by Cara Elliott
Polianov bristled at being cast in the shade. “Miss Sloane’s beauty goes without saying,” he snapped.
“Actually, I think it can’t be said often enough,” replied Verdemont a bit smugly. “We wouldn’t want the fairer sex to think that we take them for granted.”
“We were just talking about Napoleon’s march to the east,” said Anna, deliberately keeping her eyes on the vicomte. “You must be offering a prayer to the Heavens that the Allied forces will be able to defeat him.”
Did his gaze darken for instant? Whatever the reaction, it was gone in the blink of an eye.
“More than one, mademoiselle,” he replied, his voice betraying no hesitation. “Tyrants must be destroyed at all costs.”
Polianov gave a gruff sound in his throat. “Let us not sully the lady’s lovely ears with such talk of war.”
Anna surrendered any hope of squeezing any useful information out of the pair at the present moment. The vicomte’s reaction, however tenuous a clue, was at least something to offer to Devlin. And as soon as the group finished with the refreshments and moved on to the card tables, she could withdraw for the evening and head upstairs for her real mission.
“You are right, colonel. War and intrigue are such an ugly business.” Taking up a platter of ginger biscuits, she offered it to Verdemont. “Tell me, does Lord Dunbar’s gardener think the weather looks favorable for a hunt tomorrow?”
Chapter Seventeen
Careful, careful. The flickering flames of the wall sconces seemed like silent tongues, repeating the same warning that was whispering inside her head.
Anna checked up and down the dimly lit corridor before flattening herself against the dark wainscoting and inching forward. She had changed into breeches and a loose-fitting shirt—thanks to her insistence on meticulous research, she always had such clothing at hand in order to write accurately on what moves Emmalina could make when dressed as a male. No question that moving swiftly and stealthily was far easier when unencumbered by yards of silk and petticoats.
Pressing an ear to Lady de Blois’s door, Anna listened intently for any sign of life within the chambers.
Nothing.
A second look around, a quick juggling, and she was safely inside.
So far, so good.
But there was precious little time to waste in self-congratulation.
After relocking the door, Anna turned in a slow circle, reviewing her options as she surveyed the sitting room. A half hour wouldn’t allow for a search of the entire quarters. And so she would have to rely on female intuition as to where the most likely hiding place for intimate secrets would be.
A lady like the comtesse, she decided, would want to keep them close to her…bosom.
Without further hesitation, Anna rushed into the bedchamber and looked around for the jewel case. It wasn’t hard to spot. A large brass-cornered domed box covered in emerald green leather sat on the dressing table between a half dozen ornate crystal scent bottles and a pair of silver-back hair brushes.
A pair of locks were fitted into the heavy lid, and as a bead of moonlight flitted over the shiny metal, they seemed to wink in challenge.
“Perhaps it takes a lady to catch a lady,” she murmured, flexing her sliver of steel. The small mechanisms proved surprisingly difficult, but with a few extra probes they finally yielded.
She didn’t dare strike a flint to the brace of candles. Even the faintest curl of smoke left lingering in the air could give away the visit.
And so could a careless search of the box’s contents. Despite her eagerness, Anna made herself study the arrangement of the brooches, pendants, and earrings before lifting the velvet-lined tray out and setting it aside. Several necklaces lay in the deeper compartment, but the fact that they lay twined in a careless tangle should work in her favor. Holding her breath, Anna ever so gently slid her fingers beneath the twists of gold and eased them up and onto the smooth tabletop.
The bare black velvet stared at her in silent reproach.
“Don’t look at me like that. I doubt you are as innocent as you seem,” she whispered in reply. A quick sidelong glance at the outside of the case had shown that the interior appeared to end far higher than it should.
Anna gingerly worked a fingernail between the fabric-covered pasteboard bottom and the wood and felt for any looseness.
Sure enough, the pasteboard shifted. A few gentle tugs and it came out smoothly, revealing a hidden compartment. In it was a packet of letters.
Anna quickly checked the clock on the mantel. Twenty minutes left. That should allow more than enough time to read through them.
Such optimism quickly dimmed. Unfolding the first one, she saw it was written in French.
Merde.
Luckily, there were only four missives and she was fairly fluent in the language. Still, she would have to work fast.
They were all penned in the same bold script—a man’s hand, decided Anna, taking a quick peek at the signature on the first one she unfolded. It didn’t confirm her guess—it was simply a large “V”—but she was sure she was right. Just as she was sure that “V” would turn out to be Verdemont. There was, after all, an old saying that lightning never struck the same place twice.
Her surmise on the letter writer’s identity was soon confirmed as she read over the contents. It was indeed Verdemont, and his words left no doubt that he and the comtesse were engaged in a passionate affair. Anna felt a momentary twinge of guilt for prying into the other lady’s personal secrets, but then quelled her misgivings and moved on to the next letter.
Anyone willing to deceive her own sister in such an ugly way might very well be capable of even worse acts of betrayal.
The second and third letters were less overt in their meaning. The mood was more agitated, the innuendos more puzzling. Anna found herself struggling a little with the language.
Eight minutes left.
Did she dare read the last one? It took only a split second to judge it worth the risk.
This one had a slightly ominous tone…assuming her imagination wasn’t running away with her. She needed to reread it several times, for there was a phrase that seemed to make no sense at all, even though she knew the meanings of the French words. A code, perhaps? Frowning, she committed it to memory, thinking that Devlin might have some ideas.
Four minutes.
Praying that Devlin’s charm was holding strong, Anna hastily refolded the letters and placed them back in the secret compartment. After replacing the false bottom, she carefully lifted the necklaces…
Only to freeze at the sound of footsteps in the hallway.
“Don’t panic,” she whispered aloud as the gold began to chatter in her trembling hands. Willing herself to remain calm, Anna arranged the jewelry into the right configuration, then slipped the top tray into its slot.
Shutting the lid, she managed to work the locks into place and then slid the case into its original place.
A key rattled the front latch, the metallic scrape sounding loud as cannon fire.
Thirty seconds. Maybe less.
Anna spun around to the window. If Devlin could manage the ledge, so could she. Her feet were smaller, and dancing with any number of clumsy men had taught her agility and balance. She cracked open the tall leaded glass frame and slipped out—ye gods, it was cold—taking care to pull it firmly shut behind. A piercing gust of damp air cut through her thin stockings and suddenly the ledge felt narrow as razor’s blade.
She quickly edged out of view, just as a flash of candlelight illuminated the panes. Flattening her back against the rough stone, she drew in a gulp of air and held it in her lungs.
A grumbled mutter, the thump of a water jug, the scuff of shoes on the carpet coming close to the casement…
Anna bit her lip and offered up a prayer to the Celtic wind gods that the window wouldn’t fly open.
All at once, the light disappeared as the heavy damask draperies were yanked closed. The steps receded and all she could hea
r was the keening of the wind through the turreted tower and the rustling of leaves below. Anna glanced down—and then wished she hadn’t. The drop looked far greater than it had from inside the room.
Several deep breaths helped to steady her quaking knees. There was no going back. Which meant she had no choice but to swallow her fear and make herself start to move.
Devlin tossed down his cheroot and ground out the glowing coal beneath his boot. Still no signal, though it felt as if a century had passed since his parting with Lady de Blois. Anna should be back in her room by now, a single candle blazing bright in her bedchamber window to say that all was well.
“Damnation.” He glanced up again. “Damn, damn, damn.”
A fresh gust blew across the terrace, further tangling his wind-snarled hair. Too impatient to remain in the niche by the corner wall, he turned up his collar and began to pace along the stone railing.
Only a bloody fool—or an idiot besotted by a beguiling beauty—would have agreed to such a dangerous plan. Her oh-so-clever mind made it hard to remember that Anna had no experience in flesh and blood intrigue. It was all very well to pen swashbuckling feats of daring. Ink and paper did not bleed, imaginary heroines did not die from real life bullets or blades.
A growl welled up in his throat.
Bracing his palms on the stone, Devlin stared out at the mist-shrouded moors and slowly counted to ten. He was allowing his mind to exaggerate the risks. In all likelihood, there was nothing more nefarious going on at Dunbar castle than some illicit trysts.
Turning, he shot another glance up at the looming wall.
Then where was the bloody candle?
Clenching his teeth, he resumed his pacing. Ten more minutes—he would give her ten more minutes. If no light had appeared by then, he would take matters into his own hands.
Where they should have been in the first place.
Pebbles crunched beneath his boots as he descended the terrace stairs and began walking along the graveled path in search of a better angle of view to Anna’s bedchamber. Shadows swirled through the bushes, and a sudden gust ruffled the knife-edged holly leaves, hiding the west wing for a fleeting interlude.
Ducking low, Devlin shouldered his way through the prickly hedge and once again lifted his gaze.
A flame—faint but unmistakable—finally glimmered behind the glass.
Relief pulsed through him, followed by a spurt of anger. He stood for a long moment, staring at the light while he fought to bring his emotions under control.
When at last, the pounding of his heart had subsided back to its normal beat, Devlin returned to the path and headed back for the terrace.
She had better have a good explanation for tying his insides into knots. But much as he wished to hear it now, it would have to wait until morning.
Falling, falling, falling…
Stifling a cry, Anna sat bolt upright in bed. It took several rat-a-tat thumps of her racing heart for the dizzy, disoriented feeling to subside. A dream—it was just a bad dream, she realized. Her toes were snug beneath an eiderdown coverlet, not sliding off a sliver of slippery stone.
She blew out a sigh and slumped back against the pillows, reveling in the welcoming softness and warmth. Still, she couldn’t help feeling a shiver tiptoe down her spine. The inch-by-inch traverse along the ledge had been a nightmare ordeal, with every tiny step seeming to take an eternity.
A gust slapped against the windowpanes, provoking a rueful smile. Swashbuckling exploits seemed much easier to perform on paper.
Her throat dry as dust from her fitful sleep, Anna threw off the covers and padded over to the washstand to fetch a glass of water. Too restless to return to bed, she curled up on the window seat and gazed out at the silvery moonlight playing over the dark silhouettes of the shrubbery.
From this perspective, she mused, the scene had a cozy feel to it. The clouds were clearing, and with the wind dying down to a gentle breeze, a peaceful stillness was settling over the grounds…
A movement within the leafy shadows of the boxwood hedge suddenly caught her eye. Anna wiped the mist from the glass and leaned in for a closer look.
One…two—no, three—figures materialized from the gloom and hurriedly crossed an open swath of lawn to take shelter beneath a large oak tree not far from her window.
Anna quickly shifted on the seat to keep them in view.
One of the men she recognized. The untamed shock of reddish-gold hair made Lord McClellan hard to miss. The others were too well-swathed in broadbrimmed hats and dark scarves to make out their features. Their gestures, however, were clear enough in the dappled light—they seemed to be arguing with the baron, and quite heatedly.
Lying low on the cushions, she reached for the latch and cracked open the casement.
No luck. The voices were too low to carry through the whispery night sounds.
Pressing closer to the panes, Anna kept her eyes on McClellan, who was becoming more and more animated. A clandestine meeting in the dead of night could have no explanation, save for one.
The baron was up to no good.
Her pulse began to pound. Was she watching the conspiracy against Prince Gunther in action?
The answer came quickly enough—McClellan’s two companions each reached within the folds of his overcoat and reluctantly handed over a weapon.
Two muskets—no, two rifles! She recognized the distinctive silhouette of the short barrel as McClellan slung them over his shoulder.
With a curt wave, the baron dismissed the men, who slunk away into the darkness. He watched them go, his profile stony and expressionless, mirroring the distant granite outcroppings dotting the moors.
A very hard man, thought Anna, feeling her insides clench. And his fiery passions made him a very dangerous one to cross.
As if sensing her presence, McClellan suddenly turned to stare up at the castle.
She ducked beneath the casement, telling herself that his hawkish gaze couldn’t possibly penetrate brass and stone. But much as she wished to slither down to the carpet, she waited for several moments and then ventured another peek. Devlin would want to know every detail, and she did not want to disappoint him.
The baron had already started walking—she could just make out the gleam of his fair hair and swirl of his coat around his boots as he took the stairs to the side entrance two at a time.
Her own feet twitched, and she darted a glance at the doorway. Devlin ought to be informed as soon as possible…
But reason quickly prevailed. Venturing out into the deserted hallways of the castle with an armed assassin on the prowl was not the wisest of ideas.
Perhaps my earlier adventure has tempered my taste for outrageous risks.
Deciding that discretion was the better part of valor, Anna crept back to the sanctuary of her bed. The downy softness felt blissfully good against her tired limbs, and she stifled a yawn as she burrowed deeper into the covers.
Unmasking the baron’s perfidy could wait until morning.
“Still abed, mademoiselle?” Josette paused by the armoire, a pile of freshly laundered nightrails in her arms. “Shall I come back later?”
“No, no, it’s quite alright.” Anna pried an eye open and winced as a blade of sunlight cut across her face. “Oh, dear, is it fearfully late?”
“Not by the standards of your fellow guests. Most of the ladies don’t rise until well after noon.”
“I am not used to lazing in bed,” she mumbled sleepily. But on flexing her aching shoulders, she was sorely tempted to remain cocooned within the covers for a while longer.
“An eventful evening?” inquired the maid.
The question quickly cleared the muzziness from her head.
Ye gods—the evening!
Anna sat up quickly and pushed a loosened hank of hair off her cheek. “N-no, not really.”
Josette leaned down and fished a bedraggled stocking—an unmistakably male stocking—from beneath the bed. “Hmmm.”
Drat! In he
r haste to strip off her male garments and hide them in one of the bandboxes, she had been a little careless.
After examining the item a fraction longer, Josette merely folded it neatly and placed it on the bureau without comment.
“I can explain,” murmured Anna. “But I’d rather not.”
“If you wish to sneak out for an assignation with that handsome dark-haired devil, that is entirely your own affair, mademoiselle,” replied the maid. “As you know, I believe a woman ought to have the freedom to make her own choices, even if they are ones that may lead her into trouble.”
“I wasn’t having an assignation with the Devil,” said Anna, then quickly amended her words. “Well, not exactly.” Better to let Josette think her adventures were simply amorous. “I know that doesn’t make sense—”
“Love rarely does,” quipped Josette.
“But I’m not in love.”
“Bon. That is good.” The maid turned and began straightening up the brushes and boxes on the dressing table. “Men will only make you miserable if you give them your heart.”
Anna smiled but felt a strange sort of pinch in her chest. Was that true? Her own mother’s shrill unhappiness was in part due to the detachment of her father. He lived in his own world—a quite wonderful world, but the fact that his wife was uncomfortable in it did not deter him from living quite cheerfully on his own.
It must have been disappointing for Mama to realize that the tribal customs of Crete meant more to him than her needs and desires. Neither had been willing to compromise…
“Shall I fetch hot water for your morning toilette?”
Josette’s quiet question roused Anna from her reveries. “No, no—that’s not necessary.” Rising, she hurried to the washstand and splashed some cold water on her face. “I’m anxious to go down to breakfast.”
“I shall shake out your cerulean blue walking dress. The day is bright, but a bit chilly, so merino wool seems a good choice, just in case you wish to go for a stroll in the gardens.”
