by Gaelen Foley
“Likewise, Your Highness.” Alec clinked glasses cordially with the man. “Zdra’zhs-vu-tyay.”
“Spa’sibo bolshoi,” Kurkov said with a throaty chuckle.
Alec tilted his head. “I beg your pardon?”
“Drop the bolshoi. It means grand, large, eh, formality,” he explained. “There’s a new phrase for you.”
“Aha.” Alec laughed, relieved. For a second there he had thought the man had already seen through his false friendship, but he’d been mistaken, thank God. He endeavored a quick change of subject. “So, Your Highness, what do you think of Brighton?”
“Enjoyable.”
“Have you seen the Regent’s building project?” he asked with a confidential air, turning on the old Alec charm.
Kurkov made a face, stern and soldierly, and then shook his head in baffled scorn over the strange goings-on over at the Pavilion.
Alec laughed softly. “Ah, yes, on the subject of property, that reminds me. I was referred to you, sir, to query after a hunting lodge that you own, I am told.” He clasped his hands idly behind him. “My friends and I have been speaking for some time about going in together on the purchase of a hunting box, but we have not been able to find anything large enough to suit us. We were talking about it at the tables just the other night, and someone suggested you might have a place for sale—in Yorkshire?”
“Did they?” he asked. Alec held his breath as a glimmer of suspicion snaked ever-so-faintly through the depths of Kurkov’s cold gray eyes, but then the man shrugged it off. “Yes, I do have an old hunting lodge in Yorkshire. But it is not for sale.”
Alec drew breath to try to finesse the prince to change his mind, but Kurkov continued before he could speak.
“It is a pity I did not learn of your interest sooner, Lord Alec, for I would have instructed my solicitor to accept any reasonable offer. I have no use for the place myself. Unfortunately, a certain very determined young lady coaxed me into staking the property in the annual whist drive.”
Alec’s eyes widened with shock, which he quickly masked. “The—whist drive?” he asked in a slightly strangled tone.
“Yes.” Kurkov took a sip of his rum punch. “Lady Parthenia Westland is on the charitable committee that organized the game.”
“But isn’t the entry fee . . . ten thousand pounds?” he forced out, reeling and making a herculean effort to hide his shock.
“Indeed,” Kurkov agreed drily, observing his astonishment at the sum. “They’ve doubled the entry fee since last year, I’m told, which is why they are permitting players to stake such things as property, carriages, jewels and the like, as long as the total value is equal to ten thousand pounds. It is no wonder they put Parthenia in charge of enrolling players,” he added. “That fair creature is not easy to deny. But . . . it is for a good cause.”
“Navy widows and children,” Alec echoed, instantly thinking of one particular navy brat who was very dear to him, indeed.
Kurkov smiled cynically. “I was referring to Parthenia herself.”
Alec managed a smile and then dropped his gaze, his heart pounding. Good God, this was a catastrophe! Ten thousand pounds was double the sum they had, besides which, only about twelve hours remained before the deadline ended to buy into the game. He didn’t even know if there was a single seat left in the tournament at this late date, as it only allowed for thirty-two players.
“Well—enjoy your evening, Highness.”
Kurkov nodded politely and Alec started to turn away when an all-too-familiar voice stopped him.
“Alec—darling!” Eva suddenly blocked his retreat. The baroness pinned him a brief, hostile glance before fixing her sultry smile on Kurkov. “You must introduce me to your friend.”
His blood ran cold as Kurkov’s answering glance traveled over Eva with open interest. Alec thought he might be sick.
Of course, recalling Eva’s penchant for brute force, it was no wonder she had been drawn over to meet the big Russian, especially when he was a newcomer and she had already had her way with most of the men of the ton. Her desire for an introduction was also, no doubt, intended to get back at him for the ugly scene at the villa yesterday. He might have threatened her life, but it was not as though he could do anything to her in the middle of a crowded ballroom. This was her chance to rub it in his face.
Alec pursed his lips and looked from her to Kurkov, on the very horns of an agonized dilemma. He hated introducing them when Eva was the only one who could connect him to Becky-Abby to Kurkov.
On the other hand, Eva did not know that Kurkov sought the girl. And to refuse to introduce them would only have alerted the baroness’s opportunistic instincts. It would be fatal to let her scent advantage. Best not to cue her in to the fact that she held anything of interest to Kurkov other than the shapely contents of her gown.
It seemed he had no choice.
“Lady Campion, allow me to present Prince Mikhail Kurkov. Your Highness, this is Eva, Baroness Campion.” Brute force, meet decadent corruption.
“Enchanté, madame,” the prince said, bowing low over her gloved hand in Continental fashion.
“How very gallant,” she purred, enjoying the gesture, but sparing a coldly reproachful, aye, a punishing glance, at Alec when Kurkov’s head was bowed.
He stared back at her coldly, loath to leave the two of them together, but the whist drive deadline was fast approaching. He could only hope that, lustily engrossed in each other, Kurkov and Eva would not waste time on conversation. If they bothered to speak at all, the subject of Becky was unlikely to come up, and besides, Eva would not soon forget his threat to keep her mouth shut.
Neither paid him any mind as Alec took leave of them with a muttered farewell. In a moment he was on his way out the assembly rooms, striding swiftly across the marble floor of the columned foyer, his focus on the problem at hand.
’Sblood, it had taken him three weeks to amass the five thousands pounds it should have taken to buy Talbot Old Hall. Where the hell was he supposed to come up with another five thousand before tomorrow noon?
Outside the villa, a dog was barking somewhere nearby, and a big gibbous moon hung over the sea. Becky sat in the first-floor parlor, where the house was coolest. With the windows open and the curtains blowing listlessly, she sat curled on the sofa with her feet tucked under her, sipping lemonade and waiting for Alec to return from the Lieven ball.
Though still seething over his secrecy, she waited up for his return. Knowing that tonight he faced Mikhail, she was anxious to see him back safely and to know the outcome. She pulled the candle closer and endeavored again to concentrate on the book that Alec had put in her hands some time ago, before they had quarreled. He had said she must try it, for it had been written by a friend of his, called Byron. Perhaps she was not able to give it her full attention, considering the jangled state of her nerves, but from what she could glean, it seemed as though this Lord Byron fellow had an even bigger chip on his shoulder against the female race than Alec did.
Her thoughts wandered away again from the sly remarks of Byron’s cheeky Don Juan to the problem of her own exasperating paramour.
Really, where was he? The ticking wall clock read half past two. Surely the ball was over by now, so where was the rogue? And with whom?
She shifted uncomfortably in her seat, scowling to think of him surrounded by elegant ladies in ball gowns, a dozen copies of Lady Campion, all fawning on him, no doubt. Blast it, this vexing jealousy only added insult to injury. Who would have guessed she would turn out to be such a possessive woman over her man?
But that was just the problem.
She did not know whether Alec was still hers or not. Obviously she did not mean as much to him as she had thought she did, or he would have talked to her by now. She hated giving him the silent treatment, but she knew it was vital not to back down. And yet . . .
She missed him.
Oh, maybe this fight between them wasn’t worth it, she thought, fretting as she raked
her hand through her hair, staring into the flickering candle. It was foolish to alienate her protector and provider. What right did she have to ask anything of him when he was the one keeping her alive?
On the other hand, to capitulate merely for self-preservation would have been manipulative, dishonest, and low. No, she did trust Alec that much. Whatever conflict might simmer between them, she knew for certain he would never throw her to the wolves just because, in his view, she was being a “headache.”
An odd sound outside the window suddenly snared her attention. Becky looked over warily, jolted from her thoughts.
Already jumpy with the thought of the Cossacks having arrived in Brighton, her heart began to pound. She told herself she was being silly.
Mikhail’s men had no idea where she was. But even though she was at odds with Alec, she felt safer when he was here. The servants were hardly going to protect her, after all. No, in fact, they had gone to bed.
There it was again! She wasn’t imagining it! A crackling sound—as though someone were shuffling about in the shrubberies just outside the window. Blanching, she quickly blew out the candle to hide herself in the darkness.
She unfolded her legs from beneath her and got up from the couch, silently taking the long, heavy pistol out of the slim drawer in the sofa table. She had loaded the weapon earlier simply to make herself feel more secure while he was gone. She had not dreamed she might actually have to use it.
Fortunately, she knew how, thanks to her inquisitive country childhood and the kindly gamekeeper on the estate, who had let her join in when the village boys clamored around him, begging him to teach them how to shoot. She ended up despising guns in the end, when she had seen what they could do to poor little game birds and rabbits, but she still knew how to use one when she was backed into a corner.
Stalking silently toward the window, she held the weapon in both hands, pointed at the ceiling. Her father would have been proud, she thought, as she set her back against the wall beside the window and gathered herself: With a sudden lunge, she shoved the curtains away and aimed out the window.
No one there.
She scanned, sweeping the front area with the muzzle of her weapon. All was clear—until she saw the large black figure running along the wall, slipping around to the back of the house.
A chill ran down her spine. She suddenly remembered the kitchen door that led out to the garden. Had she locked it?
I can’t remember.
She had seen one figure outside, but there could be more. With no other option than to defend herself and her home territory, she ran to the kitchen at the back of the house. If the trespasser came through the back door, she could take him by surprise.
She crouched under the kitchen window and listened.
There was definitely someone out there. She heard movement, low breathing. An able man could have scaled the high garden wall. She swallowed hard as her pulse escalated. Oh, Alec, if only you were here.
The audacity! She heard the intruder lay hold of the doorknob and twist it.
Damn! She had been sure she locked it three times over. Of course, she had kept going outside for air because the house had been uncomfortably warm and stuffy tonight. . . .
Gliding through the darkness, Becky brought up her weapon and blocked the hallway, her pistol aimed at the intruder’s heart. “Don’t move or I’ll put a hole in you.”
“Boney’s balls—don’t shoot!” The tall broad-shouldered man lifted his hands into the air. “I’m unarmed.”
The voice sounded vaguely familiar.
“Who’s there?” she demanded, reaching around the corner for the wall candle in the hallway. Lifting the taper, she gasped in recognition—and so did the intruder.
“You!” the black-haired man cried, narrowing his eyes at her. Lord Rushford blanched and quickly shielded his groin. “Please—for the sake of my family line, don’t!”
Becky stared at him sardonically. “Nice to see you again, too, my lord.”
“It is you, isn’t it? I say! That little bird from Draxinger’s doorstep? Though much improved—”
Rushford sobered as Becky cocked the pistol in response to his lecherous stare trailing over her body. He suddenly remembered his manners. “Er, sorry.”
“Alec will be home in a bit,” she said coolly. “You may address me as Miss Ward.” She lowered her pistol with caution. “What the devil are you doing creeping around the house that way?”
“Nothing! I was only looking for Knight,” he said defensively.
“Poppycock. Why not announce yourself? Are you trying to get yourself killed? What are you doing here at this hour?”
“What am I doing here? What are you doing here?” he exclaimed.
“What do you think?” she retorted in a dull tone.
“Oh! So you and Knight are . . .”
She raised an eyebrow, waiting.
“Together?” he finished delicately.
“Something like that.”
Rushford paused gingerly. “May I please put my arms down now, Miss Ward?”
She gave the pistol a dismissive wave. “Suit yourself. I’m still waiting to hear why you were creeping around the garden.”
“If you must know, I came to have a look around because Knight has been acting damned strange lately. I knew he was hiding something!” He eyed her in suspicion. “Now I see I was right. When I realized we were all supposed to go to the Lieven ball tonight, I cried off, thinking I’d come over here and see what I could find out. But I certainly wasn’t expecting to find you here.”
“Well, you might as well come in and wait for him, then. That’s all I’ve been doing, waiting—but no grabbing,” she ordered, emphasizing her point with a thrust of the pistol in his direction.
“No—no grabbing. Of course, never,” he agreed, the soul of obedience.
“Do you want a drink?” Becky asked none too politely as they walked back into the parlor. She relit the candle, then went to the liquor cabinet. “I know I could use one.” Her hands were still a bit shaky after the scare.
“Please.” Rushford came over to her side and commenced investigating the available liquors until his gaze lit upon her left hand. “What’s this?”
Becky sent him a questioning look askance.
Rushford took hold of her wrist and lifted it, examining her hand. “My God, this is serious!” He looked askance at her. “Why are you wearing Alec’s ring?” he demanded before releasing her warily.
She, too, glanced down at the oversized gold-and-onyx ring on her finger and let out a great, rueful sigh. “Oh, Lord Rushford, at the moment, I hardly know myself.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
She shrugged as she gazed at him and shook her head, at a loss.
He eyed her with new interest and then poured them both a sherry. “There there. Don’t be troubled, my dear,” he murmured sympathetically. “Call me Nick.” He handed her the sherry with a sly and highly intrigued smile. “Whatever the blackguard’s done, why don’t we sit down and you can tell me all about it?”
CHAPTER
TWELVE
Alec came in wearily at four A.M., annoyed with the world. He had succeeded in grabbing the last open seat in the whist tournament, but he couldn’t help scowling. His only option now was to win. To beat all the best gamblers in England. If he lost, not only would Becky never see the inside of Talbot Old Hall again, but he, too, would be homeless.
Having plunked down the five thousand he had already won gambling, he had been forced to make up the other half of the entry fee by staking everything of value he had left as collateral—his beloved bachelor rooms at the Althorpe and all his remaining furniture, including his legendary bed.
Ah, well. In for a penny, in for a pound.
In hindsight, he supposed he could have sold his home from the start in order to buy the Hall from Kurkov, but before this time in Brighton, living with Becky each day, such a sacrifice would have been incomprehensible to him.
Selfish bastard. Ah, well, he thought with a sigh. He must really be ready for marriage at last, because giving his all for her sake was becoming second nature to him now, despite the fact that, these days, the cherished recipient of his efforts was out of charity with him.
Still brooding on the worrisome memory of those heated glances he had witnessed between Lady Campion and Prince Kurkov, Alec trudged into the house, decidedly in a mood. It had just occurred to him with a twinge of guilt that he had abandoned Fort and Drax again without a word at the Lieven ball, when he suddenly heard low laughter coming from somewhere upstairs.
He stopped, drew his eyebrows together and frowned.
Following the sound, Alec tracked it to the dining room. Stepping into the doorway, he discovered its source: Becky and Rushford sitting cozily together at the dining table, drinking coffee, chatting like old friends, and eating pudding.
His pudding.
“Well, look who’s here,” Rushford said with a cocky and rather accusatory glower, sitting back in his chair at the head of the table.
“My thoughts exactly,” Alec muttered, meeting his stare.
“If it isn’t the man of secrets himself.”
“I thought you were recovering from intemperance,” Alec answered guardedly.
“You, old boy, have got some explaining to do,” Rush countered.
Becky dabbed at her lips with her napkin and glanced uneasily from her visitor to Alec. “Would you like some pudding?” she spoke up, hoping, it would seem, to head off fisticuffs.
“Yes,” Rush drawled. “We saved you some. Though it wasn’t easy. Miss Ward is very talented in the kitchen.”
As his rich, titled, good-looking friend sent Becky a conspiratorial smile, Alec flinched, pulsating with possessive jealousy. “Indeed, she is.”
He sauntered toward them warily, bristling.
“Who knew cooking could be so much fun?” Rush taunted him with a knowing grin.
The bastard.
Becky dropped her gaze, fighting a slightly wicked smile.
Alec glowered. How dare the two of them make sport of him? Reaching Becky’s side, he leaned down to greet his lady with a territorial kiss, but she turned her face away. He caught only the corner of her mouth. From the side of her eye she shot him a haughty glance.
