Authors: Candace Camp
Smiling, she thanked him again for his time and trouble and turned away, looking for Rafe. Before she was able to locate him, however, she was besieged by several admirers looking for a dance with her, and she spent the next half hour dancing. She saw Rafe at a distance now and then, usually dancing with someone, and she could not deny the fact that seeing him with another woman in his arms sent a sharp stab of jealousy through her.
She told herself she was being ridiculous. She had no claim on Rafe, after all. She had known the man for only a few weeks. And even though his kisses had made her feel strangely weak in the knees, it didn’t really mean anything. She did not intend to marry, and he…well, Kyria was sophisticated enough to realize that his kissing her a few times did not mean that he loved her. Nor did she love him, she reminded herself hastily.
She was so deep in thought regarding Rafe that she bade her last waltzing partner a rather distracted goodbye and walked right past one of her friends without seeing her until she heard her name being called loudly.
Kyria stopped and glanced around. “Alicia!” She felt a blush rising in her cheeks as she realized what she had done. “I am so sorry. My head was in the clouds.”
She turned back to the plump, blond woman who had been one of her best friends when they made their debut together. Alicia Forquay had made an advantageous marriage and was now Lady Hargreaves, the proud mother of three rambunctious sons, as well as a leading society matron.
“Don’t worry, I am not offended,” her friend as
sured her. “But I want to introduce you to someone.” She half turned toward the tall man beside her.
He was dark-haired and sharp-featured, and the gaze he turned on Kyria was bright and searching.
“Kyria, this is Prince Dmitri Rostokov. He is visiting from Russia and is a very good friend of Lord Buckley. Your Highness, this is Lady Kyria Moreland.”
“My lady.” He bowed with precision over her hand. “I have been most anxious to make your acquaintance.” His English was fluent, though spoken with a distinct Russian accent.
“How do you do?” Kyria smiled politely at him.
“I am very well, thank you. I wished to speak to you about a certain matter…” He looked pointedly at Lady Hargreaves.
Alicia returned his gaze blankly for a moment, then her brows shot up and she said, “Oh. Well, I, um, I should go…um, somewhere.”
Kyria turned her own surprised gaze back to the Russian. She wasn’t sure if the prince was simply rude or arrogant or did not understand the language well, but it was unusual for Alicia to accept a dismissal so meekly, which made Kyria think that the Russian prince must be a very important person.
“I must speak to you on a matter of great importance,” Rostokov told her.
Kyria felt a sinking sensation in the pit of her stomach. “Indeed?”
“Yes.” He moved fractionally closer and lowered his voice. “I have been told that you have come into possession of a certain box.”
Kyria gazed back at him levelly. “I am sorry. I am afraid I don’t know what you—”
“Come, come, my lady. There is no point engaging
in this charade. It is well-known in certain circles that Mr. Kousoulous brought this object to your house. Now you suddenly appear in London not long after your family removed to the country. It takes little thinking to surmise that your surprise visit concerns the reliquary.” He paused, then went on, “I am personally interested in this box. I would like to acquire it from you.”
“I am sorry. If I did indeed possess your reliquary, it would not be for sale,” Kyria replied, and started to turn away.
“No, my lady, you do not understand. This matter is of great importance to me. I am willing to pay you a great deal of money.”
Kyria countered, “Why is everyone so eager to get their hands on this thing?”
“It is, well, of historical value. You must understand. Lord Buckley tells me that your father is a collector of rare objects.”
“My father is greatly interested in antiquities,” Kyria conceded. “However, he does not normally travel to other countries and try to wheedle people’s possessions from them.”
“Wheedle? I do not know this word.”
“Nor does he try to steal them.”
“Steal!” The Russian’s eyes widened, and he looked seriously affronted. “What do you mean?”
“I mean that this box seems to have aroused villainous instincts in some people.”
“I have never stolen anything in my life!”
“Probably not, but I have no way of knowing who exactly is behind the attempted theft—actually, I am not sure
theft
is the appropriate word for breaking into
one’s house and threatening to harm one’s family if one does not surrender the box.”
“Someone has done this?” Rostokov asked, his eyes narrowing.
“Yes. Other people have also tried to buy the box from us, and the man who brought it to me was killed on our doorstep. You will pardon me if I am somewhat suspicious about anyone who is interested in this box.”
“I am sorry,” he said shortly. “I assure you that I have nothing to do with any murder or threat or theft. Is the box safe? Do you have it here in London?”
Kyria arched an eyebrow. “Do you honestly think I am going to tell you where the box is?
You
may be certain that you have not been engaged in any criminal activities, but I am not.”
“Ask Lady Hargreaves. Her husband. Or Lord Buckley. They will vouch for my honor. I am a prince of Russia.”
“In any case, sir, I have no intention of selling the box.”
Prince Dmitri scowled. “You do not understand.”
“No,
you
do not understand. I have refused your offer. I do not intend to sell the box. Now, if you will excuse me…”
Kyria started to turn away, but the prince grabbed her arm. “No! I cannot allow you to endanger the reliquary!”
“I beg your pardon!” Kyria looked pointedly down at the hand that so tightly gripped her arm.
He, too, looked at his hand, then released her arm and bowed a little. “Please accept my apologies. However, I must—”
“Having a little trouble here?”
“Rafe!” Kyria turned toward him with relief.
He gave her a quick grin, then turned toward the other man, his face suddenly hard and challenging. “You bothering this lady?”
“What? Don’t be absurd.” The prince glowered at him. “Please go away.”
“Well, now, I don’t think I can do that. The lady here doesn’t seem to be enjoying your conversation all that much.”
“It is none of your concern.”
“You’re wrong there,” Rafe responded, taking a step closer to the Russian, his eyes boring into the man’s.
The Russian drew himself up, his eyes glittering. “You, sir, overstep yourself.”
“And you, sir, are in danger of getting tossed out of here on your—”
“Gentlemen, please!” Kyria said sternly. She looked pointedly at Prince Dmitri. “You are attracting attention.”
The prince cast a look around, hesitated, then took a step backward. “I am not through. I will speak to you again, my lady.”
He turned and strode off through the crowd. Rafe turned to Kyria.
“What was that all about?” he asked.
“What do you think?” Kyria responded.
“The reliquary?” Rafe’s brows soared up. He looked at the prince’s retreating back.
“Yes. He offered to buy it from me.”
“So…our friend Habib has a rival,” Rafe commented.
“It would seem so.”
“Well, this certainly makes things more interesting.
Do you suppose that he is the one who hired the intruders?”
“He says not, but I have no way of knowing. He fits the description that Sid gave us.”
Rafe nodded thoughtfully. “He could have been the man at the tavern.”
They looked at each other.
“I think I’m ready to leave,” Kyria said.
“Did you get what you wanted?”
Kyria nodded. “And rather more.”
Kyria had trouble sleeping that night. Her mind kept running over her meeting with the Russian and what he had said. She had felt sure that the Lebanese antiquities dealer had been behind the things that had happened at Broughton Park, but now she wondered. It could have been Prince Dmitri—or perhaps there were even others who wanted the box. Given what she and Rafe had discovered about it, she could understand why many people would want it. But for the same reason, it seemed even more important now that she not let go of it. If it was, as it seemed to be, a scrap of the original battle standard of Constantine inside the reliquary box, then it was a piece not only of great worth and age, but also one of enormous religious significance. Such a thing was virtually priceless, and it seemed wrong for it to be in the possession of a private collector. It should belong to…well, she was not sure where the box belonged, but it should not be locked in the vault of a single person, including herself.
With a sigh, she turned over and plumped up her pillow, then laid her head back down. She felt once again the same overwhelming urge to go look at the reliquary that had afflicted her before. She told herself
it was foolish; she had, after all, looked at the box many times. It was pointless to take it out of her father’s safe just to gaze at it for a while. Still, the longer she lay there, resisting the urge, the more she wanted to see it. It occurred to her that it was only practical to make sure that it was still inside the safe, that nothing had happened to it since they had been in London. There was, after all, the possibility that a talented thief could have crept into their house and opened the safe and spirited the box away without their being any the wiser.
Finally, she got up and slipped into her warm, velvet dressing gown and house slippers. She would not be able to sleep until she knew whether the reliquary was still safe, she reasoned.
She lit a candle and left her room, moving quietly along the long, dark hallway, then down the stairs to her father’s study. There, she set the candle on his desk and made her way to the wall safe. It contained the family’s most important papers, along with the more frequently worn pieces of her mother’s jewelry. Most of the Morelands’ gold and silver plate was kept in a much larger safe just off the butler’s pantry, along with the oldest jewelry and other family heirlooms.
Kyria turned the combination lock of the safe and opened it, then reached in and pulled out the drawstring bag containing the reliquary. She took it over to the desk and set it down near the candle, then sat in the chair behind the desk and rested her chin on her hand, gazing at the black diamond that adorned the side. Gently she ran her finger over the stone. It somehow warmed her inside to look at it. It was enough to make her wonder if power could lie in certain objects, influencing people and events.
She shook her head at the fantasies into which she
was straying. Firmly ignoring the part of her that wanted to keep the reliquary out and look at it longer, she put the box back into the safe. She closed the door and twirled the knob, then turned to get the candle. Just as she turned, a figure swiftly, silently edged around the door and into the room, a pistol in his outthrust hand.
“Hold it ri—”
Kyria jumped, a little shriek escaping her, and for a moment they stood, staring at each other, motionless, before Rafe dropped the pistol to his side.
“What in blue blazes are you doing?” he asked irritably. “I heard something down here, and I thought somebody had broken in to steal that infernal box.”
Kyria let out a breath. Her heart was racing, and she pressed a hand to her chest as though to slow it. “You scared me. I thought
you
were sneaking in to steal it.”
They looked at each other a moment longer, then broke into grins. Rafe pocketed his gun, shaking his head, and moved farther into the room.
“I’m sorry I frightened you,” he said.
“Me, too.” Kyria moved to meet him.
He looked down at her. Her hair was loose, curling over her shoulders in a fiery mass. He could just imagine the feel of the springy curls between his fingers. His gaze slipped lower. She wore a dressing gown, as concealing as any dress, certainly more so than the evening gown she had worn tonight. But there was an intimacy about seeing her in the soft, bedtime apparel that stirred his desire. He could not help but think that beneath the velvet robe, she wore nothing but a night rail. He could see the soft white cotton in the V between the lapels of the dressing gown, and his fingers itched to reach out and touch it.
Rafe tried to remember all the reasons that it was not a good idea for him to kiss Kyria. At the moment, none of them came to mind.
Kyria’s heart was still racing. She realized that it was only partly because of her fright a few moments before. It was far too intimate, too casual, to be standing here with Rafe, wearing only her nightclothes. No matter how concealing her dressing gown was, she felt most vulnerable, without any of her usual social armor. Her eyes went to the tanned skin of his throat exposed by the open collar of his shirt. He wore no jacket, and his unbuttoned shirt had been pulled from his trousers and hung loosely over them. He had been about to go to bed, she thought, and the idea made heat curl through her abdomen.