Sinfully Yours (13 page)

He shifted slightly, setting off a soft rustle of wool, and silent rippling of muscle as his body hardened along with his gaze. “Oddly enough, I find myself wondering whether to think the same thought about you.”

Had he been drinking heavily? His words weren’t slurred, and yet they weren’t making any sense.

“I have no idea what you mean, sir.”

“Don’t you?”

Her head was beginning to ache, despite having had no more than a sip of champagne. “No. None whatsoever.”

A flicker of uncertainty was quickly hidden beneath his dark lashes. “Your words say one thing and your actions quite another.”

Had he spotted her foray to the Gun Room? Anna fought back a guilty grimace, reminding herself that his own behavior was rather questionable.

“That may be,” she replied coolly. “But I don’t answer to you for my words or my deeds.”

“Oh, quite right,” he said, lowering his voice to a chilling softness. “The question is, to whom do you answer?”

If he was trying to frighten her, he was doing a damnably good job of it. Though why was even more confusing than the menacing slant of his brows.

“At the moment, it is to my stomach,” said Anna, with a laugh that belied the lump of ice in her throat. “Which is demanding some of those delectable lobster patties that the footman has just brought to the refreshment table. So if you will excuse me—”

“Not so fast.” Devlin shifted again, trapping her between the marble pedestal and his unyielding-as-granite body. “I, too, am hungry, Miss Sloane…to know what it is you are hiding.”

“Ye gods, were you standing near the prince when his fowling gun exploded? For it seems to me that the force of the blast must have addled your wits. Do you truly imagine there is some dark, depraved secret…” A horrible thought suddenly flashed through her mind.
Gun. Gun Room.
Good heavens, surely he couldn’t think for a moment that she had some irrational grudge against the prince.

“Go on,” he said slowly.

It was so absurd as to be laughable. And yet her mouth was too frozen to form a smile.

“You are mad,” she managed to whisper.

The peal of a brass hand bell prevented Devlin from replying.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I have some lovely news to announce,” said Lady Dunbar, after following her butler into the drawing room. “Prince Gunther is resting quite comfortably.”

Glasses clinked as the guests joined Count Rupert in raising a toast to a quick recovery.

“Indeed, he wished to join us tonight,” continued the countess. “However the doctor insisted that he be prudent and remain abed until morning.”

“A wise decision,” said her husband, who was standing with the German contingent by the hearth.

“But what with the dismal hunting weather and the unfortunate accident, I think that the prince—and all of us—deserve a special celebration on the morrow to brighten our spirits,” she continued. “So I have arranged for a visit to Craigielochen Castle, a splendidly romantic fifteenth-century ruin situated on the ocean cliffs just up the coast. Mary, Queen of Scots, is said to have visited there.”

Lady Dunbar paused to smile. “And so shall we, though I daresay in far more comfortable style. There are wonderful grounds and gardens to explore, and the servants will set up a sumptuous midday picnic repast. However, you have no need to fear wind or rain. The old banquet hall is intact, and we shall dine there in case of inclement weather. The men may enjoy fishing for trout in the river, and the ladies will find all sorts of lovely vistas for sketching.”

A murmur of polite approval made its way around the room.

“The carriages will be waiting to transport us there after an early breakfast,” she added. “Our head gardener is predicting lovely weather, and as he is rarely wrong, we should have a very enjoyable day.”

“Assuming there are no further accidents,” said Devlin, just loudly enough for Anna to hear. “I would advise the prince not to walk too close to the cliff’s edge.”

“Just one last thing,” said the countess. “To start off a festive mood early, we shall have some dancing instead of cards after supper—just an informal interlude of country reels and gavottes.” A discreet wave signaled the footmen to pop open more champagne. “Though our local musicians do know how to play a waltz.”

To Anna’s relief, she and Devlin were joined by Colonel Polianov. At the present moment, even his austere features and sour expression were a welcome sight.

The Russian surprised her by essaying a smile. “Are you pleased by the prospect of an outing, Miss Sloane? I have been told that all English ladies have a great fondness for the outdoors.”

“Yes, fresh air and some exercise will be very welcome. I am looking forward to a leisurely stroll through the gardens,” answered Anna, though her mind was already planning how to evade the outing without drawing undue notice to her absence.

“Perhaps I may be permitted to escort you,” said the colonel.

For an instant, Anna thought that she must have misheard him. However, Devlin’s sarcastic laugh dispelled any doubts.

“There are no wild wolves or bears here in Scotland, Polianov. And if there were, Miss Sloane would likely be quite capable of defending herself.” He paused. “If a pistol or rifle weren’t within reach, I daresay she would slay the beast with her bare hands.”

Polianov’s cheeks turned a mottled red as he looked to her. “Forgive me,” he said stiffly, “but I fail to understand the very peculiar sense of humor you English have. Have I made some error in etiquette?”

“Lord Davenport’s sense of humor is entirely his own,” she assured him. “Please pay him no heed. You have been quite correct in your deportment.” Unlike some other men.

Looking somewhat mollified, the colonel smoothed at the sleeve of his gold braided tunic. “Then might I also request the pleasure of a dance—”

“My, my, it appears you have been polishing your manners along with your medals, Colonel.” Devlin’s sneer had turned even more offensive. “I hadn’t realized that you had taken such a sudden interest in the young lady. Dancing, long walks through the roses, private meanderings behind the bushes—just think of all the interesting opportunities.”

The colonel began to sputter. “What are you suggesting, sir?

“Simply that you’ll have a great deal of time for private conversation.”

“That’s hardly a crime,” snapped Anna, then immediately rued her choice of words when she saw the look that came to his eyes.

Polianov chose to ignore Devlin’s last provocation. “Until later, Miss Sloane,” he said, bowing as he stepped back several paces and turned to rejoin the group of men by the far hearth.

His departure gave Anna an opening for escape. Slipping past the pedestal, she nearly collided with Lady de Blois, who had been standing half hidden by the bouquet of flowers conversing with her brother-in-law.

“
Pardon
,” she muttered in French, brushing by the pair without slowing her step. She was in no mood for lingering near the widow, whose air of self-important superiority was beginning to grate on her nerves.

Spotting Caro and their mother in conversation with the other party from London, Anna quickly circled around the punch table and found a spot next to her sister.

Whatever addled twist of mind had provoked such wild fantasies in Devlin’s head, she hoped he would soon come to his senses. Sarcasm was one thing, madness was quite another.

A delusional man could be dangerous.

Devlin exhaled a silent oath as he watched the first figures of a country gavotte form on the dance floor.

Damn. Damn. Damn.
He had done his infuriating best to provoke a slip of the tongue. But neither Anna nor Polianov had given anything away. The Russian’s sudden interest in her might be a signal that the conspirators were rattled by the failed attempt on the prince’s life and needed to quickly make alternate plans.

Or it might simply mean that Polianov, like himself, had overheard several of the London ladies earlier in the evening speculating on how large a dowry the formerly poor-as-a-churchmouse Anna was likely to get from her wealthy new brother-in-law.

As for Anna, she masked her emotions better than most hardened gamesters. He had watched her closely during the past Season and had admired how coolly and calmly she had dealt with the bevy of suitors seeking her hand. All had been treated with charming smiles and gentle grace. It had made him curious as to what feelings lay beneath the flawless skin.

He had always sensed that she had intriguing depths at odds with the outward show of sweetness. But given how hard she was to read, Miss Anna Sloane could make a fortune in the gambling hells—that is, assuming she still desperately needed money to support her family.

Which she didn’t.

The soft
slap, slap
of the capering feet seemed to set the same insistent question to dancing round and round inside his head.

So why would she involve herself in such a nefarious plot?

Devlin considered himself very adept at piecing together the parts of a complicated puzzle. But this one had him flummoxed.

The lively music ended, and the laughing couples began to drift off for refreshments and to re-form into new pairs for the next set.

The violins ran through the first few notes to test their tuning.

A waltz, as promised.

Pretending that he didn’t see the Come-Hither look from Lady de Blois, Devlin moved quickly along the stone colonnade to where Anna and her sister were standing with Count Rupert and Lord Saxe-Colza.

“Miss Sloane, I believe you are promised to me for this dance.”

“Have I misunderstood—” began Count Rupert.

Anna’s “No” was overridden by Devlin’s “Yes.”

“I did request the honor of your hand as soon as Lady Dunbar announced there would be a waltz,” he added. “I should be wounded beyond measure if you tell me that you’ve already forgotten.”

Count Rupert conceded with good grace. “It seems that Lord Davenport’s claim takes precedence over mine. I shall wait until the next one, for I’m sure our hostess will have the musicians play another.”

A smile remained on Anna’s lips but it came nowhere near her eyes. “The next one is most definitely yours, sir. And if any other gentleman claims a prior promise, he is telling an untruth.”

“Now, who among us would do something so dishonorable?” murmured Devlin.

Anna didn’t deign to reply.

“We had better take our place on the dance floor.” As he placed a hand on the small of her back, he felt an unexpected pulse of electricity jolt through his palm. He would have dismissed it as anger heating her blood, but he felt her body react with equal surprise.

Neither of them said a word as he guided her to the least crowded corner of the polished parquet. For him, it was because speech was momentarily impossible, the jolt had sizzled up his arm and somehow tied his tongue in a terrible knot. He couldn’t talk, he could only feel—the graceful sway of her hips beneath his hand, the soft swish of her silken skirts against his trousers. Tonight she was wearing a dusky lavender-colored gown trimmed with accents of a darker shade of plum. A perfectly ripe plum.

No wonder most of the men were eyeing her hungrily.

But all consciousness of anyone other than Anna disappeared in a blur as Devlin turned and they came close together in the intimate embrace of the waltz. Hands touching, heat thrumming—awareness spiked through him as the first notes of the music filled the air, and all at once his skin began to prickle and a tiny trickle of sweat started to tease down his spine.

Cursing himself for a fool, he somehow managed to move through the first intricate steps of the dance without tripping over his feet. His only consolation was that she, too, seemed affected by the same strange force.

A swirling turn seemed to dispel some of its power. Devlin recalled that he had brought her out here to prod her, to pressure her into giving him some answers about her recent activities. But he found himself caught up in the rhythm of the dance and the way their bodies moved in perfect harmony.

In a moment—I will confront her in a moment.

Anna spun through the moves with an effortless grace, feeling light as a fluff of eiderdown in his arms.

“I assume you did not ask me out here simply for the pleasure of dancing,” she finally said, after they had whirled through another few turns. Her voice sounded a little fluttery, like the whisper-fine frothing of lace peeking out from beneath the hem of her gown.

“Correct,” he replied.

“Well?”

“I—I seem to have forgotten the reason.” Her scent filled his nostrils, making it hard to concentrate. “Let me think for a moment.”

“You had better hurry,” she said. “The dance is half over.”

“Is it?” Time seemed to hang suspended. The other couples were naught but a whirling blur of jeweltone colors blending with flashes of black and white.

She looked away, to a spot somewhere in the distance over his right shoulder, her mouth pursing in a pensive frown. It gave him a brief moment to study her face and while he could see a quiet strength and stubborn resolution subtly shaping the fine-boned features, there was not a hint of guile or deception.

Around and around they turned, matching each other step for step.

But he would not be the first man ever to be taken in by a lady and her air of assumed innocence.

“Lord Davenport.”

Another slow spin.

“Lord Davenport, the music has ended.”

“So it has.” Devlin reluctantly released her. “We shall talk another time.”

Anna looked at him as if his wits had gone wandering. To somewhere beyond the moon.

“I hope that come morning, sir, you’ll have realized that you are mistaken in thinking me…something which I am not.”

A
nna was already up and sitting on the window seat when her maid came in with a freshly brushed carriage cape for the morning’s outing.

“Did you not sleep well, Mademoiselle Anna?” asked Josette. “Once again, you have dark circles under your eyes.”

“Fitful dreams,” she admitted.

“Shall I fetch you a tisane from the kitchens?”

“No, no, I am fine. Just a little restless, is all.

“Never fear, I know a little trick for disguising the shadows,” said Josette. “A touch of rose lotion, a dab of rice powder and
voilà
.”

“How very fortunate that you possess so many different skills,” murmured Anna, trying to sound appreciative though the state of her complexion was the least of her concerns.

The armoire door opened and closed. “The oppressive weather and the injury to the prince seem to have dampened everyone’s spirits. I can’t say that English house parties appear to be very enjoyable.”

“We are in Scotland, where everything has a little sharper edge to it,” quipped Anna. Eyeing the streaks of blue peeking through the scudding clouds, she added, “Lady Dunbar will be happy to see that the sun appears to be shining on her outing.”

“Will all the guests be going?” asked Josette, as she selected a slate blue walking dress and fluffed out the skirts.

“Yes,” answered Anna, deciding not to mention her own plans to abscond from the group picnic. A part of her regretted missing the outing. The historic castle and its scenic setting would likely afford some interesting inspiration for Emmalina’s new adventures, but in her current unsettled state of mind, she preferred to escape for the day in her writing.

Especially as it ensured that Count Alessandro and the villainous Prince Malatesta would be the only men she would encounter.

“How nice.” Josette held the gown at arm’s length and cast a critical eye on how the sunlight played over the soft merino wool. “I think I would rather you wear the jade-colored gown. This shade of blue is not quite right for a seaside setting.”

“I trust your judgment,” said Anna, thinking that a burlap sack would serve just as well for curling up in a corner of her room with pen and paper.

“
Bon
.” A small shake set off a flutter of the smoky green fabric. “Come, you had better begin dressing, so as not to be late for breakfast.”

Anna dutifully donned her clothing and allowed her maid to begin arranging her hair in a simple chignon.

“I daresay you will be spending some time with that handsome Lord Davenport.” Josette seemed in a talkative mood this morning. “Perhaps an interlude alone? Downstairs, they say that the ancient castle has many lovely paths through the gardens and vistas looking out over the sea.”

“Not if I can help it,” replied Anna.

Josette paused in threading the hairpins into place. “
Non?
”

“Lord Davenport has…well, there seems to be a misunderstanding between us. For the time being, I would rather avoid him.”

“With men, there is always some sort of misunderstanding. It is part of the challenge.”

Anna thought about that for a moment. “You are far more daring than I am. You seem to embrace the idea of living dangerously, while I…I fear that I am less adventurous.”

“Oh, I think perhaps you underestimate yourself.” Josette artfully loosened a curl and stood back to survey her handiwork.

For an instant Anna wondered whether the maid had found some of her discarded manuscript notes. She was usually very careful about burning the scraps, but of late she had been making some mistakes.

“Perhaps.” Anna sighed. “To be honest, I’m not sure I know myself very well these days.”

The maid placed the brush and box of pins back in place.

“But never mind—I seem to be in a strange mood this morning.” After submitting to the dabs of lotion and powder, she rose and took up her shawl. “You, too, ought to have a holiday. Please feel free to walk into town and explore the shops. I won’t be needing any assistance until suppertime.”

“Thank you, mademoiselle,” said Josette.

Anna murmured a vague reply as she left the room. Her mind was already preoccupied with how to avoid the picnic without making a fuss. With any luck, few people would even notice her absence.

To her relief, Caro was already seated at the breakfast table.

“I need your assistance,” murmured Anna as she slid into her chair. “I wish to avoid the trip to the castle, but would prefer to do it without raising a fuss.”

Her sister’s face brightened at the prospect of being involved in a little intrigue. “In other words, you wish it to be a secret.”

Anna nodded. “Any ideas?”

Caro chewed thoughtfully on a piece of her buttered toast. “Ah, what about this?” she suggested after a quick swallow. “You sneak back to your quarters after we have finished with our meal. When the carriages arrive, I’ll wait until the very last moment and then quietly inform Lady Dunbar that you’ve fallen ill with a stomach indisposition and don’t wish to cast a pall over the picnic by announcing the fact. The countess will no doubt be grateful that her kitchens aren’t called into question and will be equally discreet.

“Excellent,” replied Anna. “As I’ve said before, you ought to consider writing novels as well as poetry.”

Her sister grinned. “I’d rather be asked to assist with a more exciting plot, but I suppose this will have to do.”

“I hope the only one experiencing any excitement will be Emmalina,” said Anna. “My plans are to enjoy a very quiet workday with pen and paper.”

“Perhaps,” mused Caro, “the craggy cliffs and ocean vistas will inspire a poem…” Her words trailed off as McClellan entered the room “…rather than the impulse to push a certain person into the churning waves below.”

“Do try to control your emotions.” Anna felt a little hypocritical offering such advice and quickly changed the subject. “Um, speaking of inspiration, would you mind making a few sketches of the castle and how it is situated on the cliffs. It sounds like it would make a perfect place for Malatesta to imprison Emmalina.”

“Very well. But I favor the brooding ruins we spotted above the loch. You know, the one that looked like it had deep, dark dungeons cut into the ancient rock and subterranean passageways leading down to the water’s edge.”

“It sounds as if Craigielochen Castle might have its fair share of dungeons and secret tunnels. The North Sea allows clandestine ship travel between our Sceptered Isle and the Continent.”

“A good point.”

Anna allowed a small smile. “I’ve had to spend some time plotting how Emmalina came to be in Scotland.”

Caro poured herself a fresh cup of tea. “Novels take a good deal more thought than poems. Unless, of course, one is writing an epic like Lord Byron’s
Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage
,” she mused, slowly stirring in a generous dollop of cream. “But I shall need a great deal more experience in Life before I can ever attempt something as worldly as that.”

“Cynical” was a better word for the poem. “I would hope that you never become as jaded as Lord Byron,” murmured Anna. “At heart, he isn’t a very happy soul.”

“But one must suffer for Art,” said Caro.

“Within moderation,” replied Anna. She made herself swallow several bites of a scone, even though she wasn’t feeling at all hungry. “Great suffering does not guarantee great art.”

“If it did, this current manuscript would be your best book by far,” said her sister. “Ha, ha, ha.”

“That’s
not
amusing.” Anna slanted a look out the bank of leaded windows. “Speaking of my book, I see the carriages coming up the drive.” After a tiny pause, she added, “Please wait until the last moment before informing Lady Dunbar.” She wasn’t quite sure why she was being so secretive. Devlin’s oblique suggestion that the prince’s injury had been a deliberate act of sabotage must have put her nerves on edge. “And try not to let anyone overhear you.”

“Oh, wait. One last thing—what if Lord Davenport inquires after you?” asked Caro.

“Just tell him I am feeling unwell. It won’t be a lie.” Suddenly recalling Polianov’s attentions the previous evening, she added. “If the colonel asks after me, you may tell him the same thing.”

“Leave it to me,” assured her sister. “I am getting to be quite good at helping to manage these affairs of intrigue.”

“Perhaps too good,” said Anna. She hesitated, again thinking of Devlin’s strangely menacing statements. “I don’t mean to sound alarming, but please promise me that you will not go off alone with Polianov during the picnic. It’s just a feeling, but I don’t quite trust him.”

“You think he might be a dastardly villain up to no good?” Caro’s eyes slowly widened. “How exciting.”

“Don’t let your imagination fly away with you,” she counseled. “The only dastardly plots going on are the ones that will take shape in my head. That is, assuming I get some peace and quiet for writing.”

Seeing the guests at the other end of the table rise and head off toward the entrance hall, Anna pushed back her plate. “Come, we had best be going. I shall duck into one of the side corridors and then take refuge in the library. I’ve brought my notebook and will work there for a few hours while the servants finish their morning tasks upstairs. There are several reference books I wish to consult on what sort of plantings are typically found in a Scottish garden.”

“It’s a pity that you will miss seeing the castle,” murmured Caro, as they left the breakfast room. “For however accurate books are, there is no substitute for the actual ambiance of a place to stir inspiration.”

“Art demands sacrifice,” quipped Anna. “With any luck, the Muse will offer enough inspiration on her own to keep me busy for the day.”

From his vantage point high in the tower, Devlin watched the line of carriages set off down the drive. So far, his plan was rolling along quite smoothly. With the castle empty of all but the servants for the day, he had the perfect opportunity to pursue his suspicions.

Starting with the mysterious Miss Anna Sloane.

“Two can play at manipulations,” he muttered, flexing his fingers. Picking locks was a skill that he, too, possessed. “What is good for the goose is good for the gander—let us see how the lady likes having a stranger pry into her most private secrets.”

He waited for a quarter hour longer, then returned to the stairwell and made his way down to the corridor where Anna was quartered.
Patience, patience.
The precision required to make his automata had taught him to be very patient. From the shelter of a linen closet, he waited and watched, making sure that her lady’s maid was not still at work.

After a lengthy interlude, satisfied that he would not be interrupted, Devlin slipped from his hiding place and with a deft twist of his metal probe, released her door’s lock and entered her rooms.

The sitting room was decorated in heathered hues of stripes and floral chintzes. He made a cursory search of the cabinets and desk, though he sensed that her secrets would be hidden in a more private spot. As he drew a deep breath, the tantalizing hint of her fragrance seemed to wrap around him like a sinuous serpent and draw him toward the bedchamber.

As he entered, Devlin tried to keep his eyes averted from the carved tester bed, where the faint rumpling of the coverlet stirred an unwilling reaction somewhere far beneath his brain.

Focus
, he reminded himself. Thorncroft was not paying him to think with his privy parts.

Forcing his attention back to the task at hand, he approached the massive armoire and began a careful search through the clothing and bandboxes within its cavernous depths.

“Damnation.”

With all the fancy frills and accessories needed for dressing in style, ladies had far more places in which to hide any incriminating evidence.

After finally finishing with checking inside the toes of her evening slippers—did a lady
really
require a dozen different pairs to appear
au courant
?—he shut the doors and moved on to the ornate oak bureau.

Nothing
. Though the delicate lace of the folded undergarments caused another clench of distraction.

Turning around, he slowly surveyed the rest of the room. The escritoire seemed to be in frequent use. Papers were piled atop a small sketchbook, and several pens were poking up from the holder by the inkwell. As for the old mahogany tea chest, the thick, curling tendrils of the potted ivy nearly obscured the set of drawers. Likely they hadn’t been opened since the last century…

A flicker of sunlight momentarily illuminated the dark wood before giving way to a scudding cloud. Devlin crossed the carpet and crouched down for a closer look. Sure enough, the inside of the keyhole showed a telltale glint of bright brass. The lock had been worked recently. More than a few times, judging by how much of the tarnish had been rubbed off.

“Let’s see what you are hiding, shall we?” he murmured, once again drawing the steel probe from the sheath inside his boot.

The lock answered with a friendly little
snick
.

Devlin slid the drawer open, revealing a small portfolio bound in burgundy-colored Moroccan leather. Seizing it with both hands, he snapped open the cover and eagerly thumbed through the sheaf of papers.

All of which were blank.

Bloody Hell.
Blowing out a disgusted sigh, he was about to drop it back in the drawer when he spotted a dog-eared corner of paper sticking up from beneath a pasteboard box of pencils and pen nibs.

He cautiously lifted it up and saw yet another pile of paper. The top sheet was covered with writing in a neat, feminine hand.

His hesitation lasted for only an instant. He would skim through the first few pages, and if it were a personal diary of girlish hopes and feelings, he would put the rest back unread. His unmerciless teasing to the contrary, he did have some scruples about violating a lady’s privacy.

Taking up the pile—ye gods, it felt more like a novel than a diary—Devlin carried it over to the diamond-paned window. The script was rather small. To make out the letters, he angled the first page into the light and then began to read.