The Sinister Spinster (9 page)

After assisting several of the ladies into their costumes, Elizabeth dashed up to her room with less than a quarter of an hour to dress for the festivities. She quickly donned her best gown of rose-colored silk, and was debating whether or not to wear the pearls her mother had left her when there was a knock at the door. Muttering at the thought of another interruption, she opened the door to find a maid standing there with a folded cloak draped over her arms.

"For you, miss," she said, offering the cape to Elizabeth with a pert curtsy. " 'Tis from Lady Barrington. She asks that you accept it with her compliments."

Stunned at such largesse, Elizabeth accepted the cape and carefully opened it. "Oh, it is a domino!" she exclaimed, understanding dawning as she examined the cape with its deep hood.

"And this is to wear with it," the maid replied, handing Elizabeth a black velvet mask trimmed with black lace. "She brought her own and thought you could use this one," she added, pushing her way into Elizabeth's room and glancing about her with ill-disguised curiosity.

"Indeed? How very kind of her grace," Elizabeth replied, touched and more than a little surprised by the duchess's generosity.

"Oh, she's kind enough in her way," the maid answered with a shrug. "But she has a sharp tongue, and she'll use it quick enough when she's of a mind. She's almighty particular about what's hers, although you'd never believe it, the way she mistreats her things. Why, t'other day she deliberately broke a ribbon on her new bonnet and then demanded I fix it. Quality"—she shook her head in obvious disgust—"there's no understanding them."

Elizabeth remembered the incident. "Are you quite certain it was deliberate?" she asked, frowning. "I was there
when it happened, and as I recall, her grace was most distressed."

"It was deliberate, all right." The other girl gave a knowing sniff. "I was apprenticed once to a milliner, and I learned a thing or two about bonnets, I can tell you. That ribbon was ripped a'purpose; you could tell the way the threads was dangling. But she did give me an extra shilling and tell me thank you pretty enough when I was finished." This last was added as if in apology for gossiping about her employer.

She took her leave soon after, and after donning the domino and mask, Elizabeth slipped downstairs to mingle with the other guests. Several were in costumes of one kind or another, and others were dressed as she was, in a black domino and mask. Still others wore their usual evening dress, and she wasn't surprised to see Lord Falconer among those who had eschewed the use of a costume. She smiled slightly, recalling his icy disdain when Lady Barrington had dared to tease him on the matter. It would seem the coolly controlled marquess had little patience for such artifice.

Without warning he turned his head, his topaz eyes narrowing in recognition. He was at her side seconds later.

"Miss Mattingale." He favored her with one of his low bows. "I was hoping we might be honored with your presence this evening."

Elizabeth tried to be put out, but it was hard to feign indignation when her heart was racing with delight. "So much for the effectiveness of disguises," she drawled, favoring him with another smile. "It would seem I am suffering all this discomfort for naught if you recognized me so quickly."

His response was an elegant lift of his jet-black eyebrows. "I would hope I am not so easily misled, ma'am," he replied. "My eyes are sharper than that, I assure you."

Deciding discretion would be the wisest course, Elizabeth took refuge in socially acceptable pleasantries. "And how are you enjoying your stay at Derring, my lord? I
trust you are being kept suitably entertained?" she asked, wishing she had brought a fan to unfurl. It was the one feminine ploy of which she approved, and she would have enjoyed having something to occupy hands that seemed suddenly restive.

"It has been interesting," came the reply, and Elizabeth wondered what he meant. The words were innocuous enough, and yet they seemed to portend something. She was tempted to demand an explanation, but Alexi was already joining them. Like the marquess, he was not in costume.

"A prince dress up like a fool?" he demanded when Elizabeth chided him on the matter. "Never, little queen. It would be too lowering to my pride."

"Your pride could stand a blow or two, your highness," Elizabeth returned in kind, noting the way the marquess was watching them. His expression remained as rigidly indifferent as always, and yet she could sense a sharp sense of awareness emanating from him.

Naturally, with two such eligible men clustered about her, it wasn't long until the other ladies began making their way to their corner. The detestable Miss Clarvale was among them, and as she had done the day of the picnic, she took unholy delight in ordering Elizabeth to do her bidding.

"Miss Mattingale, I am thirsty; kindly fetch me some punch," she ordered, smirking at what she clearly saw as her power over a weak and inferior woman.

Elizabeth bit her tongue and turned to do her bidding, only to find her way blocked by Alexi. He was smiling at Miss Clarvale, and the wolfish gleam in his eyes had Elizabeth bracing herself for what came next.

"Your costume is most attractive, Miss Clarvale," he told her suavely. "It makes you look"—his voice trailed off and he gave a beguiling grin—"forgive," he added, "I do not know how to say in English. Like a
sveenya
. You will agree, Miss Mattingale?" Blue eyes danced with innocence as he glanced at Elizabeth.

Elizabeth glanced at the other woman's sheer pink concoction that was, she assumed, supposed to resemble a fairy's attire but instead made her look like the barnyard animal Alexi had called her. Choking back a laugh, she schooled her face to politeness before replying.

"I would say, as do you, your highness, that that shade of pink is particularly becoming to Miss Clarvale," she said, offering a strained smile. "It makes her look precisely like a—rose."

"A rose?" The petulant beauty looked smugly delighted at such a fine compliment.

"An English
sveenya, da,"
Alexi assured her, bowing gracefully. "But you must allow me to fetch your punch for you, Miss Clarvale. It would be an honor." And he led her away, her giggling and desperately jealous friends following in their wake.

Lord Falconer remained with Elizabeth, a thoughtful expression on his face. "His highness has a great deal of charm," he observed coolly, glancing back at Elizabeth as if to measure her response.

Too vexed with Alexi to be cautious, she said the first thing to pop into her head. "And a great deal more cheek," she retorted, glaring after him. "That beast; I vow one day I shall have to throttle him."

There was a moment of silence, and then the marquess's lips were curving in one of his rare smiles. "I am the first to admit my grasp of Russian is poor at best," he murmured, "but why is it I sincerely doubt
sveenya
means rose?"

"Indeed, sir, it does not," Elizabeth retorted, still annoyed with Alexi. "And no," she added, anticipating his response, "I'm not telling you what it
does
mean."

His clear golden gaze sharpened as it rested on her face. "You have piqued my interest, ma'am," he murmured, his cool voice tinged with an enticing hint of laughter. "Unfortunately, as a gentleman I cannot demand a lady reveal her secrets to me. Should you choose to
share them, however, I promise to be the soul of discretion."

Even though she knew his lordship's words to be spoken in jest, a guilty flush stole across Elizabeth's cheeks. Fortunately her mask covered most of her face, else she doubted her discomfiture would have escaped his sharp-eyed notice. One of the first things she had remarked about the marquess, aside from his autocratic propensities, was his cutting intellect. She had no doubt but that he would be merciless in ferreting out the truth if he even suspected her of dissembling. Realizing she had to say something, she threw Alexi to the wolf without so much as a backward glance.

"As you wish," she said, feigning a sweet air of submissiveness.
"Sveenya
is one of the few Russian words to bear some semblance to its English counterpart. If one were to think in terms of common livestock and change the
v
to a
w
, one would come closer to the word's true meaning."

There was a moment of silence as the marquess considered the matter. His eyebrows shot up as comprehension dawned.

"Then
sveenya
means—?"

She nodded, trying her best to keep from smirking. "Indeed it does, my lord," she assured him. "I fear his highness was behaving quite poorly. It was very unkind of him."

"But not altogether untrue, I think," he replied, glaring across the room at Miss Clarvale. "I found her behavior most objectionable, and decidedly piglike at times. Although I do not suppose I should say as much," he added, surprising her with a self-effacing shrug.

Sensing the perfect means of escape, Elizabeth was quick to make use of it. "Do not concern yourself, my lord," she told him, her lips curving in a teasing smile. "Like you, I promise to be the soul of discretion. Now, if you will excuse me, Mary Queen of Scots has been signaling me for the past few minutes, and it is never wise
to keep royalty waiting. Good evening." And she took her leave with what good grace she could muster.

What was the little minx about?
Adam's hooded gaze followed Miss Mattingale's progress, his jaw clenched in silent frustration. Since the earl had taken him into his confidence he'd given the matter a great deal of consideration, and he'd come to the reluctant conclusion that out of the entire household there were only two people who had reason to take the missing papers. The first was Prince Bronyeskin, and the second was the enigmatic woman who already commanded far more of his attention than was either proper or wise.

The prince's reasons for taking the papers were obvious. They might be allies now, but Russia had no more reason to trust England than did England to trust Russia. It was an open secret that both sides employed spies, just as it was an open secret that there was a discreet struggle for power being waged between the Czar and his imperious sister. Given such facts, it made perfect sense that the prince would avail himself of his host's private papers. All that remained was for Adam to recover the papers in such a way as not to endanger the already fragile coalition. Provided, he thought grimly, that it was Bronyeskin who had nabbed the papers. If it was Miss Mattingale who had taken them, matters were far more serious.

The idea that the pretty companion could betray her country was anathema to Adam. Everything in him rebelled at the thought, and it was because of this that he clung even more tenaciously to the notion. He'd never allowed his emotions to govern his actions in the past, and he couldn't allow them to do so now when the safety of his country was at stake. However painful it might be, he couldn't ignore the facts, and the facts as he saw them were decidedly grim.

From what Miss Mattingale had let slip, she'd lived abroad for a number of years and was obviously close
friends with the only other suspect. But how close friends were they? She insisted there was nothing intimate between them, and he believed her—to a point. The absence of intimacy didn't necessarily mean an absence of emotion, and if she loved Bronyeskin, what would she be willing to risk for him? Love, or so he had heard, was the most powerful of motivators, and it was entirely possible Miss Mattingale would commit treason to aid the handsome and personable prince.

Then there was her father to consider. He lived in America, with which his country was now at war. Derring might be fool enough to think his edict would keep her from writing to her father, but Adam wasn't so easily gulled. He'd seen beneath the diffident façade she presented to the rest of the world and knew the companion was as proud as a duchess. He saw how ill she was treated; if it rankled him, how much more must it infuriate her? But how deep did that fury burn? Was her anger and resentment enough to goad her into risking the hangman's noose?

"Are the festivities not to your liking, my lord? You are looking properly fierce."

A low, feminine voice, flavored with mocking amusement sounded on Adam's right, and he turned his head to find a lady standing at his side. Like Miss Mattingale she was masked, her riper body draped from head to foot in one of the enveloping dominoes being sported by many of the other guests not in costume. Were it not for the slight differences in their height and physical attributes, he would have been hard-pressed to tell them apart. Fortunately his ears were as sharp as his eyes, and he had no trouble identifying his mysterious companion.

"Your grace," he inclined his head politely. "How are you this evening?"

"Bored, if the truth be told," the duchess told him with an affected sigh. "Country parties are so unutterably dull, and country masquerades are even duller still. One might
have known Catherine would plan something so predictable.

"Of course," she added, sending him a languid smile, "there are ways of relieving one's ennui. Have you seen the conservatory? It is said to be quite—inspiring."

The bold offer had Adam holding back a shudder of well-bred distaste. He'd thought the duchess had accepted his unspoken refusal of her charms, but evidently she had not.

"I am afraid I have little interest in conservatories, your grace," he said, deciding bluntness was his only recourse. "Although I thank you for your offer."

The duchess remained silent for several seconds, her eyes flashing behind her mask. "That, my lord, was rather bad of you," she said, opening her fan with a snap. "However, to show there are no hard feelings, I shall allow you to partner me once the dancing begins. You do have an interest in dancing, do you not?" she added, with an arch of her eyebrows.

Adam unbent enough to smile. However forward Lady Barrington might be, there was no denying she could be diverting. "I have been known to engage in the occasional quadrille," he told her with a low bow. "And I should be honored to dance with you."

After the duchess had taken her leave, Adam spent the next hour mingling with the other guests and keeping a wary eye on the prince and Miss Mattingale. The prince, with his height and wearing the glittering white and gold uniform of the Romanoff court, was easy to spot, while Miss Mattingale, dressed in the ubiquitous domino, proved harder to track. Still he always managed to find her, learning to pick out her slender and graceful form from amongst the black-clad horde.