Sinfully Yours (12 page)

“A lady should be a little dangerous,” she finished.

“
Oui
. Risk makes you feel more alive.”

“I—I think I know what you mean,” said Anna, as the memory of the afternoon made her skin begin to prickle with heat. “It must be the same for men, Lord Davenport seems engaged in some strange—” Catching herself, she decided that her speculations were not something that ought to be mentioned. “Oh, never mind. I am quite likely wrong.”

Josette rose. “I think perhaps you have enough to occupy your thoughts for now, so I shall bid you good night. Shall I lay out your nightrail before I go?”

“No, thank you,” replied Anna. “I wish to make a few notes in my journal before I retire.”

“Then I shall see you in the morning.
Bonne nuit
, mademoiselle.”

The evening could hardly be termed “good,” she thought wryly, as the latch closed with a soft
snick
. Upsetting wasn’t quite right either, though the sight of Lady de Blois flirting shamelessly with Devlin had made her stomach feel rather bilious.

Josette thought her confused emotions had something to do with love?

Love?
Oh, surely not. Granted, her body seemed to respond to the marquess with enthusiasm, while her mind was ordering quite the opposite reaction. And granted, Josette had spoken with the cool assurance of a woman who knew what she was talking about.

Still, it seemed illogical.

But as logic wasn’t proving helpful in solving any of her conundrums, Anna decided to add some of her maid’s observations on love to the notes for her current manuscript—the ideas offered some interesting ways to add some spark to her main characters. Emmalina and Alessandro were getting a little too predictable.

After scribbling a few quick pages, she sat back and closed her notebook. The hour was late, but her nerves were still too on edge for sleep. Instead, she rose and unlocked the bottom drawer of an old tea chest that was serving as a decorative plant stand. Hidden beneath a portfolio of blank writing paper lay the finished pages of the latest Sir Sharpe Quill adventure.

Gathering up the last few chapters, Anna curled up in the armchair by the hearth and read through the scenes. Things were shaping up rather nicely, she mused. The pacing felt right and the setting’s description was wonderfully exotic, thanks to a book of engravings on the Ottoman coast that she had found in an antiquarian bookstore just before leaving London.

There was just one small bothersome detail. Emmalina needed to fire off several shots with one of the new military-issue rifles, and while Anna knew that the cartridges and firing mechanisms differed from those of a standard musket, she wasn’t quite sure of the exact details. She could, of course, omit any mention of them. But she liked to get things right.

Perhaps there was an illustrated book on modern weaponry in the earl’s library. Shuffling the manuscript pages back in order, Anna went to relock them in her hiding place. She would check on the book first thing in the morning, while the men were out hunting. But as the key turned, the metallic click suddenly reminded her that the prince had mentioned bringing one of the latest model German hunting rifles with him, in case the opportunity arose to stalk the hills for the famous Highland stags.

The weapon would likely be stored in the Gun Room, and with the gentlemen having to rise so early, the place was certain to be deserted at this late hour.

It was worth a look, Anna decided. Taking up a pencil and her pocket sketchbook, she changed into a pair of soft-soled slippers and tiptoed out into the corridor.

Devlin hurried down the stairs, anxious to escape the cloying cloud of perfume that seemed to be shadowing his steps. He had managed to extract himself from Lady de Blois’s clutches before having to take a tumble in her bed. But it had required some dexterous moves on his part. She hadn’t been pleased by the excuse that the prince and his friends needed him to make up the right numbers for a late night card game. He had promised to make amends.

Thank God I have no gentlemanly scruples about breaking my word.

England’s needs must, after all, come before those of a randy widow.

Or was a lust for sexual dalliances the only reason she had come north?

That was only one of the many questions needed to be considered as he reviewed what progress he had made in his investigation.

Given the circumstances, Devlin decided he had hadn’t done too badly. Through casual conversation and careful observation during the evening gatherings, he had ruled out well over half the guests as possible suspects. The group of family and friends who had accompanied the young London heiress were conventional, conservative aristocrats who would likely expire from shock at the idea that they might be involved in any murderous plot. As for the local gentry, none of them possessed the imagination or boldness to attempt an assassination.

The German party who had accompanied the prince to Scotland presented more of a challenge to assess. But in the end, he had decided that they were likely just what they seemed—a pleasant, good-natured group of friends who seemed genuinely fond of their royal companion.

That left the French contingent, the ill-tempered Russian colonel, Lord McClellan…

And the Sloane family.

The baroness was a very unlikely villain. Again, a lack of imagination.

The two sisters were a different story, though. Caro, with her charming exuberance, did not seem to possess the necessary deviousness to carry off a crime. Anna, on the other hand, had both the cleverness and the self-control to be…dangerous.

Shaking off his suspicions, Devlin told himself that the French party were the far more likely suspects. He was aware of the fact that on a number of occasions, an exiled French aristocrat living in England had turned out to be a secret agent of Napoleon. Some did it out of idealism, some did it out of greed. He had a feeling that both Lady de Blois and her brother-in-law were not as plump in the pocket as they wished to appear. To begin with, he had taken a careful look at the comtesse’s emerald necklace during one of the earlier amorous moments.

The jewels were paste.

And lurking beneath the trilling laughs and sensual smiles was a steely coldness that seemed at odds with her efforts to appear a seductive Siren.

That they might be working in tandem—one to create a diversion, one to create havoc—was a thought that couldn’t be dismissed.

Still mulling over the comtesse and her behavior, Devlin turned down one of the side corridors, intent on taking a shortcut to his quarters in the men’s wing. The passage led down a short flight of stairs and past the side portico. Just around the next corner was the Gun Room, where all too soon, the hunting party would be assembling in the wee hours of the morning.

No rest for the wicked
, he thought wryly as he rounded the turn.

Up ahead, a faint pool of candlelight spilled into the corridor from a half-open door.

Strange.
It seemed a trifle early for a ghillie to be up and checking the fowling guns or loading the cartridge bags. On instinct, Devlin ducked into the recessed doorway of a storage closet and cocked an ear to listen.

Nothing. No cocking of hammers, no shifting of canisters, no thumping of canvas. The silence made the situation even more suspicious. He waited, watching the erratic flicker of the light moving within the room.

Finally, after several long minutes, a figure emerged and drew the door shut.

First pistols, and now muskets and rifles?

Despite her protests to the contrary, Anna Sloane must have a
very
vivid imagination.

That, or something far more nefarious than a play was being scripted inside that clever little head.

T
he following morning dawned gray and unsettled, with ominous clouds in the distance threatening rain.

The mood was somber as well, as the group started to climb into the hills. Or perhaps, observed, Devlin, everyone was simply suffering the effects of too little sleep and too much brandy.

A dull ache was pulsing against the back of his skull, though not from a surfeit of spirits. Much as he wished to believe Anna incapable of being involved in any serious wrongdoing, her activities were becoming too alarming to ignore. Her explanations simply didn’t ring true.

And yet, Devlin couldn’t quite bring himself to accept that she was the agent in charge. She must be working with someone.

But whom?

Surely it had to be someone she knew from London. Colonel Polianov? His rudeness might only be an act, for the Russian government was meddling in German politics and had good reason to wish ill to befall Prince Gunther. Or maybe the young heiress’s father and Anna were having a clandestine affair, and the man had drawn her into an international intrigue.

Ye gods, he thought in some disgust, his conjectures were growing dangerously demented. There had to be a more reasonable answer.

“This way,” called McClellan, interrupting Devlin’s brooding. “Watch your step. The stones are slippery.”

Ducking low to avoid snagging his hat on a branch of thorny gorse, Devlin made his way up the narrow path. He had deliberately chosen to bring up the rear, as it afforded a chance to keep an eye on all the rest of the hunters. But given the patches of fog and swirls of mist obscuring the moors, there wasn’t much to see. The men ahead were naught but ghostly silhouettes.

“The grouse will likely have far more sense than we do,” he grumbled, “and won’t seek to stir from their nests.”

“Ja, it is gloomy,” came a disembodied voice from just ahead. Count Rupert rose from his crouch after making a final adjustment to the buckle of his hunting boot. “But I think I see a peek of sun to the east.”

“Wishful thinking,” said Devlin.

The winds had suddenly shifted just after daybreak, blowing a new squall in from the sea. However, the prince had been anxious not to miss another day on the grouse moors, so Lord Dunbar had prevailed upon his wife’s cousin to carry on according to plan. A few of the gentlemen—the sensible ones, thought Devlin glumly—had demurred. But loath though he was to forego the comforts of a roaring fire and glass of whisky on a rainy day, he had felt compelled to come along. After all, Thorncroft
was
paying him well.

“You don’t like hunting, Lord Davenport?” asked the count.

“Not when it’s colder and wetter than a witch’s tit.”

The other man looked puzzled for a moment, and then began to chuckle. “Ha, ha, ha. You English have a very peculiar sense of humor.”

“Would you two stop cackling over bawdy jokes and pay attention?” called McClellan testily. “This is excellent terrain for the hunt, and if we spread out in a line parallel to the trail, the beaters and dogs can try to flush some birds before it’s time to return to the castle.”

Though several sarcastic quips came to mind, Devlin took his assigned place without comment. The prince, he noted, was positioned at one end of the line, next to Vicomte de Verdemont.

A signal from the head ghillie indicated that the hunt was about to start.

“We’ll shoot in order, from left to right, as the birds take flight,” called McClellan. “The prince will go first.”

Cocking his fowling gun, Devlin set his stance and readied himself to take aim when his turn came.

The beaters began to thrash the bushes with their sticks, and in a matter of moments the whir of wings sounded as a startled grouse rose up from the heather.

BANG!

The bird kept on flying—it was Prince Gunther who fell to the ground like a sack of stones.

Dropping his weapon, Devlin sprinted to where the prince lay writhing in pain. McClellan was already kneeling beside him, wrapping a handkerchief around the injured man’s bleeding hand.

“The gun misfired and the cartridge exploded inside the barrel, shattering the stock,” he explained. “The fellow is lucky. The wound isn’t too serious.” His glance went to the twisted metal and needle-sharp slivers of wood. “It could easily have been a good deal worse.”

“It’s just a scratch,” said the prince gamely, though his face was pale as a puff of gunsmoke. “If you will help me up…”

His three friends were already there, lifting him to his feet. A sling was fashioned, and with his good arm draped over Count Rupert’s shoulder, Prince Gunther was led to the path for the trek down to where the horses were waiting.

McClellan sent one of the beaters ahead to fetch a carriage from the castle, then began gathering the extra cartridge bag and the prince’s rucksack as the other hunters began to file off after the Germans.

Crouching down, Devlin made a closer examination of the wrecked fowling gun. “Birdshot does not normally have enough gunpowder to cause such an explosion.” As he spoke, he slanted a sidelong look at the baron, carefully watching to see what reaction his deliberately chosen words might provoke.

McClellan looked up slowly. It might have been naught but the shifting mist, but for a moment, it seemed that a spasm of emotion tightened his features. “I thought your expertise was in gambling and drinking, not ballistics.”

“In my innocent youth, I did a fair amount of shooting on my family’s estate.” Devlin tapped a finger to the bent trigger. “Enough to know that the cartridge had the wrong charge of powder.”

“Are you implying my cousin’s gunkeepers are incompetent?” asked McClellan sharply.

“I am merely making an observation based on my experience.”

A shrug. “In my experience, accidents like this one are not uncommon in hunting. My guess is that the cartridge simply jammed.”

“Perhaps.” But as a seasoned gamester, Devlin was not willing to wager any money on it.

“Have you heard?” said Caro, as Anna and their mother came into the drawing room. “Prince Gunther has been injured in a shooting accident.”

“Oh, dear, I hope it isn’t serious,” exclaimed the baroness. She angled a concerned look at Anna. “What a pity it would be if he had to withdraw from the party, just when he is showing a marked interest in you, my dear.”

“He is simply enjoying sharing his interest in books with me, Mama,” she replied. “You ought not read anything more meaningful into it.”

“That,” announced Lady Trumbull with a note of triumph, “is exactly what Olivia said about Wrexham. And see where turning those pages led.”

Anna knew the futility of arguing with their mother. Instead, she turned to her sister. “Have you any idea what happened?”

“Apparently his fowling gun misfired and the barrel exploded,” explained Caro. “I heard Lord McClellan tell Lady Dunbar that he could have been killed.”

“Oh, what a scandal that would have been for poor Miriam,” murmured the baroness.

Anna thought she detected a tiny tinge of regret. But perhaps it was only because her nerves were a little on edge from lack of sleep.

“It would have had far more serious repercussions for our government,” she pointed out. “With the all squabbling between our allies, the political situation in Eastern Europe is like a powder keg waiting to explode. The prince’s death could be just the spark to ignite terrible trouble in the region.”

“My dear, you really mustn’t voice your thoughts about politics,” chided their mother. “Men do not like ladies to have an opinion on such matters.”

“Indeed. We prefer them to been seen and not heard.” There was no danger of McClellan’s overloud voice going unnoticed. “Especially when they are a lovely ornament to the room, like one of the pretty little Staffordshire figurines that my cousin collects.”

“You think a lady should be as brainless as a lump of baked clay?” challenged Caro.

Lady Trumbull made a low warning sound in her throat.

“I think, milord, that you are deliberately trying to goad us into reacting to your words,” interjected Anna. “However, we are much too intelligent to dignify such a silly statement with any arguments.”

Caro had opened her mouth as if to say more, but then quickly curled a scornful sneer that spoke even more eloquently than words.

You Are An Idiot
.

Only a complete bumblewit would have failed to comprehend the message. And the baron, although sadly remiss in his manners, was not lacking in brains. His jaw tightened and a tiny muscle up near his ear began to twitch. “You—” he began, only to be interrupted as another voice joined the conversation.

“Have cleverly silenced any further disparagements of the female intellect,” said Devlin. “Kudos, Miss Sloane,” he added after inclining an exaggerated bow. “A man had better sharpen his steel if he wishes to cross swords with you.”

“We weren’t engaging in mortal combat, Lord Davenport,” replied Anna lightly. What, she wondered, had kindled such a strangely martial fire in his eyes? “Merely a bit of friendly banter.”

“It seemed to me,” muttered Caro, “that Lord McClellan was deadly serious.”

The baron threw her a daggered look.

“Girls, girls.” Their mother huffed out an exasperated sigh. “Let us move on to more
ladylike
subjects.”

“Like how to roast a man’s liver with turnips and onions?” suggested Devlin.

Anna bit back a snort of laughter. She couldn’t help responding to his scathingly wicked sense of humor, even though it appeared that his cleverness concealed a far darker side of his character.

Perhaps Polite Society was right to have labeled him the Devil. Lucifer was capable of great charm, but at heart he had chosen Evil over Good.

Looking up, she found him regarding her with a strangely intense look. It seemed to be both accusing and questioning.

As if that made any sense.

Lady Trumbull broke the momentary silence. “Really, sir, you ought not confuse young ladies with such shockingly inappropriate comments. It’s gentlemen like you who give them the wrong idea of what is, and is not, the correct way to behave with propriety.”

“Oh, have no fear, Lady Trumbull. I am not nearly as pernicious an influence on your daughters as you seem to think. They are far too strong in their own views to be colored by mine.”

“Ha, ha, ha.” McClellan’s flash of teeth was clearly not meant to be a smile. “That is what I call being damned with faint praise.”

“You, sir, are no better,” hissed the baroness. “Swearing in the presence of ladies is…is…”

“Unconscionably rude?” suggested Caro.

“We must be more forgiving of the poor fellow,” murmured Devlin. “He likely has few conversational companions save for Highland sheep.”

“And they, sir, are far better company than you Sassenach peacocks,” retorted McClellan.

“Peacocks preen and take pride in their gaudy plumage. While I, alas, am considered a very dull bird in terms of dress. I don’t find fashion terribly interesting compared to other things.” Devlin looked down his well-shaped nose. “Nor, it would appear, do you.”

Both men, observed Anna, appeared to be walking on a razor’s edge tonight, and Devlin seemed intent on being even more provoking than usual. She wondered why. He usually knew just how far he could go without losing his balance.

“Whatever feathers you flaunt, they don’t disguise the fact that you are an insolent arse,” growled McClellan.

“On the contrary,” piped up Caro. “Lord Davenport is amusing, not mean-spirited.”

Lady Trumbull hitched in a horrified breath at hearing her youngest daughter give a tongue lashing to a titled lord…even though the barony was only a Scottish one.

Oh, bloody hell.

On several occasions in the past, her mother had fainted for dramatic effect. But in this case, decided Anna, a swoon might not be feigned. She had better intervene in the next moment, before the situation sunk into farce. With her guest of honor lying half dead upstairs, poor Lady Dunbar had suffered enough shocks for one day.

“Caro, kindly escort Mama to the punch table and find her a glass of sherry. A cough seems to be lodged in her throat.” Removing her sister from the fray might keep the gentlemen from going for each other’s jugular.

But before Caro could react, McClellan unclenched his jaw just enough to respond to her comment.

Anna prepared herself for the worst.
Smelling salts—I had better signal a footman
to bring smelling salts. And a cudgel to bash both men on the head.

She was, however, pleasantly surprised by the measured tone of his voice.

“You think it mean-spirited that I resent English lords and their oppressive treatment of my country?” he asked.

Caro appeared taken aback by the reasonableness of the question. “I…no, actually I think you have any number of legitimate grievances, sir. But you would do your cause better service to express them more thoughtfully, rather than indulge in childish pique.”

The baron regarded her with an inscrutable stare. “In poetry, perhaps?” Strangely enough it was said more in humor than in anger.

“The Scots have a rich and distinguished heritage of expressing themselves in verse,” replied her sister. “But if rhyming couplets are not to your taste, prose, or simply rational discourse, would be equally effective.”

Devlin opened his mouth to speak, but on catching Anna’s quelling look, he shut it again.

“Sherry,” said their mother faintly as she fanned her face. “I do feel in need of a reviving sip.”

“Caro…” murmured Anna, before the temporary truce could be broken.

Her sister dutifully offered an arm to their mother.

After watching them move off, McClellan excused himself with a brusque nod. “I had better go upstairs and see if my cousin requires some liquid fortitude.” For a brief instant his steely eyes seemed to wink with a less martial glint. “Though I daresay she might prefer something stronger than sherry.”

“It seems you have helped avert a second explosion of the day,” said Devlin, once they were alone.

“No thanks to you.” Anna let out her breath, suddenly aware of the tension coiled inside her. “You seemed intent on seeing blood spilled.”