The Sinister Spinster Page 4

  "Certainly, your highness," Adam agreed, his mouth curving in a feral smile. "After I have dealt with him first."

  The prince gave him a look of renewed respect. "Ya saglasyen," he said, lifting his cup in a toast. "I agree. Only mind, sir, that you leave something of him for me. Now, Lord Falconer, tell me more of your country. I am most anxious to learn of your ways."

  Three

  "A companion, little queen?" Alexi's brows met in a puzzled frown. "I do not know this word. You will tell me its meaning."

  Elizabeth gave a frustrated sigh. She had risked everything by coming to Alexi's rooms, and she really hadn't the time for a lesson in linguistics. If the angry scold her employer had read her for "presuming above her station" was any indication, then any contact she had with Alexi would be limited at best. It was imperative that she make him understand the delicacy of her situation while there was still time.

  "Elizabeth?'' He gave her a gentle shake. "What is companion?"

  Elizabeth cast about in her vocabulary for a similar word in Russian but could think of nothing. "Padrooga," she said at last, deciding the word for friend was as close as she was likely to come. "But in English it has another connotation. Simply put, Alexi, I am Lady Derring's servant, and you must treat me as such."

  "Shto eta tako-ye!" he exclaimed in disbelief, and then shook his head. "What is this?" he repeated, this time in English, his blue eyes flashing with temper. "Your papa would never allow such a thing!"

  For some reason his indignant outburst reminded her of her earlier confrontation with the marquess. A female could become heartily weary of having the men about her "allowing" her to do as she wished, she thought with a flash of resentment. She shook off the thought and concentrated on the matter at hand.

  "Papa," she reminded Alexi sternly, "is in America, and in no position to 'allow' me anything. In any case the decision to become a companion was mine, and I must ask that you respect it."

  Her adamant tones had the frown on Alexi's face deepening. "You cannot mean this, dyevooshka," he told her, this time in Russian. "You are too proud, too noble a lady to bow and scrape to such as that old crone. Why should you wish to do so? It makes no sense."

  Elizabeth cast a frantic glance at the clock on the mantel. It was almost eight of the clock, and by her calculations she had less than a quarter hour before the countess would ring for her. As she'd yet to change into her evening gown, time was of the essence, and she reached out to lay her hand over Alexi's.

  "Alexi," she implored, holding his gaze with her own, "I know this must seem strange, but I must insist you do as I ask. Please?" she added, when his expression remained adamant. "For me? You know I wouldn't ask unless I had a very good reason for doing so."

  At first she thought he would refuse, but then he tipped his head in a way that was strongly reminiscent of another autocratic man she had recently encountered.

  "Very well, little queen," he said, with visible reluctance. "I promise not to treat you so familiarly. But," he added, lifting a finger in warning, "I will not treat you as a servant." And he folded his arms across his chest, his mind clearly set.

  Elizabeth regarded him in fond exasperation. "I might be a queen, Alexi Victoravitch," she said, shaking her head at him, "but you are every inch the prince. Prince Zaramoff would be amazed, I am sure."

  Alexi's expression darkened with murderous intensity. "Do not mention that svohluch's name to me!" he spat out, his lips tightening in fury. "He is a traitor to Mother Russia!"

  "What?" Elizabeth gasped in disbelief.

  "Da," Alexi gave a curt nod. "When that monster, Napoleon, came to rape and murder our country, Zaramoff acted as his whore. He sold his own serfs into the French Army, and acted as Napoleon's ears and eyes in St. Peters-burg. He even betrayed his own father, allowing him to be slaughtered when the old prince refused to swear allegiance to that French devil."

  "Are you speaking of the prince's son? "Elizabeth asked, horrified to hear the old man who had been so kind to her and her father had died at the hands of his traitorous son.

  "Dimitri Constanovitch." Alexi sneered the name with obvious hatred. "He murdered his people with one hand and lined his pockets with the other. And now that Napoleon has been defeated, he dares to act the brave and noble patriot. I would kill him, gladly, but for the fact I dare not. He is the Czar's great good friend, and travels with him now to this country."

  "Is that why you are here?" Elizabeth guessed.

  Alexi's lips curved in a grim smile. "The Grand Duchess is not so easily deceived as her brother. He is a good man, but too much the dreamer to see what he does not wish to see. He chooses to believe whatever lies Zaramoff tells him, and the Grand Duchess fears he will betray her brother as he has betrayed everyone else."

  "How?"

  Alexi merely shrugged. "Who is to say?" he asked, with the Russian propensity for vagueness that had always driven Elizabeth mad. "In the meanwhile her highness has sent me here to make certain the preparations for the Czar's arrival go well. Both Lords Derring and Falconer are said to be close to the throne, and the Grand Duchess does not trust that fat fool of a prince.

  "Not that you are to tell anyone," he ordered with an imperious look. "Especially not that Breetanskee lord who watches you closer than he should. He is sharp, that one."

  Elizabeth didn't pretend not to take his meaning. Another glance at the clock showed her that she now had less than ten minutes left before dinner, but she knew she couldn't leave without telling Alexi about her father. He had trusted her with the truth behind his visit to Derring Hall; she could be no less honest with him.

  "Alexi, there is something I must tell you," she said, shame pinking her cheeks. "I am writing to my father."

  Alexi's blue eyes widened in shock. "No, little queen," he gasped, laying his hand on his chest. "Say it is not so!"

  Her faint blush darkened in embarrassed fury. "Beast!" she accused, doubling up her fist and hitting his arm. "And to think I was feeling guilty for deceiving you!"

  He gave a hearty laugh and flicked a teasing finger down her cheek. "A little sister can never deceive a big brother," he said smugly. "Especially a big brother as clever as me."

  The temptation to strike him again was strong, but unfortunately there wasn't enough time. Sending him a look rife with the promise of revenge, she turned to take her leave. He caught up with her at the door, opening it before she had the chance to do so herself.

  "Do not worry, little queen," he said, carrying her hand to his lips and lavishly kissing her fingers. "I will keep your secrets. Just mind you keep mine, hmm?"

  Elizabeth's flare of temper vanished at the seriousness she sensed behind the teasing words. "Of course, Alexi," she said, her gaze softening as she smiled up at him. "You may rely on me."

  "I know I can, dyevuchka," he said, giving her fingers another kiss. "As you may rely upon me. Dus veedanya, Elizabeth. I shall see you at dinner."

  "I will keep your secrets. Just mind you keep mine."

  Adam glared into his glass of wine, the conversation he'd overheard between Miss Mattingale and Prince Bronyeskin echoing in his head. He'd been returning to his rooms, located in the same wing as the prince's, when he'd seen Miss Mattingale emerging from the prince's private chambers. His first thought was that she was coming from an assignation, and the unexpected flash of fury he'd felt had him stepping into the shadows before they could see him.

  When he saw the prince kissing her hand, he was certain they were old lovers renewing a liaison, but the words he'd offered in parting were not in the least loverlike. What secrets could a companion have? he wondered, his fingers clenching around the stem of his glass. And, more importantly, what secrets did a member of the Russian nobility expect her to keep for him?

  "If you hold your glass any tighter, my lord, I fear you will break it."

  The drawling voice to his right had Adam glancing up to find his dinner partner regarding him with a knowing smile. He stared at the luscious b
londe for a moment before carefully setting his glass to one side.

  "I beg pardon, Lady Barrington," he said, giving the notorious widow a brief smile. "I fear my thoughts were elsewhere."

  The woman's lips formed a perfect moue. "That is hardly complimentary, Lord Falconer," she complained, fluttering her lashes at him. "You must know I expect more from a gentleman than that."

  Recognizing an overture when it was offered, Adam didn't know whether to be horrified or flattered. The stunning duchess was notorious for her affairs and was said to be most particular in her requirements for a lover. The man had to be rich, high-born, and accomplished in the boudoir. He acknowledged that it was patently obvious he met the first two criteria, but he was puzzled as to how she knew of his ability to meet the third. His mistresses were well paid not to gossip about him, even when they were no longer his mistresses.

  "Come, sir, you cannot be such a slowtop as that." Lady Barrington leaned forward, offering him a glimpse of her creamy white breasts. "I was offering you the perfect opportunity to ask exactly what it is I require of a man."

  Such boldness offended Adam's fastidious nature, but he was too astute a politician to let his distaste show. Despite the fact that her reputation was more than a trifle tarnished, the duchess was a force to be reckoned with in the ton, and her legion of lovers included some of the most powerful men in London. He could not afford to snub her, but neither did he wish to encourage her.

  "I would, my lady," he replied, his smile filled with polite regret, "but I am terrified you would tell me, and I'd find I was sadly lacking. My pride should never recover from such a blow."

  She studied him for a few moments, and then leaned back to pick up her glass of wine. "Somehow I doubt that would be a problem, Lord Falconer," she said, accepting his unspoken refusal with a delicate shrug. "Ah, well. Tell me more of that delicious Prince Bronyeskin. I vow I find him most intriguing."

  Adam shot a speculative glance to the head of the table, where the prince was flirting with a pretty brunette who was seated to his left. The lady was the daughter of the Duke of Hadley, and was rumored to be one of the greatest heiresses in the country. It appeared the prince was even more clever than he suspected, Adam thought, his lips thinning in cold anger.

  "He is an attaché to the Russian court," he said shortly, reaching once more for his wine. "A nice enough fellow."

  "Mmm," the duchess purred, her eyes gleaming with sensual intent "I see he is making up to the Hadley chit; how nice. I admire a man with ambition and the wit to make use of his opportunities. I must make an effort to become better acquainted with his highness." She took a languid sip of wine before turning to the older man seated on her other side.

  Left alone with his dark thoughts, Adam cast a quick glance to the farthest end of the table, where Miss Mattingale was sitting beside an ancient cousin of the Derrings. The elderly woman was as deaf as a post, and she kept asking Miss Mattingale to repeat the conversations going on about them. From the flush on the younger woman's cheeks it was obviously not a task she relished, and for a moment Adam felt a brief flash of pity. Then he remembered the conversation he'd overheard, and his scowl descended once more.

  Following dinner there was to be dancing, and because of it the gentlemen had magnanimously decided against the customary decanter of port. Since the crowd was still small, only thirty or so persons, the dancing was to be held in the Derrings' music room rather than their ballroom. Miss Mattingale was already at the pianoforte, and another young woman with a flute was standing beside her, turning the pages of the music book.

  "Something gay, Miss Mattingale, if you will," Lady Derring instructed. "Unless there is something you would most particularly like to hear, your highness?" She turned a diffident smile upon the Russian.

  "Whatever is your pleasure is fine, babushka," the Prince said suavely, bowing over the delighted countess's hand. "You choose."

  The older woman preened at the lavish words. "Your highness is too kind," she said, and then frowned. "But what does babushka mean? I don't believe I've heard it before."

  The prince lifted his shoulders and smiled apologetically. "I am afraid my English is not so good, my lady. I do not know how to explain. Miss Mattingale"—he turned to Miss Mattingale, who was sitting as if frozen in place—"you will translate, please."

  Miss Mattingale's eyes remained fixed on the pages in front of her. "I am not certain there is an English equivalent, your highness," she said, her voice sounding suspiciously strained to Adam. "But it is a term of great affection and respect in Russia."

  "Indeed?" The countess looked pleased. "Babushka," she repeated, smiling. "I must remember that."

  The rest of the evening passed tediously for Adam. As the party was small and the gentlemen in great demand, he spent far more time than he would have preferred on the dance floor. With his innate good manners, he also made certain to do his duty by the wallflowers and dowagers, taking care to dance with each lady present. He was returning one painfully shy young lady to her grateful mama when he saw Miss Mattingale making her way to the countess's side, a cup of punch cradled in her hand. It occurred to him that there was one lady with whom he'd yet to dance, and with that thought in mind he hurried over to where the countess was sitting.

  "Lady Derring, Miss Mattingale." He bowed to each lady in turn. "I've been enjoying the music, ma'am," he told Miss Mattingale with a warm smile, "but I note you've yet to have the opportunity to do likewise. I should be pleased if you would honor me with the next dance." And he held out his hand commandingly.

  To his amusement her soft cheeks were instantly warmed with color. She cast a hesitant glance at the countess before replying.

  "That is very good of you, Lord Falconer," she said in the diffident tone he'd come to suspect, "but I fear I must decline. Lady Derring may have need of my assistance."

  As he was expecting just such a refusal, Adam had his response at the ready. "I am certain her ladyship possesses far too kind a heart to deny you one dance," he said, turning his gaze next on the countess, who was looking decidedly sour-faced. "Is that not so, my lady?" he added, lifting an eyebrow in polite inquiry.

  "Indeed, my lord, I must insist she does just that," she said, her lips thinning in a grim smile. "Dance, Miss Mattingale, do; no reason why you shouldn't have a bit of fun as well."

  Outmaneuvered and clearly knowing it, Miss Mattingale accepted her defeat with suitable gratitude. After murmuring her thanks to the countess, she gave an elegant curtsy and then turned to accept Adam's hand. A light and airy reel was beginning as they took their place on the dance floor, making conversation difficult, if not impossible. He was not surprised to learn Miss Mattingale was both graceful and talented, her slender body swaying as she performed the intricate steps.

  All too soon the last notes faded, but Adam was not yet ready to relinquish his reluctant partner. Since he couldn't demand a second dance without risking scandal, he decided to do the next best thing. Taking Miss Mattingale's hand once more and carrying it to his arm, he deliberately led her to the far side of the room, where a table had been set up with a variety of cold meats and other treats for weary guests who wished to refresh themselves.

  "Sir, what are you doing?" Miss Mattingale demanded in an indignant whisper. "Lady Derring is expecting me. I must insist you return me to her at once."

  "You may insist as you wish, Miss Mattingale," he said, spying a pair of chairs set somewhat apart from the others. "And as for Lady Derring, I daresay she can do without your company for another five minutes without suffering irreparable damage."

  He led her to the chairs, leaving her only long enough to secure each of them a glass of the chilled fruit punch being offered. After serving her, he took his seat beside her.

  "You and Prince Bronyeskin seem to be on the best of terms," he noted, sipping the punch and glancing about himself with apparent indifference. "How long have you known one another, if I may ask?"

  "Several years, although I'
ve not seen him since we left Russia," she replied, not seeming unduly discomfited by his question. "We met when my family and I were visiting an estate near his family's dvaryets. Palace," she added, by way of explanation.

  "You speak Russian exceedingly well," he observed, still taking care to betray no more than polite interest. He slanted her a knowing look. "I don't suppose you'd care to tell me what babushka really means, would you?" he drawled, grinning when her cheeks grew even rosier.

  "It is as I explained, my lord," she replied, her full lips curving in a smile. "A term of great respect and affection for ladies of . . . a certain age, shall we say?" Her silver-blue eyes danced as she cast him a roguish look beneath her thick lashes.

  Adam smiled back. "I can see where speaking a foreign tongue would be of great use to a companion," he noted wryly. "One can say what one truly feels in some obscure dialect, and no one is ever the wiser. How many languages do you speak, by the by?"

  "Did I say what I truly feel in plain English, sir, it is doubtful I should retain my position above a fortnight. And I speak four languages: French, Italian, Russian, and English."

  "Four?" He was suitably impressed. ""You are a lady of many accomplishments, Miss Mattingale."

  She shrugged aside his praise. "More like I am a lady who detests having nation after nation of shopkeepers and servants swindle her," she said calmly. "Papa is a gifted linguist, but he was so often gone, and Mama could never manage above a word or two in any language save English. Circumstances dictated I become fluent in several tongues, else I doubt we should have survived; especially when we were in France."

  "France?" he repeated, his senses stirring in alarm. "Were you there during the internments?"

  She nodded. "Indeed," she said, her expression somber. "Fortunately we were in the country at the estate of Comte Dulane, who'd managed to keep both his head and his title during the Terror. He gave us shelter and kept us safe until we were able to leave the country."