by Gaelen Foley
Introductions went around.
Nelyudov was a trim, unassuming man of about forty, with very correct manners, short, curly hair of a reddish-brown hue, a rather pale complexion, and piercing black eyes behind his scholarly spectacles. He did not look at all like Parthenia’s idea of a killer spy, but that, she supposed, was the point. Count Lieven termed Mr. Nelyudov a secret agent of the Czar. He spoke a dozen languages, was versed in the laws of most of the countries of Europe, and had been sent on a special assignment to England to retrieve Prince Mikhail Kurkov, who was wanted, he revealed, for his involvement in a conspiracy to overthrow the Czar.
Nelyudov pushed away from the wall where he had been leaning and prowled restlessly through the library. In a cool, soft-spoken voice, he explained: “An associate of mine, Dmitry Maximov, was one of the first of our agents to uncover the plot. The conspiracy was formed by some fourscore of our highest-ranking military officers. Their intention was to abduct the emperor and use their authority in the army to seize power.”
Parthenia gasped at the mere suggestion of such treachery.
“Much of the army rather despises the Czar, I’m afraid,” Count Lieven interjected with an apologetic look.
“When we began arresting suspects back in Russia, Kurkov’s name came up. It seemed he was using his trip to England to claim his British inheritance as his alibi. With the cooperation of your government, we put a halt on his funds to trip him up a bit. We also sent Maximov to follow Kurkov to England and quietly investigate his degree of involvement. Dmitry sent us a dispatch from Calais before crossing the Channel,” Nelyudov said. “He has not been heard from since.”
Parthenia and her father exchanged an uneasy glance. At her sire’s nod, she picked up the report from Miss Ward and handed it to Mr. Nelyudov. “I think we may know what became of your colleague, sir. I am very sorry. This letter just arrived.”
Count Lieven frowned, scanning it over his shoulder as Nelyudov skimmed the top page by candlelight. The two Russians exchanged hard glances and a few low murmurs in their native tongue.
Lieven took the report from him and quickly glanced through it. “She is a brave young woman for coming forward. Few dare to cross the prince.” He turned to Westland. “We must secure this witness. She is in great danger. Do you know where she can be found?”
“I have no idea,” the duke started, but Parthenia cleared her throat, interrupting.
“She is with Lord Alec Knight.”
“Parthenia!” Westland exclaimed. “Where does it say that?”
She took the final page of the report sheepishly out of her pocket, unfolding it from a neat square. She handed it to Mr. Nelyudov. “I didn’t think it prudent to show you that page, Father.”
“Oh, really?” he replied, raising one eyebrow.
“I was afraid you wouldn’t pay any attention if you knew Lord Alec was involved.”
The duke snorted. “Count Lieven is more right than he knows. We must see to Miss Ward’s safety ourselves if that rogue is all she’s got for protection. By Jove, who’s going to protect the chit from him?” he grumbled.
“Nelyudov and I have already contacted the nearby garrison,” Lieven said hurriedly. “A company of your British dragoons based here in Brighton have agreed to help us arrest Kurkov and his men. They are assembling even now.”
“Yes, well, as I’ve said, he’s on the Regent’s yacht at this moment,” Westland told them.
Count Lieven nodded. “Good. We can have our men in position, and take him at the docks.”
“No,” Nelyudov said. “Not by the waterfront. It’s too risky. He could too easily lay hold of a boat and slip away. Better to ambush him at the hotel where he’s staying. Box him in.”
They nodded as this sounded a logical strategem.
Nelyudov glanced at the wall clock. “I must go. I’ll have to meet with the captain of dragoons to discuss our plan and make sure our men are in position.”
“Poor Mikhail,” Parthenia couldn’t help murmuring, overwhelmed by his crime. Not just murder, but treason, as well! It was difficult to believe it was all happening. “What will happen to him, Count Lieven?”
“It’s possible the Czar may spare his life, due to their boyhood friendship. In that case, he’ll probably be given the usual sentence—to spend the rest of his life working the mines in Siberia.”
She shuddered and dropped her gaze.
“My dear duke,” the ambassador continued, “if you are so inclined, we may go together to fetch the girl.”
“I’m coming with you!” Parthenia said at once, rising to her feet. “Oh, please don’t protest, Father! Lord Alec is at the whist drive, too. Miss Ward will be alone, and no doubt frightened. I’m the one she contacted. I should be there.”
“Another young lady’s presence might help to reassure her,” Lieven agreed with a nod.
“Only if we bring adequate protection.” Westland took Parthenia’s hand. “I’ve put my dear girl in enough danger already with this fiend.”
Parthenia gave him a rueful smile, then glanced at the Russians. “Perhaps one of you gentlemen might have a suggestion on what is to be done about the Cossacks stationed outside.”
Nelyudov turned, his fiery stare homing in on her with lethal, sudden attention. “Cossacks? Here?”
Her father nodded. “Aye, four of them. One posted at each corner of my dashed house.”
Stalking toward the door, Nelyudov withdrew a large, curved, savage-looking knife from a sheath concealed beneath his dark coat. “I will deal with them.”
“Alone?” Parthenia murmured, her eyes widening as the Czar’s agent slipped out silently.
“Egads,” Westland said under his breath. “Best take pains not to cross that fellow, what?”
“Nelyudov,” Lieven said softly, “is the best we’ve got.”
The game stretched into the wee hours of the night.
The two teams’ scores climbed into the seventies, eighties, nineties, and even past one hundred, but still, neither had acquired the necessary five point lead.
Up four points, Drax and Alec nearly tasted victory, only to fall behind again as their opponents edged up alongside them, matched and then overtook them by one point. The grueling length of the game, however, the infuriating disappointment of nearly winning and then seeing it slip through their fingers, had begun to take its toll.
The score was now 123 to 122, in Kurkov and Colonel Tallant’s favor. This damned game was never going to end Alec thought. He feared he and his partner were becoming a trifle demoralized.
All he knew was that if he looked anywhere near as bad as the others did by now, Eva Campion herself wouldn’t have bedded him. The four of them were a bleary, sweaty, stinky, rumpled, haggard, groggy mess, with bloodshot eyes, slouched postures, and armpit circles darkening their clothes.
He shifted in his seat, his rear end sore from too much sitting. But what alarmed him most was that after so many hours of play, it became harder to remember clearly which cards in each suit had already been played. Each new hand began to run together with the last in his brain. His only solace was knowing that the others were in no better shape than he.
Most of their audience fared even worse, the previously raucous royal dukes now asleep on every piece of gilt velvet furniture in the grand saloon. Others were strewn, snoring, around the floor with cushions under their heads and the Persian carpet for a bed. A few had napped already and arisen again to watch the ongoing play.
Alec had switched from tea to coffee in the hopes it would do a better job of keeping him sharp.
And then, sometime around five A.M., eight hours into the game, a mysterious thing happened.
Drax shuffled; Alec cut the cards and handed them to Kurkov.
“Your deal.”
The Russian yawned and took them.
Rubbing the back of his neck, Alec waited for Kurkov to finish giving them all thirteen cards, then picked his hand up wearily—and blinked.
At
first he thought he was having an hallucination brought on by fatigue.
But though he squeezed his burning eyes shut for a second, the vision did not change.
Holy Mother, he thought, hastily masking his incredulity. It seemed his former mistress, Lady Luck, had come back one last time to say good-bye forever, but perhaps sorry for her faithlessness, had left him with one last golden kiss.
Kurkov had just dealt Alec the hand of a lifetime.
Hearts were trump yet again, and Alec held no less than seven of them, including the queen, king, and ace. He had three high diamonds, as well—jack, queen, and ace—along with the eight. Of the other suits, he held just one of each, the jack of clubs and one lousy card, the three of spades. He’d get rid of it, and then, if he used his head, he’d be in control of this game.
Immediately, his pulse began to pound, renewed vigor pouring through his veins. Come on. This is it. He straightened up slowly in his chair. Lifted his chin. For Becky. If he could win, then he need not kill Kurkov tonight. He could deal with him later, and Becky and he could still have a shot at a future together.
The stare he gave Drax alerted his friend that something was afoot. He lowered his lashes again, concealing his wild eagerness.
This time he was going in for the kill.
Since Kurkov had dealt the hand, it fell to Drax to lead. Naturally, the earl chose one of his strongest cards with which to open the round.
Ace of spades.
Nicely done, he thought.
Tallant tossed down the two and Alec immediately got rid of the three of spades. Kurkov offered up the seven, and the trick went to Drax.
Alec gave him a narrow smile.
Tallant stuck with spades, no doubt thought he’d deal a crushing blow with the king, but Alec, out of spades, had no choice but to play the trump suit of hearts. Hm, a calculated risk. Willing to chance it that Kurkov still had a spade left, he played the lowest card he had in the trump suit. Two of hearts.
Irritation flicked over the prince’s face. Kurkov smirked and tossed down the nine of spades.
Whew. Next it was his turn to lead the trick. Time to show them who was master of this table. He looked at them matter-of-factly.
Ace of hearts. That should flush a few more hearts out of the woodwork.
Drax lifted his pale-colored eyebrows, amusement beginning to dance in his ice-blue eyes.
Alec’s expression was serene.
The five, four, and eight of hearts followed. His ace clobbered them. Alec took the trick.
They now had three tricks. The fourth began with Kurkov, his chance to come booming out of the gate with another big card.
Ace of clubs.
Drax bowed out with the three of clubs. Tallant supported his partner with the six. Alec frowned, but his jack of clubs could not beat Kurkov’s ace.
At least now his hand would be composed only of the diamonds and the trump hearts. Very strong. Hope you enjoyed taking that point, Your Highness, for you shan’t get another out of me.
Again came Drax’s turn to lead. He must have divined Alec’s strategy, for he opened the trick with the eight of spades, setting Alec up to trump. Tallant followed in the suit of spades with the five, but Alec, having none, put down the king of hearts.
When Kurkov followed with the two of diamonds, it meant that the prince was also out of spades. He might still have had a heart in his hand, but nothing high enough to beat Alec’s king, so Alec held onto his hearts for use later. He still wasn’t worried, having yet another high trump card, the queen.
Still, the other team was crafty. He and Drax would have to be careful.
Sixth trick; Tallant’s lead. The other team played the suit of clubs. Alec had none and took the trick, king and all, with his mighty little three of hearts. A bit nerve-racking, but he was having fun.
Seventh trick; Alec’s lead. Noting that only the four of diamonds had been played so far, and seeing the high ones safely nestled in his hand, he didn’t even resort to hearts this time. Instead, he took the trick with his ace of diamonds.
They had now claimed six of the tricks of this hand to Kurkov’s one, and the prince was beginning to look nervous.
If there was any question left, they turned a corner in the eighth trick, when Kurkov led with what was apparently his strongest card, the jack of hearts. Not bad, not bad, Alec mused, watching as his friend followed suit with the ten. Couldn’t beat a jack, of course. Tallant contributed the nine of hearts.
Alec let them agonize for a moment, then, with a half smile, set down the queen of hearts. He had been paying close attention and now knew that he held the only hearts left in play. Unbeatable advantage. Kurkov leaned his mouth against his fist; Alec noticed that the prince’s left eye began twitching.
If only Becky could see this!
The next few hands rolled out swiftly, but the upshot was that while Alec’s hand favored hearts, Drax obviously held a lot of diamonds, and Kurkov clubs, leaving Tallant with a useless mix of middling cards. All of them could feel the one-eyed nabob seething.
Drax won the ninth with the king of diamonds, but Alec still had the queen of that suit and used it to claim the tenth.
Across the table from him now, he could see sweat running down his partner’s face. Drax was flushed and boyishly tousled. The sight of him reminded Alec of their days back at Eton. The inseparable four back then had made a winning crew team.
Eleventh trick: his seven of hearts cleaned up.
Twelfth: with a mere six, Alec put the rest to bed, his heart pounding.
And in the final trick, the thirteenth, the last card on which everything counted, without which they must fall back into endless hours of neck-and-neck frustration, Drax led off with the queen of spades. He stared at Alec after he had thrown it down.
Tallant cursed, casting the jack of spades away.
Alec gingerly put down the jack of diamonds and slid it away from him.
Kurkov muttered a curse in Russian and ended with the ten of clubs.
Drax proclaimed victory with a barbaric yell, both he and Alec on their feet, reaching for each other across the table, embracing heartily.
The next thing they knew, their audience had woken up and they were being carried on the shoulders of the men who had come to watch the game. Champagne burst out everywhere. The thunderous cheering awoke the Regent, who came out swaddled in his satin dressing gown to congratulate them.
But the greatest victory of all was the moment Alec had so long waited for, when he finally held the deed to Talbot Old Hall in his hands.
Waiting beside the table as Kurkov completed the paperwork, signing the house over to him, he accepted the scrolled document with a certain measure of awe. He had actually done it. His heart soared; he couldn’t wait to give it to Becky.
Drax cleared his throat at Alec’s silence, offering his hand to Kurkov with perfect gentility, despite their rivalry for Lady Parthenia’s affections. “Well played, Your Highness,” the earl said. His nudge jarred Alec out of his wonderment with a silent reminder that it was still too soon to let Kurkov realize anything was amiss. All must appear normal for just a little while longer. Though it seemed like too much luck to hope for in one night, Westland still might be waiting on the docks with the constabulary ready to take the prince into custody when they got back.
Kurkov shook Drax’s hand with a visible twinge of reluctance. “Not well enough, obviously.” Then he turned to Alec, his gray eyes narrowing. “Alexei, your famous luck seems to have returned just in time.”
“So it has.”
Alec held Kurkov’s icy gaze without flinching, but as he dutifully shook his hand, he gave an inward shudder to think of how close he had come to plunging a carving knife in the man’s chest. He would have enjoyed doing it, too, except for the consequences.
No matter. Soon Kurkov would belong to the authorities, and once they had him behind bars, Alec intended to pay the prince a visit in his cell. Then they were going to have a little ta
lk about his threats against Becky. But that moment was still well in the future. For now, he would take no such reckless chances.
Kurkov released his hand and excused himself with a cynical snort, as though he only wondered now why he had wasted his time on all this.
With a gleam of cold satisfaction in his eyes, Alec watched the war hero pivot with martial precision and go prowling off to nurse his defeat with a flask of vodka.
Drax and he looked at each other in discreet relief.
Mikhail had had his fill of English company for one night.
It vexed him to no end that he himself had dealt the insufferable Alec Knight his astonishing winning hand. Mikhail hated losing, even if he could afford the loss. As for that ratty old farm, well, the rogue was welcome to it. For his part, he was glad to be rid of the cursed, haunted, crumbling pile. How devastated his little bitch of a cousin would be when she found out she had been kicked out of her home for good. The thought pleased him greatly.
Having demolished the old gatehouse to destroy any lingering evidence of Dmitry Maximov’s imprisonment there, and having ordered his Cossacks to bury the corpse on the heath in a place where no one would ever find it, Mikhail was not worried in the slightest about new occupants taking up residence in the place, especially not a thoughtless pleasure-seeker like Alec Knight.
Still, smarting from defeat at the hands of that impertinent coxcomb, he was bloody glad to set foot on solid ground again, and gladder still to spy Sergei standing on the torchlit dock waiting for him. Through the wet gray mist of dawn, Mikhail could just make out the comforting shape of his waiting carriage. He was exhausted, a little dry-mouthed from drinking all night, and eager to return to his rooms at the luxurious hotel. He could well use a few hours of sleep, and then, perhaps, when he was rested, he would call for Eva and nurse his wounded vanity a bit—as long as the Westlands didn’t find out.
As his top man strode down the wooden-planked dock to meet him, Mikhail smirked in the direction of the winning pair some distance away. The two rakehells were being cheered all over again as they stepped off one of the small rowboats conveying the Regent’s guests from the graceful yacht back to dry land.
