What Wild Moonlight (34 page)

“My head—is that why I feel so groggy?”

“Possibly. It might also be the lingering effects of the laudanum Dr. Ellwood administered to help you sleep.” He hesitated, then continued, “You put up quite a fight when he tried to examine you, do you remember?”

She hadn’t thought of it until that moment, but suddenly she remembered the stark, cold terror that had gripped her, the overwhelming desperation she had felt to flee. She also remembered the anxiety that had seized her just before Hubert had fired the gun. Why? There had been a reason for her fear, but now that reason escaped her entirely.

Her memories were nothing but vague, fragmented shadows; she found herself entirely unable to put them into any semblance of logical order. It seemed as though all she could understand at the moment were simple concepts, questions that required nothing but a yes or a no answer.

To that end, she glanced down at the simple cotton nightshirt she wore and asked, “Did you remove my clothing?”

“Yes. Do you mind?”

She shook her head. It was a thoughtful gesture, particularly since he had made no attempt to make himself more comfortable. With the exception of removing his jacket and loosening his cravat, he still wore his formal evening attire.

He shifted slightly in his chair, leaning forward. A note of solemn gravity came over his features, but his voice was low and gentle. “Did you see anyone suspicious backstage?”

Her pulse skipped a beat and her breath caught in her throat. There had been someone backstage before her performance. But who?
Think!
she commanded herself. But the harder she focused on the question, the more her fear rose, choking off her thoughts. Her memories skirted away and out of her grasp as though deliberately eluding her. In the end she was chasing nothing but dark, ominous shadows. There was definitely something there, something she needed to see, but she couldn’t quite grasp it.

Worse still, the laudanum was once again taking its toll on her. Her eyelids were growing heavy, her limbs felt even weaker than they had earlier, and the mere effort of putting her thoughts into words seemed to drain her of every ounce of energy she possessed.

“Katya, try to remember,” he urged. “Who was backstage?”

She gave a soft yawn and lifted her shoulders in a light shrug. “Only you.”

He frowned, clearly taken aback. “Me?”

“You didn’t come to see me before my show?”

“No.”

“That’s odd, I could have sworn…” She let her voice trail off as she searched her mind. Hadn’t Nicholas been there? She distinctly remembered running down the crowded backstage hall toward her dressing room, her heart beating with excitement and expectation, confident that she would find him inside. In that regard her memory was crystal clear. But had he truly been there? For some reason, she couldn’t remember actually seeing him.

“I had some business to attend to in town,” he said, interrupting her thoughts. “I didn’t make it to the casino until your performance was well under way.”

“You weren’t there?”

“No,” he repeated, “I wasn’t.”

“Oh.” She leaned back against her pillows and sent him a wan smile. “I suppose that was nothing but a bit of wishful thinking on my part.”

“I suppose so,” he agreed. He began to ask her another question, then his gaze moved slowly over her face. “You’re tired,” he said.

“So are you.” She reached out and lightly traced her fingers over the rough, dark stubble that shadowed his cheek. Judging by the look of him, he had passed the entire night sitting in that cramped chair beside her bed. She drew back her bedcovers and patted the space next to her.

He hesitated. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

She yawned again. “If this incident has taught us nothing else, at least it proves that I am not fragile, does it not?”

A small smile curved his lips. “I suppose that’s true.”

That said, he kicked off his shoes and carefully climbed in beside her, not bothering to remove his shirt and pants. As the mattress sank beneath his weight Katya rolled against him, curling up with her back against his chest. He wrapped his arms around her and pressed a light kiss against the nape of her neck. “Am I hurting you?” he asked.

“No.”

She felt wonderful. A little sore, perhaps, but warm, sleepy, and content. The scent of Nicholas’s skin drifted around her; his warm breath lightly fanned her cheek. She reached for his hands and graced his knuckles with a light kiss, then burrowed into the cool linen sleeve of his shirt. As she did, she felt something press against her cheek. She drew back, frowning slightly as she stared at his sleeve.

In that instant the dark memories that had haunted her came back in full force, skittering through her mind at a pace too rapid for her to grasp, leaving nothing but horrified alarm in their wake. Something was wrong, but she still couldn’t identify what it was. She only knew that the feeing of stark dread that had lodged in her belly earlier had returned tenfold.

Think!
she commanded herself once again. She reached for the memory, mentally stretching for it, battling the drugged fatigue that threatened to overwhelm her and take it away. Her gaze narrowed on Nicholas’s arm. She studied the long sleeve of his shirt, the crisp white linen, the starched cuff, the ornate gold-and-onyx cufflink.

The single ornate gold-and-onyx cufflink.

He had lost one cufflink.

And she had found it. The memory came flooding back in a sickening rush. She had found Nicholas’s cufflink near her prop table just minutes before she had been due onstage. Obviously he had been backstage before her performance.

As she considered that fact she suddenly remembered something Monsieur Remy had told her. The man who had posed as her parents’ agent weeks earlier had been backstage as well—a man Remy had described as in his early thirties, tall, with dark hair and eyes, and an inborn air of arrogance. Were he and Nicholas one and the same? The possibility seemed too ludicrous to consider, yet she could not banish it completely.

Would Nicholas have tried to gain access to her parents’ belongings?

Why had he lied to her about having been backstage?

As the questions reverberated through her mind a feeling of sinking dread spread through her limbs and a quiet panic filled her heart. The answers had to be faced, but at the moment they were overwhelming. The warmth of Nicholas’s body, the softness of the sheets, and the lingering effects of the sedative were all too strong to resist. The fatigue she had been battling finally took hold, dragging her down into a deep, fitful slumber.

When Katya woke next, the room was awash with brilliant midday sunshine. She was alone. Apparently Nicholas had left at some point that morning, although she didn’t recall him slipping out of bed. Glancing at the small brass clock atop her dresser, she saw that it was nearly noon. Seven hours had passed since she last awoke.

To her relief, the grogginess she had experienced earlier was gone. In its place was a keen sense of clarity and purpose. She sat up, swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood, testing her body’s reaction. A dull throbbing echoed through her head, and there was a deep ache in her chest, but aside from these irritations she felt remarkably sound.

A feeling of quiet resolve filled her as she attended her toilette and drew on a simple cotton blouse, a riding skirt, and a pair of sturdy boots. She could no longer brush aside the worries that had engulfed her earlier that morning. It was time she faced the truth, whatever it might be.

She had naively assumed that she had kept her true identity a secret from Nicholas, but now she wondered. Had he known all along that she was a Rosskaya and used her to gain access to her family’s scroll? Had he been determined to seduce her into giving the scroll to him, or to use her until he found the ancient parchment himself? Highly unlikely—extremely unlikely, she amended—but possible.

And then what? she thought, following that train of thought to its natural conclusion. He had found her scroll, therefore her usefulness was at an end? He had sneaked backstage and deliberately sabotaged her act, intending to make it appear as though she had accidentally died while performing? The very idea was so preposterous it was laughable.

Not only that, it was easily proven fake. She counted the reasons why on her fingers. First, she had seen her scroll yesterday, safely hidden away in the false compartment of her trunk. Second, her parents’ deaths had been accidental. Third, there were any number of reasons why Nicholas might have kept the truth from her regarding his presence backstage… she just couldn’t think of them at the moment. Fourth, just because Monsieur Remy’s description of the man who had posed as her parents’ agent matched Nicholas perfectly, it didn’t mean it actually was him. She could simply bring Nicholas to Monsieur Remy and ask if he was the man who had been posing as her parents’ agent. Fifth— She stopped counting and let out a sigh. She could stand there counting for days but it wouldn’t prove a thing. Or disprove a thing, she mentally corrected herself. The only way to do that was to physically verify the evidence.

To that end, she crossed the room to where her trunk was stored. She lifted the lid and emptied it of the assorted clothing. Then she touched the spring that released the hidden compartment and removed the false bottom. Relief immediately poured through her as her eyes moved over the assortment of books and papers. She immediately saw Sacha’s diary, as well as the bundle of ancient parchment. From the looks of it, nothing had been disturbed. She shifted the books and moved the papers aside, searching for the scroll.

Odd.

It wasn’t there.

A tremor of icy apprehension raced down her spine. It had to be there. She had seen it only yesterday, just before she and Nicholas had left for the abbey. Fighting back a surge of wild panic, she thrust her hands along the bottom of the trunk, frantically searching for the scroll. When that failed, she dumped the trunk upside down, scrupulously examining each piece. Twice. Then again.

Nothing.

Her scroll was missing.

Katya swallowed hard and rocked back on her heals, fighting her escalating emotions of stunned disbelief and budding hysteria. Someone had stolen her scroll. His brother, Richard? Perhaps, but surely one of the servants would have seen him in the villa. Nicholas? Could it be? Could she truly have misjudged his character so completely? But if he hadn’t taken it, who else could have? She searched her mind, but returned again and again to the same conclusion.

Nicholas.

The Lord of Scandal.

His reputation had been well deserved after all. An image of his face loomed before her as a sickening mixture of dread and distress lodged deep within her belly. How could he have touched her the way he had? Not just the way his hands had caressed her body, but the way his eyes had peered so deeply into her soul. Had that been nothing but a sham? Impossible. Or was it? While he kissed her mouth and stroked her flesh, had he been entirely devoid of emotion? Was he capable of that level of betrayal? Her hands began to shake and for a moment she thought she might be physically ill.

Beware the Maltese.

The firstborn son of the DuValentis. Her family’s ancient enemy. She had been warned all along, yet had refused to listen. She had tumbled headlong into his arms, not even putting up a token resistance. For the first time in her life, she had shed the thick shield of prudence and caution that had habitually preceded her every act. She had loved Nicholas Duvall with her heart and soul. Passionately. Completely. Foolishly.

She repacked her trunk, handling each item as if placing it just so was of the utmost importance. The mindless, repetitive task gave her time to find the strength she needed. She was not beaten, she decided. She may have lost the scroll, but she would not give up. Not yet. Not so long as the blood of her gypsy ancestors flowed through her veins.

She had only a part of the answer she required. The rest could be found only at the casino. With that in mind she stood and gathered her reticule and gloves, then turned to the door of her bedchamber. She marched resolutely downstairs, stopping at the foot of the curved staircase as Edward Litell, Nicholas’s personal secretary, stepped from his master’s study and closed the door behind him.

“Mr. Litell,” she called.

He turned toward her, an expression that could almost be defined as a smile softening his normally austere expression. “Miss Alexander,” he returned, striding toward her. His cool blue eyes moved briefly over her form. “I heard of your accident last night. How wonderful to see you looking so well.”

“Would you please send word to the groomsmen to have Lord Barrington’s coach readied for me immediately? I have some business to attend to in town.”

He hesitated. “Immediately?”

“Is that a problem, Mr. Litell?”

“Regrettably, yes. Lord Barrington has requested that Dr. Ellwood return this afternoon to check your condition. He should be arriving within the hour.”

“In that case, you may inform both Dr. Ellwood and Lord Barrington that I am not in need of a physician’s services. As you can see, I am quite fully recovered.”

“So you are.”

Katya spun around at the sound of Nicholas’s voice behind her. Her heart skipped a beat and her breath caught in her throat at the sight of him. He was so incredibly handsome, she thought, as she regarded him with a raw, aching awareness. He stood with one broad shoulder against the wall, studying her with a look of quiet intensity. She had assumed he was out of earshot, behind the closed doors of his study. But judging from the shiny red apple he held in his hand, he was coming from the kitchens.

As Litell moved away, Nicholas said, “I didn’t expect to see you up and about so soon. How are you feeling?”

Katya battled the urge to confront him with the fact that her scroll was missing and to demand an explanation. He couldn’t possibly have done—she began, then stopped herself. Clearly her emotions could not be trusted. What she needed now were facts. Cold, hard facts.

“I’m fine,” she replied, keeping her voice cool and formal.