The Sinister Spinster (6 page)

"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."

Adam digested what he'd heard before answering. "Yet you say it was doubtful you should have survived," he
said, studying her curiously. "May I ask what you meant?"

She cast him another glance, this one rueful. "I was being dramatic; a severe failing of mine, or so my father is always telling me. As it happens, I was referring not to France's soldiers, but rather her shopkeepers; a far more terrifying opponent, I can tell you."

Adam smiled, even as he was wondering how much of what she was letting slip should be passed on to the duke. "I notice you mention your father, but not your mother," he said, choosing his words with meticulous care. "Is she with him in America?"

"No," Miss Mattingale said, her fingers tightening about her cup. "She died shortly before we left Russia. Father was disconsolate. That's the reason he went to America, I think," she added, then bit her lip, as if worried she'd said too much.

Adam's interest sharpened, although he was careful to keep it hidden. An embittered, well-traveled Englishman with ties to France bore watching, especially as that Englishman was now deep in what must be considered enemy territory. Determined to learn more, he offered Miss Mattingale a sympathetic smile.

"I'm sorry," he said, covering her hand with his. "I didn't mean to make you sad."

She pulled her hand free of his. "You didn't," she said, setting her cup to one side and rising gracefully to her feet. "If you will excuse me, I must return to the countess. I have been neglecting my duties, and I fear she will be quite cross with me."

Accepting that he'd learned all he was going to for the moment, Adam also rose. "And if she should read you a scold, what then, Miss Mattingale?" he teased, driven by some desire he could not name to bring a smile back to her lips. "What name might you call her in a language she cannot hope to understand?"

At first he feared his ploy had failed. Then her misty blue eyes began sparkling, and her mouth curved in an
enchanting smile even as she was lowering her gaze with a demure sweep of her lashes.

"That, my lord," she murmured, "would be telling. Now kindly return me to her ladyship. You have done quite enough damage to my reputation for one evening."

"I say, don't know about this," William muttered, casting a furtive glance over his shoulder. "It's one thing to wag our tongues about Miss Mattingale, but it's another to deliberately incriminate her like this. Don't seem gentlemanly, if you want my opinion of it."

"Will you hush, Wills!" Derwent snapped, his own nerves frayed to the breaking point. "And no one has asked for your opinion of anything. Just hold the candle steady so Charles can see what he's doing and we can get the devil out of here. I've no desire to be caught pilfering an earl's papers."

"We're not pilfering them, we're borrowing them," Charles corrected, his brows wrinkling as he quickly sorted through the papers he and the others had just removed from the earl's private box. None of it made the slightest bit of sense to him, and for the first time he cursed himself for not paying more mind to his tutors and his father when they lectured him on the importance of king and country. Still, he had some idea of what to look for, and he patted himself on the back for having the good sense to confide their plans to another. It wasn't really breaking his promise to the others, he assured himself, not when the other person had promised most solemnly to keep his secret.

"Bad enough when we only had the marquess to worry about," William continued in his morose fashion. "Did you see that Russian prince she is so thick with? Wears a sword as big as a claymore and knows how to use it, if the size of his arms are any indication. He'll cleave us in half if he tumbles to what we're doing."

"Then we'll have to make certain he doesn't tumble to
it, won't we?" Derwent snapped, his uneasiness mounting. "Besides, Charles assures me the prince will be suitably diverted. It's Falconer we need to concern ourselves with, and he won't be so easily diverted, I can tell you."

"Will the pair of you be quiet!" Charles snapped, his breath easing out as he picked up a particular piece of paper and held it to the flickering candlelight. He'd been told what to look for and was fairly certain this was it.

"Perfect," he said, smiling in anticipation of a sweet reward. "We shall just tuck this away for a bit, and no one need be the wiser, eh?" He stood up, slipping the paper between his tightly cut jacket and fine lawn shirt. "Now put the box back, Wills, and we'll return to the drawing room before we are missed."

William hesitated, glancing at the portrait of his grandfather hanging above the fireplace. The old boy had got himself slaughtered on some battlefield when his own father was scarce out of leading strings, he remembered, recalling how his grandmama had wept when she'd told him the story. The man was a dashed hero. How would he feel about his grandson taking the crown's most secret papers, even for an innocent lark?

"You'll put the papers back, won't you, Charles?" he asked, squirming beneath the relentless blue stare of his ancestor. "You'll put them back the moment we've had our fun?"

"Of course I will!" Charles snapped, eager to be gone. "We'll put them on the top of a shelf or some such place, and let them be discovered once a big enough dust has been raised. Your papa will doubtlessly think he left them there and feel foolish for all the havoc he has caused. You're always saying he's an absentminded old hum, so no one is likely to be surprised, are they?"

William shifted again, deciding he didn't care for his good friend calling his papa an old hum. "Just remember your word," he said, a note of surprising strength creeping into his voice. "You will return the papers the moment
we are done, and if things begin looking serious for Miss Mattingale, we confess everything at once."

"Never say you are developing a conscience, Wills!" Derwent sneered. "How very tiresome of you. It is all Falconer's fault, I am certain. You have been too long exposed to his stultifying air of duty and honor, and it has quite ruined you. Did your mama never warn you of the danger of falling in with bad companions? It will be the death of you, dear fellow, mark me." And he laughed at what he clearly considered to be a rare good joke.

But William did not laugh. Even after he'd returned his father's dispatch box to its hidden location and led the others back to the drawing room, he could not help but brood upon the matter. Derwent might think his words a jest, but to him they held a far more sinister import. He thought once more of the painting of his grandfather staring down at him from the study wall, and the prickle of uncertainty he'd been doing his best to ignore became a shiver of apprehension.

Four

Over the next three days Elizabeth had cause to regret her decision to become a companion. Lady Derring remained hipped with her, and took great delight in keeping her running from cock's crow to the smallest hours of the morning. When she exhausted her store of menial tasks for Elizabeth to perform, the countess lent her out to her many guests, who made eager use of Elizabeth's services. Subsequently she often found herself in the unenviable position of attempting to please not one demanding mistress but several, and usually all at the same time.

A lesser woman would have tossed up her hands and given notice, but Elizabeth was made of sterner stuff. She didn't mind the extra work, and if truth were told, she welcomed the staggering list of duties expected of her. It kept her from brooding over the last letter from her papa, and the astonishing request he'd made of her.

"You are in a position to do your father a great service,"
he'd written.
"You wrote your employer is on the Privy Council, which means he has access to information that would prove most helpful to my new friends. I have told them how very clever you are, and they are hoping you will agree to be of assistance. It need not be much; any bit of intelligence you have to offer would be welcome."

A spy, she thought, frowning as she shifted her burden
from one arm to another. Her father expected her to become a spy, and what was worse, he expected her to spy against England. She supposed she should be shocked, but upon reflection, she was not. Her father loved her mother with the same ferocity with which he now hated the country he held responsible for her death, and it was plain he meant to take his revenge.

She loved her father dearly, and even though it had been almost two years since her death, she grieved still for her mother. But there was no way she could do as he asked. It would be treason, and even if it meant driving a wedge between her papa and herself, she would not betray her country. Now all that remained was telling him of her decision. It would, Elizabeth admitted with a heavy sigh, be the most difficult letter of her life to write.

"Miss Mattingale! Miss Mattingale!"

The shrill voice of one of the guests penetrated Elizabeth's reverie, and she turned to see a well-dressed lady in a pink gown and a cream spenser hurrying toward her. At the lady's side was a familiar figure, and Elizabeth bit back a disgruntled sigh. Wonderful, she thought, keeping her face expressionless. She needed only this to make her day complete.

"Good morning, Lady Barrington, Lord Falconer," she said, dropping as graceful a curtsy as she could muster, considering both arms were full. "Is there something I might do for you?"