What Wild Moonlight (11 page)

“I’m afraid I am.”

Katya made a face that clearly expressed her disapproval. She gazed out the window at the moonlit landscape in thoughtful silence, then said tightly, “I’m sorry that you choose your friends so ill.”

“My friends,” he echoed. A harsh laugh escaped his lips. “That limited circle of acquaintances, the men and women whom I truly trust and admire, remain back in London. What you are about to meet tonight is a gathering of elegant sycophants whose tolerance for me exists only because they covet my money, my possessions, and my title.”

“I suppose their opinion of you is as poor as yours of them?”

“Worse, given recent events.”

“I see.” An intriguing statement, but as his clipped tone made it clear he would not elaborate upon it, Katya tried another tact. “You mentioned earlier that the scroll was taken from your home in London. What makes you so certain that whoever has it is here in Monaco?”

Nicholas hesitated. “That requires a rather laborious answer,” he finally replied. “And you look far too lovely for me to bore you with all the petty details.”

A mocking smile curved her lips. “How very kind. Fortunately for both of us, the fact that I have attired myself in an elaborate evening gown and put up my hair will not impair my ability to comprehend your reply.”

He gave a short bark of laughter, then glanced out the window at the moonlit countryside. “Very well. It appears we have time.” He thought for a moment, settling comfortably back into his seat as he began, “Over six hundred years ago the ownership of this entire region—what is now the south of France—was fiercely contested. In an attempt to breed loyalty to the crown, the king decreed that two of the region’s most prominent families be joined. The eldest daughter of the lord of one clan was promised in marriage to the eldest son of the lord of another clan. In return for this act of loyalty to the crown, the king offered to double the size of their lands, and he promised that an even more formidable gift would be delivered on the morning of their betrothal.”

“And what was that gift?”

“A stone. More precisely, a glittering blue diamond rumored to be as large as a man’s fist, known as the Stone of Destiny.”

“I see.” Katya drew in a shallow, fluttery breath, striving to maintain an air of calm indifference. It was the very story her mother had told her so many years ago, the story that had framed her childhood. Only now she heard the tale through the lips of a DuValenti. Pushing that aside for the moment, she asked, “Did the king make good his promise?”

“Unfortunately he did.”

“Unfortunately?”

“The Stone is cursed. That’s why the king was able to demonstrate such largesse in giving it away.”

Her brows snapped together. “Cursed? I never heard anything—” She stopped short, abruptly recalling herself. “I never heard anything so preposterous.”

Nicholas lifted his shoulders in a light shrug. “Legend has it that the young bride and groom fell deeply in love during their courtship, despite the wariness that existed between their clans. The marriage was never consummated, however. On the morning of the wedding feast the bride was cruelly slain and the Stone was stolen.”

She thought for a moment, as though carefully weighing his words. “Should I assume that this Stone is somehow connected to the scroll stolen from your home?”

“It is. Following the bride’s death, a bitter and bloody feud erupted between the clans. The feud lasted for generations, with each side launching violent raids against the other in their fierce quest to regain possession of the Stone. Determined to put an end to the warring once and for all, the king dispatched a small army of knights to the region with instructions to capture the Stone and bring it, along with the leaders of both families, to a local abbey. The monks who resided at the abbey took the Stone into their own possession and secreted it away, preparing a scroll that detailed its location. Each family received one third of that scroll; the remaining third was held at the abbey. As decreed by the king, once the families overcame their bitterness and presented themselves at the abbey united and in peace, the monks would turn over the third portion of the scroll and the Stone would be recovered.”

“Did that ever happen?”

He shook his head. “After centuries of feuding, the families were too proud to reconcile. Time passed and a variety of events, ranging from famine and plague, to warfare and political upheaval, tore the region apart. The lure of the Stone waned with the passing of the years, and the clans drifted away in search of better lives. My ancestors eventually settled in England. As to the fate of the other clan,” he paused, lifting his shoulders in an eloquent shrug, “I believe they settled somewhere near Prussia—but that’s merely a guess.”

“I see.” A thoughtful silence fell between them as she considered his words.

“I trust that brings us to the present day,” she said.

“It does. Six weeks ago, certain events transpired in Monaco that led me to hire a private investigator to explore their cause. In one of his reports, the man mentioned that an abbey not far from here had been broken into. It was none other than the abbey in which the third portion of the scroll has rested for centuries.”

“The abbey was broken into?” Katya echoed, unnerved. “Was the scroll taken?”

“Fortunately not. The scroll, along with several other ancient documents and artifacts, had been moved to another portion of the abbey before the theft occurred. At the time, local officials attributed the crime to the work of petty thieves. But the abbey was broken into again two weeks ago. Clearly the thief is determined to get his hands on some object in particular. Now that the scroll has been stolen from my own home, it would appear obvious that he’s after the Stone.”

“Indeed. I would have drawn the same conclusion,” she murmured, almost as though speaking to herself.

The coach slowed to a leisurely, rumbling stop. Katya heard the creak of harness leather accompanied by the sound of other horses and carriages. Glancing outside the window, she saw that they had joined the long line of carriages queuing up before the Duke of Westerly’s villa.

Nicholas looked at her. “I’ve given you this background so that you might understand the gravity of the situation. Whoever stole the scroll is serious—one might even say deadly. Therefore…”

“Therefore,” she finished for him, “should I suddenly find myself intimidated by the task, this is my opportunity to bow out.”

He inclined his head. “I would not think less of you were you to decide not to pursue this further.”

“How very reassuring.” She thought for a moment. “You mentioned the necessity of hiring a private investigator to look into events that transpired here—”

“A family matter,” he interrupted. “One that may not have anything to do with the scroll.”

Though his words were brief and to the point, there was no mistaking the tension that emanated from him as he spoke. She recalled the anxiety she had heard in the Comtesse’s voice at the end of their interview, and couldn’t help but wonder at its cause. Clearly, however, this was not the time for speculation.

The coach pulled to a final stop. One of the groomsmen climbed down from his perch, opened the door, and offered Katya his hand in disembarking. She gathered her black lace fan and satin reticule, then stepped out onto the neatly manicured lawn, mingling with the other guests who were disembarking for that evening’s fete.

As Nicholas joined her she took a few steps away from the gathered assembly, moving discreetly out of earshot. That accomplished, she met his gaze and said, “I appreciate your candor. Knowing the background colors things significantly, does it not?”

“I see.” His face carefully neutral, he gave a tight nod. “I’ll have the driver bring you back—”

“Bring me back? Just the opposite. Recall the Stantons. A bit of thievery will not deter me. I shall take great delight in unmasking whoever is behind this.”

Though his expression had been veiled only seconds earlier, there was no mistaking the relief and admiration that filled his gaze now. He placed his hand on her elbow and gently ushered her forward. “In that case, let us go inside. It’s time for the lords and ladies of Monaco to meet my new mistress.”

A steward showed them through a long, vaulted hall that led to a set of ornate double doors. They stepped through the entranceway and entered a magnificent formal ballroom. Katya drew in a deep breath as she watched the guests meander about the crowded room. She had forgotten the glamour and elegance that great wealth could radiate, the confidence and condescension possessed by the very rich.

The vaulted room resonated with the hush of polite conversation, the rustle of silks and satins, and the soft strains of a seated orchestra. Crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, giving the huge chamber a soft, almost ethereal glow. The mirrored walls reflected the dazzling sparkle of the brilliant jewels worn by the guests and created a sense of vivid movement. Servants circulated discreetly through the assembly offering tall glasses filled with bubbly wine.

Katya’s earlier confidence evaporated, replaced by a surge of doubt and misgiving regarding the task she was about to undertake. Nicholas must have sensed it, for his hand returned to her elbow, subtly urging her forward. Hiding her nervousness, she tilted her chin and stepped regally into the room, summoning the same grace and confidence she would have exhibited onstage.

As they strolled through the crowded room her self-consciousness slowly faded. Much to her relief, she received nothing but an occasional curious glance. Her escort, however, did not enjoy the same level of indifference. In fact, just the opposite was true. Judging from the open disdain visible on the guests’ faces, it was quickly impressed upon her that Nicholas Duvall, the Earl of Barrington, was viewed as a pariah of sorts.

While he never received what was formally known as a cut direct, the reaction to his presence by those attending the gala was nothing short of shocked disapproval. The crowd parted before them like the sea before Moses, leaving an excited murmur of conversation in their wake. Throughout it all Nicholas remained coolly composed. On second glance, however, Katya realized that he wasn’t as impassive as she had first thought.

A quiet, simmering tension radiated through his frame. It wasn’t anger, but something else… something akin to the indefinable aura of danger she had perceived in him on the day they first met. A murky combination of vengeance and honor seemed to emanate from deep within him. His dark, hawkish eyes scanned the room as though seeking out his prey, while his proud carriage asserted his irrevocable right to move among his peers. Although he had warned her that his standing in polite society was poor, she had assumed the comment nothing but a bit of self-mockery, or at worst, manly conceit at his various carnal exploits. But the fissure that existed between Nicholas and society obviously ran deeper than a bit of minor debauchery.

She watched as his gaze fastened on an elderly gentleman whose squat frame had been stuffed into a black, double-breasted formal suit with coattails that reached nearly to the backs of his knees. His attire was both the height of fashion and, given the man’s short, portly frame, the height of silliness. He looked like a proud, waddling penguin. “Come,” Nicholas said, “I’ll introduce you to our host.” They made it halfway across the crowded room when the opening strains of a waltz began and their elderly host stepped onto the dance floor with a tall, graceful young woman attired in ruby red silk.

Nicholas turned back to Katya, as though giving a mental shrug. “Shall we join them?”

She studied him in shocked surprise. “You mean dance?”

He studied her with a quizzical frown. “Of course.”

“But I thought—” she began, then stopped abruptly as she realized the absurdity of what she was about to say. She had vaguely considered that since their agreement was for the farce to be in name only, it was merely a matter of making introductions and letting others assume what they may. But as Nicholas took her arm and ushered her toward the dance floor, that ill-conceived theory took on a whole new reality.

He pulled her into his arms and grasped her hand in his, holding it lightly but securely. The fingers of his opposite hand spread open across the small of her back, nearly spanning her waist. A nervous thrill shot down her spine as they moved across the floor, as though they were embarking on a journey of momentous proportions, rather than a few steps across a ballroom floor. A skilled dance partner, Katya did not have to pay close attention to the steps or the rhythm of the dance. Nicholas guided her through the waltz with an easy, athletic grace, leaving her mind free to wander. Which was fortunate, she supposed, because at that moment she could focus on nothing but the enigmatic man with whom she danced.

Although they stood the requisite distance apart, he felt much too close. Unlike most men of his station, he wore no cologne. His skin had a clean, fresh scent and the heady, masculine aroma seemed to drift around her, leaving her warm, giddy, and intoxicated. She found herself fascinated by the way his dark hair curled slightly as it touched the top of his collar. She shifted her hand onto his shoulder, noting as she did so that his jacket lacked the customary padding found in most men’s coats. Nicholas Duvall was lean, solid muscle through and through.

To her shock and embarrassment, her iron-willed resolve to remain unaffected by his touch faded completely. Although Katya tended to look upon herself as proper, decorous, and strong-willed, she had not spent her life in a nunnery. Her parents—sometimes much to her dismay—had been rather shocking freethinkers and had given her tremendous freedoms. In her travels she had been exposed to a variety of different cultures and mores. Given her rather unorthodox and unsheltered background, she considered herself fairly sophisticated when it came to understanding men.

But she had vastly underestimated the impact Nicholas Duvall would have on her. Much to her dismay, the smug confidence she had had in her ability to resist the lure of his potent attractiveness vanished like household silver at a thieves’ convention. As they swirled to the music of the waltz, Katya experienced a curious sensation of both raw awakening and heightened awareness. Although she tried not to, she couldn’t help but compare the feelings Nicholas stirred within her to the safe, comforting familiarity of William’s polite, reserved touch.