseflesh along her bare arms. Once again she couldn’t help thinking that if Devlin had spotted her nocturnal ramblings around the castle, Polianov might have as well.

  “That may be,” replied Anna lightly. “But alluring though it sounds, I don’t expect to visit anytime soon.”

  “Perhaps it will happen sooner than you think.”

  Mystified by his words, she chose to ignore them. “Perhaps.”

  He shifted his booted feet, and the touch of his trousers against her skirts sent another little shiver down her limbs. “Allow me to fetch you some tea, sir,” she added quickly.

  That Devlin’s brow seemed to raise a fraction as she passed him helped steady her fluttery nerves. She would not prove unequal to the challenge.

  Polianov followed on her heels. “Like all Russians, I prefer my tea very sweet,” he said.

  Such information wasn’t overly useful for the investigation. She would need to delve deeper. “Given Napoleon’s march to the east, your position here in England must be very important, Colonel Polianov,” she ventured after handing him his cup. “It must be very difficult to form a united alliance with the German states.”

  He shrugged. “Da. But that is all left to the diplomats, Miss Sloane. Let us talk about more pleasurable things, like your favorite leisure activities. English ladies seem to paint or play the pianoforte.”

  Anna clenched her teeth in frustration. She had expected him to snap like a hungry trout at her baited hook. But before she could cast out another lure, they were joined at the tea table by the Vicomte de Verdemont.

  Another prime suspect. Perhaps she would have better luck with him.

  “I cannot help but remark on how that unusual shade of blue-green tonight highlights your natural beauty, Miss Sloane,” murmured the fleshy Frenchman, contriving to catch her hand and raise it to his lips.

  Anna made no move to pull it away. “La, what lady doesn’t appreciate hearing a compliment?”