Section I, Next Section
Chapter One Posted on Wednesday, 6 September 2000
After the defeat of George Wickham, the wedding of Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth Bennet went on without another hitch, and the bride and bridegroom were married amidst much joy and congratulations. Their honeymoon was spent in Milan, a wedding gift from the Duke. They returned in time, however, to greet the new arrivals to the family: the son of Mr. and Mrs. Bingley, and the daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Collins.
Their own addition did not come until the following year, when they were blessed with twin sons, named Lucas and David after their respective godfathers.
Lucas Harding went back to his normal habits for the most part, proclaiming to the world that he was going to remain a bachelor for the rest of his days and enjoy it, much to his grandfather's aggravation and amusement. It was not until much, much later that Lucas met a woman who was indeed, his match. But that, unfortunately, is a whole different story...
"Another, Uncle Lucas, another! Another, another!"
"Greedy little bugger, isn't he?" Lucas Harding laughed and tossed his three-year-old godson onto his back for the second of the requested piggyback rides around the garden. Little Lucas Darcy laughed, too, a rolling belly laugh that made his mother smile and his twin brother, Davey, giggle.
"Lucas," Elizabeth Darcy said when both child and friend had returned to the picnic blanket, "you really had ought to have children of your own."
Lucas made a face as he dropped to the ground and allowed both twins to crawl over him. "What for?" he said, ruffling Davey's dark curls. "When I can come and play with yours anytime I like?"
Davey crowed with delight when he found the sweet his honorary uncle had hidden in the left waistcoat pocket, just for him. Elizabeth just shook her head. "You spoil them," she said indulgently.
"An uncle's prerogative," Lucas said carelessly, sneaking Lucky, as he called his godson, the other of the sweets he'd hidden. "Nay--his duty. Look, Lucky, a duck!"
Lucky leapt up. "Duckie!" he crowed, hopping from foot to foot in excitement. "Duckie, duckie, duckie!" He paused, teetering slightly as he attempted to balance on one foot. "Where?"
Lucas coughed to hide a laugh. "There, lad. In the clouds."
Lucky, still on one foot, craned his neck to catch a glimpse of the promised fowl, overbalanced, and promptly fell over. Fortunately, he landed square in his mother's lap. "Pooey," he said thoughtfully. "I don't see no duck."
"Any duck," Elizabeth said, brushing her son's tumbled curls off his forehead.
"Where?"
Elizabeth looked at Lucas then. "Just think, you could have one of these all your own."
Lucas snorted. "Yours will do well enough," he said, and lay back again.
"Hah!" a deep voice boomed from above.
Lucas opened his eyes a crack. "Hullo, Grandpops. How are the fish?"
His grandfather, standing above him with a fishing pole and a disreputable hat, looked disgruntled, and fish-less. "Sneaky things," he said, and returned to his current favorite subject. "Why don't you want a wife and children, boy? I'll not live too much longer, and then you'll be all alone in the world--"
"Nonsense," his unrepentant grandson said. "You'll outlive us all. Wouldn't you say so, Darce?"
"Indubitably," Darcy said, hefting Davey into his arms.
Lucas shot his grandfather a triumphant smirk and closed his eyes again. "There, you see."
Grandpops shook his head at his heir and settled himself onto the blanket. Too handsome, too clever, and too rich for his own good, he had once heard said of his grandson, and on some days he was forced to agree.
Too handsome--well, what other epithet was there, for a man with Lucas's thick, wavy, almost-black hair, sharp grey eyes, and long, rangy, powerful body? True, the features were a bit rugged for the prettiness that was in vogue at the moment, but the ladies didn't seem to mind, especially when those features were softened and lit by the brilliant smile that could break out like sun through clouds at any moment.
Too clever--that was a given. Lucas's needle wits and convoluted thinking had left others, even Grandpops, in the dust many a time. Evidence of that Byzantine thought process lay before them, in the couple who were even now laughing with their twin boys. If not for Lucas's benevolent machinations, Elizabeth Bennet and Fitzwilliam Darcy might still be circling each other like a pair of cats readying for a fight.
Too rich--Lucas had been born too rich, thanks to Grandpops, and the dukedom he stood to inherit, and canny investments and shrewd business ventures over the years had increased his personal fortunes even further. Lucas, however, didn't care three straws for the money he collected. It was, as he had once or twice remarked to his grandfather, the sport that brought him back again and again to the vulgar world of business.
In another man, these gifts of descent and nature could have produced a careless sort of arrogance and overweening conceit, but Lucas had somehow escaped that, and become a merry, amiable, well-liked young peer. The fact that he hated the entire shallow round of London society, and avoided it as much as he could, was the only reason he was not at least as influential as Beau Brummell had been in that man's heyday.
And however would the boy get a wife, his loving and frustrated grandfather asked himself, if he did not trouble himself to look?
"Boy," he said.
Davey, studying with interest the movements of an ant on the picnic blanket, looked up at him. "Yes?"
Grandpops looked down at him, and laughed. "Not you. Your Uncle Lucas."
The boy lost interest and went back to the ant.
"Yes, Grandpops?" Lucas said lazily.
"Are you packed?"
Lucas propped himself up on one elbow. "Whatever for?"
"We're going to London."
Lucas lay back down and tilted his hat over his eyes. "Over my dead body."
Chapter Two Posted on Sunday, 16 September 2000
Lucas scowled out the window. "Grandpops," he said.
"Yes, boy?"
"How did you bamboozle me into this, you old fraud?"
"Bamboozle, indeed," his grandfather muttered into his mustache. "Huh."
"You know you did."
"I did nothing of the sort. You merely did your duty to your old and respected relation."
"Old, at least," Lucas muttered under his breath.
"What was that?"
"Nothing."
As usual, the line of carriages to get into the party stretched down the block and obstructed traffic for several streets. All this, Lucas thought, to get into a ballroom that would be hot, stuffy, reeking with various colognes and perfumes, and filled with superficial people with their superficial smiles and their superficial attitudes.
Not all of them, he reminded himself. Not quite all of them.
He was perfectly aware that most of his closest friends, as well as Grandpops, wanted him to get married. Unbeknownst to anyone, he too had been mulling that possibility over. Ever since seeing Darcy and Bings fall in love, he had been quietly searching for someone who could engender that curious blend of tenderness, need, and joy in his heart. He had met girls who were quite as lovely and witty as the two sisters his friends had married, and enjoyed their company, but still there was something untouched at his core.
Sometimes he wondered if he would ever find her.
Well, if he did, she would not be one of those depthless debutantes, whose only concern was how their hair looked or if their flounce was torn. He'd die before he married one of those.
A flash of brilliant color caught the edge of Lucas's eye, and he turned just in time to see a tall, slim woman with hair the color of living flame curtseying to his host.
She was a woman of extremes: that stunning hair, richly glittering sapphires gleaming against the milky white skin of her throat, ears, and wrists, and vividly blue gown. Amongst the fashionable pale delicacy of the women around her, she stood out like an exotic flower.
Lucas reached out and caught at the sleeve of the person nearest to him. "Who is that?"
Unfortunately, it was Bings's sister, Lady Caroline Avery, who had been attempting to flirt with him before he'd seen the redheaded woman. She shut her fan with an offended snap. "That," she said with her thin nose in the air, "is Lady Katerina Dominova."
Lucas raised a brow at the ice in her tone. "Dominova," he echoed. "Russian?"
"I suppose. For some reason, she is quite the rage. I personally think that her atrocious accent--"
Lady Caroline broke off, gaping, as Lucas walked away from her, heading towards Lady Katerina Dominova. As he drew closer, he could see that her eyes were the color of the sea, and that they were fastened on him.
"Fiennes," he said to the gentleman at her side, "introduce me."
Richard Fiennes, an old schoolfellow of Lucas's, performed the service without a murmur of protest. He had seen that inquisitive intensity in his friend's eye before.
"Lady Katerina Dominova, my Lord Lucas Harding, the viscount Harding. Harding, my cousin from Russia, Lady Katerina Dominova."
Lady Katerina curtseyed. "So pleased to meet you, my lord," she murmured in a rich, husky, accented voice.
"The pleasure is all mine."
Something flickered in her eyes, and then she flicked open her fan and waved it coquettishly. "You are too kind, sir."
"May I have this dance?"
"She doesn't dance," Richard put in.
She laughed brightly. "Oh, Richard, for a man as handsome as this I think I could make an exception."
Lucas's smile faded slightly, but he offered her his arm for the dance floor. Whispers followed them. Apparently, Lady Caroline hadn't been lying when she'd said that Lady Katerina was all the rage.
She noticed the whispers as well, and smiled. "They speak of me all the time. Everything I do. It is incomprehensible. I am so popular--so--oh, what's the word? So au courant."
"How lovely for you," Lucas said, just the faintest trace of coolness creeping into his voice.
She sent him a flirtatious, sideways look. "You know, it speaks very well of you that I dance with you. I don't dance with just anybody."
"Indeed."
"I shouldn't be surprised if you become all the rage yourself now," she continued, tossing her head so that the sapphire plumes in her bright hair nodded. "Just look what I did for Madame Estelle."
"Madame Estelle?"
"Why, Madame Estelle! You must have heard of her. A perfect goddess of the needle, I vow."
"I have not heard of her, no."
She rolled her eyes and laughed prettily as they took their place in the dance. "Just like a man, not to pay attention to fashion. I discovered her--discovered, I tell you--in a little shop off Bond Street. She was living in perfect squalor before I rescued her. Imagine she had only three seamstresses to help her! Well, my patronage changed all that. She makes all my gowns. Everything I wear, except my jewelry--that, of course, is all from Rundell and Bridges--comes from her. What she can do to a bolt of silk--ah! I quite rescued her, I tell you."
By the end of the dance, Lucas was thoroughly repulsed. Lovely and vivid she might be, but Lady Katerina Dominova was no more then another brittle, popular, clothes-mad, snobbish society lady. A bit out of the common way, but that was all on the surface. Underneath, she was no more then a paper doll, and that was the last thing he needed.
Lady Katerina Dominova watched him walk away with a little sigh. She needed no Lord Lucas Harding, with his too-penetrating storm-grey eyes, to be watching her while she carried out her mission.
Chapter Three Posted on Monday, 25 September 2000
After the debacle with Lady Katerina Dominova, Lucas was strangely dispirited for a time. That intense attraction, followed by the discovery of such a shallow, silly soul inside the beautiful exotic package, was oddly depressing.
He was so downcast, in fact, that even Grandpops noticed. "What bug bit you, boy?" he asked him one morning at breakfast.
Lucas looked up. "What?"
"You've been slouching about and brooding for nigh on a week now, lad. You're worse then Darcy when he was mooning over Elizabeth." A thought seemed to strike him. "Are you in love?" he asked hopefully.
"No," Lucas said forcefully.
Grandpops sat back, disappointed. "Well then, what's wrong?"
"Nothing, Grandpops."
"Hah! Nothing? It's not nothing that made you curt with the help this morning. I think you broke that little maid's heart," Grandpops added thoughtfully.
Lucas flushed and resolved to find the girl and apologize. "It's nothing, Grandpops," he said again. "I'd just . . . rather be back in the country."
"Tired of the city already, boy?"
"Grandpops, I was tired of it three miles before we got here."
"Where's that optimism of yours?"
"Smog killed it."
"Try to revive it, would you? Where are you going?"
Lucas had risen from the table. "Fencing. Coming, old boy?"
"And be skewered like a shish kebab? Hah. I'm too old to prance around like that, boy."
Contrary to what Grandpops said about fencing, he was an old devotee of the sport. In fact, he had taught Lucas everything he knew.
Fencing had always appealed to Lucas. It was the perfect blend of athleticism and strategy, and it was demanding enough in both areas that he could forget about everything else in his life if he so desired.
This morning, he so desired.
His opponent was Richard Fiennes, whom he'd met up with on the street. Richard was clever enough, in his own way, but he had never been a match for Lucas.
"Riposte, point to Lord Harding," the fencing master called out. "Five-two, bout."
Panting slightly, Lucas pulled off his mask and saluted to Richard. "Good show," he said.
Richard was breathing more heavily, and sweating as well. "Bosh," he said breathlessly, saluting in turn. "You allowed me those two points."
"Now why would I do that?"
"For your own fiendish reasons," Richard retorted. "Where do you go from here?"
Lucas shrugged. "Around and about. You?"
"I have to track down my cousin and make sure she doesn't miss an appointment." Richard didn't miss the expression that flickered over his friend's face. "Harding, I know she's a bit silly, but--"
"I realize she's your flesh and blood, Fiennes, but I can't stand her, I honestly can't."
Richard shrugged. "Sometimes I can't either," he admitted. Mission accomplished, Kat, he thought. Clever girl. Head the problem off at the start.
They were strolling down Bond Street, discussing the latest bill in Parliament, when a yodelled "Yoo-hoo!" caught their attention. Richard smiled gamely and waved at Lady Katerina, while Lucas bit his lip against the grimace that wanted to escape.
"Lady Dominova," he said cordially, bowing, when she came to a stop before them.
"Lord Harding," she purred. "And how do you do this fine day?"
"Very well." Or I was.
Even now, looking at her, with those sparkling sea-blue eyes and the flaming curls escaping from her modish hat, he felt the craziest tug of attraction. Even knowing what she was, he still--
Enough, Lucas.
"Do you attend the Brinsleys' soiree tonight, my lord?"
"Perhaps," he said noncommittally.
"Oh, but you must!" She tossed her head, sending he glittering diamond earbobs she wore swinging. "Simply everyone will be there."
"A temptation indeed."
"Do you have an invitation? I could get one for you."
"I have an invitation, but I'm afraid I don't know exactly what my grandfather has planned for the evening, and until I discover his plans, I mustn't commit to any of my own."
Lady Katerina made a moue, and began talking about the clothes she had ordered that day. Richard finally dragged her away with a reminder of a promise made to ride in the park with somebody. With a final toss of her head, she called out, "Tonight, Lord Harding!"
"Tonight," he lied.
A sparkle on the pavement caught his eye, and he leaned down. It was one of Lady Katerina's diamond earrings. It must have dropped off, and no wonder, with all the head-tossing she'd been doing.
He looked up just in time to see the carriage they'd climbed into turn the corner. Well, blast. He was going to have to make a visit to Richard to drop it off. With his luck, Lady Katerina would be there when he did.
He shoved the diamond forcefully into his vest pocket, then groaned as he realized that his watch, with its glass face, was also in there. He snatched both out to survey the damage, and then blinked at the pristine glass face. But--he was sure that an edge of the diamond had scraped against the face . . . he had felt the vibration.
His brows furrowed, he deliberately pushed the diamond against the glass and drew it across, hard. He peered at the watch again.
Now that was odd.
Among his other business ventures, Lucas owned a partial share in a jeweler's shop on Bond Street. He was a frequent visitor when in town, so John Bucksley wasn't surprised to see him walk in the door. He was surprised by his request, though.
Lucas leaned against the counter, tapping the glass lightly with his index finger. "So? Am I correct?"
Bucksley took the loupe out of his eye. "Indeed, my lord. They're marvelous work--I'm surprised that you were able to spot it at all--but they're definitely paste gems."
Lucas picked the earring up off the counter. "Interesting," he said, tossing it lightly in the air. "Very interesting."
Now what was the so-rich, so-modish Lady Katerina Dominova doing wearing fake diamonds?
Chapter Four Posted on Monday, 2 October 2000
Only half a minute passed between the time when Lucas had knocked and the time the heavy oaken front door of Richard Fiennes' town house swung open. Richard's staff was exceptionally well trained.
"My lord Harding," the butler said, and bowed. "His lordship is not in this morning, but if you should like to leave a note--"
"Is the Lady Katerina in?" Lucas broke in ruthlessly.
"She is, my lord."
"I will see her."
The butler didn't so much as blink. "Do come in, my lord."
He stood in the foyer only a moment before the butler returned. "Her ladyship will see you in the yellow salon. If you'd be so kind as to follow me--?"
Lady Katerina rose as he entered the room. "My lord Harding," she cooed. "How lovely to see you."
"My lady," he said, bowing over her hand.
"And to what do I owe the honor of this visit?" she asked coyly, after she had rung for tea and settled herself back on the settee.
He stripped off his gloves and, dipping a hand into his pocket, came out with her faux earring. "I discovered this yesterday afternoon," he said, watching her carefully. "I think I am right in assuming it's yours?"
Her eyes flashed wide for a moment, and then with a cry of delight, she stretched out her hands towards the bauble. "My earring!" she cried. "Oh, where did you ever find it, my lord? I have been so worried!"
"It was on the cobbles just after you and your cousin departed. I think it must have fallen off."
"How lucky it is that you found it! Oh, if some little urchin had gotten it, I might never have gotten it back!"
He said baldly, "And you would be out perhaps--oh--ten pounds."
Something flickered in her eyes before the look of confusion spread out over her features. "Whatever do you mean, my lord? Surely diamonds are not so plentiful in this country that earrings can be sold for a mere ten pounds?"
He held the earring up, swinging it lightly so it glittered in the light. "You must know these are paste, my lady?"
She blinked, slowly, and her hands dropped back to her sides. "I--do not know this word, paste."
"Do you perhaps know the word, fake?"
"Do you mean--that which is not real?" She gasped aloud. "You mean those are not--real diamonds?"
"A fine act, my lady," he said gently.
Her eyes slipped away. "You must understand," she said. "The cost of living in London . . ."
"Gowns . . . jewels . . . gambling . . . horseflesh," Lucas murmured, oddly disappointed. So it was only that--someone with too little sense to handle too little money.
"I am ashamed to admit it . . . but," she straightened her spine, "one must keep up appearances, after all."
"And she is too proud to ask me for help," someone said from behind him.
Lucas turned to see Richard in the doorway, a defensive set to his shoulders. "Fiennes," he said, nodding.
"Harding," Richard said in return, and came in. "I must ask you for your word not to spread this," he said, settling himself by his cousin.
"My word," Lucas said. "I have no reason to spread it, anyway," he added.
Some of the stiffness went out of Lady Katerina's stance. "Thank you, my lord," she said, almost humbly. "May I have my earring back?"
He glanced down at it, still cupped in his hand. "Of course," he murmured, and set it into her outstretched hand.
She tucked it into her pocket and rose, and he instinctively got to his feet, as did Richard. "I would not want to keep you," she said demurely, looking pointedly at the door.
Here's your hat, what's your hurry, Lucas thought ironically as he bowed and murmured his goodbyes. But he could concede that she would want to be swiftly rid of him. He was surprised at how gracefully she had behaved throughout, actually. He had half-expected storms of tears and blubbered excuses.
"My lord has I think forgotten his gloves," the butler intoned.
Lucas looked down at his hands and realized the butler was right. "I can get them myself," he said, waving the butler away. "I know where I put them. Really, it's nothing."
The yellow salon was only a short distance away, and as Lucas approached it, he could hear the rise and fall of voices from within. The door was open a crack and Lucas was about to knock and announce himself when the actual words registered.
"Gads, Kat, I'll never understand how you make up those clankers at a moment's notice," Richard was saying. "Keep up appearances, indeed!"
"You learn to lie easily after a time, Richard," said a brisk, Irish-accented female voice.
"Yes, but with such a straight face! No, not even straight--you're wasted on this work, Kat. You should be onstage."
"Yes, and give Grandfather an apoplexy," the female voice--Lady Katerina? could it possibly be?--continued. "As I've said before, it's a skill in my line of work."
Lucas pushed the door open and leaned against the doorjamb. "And just what kind of work would that be?" he inquired silkily.
The blond head and the red snapped up, with identical looks of mingled dismay and shock.
She recovered first, leaping to her feet and exclaiming in a voice that was once again thick with the tinge of Mother Russia, "What are you doing here?"
"I suddenly remembered that I left my gloves," Lucas said, indicating where they lay on the arm of the chair he had occupied. "Most fortunate I did, yes?"
"Indeed." Her voice was Arctic.
Lucas examined his nails. "You know, the door was a little open. Anyone in the hall could hear your conversation." He looked up, and smiled. "I did. And I find myself most devilishly interested in you all of a sudden, Lady Katerina . . . or whoever you are."
Chapter Five Posted on Wednesday, 18 October 2000
Kathleen Penelope O'Leary stood in her cousin's yellow salon, staring into the clever grey eyes that had penetrated her disguise. Blast, was all she could think. Oh, blast. Why did it have to be him?
Richard's voice rose, furious with a tinge of panic. "What d'you mean, whoever she is? What's that supposed to mean? I'll meet you for this, Harding!"
"Richard!" Kathleen said sharply, and in her regular voice. "It's no use. He's already figured it out. Very clever of you, my lord."
He inclined his dark head. "I take it, then," he said, "that you are not, as you say, Russian nobility?"
"Do you really need an answer to that?"
"No. But I should like to know who you really are, and the reason for the masquerade."
Richard exclaimed, "None of your business, Harding!"
Kathleen announced, "I'll ring for tea."
Lucas murmured, "How civilized."
"Kathleen, he doesn't need to know a thing!"
"Tea for three, please, Hopkins."
"He could spoil everything!"
"Do sit down, my lord."
"This is an extremely delicate matter!"
"I do have your word not to air any of this?"
"Kathleen!"
"My word, Miss . . . ?"
"O'Leary. Kathleen O'Leary."
"Charmed."
Miss Kathleen O'Leary served the tea with the utter control of a duchess, something Lucas had to admire. Her whole plot--whatever it was--had just fallen down around her ears, and yet she inquired in a perfectly calm voice as to one lump or two.
"Two," he said, and studied the strawberry cake on the platter. His sweet tooth was demanding tribute.
So was his curiosity. "Miss O'Leary," he said.
She passed him his cup and saucer. "My lord?"
"What--exactly--is going on here?"
She lifted her teacup to her lips and took a sip. "Our aim," she said, "is the prevention of the planned assassination of his Royal Highness Prince George IV Augusta Frederick Hanover of England." She smiled brilliantly. "Scone?"
He took one. "Interesting," he said in a level voice.
"We think so," Kathleen replied.
He cocked his head, studying her with narrowed eyes. "Perhaps you'd better start at the beginning."
There was a squawk from Richard, which they both ignored.
"One month ago," she said, "a young man of the servant class came to Bow Street, bearing news of an assassination in planning. His master and three other men were involved, he stated, and it would take place at a major social event within the next three months."
Lucas debated over a cucumber sandwich. "And his proof?"
"In return for a monetary reward--"
"Naturally."
"--he would supply the names of all the participants in the plot and the specifics of same."
Lucas lifted his eyes to hers. "And what then?"
Kathleen shrugged, a wry smile quirking her lips. "Bow Street is not comprised of rich men, my lord. He was laughed out of the building. Additionally, all four men were described as rich, influential, and highly placed, and Bow Street is not comprised of stupid men, either."
Lucas acknowledged this; it was unfair, but a nobleman, especially a rich and influential one, seemed to have far more rights in England then a commoner. If a nobleman were accused, whether justly or unjustly, the punishment would fall on the Bow Street Runner responsible. "And how did this all lead to your pose as the delightful Lady Katerina Dominova?"
Her lips twitched again at that. She knew full well that she had not been delightful to him. She had made sure of it. "The young man turned up in the Thames three days later."
Lucas shrugged. "A robbery."
"His wallet was still in his jacket."
"Then perhaps he slipped in whilst drunk."
"How did he get the thirteen stab wounds in his back, then?"
Lucas paused with his cup halfway to his lips. "That would be a feat indeed."
"Indeed."
"Apparently his master discovered his little side trip."
"That's what my cousin thought."
"Your cousin?" Lucas glanced at Richard, who was sulking over his tea.
Kathleen followed his glance. "On the other side."
"The Irish side," Richard muttered into his cup. Like any good English nobleman, he pronounced the word Irish as one might pronounce, contagious disease, or manual labor.
His cousin shot him a glance that should by rights have killed him, buried him, and started the grass growing again. "My cousin Ryan works at Bow Street," she explained to Lucas. "He initiated the investigation by sending for me. It's a hobby of mine to poke around a puzzle. We decided that I should insinuate myself into society and discover who it was that would have the most reason or benefit the most. Ryan's men would do the rest."
"And the disguise?"
She sent him a look. "Really, sir. An Irishwoman of middling fortune and meagre social connections to enter into the highest echelon, as it was necessary I must? Of course not."
"But a Russian duchess . . ." Lucas murmured.
"Exactly." She poured herself more tea. "Now you have the whole sordid story, and you gave your word to hold your tongue."
Lucas had leaned back in his chair. His eyes were glinting behind lowered lids, and his mobile mouth was curved up ever so slightly. "I've changed my mind."
Her cup clattered against the saucer. "What do you mean?"
He leaned forward. "I'll keep my silence if . . ."
"If?" she repeated dangerously.
"You let me play too."
Chapter Six Posted on Monday, 6 November 2000
Kathleen blew out a breath of exasperation and turned to her cousin. "For heaven's sake, Richard, what would you have me do?"
It had been two and a half days since the confrontation in the yellow salon, and for most of it, her cousin had been playing the same tune.
"Something," he said furiously. "Something, Kat! One of your clever lies--where were those?"
She slapped her fan against the coach's velvet upholstery. "He'd already seen straight through us. For God's sake, it would have been the height of folly to continue after that."
"But did you have to tell him everything? And did you have to let him join us?"
"He had us backed into a corner. He knew it, and I knew it, and I don't understand why you don't. Richard, why are you so vehemently opposed to Lord Harding's involvement anyway?"
"He has no place to be interfering," Richard said stiffly. "We could do this ourselves."
"Three heads are better then two." Especially when one of the heads was as needle-witted as Lord Lucas Harding's.
"I just want to finish this up so we can get married."
Oh dear. "Richard . . ."
"Come now, Kat, you know it's the best solution."
"For whom?" Kathleen exclaimed, as she had in every conversation concerning Richard's proposal, tendered to her the same night she had arrived in London.
Richard answered her as he had for the past two weeks. "For both of us! It's really time I got married and had sons--and Kat, you're twenty-five--"
"Twenty-three--"
"And you must agree that it's likely the last chance you'll get for marriage. I have lands and possessions and, Kat," he leaned forward to grab her gloved hands, "I love you."
She gently worked her fingers loose of his crushing grip. "Richard," she said on a sigh. "I've told you over and over, I shall not marry you."
"But why ever not?"
"It's not you. I don't want to marry, that's all."
"You're a woman," he said with the air of one delivering an unshakeable argument. "All women want to be married."
"I won't debate this with you. My answer, as it has been, is no."
"You'll feel differently soon enough," he said confidently. "I'll make you feel differently."
Kathleen closed her eyes and prayed for strength.
"Lady Dominova," the duchess cooed, curtseying. "What an honor to welcome you to my little soiree."
"Please," Kathleen said in her Katerina voice, giving a low curtsey in her turn. "the honor is all mine."
She gathered her voluminous emerald skirts and processed down the stairs, Richard just behind her. "Kat," he said in a low voice, obviously wishing to continue their discussion from the coach.
She spun on her heel, taking him by surprise. "Cousin, could I trouble you for a cup of punch?" She smiled sweetly. "I'm terribly thirsty."
He eyed her suspiciously, but he couldn't refuse while surrounded by the ton. He bowed and headed in the direction of the refreshments room, and she breathed a low, slow sigh of relief.
"Now what's a pretty thing like you doing alone?"
Kathleen spun, her skirts flaring out. Behind her stood a man, tall and lean, but with a shock of pure white hair and glinting grey eyes. A smile was playing around his mouth.
Her instincts told her she had nothing to fear from this old man, and she relaxed and smiled back. "I am alone by chance only, I assure you, sir. My escort is even now bringing me a cup of punch."
"That sorry stuff?"
"Yes, well, 'tis all we have at the moment." She gave him a sly smile. "Now if someone were to liven it up--"
He gave a bark of laughter. "Too bad I left my flask at home." He gave a low, elegant bow. "The Duke of Kilroy, at your service, m'lady."
She curtseyed. "Lady Katerina Dominova, Your Grace."
"Ah, I've heard of you."
"As I have of you," she returned, studying him. There was something about those eyes . . .
He offered her his arm. "A turn about the room, m'lady?"
She took it. "I should be honored."
They progressed slowly around the perimeter of the ballroom, the duke pointing out the medley of acquaintances they passed, and telling stories that had Kathleen in whoops of laughter. "You are wicked, Your Grace," she gasped, after a particularly racy anecdote about himself and the Duchess of Stanholpe. "Positively depraved."
He shook his white head sadly. "Not any longer, I'm afraid," he announced with mostly assumed mournfulness. "That sort of thing is better left to my grandson."
"Your grandson?"
"A fine boy--too much like me, I think. Thirty years old," he confided, "and no wife yet. Not a single great-grandbaby to be seen. Now I ask of you."
"Shameful," she agreed. "Positively degenerate."
"I know, I know," the duke sighed. "And yet he grins at me, and I can't castigate the lad for anything." He slanted her a mischievous look. "Don't 'spose you'd agree to an arranged marriage, lass? I'm terribly rich, and it would all go to him when I pop off."
She laughed aloud. "I might have to see him first, Your Grace," she joked. "Riches are all very well, but I do have to face him over the breakfast table every morning."
"A clever thought, lass. Well, look to your heart's content--he's coming this way."
She looked up obediently, and her heart gave the oddest leap. "Goodness," she said faintly.
"Comely boy, isn't he?" the duke said proudly. "Takes after me."
He did at that--right down the clever silvery eyes. No wonder they had seemed so familiar. "My lord Harding," she said, curtseying.
He bowed before her. "Lady Dominova."
"What, d'you know the lass?"
"Of course, Grandpops, and I ought to have predicted that you would make her acquaintance sooner or later."
The duke laughed richly. "Well, what do you think of him, lass?"
She tilted her head and made herself smile. "A bit too pretty, I think," she said offhandedly. "Much too high-maintenance for my blood."
"Hah!" the duke whooped. "That for you, lad."
"I am crushed," Lucas grinned. "But perhaps her ladyship could withstand my company for the duration of a dance."
"Go on," the duke said. "I'll be well enough by myself."
After that, Kathleen could hardly say no.
Grandpops smirked as he watched them take their places in the dance. He clasped his hands behind his back and rocked back on his heels. Lovely lass, he thought. Good blood. She would make him fine great-grandbabies.
Chapter Seven Posted on Sunday, 19 November 2000
"I might have known."
The rueful tone of Lucas' voice made Kathleen look up in surprise. "Might have known what?"
His eyes laughed as they moved through the intricate steps of the dance. "That Grandpops would find you. If there's a lovely, lively, spirited woman within a mile of him, that mustachioed miscreant at her side in a heartbeat, and charming her in another."
"Mustachioed miscreant," she echoed, with a laugh of her own. "Tell me, my lord, have you ever thought of writing novels? You would really delight in toying with the lives of your innocent creations, I think."
He flashed her a quick grin. "I have much more fun doing it in real life. Tell me," he said, while she was still blinking at him, "what do you think of Freddie Jameson? He's standing over there by the horror in the puce silk."
As the steps of the dance separated them, she cast a quick look in the direction he had indicated. She recognized at once the man she saw.
"A fool and a fop," was her pithy summation.
He was opening his mouth when she added, "With a dangerous taste for spirits and wild bets, and a taste for equally dangerous games. His fortune is utterly decimated, and he's just the sort of idiot who might get involved in a scheme if it would restore the plumpness of his pockets."
He closed his mouth again, then grinned. "Impressive."
Her lips quirked. "Your approval, my lord, warms the cockles of my heart."
"If I believed that, I should be a greater fool then Freddie Jameson," he retorted.
She expressed her opinion of that possibility with a pithy "Ha!"
"Are you free tomorrow?"
"When?"
"The afternoon. Five o'clock."
"Richard will be at his club."
"I was asking after yourself."
She floundered. For some reason, she shied away from the thought of being alone with this charmer. "I might be driving out with someone."
"Whom?"
"Lord Yardley," she said at random.
"A feat indeed," Lucas remarked, "as he's in the country."
Caught. "Goodness, I shall scold him," she murmured.
"You're utterly free, aren't you?"
"Yes," she admitted.
"No," he contradicted.
"What?"
His eyes dared her to object. "You're driving out with me."
"Am I?"
"Yes." He was, she realized, just waiting for her to kick his shins--or at least the verbal equivalent.
"Very well," she murmured demurely.
To his credit, he caught himself before his jaw dropped more then half an inch.
"Five o'clock?"
"Five o'clock."
"You know, boy," Grandpops remarked as their coach jounced through the cobbled streets, "you're even more of a slowtop then I thought you."
Lucas, staring pensively out the window, looked up. By the irregular light of the street lamps, he could just see his grandfather's expression. "How so, Grandpops?"
"How long have you known that lass?"
Lucas calculated. He had known the silly, shallow mask named Katerina Dominova for a week and a half--but he had known the real woman, Kathleen O'Leary, for . . . "Almost three days."
"Three days."
"Three days."
"Three whole days."
Lucas felt called upon to correct this. "A little less, perhaps."
His grandfather didn't appear to notice. "And you've not swept her off her feet?"
"She seems to be singularly unsweepable."
Grandpops let out a huff of breath and sagged against the seat. "Well, that's it," he said mournfully. "Do notify the footmen, boy."
"Of what, Grandpops?"
His grandfather closed his eyes. "The fact that they'll have to carry me out of this carriage and off to my grave."
"Oh, really." Lucas yawned widely. "Witness me devastated."
"My old heart can't take it," the duke proclaimed, patting his chest as if searching for a heartbeat.
"And what can't it take, Grandpops?" his grandson asked idly, propping one ankle on the other knee.
His grandfather opened his eyes and fixed him with a razor-sharp glare. "I never thought I'd live to see the day when a Harding allowed a challenge like that Lady Dominova to pass him by. It's unnatural, I tell you. Unnatural!"
"Now, Grandpops, I only said that I had not yet swept her off her feet. I never said that I wouldn't."
All pretense of delicacy disappeared as his grandfather bounded up to ramrod-straightness in the seat. "Are you saying you have a plan, boy?"
"Oh, yes." Lucas leaned back against the cushions and folded his arms. In the lamps' light, his face crinkled into a wicked grin. "I have a plan."
"Hah!" his grandfather whooped. "Now that's more like it!"
Part Eight
Lucas stepped up to the door of the Fiennes townhouse just his pocket watch showed five o'clock. He knew it said five o'clock because he had waited in the phaeton until it said four fifty-nine, then gotten down. Wouldn't want to appear too eager, after all.
Even if he was.
Lucas had his plan all worked out. It had taken him some time, because Kathleen O'Leary was nothing like the women he usually dealt with. He was inclined to think she was nothing like any other woman on the face of the planet. Utterly fearless, utterly brilliant, and utterly unpredictable--something like him.
And for the first time in his life, Lucas was head-over-heels . . .
. . . intrigued.
Intrigued, he reminded himself, ignoring the tiny little impertinant portion of his brain that wanted to remove the -trigued from that word and add a space and love.
His plan was very basic, but he had to remind himself of a few things. She was not a woman to be charmed by pretty words--she could bend them out of shape and toss them right back at his head. She was not a woman to be seduced by pretty things--she would ask why instead of gleefully grabbing them. He could not woo her as he might a normal woman because, honestly, she wasn't.
So he was going to lead Kathleen O'Leary the merriest dance she had ever had. He would keep her constantly off-balance, until she didn't know which way was up. He would work on her mystery, because he had promised--and because, next to her, it was the most interesting thing to come his way in two and a half years--but between the two of them, all bets were off.
All's fair . . .
And with luck, when she finally looked around for someone to cling to, he would be right there.
Lucas put away his pocket watch and knocked at the door.
Kathleen was halfway down the stairs when she heard the knock.
All right, Kathleen, she lectured herself. You're going to remember your resolutions.
Number one.
You are not to allow yourself to be charmed by Lucas Harding.
Although how she was going to manage that . . .
Number two.
You are not to allow Lucas Harding anywhere close to you.
Number three.
You are not to allow yourself, even a little, to fall in love with Lucas Harding.
As well ask the rain not to fall, she thought. There wasn't a woman in the world who could resist Lucas Harding.
She had to, Kathleen told herself. When she went back to Ireland, it would be--it must be--with a heart as free and unfettered as when she had rolled into London. Anything else would be courting disaster. She knew what happened to hopeless lovers. She had seen her own mother starve to death with a full plate.
Not Kathleen.
Never Kathleen.
"Lord Lucas Harding has arrived, mum," the butler intoned.
"Thank you," she said, descending the remainder of the stairs as she pulled on her gloves.
She fought to keep her face impassive as she held out her hand to Lucas. "Good afternoon, my lord."
"Good afternoon, Katya."
She looked up sharply. "Katya?"
His mouth was perfectly solemn, but his eyes danced. "I'm sure you must have heard the nickname before, Katerina."
"I have not given you permission to use my first name," she said at random. "Or any sort of diminuitive."
"Oh, I never ask permission," he said airily, taking her hand--her hand? "Come along, the horses are waiting. It's not good to keep them standing."
Remember your resolutions, Kathleen.
Resolutions? What resolutions?
Part Nine
"As I see it," Lucas said, expertly tooling the tricky high-perch phaeton through Hyde Park's five o'clock social hour, "the rub is that--good day to you, Lady Larkin--the man simply has too many enemies for us to narrow them to a manageable number without a prodigious amount of work."
"Don't tell me you're afraid of work," she needled gently.
"Me?" He laughed, his teeth flashing white in his tanned face. "S'blood, no, but I wonder if we have the time. The assassins could be plotting the final touches as we speak."
Kathleen twirled her parasol between her fingers. "I think we are safe for the next little bit. Ryan has men watching the Prince's every move. And I must agree with you, and add that besides political motives, there could be financial or personal ones, as well. I'm sure Prinny's death would affect any number of his creditors and debtors. Not to mention--Sir Harold, how lovely to see you--Princess Caroline. As well as his mistresses."
He flashed her an amused look. "Why, Katya, I'm shocked. A gently bred lady does not have knowledge of such things."
"A ninny has no knowledge of such things," she retorted. "A gently bred lady knows, but pretends not to. My mother raised no fools, my lord."
"Lucas," he said.
She blinked at him, thrown momentarily off her stride. "Pardon me?"
"I would like you to call me Lucas."
"Why?"
"Why, because I think it would sound so much better on your lips then that rather formal my lord, don't you agree?" When she was silent, he added, "I would like to find out, at least."
It was a breach of propriety, and of the walls she was fighting to build around her heart. Yet--his eyes were so warm.
She jerked her gaze away and stared fixedly at the horse. "Oh, very well, then. Lucas," she said, with the air of one granting a great favor.
"Was that so hard, then?"
She looked back at him involuntarily and--oh, drat. His eyes were laughing so merrily that her traitorous mouth began to curve.
Well, all right. She could be a little charmed, couldn't she? Just a very little. And she could go along with his teasing . . . just a very little. "What's the verdict, then?" she asked lightly.
"I like it," he said. "Very much."
Every thought slowly leaked out of her head through her ears.
It was a good thing that someone chose that moment to call out, "Lucas!"
Both their heads jerked around, and Kathleen saw a lively-looking, bright-eyed young woman, on the arm of a tall man who would have looked rather forbidding had he not been smiling so.
"Lucas," the lady exclaimed. "Grandpops said you might be here."
"Elizabeth! Darce! Whatever are you doing in town?" Lucas manuvered his phaeton to the side of the path, out of the traffic, then leapt out to clap the man on the back and kiss the lady on the cheek.
"I had a bit of business to tend to," the man replied, "and Elizabeth wanted the twins to see London."
"The twins are here as well? My God, why did you not send a card?"
"Well, we did go round to Kilroy place," the lady twinkled. "But, Lucas, have your manners deteriorated so? Who is this lady you have abandoned in your phaeton?"
Lucas said involuntarily, "Oh, Lord," and pivoted to swing Katya down from the high perch. He'd forgotten that she, in her layers and layers of skirt and petticoat, could not make her way to the ground with his grace or modesty. "Sorry, Katya," he murmured, keeping her in his arms for the sensation alone.
"That is quite all right, my lord," she said, stepping away.
Her voice was Russian and coy again, and he looked at her in surprise. But of course--she did not know Darcy and Lizzy. She would be Katerina with them, and not Kathleen.
He turned in time to see his friends exchanging a look he saw so often between married people. Not one of the laughing, loving looks--although he saw enough of those between the two--but a sort of silent communication born of closeness and familiarity, one that said many more things then an hour's conversation could have held.
He cleared his throat. "May I introduce Miss O'Leary?" When Katya's fingers dug into his inner elbow, he said firmly, "Katya, two of my closest friends, Mr and Mrs. Darcy. I keep no secrets from them."
She flashed him a look that promised retribution, but stepped forward to curtsey in reponse to Darcy's bow and Elizabeth's curtsey. "So pleased to meet you," she murmured--in her real voice, Lucas realized, and felt a rush of relief. She would back him up.
Elizabeth was studying the other lady with her penetrating eyes. "What a lovely accent you have. I can't quite identify it."
Katya smiled, but her eyes remained watchful. She might trust him, but she would reserve judgement on these two. Lucas grinned foolishly.
"'Tis Irish, Mrs. Darcy," Katya was saying.
"How interesting! It sounded almost Russian a moment ago--but how the ears do trick one. Are you lately come from Ireland?"
"Yes. I am visiting my cousin for a time."
"And how are you acquainted with our Lucas?"
"He is a schoolfellow of my cousin's."
"And I am helping her with a certain--ah--puzzle," Lucas put in. "Perhaps you could help."
Katya turned slightly, her eyes boring into his. "My lord, a word if you please."
"Excuse me," Lucas said to his friends. "What is it?" he asked her when they had strolled a short distance away.
She tilted her parasol so that their faces were shielded from the other couple, who looked to be carrying on their own sotto voce conversation. "What are you doing?"
"Asking a friend's assistance," he said calmly.
"Are you mad? There is a reason that this must be kept quiet! Do you even know the panic that could be caused if word of this leaked out?"
"Elizabeth and Darce have quite enough sense to keep their mouths shut, Katya! And they rarely go about in society at any rate."
"Then what help could they be?"
"I said they rarely went about in society--but Darce is an astute businessman. He of all people might know who in the business world would have the power, the motive, and the wherewithal to assassinate the Prince--if any. And Elizabeth--well, Elizabeth is a clever observer, as you saw. Another pair of eyes is always useful."
Her lips pursed. "And you trust them."
His eyes were steady. "With my life."
She allowed her parasol to dip slightly so that she could see the others. "Will they be here long?"
"You must ask them that." He brushed his fingers across one of the fiery curls that lay on her shoulder. "Katya," he said gently. "Trust me a little, won't you?"
She bit her lip and looked away. "Damn you, anyway, Lucas Harding."
He grinned. Then, because they were shielded from every eye by that parasol, he dropped a quick kiss on her lips. "Thank you."
She was still gaping at him when he invited the Darcys back to Kilroy Place, "for this is not a matter to be explained at the side of a road, you know."
Elizabeth's brows raised as she looked at the red-headed lady who had such a claim on Lucas. "I think not."
Chapter Ten Posted on Friday, 22 December 2000
"It seems incredible," Elizabeth exclaimed. She sat on a settee in the green salon at Kilroy Place, her husband at her side. Lucas and Katya sat on an identical piece of furniture directly opposite. On the tables at each end of the settees sat dishes of tea, unsipped and long grown cold.
"But 'tis true, Lizzy," Lucas said. His eyes were sparkling. "And we only have a limited amount of time to smoke the assassins out. We don't even know the limit."
Darcy was shaking his head. "But who would want the Prince dead? He would only be replaced by his brother, after all. They're all alike--I can't think of what it would change for the country."
"And that's why we need you to look about the business world and consider just who would benefit by the Prince's death," Lucas explained.
"I cannot think of anyone with the motives to do this sort of thing, never mind the resources," Darcy said.
Elizabeth spoke up. "How do you know it wasn't just a hoax? Some trick to get money, perhaps? And then he just happened to meet with an unfortunate end."
"We considered that," Katya said. "Exhaustively. But as I said, the body remained fully dressed and in possession of all belongings. The area of the Thames where it was found is surrounded by a slum. If the man had been murdered there, everything would have been gone, right down the skin."
Lucas picked up the explanation. "Even someone who had no need of extra clothing would have picked up the purse, at least. The only people who can afford to throw such an opportunity away are the upper class. And who would murder their manservant without a very strong reason? Half of them don't even acknowledge servants as human. They'd be more likely to turn them off without a reference then kill them. Only someone with a secret to protect would resort to killing."
"So by the murder, we know they know we know," Katya put in. Her eyes widened. "Lucas! D'you suppose they know we know they know we know?"
Darcy said, "What?"
Elizabeth said, "Who?"
Lucas said, "Possibly. Possibly not."
"Because if not--why then, we have the advantage still."
Darcy said helplessly, "Lucas--!"
Elizabeth was laughing, and the two across from her gave her a quizzical look. "It's just--" she said in between spurts of mirth, "oh--you two. You leave us in the dust, and you're completely unaware."
Lucas began to laugh. "Sorry," he said. "Sorry. What Katya means is that the assassin might think this is ended by the murder. If he doesn't know we're pursuing him, we still have a slight advantage. He won't be so circumspect, and he won't be as swift about what he does do."
It took a moment for them to reason it out, and then Darcy nodded. "All right. But are you sure they don't know?"
Katya sighed. "Unfortunately, we can't afford to depend on it."
They discussed the case for several more minutes. Then, promising to meet them at a concert to be held that night, Katya rose and took her leave. "I'll walk," she told Lucas. "You see to your guests." She curtseyed to the Darcys one more time and left.
Lucas closed the door behind her and turned around. "Well? What do you think?"
Darcy toasted him with his ice-cold tea. "Odysseus," he said, "you've found your Penelope."
It was an old, obscure nickname, stemming from the time they'd been studying the Iliad and the Odyssey at school. Lucas, with his wily ways, was naturally the man of many tricks, Odysseus. Darcy, with his stubborn pride, had been dubbed Achilles, for the Greek hero who had refused to fight in the Trojan War until one of his allies apologized to him. Bings had been named Patroclus, for the gentle, sweet-natured comrade who supported Achilles in all things.
Penelope was Odysseus's wife, who had waited for him to return for twenty years, and fended off the suitors who would take their kingdom with subtle, brilliant trickery. She was his perfect match, and he hers.
Lucas laughed. "Isn't she wonderful?"
"I like her very much," Elizabeth said, pouring out more tea. "But remember, O wily one, that Penelope had a few tests for her husband before she welcomed him back."
Lucas' brow furrowed. "What d'you mean by that?"
She raised the tea to her lips, the better to hide the smile that curved them. "Just that Katya might not fall in with your plans so easily as you might think."
Part Twelve
Sitting at her dressing-room table, Katya surveyed herself. Her curls were caught up into a wine-red velvet band, in a style whose artlessness had taken nearly an hour to construct. Her diamonds were fake, but they glittered with her every movement anyway. Her dress, the same wine-red velvet as her hair band with accents of blue, featured a low, square neckline, tiny cap sleeves, and a sleek cut.
A woman's armor, she thought, lifting her chin. All the more effective because the enemy isn't even aware of its existence.
She was ready for Lucas Harding.
"Boy?"
"Yes, Grandpops?"
"What are you looking for? You're going to get a crick in your neck!"
They were seated near the back of the spacious room that was the setting for the concert, and Grandpops, Darcy, and Elizabeth had been watching Lucas watch the door for nigh on to half an hour now.
"Perhaps," Elizabeth murmured behind her fan, eyes twinkling, "you should ask whom, rather than what."
Grandpops' face lit. "Ah-hah!" he boomed, pointing a finger at his reddening grandson. "It's that chit! The redhead! Lady Katerina! She's the one we're saving that seat for, hey?"
"She's late," Lucas defended himself. "It's not like her."
"She's toying with you, boy."
A feminine laugh was heard from the doorway, and Lucas practically broke his neck whipping his head around.
Grandpops howled with glee. "And good on her if she is."
Lucas' retort was destined to go unsaid, for Katya slipped into the room at that very moment. It was only thanks to the greatest self-control that Lucas did not leap to his feet in order to hail her over to the seat beside him.
"Finally," he whispered, seating himself on the end of the row and allowing her the second chair in, next to his grandfather. "What kept you?"
"Richard took the carriage," she whispered back.
"You could've sent a note round."
"I like walking."
"At this time of night?"
"It's six o'clock!"
"We're driving you home."
"Very well," she said placidly, and then leaned over to Grandpops. "Your Grace? Might I switch seats with you? I cannot see."
Before Lucas quite knew what was happening, he was hip-to-hip with his snickering grandfather rather then with Katya. He scowled, Darcy coughed back his laugh, Elizabeth chuckled, Grandpops chortled into his mustache, and there was a chorus of "Shhhhhh"s from around them as the music started.
In the middle of it all, Katya sat bland-faced, idly plying her fan.
"I like your diamonds," he told her at intermission.
"Thank you," she said in the insipid tone she'd affected all evening.
"Aren't you glad I returned them to you?"
Blast. She'd forgotten, but these were the diamond earrings that had ultimately blown her cover. "Yes, excessively," she said in a bored voice.
"Come along with me," he said, taking her hand. "The refreshment room is just over there."
She extricated it neatly. "I think I'll look over the program."
He gave her a narrow-eyed look, but ultimately left her in peace. Since the Darcys and his grandfather had already repaired to the refreshment room, it gave her the privacy she craved to let out a long sigh. This business of fending him off was proving more difficult then she'd anticipated.
A plaintive male voice caught her attention. "Lud, Sophy, I don't know why we can't go--the music's all done with!"
"No, it isn't," a female voice replied. "It's just the intermission, Tony. Now don't pout. You promised you'd bring me a week ago and more."
"I don't even know what they're saying! It's all in French or some heathen language like that."
At that, Katya turned right around. "The main of it," she said, "is in Italian."
The male blinked at her. He was a dark-haired boy--and boy, for all his height, for all the fashionably fitted clothing and stylishly rumpled hair, was the only word that could be applied to him. There was an innocent openness to his face that made her guess his years to be slightly less in total then her own.
"Italian, French," he mumbled, sliding down in his chair until he was practically sitting on his neck. "What's the difference? I can't understand either one of 'em."
The girl beside him, blond, blue-eyed, and certainly younger, gave him the sort of impatient look that all sisters, everywhere, had perfected into an art form. "Honestly, Tony, you needn't understand. Just listen to the music." She offered Katya a bright smile. "I'm Miss Sophia deWinter--and that uncultured lout is my older brother, Lord Tony."
"Lady Katerina Dominova," Katya replied. "So pleased. You are a devotee of music, then?"
Sophia's eyes lit up. "Oh, yes," she breathed. "I adore music. I've been pestering Tony all season to bring me to a concert." She wrinkled her nose at her brother. "But he's sooooooo busy he can't take one evening--"
"Cut line, Soph," he grumbled. "You're here, aren't you?"
She grinned impishly and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. "Yes, o best of brothers, I am. And I'm enjoying myself excessively."
"I'm your only brother," he said, but he was smiling again.
"You have a lovely accent," was Sophia's next observation to Katya. "Are you a visitor to England?"
"Yes, from Russia."
"Ah, famous!" Tony exclaimed, sitting up. "Have you traveled a great deal, my lady?"
"Oh dear," was his sister's sotto voce comment. "You've gotten him started."
"Oh, some," Katya said. "Not so much as I'd like to, but in the past two years, it has been easier."
Lord Tony nodded knowledgably. "Because the war is over."
"Indeed--the Continent is far safer now that the Corsican is gone and the monarchy is back in power in France."
Lord Tony's eyes slid away. "Well, perhaps safer for us," he said. "But perhaps not better for the French people."
Katya gave him a bright smile. "How so?"
"Perhaps," he said earnestly, and in a low voice--Sophia gave a loud, put-upon sigh-- "the Revolutionists had the right idea."
Katya felt her mind go very still. "Oh?" she said quietly. "Do go on."
With such encouragement, the lordling scooted his chair closer to hers. "The excesses of the French monarchy," he said, "the carelessness of the nobility, all to the detriment of the common Frenchmen--don't you see? To the French people, the Revolution was the only way out."
"Well--true enough, but--need it have been so bloody?" Katya shuddered inwardly at the stories she had heard of the guillotine, of families torn apart, of innocent lives ended forever in the swish of that deadly blade--all for the crime of being born into the nobility. There had been gross neglect on the part of that class as a whole, to be sure, but to paint them all with the same brush . . .
"No, but don't you see? We can avoid that!"
"Katya?" Lucas sat down in the chair next to her. "I've brought you some--"
"My lord," she broke in. "This is Lord Tony deWinter, and his sister Sophia. This is Lord Lucas Harding."
Lucas gave her a quick, sharp look, but murmured the appropriate social nothings.
"We've been having the most fascinating conversation," she said brightly, nibbling at the delicate cookies he'd brought her. Under cover of the chairs, she took his hand and squeezed it significantly. "All about the past troubles in France, and how they could have been avoided."
"How--interesting." Lucas' eyes were bright and lively as he turned them on Lord Tony. "Do tell me more."
As Lord Tony chattered on, arguing for democracy in England and the possible ways of bringing it about, Lucas and Katya listened carefully. Once or twice, they exchanged glances, as the boy's words skated dangerously close to the edge of treason.
"And there are--others who feel this way?" Lucas prodded gently.
"Oh, yes! Quite a few among the nobility have heeded France's warning. We even have a little private club to discuss it all. Would--would you like to come, my lord?" he said shyly.
Lucas' lips stretched into a smile. "I should be extraordinarily interested in all you have to say."
Part Thirteen
"Lord Lucas Harding to see you, my lady."
Katya looked up from pulling her gloves. "Lucas? What?"
He lounged in the doorway, smiling at her. "Want to come for a walk?"
"I can't. I'm going to watch the Parliament sessions." She brushed past him and started to leave.
He caught up in a few swift strides. "I'll go with you."
"I thought you wanted to go for a walk?"
"Well, we are walking, are we not?"
"To the carriage."
"Well, then." He swept her a bow, holding out his hat to indicate the wide-open carriage door. "After you, my lady."
The footman's grin didn't seem to be affected by the glare she threw at its wearer--if anything, it grew bigger.
Lucas leaned back against the squabs, resting one ankle on the other knee. "Any particular reason you're going to Westminster?"
"Richard asked me to come round," she replied, toying with her reticule strings. In direct contrast to Lucas, she was sitting bolt upright on the very edge of the seat. "His bill is coming up for argument, and I suppose he wanted a bit of moral support." She looked up just in time to see the retreating edge of Lucas's expression before it was swallowed by blandness. "What was that for?"
"Nothing."
Her eyes narrowed. "Nothing is ever nothing with you, Lucas Harding."
"How do you know?" he riposted. "Perhaps this time it is."
She delivered her concise, single-word opinion of that.
He laughed aloud. "My lady, do consider my delicate sensibilities."
"Do stop playing about," she ordered. "What is about Richard's bill that makes you look like you're smelling bad fish? You have no seat in Parliament."
"Yet," he said. "And Grandpops does. He's discussed it with me. Neither of us agrees with the methods Richard proposes."
"But something must be done about the labor uprisings," she prodded.
"He is altogether too harsh," Lucas argued back. "Even the mildest of the punishments he proposes would only serve to exacerbate the problem. The fate of a country rests on the mood and the morale of its people--all its people, not just the nobles. It would serve us little to foster discontent among the very people who support our present prosperity."
She tilted her head a little. "Richard would argue that the discontent that exists now is the result of too much leniency on the part of the government."
He gave her a sharp look. "I hope you would not."
She blinked, and then gave a self-conscious laugh. "No. I was playing devil's advocate."
"A sort of test?"
"A sort."
"And did I pass?"
"With flying colors."
He leaned forward so that their faces were mere inches apart. "And for my prize?"
It caught her completely off-guard--nearly two whole seconds passed before her eyes widened, her mouth expanded into an O, and she very swiftly scooted back on the seat.
One thing about Katya, Lucas thought, shaking with silent laughter, she was really cute when she was flustered.
"Did--did you go to Lord Tony's little club yet?" Her voice was a little wobbly, and rather higher then usual, but Katya prided herself that it sounded perfectly normal if one weren't listening too terribly hard.
Or, perhaps, if one were deaf.
Lucas frowned, sitting back. "A funny thing about that. I got a note from him yesterday, explaining that perhaps I'd better not come this week."
She looked up, flusterment forgotten. "Did he say why?"
"That's what's funny--he didn't."
They looked at each other.
"Perhaps--" Katya said.
Lucas shook his head. "Or maybe--" he said.
"No."
They looked at each other again.
"Most curious."
"Most."
At that moment, the carriage slowed and stopped, and the door opened. "Westminster, mum," the footman said, then watched with amusement as Lucas beat Katya down the steps, just so he could hand her out. The nobs were another breed altogether, and no mistake, Geoffrey Herringbone reflected. Nutty as a fruitcake, the lot of 'em, but Covent Garden wasn't a patch on them for sheer entertainment. A' course, this pair were loonier then most. Catch him courting a lady in this ramshackle way!
For all that, it did seem to be working.
His money was on the young lord not lasting another two days before he popped the question. He watched the lady put her nose in the air, and the young lord grin, and decided that the butler, who had put three quid on a week from Tuesday, didn't know what he was talking about.
"Circle the block a few times," Katya instructed the coachman. "The horses need not stand in this breeze. If it looks as if it will take too long, I shall send Geoffrey out to tell you so you may take them home. Lucas?"
He was looking down the street. "Now that's odd."
"What is?" she asked, going over to stand at his side.
"It's the Prince's carriage. I'm sure of it."
"Oh, dear. Why is he here?"
"I don't know. He never attends Parliament."
"Perhaps--for Richard's bill?"
"That could be it."
As one, their strides lengthened.
Halfway across the tiled entryway, Katya paused. "Lucas, listen."
The noise came again, faint but distinct.
"Gunshots."
Lucas broke into a run, and Katya hiked up her skirts to follow.
The door that led to the viewing balcony burst open, and a dark form hurtled out, slamming into Lucas, who skidded backwards. Katya leapt out of the way as the pair tumbled to the floor. Something flew past her and clattered on the floor, and she dove for it.
It was a pistol.
And it was still warm.
"Lucas!" she shrieked. "Lucas, don't let him get away!"
The struggle was so brief that before Katya knew it, Lucas had the young man pinned to the floor.
The door to Parliament's main chambers flew open, banging against the wall, and Richard charged out, pistol in hand. "Stop, you treasonous bastard--"
Katya grabbed him. "Richard, what's happened?"
"Kat, get off--someone shot at the Prince! He must be caught!"
Lucas had hauled Tony deWinter to his feet. "He has been."
"Oh, God," the boy said, in a choked voice.
Just before they were enveloped by a crowd of shouting, swearing men from both balcony and chamber, he cried out to Katya, "I've been thrown to the wolves, don't you see?"
And then he was taken away.
Chapter Fourteen Posted on Saturday, January 20, 2001
"But--but--Tony deWinter," Elizabeth exclaimed. "Whoever could have predicted it? Are you sure--"
Grandpops shook his head. "I looked up just in time to see the boy raise his pistol and fire at the Prince. Half the balcony saw it. Thank God for His Majesty's bodyguards, or the country would be in mourning at this very moment." He took a healthy swallow of brandy and shook his white head.
They were all gathered at Kilroy Place, the Darcys, Lucas, Grandpops, and Katya. The aftermath of the assassination attempt had devoured the latter three's evening, and now, five hours after, was the first they had gotten time to sit down. It was ten at night, and Richard was still talking to the Bow Street Runners.
Lucas was leaning against the window frame, staring out into the night. His brandy sat, untouched, on a nearby table. "You know," he said, "that was a remarkably foolish time and place to make such an attempt."
"How do you mean?" Darcy asked.
Lucas turned to the room. "In public. Surrounded by people. How long did it take for someone to give chase, Grandpops? You saw it."
"There was a moment of--oh--disbelief, I suppose. And incomprehension. But between the shot and young Richard Fiennes seizing a pistol of his own and bursting out the doors, there was a gap of perhaps five seconds. And others followed just as swiftly. What is your point, Lucas?"
"I imagine it was all terribly dramatic," Katya murmured, lifting her tea to her lips. "A grand show."
Lucas' eyes met hers. "Just so."
"The sort of thing a hotheaded boy might think up, is that what you're saying?" Elizabeth said quietly, setting her empty cup and saucer on the table before her.
"Exactly," Lucas answered.
"You think Tony deWinter acted alone, then?" Grandpops asked.
Katya swallowed a mouthful of tea. "Lucas thinks we're meant to think that he acted alone. I don't believe he did."
"He told us he'd been thrown to the wolves," Lucas said. "That implies someone was doing the throwing."
The other three sat straight up. "When did he say this?" Grandpops boomed. "And why didn't you tell us before, boy?"
Lucas shook his head. "We didn't get a chance to. Everything happened so fast."
"It was just before he was taken away," Katya added. "It's been bothering me all afternoon. The whole thing was so . . ."
"Staged," Lucas said, turning to look out at the night again.
"Staged," she agreed. "But who is the director? And is Tony the actor, or the victim?"
"What if he's the director?" Lucas argued.
"No."
"You think not?"
"Perhaps I'm too quick with first impressions, but my instinct is that it's not in him. He's at that dangerous stage of life for a young man--he wants to be grown-up, but he still seeks someone to tell him what to do."
Lucas sighed and rubbed his neck. "We have to talk to him. Where is he, Grandpops? The Tower, I suppose?"
"Aye, the Tower."
"And his trial? When is that? How long do we have?"
"A few days, at best."
"It's too late to be going all over London," Katya said practically. "It's gone eleven, for heaven's sake. We can go in the morning, Lucas."
"First thing."
"First thing."
She was waiting for him on the stoop. "What took you so long? It's nearly seven o'clock."
He smiled at that, even though the shadows under his eyes were nearly as deep as those under hers. "Sorry, but I had trouble with my neckcloth," he said flippantly, offering her his arm.
"You're such a dandy," she said, shaking her head. "I don't know how I stand it, consorting with someone who's so much prettier then I."
At that, he laughed aloud.
Lucas had come in his barouche, confident that the early hour would make driving on the streets of London much swifter then walking, in contrast to the rest of the day. He was right, but only until they reached Lombard Street. There, a fruit cart had overturned, stopping traffic and attracting apple-lovers for miles around.
Lucas had leapt down to scout out the extent of the confusion, leaving Katya to watch the chaos. That was the wonderful thing about London, she thought wryly. Its street vendors, the flower-sellers and apple-purveyors and scandal-sheet-mongers, could always be counted on to seize advantage of a crowd.
And to do it loudly.
"Luvverly violets! Getcher luvverly violets!"
"Apples! Apples! Jes' a little bruised!"
"Read th' latest news 'bout th' fearsome traitor! All for a penny! Gettit fresh!"
Katya looked out over the turmoil and shrugged. If she had to wait for any longer, she might as well read something while she was doing it.
She clambered down from the barouche, thanking the instinct that had told her to wear one of her less confining dresses that morning. "Here--" she called, fumbling in her reticule. "I'd like one."
"Jes' a penny, mum, jes' a penny. Here ye go. Read of 'is bold escape attempt!"
Her head snapped up. Escape attempt?
Lucas pushed back through the crowd to his barouche. "It's an incredible mess," he said. "We'll have to--Katya? What's the matter? You've gone all white."
She was leaning against the side of the barouche, her fist to her mouth and in her other hand a newspaper. "Look," she said in a shaky voice.
His eye fell on the headlines, and all the breath left his body in a whispered curse. "Tony deWinter tried to--escape?"
"It gets worse. He's dead, Lucas. He's dead."