How To Distract a Duchess (20 page)

Exquisitely appointed without being fussy, the second-floor parlor was obviously the ambassador’s private retreat. Bookshelves lined one wall and the room was awash in the comfortable mustiness of leather-bound volumes with a faint after-note of Fribourg and Treyer pipe tobacco.

Artemisia perched on one of the matching settees arranged facing each other before the cold fireplace while the ambassador rang for tea. She would have welcomed a small blaze, but reminded herself that Russians were used to a much colder climate. The ambassador probably found soggy English days balmy by comparison.

A silent servant appeared almost instantly, bearing a tray of pumpernickel and pickled cucumber sandwiches along with a bone china tea service. Even though the ambassador claimed not to be expecting company, his staff had obviously been ready. Kharitonov poured shots of the clear liquid for himself and Trevelyn.

The size of the drinking glasses was reassuring to Artemisia, but the sly look in the ambassador’s eye was not.

“
Na Zdorovie
!” Vasiliy Kharitonov clinked his glass against the lip of Trevelyn’s. “To health,” he translated for them.

“
Vasha Zdorovie
!” Trevelyn countered. “
Your
health.”
 

“You speak Ruske,” the ambassador said with a raised brow. “Your Grace, where you find such learned models. Most servants we must bring if wish to have conversation in tongue of Mother Russia.”

Trevelyn winked at her and shrugged. “My father might have been a plain Doverspike from Wiltshire, but my mother’s mother was from Odessa.”

Artemisia smiled weakly at this. It only served to remind her that the man she’d taken to her bed was an accomplished liar. Thank goodness, she had sense enough not to take him to her heart.

Didn’t she? Her chest constricted strangely.

“
Nu.
” The ambassador inhaled deeply. Then he knocked back the contents of his glass in one swig. He nodded to Trevelyn to follow suit as he cleared his throat with a loud “harrumph” and sent a pumpernickel and pickle chaser into his belly.

“No sipping. Sipping is for tea,” the ambassador admonished. “Vodka is drink for man. Is meant to be drunk like one,
da
.”

Trevelyn gamely tipped his glass and downed his entire portion in one long swallow. His chest convulsed with a suppressed cough and his eyes watered, but he managed not to disgrace the whole of English manhood with his performance. The ambassador seemed pleased and was quick to refill Trev’s jigger to the rim.

“Your mother’s mother from Odessa would be proud. Again,
da
?” Kharitonov gestured for Trev to toss back another round.

He did so and, after only a few sputters, stood there grinning from ear to ear. To Artemisia’s horror, he held out his glass for more.

Artemisia rose and walked toward the nearest horse statuette, displayed on the butterfly grand piano in the corner. Someone had to remember why they were there. It would do Mr. Shipwash no good if Trev became thoroughly foxed before they located the Beddington statue and devised a way to retrieve it.

“This is an interesting piece,” she said. The carving was done in aged ivory, mellow with time. “It has an Asiatic quality about it. Fluid lines and sparse ornamentation. Where did you acquire it, Your Excellency?”

“Island of Japans.” Distracted from his role as barkeep, the ambassador waddled over to join her in perusing his collection. He showed her statues of horses from Persia and Egypt, the Ukraine and Prussia, from distant Brazil and the Americas. The works were carved in jade and exotic woods. Some were ceramic, some in marble or granite, and one slightly tarnished equine was of beaten silver.

“Where are the statues you made, Your Grace?” Trevelyn finally asked when Artemisia stopped him from reaching for a rare primitive from the South Seas with a quick shake of her head. “I’ve heard a good deal about the one Her Majesty used to own, but I’ve never seen it.”

Artemisia hadn’t found either Mr. Beddington or Miss Bogglesworth among the ambassador’s diverse collection. She fretted that he’d already discovered the hollow base and the key.

“In bedchamber,” Kharitonov said. “I keep my favorites close,
da
? Last thing at night and first thing in morning, they bring smile.”

The ambassador refilled Trevelyn’s empty glass and helped himself to another round.

“I’d admire the chance to view Her Grace’s work,” Trev said before he manfully dispatched his liquor.

“Of course,” the ambassador said. “You wait and I bring?”

The big man waddled out and disappeared up the staircase. Trevelyn followed him to the doorway and leaned into the hall far enough to mark which level and which way Kharitonov turned to reach his chamber. Trevelyn came back toward Artemisia, swaying a bit on his feet.

“How many shots of that vile drink have you had?” Artemisia hissed. “If you’re wobbling on your pins, how do you expect to help me retrieve Mr. Beddington?”

Trevelyn ignored her and made his way to the large fern in one corner. He spat out the vodka into the ceramic planter. “Two less than His Excellency has had, thank you very much. When you distracted him with the Japanese statue, I watered this poor plant then, too.”

“Oh,” she said weakly. She’d built up a full head of steam over his supposed foolishness. Now it was her turn to feel foolish.

“I’m hoping the vodka will help the ambassador sleep soundly this night,” he said. “Especially if he keeps Beddington in his chamber.”

She nodded grudgingly. “But it will not benefit us for you to follow suit. If you keep accepting drinks, you’ll be no use at all. You won’t be able to kill the plant every time.”

“No, but with your help diverting the ambassador’s attention, I’ll do my best.” One corner of his mouth turned up in a wry smile. “Don’t worry. I also inherited a good head for vodka from my grandmother.”

“You really do have a grandmother from Odessa?”

“Of course.” He cocked his head at her. “Why?”

“I just thought it was another lie.” Artemisia felt prickly all over, as if she was wearing scratchy wool. She didn’t know what to attribute it to. “Prevarication is habitual with some. You do it quite well, you know.”

He crooked a brow at her. “I would think you’d be the last person to throw stones. What was your performance as Mr. Beddington if not a colossal lie?”

“This is not the place to discuss that Mr. Beddington,” she reminded him. “But since you ask, it was a matter of necessity. There was no other way for me to conduct business.”

He shook his head. “No, Larla. Just like me, you enjoy the game. You may have tried to convince yourself your motives were pure, but you liked the subterfuge as much as running the family business. Maybe more.”

Trevelyn moved close enough that she could feel the heat of his body. She half expected him to take her in his arms, but he didn’t. That would have been too easy. Instead he just looked down at her, his dark gaze searching.

She swallowed hard. Trev had seen her stripped bare, had taken his time to gaze on every inch of her form. Now he was doing the same with her soul, pulling back layers of self-protecting falsehoods and exposing the truth.

“We’re the same, you and me,” he finally said. “Your assistant is in danger and you’re upset with yourself because part of you is enjoying this.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Is it?” He placed his fingertips on her throat. “Your heart is hammering like a woodpecker and your cheeks are flushed crimson. Very becoming, I might add.”

“Planning a burglary is more than enough cause for palpitations,” she protested. “You needn’t insult me over them.”

“I mean no insult.” He stroked her cheek with his knuckles. “It’s no sin to enjoy the Game, Larla. The tingle of anticipation, the spice of danger—it lets us know we’re alive. People like us need adventure like a fish needs water. We couldn’t settle for ordinary if our hope of heaven depended upon it.”

Artemisia was saved from a reply by the ambassador’s heavy tread on the stairs. Trev brushed his lips on her forehead.

“I plan to drink our Russian friend under his mahogany table. Remember to divert his attention for me.” He moved to stand by the fern on the other side of the room. “I’ll need your help if I’m to ‘wodka’ the plant.”

An hour later, Trevelyn had to be carried to the waiting hansom by three of Kharitonov’s servants.

“Your Mr. Doverspike, he is good drinker for Englishman,” Vasiliy Kharitonov said with a slur in his voice. “But vodka lays out better men than he,
da
.”

The ambassador himself was unsteady on his feet when Artemisia left him, but that hoped-for outcome gave her no satisfaction. Not with Trevelyn nearly unconscious. She thanked Kharitonov’s men, tucked her skirts in around her and rapped sharply on the roof of the cab to signal her readiness to depart.

She barely contained her readiness to throttle Trevelyn. His plan had backfired brilliantly. Now he was slumped beside her on the seat, head lolling back, his drunken face covered by his bowler. He was snoring softly. If it would do any good, she’d slap him silly.

“Now what do we do?” she asked the slouched form.
   

Then the hansom took a sharp turn around a corner. “I don’t know about you,” a muffled voice came from beneath the bowler. “But I intend to have a bit of a late supper and get some rest. It promises to be a long night.”

To her surprise, Trevelyn sat up straight and winked at her. “Well, that was harder than I expected, but it seemed to work. The esteemed ambassador will be seeking his pillow early and settle deeply into the arms of Morpheus, just as we planned.”

The urge to slap him increased exponentially. “Then you’re not—”

“Foxed out of my mind? No. Oh, I’ve a buzzing in my ears and no sensation at all in my lips, but I’ll do, Larla.” His eyes glittered at her with more alcoholic haze than he’d admit. “We’re a good team, you and me. Every time I knocked back my glass, you pulled Kharitonov away with your interest in yet another of his little horses. I greatly fear that fern is done for.” He chucked her chin. “And you, madam, are a natural at this.”

“If being scared and flustered while plotting a burglary is natural.” Drat the man, he actually seemed to be enjoying himself. “Do you think the ambassador will take the Beddington statue back to his room or leave it on the piano?”

“I won’t know until I break back in tonight,” he said cheerfully.

“You mean when
we
break back in,” she corrected.

All cheer drained from his features. “When I said we were a good team, I only meant you were helpful with the ambassador. I don’t intend to involve you in the actual theft of Mr. Beddington. It’s too dangerous.”

“But not too dangerous for you?”

“Larla, I’ve been trained for this type of activity. You haven’t.”

“Her Majesty’s Intelligence officers stoop to burglary often then?

“Oftener than you might think,” he admitted. His stern expression made her realize that even more grievous acts might be required of Trevelyn in the Queen’s service. For a moment, she wondered if he’d been forced to kill to protect the Crown’s interests.

She decided not to ask.

“Still, you need me with you,” she insisted, “if for no other reason than to help you find the right statue.”

“I got a pretty good look at it.”

“Really? Describe it for me.” The rhythm of the cab wheels over the cobbled streets jostled her closer to him with every bounce.

“It’s a Shetland pony, rearing on his hind legs, its fat little belly bulging,” he said. “A ridiculous pose for the breed, but cleverly done. I can see why it caught the Crown’s attention.”

“Do you realize that description fits either Mr. Beddington or Miss Bogglesworth?” She tried to ignore the solid plane of his thigh against hers. “The statues are very similar, as like as two peas. You won’t be able to tell which you have in your hand. But I will.”

“I’ll burgle them both,” he said.

“And burden yourself unnecessarily at a time when you may need a free hand,” she argued. “The statues themselves aren’t too heavy, but the new bases are.”

“Then I’ll put them both into a sack so as to have a free hand,” he countered.

Artemisia gasped in indignation and edged away from him, pressing herself against the side of the compartment. “And risk damaging them?”

“My apology. I thought we were chiefly interested in the saving of Mr. Shipwash, not the preservation of clay horses,” Trevelyn said darkly. “Besides, you sculpted them. Can’t you make them again?”

She shook her head. “The twelve-year-old who made those statues for the sheer joy of it is gone. Once my work started winning competitions, the expectations began to press down on me. I’ve never been as free in my creations as I was when I had no artistic reputation to live up to.”

With that flash of insight, she realized why she’d been so mercilessly particular with her art, so obsessed with perfection. It was draining all the joy from not only her work, but her life as well. And only she could free herself from the crushing weight of the pursuit of the perfect.