"No!" John shut his eyes, hoping to blot out the picture of Tatiana bargaining with a bloodthirsty South Coast smuggler. That she would probably win the negotiations did not make the vision more appealing. "Princess, please. Let me take care of getting you the champagne. Consider it my contribution."
Tatiana looked ready to argue the point, so he added, "
Part
of my contribution."
"But I did so hope to meet Shem the—what do you call him?"
"Shem the Shark. No. No. Devlyn would have my head if he knew I'd even mentioned knowing that one."
"Oh, if you insist."
She shrugged, conceding him the point. And for a moment he almost believed she was the one doing him a favor. Then he reminded himself how much champagne for three hundred—and a fountain—would likely cost him, and forced himself to interrupt her description of the planned school building. "Just a moment, if you please. In return for the champagne, I hope you will grant me a small concession."
"Anything!"
Her promise was rash but sincere, and so he said, "I would appreciate it if you would invite a Mrs. Ada Rush to your ball. Of Bincombe. And her husband, of course. And any guest she might have staying with her this summer."
"Mrs. Rush." She scuffed her slipper on the marble dance floor and considered this. Then she looked back up at him, a wicked light in her eyes. "When did you start pursuing married women?"
Annoyed, he said, "I'm not pursuing anyone. It's merely a business proposition I mean to make."
"Certainly not with the Rushes. They don't collect art. She collects earbobs, as I recall, and he has quite a variety of cows. But they are not known for their art acumen."
John had never been deceived by the princess's frivolous manner. He had stopped underestimating her the day she got him a royal commission with a single offhand remark. In an earlier century, this woman might have made herself a tyrant like her ancestor Catherine the Great. So, though he generally guarded the truth jealously, he revealed a bit of it to her. "It's the guest."
"I thought as much." From the curve of her mouth, he could tell what else she was thinking, and she didn't disappoint him. "A lady guest?"
"As a matter of fact, yes."
She smiled sweetly. "I really ought to have her name to put on the invitation, John."
Reluctantly he said, "A Miss Seton."
"Miss Seton. Jessica Seton? Oh, good. I met her in London. Very pretty. Blonde, you know. They call her the Golden Girl, though she's not such a girl anymore. An heiress too, I hear."
John didn't travel in the same circles as heiresses, but he knew enough about society to take note of this. A pretty heiress and still a Miss? The two were usually mutually exclusive. "It's only a bit of her inheritance I'm interested in—the artistic part."
Tatiana made a disappointed face. "Do you think of nothing but your art?"
"Very seldom. Will you invite them or no?"
"Well, of course I will. I shall even mention your name—"
He cut off her sentence with an upraised hand. "I'd prefer the invitation came from you."
"You don't want it known that this graciousness is at your behest?"
"Just so. I want no one to know."
"No one? Not even Michael? But I tell Michael everything,'" she said, with that limpid innocence that occasionally fooled even Dryden.
But not today. He responded just as innocently. "You do? I'm glad. I was sure you wouldn't tell him about the Lieven brooch."
"It wasn't the Lieven brooch!" Mere words couldn't express her outrage; she had to stalk up to him and glare, so effectively that he fell back a step laughing. "The Denisov brooch. Peter the Great gave it to my great-grandmother. That Lieven witch took it from our rooms when my parents were exiled. I remember her rummaging around, pretending that she was there to help me, and all the while she was stealing my mother's jewels!"
"Appalling. And then when you saw it on the countess's bosom, you could hardly be blamed for expecting her to return it."
"And she offered me only insult in recompense! If I were a man, I would have gutted her like a fish!" Her hand sliced the air in a tight curve, and John, who had seen many fish gutted—though no countesses, as yet—could not help but appreciate her artistry.
The princess's violent Romanov ancestry would out, though fortunately usually only in rhetoric. At the time, however, he hadn't been so sure she wouldn't carry out her threats. He had been working for the Foreign Office then, positioning spies and laundering funds, and was steeped in the philosophy that the end justified the means. It was no great jump to decide that preventing the gutting of the Russian ambassador's wife justified a discreet little jewel theft. "I'm pleased that Michael understood. He's not usually so flexible."
"Understood?" She glanced at him exasperated. "Of course he didn't understand. I never told him."
"So I thought," John murmured. "Then we've established, haven't we, that there is at least one thing you haven't told your husband." He let the spot of blackmail work its way in, then added, "What's one more?"
"You're a rogue, John Dryden."
"Takes one to know one, your highness." And with a bow, he left her in the empty ballroom, sure that she would do as he bid.
CHAPTER FIVE
Dead shepherd, now I find thy saw of might:
"Who ever lov'd that lov'd not at first sight?'
As You Like It, III, v
Jessica pulled Ada behind an elaborate Oriental screen that served to hide the entrance to the kitchens. Though they had to keep moving aside for footmen carrying trays of food, from here they could see the whole ballroom and talk without being overheard or being drowned out by the orchestra. "Tell me who is here tonight."
Ada was taller, and could see easily over the top of the screen. She swivelled her head to survey the ballroom from one end to the other, and then waved her hand in dismissal. "Oh just the usual Dorset crowd, this early. No one very interesting yet—or eligible." She cast a sidelong glance at Jessica. "Still on the hunt, are you?"
"Don't call it that. You make me sound like a bird of prey. I'm just curious, and I thought that since you know everyone, you would tell me if anyone intriguing is here. I haven't even met the princess yet."
"Well, there she is." Ada gestured to the right with her fan. "She doesn't look like a princess, does she?"
Jessica stood on her tiptoes to peek over the top of the screen. Ada's fan was pointing at a small, slender woman with dark red hair, directing the footmen from the ballroom stairs. Her apricot silk gown was defying gravity, the little lacy sleeves hardly clinging to her shoulders. "Well, I don't know what a princess is supposed to look like—not like our own royal ladies, I expect. At least, she is marvellously pretty. And she has a dazzling dressmaker. I love that dress. I wonder how she keeps it up."
"Glue, do you think? It's just that when I think of a princess, I always expect a crown. She might have got one, had she married one of the royal dukes instead of Devlyn. I can't blame her," Ada said thoughtfully. "He's over there." The fan jammed towards the cardrooms, at a tall man in formal dress. "I'd choose him over a prince any day."
Devlyn, though admirably well-shouldered, was taken, and thus of no use to Jessica. She gave into her accustomed candor, for Ada already knew everything about Uncle Emory and his obstinacy. "What about the gentlemen here? Surely some of them are worth considering." A stir at the entrance caught her attention, for as the butler introduced the Earl of Tressilian, all conversation ceased. He was a dark, brooding man in full Navy splendor, and as he walked to the princess and lifted her hand to his lips with seductive grace, Devlyn started purposefully across the ballroom.
"Him, for example."
Ada was made of stronger stuff, though. "Your uncle wouldn't even need to get poison pen letters to disapprove of the earl! A grieving widower with difficult children and a drinking problem?"
"He's out of mourning, isn't he?" Jessica said a bit sullenly. "And he doesn't look foxed."
"Of course not. They say he only drinks alone, late at night." Ada laughed out loud as Devlyn reached his wife and without much ado led her away from the Navy man onto the dance floor. "Ooh, do you think they will duel? That would certainly cap the princess's party, her husband and her most illustrious guest meeting at dawn!"
"I don't think so, Ada. Lord Devlyn hardly seems the sort to shoot a man who merely smiles, however heartbreakingly." On second thought, Jessica decided, Tressilian wasn't the sort of man to make a comfortable husband. "Damien," she added with a chuckle, "goes mad with envy whenever he sees that one. A real Byronic hero, right down to the brooding mouth. But you are right, Tressilian is not the sort to please Uncle Emory. What about that one there?"
"But what about Damien?" Ada asked with a significant look. "You're supposed to be madly in love with him."
Irritated, Jessica kept her gaze roaming over the brightly lit ballroom. "I never said I was madly in love with him. I said I thought, since he's run free in our house since we were children, that Uncle Emory might approve of him. I was wrong." Bitterness edged her voice. "Damien didn't even attempt to change his mind. Arguing, you see, is beneath him."
Ada sighed gustily in sympathy. "Not such a devoted swain after all. You would think, from his poetry, that he would slay dragons for you."
"He won't even put down his pen for me. I, of course, am expected to give up my collection for him." Jessica almost let the oppression overtake her again. Then she grabbed a glass of champagne from a passing footman and sternly reminded herself that she was at a wonderful party, surrounded by acres of silk and the light from a thousand candles, and that even if she couldn't marry any of these men, she might at least dance with them. "Lovely champagne, this. Ada, have a glass with me."
Absently, Ada shook her head. "Champagne makes me giggle. And since I'm already married, giggling does me no good!" She craned her neck to see past a knot of debutantes. "Perhaps that nice Lord Mumblethorpe will do. Your uncle can't call him a rake like Tressilian, for he isn't the least in the petticoat line. I think he'd make a most comfortable husband."
"I am certain he would, for the sort of girl who wouldn't mind being known as Lady Mumblethorpe." The champagne was having an effect; she could hardly get the name out. "As for me, I think I would give that prospect a pass, even did he look like Tressilian."
"You're so cruel, Jessie! Lady Anything-at-all would suit most girls. Hmmm. Is that a bishop coming out of the cardroom? He's young, isn't he, for a bishop. And not so badlooking, rather genial, in fact."
"I expect he won a good deal at picquet." Jessica let the bishop stroll past before she pulled Ada closer and whispered, "Do you think Uncle would want a bishop in the family? He'd have to watch his language!"
Ada laughed and added significantly, "And what's more, Jessie, you'd have to watch yours! And you wouldn't. I know you, you'd forget yourself and speak frankly while you were entertaining the Archbishop of Canterbury!"
"I would not! I've gotten much better than I was at school, I assure you. Living with my aunt and uncle has truly taught me the value of discretion in speech—blast!" A footman's tray collided with her arm, and after the exchange of apologies, she tugged at Ada. "We are in the way. Let's walk."
They strolled down the side of the ballroom, Jessica glancing sidelong at the other partygoers. It looked to be a glorious crush, all in all, for a rural entertainment. And Jessica was weary of the conundrum of her collection and its curator. It was easier to slip back into the irreverent camaraderie she and Ada had known at Miss Falesham's Institute for Young Ladies, when they were called "The Terrible Two."
Now she felt someone watching her intently, and raised her fan to hide her face. She stole a quick glance, though, and for just an instant met the gaze of the man standing a few yards away on the staircase leading up to the main part of the house. "What about that one?" she whispered. "I think he's staring at me."
She had to repeat it more loudly because the orchestra had struck up a mazurka, but finally Ada turned obediently and raised her lorgnette in the indicated direction.
Jessica groaned and tried discreetly to pull down her friend's arm. "You needn't let him know you're interested, Ada."
"I am not the interested one, you are! I'm merely doing reconnaissance work for you." But the lorgnette dropped, and Ada started away at a brisk pace, almost dragging Jessica along. "But that one is not a likely candidate, dear. Uncle would not approve, not in a thousand years, even with the spanking new title he's got."
Jessica risked a quick look back over her shoulder. He was still watching her. She kept walking, eyes forward, but his gaze felt like the brush of his fingers across the back of her neck. There was something indefinably alien about him, in his casual but wary stance, in the exotic lines of his face, in the opaque intensity of his gaze. "He's not English, is he?"
"Well, of course he is. He was born just down the road in Devlyn village. To the apothecary's wife."
Jessica felt a deep rush of disappointment. How very mundane, after all. But then, she reminded herself, that was rather mysterious. "A shopkeeper? At a ball like this?"
"He's not a shopkeeper," Ada replied. "He's the son of a shopkeeper. Or so the shopkeeper thought, anyway." Before Jessica could ask for elaboration of this cryptic statement, Ada had gone on with a hint of pride, "No, this one used to practice the South Coast's oldest profession."
Prostitution seemed unlikely, so Jessica ventured, "Fishing?"
"Nothing so dull! He does have a fleet of ships, I think, but he's after more impressive cargo. He was a pirate, you see."
Jessica couldn't help it. A deep thrill rippled through her, just as it might have years ago, when she and Ada were dreaming up outrageous Gothic plots for the edification of their schoolmates. But she sneaked another look and regretfully shook her head. "A pirate? Surely not. He looks the perfect gentleman."