The Sinister Spinster (2 page)

Charles thought for a moment. "Then what we will do," he said at last, "is to tell people we suspect there to be a spy in our midst. We'll . . . oh, I don't know, say some of your father's papers are gone missing. He's still a member of the Privy Council, isn't he?" He glanced at William.

"I suppose so." William lifted his shoulders in an indifferent shrug. "Carries a box of papers with him he keeps locked up in his study. And even if he ain't a member,
Falconer is, I'll warrant. Papa said he's close to the prince, and he's helping him plan the fête for the Czar and his sister."

"Even better," Charles decided. "We'll hint some papers relating to the Russian court's visit have vanished, and that is why Falconer has come. We can get the other guests to try to guess the spy's true identity, tossing out just enough hints to make them believe what we want them to believe."

"Charles, I am in awe," Derwent said, leaping to his feet and sweeping low in an exaggerated bow. "You are brilliant; truly brilliant. I had no idea."

"I don't know," William said, annoyed to find he had a conscience after all. "May not care for Miss Mattingale, but that don't mean I want her taken up as a spy. They hang spies, you know."

But having come so close to savoring victory, Charles wasn't ready to quit the field. "Dunce, we won't let it get that far!" he said cuttingly. "If it gets too out of hand, we can always say it was all a hum, and the matter will be forgotten."

"I'm not certain . . ."

"Oh, don't be so tiresomely dull, Wills!" Derwent pouted at him. "This is going to be wonderful! Think of all the fun we shall have; planting notions in people's minds, raising a hue and cry, and then settling back to watch the others scurrying about chasing after mare's nests. How can you be so cruel as to deny me the one bit of enjoyment I have had since coming to this dreary place?"

Put like that, William did think it would be rather churlish of him to act the spoiler. Still . . .

"Tell you what," Charles interposed, taking William's measure. "We'll make it a wager, shall we? That way none of us can cry off."

"A wager?" William stirred with interest. "What sort of wager?"

"I'll wager a thousand pounds we can carry it off,"
Charles said, thinking quickly. "And you, Wills, shall wager a thousand we cannot How's that?"

"We would bet against each other?" William wanted to be certain he understood correctly. "That don't sound quite aboveboard."

"Of course it is," Charles assured him. "It's perfectly acceptable. So long as we don't cheat, of course."

"Cheat?"

All of this plotting and scheming was proving harder than Charles anticipated. He was trying to think of some way to explain when help arrived from an unexpected quarter.

"Slowtop," Derwent said, with exaggerated patience, "if we tell anyone this is all a game, and that there are no missing papers and, therefore, no French spy,
that
would be cheating. To carry off our wager in an honorable fashion we have to take a vow here and now that under penalty of forfeiture we can never, ever reveal the truth." He looked at Charles. "Is that not right?"

"Aye," Charles said, nodding. "Exactly so."

"Then," Derwent said smugly, "are we agreed?"

"Aye," Charles repeated, and glanced expectantly at William.

William nodded. "Aye," he said reluctantly. "We are agreed."

"Filthy, useless, parasitic fops!" Miss Elizabeth Mattingale's aquamarine eyes flashed with temper as she paced up and down the narrow confines of her small room. "Stupid, small-minded little nothings! How dare they treat me so!"

It wasn't often Elizabeth allowed herself to lose her temper; but then, it was seldom she was offered such deliberate provocation. She'd heard several of the maids complaining of the grabbing and pinching they'd encountered from Mr. Derwent's London friends, and had done her best to keep out of their way. Thank heaven Lord Falconer
had been there, she thought, breathing a mental sigh of relief. She shuddered to think what might have happened had she been forced to deal with the wretches on her own.

The memory of the decisive way the handsome marquess had routed the younger men filled her with reluctant admiration. She'd met him the first night he'd arrived from London, and at the time had thought him quite the coldest man she had ever encountered. Having had the opportunity to observe him in action, she now considered him one of the most dangerous men as well. She knew she would not wish to make an enemy of his lordship; something told her he would be a merciless opponent.

After taking a few more minutes to compose herself, Elizabeth splashed some cool water on her face and went back downstairs to the drawing room. Her new employer was just as she'd left her, pouring over another of her endless lists. She glanced up when Elizabeth opened the door, her thick brows meeting in a disapproving scowl.

"There you are, Miss Mattingale," she said, sounding as if Elizabeth had been gone for days instead of a mere quarter hour. "Did you find the book I wanted?"

Since her hands were plainly empty, Elizabeth thought the answer to that rather obvious, but she kept such thoughts to herself.

"No, my lady, I did not," she said, returning to her chair. "Are you quite certain you left it in the library? I looked everywhere."

The countess pursed her lips. "I am
almost
certain I did," she said, tapping her finger against her chin. "Although I suppose I may have left it in my sitting room just as well. Ah, well, it is of no moment. I didn't need it after all."

Elizabeth choked back a cry of fury. She'd risked a pawing, if not worse, for some foolish book about the peerage, and now her employer decided it was of "no moment"? She eyed the pot of tea setting on the table in front of Lady Derring before giving a wistful sigh. However
tempting it might be to upend the contents over the older woman's head, it was best she resisted the impulse. She'd only just secured this position, and Grandmother would be quite put out if she lost it in less than a sennight.

"I thought of holding a Roman ball for Robert's birthday," Lady Derring said, the matter of the missing book already forgotten. "Classic themes are always best, don't you think?"

An image of the portly earl in a toga, his balding head draped in laurel, flashed in Elizabeth's head and nearly proved her undoing.

"Indeed, my lady," she managed, albeit in a somewhat strained voice. Her vivid imagination was her greatest gift as well as her greatest curse, her father had once told her, but lud, how dull life would be without it.

Lady Catherine cast her a suspicious look. "Are you all right, Miss Mattingale?" she asked sharply. "Your voice sounds queer."

"A tickle in my throat, ma'am," Elizabeth assured her, hiding a smile behind her teacup. "I shall be fine in a moment."

"And so I should think," the countess replied with a grumble. "People who fancy themselves invalids are tiresome beyond enduring. For myself, I have always enjoyed the best of health."

"Yes, my lady," Elizabeth repeated, wisely not mentioning that only yesterday Lady Derring had laid claim to the most delicate constitution in the shire.

"So, it is decided, then." As usual, the countess was oblivious to Elizabeth's wry tone. "A Roman ball for his lordship's birthday, and a costume ball for the first week. Now"—she picked up her quill and frowned thoughtfully—"all that is needed is something truly spectacular for the last evening our guests are here. Something that will be all the talk when we all return to London." She looked at Elizabeth, clearly expecting her to pull some wondrous idea out of thin air.

Elizabeth didn't disappoint her. "All things Russian
seem to be quite the thing at the moment," she said, remembering the gossip she'd overheard between her grandmother and their neighbor. "A ball with Russian foods and music should prove quite entertaining for your guests."

"A Russian ball?" The countess stirred in interest.

"Yes," Elizabeth said, warming to her theme. "We could serve salmon and other delicacies, and vodka for the gentlemen."

"Vodka?" the countess asked, clearly unfamiliar with the term.

"A potent drink that is much favored in Russia," Elizabeth explained. "Rather like whiskey in Scotland."

"Well, if it is popular in Russia, then we must by all means serve it here," the countess said, her dark brown eyes sparkling with enthusiasm. "And you are right about the popularity of all things Russian. The last edition of
La Belle Assemble
did have several fashions that were
à la Russe."
She paused and cast Elizabeth a speculative look.

"You seem rather knowledgeable about Russia," she said, her tone frankly suspicious. "Never say
you
have been there?"

"As a matter of fact, my lady, I have." It was all Elizabeth could do to keep the smugness out of her voice. "My parents and I spent two years in St Petersburg while my father was writing a book on the history of one of the more prominent families. Prince Zaramoff, as I recall."

"A prince?" Lady Derring gasped, all but clapping her hands in glee.

"Yes, my lady." Elizabeth hadn't the heart to tell the older woman such titles were common in Russia, and every other person of note was either a prince or a count of something.

"When was this?"

It took Elizabeth a moment or two remember. "Three . . . no, four years ago," she said, remembering
her sadness at leaving the stunning beauty of the port city. "It was shortly before my mother took ill and died."

"And you know a prince; fancy mat," Lady Derring said, ignoring Elizabeth's mention of her mother. "What was his name again?"

"Zaramoff," Elizabeth provided, smiling at the memory of the jovial prince with his huge mustache and booming laugh.

"Zaramoff." Lady Derring was tapping her chin again. "I know I have heard that name before, but I can't think where. Ah, well." She shrugged. "It hardly signifies, I suppose. But your idea for a Russian ball is excellent, Miss Mattingale, thank you. See to it, won't you?"

Elizabeth thought of the work involved in arranging such a ball and gave the teapot another wistful glance. "Yes, my lady."

Dressing for dinner that evening, Elizabeth took special pains with her appearance. From her limited knowledge of men, she knew the three dandies who had attempted to accost her would now regard her as a challenge, and would do their best to set up a flirtation with her. Since she couldn't expect Lord Falconer to spend his entire stay rescuing her from their importuning, she would have to find some other means of dissuading them.

After donning her plainest gown, Elizabeth reached for one of the starched caps she'd purchased when she'd decided to become a companion. She hated the thought of wearing one, for if she had any vanity it was her hair. It was the same warm golden-brown as her mother's hair and, unbound, it flowed almost to her waist. Still, if it came down to wearing a cap or being mauled, she knew which fate she preferred. Sighing, she bound up her hair and stuffed it beneath the starched square of muslin.

By hurrying, Elizabeth managed to be the first to arrive in the dining room. Her employer let it be known that she expected Elizabeth to make herself useful whenever possible,
and that meant seeing to things that were normally the province of the hostess. She'd just finished checking the seating arrangements when she heard a noise behind her. Thinking it was the housekeeper coming in for a chat, she glanced casually over her shoulder. The sight of Lord Falconer, dressed in a black velvet jacket and cream satin breeches, had her starting in alarm.

"Oh, Lord Falconer," she said, bobbing a hasty curtsy. "I beg your pardon, sir, I hadn't heard you come in."

"There is no reason you should have," he replied, the deep voice she remembered devoid of any expression. His black hair was brushed back from his forehead, throwing the sharp bones of his face into prominence. It was a handsome face, she thought, but cold. She brushed the thought aside and gave him a polite smile.

"Is there something I can do for you, my lord?" she offered in the diffident tones she had spent days perfecting. Companions were expected to be diffident, and although she'd yet to perfect the skill, she was determined to succeed.

"No, thank you, Miss Mattingale," he said, his golden eyes remote as he studied her. "I only wanted to make certain you had recovered from this afternoon's unpleasantness. Should it happen again, I want you to come to me at once. I shall attend to the matter for you."

"How? By calling them out?" The question slipped out before Elizabeth could stop it. She bit her lip in mortification, but it was too late to call the words back.

He smiled; not the gentle smile he'd given her earlier, but something hard and deadly. "Yes, that is precisely what I will do."

Elizabeth wasn't certain how to respond. Thanking someone for offering to kill another human being seemed wrong, but good manners dictated she say something. She thought for a moment.

"Hopefully it won't come to that, my lord," she said, then, because she thought that sounded rather abrupt, she
added, "Thank you for your concern. It is very kind of you."

He studied her for several seconds before inclining his head with regal hauteur. "You are welcome, Miss Mattingale," he said. "But I mean what I say; I want you to tell me if anyone bothers you."

Sensing his implacable determination, Elizabeth's sense of curiosity was piqued. "Why?" she asked, thinking not only of her employer's younger son and his equally pestilent friends, but also of many of the other members of the so-called aristocracy it had been her misfortune to encounter. Men who felt their wealth and titles entitled them to behave however ill they desired to those they considered beneath them. And, of course, to such men everyone was beneath them.

The marquess continued regarding her, his expression revealing nothing of his thoughts. "Because I am a gentleman," he replied, as if somehow privy to her thoughts. "I was raised to believe that means more than a mere accident of birth; it means I have an obligation to protect those who are under my care." His gaze sharpened as it met hers. "I take my obligations very seriously, Miss Mattingale."