One Night of Sin (40 page)

Her eyes widened. “Really?”

Alec scratched his cheek as his friends and he exchanged guilty glances.

“Yes, but we could go up there and if we find any fellows spying through telescopes, we could shove them down their throats,” Drax suggested in growing conviction.

“Or toss them over the cliff,” Rushford cheerfully agreed.

“I see what you’re getting at and it all
sounds
easy enough,” Alec conceded, “but if we tell Parthenia the truth about Kurkov, what if she slips and lets him realize that she’s on to him? Then she could be in real danger—and so could Becky.”

“I needn’t tell her everything,” Becky said in a reasonable tone. “Just enough to put her on her guard.”

“Won’t she recognize you?”

“I doubt it. If we were in Buckley-on-the-Heath, then she would probably remember me, but out of that setting, she won’t be able to place me.”

“Can she be trusted, Drax?” Alec asked, turning soberly to the earl. “Can Parthenia keep her mouth shut if we warn her to keep Kurkov at arm’s length for the time being?”

“Absolutely. I will vouch for her. Parthenia is not some vapid ninny. She’s an intelligent young woman. And besides,” he added wryly, “if she can keep me guessing about her true feelings when we’ve known each other for years, then I trust she can jolly well hide her emotions from
him.
”

“I agree.” Becky stood with firm confidence. “It’s the best solution. Not only can we warn Lady Parthenia to keep a distance from my cousin, but if we get her on our side, we can also go through her to make sure her father reads my report at the exact moment when it’s most advantageous for us that he do so. Westland will listen to Parthenia before he’ll listen to any of us. But I won’t tell her enough to make her terrified of Mikhail. He must perceive no change in her outward demeanor or he will become suspicious.”

“This could work,” Rush murmured, nodding.

“I still don’t like it,” Alec grumbled.

Becky looked at him frankly. “I can do this.”

Pride in her washed through his heart in a fierce but troubled wave. He searched her eyes uneasily. “You don’t have to put yourself on the line.”

“You have,” she countered, holding his gaze for a moment longer before she turned away, pacing in thought. “It’s the simplest solution. I’ll make an extra copy of my report and arrange for Parthenia to get it. If the servants are inspecting the mail, as you suspect, then we can send my papers disguised as something else—something innocuous. A delivery from the laundress or the modiste shop. She’s got to know ahead of time to look for it, though, so it doesn’t end up in the wrong hands. This way, Parthenia can intercept it from whatever spy Mikhail might have put in her household, and make sure it gets to her father.”

“Well, don’t tell her that one of her servants might be against her,” Drax declared. “The Westlands won’t tolerate that sort of thing for a second. If I know them, they’ll turn the household upside-down at once to root out the evildoer—they may even summon the constable—and then Kurkov will know something’s afoot.”

“Agreed,” Alec said, nodding as he rested his hands on his waist. “We can’t make any sudden moves with that blackguard. At least not until I’ve got the deed to the Hall in my hand and we’re ready for him. We don’t want to set him off prematurely or alert him to what’s coming. A man with that much power, fortune, connections—he’s slippery. We’ve got to get him right where we want him.”

“Well, then,” Rush said. “That’s settled.”

Becky sent him a challenging glance. “Alec?”

Searching her eyes, he relented with a reluctant nod. “Very well. You speak to Parthenia and we’ll keep watch. And if we see any Cossacks—”

“Or men with telescopes,” Fort chimed in.

“We’ll distract ’em,” Drax finished.

“They’d better hope that’s all we do,” Alec murmured, cracking his knuckles.

The bathing machines, colorfully painted, looked like tiny striped houses atop wagon wheels. The only males present on the ladies’ beach were little boys of eight or nine, too young to care if they glimpsed a bit of ankle. Their job was to handle the huge, gentle draft horses used for backing the bathing machines into the water.

A lady desirous of sea bathing for her health and pleasure would climb up into one of these miniature buildings; the bathing machine would then be wheeled down into the water to its axles, saving the passenger inside from the discomfort of crossing the rocky shingle and being buffeted by the waves at the shoreline. When it had reached a depth of two or three feet, the little door would open and the lady would appear again in her long modest swimming costume and bathing cap. Helpless and blinking like a newborn kitten in the sunshine, she would mince her way down the small ladder with the help of the “dippers,” two large peasant matrons in wide-brimmed hats who were stationed in the water like docking posts, set to assist the shrieking Lady of Quality into the chilly, salty waves.

Becky watched the process intently as she crossed the rocky beach to the water’s edge, pebbles crunching under every step. She did not personally intend to use one of the silly contraptions, trusting that her own two legs would serve perfectly well to convey her into the water. Her face was concealed by a deep-brimmed poke bonnet, and for a bathing costume she wore a lightweight green pelisse over a thin, modest morning gown of fawn-colored calico. It was loose-fitting enough to allow easy movement, high-necked and long-sleeved to protect her skin from the sun.

Glancing up at the distant cliff top with a vague scowl, she took off her bonnet and pelisse and threw them on the ground for later. The water would be very cold and she would need the easy, sleeveless coat to put on over her wet clothes once her mission was accomplished. Squinting against the sun, she paused to take off her borrowed half boots of soft kid. Impertinent gulls bickered over a dead crab nearby: Becky wrinkled her nose and looked away.

Water swirled and foamed around her legs, brushing her with slimy bits of seaweed as she waded into the indolent surf, which was busily polishing the stones bright, rolling them up and back ceaselessly over the layer of sand beneath. The breeze played with the long single plait of her hair as she searched the waves for Parthenia Westland, trying not to get caught up in the sheer beauty of the sea. It mesmerized her, the watery realm of her birth; she drew strength from it surrounding her.

Becky gasped a little, reaching freezing-cold water up to her waist, but she noted that the dippers had their hands full today—literally. There were probably fifty swimmers frolicking in the shallows, with five bathing machines continually bringing more. Seeing so many girls her own age laughing and swimming together in the waves, she could not help but feel sad for a moment, thinking of all that she had missed out on, thanks to her grandfather’s unyielding grudge against Mama. It was bad enough to have been denied things like parties and pretty dresses, but she wished she could have at least found a few suitable companions of her own rank.

No point in fretting about it now. She shrugged it off. Her teeth chattered a little as she scanned the crowd of sea bathers again, shading her eyes from the sun. There! Parthenia Westland. She fought an irreverent smile at the elegant lady’s current state of soggy bedragglement.
Good.
Now all she had to do was wait for the right moment.

Becky dove into the water and swam casually in Parthenia’s direction. The sunshine, the movement, and the brisk chill of the sea greatly refreshed her. The initial bite of the cold passed; Becky enjoyed herself, keeping one eye on her quarry.

Earlier, out of earshot of Lord Draxinger, she had asked Alec, the master socialite, how he suggested gaining Parthenia’s ear long enough to make her listen.

“Simple. Charm her.”

“How?”

“I always find it safest to go for their vanity,” he had said dryly. He then helped her to design a simple but convincing cock-and-bull story to help frame the information in a way best suited to gain Parthenia’s cooperation. “I don’t care what Drax says,” Alec had confided in a low tone as they walked ahead of the others to the carriage. “She’s an arrogant creature. Whatever you do, don’t come across as if you think yourself her equal, or she won’t listen to a word you say.”

“Ingratiate myself?” Becky had asked ruefully.

“Just this once,” he answered, giving her a quick, roguish kiss. “If you can stand it.”

Well, if she had to lie a bit for now, she thought, so be it. The whole truth would come out in due time.

She spent a few minutes floating on her back, the skirts of her morning dress spreading out over the low waves that rocked her gently. Arms out by her sides, she gazed up at the puffy white cloud-towers with the sky behind them as blue as Alec’s eyes.

She was still amazed to learn that he had put up his rooms at the Althorpe for her. If he lost in the whist drive, he would be as destitute and homeless as she. What they would do in that case, she did not care to consider. But he seemed different today somehow. Very much in command.

Suddenly, she came to attention and thrust her musing thoughts aside, seeing Parthenia making her way back to one of the bathing machines.
Perfect.
Becky pushed off the bottom and casually swam toward it as well. When the duke’s daughter climbed up the ladder, assisted by the dippers, Becky was right behind her. Once inside the wobbly contraption, she quickly pulled the little door shut and locked it.

“I say!” Parthenia exclaimed, pausing in her task of drying her ear with a towel. “Madam, what are you doing? This is a private bathing machine!”

“Lady Parthenia, I must speak to you on a matter of the greatest urgency.” Becky tugged the string that rang the bell that in turn signaled the boy to lead the horse back to the shoreline.

“Who are you?” she demanded in mingled hauteur and alarm.

“A friend.”

“No friend of mine. I’ve never seen you before in my life. What is the meaning of this intrusion? Explain yourself at once!”

Well, at least she doesn’t recognize me,
Becky thought. “We’ve little time. I come to you with a warning, my lady. I fear you may be in danger.”

“Danger? What on earth . . . ? What kind of danger?”

“The danger of public humiliation—and of possibly making the greatest mistake of your life!” The theatrical hint of melodrama with which she purposely imbued her words won her Parthenia’s complete attention.

Alec, the actor’s son, would have been proud, she thought.

Becky sat down on the bench across from Parthenia as the bathing machine lurched slowly toward the shore. “My lady, I am a navy orphan,” Becky said, keeping to the story the two of them had concocted. “You have benefited me and my poor mother and all my little brothers and sisters in the past with your charitable work through the whist drive.”

“Have I?”

“Oh, yes—and your efforts have made you our benefactress. We pray for you every night around our humble dinner table, all my . . . seven younger brothers and sisters and I, and our poor, sick, old mother.”

“Oh—that’s very sweet,” she conceded, somewhat mollified.

“Naturally, after all the good you’ve done us, I would not see you come to harm for all the world. I should not even be here. It could cost me my living, but my mother said we owed it to you, to warn you of the peril you are in.” Becky feigned a nervous glance around and then lowered her voice. “You see, my lady, I am in domestic service in the household of a very important gentleman in the government.”

“Whig?”

“Tory. A noble lord, associated with the Foreign Office.”

“I see.” She immediately detected the wheels turning in Parthenia’s mind as she tried to guess who the fictional Tory lord might be.

“I overheard my master and some of his associates discussing some very unpleasant matters about—” Becky now dropped her voice to a whisper. “Prince Mikhail Kurkov.”

Parthenia’s right eyebrow arched. “Really.”

“I should never eavesdrop on my employer’s conversations, I’m sure, but while I was, er, dusting in the hall, I heard my employer speaking in his study with certain gentlemen from the Foreign Office, saying they have located some sort of mysterious blot upon Prince Kurkov’s name—back in Russia,” she added hastily. “London Society has not yet learned of it, but they will.”

“What sort of blot?” Parthenia asked skeptically, but she had begun to look worried.

Excellent,
Becky thought. She was taking the bait. Perhaps Parthenia had noticed during their courtship that there was something altogether untrustworthy about Mikhail.

“I do not know, my lady. I did not wish to be impertinent. But it sounded serious, and I must confess I thought of you at once. Forgive me, I mean no presumption. I had seen you and the prince promenading so beautifully on the Steyne, and the scandal sheets have suggested that an alliance between yourselves might soon be announced.”

“You should not be reading scandal sheets, Miss . . . ?”

“Abby, my lady. Just call me Abby.”

“If you are fortunate enough to have learnt to read, Abby, you should seek to elevate yourself by studying worthier reading material.”

“Of course, ma’am, sorry,” Becky mumbled, swallowing her impatience.

Parthenia looked away with a troubled frown. “I wish you could tell me more,” she mumbled, plainly wondering what sort of dirt the Tories might have on her fiancé. She turned to Becky again. “Perhaps it was something that happened during the war? Money troubles?” Then her eyebrows drew together. “Not something regarding another lady, I hope?”

“I do not know for certain, but from the way they were talking, my lady, I—I fear it may be even more serious than that.”

“Really?” she breathed, wide-eyed.

Becky nodded with great sincerity. “After all you’ve done for me and my family, I felt it my duty to warn you, as you can see, that my lady might wish to delay in accepting the prince’s suit until his past misdeeds have come to light.”

Parthenia frowned and shook her head. “Papa says never trust a Tory. Perhaps they are only trying to blacken Mikhail’s name since he has joined the Whigs. They’re jealous!”