Splendor (34 page)

Nicholas flung a glance over his shoulder at him, his strides eating up the carpeted corridor. ' 'What do you think, mon amiV

Jacques finally halted, watching him hurrying down the stairs. "I think that this is long overdue," he muttered to no one in particular.

A Ball and Ancient Crimes Revisited—or an Unusual Family Reunion. At least five hundred of la creme de la creme of the London haut monde chose to attend the ball given by our very esteemed public-serving

Lord D n last night. Surely not a thought was

given to the incongruity of such a festive occasion; no one seemed to be thinking of poor Wellington, up to his Hessians in mud and blood. Not only did the prince regent attend with his usual cronies in tow, and they were quite lively, I might add, but so did most of the members of Liverpool's government, not to mention our favorite foreign prince and an especially slippery ambassador. What schemes were hatched behind closed library doors?

But the best of the evening was to be found in the most odd and fateful encounter. A certain elderly

Dowager Viscountess S d had finally left her

home, M s in the Essex countryside, where she

had spent most of the past two years in utter seclusion (to repent her sins?) in order to attend the grande soiree. O ye ancient gods! For surely that was what la grande dame was thinking when she encountered not the fawning of her diamond-studded friends whom she surrounds herself with, but a long-lost relative, a granddaughter no less, whom she had disowned upon birth for the crime of being fathered by a plebeian, yes—a plebeian and a bookseller! Were swords drawn? Did blood flow? Apparently, as la grande dame is archly conservative, her young relative passionately enamored of Bentham and company, and sharp words were exchanged. Poor Lady

S ! Now the ancient crime is revisited for all the

world to see. Now the evidence of the heinous crime dares to step out in society! Can la grande dame survive the embarrassment? Only this reporter dares to hazard a guess, and his guess is no.

A loud knocking sounded from the front of the store.

making Carolyn start. She had just been finishing the column, and her quill slipped, dragging a jagged line across the bottom margin of the page. Carolyn froze, filled with sudden fear.

She did not know what time it was, but it was several hours past midnight. Perhaps she had misheard? No one could be outside the door to the bookstore at this hour? Her heart hammering, a lump in her throat, she was motionless. The banging began anew.

Oh, God. Carolyn dropped the quill, standing, and instantly doused both lamps. The single burning candle she held aloft. What should she do? Surely an intruder with vile intentions would not knock on the front door. But that thought hardly calmed her, because the hour was too odd. Should she answer the door? Perhaps it was a neighbor, perhaps someone was dying. Or should she sneak upstairs and hide?

"Carolyn!"

She faltered, certain she had heard her name, but the sound had been muffled. Every fiber of her being tensed and alert, she cautiously peeked through the kitchen doorway into the dark, unlit bookstore. She strained to see the front door, but could barely make out its outline. The street outside was pitch-black.

"Chort voz'mi/' a man said—or so she thought.

Carolyn straightened, incredulous. Muffled though the voice had been, it had sounded like Sverayov using a Russian expletive. But that was impossible—was it not? As she stood there, undecided, she saw a match flaring outside. And she glimpsed a large, towering form. It was Sverayov. Incredulous, for an instant she just stood there.

"Carolyn," Sverayov commanded, pounding two more times on the door.

Carolyn came to life. She turned and lit the lamps before going to the door. What did he want? She lifted the bolt and pulled the door wide open. Her intention was not to invite Sverayov in. Definitely not. But he gave her an enigmatic look and casually walked past her and inside.

"Is something wrong?" Carolyn asked, shutting the door and facing him, holding the one taper aloft. Trepidation filled her, but it had little to do with her question. ' 'Is Katya all right?"

The candlelight flickered over his high cheekbones and straight, aristocratic nose. He stared at her. "Katya is fine."

Carolyn realized why he was regarding her so intently. She was in her cotton nightgown and wrapper, her feet bare. She quickly tightened the belt, flushing, wishing it were winter and she were clad in heavier garments. "What are you doing here?"

He smiled faintly. "You left the ball so suddenly." He gazed past her. "You are still up. What are you doing?"

She followed his glance to the lamps burning in the kitchen. "I was working."

*'Copperville?" His eyes gleamed.

"Yes."

He faced her. "I would have thought you to be asleep by now."

She became aware of her heart, beating heavily and erratically. Now it was her turn to stare. "I have a small headache."

"I cannot say that I blame you."

Carolyn thought of all that had occurred that night at the ball, and of the fact that her father was traveling, which meant that they were alone in the bookshop. She was tense. *'I do not understand why you are here—at this hour."

He shoved his hands into his pockets. ' 'Do you want the truth?"

She stiffened. "I am not sure."'

His smile flickered. "I thought you might be here—but I also thought you might still be out and about with young Davison."

"Well, now you know," Carolyn said with a levity she did not feel. She clasped her hands. "It is very late—" she began.

He interrupted. "Why did you come here tonight, Carolyn?" His gaze was direct.

She turned away. "I needed to think.*' She wondered what he would say, how he would react, if he knew just how often she thought about him.

He was silent. She assumed he was accepting her statement. But he said suddenly, "I have not eaten tonight. I am famished."

Carolyn started. "I was going to take a snack myself, but I got carried away with my column and forgot," she said truthfully. Her heart was fluttering.

He smiled. "Perhaps we can share a light supper." His gaze was penetrating.

She knew she flushed. She thought about the icebox in the kitchen. Her mind screamed at her to refuse him, and certainly not to invite him in. But she said, low, "Actually, I could probably fix us some bread and cheese. Would that be enough?"

"Only if you have some wine to go with it," he said.

Their gazes locked.

Her pulse was pounding. Why was she tempting fate? Carolyn started for the kitchen, aware of him following her. In the kitchen she lit the stove in case he wanted tea. Her hands were trembling ever so slightly.

"There." Carolyn turned, only to find herself practically in his embrace. "You may look for the wine in the pantry. Although I doubt it is from Burgundy or Bordeaux."

"I can settle for less," he said, laughter in his eyes. "God forbid we should find smuggled wine here."

"I could not live with myself," she admitted, their eyes holding. Nor could she live with herself if their relationship took a fateful turn.

"You are dismayed," he said softly. "Disturbed."

"You are my employer." Shaken, she reached for the bread box. His hand caught her wrist, stilling hers.

"Perhaps tonight, we are just friends."

She met his intent gaze. "The pantry. There should be wine in the pantry," she said.

"As you wish," he returned evenly. He released her. Carolyn found a loaf of bread while he stepped into the pantry.

"We have half a bottle of port," he said, returning to the kitchen.

Carolyn was placing a wedge of Stilton on a plate. "I think we shall have to replace it."

"I will buy your father an entire case," Sverayov said.

He was a prince, she was a commoner. He was her employer. Carolyn reached up to a shelf for two glasses. Her pulse continued to race. What was she doing? Was she insane? To put them both in such an intimate situation? What good could possibly come of this? She was so acutely aware of him. She was, by God, in love.

Sverayov was opening the port. Carolyn carried the wine glasses over, then two plates and flatware. Sverayov brought the plate of cheese and bread. "I did not know princes set tables—much less ate in kitchens," she remarked, unable to smile.

' 'This prince has eaten snakes, my dear, outside of a field tent in the mud and the rain—in full sight of Turks bent on murder and mayhem." He pulled out her chair for her. "Although I do confess," he said as she sat down, "that I have never actually dined in a kitchen before—much less with a woman in cotton nightclothes."

Carolyn froze. She had somehow forgotten about her nightclothes. "I will change."

"There is no need. You are quite decent, I assure you," he said, taking his own seat. But his eyes were bright. "Until now, I have preferred lace."

Carolyn did not believe for an instant that he had changed his preferences in ladies' nightclothes.

"What is this?" He pulled the sheet of vellum forward which contained her new Copperville column. And as he did so, he exposed a cartoon she had drawn before writing the article. It was a caricature of Sverayov, one impossible to mistake.

Carolyn flushed.

Sverayov stared down at the picture of himself, poised on. top of the steps leading down to the ballroom. He was in his uniform and ceremonial sword, numerous medals

decorating his chest. Not only was his uniform a dead giveaway, she had drawn his face with remarkable accuracy. His expression was at once amused and indifferent, arrogant and bored.

He looked up at Carolyn. "Do I truly wear such an expression?' '

She nodded. "Tonight you did." She added, "At that moment."

^ He glanced back at the cartoon. "Is this for publication?" She had roughly sketched in the crowd below him and one huge chandelier overhead.

"No."

He met her gaze. "Then I am flattered,"

Carolyn did not look away. She did not know what to say. The darkness outside, the intimacy and warmth within the kitchen, her nightclothes, his uniform, it was all adding up to roiling desire. "You are an unusual subject," she finally said.

"Is that all?" he asked very quietly, not smiling.

Carolyn gripped the edge of the table. She knew she must not answer him.

He finally inclined his head and reached for the written colunm. Carolyn had never let anyone read her colunm before it was published. She busied herself with cutting two generous wedges of cheese and serving them. "You may read it if you wish," she offered.

"Thank you."

Carolyn sliced the bread, watching him as he read the colunm. She was aware of becoming anxious—she wanted to know what he thought of it. But more importantly, she was acutely aware of all the currents ebbing and flowing around them. She set her plate aside. This was a mistake. It could only lead one place. Her feelings for him had not been contained by any of the obstacles in her path. To the contrary. Impossibly, they had grown.

She should not have gone to the ball, accepted the post as Katya's mistress, or let him inside, now.

He set the page carefully aside. "An interesting choice of topic."

She could not help herself. "Is that all you .. . have to say?"

He took a bit of cheese and bread and slowly chewed. "God, this is good." He reached for the port. "You are upset."

Carolyn looked down. "How can I not be?"

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"What more is there to say? They eloped. My grandmother never forgave my mother, and has hated my father from that very day." Carolyn stared at the table. "She refused to help us when I was very young, when we were in dire need. My mother begged her and she refused us. Because of her, my mother is dead." Carolyn realized what she had said, thoughts she had never dared admit to herself much less verbalize, and she was aghast.

"I am very sorry. How did your mother die?" Sverayov asked.

Carolyn refused to cry. But she told Sverayov exactly what had happened. "I do not know why I am telling you this." She managed a wan smile. "You must be very bored."

"You could never bore me. Perhaps your grandmother has as many regrets as you do."

' 'I doubt it. How can you say that? When she has ignored me my entire life?"

' 'I can say that because I am a very good judge of character," he said calmly, "and I saw just how interested in you she was."

' 'Yes. Interested. The way I am interested in the pygmies of Africa!"

Sverayov smiled, then reached for and covered her hand. "She does not hate you. She may hate your father, but you are her flesh and blood. Trust me," he said.

She looked from his warm, amber eyes to his full, sensual mouth and then to his large, tanned hand on top of hers. So many thoughts and feelings tumbled through her, too swiftly for her to sort out or identify. "I don't think trusting you is a good idea."

"I did not mean it that way," he said tersely, removing his hand.

"I am sorry," Carolyn whispered. "It is just..."

"What?"

And the silence was unnerving, as was the night. She shook her head. He was unnerving. "I am very tired. I must go to bed." She started to stand.

He caught her hand, restraining her. She froze. She looked at him and met his brilliant amber eyes. And then he lifted her hand and pressed it hard to his mouth, still holding her gaze.

Her only coherent thought was that she had known that it would come to this.

"Carolyn," he said harshly, standing. "I knew I should not have come here tonight." He did not release her hand.

She wet her lips. "But you did."

"Yes." He stared, not offering any explanation.

"We should say good night."

"Yes, we should. Why are your eyes tearing?"

"I suppose I am feeling sorry for myself," she whispered.

"Don't cry. There is no reason to cry."

And there wasn't—not from his point of view. After all, he did not love her. Carolyn pulled her hand free of his and wiped her eyes with her fingertips. "You must think me as childish as Katya."