Seduced by a Spy (13 page)

Forgetting her earlier assessment of his character, she reached out to touch his jaw. The golden stubble was like a thousand points of fire in the half light. Beneath her palm, she felt a tiny muscle twitch.

“You see, I’ve a thorn in my backside from the damn gorse,” added Orlov quickly. He forced a sardonic laugh, but its echo did not ring quite true. “Dare I hope that you are offering to remove it,
golub
?” He tried to shake off her hand but she stood firm.

“Don’t push me away. What is wrong?”

“Nothing,” he said. “I am not used to sitting and waiting like a helpless lamb staked out for slaughter.”

“You have been pushing yourself too hard. From now on, I insist that we share the nightly rounds.”

“No,” he said tersely.

“That is not your decision to make, remember? We are equal partners in this mission. You have no right to bark orders at me.”

“It was more of a growl,” he said, adding what sounded suspiciously like an oath in Russian. “Would it help if I prefaced it with a ‘please’?”

Shannon shook her head. “Not a whit.”

This time, the curse was considerably louder and in English. “Damnation, why the devil must you insist on taking such risk?”

“And if I asked the same of you?”

He drew in a harsh breath, only to let it out softly in a reluctant laugh. “Touché.”

“Let us hope that no Frenchman can slide his blade in under your guard, Mr. Orlov.”

“You are a far greater danger to me,” he said cryptically. “And you had best use Alex for the present, rather than my surname.”

Talk about dangers.
They were already intimate enough without giving voice to it aloud.
Alexandr.
It had a sinfully seductive sound on the tongue. Exotic. Enticing. Even shortened, it was far too… personal.

“Don’t worry. I won’t make a slip in public, Mr. Orlov.”

“My dear aunt! I thought we would
never
get here!”

Rawley stepped aside from the open door to admit the dowager’s relative and her two companions into the entrance hall.

“What a pity,” murmured Lady Octavia with a cool irony that bordered on sarcasm.

Lady Sylvia St. Clair’s smile gave an uncertain twitch before she went on. “The roads turned dreadful once we reached the border, and from there, it is almost impossible to find decent lodging and food.” She shuddered as she unfastened the clasp of her cloak and passed it to the elderly butler. “One would think the Scots survive on naught but whisky and mutton.”

From where he stood in the small side parlor, Orlov had a clear view of the new arrival. She was a statuesque brunette, whose fitted carriage dress was designed to show off her voluptuous curves. A stylish shako crowned a heart-shaped face, and from beneath its fur trim, a profusion of glossy ringlets artfully accentuated the porcelain smoothness of her complexion. Sable lashes fringed eyes of a deep topaz brilliance.

At first blush, her looks were breathtaking. But there was, he decided, a certain brittleness to her beauty.

“It is an austere country, with few of the comforts you and your Town friends are used to.” The dowager’s expression remained stony as Highland granite. “Knowing that, I am surprised you would wish to make such an arduous trek.”

“La, what are a few trifling hardships in the face of a family reunion? It has been far too long since we have seen each other.” Pursing her rosebud lips, Lady Sylvia circled the dowager’s bony shoulders in an awkward embrace. “I have missed you and the children greatly, so when Randall—Lord Jervis—announced that he could not put off a visit to family lands in Sunderland, we decided to make a grand adventure of it.”

“Hmmph.” Lady Octavia recoiled from the peck to her cheek. “Well, I do hope you have warned your friends not to expect much excitement. There is, as you know, little to do here save tramp through the moors.”

“Which shall suit us perfectly!” Orlov noted that Lady Sylvia recovered from the rebuff with admirable aplomb. She could not be oblivious to the frosty reception, but seemed determined to ignore it. “Arnaud—Comte De Villiers—is a great admirer of Rousseau and has longed for some time to experience the natural splendor of the Highland hills. The men mean to hunt and fish while we ladies enjoy the simple pleasures of hearth and home.”

“Hmmph.” The dowager shook her stick at the two gentlemen who stood behind Sylvia. “Well, don’t just stand there, sirrahs! Start bringing in the baggage so that we may get everyone settled.”

Lady Sylvia’s eyes narrowed in irritation for an instant before she trilled a soft laugh. “You have left off your spectacles, my dear Octavia. Those are not our servants.” In a louder voice she added, “Allow me to present my dear friends, Lord Jervis and Comte De Villiers. Lord Robert Talcott is accompanying his two sisters in the other coach, which should be arriving soon.”

“I can see quite clearly,” retorted the dowager. “As the gentlemen each appear to possess two arms and two legs to go along with their titles, they ought to have no trouble hoisting the trunks up the stairs. Rawley’s rheumatism no longer allows him to lift heavy objects.”

Stifling a grin, Orlov moved out from behind the half-opened door. “Might I be of some assistance, Lady Octavia?”

Lady Sylvia’s pique took a more speculative curl as her eyes slid over his person.

“You have enough duties to shoulder, Mr. Oliver, without being asked to play valet to my visitors,” replied the dowager.

“And pray, what duties are those?” asked Lady Sylvia, flashing her first real smile.

“Mr. Oliver has been engaged as a tutor for Scottie,” snapped the dowager. Turning to him, she softened her tone somewhat. “You need not worry that a party of guests will disrupt the daily routine of studies. Angus takes the notion of education very seriously and would not wish for any distractions.”

Orlov inclined a small bow.

“Angus made no mention in his letter of having hired a teacher.” Lady Sylvia was casually peeling off her gloves, but the tautness of her mouth showed she wasn’t quite as relaxed as she wished to appear.

“Not one, but two,” added Lady Octavia. “A governess for Emma accompanied Mr. Oliver from London. And like him, Miss Sloane comes with the highest recommendations. Angus would, of course, insist on no less.”

Was it merely a quirk of light, or did a shadow of distress flit over the younger lady’s brow? “La, he is taking the children’s education very seriously, indeed.” She pressed a hand to her breast, her ringed fingers winking with jewel-tone hues of ruby and emerald.

For a lady without a feather to fly with, she did not appear to be lacking in fancy plumage,
observed Orlov.

“I do hope they will be given some respite from their books to spend time with their aunt.” A sigh punctuated the request. “You know how I simply
dote
on Westcott and Emily.”

Thump
. Despite her advanced years, the dowager was capable of wielding her cane with remarkable force. “I am sure that
Pres
-cott and Em-
ma
will be delighted to discover such devotion in a relative they haven’t seen for over three years.”

A stain of red ridged Lady Sylvia’s elegant cheekbones.

The dowager had drawn first blood, but Orlov did not underestimate her opponent. For all her pampered prettiness, Lady Sylvia St. Clair had the look of someone who was not going to be easily vanquished. It was not that he saw strength in her eyes, but rather fear.

“Hmmph! Well, let us not just stand here in the doorway. My aging bones do not tolerate the damp and chill like they used to.”

Orlov took the snort as his cue to withdraw, before the agitated arc of the dowager’s stick included him as well. He wished to remain in the lady’s good graces. “If I might offer an arm, milady,” he murmured.

“La, Octavia, surely you would rather that Mr. Oliver’s muscle were put to more practical use.” She turned, favoring him with a brilliant smile. “Might we impose on you for a moment?”

“Oh, go on,” snapped Lady Octavia. “You might as well help get things settled while I inform Cook of the new arrivals. Rawley will show you up to the guest rooms. Tea will be served in the drawing room.” She stomped off with a speed that drew a faint smile to Orlov’s lips.

“The spiteful old bat.” Lady Sylvia’s mutter chased away his amusement. “She’s more outrageously awful than ever. Lud, I wonder that Angus is addled enough to trust her to care for the children.”

“She does not appear to welcome the prospect of guests.” Lord Jervis, who along with the other gentleman had remained tactfully silent until then, shrugged out of his overcoat and tossed it carelessly over one of the carved sidechairs. He was tall and trim, but there was a softness about his well-manicured hands and handsome features that bespoke a taste for Town pleasures.

“Lady Octavia has always had an unreasonable dislike of me,” said Lady Sylvia darkly. “No doubt from jealousy, seeing as…” Biting back further comment, she smoothed the scowl from her face as she turned to Orlov. “You have my sympathies, Mr. Oliver. You and your unfortunate colleague will likely be making the arduous journey back to London in the near future.”

“Oh, I am not easily intimidated,” he replied pleasantly. “In my profession, one learns to deal with all manner of difficult situations.”

“Indeed.” Her gaze remained on him for a touch longer than necessary. “Still, I cannot imagine anyone—not even a saint—putting up with her whims for long.” She toyed with an end of her shawl, slowly twisting the fringe around her fingers. “Are you, perchance, a saint?”

“Just a humble tutor, milady.”

“Then you won’t mind carrying the bags up to our quarters?” With a gesture as silky as his accented English, the Comte De Villiers withdrew a purse from his waistcoat and shook out a coin. “As a token of gratitude—”

“Lord McAllister’s generosity is quite enough to cover extending hospitality to his guests,” replied Orlov.

“Ah, but in my experience, a man in your position always finds an extra bit of money welcome.”

Orlov had already taken up two of the traveling valises, leaving no hand free. “Thank you, but consider it a gesture of goodwill, sir.”

“A saint, indeed.”

Jervis said nothing but flicked open his snuffbox and inhaled a pinch. “Do try this blend, Sylvia. It was made up especially for me by Lord Brimfield, who is, as you well know, the leading arbiter of taste in such things.”

Orlov maintained a suitably subservient expression as he moved to follow the dowager’s butler up the stairs. Through lowered lashes, he noted that the other two men were, despite their assumed nonchalance, watching him. Had they noticed Lady Sylvia’s undisguised interest?

Whatever their pedigree, men were wont to revert to animal instinct when a female was involved.

Like dogs sniffing around a bone, he thought sardonically. De Villiers had been almost comically condescending, the deliberate wave of white-laced cuff and well-tailored sleeve no doubt meant as a marked contrast to his own frayed coat. The other gentleman’s reaction was a touch more subtle perhaps—he had merely ignored the existence of a servant.

But of course, the air of tension could be due to an even more primal force of nature than sex—the urge to be King of the Jungle, the dominant male.

As the new arrivals followed, Orlov heard Lady Sylvia reply to her friend. “That Lord Brimfield has singled you out with a special mixture is a mark of particular favor. He is quite influential with the Carlton House set.” Orlov heard the soft rustle of silk. “Do give me your arm, Randall. I find myself utterly fatigued from the journey.”

“A rocky road,” murmured Jervis. “But now that we are here, things should become smoother.”

“Hmmph,” she replied in unconscious imitation of the dowager.

“
Mais oui
, Sylvia…” assured De Villiers.

The rest of the words trailed off as Orlov walked across the carpeted landing and into the hallway leading to the guest quarters. Yet the echo of the Frenchman’s accent was amplified to an unpleasant pitch with every step.

Damn
. His penchant for irony was quick to collide with the need to view anything out of the ordinary as highly suspicious. All the cursed comte needed was a black velvet cape—lined in blood-red satin—to appear the perfect villain stepped straight from the pages of a gothic novel. Truth could be stranger than fiction, he reminded himself grimly. The scene he had just witnessed raised a number of unsettling questions.

He would have to keep his eyes and ears open in order to read between the lines.

“The lady is in here, Mr. Oliver,” said Rawley, his reedy voice a trifle breathless after the climb. “While the rooms set aside for the gentlemen are just ahead.”

Orlov placed her valise in front of the painted pine armoire, then stepped aside as Jervis escorted Lady Sylvia into her quarters. After a barely perceptible hesitation, De Villiers continued with the butler, passing through a set of doors to the far end of the hallway.

“I had forgotten how horribly rustic the place was,” said Sylvia under her breath. “But then, Lady Octavia has always been lacking in any sense of refinement.”

“Thank you, Mr. Oliver.” Jervis dismissed him without a look. “The other bag belongs in my chamber. And do have a care, please. There are several porcelain snuff jars which are exceedingly fragile.”

The cheval glass reflected a picture of languid grace—an impression heightened by the gentleman’s pose. Bracing a shoulder against one of the carved bedposts, he crossed his legs and ran his fingers through his hair, carefully combing the fair curls back into the
à la Brutus
style currently in vogue with the bucks of the
ton
.

“Oh, after that, perhaps you would be so good as to give the coachman a hand with the rest of our luggage,” he added. “The coach carrying our servants was delayed this morning by a cracked wheel, and won’t be arriving for another hour or two.”

Nodding agreeably, Orlov withdrew, but paused outside the door to refasten a buckle on the gentleman’s valise. Just as he expected, Lady Sylvia was quick to resume her complaints.

“Perhaps this was not such a good idea after all,” she muttered. “I had hoped that age and encroaching infirmities would have softened Lady Octavia’s attitude somewhat. But it appears she is still as spiteful as ever.”