Dukes to the Left of Me, Princes to the Right (13 page)

“What drama!”

She was right.

“Now the twins are in England,” he said, “cutting their swath through London society. They’re bored, they’re rich, and they crave constant amusement.” Nicholas laid a hand on her knee. “We can’t let them know we want the painting. It’s a matter of national security.”

“Oh, heavens,” she whispered, putting her own hand over his and squeezing hard. “National security. Papa deals with that all the time. How do you plan to retrieve the portrait?”

“At the ball at the Russian ambassador’s residence. We’ll take it that night, before anyone sees it.”

“With all of London society there?”

“It’s the best time. Distractions will abound. And when they finally realize the portrait’s missing, they’ll have a long list of possible suspects to sift through.”

“I see.” Her eyes gleamed with shrewd understanding.

“Your job is—”

She drew even closer. “Please don’t make it a sinecure. I want to do something substantive. It would make Papa proud.”

“Very well.” Nicholas liked her enthusiasm, her appealing grin, and her impressive vocabulary. And he must admit, her hand covering his. “Have you ever heard the expression ‘Keep your enemies close?’ ”

She drew back with a happy sigh. “Of course. My secret club says that all the time. ‘Know your foe,’ which I think is a bit strong as most of our suitors are perfectly lovely people. It’s only those rude ones like Lord Washburn who drive us mad.”

“All right, then. While you may not consider Natasha your enemy—and I know you don’t believe Sergei is—you must realize they’re our opponent at the moment, whether they know it or not. Your job is to help keep them happy while I figure out how to get the painting back.”

“I’m thoroughly committed to that idea,” she said breathlessly, which didn’t surprise him, of course. “As for the painting, you’ll retrieve it alone?”

“Yes. I’ve got a map of the interior of the Russian ambassador’s residence. I’ve been inside once—but not far—and am familiar with their usual level of security. I’m assuming it will be stepped up. My task will be to locate the painting before they bring it to the ballroom. Count and Countess Lieven are excellent hosts and no doubt will want to build suspense, so I suspect they’ll save the unveiling until the middle or end of the ball.”

“I can also help steal the painting. I mean,
retrieve
.”

Gad, she was becoming a little
too
enthusiastic. “No,” he said firmly, “that’s not a good idea.”

“But—”

“There are no buts. Remind the twins you know the Russian language. Show them around London. Do whatever it takes to keep them content to be here—short of flirting with Sergei outright. Everyone must believe you and I are happily engaged, of course.”

Her face fell. “How on earth will I
not
flirt with him?”

“You must find a way.” He chuckled. “Think of him as your brother.”

“Brother?” She crossed her arms. “That reminds me. He and Natasha hate each other.”

“I know. We’ll simply have to endure their squabbling—and prevent it if possible. The last thing we want is for them to leave the country in some sort of snit, taking the painting with them before the ball. And you have to understand—here and now, before we begin—that no matter how you’re affected personally, you must do your job, despite what anyone else thinks about you. You must be strong and unwavering. Sometimes working for Groop can make you feel lonely. You won’t be able to explain to your best friends or your family what you’re doing. Occasionally, you might have to make up a bald-faced lie with no warning and be believable as you deliver it. Are you sure you’re up to the task?”

“Of course I am,” she said, a wrinkle on her brow.

“What are you thinking?” Drummond asked her.

“Of Sergei. You make him sound like a petulant child. I spent a week with him when I was fifteen,” she said dreamily, “and he was nothing of the sort. He was
very
romantic.”

Nicholas restrained himself from rolling his eyes. “Exactly what constitutes ‘romantic’ to a fifteen-year-old girl? Chaste kisses? Searing looks?”

She huffed. “If you’d only read the Russian poets, you’d know.”

“Who says I haven’t read the Russian poets?” He arched a brow.

“Have you?”

He’d read them all, although he wouldn’t tell
her
. Instead, he grabbed her hand and pulled her so close, their noses almost touched. “I’m the dreaded Duke of Drummond, so it doesn’t follow that I’d be a romantic who reads Russian poetry, does it?”

They stared at each other a moment, their mouths only inches apart. A sudden chill wind blew a strong gust that whistled around the gallery, lifting their hair and tugging at their clothes.

Despite the dropping temperature, Nicholas felt hot, unbridled lust.

“You’re right,” she agreed in a whisper, “it doesn’t follow at all. However, Sergei has read them—in fact, he’s memorized some of those poems and recited them to me—so no doubt he’ll find a wealthy bride whom he also
loves
.”

Nicholas dropped her hand. The girl was convinced Sergei had godlike qualities.

“You have your assignment,” he said dryly. “And we’ve a façade to maintain. We’re going to test the waters as a betrothed couple at a literary social to be held tomorrow at Lady Gastly’s. I’ve already been to the Howell residence and invited Natasha. Sergei is in his own rented apartment several blocks away. Even though Natasha sulked about how we’d treated her in the park today, she eventually accepted for both of them.”

Poppy gathered her skirt in folds. “I—I’m a bit nervous.”

“Why?”

“I might have been good at making up tales about being engaged to the Duke of Drummond, but I’m not a good liar in general. I’ll stumble. I’ll blurt something out, like, ‘We’re not really engaged.’ At least in the park today, we had a sort of distance from everyone ogling us.”

Nicholas sighed. “If you insist on having fun with me, as you say, you’ll need to trust yourself.”

“Of course.” She appeared rather embarrassed at her show of nerves.

He stood and pulled her up by the hand. “By the way,” he said, “you’ve established a long-running story that we’re marrying for love. So don’t forget to act the part.”

“But—”

“I know you’re bound and determined not to marry me. That’s not the point. You’ve made your bed and you have to lie in it. You’ll have to pretend to be in love with me, whether you like it or not.”

“You’ll have to help carry it off, as well,” she insisted.

Somehow, beneath the gibbous moon and brilliant stars, Nicholas found it was easier to imagine they could.

CHAPTER 15

Poppy sat up in bed the next morning and had a stunning thought: she was doing clandestine work—for the Service. She could hardly believe it.

And she was completely over feeling sorry for her beloved Sergei and his rude sister. Yes, it was unfortunate that the painting wasn’t really theirs. But if Sergei married
her,
she’d make sure he never missed it.

She climbed out of bed and eyed her reflection in the looking glass.

Love
. That’s what she saw. It was written all over her face. Her eyes were bright. Her mouth—well, she simply couldn’t stop grinning.

It was her duty to keep Sergei happy.

Could Fate be any more kind?

All she had left to do was make sure he was as in love with her as she already was with him.

Oh, right—and then she’d have to get out of her engagement with the duke. She kept forgetting about that part. But once she showed Drummond the door—in a polite way, of course—it was all smooth sailing from there on out.

With that hopeful scenario in mind, that afternoon she accompanied Drummond, Sergei, and Natasha to Lady Gastly’s literary salon, the latest social spectacle.

Lady Gastly took her arm as soon as she entered the vast drawing room filled with members of the
ton.
“I heard about your betrothal to that duke,” she whispered in Poppy’s ear.

Even though she’d ridden over in the carriage with Drummond, their thighs touching, Poppy had been trying very hard to forget about him. Especially because last night when they’d arrived at the bottom of St. Paul’s again, he’d dragged her out into the street and kissed her senseless.

“I knew you wanted me to kiss you,” he’d said halfway through the brazen encounter, “but not on top of a church.” And he’d busied himself caressing her hips and bottom and teasing her mouth mercilessly with his own.

She’d abhorred that he was such a mind reader.

“It was shocking, absolutely shocking,” Lady Gastly was saying now. “Do tell the details.”

“I’m not sure what you mean,” Poppy said awkwardly, still lost in her own kissing-outside-St. Paul’s details.

“The murder,” Lady Gastly explained. “Ducal intrigue. I’d never even heard of the Drummond line, and now I’m all agog, thanks to my cook.”

“Your cook?”

“Yes, she’s friends with another cook in Town who told her an uncle went missing.”

“Right,” said Poppy weakly. “That’s just a silly rumor. He ran off to sea, is all.” She vowed to go home and tell Cook to stop spreading tales about the Duke of Drummond, even if she suspected some of them might be true.

She had no idea if they were or not. She took a peek at him conversing with Natasha, his expression polite but cool. Drummond was a man of mystery. She certainly couldn’t trust him, even though he was a most interesting companion. She’d gone to bed yesterday evening wishing she were thinking of Sergei, but she hadn’t very well been able to do that when her spectacular evening with Drummond at St. Paul’s had dominated her thoughts.

She couldn’t think of Sergei until this morning, when she’d fortuitously rid herself of thoughts of the duke by dreaming about him all night.

But now, even though Sergei was sitting right next to her humming under his breath (she wasn’t sure why), those dreams were coming back to her. And in them, Drummond was kissing her and running his hands all over her body again and—

“I hope they start the program soon,” she whispered to Natasha.

Natasha arched a brow. “You look ill, Lady Poppy, and I believe Sergei should take you home. I’ll need Drummond to stay with me in the event I’ll require a translator. You’re flushed redder than a pomegranate, I’ll have you know.”

“I am?”

Natasha nodded. “Sergei, stupid as he is, has a wonderful cure for the muck sweats he learned from his last mistress, a hag named Zoya. He has the worst possible taste in women.” She eyed Poppy up and down with a scornful curl to her lip.

“I’m feeling fine,” Poppy murmured, aghast at Natasha’s personal revelations about Sergei and her tendency to insult him. She leaned down and petted the corgis in the princess’s basket. One of the dogs growled at her, the one with the missing eye.

I’m just fine,
she told herself, eyeing Nicholas’s muscled calf out of the corner of her eye and ignoring the subsequent skittering of her heart. Nicholas’s legs were, um, attractive, to say the least. She’d noticed them last night when he’d been sprawled on the floor of the Golden Gallery, his thighs tight in his breeches and his boots molded to his calves.

Sergei kept humming.

Hmm. She didn’t remember him humming in St. Petersburg.

“What song is that?” Poppy asked him, really to make him aware that he was humming a bit loudly, not because she cared about the song.

“No song,” he said with a shrug. “Just humming.”

Poppy tried not to grit her teeth. He was her beloved, after all. If this were a new habit of his, she’d learn to love it. Humming would become one of those signature things that reminded her of him. Her heart would soften, and then she’d even start making requests—for different songs.

But definitely not this one.

“Perhaps you should hum a song everyone knows,” she whispered.

Sergei shook his head. “I told you. This is not a song. I am humming, nothing more.”

And went back to it.

Poppy put a discreet curl over her ear to mask the noise, and then she grew ashamed of herself. The poor man was nervous, no doubt, being in a new country. Humming must bring him a sort of comfort.

Thankfully, however, he stopped when Lady Gastly finally stood and called the room to attention. “Today we shall meet the former housemaid of a terribly shocking poet named John Keats,” she announced.

The housemaid sat at the front of the room, her nose red and her mouth small and pinched.

“Very few know of his work,” Lady Gastly went on. “And probably for good reason.”

A trifle bored already, Poppy suppressed a yawn. This John Keats probably
would
be dull if no one had heard of him. And then she found herself stifling another yawn. Now that she thought about it, she’d slept very little last night, thanks to Drummond appearing in her dreams.

She took a peek at him sitting on the other side of Natasha and felt slightly annoyed.