Splendor (10 page)

Carolyn loitered on the sidewalk in front of the Sheffield residence as couples passed her, going up the stone steps to the open front doors of the house. The stone mansion was entirely lit up from within, and reminded Carolyn of an All Hallows' Eve jack-o'-lantern. Her blood was racing. And then raucous male laughter and conversation made her turn her head.

A group of five young men in tailcoats and satin knee breeches were climbing out of an open carriage. They were clearly guests, and far more than boisterous and noisy—

Carolyn thought that they were already drunk. She crossed her fingers. This was her chance. And then Sverayov's huge black coach cruised to a halt beside that of the young men.

It was unmistakable, not just because of the red wolf snarling from the side door, but because it was escorted by a dozen mounted Cossacks. Her heart seemed to be beating from the oddest location of her throat.

The rowdy men had congregated on the street, not yards from her. It sounded like two of them were arguing about a horse race. A third said, "Here comes Sverayov."

The redhead jabbed his friend in the ribs. "Did you see his wife the other night? My God. I would give my right hand to have a woman like that just for an evening."

Carolyn was much dismayed by this last comment. She continued to observe the Russian's coach as a hveried footman opened the door. Was the princess a raving beauty? She would have to do a bit more research, she decided somewhat grimly. But now that she had overheard the brief dialogue, she thought it unlikely that a man like Sverayov would wed anyone other than some exotic treasure he could show off to friends and peers.

Carolyn tensed. Two men swiftly alighted, one behind the other. Carolyn hardly saw the dark-haired one; she only had eyes for Sverayov.

Once again he was wearing his green and gray uniform with its gold epaulets and numerous medals. He was bareheaded, and the street lamps highlighted his thick golden hair and slashing cheekbones. Two women were passing Carolyn with their escorts and they faltered, craning their necks to look at him. One began fanning herself theatrically.

The Russian moved quickly by the group of loitering men. He ignored the women. And briefly, his gaze swept over Carolyn.

Carolyn could not even duck her head, and their gazes locked.

He seemed startled. Her mouth dry enough to grow cotton, Carolyn thought, he knows it's me.

But then his gaze continued on past her, his expression so filled with ennui and disdain that, as he strode up the stone steps, moving away from her, she wondered if she had mistaken his reaction. He did not cast a single glance back.

Her heart trying to defy all physical limitation, Carolyn stepped behind the young men as they bounded up the walk. One of them was asking what everyone else had thought of "The Royal Sham." Carolyn could not forget about Sverayov, but all of her attention went to the conversation taking place around her.

"A good article," the blond fellow with whiskers said. "Did you hear she lost her child that night? An omen, perhaps?"

"I beard Sverayov swore murder when he read it. If I were Copperville, I'd be in Paris right now."

"Taking potshots at Napoleon?" Someone chuckled.

Carolyn kept her head down, trailing behind the red-haired man. Copperville's columns were usually a subject of gossip. Part of her felt sorry for Sverayov, but on the other hand, his behavior had been reprehensible and she reminded herself of that. As they stepped into the foyer, it occurred to her that if Sverayov had seen through her disguise, or recognized her as the intruder from the other morning when he visited the bookshop, he would have confronted her. Wouldn't he?

Servants took their canes, walking sticks, and any hats. No one blinked at her much less pointed an accusing finger.

Quite breathless now, but filled with growing exhilaration, Carolyn ignored a member of the group of young men who was giving her an odd glance. She quickly stepped past them and down the short flight of steps into the ballroom.

She had made it.

Carolyn did not pause. She quickly disappeared into the elegant, animated crowd. No one would unmask her now.

An hour or so had passed. Carolyn was impatient. She had wandered around, admired the dozens of tables set up in the gardens for dining en pie in air, had studied the guests, eavesdropping whenever she could, wishing she had her notebook so she could make observations and record her thoughts, but thus far, she had not found any spectacular piece of gossip or news to write about in her column. More importantly, she had not found Sverayov.

Where was he?

Carolyn sighed, filching a piece of raisin-studded bread from the buffet in the dining room. She stood staring out at the crowd of guests. Had she not been there for a specific purpose, she would be bored by such an affair. If she had been bom a noblewoman, she would not bother to attend, either. She thought about her mother, who had turned her back on such a life. Margaret had always told Carolyn, before her death, that everyone had an obligation to help those less fortunate than themselves. Although they had been as poor then as she and her father were now, Margaret had always had a few coins to press into a beggar's hand. She had spent one afternoon a week tending the ill at St John's. Why did these nobles enjoy such nonsense? Why did they not devote themselves to good works and more interesting, important matters? At least the men congregated in clusters to discuss the war on the Continent and domestic politics. Carolyn had discovered that the ladies seemed only interested in discussing themselves, their clothes and jewels, and the men.

Sverayov had been a frequent topic of conversation amongst the female guests.

They adored him. Carolyn had heard enough graphic remarks to realize that many ladies present had set their sights on him—hoping to seduce him into a heated Haison. She could not help feeling quite disgusted. And Lady Carradine was present, too, looking stunning in a low-cut gown that showed off every possible inch of her bovinelike breasts. Nor did she appear to be wearing anything underneath it, and it molded her figure indecently. This, then, was his type

of woman—and Carolyn was not at all suq^rised.

Carolyn turned and stole a pastry from the buffet, ignoring the disapproving look from a waiter who caught her in the act. It was too early for supper and she was well aware of it. She ate the fruit tart in three bites and licked her fingers. It was time to take action. She had been present at the soiree for at least an hour and had seen neither hide nor hair of Sverayov. She suspected he had taken himself off with a peer or two for private conversation. What if he had used this opportunity to closet himself with the very difficult Liverpool? How she wished she could be a fly on that wall. She studied the crowd in the ballroom and was certain he was not present. Where was he?

Vastly impatient, Carolyn left the ballroom. A group of men were playing billiards, others played whist in the game room down the hall. Across the corridor was a pair of solidly closed oak doors. She smiled at them.

The library? Carolyn thought so. It was undoubtedly the perfect place for a private conversation. Yet she could hardly press her ear to the wood. Or could she?

Carolyn darted a quick glance around, saw that no one was paying her any mind in the game room, and that the corridor was, momentarily, empty. She darted forward and leaned against the door, straining to hear. Silence greeted her efforts.

She was not prepared to give up. She retraced her steps, crossed the very crowded ballroom where the dancing had begun, and stepped onto the terrace outside. Constructed of flagstone, it ran along the length of the house. Carolyn traversed it, circling two water fountains, not even pretending to be taking air. She ignored an embracing couple. The gentleman gave her a dirty look before bending his lover over backward in his arms.

Carolyn's pace quickened. She couldn't help wondering if the gentleman would make love to the lady right there, on the terrace. Not that it was her affair. She had never understood the passionate interest both sexes had in each other. A male friend had kissed her once when she was

fourteen. His lips had been wet and distinctly unpleasant.

Once near the library, her thoughts veered to the task at hand and she raced up to a window and tried to peer inside. She was instantly disappointed. The room was shrouded in blackness. No one was inside.

She scowled, shoving her hands in the pockets of her velvet coat, staring into the dark room. Where was he?

"I know you cannot be a burglar," a low male voice said. ''Even a burglar would have more sense."

Carolyn would recognize that rough, warm voice with its faint Slavic accent anywhere and she froze in disbelief. And then she whirled.

Sverayov stood not far from her in the shadows cast by high blossoming shrubs. Behind him a crescent moon hung in the blue-black sky. His gaze steady on her face, he sipped coolly from a flute of champagne, observing her as if she were a specimen he wished to dissect.

Had he been following her? Carolyn fought to find her composure. Surely that was not the case! "I beg your pardon?"

"Perhaps it is the books that interest you?" he said, sauntering forward. He did not inflect on the word "books." His stride was long and rolling.

Did he know? Or was his comment a mere coincidence, as all libraries were filled with books? Carolyn managed to reply, her tone sounding like a croak in her own ears. "Books? Acmally, there is this ... er ... I did wish to go inside, but not of course to burglarize ..." She could not think clearly.

"If you are trying to gain entry into the library," he remarked, "one usually uses the doors."

She could not see his eyes. His face remained mostly in shadow. She suspected that he was mocking her, but could not be sure. "I, er, yes. I did wish to go inside."

He stared. He was close enough now for her to see the amused light in his golden eyes—or was it predatory? Carolyn stared back, trying, frantically, to find an excuse for hovering under the window outside the library. Just as fran-

tically, she was trying to determine if he had seen through her disguise. Her efforts were abruptly interrupted. The woman at the other end of the terrace cried out, the sound blatantly sexual.

Carolyn whirled, eyes wide, mouth open. Heat flooded her face.

But now the terrace was absolutely silent. Carolyn saw no sign of the couple. Wherever they were, probably in the maze beyond the terrace, they were out of sight.

Carolyn became aware that Sverayov was staring at her. His eyes were piercing. Her heart felt as if it were trying to pump its way out of her breast. She opened her mouth to speak, but no sound came out.

Slowly, he smiled at her. "It appears that someone is thoroughly enjoying herself."

She inhaled. This man was neither embarrassed nor shocked. She had to say something to break the tension stabbing knifelike between them. She could not think of a single thing. He said, "But then, romance is so very enjoyable for all parties involved, would you not agree?"

She must agree. Thank God it was dark, so he could not see how scarlet she was. ' 'Of course. I ... er ... am a firm believer in romance. Have you read Sense and SensibilityT ' And the moment she said those words, she wanted to kick herself. She was supposed to be a he, and Sverayov would guess who she was if she did not rectify the situation immediately.

"I'm afraid I have not even heard of the work." Laughter was evident in his tone.

"My sister adores the novel," Carolyn said quickly.

His gaze was unwavering even as he sipped from the flute. "Romance has excited the imagination since Adam discovered Eve."

Carolyn stopped breathing. "Yes," she finally said. "It has."

"Shall we go inside? And leave Adam and Eve to their earthly pleasures?'' He inclined his head toward the unseen couple, just as a man's rough groan could be heard.

"Inside, yes, that is a very good idea." Carolyn turned abruptly and almost walked into the window.

He laughed softly behind her. His hand closed on her shoulder, making Carolyn stiffen. "We are not burglars, remember? The doors are to your left."

Carolyn allowed him to turn her in the correct direction. He removed his hand, but her shoulder burned, and worse, her body was coiled up tightly with tension. She trembled. And her mind would not function as it usually did, damnation.

He moved ahead of her and swung open a door, then stood back, allowing her to precede him in. "Please," he said.

Carolyn stepped inside the unlit library, which was even blacker than the night outside. He entered the room, and she heard the door close. Her mind froze now that they were alone in the dark, silent room. It was far too intimate. Carolyn did not know what to expect. Her tension, impossibly, increased. And it flashed through her mind that if he knew she was Carolyn, he would make an improper advance to her.

He moved behind her. So softly, so stealthily, that she could hardly detect a single footstep. His arm—or thigh— brushed her hips. He smelled of rich and exotic scents, a blend of leather, tobacco, and heavy, musky spices from the East.

"I am surprised that the couple outside did not choose this room for their little tryst," he said huskily.

A tryst. Carolyn suddenly wished she were not in disguise. Or that he would confront her and accuse her of being Carolyn. She did,not move. She did not have the courage.

"I happen to be a friend of Sheffield's," he said, as Carolyn's eyes began to adjust to the darkness. "Ah, here we go."

She stared through the darkness and saw him leaning over an immaculate desk, lighting the wick of a small lamp. He replaced the glass dome. The light illuminated only a

small area around the desk, which he dominated. It played over his arresting features—those startling cheekbones and straight, flaring nose. He straightened and smiled at her, catching her staring. Then he leaned one hip oh-so-casually on the desk. "So, my friend, if you are not a burglar, why do you not tell me what you were doing a few moments ago?"

She leapt at the explanation he himself had provided. "I was, er ... awaiting a friend."

He cocked his head. "Male ... or female?"

Was he toying with her? Or was she misinterpreting his every word because of her guilt? But by now he must believe her to be a young man, or surely he would have exposed her as a fraud. "A lady friend," Carolyn answered.

"Ah "yes, how foolish of me. You were anticipating a tryst." His golden eyes seemed to spark with amusement.

Carolyn blinked up at him. She was so warm now that her spectacles were beginning to fog up. But she did not dare remove them. "I am very disappointed," she said.

He smiled and sipped the champagne, his gaze holding hers over the rim of the flute. "You seem young—too young to have a lover," he said.

Carolyn swallowed. "I am eighteen." Here, at least, was the truth.

"You look fourteen," he said. "No insult intended. Well, eighteen is certainly old enough to be playing in haystacks with buxom dairymaids." His teeth flashed. "You have rolled in the hay?"

Carolyn nodded. "Of course."

"Is she winsome?"

"Very," Carolyn said, her chest heaving. She could not imagine where he was leading, but had little doubt that he had a goal in mind.

"Let me guess. She is blond and fair with blue eyes. No—with green eyes."

Tension pervaded every fiber of her being. Carolyn was so tense she wondered if she could mm her head to either

side should she wish to do so. "She is blond—and amber-eyed."

He absorbed that. "She appears to have misled you," he finally said.

"I think so," Carolyn managed, ordering herself to unscramble her wits immediately. He was winning every round. But it was not her fault. It was because he had taken her by surprise, because the couple outside was behaving so shamelessly, and because his gaze was so heavy and sensual, as if he wished to behave as shamelessly—now. But surely she was imagining the heal coursing below his aristocratic exterior. He thought her to be a young man. Sverayov was infamous for his numerous liaisons with beautiful women.

He stood, setting the empty flute aside. "I prefer something stronger." He gave her a long look, one impossible to comprehend, and walked over to the sideboard. Carolyn watched him open a bottle of amber-colored liquor, relieved at the brief respite he was providing. She stiffened when he poured two large glasses.

"Unfortunately, Sheffield has little appreciation for good Russian vodka." He returned to the desk, handing her a glass. "Cheerio, as they say in your country."

"Cheerio," Carolyn mumbled, watching him take a draught. Having little choice in the matter, she followed suit—and instantly began coughing..

He was immediately at her side, taking the glass from her hand and pounding her back until she had ceased choking. When she was breathing normally again, a tear rolling down her cheeks, she looked up. into his intent regard. It was then she realized that his palm remained splayed on her back, close to her nape, beneath her short curls. Heat unfurled all over again inside of Carolyn, but this time with shocking intensity.

And he gave her a slicing look. Penetrating, promising, and ver>', very male.

Carolyn's heart lurched.

He dropped his hand and moved slightly away, and when

he faced her again to return her glass to her, his expression was bland. But Carolyn remained breathless and disoriented. Had he really looked at her in such a feral, sensual manner? And what did such a look mean? Did he like boys as well as women? He did believe her to be a boy—didn't he? And if he didn't, why did he not unmask her? Carolyn had the insane urge to unmask herself.

"Eighteen? When you drink, my friend, sip with caution," he advised.

Carolyn nodded and took a careful sip. The whisky burned a hole as it trickled down her throat and settled in her abdomen.

"Very good," he said. He sat back on the edge of the desk.

The heat of the whisky seemed to have moved immediately to her brain. She glanced again at his hard thighs and the bulge that was suggested by his trousers just above them. The tension afflicting Carolyn had changed. Her body was becoming softer now, oddly warm and pleasant. But something else was burning inside of her. She took another sip to force away the image which suddenly came to her— of the couple she had witnessed so passionately entwined outside. The stranger had become Sverayov. "I don't know what happened. I must have swallowed the wrong way."

"Of course." His warm gaze slid over her face. "It is a common affliction—amongst those your age with your experience."

"Are you making fun of me?" Carolyn asked baldly.

"Do I give that impression?"

She realized that half of her drink was gone. "Yes, you do. I think you mock most people. Why is that, I wonder?"

He grinned. ' T would drink a bit slower if I were you. What did you say your name was?"

She almost said "Carolyn." It was on the tip of her tongue, but in the nick of time she remembered where she was and who she was supposed to be. She smiled at him. "I am Charles Brighton."

"Brighton? Hmm, no relation to Edmond Brighton, the

sly old fox who outmaneuvered Pitt in the far east trading scheme some years ago?"

Carolyn blinked. Why could she not recall that scheme? "He is my . . . er . . . great-uncle."

"A useful connection," Sverayov said. "Well, you must be pleased that your great-uncle is here."

Carolyn clutched her glass. Her heart seemed to have stopped. "My great-uncle is not well and he has been in the country these past few months." Which was why she thought to choose him as her relative.

Sverayov smiled slowly at her. "I have met the man on several occasions and he is here, my friend. Apparently his health has improved since your last communication. Or are you estranged?"

Carolyn blinked. How her mind came to her rescue, she did not know. "He has disapproved of me for several years. Actually, we have not seen one another or spoken in some time." She smiled brightly, "Not since I was fifteen, actually. I doubt he will recognize me."

"I am sure he will not."

Carolyn wondered if she had misheard, but Sverayov was calmly sipping his whisky. "And you, my lord? You have failed to introduce yourself."

"Have I? But I thought you already knew who I am." His eyes gleamed.

"I have not the foggiest idea," Carolyn said a bit sharply.

He stood and bowed. "Prince Nicholas Ivanovitch Sverayov, at your service, my young friend." His gaze skewered hers.

"Oh, yes. You are the Russian, the tsar's special envoy," Carolyn said, sipping the whisky. She was truly beginning to enjoy herself. "So tell me. Your Excellency. Have you made any progress with Castlereagh?"

He smiled, like a wolf. "Every exchange constitutes pH-ogress, don't you think?"

"I think," she said, somewhat loudly, "that we do not trust your tsar to be a staunch ally in the present circum-

stances. I think that the moment our friendship ceases to be a dire necessity, he will reforge an alliance with Bonaparte." She smiled sweetly at Sverayov. "I also think that you need us far more than we need you." She did feel somewhat smug.

He stared. ' 'Well, you think as most of your countrymen do." Now he smiled back at her. "And what if I tell you that the tsar has learned from his mistakes and is absolutely opposed to the Napoleonic Empire?"

"I would reply that the proof is in the pudding, sir," Carolyn said tartly, enjoying herself.

He smiled. "A true skeptic when it comes to my countryman. Yes, proof is always in the pudding. What a quaint expression. Perhaps one needs to analyze the pudding's ingredients?" He was calm, and, perhaps, amused.

"The first ingredient is Tilsit," C^olyn rejoined evenly, sipping her whisky.

"Yes, you Brits do have a terribly long memory. But why exclude so many other ingredients? Erylau, Friedland, Jena? Even Salamanca, if you will?"

"I do agree that we have a common cause in opposing Napoleon," Carolyn said. "But once again it is a matter of trust. Should Napoleon surrender to your tsar on the issue of trade and tariffs, I do wonder if Alexander would not rush to scribble his signature on a treaty with himy She smiled. _

His eyes widened briefly, then narrowed as he recovered from his surprise. "Well, well," he said softly, "you are an astute observer of international politics."

It was praise. He was complimenting her intelligence, and there was no mistake about it. Carolyn flushed with pleasure.

"Tell me why we should aid you in a war. Excellency," Carolyn said.

His gaze held hers, then moved slowly over her face. "What is not obvious is that, when the war is over and Napoleon is defeated, there will be much work to be done on the Continent. And it will be done more easily if we

have built some trust between us, and have shared some of the pain as well as the glory. Otherwise the postwar years will be disastrous—nations reduced to petty bickering over the spoils like willful children fighting over spilled candies."

Carolyn thought about what he had said. "We do not \ want to fight your war," Carolyn said slowly. "We have troubles enough on the Peninsula. Russia is huge, too huge a canvas for us to become embroiled there, and should Napoleon adjust your frontiers, we can survive the consequent economic and political dislocations."

He eyed her, brows arched. But his gaze was hard and brilliant. "There will not be any adjustments to my country's frontiers. Alexander will never make a peace with Napoleon while a single enemy soldier remains upon our soil."

Carolyn bit her tongue. She hoped he was right, and she could see, obviously, how patriotic he was. She would not mention Vilna being abandoned in the face of an invading army—with the tsar leading the retreat. "Of course, it would be preferable if he did not adjust your frontiers or those of any other country's." She sighed. "When will this war end? We have already lost so many men. And so many boys."

' 'This war will end when La Grande Armee is defeated, and not a moment sooner. And that is the crucial, overriding goal, which we share." His gaze softened. "Have you lost friends and relatives ... Charles?"

She looked up and spoke truthfully. "I have been lucky. No. I have not. But I have witnessed firsthand the pain and suffering the war has caused here in Britain. There are so many hungry children, so many homeless families." She brooded. And then she saw something in his eyes. A shadow that was not amusement or mockery. "Have you?"

"I have lost many friends and many relatives," he said, staring abruptly down into his drink. He quaffed it. "Well." He smiled at her, reached out and clasped her shoulder. "Shall we return to the party? Perhaps to look

for your lady friend? I would be most curious to meet the lady in question. Perhaps I can even help arrange a tete-a-tete."

Carolyn tried to recover her wits; he had changed the subject so quickly. But her mind seemed a little blurry. Slow and blurry.

He put his arm around her, hugging her to his side. "I hope you are not cup shot, my little friend," he said softly, maneuvering her across the room. "Not when the night is so young."

"I am hardly foxed." Carolyn's chest was tight. His body was hard and hot against hers. As they walked, his thigh rubbed her hip repeatedly. Her loins throbbed in a way she was entirely unfamiliar with.

He smiled down at her, not letting her go. "I would be very disappointed," he said. "For I thought that you might wish to join me later for some further entertainment." His eyes gleamed.

Carolyn forced herself to think. She could hardly believe her ears. Their encounter was not yet over, and she could not resist him—-did not even want to. "I would love to join you later," she heard herself say quite breathlessly.

"Good. Let us plan to depart at midnight." He paused before the closed library doors. His arm was still around her and Carolyn remained glued to his side.

She stared up at him. His heat, his scent, his potent male sensuality, enveloped her, rendering further thought impossible. His smile had faded. His gaze was brilliant and intense. For one moment, Carolyn sensed that he was going to kiss her. It was a moment of suspense and anticipation that stretched on endlessly. It was a moment of insane yearning.

But he dropped his arm and opened the door. The sounds of the party crashed over them with jarring suddenness— laughter and conversation, both male and female, the rich sounds of the orchestra. The corridor, however, was strikingly empty.

"I was thinking," he said, "that we shall amuse ourselves in a brothel. What do you think, Charles?"

Carolyn met his enigmatic gaze and was instantly rendered speechless.

^ Eight ^

CAROLYN allowed herself to be guided by Sverayov down the corridor and onto the threshold of the ballroom. His words rang in her ears. Surely he had not meant what he said? She cast a stunned glance at his face.

He smiled at her. '*You shall forget your lost lady love in no time."

Her pulse raced. He had not been jesting with her.

"Niki! I have been looking everywhere for you," a male voice drawled.

Carolyn recovered some of her composure just in time to see a striking dark-haired man who bore a stern resemblance to Sverayov detaching himself from a lush redhead and striding over to them. So this was the brother, she thought. And then she wondered if she dared continue her charade—and join Sverayov in a brothel. Immediately, images she had never before entertained flooded her mind.