The Duke of Olympia Meets His Match (11 page)

“Yes,” she said. “As long as we understand each other.”

“I see,” he said.

Their elbows rested next to each other on the rail. Olympia's hand hovered inches away, large and broad inside its leather glove. His fingers moved to cover hers and draw her arm toward his chest, hidden from the rest of the deck, and the firmness of his grasp stopped the breath in her lungs.

“I meant what I said the other night,” he said. “I mean you no harm. The opposite, in fact. I intend, from the moment we disembark on the Merseyside, to give you every possible comfort. The life you deserve.”

“I don't want comfort. My life has lacked many things, but not comfort. I want something else.”

“Whatever it is, you'll have it.”

She should have been appalled by this offer—for that
was
what it was, naked and brazen, an offer to keep her as his mistress—but instead her heart went on beating with that pleasurable acceleration, sending the blood to tingle in her toes and fingertips and . . . elsewhere. The endings of every nerve.

“I see. A blank check, is it?”

“You can write in it whatever you like.”

“Except the papers. There is that little exception. You want to intercept my private communication.”

He sighed. “It's not
your
communication, my dear. You're simply a courier, a mule. It was indecent of Madame de Sauveterre to use you in this way, to put you in danger. Let me take the burden from your shoulders, and leave you to the simple enjoyment of life.” He lifted her gloved hand and pressed it to his mouth.

“Just like that? Remove the burden?” she said. “Leave these complicated matters of espionage to the experts? Trust that you know best where these papers should go?”

“Exactly so.” His breath warmed her fingers.

“Simply enjoy myself? Sink myself into the luxury of your bed? The Duke of Olympia's fortunate new mistress?”

He went still against her hand. “That isn't the word I would have chosen.”

“Why not? I have no objection to it. Call a spade a spade, I always say.”

“I've offended you.”

“On the contrary. I'm going to give your offer the serious consideration it deserves, Your Grace. You see, as often happens during ocean voyages, when one has time to contemplate the course of one's life, I've decided that . . . well, that you're right. I've wasted myself. I'm going to leave the Morrisons' protection when we reach England and make my own way.”

A faint pause. “I'm delighted to hear it.”

He didn't sound delighted. He sounded . . . suspicious. Penelope smiled and pulled down the muffler that covered her mouth.

“A new life,” she said. “A new code of rules.”

“Mrs. Schuyler, I'm entirely in favor of this transformation, but before you commit any rash steps—”

She angled her body toward his, took his face in her hands, went up on her toes, and kissed him.

For an instant, he was too surprised to kiss her back. But the Duke of Olympia recovered quickly from shock, and in the next second he had turned her around against the rail, covering her with his massive body, and his hands disappeared under her hat to cup the curve of her head. His mouth opened, and then she forgot to keep track of anything, because he tasted of brandy and brandy made her dizzy, or maybe it was the movement of his lips, the gentle pressure of his fingers in her hair, the warmth of him settling down through the layers of her skin.

My God. She had missed this. How had she lived without this for so long?

Except that John Schuyler had never kissed her quite like this. She had enjoyed the physical aspects of marriage immensely, but this was something else. This was like . . . delirium. This was like the transports you read about in forbidden novels, the ones that made you huff and roll your eyes and say,
Bah! Pure sentiment!

But you couldn't put the book down, could you? You wanted to believe it was true. That someone, somewhere could give you transports of pure ecstasy. A dose of undistilled exhilaration. Just once in your life.

And then the duke lifted his mouth away, and for a moment she stared at him and he at her. His pupils were large and black in his electric-lit eyes, and the tip of his nose was pink.

“Come back to my stateroom, Penelope,” he said softly. His hands remained in her hair.

“I can't. Ruby—”

“Damn Ruby.” He kissed her again, more fiercely. “Damn them all, damn everybody else in the world, and especially that vixen de Sauveterre.”

“But you wouldn't have given me another glance if I hadn't been carrying those papers.”

“Yes, I would.”

Another kiss, but she didn't let it last. She put her hands against his chest and pushed him away. “People are watching. We're creating a scandal.”

“I thought you didn't care anymore.”

“Only because it will make things awkward for the rest of the voyage.”

He rose to his full ducal height. “If anyone says a word against you—”

“Oh, stop. Really, just stop. I need to think, and it's very hard to do when you're looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you're about to eat me up.”

“I hope I am.”

Penelope wasn't quite sure what that meant, but from the suggestive depth of the duke's voice, growling from his endless chest, she imagined it was something wholly and deliciously improper. She laughed and broke away, and a passing man averted his gaze in a way that made her realize she was right: the other passengers had noticed them. Had probably watched the whole affair.

She pulled the muffler back up, until it almost covered her nose, and smiled against the wool.
There, you see? That wasn't so hard, was it? A first step in the liberation of Penelope Schuyler.

Olympia took her arm. “Let me at least escort you to your stateroom.”

“I don't think that would be prudent.”

“I thought you had given up your prudent ways.”

“Not all of them. Not until we reach England. Besides, Ruby will be back in the cabin by now, waiting for me.”

“If you're lucky,” he said darkly.

But once inside the deckhouse, he parted from her with only a squeeze to the elbow and a hard look, as if he were searching her for clues, as if he didn't quite trust her change of heart.

“Your lips are quite pink,” she said, over her shoulder.

“So are yours,” he called after her, and then she rounded the corner of the main staircase and hurried down to her stateroom, where Ruby would be getting ready for bed.

Except that the light was already out, and the room quite dark.

“Ruby?” she said, and a wiry arm slipped around her neck, pressing so firmly against her windpipe that she almost didn't notice the sharp point digging in to the general region of her intestines.

***

He didn't know quite what made him stop, poised and watchful, outside the door to his stateroom. He never did, on such occasions. Some noise below the level of conscious recognition, he supposed; some animal perception, honed to razor-sharpness over the long course of his career.

Something was amiss.

In the next instant, he was bolting down the stairs four at a time, leaping over the banister like a steeplechaser to land at the head of the corridor leading to Penelope's cabin, where he collided with an object hurtling down the opposite direction.

Oof,
he said.

Ugh,
the object grunted, lurching to the floor.

Off balance already, the duke staggered backward, caught himself, and reached instinctively for a flailing arm in a dark wool sleeve.

But the arm was too quick, and his strength and balance hadn't caught up with his instinct. A twist, a slither, and the person had ducked beneath his soaring wingspan to scurry down the corridor to the staircase. Olympia turned and caught a glimpse of fabric, a dark flutter that might have been a skirt or a long duster coat, but he couldn't stop and give chase.

He pivoted about and thundered up the corridor to where a door stood open, letting out a rhombus of light onto the carpet. Just like before, he thought, just like before, except this time—

A slender figure stood inside the door, bent at the waist.

“Penelope!”

He plunged into the cabin and reached for her shoulders.

“I'm fine!” she gasped. “Did you catch her?”

“No, she went down the staircase. Are you hurt?”

“Of course not! Why didn't you chase her?”

“Because I was coming for
you
, you idiot!” He turned her to the light and searched her face, which was stunned and rosy, eyes wide and lips parted. He ran his hands along her face, along her throat and shoulders. Her neck was pink, but she was breathing well. “What happened?”

“Never mind! Go! Go after her! Don't you care?”

“No, damn it! I don't. I care about
you
. What happened?” he said again.

“She was waiting in the cabin. Grabbed me by the neck, but I flung her off,” she said, a little proud. A little incredulous.

He wanted to kiss her. He wanted to throttle her. “Flung her off?” he said, checking her torso, her arms. His fingers found something wet. “You're bleeding!”

“Oh!” She looked at her sleeve. “So I am. What a nuisance, she's ripped right through the coat.”

Already Olympia was tearing the coat from her shoulders, sliding it down her arms, tossing it on the floor. She had been wearing an evening dress of sensible proportions, emerald green, sleeves to the elbows. There was a cut on her forearm, about an inch and a half long, trickling blood. He let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. “Thank God you were wearing your coat,” he muttered, taking out his handkerchief. “You're sure it was a woman?”

“Oh, yes. Couldn't you tell?”

“I didn't get a proper look.” His jaw hurt from tension. He wiped away the blood from her arm and pressed his handkerchief against the wound. “It's not deep, but you should go to the infirmary anyway.”

“Nonsense. I'll clean and bind it, that's all.”

“You don't sound concerned,” he growled.

“I'm not. I don't think she meant to kill me. I think I surprised her, that's all.”

“She was already inside the cabin?”

“Yes.”

He swore. “This cannot continue. You must return to my stateroom for the duration of the voyage.”

“It's impossible. What about Ruby?”

“Damn Ruby!”

“Damn
me
? For what?”

The voice came from the doorway, lilting upward in mild surprise. The two of them startled and turned together, like a pair of guilty lovers, connected at the point of Penelope's slender elbow.

Miss Ruby Morrison stood in the doorway, resplendent in her rose-colored evening dress. The electric light caught the decorous little spray of brilliants in her hair like a starburst. She took one look at the pair of them, faces turned toward her, and she clapped a hand over her mouth.

Penelope tore her arm from Olympia's grasp and darted around Ruby to close the door.

“Your Grace!” The damned girl began to giggle, like little bubbles escaping between her fingers. “You're—you're—”

Penelope said sternly: “This is Mr. Penhallow, from Buffalo.”

“You're wearing a
beard
!” Ruby burst out, and she fell on the bed, helpless with laughter, while the brilliants shivered and sparkled against the embroidered White Star Line counterpane. “I never saw anything so—so—
silly
!”

Olympia stuffed the handkerchief in his jacket pocket and made a small, stiff bow.

“If you'll excuse me, ladies, I have a burglar to catch.”

Day Seven

SS
Majestic

At sea

At exactly twelve minutes past six o'clock in the morning, Penelope pounded on the door of Stateroom A with the kind of fury usually reserved for accusations of adultery.

“My dear,” said the duke, opening the door, “do cease this ungodly rumpus. I haven't yet swallowed a drop of coffee, fortified or otherwise.”

“You put a guard on my door!”

“Yes, of course. Now come inside, before somebody sees you.”

“I don't care if—”

But he was already pulling her into the room, and by the time she realized he was still in his dressing gown, that a towel lay around his neck and his cheeks were still pink and damp from the razor, it was too late. He had closed the door behind them and turned to her with a kind of triumphant look, like a spider that has caught a particularly choice fly in his web. He dabbed his cheeks with the towel and walked to the tray that rested on the sitting room table. “Coffee?” he said.

“No, thank you. Back to the guard, please.”

“I had no choice, my love. I couldn't be in two places at once, and as you so rightfully pointed out, I was already delinquent in giving chase to your persecutor.” He poured her a cup anyway, added a splash of amber liquid from a suspicious decanter, and handed it to her.

“I said I didn't want coffee.”

“It's not for the coffee.”

She glared and drank, and the most extraordinary flavor warmed her mouth, spreading a glow through her chest and down her limbs. “What
is
this?” she said.

“Amaretto.”

“It's lovely.”

“I'm glad you like it. The last of my personal stock, I'm afraid. I'll have my dealer secure us a dozen new bottles when we reach London. Shall we go on deck and discuss the matter further? I feel myself in great need of a bit of fresh air.”

Ten minutes later, he was opening the door to the cold air of the promenade deck and a wondrous red sunrise. Penelope caught her breath. “Isn't it beautiful!” she said.

Olympia took her arm. “Storm on the way.”

“How do you know that?”

“Red sky at morning, sailor's warning.”

“Oh, an old mariner's rhyme,” she said.

“Trust me, my dear. The old mariners have an interest in the weather. About this guard.”

“I ordered him away, and he wouldn't move.”

“Of course not. He's there under my express orders.”

“He followed me upstairs. I saw him on the landing.”

“Good man. I'm afraid I was unable to trace last night's intruder—”

“I'm not surprised.”

“—but I've instructed Mr. Simmons to post every available crewman at all the key points in the ship.”

“We reach Liverpool tomorrow morning, according to last night's bulletin.”

“So tonight is her last chance to act. We'll be ready.”

A steward approached them. “Deck chairs this morning, sir?”

Olympia turned his face to Penelope, and so did the steward. Waiting. Respectful. Attentive.

The duke lifted his other hand and pressed it against her arm. “Well, my dear?”

“No, thank you,” Penelope said. “I'd rather walk this morning.”

So they walked, and the remains of Penelope's annoyance settled back into contemplation. This wasn't such a setback, after all. Not such a hindrance to her plans. And it was rather nice, for once in her life, to have someone so deeply concerned for her well-being.

Or at least the well-being of the papers in her possession.

“In the first place,” the duke was saying, “we may eliminate Mr. Langley, who already knows that the papers now rest in the ship's safe.”

“Why on earth are you speaking as if we're partners in this matter?”

He looked surprised. “Aren't we?”

“Of course not. You're not getting your hands on those papers. They are not intended for the attention of the British government.”

“The British government means no harm whatsoever to the concerns of either the Americans or the French,” he said with dignity.

“Ha.”

“
Ha?
This is your considered response to a matter of complex and delicate international diplomacy?”

“The British government serves no interest except that of Britain. I'm here to ensure the interests of the United States.”

“But how do you know you're doing that? How do you know that your dear friend de Sauveterre is a faithful American, and not simply using you in a transaction of which you have absolutely no knowledge whatever?”

She smiled and turned away to lean her elbows on the railing. “I think you're wrong about a storm,” she said. “The ocean looks perfectly easy. We could almost swim to Liverpool in a sea like this, don't you think?”

***

The gentlemen's smoking room of the SS
Majestic
was a thing of extraordinary invention, but the Duke of Olympia spared not the slightest regard for its elaborate plasterwork and embossed leather walls, nor even the naval paintings set at intervals in the wall panels. He sucked instead on his cigar, from the comfort of an overstuffed chair, and said sternly to the man sitting opposite, “No, I am not satisfied, Mr. Simmons. Not at all. There is a burglar on the loose in the first-class cabin, a female burglar of limitless ingenuity and elusiveness, and I must say, for a man whose business is to secure the safety of the White Star Line passengers, you're acting remarkably unconcerned, Mr. Simmons.
Remarkably
unconcerned.”

“But sir! I assure you, we're doing all we can!” said poor Mr. Simmons, nearly bursting at the seams with pained earnestness. His concern, in fact, stained his cheeks and the tips of his ears, and threatened to run out the corners of his mouth. “We've posted men at every possible corner, every man who can be spared from the running of the ship, and they have seen nothing untoward.”

Olympia jabbed his cigar in the direction of Mr. Simmons's navy chest. “It is all because you refused to vouchsafe Miss Morrison's papers to me, Mr. Simmons. That is all. Had those papers been entrusted to my care, the ladies might never have been in danger.”

This was possibly not quite true, for the mysterious thief would have had to have
known
that Simmons had transferred the portfolio into Olympia's possession, and this particular thief evidently hadn't even known that the papers had gone into the ship's safe to begin with.

But the duke liked to strike thunder into the hearts of the innocent, particularly in situations such as this, when a little extra thunder might mean the difference between a thief captured and a thief triumphant.

“Possibly, sir,” said poor Simmons, “but I must stand by my decision in that case.”

Good man,
thought Olympia.

“A very reckless decision, Mr. Simmons, and now we see the results. A lady—a
saloon passenger
, Mr. Simmons—is attacked in her own stateroom, and the perpetrator continues to elude you.” Olympia rose slowly, not because his joints were stiff, but because the spectacle of six and a half ducal feet unfurling themselves in the manner of a giant bean stalk never failed to impress in his audience the proper spirit of submission. He put the cigar in his mouth and inhaled the fragrant weed to the limit of his lungs. “It is now half past six o'clock, and the dinner service is about to begin. Every first-class passenger will be seated in the grand saloon for your inspection. By the time the dessert is laid, I expect your men to have apprehended the person responsible for the invasion of Mrs. Schuyler's cabin. In the meantime, I will be enjoying my dinner.” He stubbed out the cigar in a fine enameled ashtray. “Good evening, Mr. Simmons.”

The first officer rose. “One more moment, sir!”

“What is it? The gong is about to sound.”

“It's about Mr. Langley, sir. You asked me this morning if the crew has noticed any particular behavior on his part. I gathered together the second-class stewards directly and queried them on the subject. He has been, it seems, a model passenger, keeping mostly to himself. But there is one curious detail, which I thought you ought to know. You may, of course, decide for yourself whether it is at all significant . . .”

“Out with it, Simmons.”

The first officer drew in a massive breath. “It seems Mr. Langley has not sat down to a single meal in the second-class saloon.”

***

The dinner gong had sounded some time ago, and still the Duke of Olympia had not arrived in the main saloon: an event so unprecedented that all three tables rocked with the news.

Or maybe that was the ocean, Penelope thought. She hated to admit that Olympia was right, but the waves had taken on a certain amplitude in the hours since luncheon, steep and slow and covered with messy foam. Even the decks of the mighty
Majestic
had begun to tilt, ever so slightly, in rhythm with the sea. She picked up her menu card and pretended to study the contents.
FAREWELL DINNER
, proclaimed the elegant script at the top, followed by a list of dishes so rich and extensive it might have supplied a royal banquet for a week, let alone the dining saloon of a ship that was now developing an unmistakable lurch, which everybody pretended not to notice.

“I hope he has not fallen overboard,” said Mrs. Morrison, sotto voce.

“Heaven forbid,” said Penelope. “Imagine the trouble of finding another duke.”

“WHAT'S THIS?” said Miss Crawley, on her other side. “THE GREEK HAS JUMPED OVERBOARD?”

“So it would seem, I'm afraid. I can't imagine any other reason why the Duke of Olympia would commit so irredeemable an act as arriving late for dinner.”

“PROBABLY COULDN'T SEE ANY OTHER WAY OUT OF MARRYING THE MORRISON GIRL!”

Ruby dabbed her eyes. “I shall weep
forever
.”

“There, there.” Mrs. Morrison reached across the table and patted her daughter's hand. “I'm sure there's another explanation. Maybe he's fallen on the stairs.”

“Or perhaps he's cut his throat with the razor,” Penelope said cheerfully. “Old hands can be so shaky, can't they, Miss Crawley?”

“I NEARLY SLIT MY WRIST WITH A LETTER OPENER ONCE!”

On her other side, Miss Harris muttered something unintelligible, which might have signaled regret.

“You see, my dear? Everybody's hoping for the best. And there
are
advantages to a convalescence, I always say. More time to arrange your trousseau, for one thing. I had the distinct feeling that His Grace was eager to complete the formalities—and who could blame him, at his age, and Ruby so alluring—but a nice healing spell should allow us a little more time to—”

“Madam—” said Penelope.

“—to shop and make arrangements, and perhaps to see to the decoration of His Grace's house in London, which I'm sure—”

“Mrs. Morrison, I think—”

“—is grand and lovely and all that, but maybe not all that modern in the way of plumbing and draperies,” Mrs. Morrison went on, heedless of the settling silence around her, the hushed expectation, except for the clatter of the serving dishes and the grind of the engines and another sound, a persistent rushing roar, which Penelope realized was the wash of water along the sides of the ship. “And I always say that a young bride shouldn't be afraid to take the bit in her mouth and arrange things to suit herself, because—”

“Because her bridegroom might soon expire?” inquired the Duke of Olympia, standing politely behind his chair, the object of all that reverent silence.

Mrs. Morrison leapt in her seat, an action cut short by the proximity of her neighbors. “Your Grace! I—well, I—what a shock.”

“Evidently.” He took his chair. “I apologize for my late arrival. A matter came up at the last instant, which required my immediate attention.” His gaze turned to Penelope, thick with meaning.

“You have only missed the salted almonds,” she said, and returned her attention to the menu card, as if unable to decide among the five different preparations of potatoes.

In fact, not one of them appealed to her, nor the littleneck clams, nor the green turtle soup, nor the sweetbreads Macedoine, nor the braised capon or the golden plover or the filet of beef. Six days and nights of impossibly rich and plentiful food had rendered her insensible to French sauces and rare meats. Like they were geese being stuffed for foie gras (of which there was plenty on board already). As if a butcher awaited them on the Merseyside, sharpening his knife.

But she had to eat. If she didn't turn her attention to her food, she would invariably fall under the glance of the Duke of Olympia, which was presently attempting to snare hers by the principles of magnetic attraction. She allowed her plate to be filled, again and again, and when she was not picking at the contents she did her best to converse with Miss Crawley, or rather to converse with Miss Harris across the bridge of Miss Crawley's nose.

“Thank God,” twanged Miss Harris, when at last the dessert was laid, and she reached for a pear.

“It's really too much, isn't it? Especially when the ship is pitching like this.”

“FAR TOO MUCH FOOD!” said Miss Crawley.

Miss Harris picked up her knife and began to slice the pear in expert little strokes, and for some reason the action caught Penelope's fascination. She handled the knife with such ease. Not for Miss Harris the elegant hands of a lady: she kept the nails cut short, almost to the quick, at the ends of her large, capable fingers. So large and capable, in fact, they were almost . . .

Mannish.

The blood began instantly to thud in Penelope's neck. She glanced at Ruby and at the duke, who had given up trying to win her attention and was now sharing a remark with Miss Morrison, perfectly at ease except for a certain heaviness around his eyes.

The steward came around with coffee. “Yes, please,” she said, and she reached for the nearby fruit and took hold of the closest object: a bunch of grapes. As she lifted the vine from the bowl, she risked a glance at Miss Harris's profile, and the firm jaw that was now slowly at work on a slice of pear.