by Gaelen Foley
They chatted for a short while longer, then Alec thanked the count and left him to his work. Now that he had heard Lieven’s theory that Kurkov would turn Whig, he was even more interested to learn what he might find out at Brooke’s.
White’s was the bastion of the Tories, but Brooke’s, the club where Alec had lost the greatest sums of his career, was the stronghold of the Whigs.
Alec was one of the few men in London welcome in both clubs because he had no politics himself, made himself agreeable wherever he went, and more important, had powerful brothers in both camps. In this regard, he did not mind being universally viewed as naught but their fun-loving younger brother. Access to both clubs got him into all the top games. Robert had defected to the Whigs a few years ago, and so for his sake Alec was welcome at Brooke’s; but the twins were still loyal Tories, and for years Alec had been something of a fixture at White’s.
Crossing the black-and-white entrance hall of Brooke’s, he walked into the quiet morning room and was immediately puzzled to find it curiously dim, the curtains drawn against the cheery sunshine. The few elderly members that he spotted first in the gloom kept their voices to raspy murmurs.
Then he realized why. A cynical smile curved his lips as his gaze settled on the fashionable trio of his mates sprawled in the exclusive grouping of chaises and wing chairs in the center of the room, apparently convalescing from the previous night’s revels.
Fort, Drax, and Rush were motionless and, Alec surmised, in agony. They had cold cloths over their eyes, soda water and a few ginger biscuits on the table in the center. The fourth chair, Alec’s place, was vacant, only awaiting his return.
He could not resist tormenting them a little in sadistic, brotherly affection. Sauntering over undetected to the bank of windows, he threw open the drapes with a sudden motion. At once, violent shouts of protest erupted from the suffering party. Alec turned to face them in roguish amusement as Fort whipped the washcloth off his face as he let his feet drop indignantly from the ottoman. “Close those damned— Oh, it’s you.”
“Good morning, gentlemen.” Alec greeted them with a loud clap that brought more exclamations of pain. He rubbed his hands together cheerfully. “Ready to tackle the day?”
“Cruel bastard!”
“For the love of heaven, Knight, shut those cursed blinds,” Drax uttered with his forearm cast across his brow.
Alec laughed but relented slightly, letting the thick drapes fall back again over the nearest window.
“Last night’s a bit of a fog, but I take it you caught your quarry after you went racing off into the rain,” Fort mumbled. “I seem to recall that you didn’t come back.”
“No, I didn’t.” Alec prowled to the edge of their circle and rested his arms across the back of the nearest chair.
“We missed you,” Rush said sweetly.
Alec tousled his friend’s hair with an idle chuckle. “Rushie, m’boy, are you still drunk? You always turn so sentimental.”
“Ow, don’t make me laugh,” Fort pleaded halfway between a wince and a grin. “My head is pounding.”
“I hope the chit didn’t hurt you too badly.”
Alec chuckled suavely. “Not in any way that I minded.”
“Vicious little minx. Oh, God, I’m never drinking again,” Rush groaned. “Hand me one o’ them biscuits.”
“So, how was she?” Drax asked, nudging the plate of ginger biscuits toward Rush.
Three pairs of bloodshot eyes looked at Alec expectantly, awaiting his review on Becky’s performance in bed. He stared back at them, the familiar question taking him off guard and, all of a sudden, sitting not at all well with him.
I saw for myself how you and your friends treat women. . . .
Just then the sound of clipped footfalls entering the room distracted him. Alec glanced over his shoulder and tensed as he spotted the Duke of Westland marching through the morning room with a leather folio in one hand and a folded newspaper tucked under his arm. Westland spared little more than a contemptuous glance at Alec and his cronies as he passed to the refreshment table and helped himself to coffee from the samovar.
Alec’s heart began to pound as he realized this was the perfect opportunity to approach the duke. He did not intend to seek an audience with Westland in prosecuting Kurkov until after Talbot Old Hall was safely in Becky’s possession; but given His Grace’s outrage at their wager over Parthenia, it was clear that Alec had fences to mend if Westland was ever going to listen to him, let alone believe a word he said.
Here, at least, was a fleeting opportunity to make a friendly overture that might help matters when the time came. Surely, he thought, the passage of nearly a year should have lessened Westland’s wrath, though it had not seemed to matter to the man that his daughter, like a pristine icicle, had preserved her virtue as securely as Excalibur in the cold, clammy hand of the Lady of the Lake.
Alec felt for Draxinger’s thwarted tender for Parthenia when the earl looked at Westland with a great, heavy sigh and then sank back into the cushions, hiding his eyes beneath his forearm again. The earl’s whole posture said, “It’s no use.”
“Excuse me, gentlemen,” Alec murmured, gathering himself to make his move. “Anyone care for coffee, tea?” He did not wait for their answers, but walked away, his heart drumming faster.
The others watched with curious interest for a moment, then went back to nursing their heads and bemoaning their intemperance.
Alec sauntered over to Westland’s side and made a show of fixing himself a cup of good strong breakfast tea. Westland eyed him askance with a dubious look, releasing the silver spigot of the coffee urn.
Alec offered him the sugar with a polite smile.
Westland stared skeptically at him, his steel-gray eyes flickering, but he picked up the tiny sugar tongs and accepted a few lumps with a faint snort of disdain.
“Hawkscliffe’s little brother, isn’t that right?”
“Indeed, Your Grace. Lord Alec Knight.” He gave the noble peer a respectful bow.
“Thought so. You’re the one who plagued my daughter a couple of years back. You and those other young popinjays.” Westland glanced at Alec’s friends and snorted. “Best thing for your lot is the press-gang,” he muttered under his breath.
“Well, sir, I can scarcely argue that.”
“Good day, Lord Alec.” The imperious Whig magnate turned away. Alec knew he was dismissed when Westland looked past him and greeted another new arrival with a brisk nod. “Ah, Kurkov, good morning to you, sir.”
“Westland,” a cool, gravelly voice responded.
Alec froze, the hairs on his nape prickling with instinctive malice. He remembered that voice. A surge of violence flooded his veins as he heard the sound of boot heels striking swiftly over the hardwood floor, coming closer. He clenched his jaw, summoning up every drop of the actor’s blood that flowed in his otherwise aristocratic veins. He must seize the moment. He might not get another chance like this to probe his enemy at close range.
“Forgive me, Westland,” Kurkov said. “I fear I am a few minutes late for our meeting.”
“Not at all, I’m early, actually.”
Standing a few paces away from them, Alec had reason again to be grateful that he had put forth the effort to memorize those few Russian phrases.
He pivoted slowly, facing Becky’s tormentor with a Machiavellian smile. “Zdra’zhs-vu-tyay,” he greeted the prince with a courtly bow.
Kurkov turned to him in astonishment.
Even Westland was impressed. “Good heavens,” the duke murmured, his coffee cup halfway to his lips.
“It means ‘good day,’ Your Grace,” Alec told Westland, turning on the full force of the high society snobbery that he had studied from Brummel and honed to an art form these ten years. He tilted his head back slightly in order to look down his nose at the prince, as though he owned the ton and knew it. “Won’t you introduce me to your friend?”
CHAPTER
EIGHT
Mikhail
was startled by the greeting in his mother tongue; indeed, enough so to jar him out of his dark thoughts. It was maddening to know that somewhere out there, at large, uncontrolled, was a very angry and tenacious young woman who had information that could send him to the gallows. Nevertheless, he had every confidence that his wayward cousin would soon be silenced—one way or the other.
His men were hungry for revenge, and rather than killing her, had talked of torturing Rebecca once they had her, until they made her reveal the identity of who had killed Pytor and Vasily. Cossacks had long memories. Though worry gnawed him, Mikhail refused to show any outward lapse in graciousness, especially in front of the duke, for he had made up his mind to take Westland’s daughter to wife.
Meanwhile, the insolent blond-haired man regarded him expectantly, as though he believed they were equals. Well, this one’s very full of himself, Mikhail thought in cynical amusement. He looked the tall, strapping Englishman over with a skeptical eye. He was about ten years younger than himself, with the air of a pampered, corn-fed stallion who knew he was damned handsome and lightning-fast around the track.
Westland, a gentleman in spite of himself, begrudgingly gave sway. “Prince Kurkov, this young rapscallion is called Lord Alec Knight. Beware of him,” he added drily. “He is known for pulling pranks. Knight, this is Prince Mikhail Kurkov, heir to the Talbot earldom.”
“Hm,” the impudent fellow replied with an air of boredom. “How do you do.” The fine head angled only slightly in a bow.
Mikhail just looked at him, unsure if he was offended or amused by this foreign creature, an English rakehell. They didn’t have his kind in St. Petersburg, no more than they had an opposition party like the Whigs. There was decadence at the emperor’s court, of course, but as the lowly serfs worked the nobles’ lands, the nobles, in turn, were defined as the serfs of the Czar and had to fulfill their various civil functions.
No young Russian nobleman would have dared spend a whole day on the corner of a fine shopping street, for example, quizzing the young ladies through a monocle as they walked by, but here in London it was a common profession. Bond Street Loungers, they called them. Mikhail instantly suspected that this fine fellow had spent more than his share of lazy afternoons at such work.
Too bad, he thought. A damned waste. He was known for spotting military talent, and the Englishman had that sharp, cool, fearless eye he always looked for when handpicking worthwhile officers. “Lord Alec, is it?” Mikhail replied.
His smile was treacherously angelic. “Yes. Alexander—just like your celebrated Czar. Most people simply call me Alec.”
“That’s not all they call you,” Westland said under his breath.
“His Grace is so frightfully droll.”
“You speak Russian, Lord Alec?” Mikhail inquired.
“Gads, no. Just enough to impress the ladies,” he drawled.
Westland snorted, but Mikhail succumbed to a small laugh at the dandy’s flamboyant insolence. “Are you a member of this club?”
“I only come for the gambling. Do you play, Highness?”
“A bit.”
“Lord Alec must be let in everywhere, you see, whether he is suitable or not,” Westland explained. “The Regent dotes on him, and his brother is the Duke of Hawkscliffe, whose latest bill I was telling you about earlier this morning.”
“Bills, bills. I should hate to be a duke,” the rake declared. “So much work! I’m more the grasshopper, myself. Dear Robert, now, he is a committed ant.”
“I will let him know you said so.” Westland folded his arms across his chest. “Do they still let you play here, Lord Alec? I’ve heard the golden boy has hit a bit of a losing streak.”
“Win some, lose some, as they say, Your Grace. Just like in war. Or in politics.”
“Or in your case, in amour, Lord Alec?” Westland riposted.
“Well, no, actually. That’s the one game in which I never lose.”
Mikhail laughed aloud at his tart quip. The fellow had panache. He supposed he probably shouldn’t laugh when Westland harrumphed, but Lord Alec obviously did not purport to be a serious man, so why take him seriously? Mikhail welcomed the relief from his worries that the quick-witted jester had brought him. “Oh, come, it was a good hit, Westland,” he taunted the scowling duke.
“Your Highness, I thank you,” Lord Alec said to Mikhail with a bow, warming a bit from his initial show of frosty superiority, but there was a glint in his blue eyes that Mikhail was not sure he trusted.
Westland set his coffee cup aside. “Kurkov, we really should be going. Today I’ve arranged to introduce you to the prime minister.”
“Ah, old Cod-Liverpool!” said Lord Alec. “Easier to stomach if you hold your nose.”
“Abominable boy. Don’t encourage him,” Westland fussed as Mikhail chuckled again. “Come, we mustn’t be late.”
“Dosvi'daniya,” Alec called pleasantly as the two men walked away.
Kurkov gave him a casual salute and answered in kind, but Westland shot him a scowl. “Mind you stay away from my daughter.”
“Far be it from me, Your Grace, to go where angels fear to tread.”
“Rapscallion,” Westland muttered.
Mikhail looked back sharply at his remark about Parthenia, but Alec’s idle smile did not waver.
“Very interesting,” he murmured to himself under his breath. Kurkov hadn’t liked the Parthenia jest at all. When they had gone, Alec strolled back thoughtfully to his friends, his hands clasped behind his back.
“What do you want with dull old Westland?” Drax asked, sitting up just enough to take a sip of soda water.
“Oh, just amusing myself. A bit of sport. By the way, I’m leaving for Brighton tomorrow morning.”
“Without us?” they cried.
“I’ll see you there,” he answered in a reasonable tone. “I’ll be staying at my family’s villa to the west of the town instead of bunking with you lads in the house on Black Lyon Street.”
“What?” Fort exclaimed. “Not staying with us.”
“What is going on?” Drax demanded.
“Yes, you’re up to something!” Rush chimed in.
“I’m not ‘up to’ anything.”
“Oh, yes, you are. Why the sudden change of plans?”
“This doesn’t have anything to do with that girl from last night, does it?”
He evaded their questions—in other words, he lied to his closest friends for her.
He wished he could have trusted them, but he knew their reckless ways. One unguarded word while they were in their cups could bring disaster. Besides, he had promised Becky he would guard her secrets.
“I just need to relax for a few days. Is that so wrong? One can’t get any blasted sleep being under the same roof as your lot.”
“Another mood,” Drax said sagely to the others.
“Well, I hope you get over it soon,” Rush muttered. “You’re no fun anymore.”
“We’ll call on you when we get into town,” Fort offered.
Alec nodded. “Thanks, Danny.”
Finally extricating himself from their company, he went back outside to continue his preparations for their trip, his protective instincts still on full alert after his encounter with Kurkov. When he saw the Cossacks positioned outside, a chill ran down his spine, but he was comforted by the fact that he had dispatched the two who had seen his face. To the best of his knowledge, the others had no idea who had killed their comrades.
At least not yet.
Definitely best to go to Brighton, he mused, starting down the street with his carefully honed nonchalance fixed in place. No Cossacks, no duns. Just the surf, the sea, and beautiful Becky—and plenty of well-heeled gamblers.
Collateral, he thought. He could not afford to sit down at the table in those high-stakes games until he first came up with some money to put in the kettle.
With that, he made a detour to Sotheby’s famous auction house. Wincing a bit at the sacrifice, he arranged to s
ell off his treasured pair of Grecian urns and a few more pieces of his furniture. Thus, he said good-bye to his long-laboring effort to keep up appearances, knowing that once these items were gone, his apartment would be quite bare. Anyone who looked inside would realize he was in dun territory.
Oddly, that no longer mattered to him now the way it had just yesterday. The stakes were too high to bother with such things.
He conducted a few of the big, brawny auction-house workers to the Althorpe and oversaw the removal of his possessions, pocketing his cash in exchange. Then he packed his clothes for Brighton along with all the ammunition he had on hand to feed his pistols.
Lastly, he went over to the great bed, for this he had not sold. He picked up the blue robe Becky had worn last night and for a long moment stared pensively at the crimson mark from her shed innocense.
Despite her refusal, he was not sure that honor could be satisfied by anything less than marriage. Becky, he thought, slowly putting the proof of his misdeed away, why don’t you want me?
The house was very quiet, and the guest chamber where Becky rested had wallpaper that made her feel as though she were drowsing in a summer garden. White afternoon light made the soft, clear colors glow: cream and lilac floral stripes, hints of muted blue, green, yellow, and rose in the flowered carpet. The modest four-poster, hewn from dark walnut, was draped with crisp white bed-hangings. It was a simple, cozy, unpretentious room, and Becky lay so still atop the woven coverlet that the listless weight of her body hardly rumpled the covers at all.
Her unbound hair spilled loosely over the pillow; she was comfortably clad in one of the young duchess’s pretty day-gowns, a demure concoction of airy white-muslin simplicity, with loose sleeves to the elbow and cornflower-blue ribbon trimming around the square neckline, the high-waisted bodice, and the skirts.
She was waiting for Alec to come home.
In this afternoon idyll, her thoughts were not entirely serene, revolving, as they did, around her sworn protector and his half-frightening, half-thrilling vow to keep her safe. She found herself contemplating this unusual turn of events and trying to determine what it all meant.
