The Sinister Spinster (7 page)

"We were about to ask the same of you," Lady Barrington said, smiling as they reached her. "We saw you setting out burdened down like one of Hannibal's elephants and thought to offer you a ride. Didn't you hear us calling?"

The kind offer left Elizabeth momentarily nonplussed. "No, your grace, I did not. I fear my mind was elsewhere," she apologized, not certain what to say. While the scandalous beauty hadn't been as smug and condescending as had many of the other guests, neither had she been welcoming. She'd assumed the widow was one of those ladies
with little interest or use for her own sex, but now it seemed she had done the duchess a disservice.

"Considering we've been chasing after you for the past five minutes, I don't doubt that," Lady Barrington continued, still smiling. "Wherever your mind took you, I trust the journey was a pleasant one?"

Elizabeth smiled at the other woman's patent friendliness. "Pleasant enough, your grace," she said, thinking the other lady was a great deal nicer than the gossips had credited her.

"Let me take those from you, Miss Mattingale." Lord Falconer stepped forward to lift the pile of shawls, pillows, and other necessities from her arms. He gauged their weight and then fixed her with a reproving frown. "These are too heavy for a lady to carry," he said, making it sound as if it were somehow her fault. "Why haven't you a footman with you?"

"There are none to spare, your lordship. Most of the servants have been pressed into helping prepare for the ball tomorrow night," Elizabeth replied, both annoyed and touched by his insistence upon treating her as he would any other lady in the house party. She appreciated his concern, but there was no denying it didn't make things difficult for her. The other ladies had noted his behavior and were not behindhand in remarking upon it.

"Ah, yes, the costume ball," Lady Barrington said, stroking a gloved finger down the marquess's arm and sending him an intimate smile. "What will you be wearing, my lord? Or do you mean to appear in some mysterious costume and surprise us all?"

The marquess's handsome face was set in even colder lines than usual. "I haven't decided if I will attend, your grace," he informed the duchess in his precise tones. "I am not the sort to be comfortable in a costume."

The duchess gave a pretty laugh. "Don't be foolish, sir," she teased, dimples flashing in her cheeks. "No gentleman is ever comfortable in costume; not that it matters. These balls are really for us ladies, aren't they, Miss Mattingale?"
she appealed to Elizabeth for support. "They provide us with the perfect excuse to dress in panniers and powdered wigs and be mysterious. There is not a woman alive who can resist the challenge of being thought of as mysterious." She struck a pose, as if lifting an imaginary mask to her face.

"Indeed?" The marquess's topaz eyes flicked to Elizabeth. "And what of you, Miss Mattingale?" he asked coolly. "Do you enjoy being thought mysterious?"

Elizabeth thought of the letter her father had written her and nearly blanched. "I am a companion, Lord Falconer," she reminded him in what she hoped was a suitably prim tone. "It is our lot to appear dull and ordinary, for that is what we are."

"But you would look delightful in the costume you described, your grace," she added, turning to the duchess who was watching them with interest. "Rather like Madame de Pompadour."

Lady Barrington's provocative smile froze. "A king's mistress?" she said, and then shook her head. "No, I've another costume in mind. But I hope you'll at least wear a mask and a domino, Miss Mattingale. Lady Derring says she intends providing them for guests who neglected to bring a costume with them."

Elizabeth said nothing, deciding this wasn't the time to remind her grace she was at Derring Hall not as a guest but as a servant. It was doubtful she'd be allowed to attend the masquerade at all, and if she did, it was a certainty she would not be in costume.

They returned to the courtyard, where the marquess's phaeton and high-stepping pair of matched grays was waiting for them. After lifting the duchess up onto the seat, Lord Falconer turned next to Elizabeth, his light gold eyes studying her from beneath the curved brim of his beaver hat. His handsome face was set in its usual mask of icy propriety, and yet there was something in his powerful gaze that sent Elizabeth's pulses scrambling. His hands closed about her waist, lifting her off her feet with
astonishing ease. Her own hands grasped his shoulders, and she could feel the iron strength in his arms as he raised her up onto the seat of the phaeton.

Her heart had scarce settled when he leapt gracefully up onto the driving box. He took the reins from the groom, but before he could whistle to the team Lady Barrington gave a sharp cry.

"My bonnet!"

Elizabeth turned her head to see the duchess's pretty bonnet of rose chipstraw dangling from a broken ribbon.

"Oh, will you only look at this!" her grace exclaimed, removing her bonnet and frowning over the frayed end of blue satin. "And it is the first time I have worn it!"

"I should be more than happy to repair it, your grace," Elizabeth volunteered, knowing what was expected of her. "I am quite good with a needle and thread."

"I shouldn't dream of imposing," the duchess assured her. "My maid can see to it for me. But I am afraid I shall have to cry off, my lord," she said, turning to Lord Falconer with a charming pout. "I refuse to risk my complexion to the ravages of the sun."

"We can wait while you fetch another bonnet," Lord Falconer offered, also clearly aware of his responsibilities as a gentleman.

"No, there's no reason to do that." The duchess was already signaling to the groom to help her alight. "I would have to change my gown as well, and the others would be back and taking their tea by then. Please, the two of you go on, else I shall feel guilty for having spoiled the day."

Faced with so pretty an appeal, there was little either Elizabeth or Lord Falconer could do but comply with her wishes. A few minutes later they were rolling down the road toward the ruined chapel, where the others were awaiting them.

"Lady Barrington seems most kind," Elizabeth said, anxious to break the silence stretching between them. "Not at all as I thought a duchess would be." She slid a
curious glance at him. "Are you well acquainted with her, my lord?"

"Not well," he replied, easily controlling the spirited team. "We move in different circles." He let several seconds pass before sending her a glance of his own. "She's after your friend, you know."

Elizabeth didn't pretend not to take his meaning. "He will be delighted to hear it," she said, smiling as she pictured Alexi's probable response to the lady's overtures.

"It doesn't bother you?"

She frowned at the question. "Heavens no! Why should it?" Her frown deepened as realization dawned. "If you're hinting there is anything untoward in my friendship with Alexi, you are very much mistaken!" she informed him, her eyes flashing in indignation. "Alexi is but a friend, as dear to me as a brother, and you wrong us both by implying otherwise!"

"Peace, Miss Mattingale," he said, tearing his gaze from the road long enough to send her a reproving frown. "I was implying nothing of the sort. I merely meant that if the prince is indeed your friend, you might wish to put a flea in his ear about her grace. I've no wish to appear ungentlemanly, but the lady's not as careful with her reputation as one would think a duchess would be."

Considering the gossip she'd heard both above and below stair, Elizabeth couldn't pretend to be shocked by his lordship's observation. "Alexi is hardly a callow youth, sir," she said, remembering the wild youth Alexi had been. "He cut his teeth on ladies like her grace many years ago. And as I said, Lady Barrington has been quite kind to me. That is all there is to be said on the matter as far as I am concerned."

Another silence stretched between them. Elizabeth supposed she had offended him and was wondering if she should apologize when the marquess spoke.

"You can be quite haughty when you've a wish to be," he observed, his cool tones giving no hint as to his feelings
. "I can see why his highness calls you little queen. What is the Russian word for that, if I may ask?"

The question took Elizabeth aback.
"Karalyevak"
she replied, puzzled he should ask. "You seem rather interested in the Russian language, my lord," she observed, wondering if his question was spurred by mere politeness, or if there might be some other reason behind the remark. "Is it your intention to study it?"

His answer was another enigmatic smile. "Perhaps," he said coolly. "It would seem to have its advantages."

He said no more, and this time Elizabeth saw no reason to break the silence. With her chin held high and her lips firmly sealed she sat beside the marquess, her troubling secrets and anguished doubts pulled tightly about her like a woolen cloak.

Adam spent a miserable afternoon avoiding the obvious machinations of the matchmaking mamas and listening to Viscount Camborne prattling on about sheep dip. Usually he suffered such tortures in noble silence, regarding them as another aspect of the duty he owed to his title. Yet for reasons he could not explain, he was finding it increasingly difficult to retain the aura of cool civility for which he was known.

It little helped his black mood to see Miss Mattingale being run ragged by Lady Derring and her crowd. As he watched in seething silence, the pert companion was kept busy fluffing pillows, fetching glasses of lemonade, and, in the case of one sharp-tongued young beauty, fanning the creature while she lolled on her blankets looking smugly pleased with herself. He was considering going over and putting a stop to the nonsense when Prince Bronyeskin suddenly appeared at his side.

"I am sent by the ladies to collect you, Lord Falconer," he said, his accent lightly musical. "You will come now, yes?"

In answer Adam turned his head, his lips pressed together
in cold disapproval. "And you call yourself her friend," he said, his voice tight with leashed fury.

A dark blond eyebrow raised in princely irritation as Bronyeskin glanced toward the languorous brunette. "That one?" he asked, his mouth curling in disgust. "That one I do not know, nor do I wish to. She is . . . common."

Although Adam shared the prince's estimation of the young lady, he wasn't about to let him off the hook so easily. "You know perfectly well I was referring to Miss Mattingale," he said, swinging around to confront the younger man, his eyes blazing. "How can you stand by and do nothing when she is treated like a blasted lackey!"

Ice-blue eyes regarded him challengingly. "How can you stand by and do nothing, my lord, if you are so offended?"

Adam flinched, furious because, curse it all, the man was right. He dipped his head in curt acknowledgment. "Point taken, your highness."

"Da."
The Russian gave a cool nod. "I can see that it is. Why you do nothing, I cannot say. For me, I must bite my tongue and act the proper guest, or my little queen will box my ears. But never fear, my lord," he added, his voice soft with menace, as he studied the young woman, "I will have my revenge upon the oh-so-lovely Miss Clarvale, that I do promise you."

Again Adam was struck by the prince's resemblance to his friend, Lord St. Jerome; warriors, the pair of them, and neither to be trusted when they had that particular tone in their voices. Hoping to relieve the tension of the moment, he flashed Bronyeskin a look of polite inquiry.

"And how do you mean to do that?" he asked, regarding the other teasingly. "Without getting your ears boxed, that is?"

In answer, the prince gave a slow smile. "We Russians are not so big the fools as you
angleechankas
like to think," he said coolly. "We do two things very well: We fight like demons from hell for what is ours, and we know when and where to take our revenge. A little something
you might wish to share with your prince and his circle. Good day to you, Lord Falconer."

The odd conversation was much on Adam's mind later that evening as he sat in the library, staring into the flames dancing in the fireplace. The soft summer afternoon had given way to a sudden storm, and wind and rain lashed against the leaded glass windows as fierce thunder boomed across the valley. The others were in one of the drawing rooms, playing whist and chatting, but he'd slipped away, seeking solitude to brood over what Bronyeskin had told him.

The prince's remark haunted him, and he wondered if it had aught to do with the coming congress in Vienna. He knew the Russians were fiercely determined to get back Poland and other lands lost to them, and knew as well the Austrians were equally determined to keep those same lands out of the Czar's sphere of influence. A break in the alliance at such a crucial juncture would play directly into Napoleon's hands, and that—

"I say, a word with you, Falconer, if I may."

The diffident voice shattered Adam's concentration, and he glanced up to find his host hovering before him. Biting back a sharp retort, Adam managed the semblance of a smile.

"Of course, my lord," he said, hiding his annoyance as he set the book he'd been pretending to read to one side. "What is it?"

"Don't wish to accuse, you understand," the earl muttered, looking every day his age as he eased himself onto the club chair facing Adam. "Daresay you must have had a good reason for doing so, but I might have wished you'd asked permission first before taking them. It would have been dashed awkward if I sounded the alarm needlessly, eh?"

Adam leaned back, trying to make sense of the earl's rambling conversation. "And what is it I am suspected of having taken?" he asked at last, his voice carefully neutral.

"The papers from my dispatch box, of course," Lord
Derring replied, then paled at Adam's lack of expression. "Never say you don't have them?" he said, trembling.

Adam snapped to attention. "Which papers?" he demanded, his preoccupation with Bronyeskin forgotten in light of this alarming development.

"Not quite sure, to be honest," the earl admitted, shrugging his shoulders and tugging at his cravat. "Hadn't had a chance to study them in any great detail. Arrived the same time as his highness, so I had but a moment to peek at them. They were from the Secretary, or at least they carried his seal. Mentioned Blücher, though, as I recall." He sent Adam an apologetic look. "You'd know more about that sort of thing than I."