Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
T wilight had faded to a purple mist over the moors, leaving the manor house half in shadow. But rather than retreat to her own rooms after supper, the dowager had invited Orlov and Shannon to take tea with her in the drawing room, ostensibly go over the proposed program of lessons for the children. But privately, Orlov thought she simply wanted the company.
Indeed, the discussion on schooling did not take long, but as the last points were agreed upon, Lady Octavia seemed loath to let the conversation end. “Tell me something of your background, Miss Sloane.”
“There is not much to tell, I’m afraid. I’ve led a rather sheltered life,” answered Shannon. “I am from London, and after my parents passed away, I was fortunate enough to be offered admission to a small educational institution outside of Town.”
“Yes, yes, so you said. . . Mrs. Merlin’s Academy for Extraordinary Young Ladies.” The dowager pushed her spectacles back up to the bridge of her nose. “I wonder that I have never heard it mentioned before.”
“It is but a small school, established to train girls of modest background who are deemed to have potential to be useful in Society,” she said softly. “There is nothing grand or glamorous about its faculty or students, but its reputation is above question and we receive a very rigorous education. The patrons include the Marquess of Lynsley.”
“Hmmph. Well, I suppose it must be respectable.” Lady Octavia appeared lost in thought for a moment. “His aunt and I were bosom bows in school. A lively gel. Ever so sharp. And outrageously funny. However, I hear her nephew is a bit of a stick in the mud.”
Orlov saw Shannon bite back a smile. “I would not describe Lord Lynsley in such terms. He is a serious gentleman, to be sure, but that does not mean he is lacking in character.”
The dowager gave a small snort. “A diplomatic reply, Miss Sloane.”
“His Lordship would be pleased to hear you say so. He has cautioned me that I have a tendency to speak a bit too frankly.”
“Nothing wrong with a bit of fire in a gel. Don’t let them douse all spark of life in you.”
Shannon looked down at her demurely folded hands. “I shall keep your counsel in mind.”
Any further questions were forestalled by the entrance of the ancient footman, who shuffled in with a packet of mail. “Betty brought the weekly post up from the village, along with a basket of fresh eggs, milady.”
“Hmmph. Likely nothing much of interest,” said Lady Octavia as she began to untie the twine. “Don’t know why I bother to have La Belle Assemblée sent up from London. It’s not as if I have any need to keep up with the latest fashions.”
She gave a gruff cough as Shannon started to rise. “No need to hare off. The two of you might as well stay and enjoy a game of chess while I have a look through this.”
Orlov dutifully set up the pieces, while the dowager shifted the brace of candles.
Like the shaggy grey hound curled at the foot of her arm chair, her bark was far worse than her bite, he reflected. Loneliness could make anyone snappish. Not for the first time, he found himself wondering why she chose to live for most of the year with no companions, save for her aging dog and three marmalade cats. McAllister and the children spent the winter months in Edinburgh?—
“Hmmph!”
He looked up from the chessboard to see Lady Octavia ball the letter she had been reading and toss it into the fire.
“Sylvia has always exhibited an unfortunate lack of common sense,” muttered the dowager. “But in this instance, her bird-witted notions have soared to new heights.”
“I hope you have not received bad news, milady.”
“Hmmph.” The elderly lady’s wrinkled cheeks flushed to an angry pink. “The nerve of the gel! Hasn’t shown a whit of interest in the children before. Too busy gallivanting about London, enjoying her elegant soirées and French champagne. But now, out of the blue . . .” She frowned as the paper turned to ashes. “I wonder what would motivate her to make such a long and uncomfortable trip with her fancy friends.”
As Orlov moved his rook out of danger from Shannon’s knight, their eyes met .
Had the game just taken a new turn?
His fingers lingered on the carved ivory castle, which suddenly looked small and starkly vulnerable in its corner of the black and white squares.
“A safe play,” murmured Shannon. “But I, too, am of the opinion that in the early stages of a game, it is wise to be conservative.”
“As in any duel, it’s best to feel out an opponent’s strengths and weaknesses before moving in for the kill.” Orlov sipped at his tea, deciding on how to tactfully maneuver the dowager into elaborating on her announcement.
However, the dowager needed no encouragement from him to go on. “Money,” she muttered. “What else but a dire need of blunt would bring Sylvia haring to the Highlands.” Although Lady Octavia was speaking to herself, the words cut through the crackle of the coals in the hearth. “Mr. Oliver, will you be so kind as to pour me a glass of sherry—no, on second thought, make that good Scottish whisky.”
“The prospect of guests seems a source of some distress,” observed Orlov politely as he splashed a bit of the amber spirits into a glass.
“I am not somewhat distressed, young man. I am seriously annoyed,” she replied grimly. “If you had met Sylvia, you would understand why.”
“Is the offending person a friend, or family?” asked Shannon.
“Family. Of a sort.” Her lips puckered as she took a tiny swallow of whisky. “Lady Sylvia St. Clair is the sister of my late daughter-in law. And like our Highland malts, she is best served in small doses.” She sighed. “Do help yourself to a glass, Mr. Oliver. And pour one for Miss Sloane while you are at it. An old lady ought not drink alone.”
Orlov gave an appreciative chuckle as he did as he was asked. “I confess, you have piqued my interest. milady. She sounds like a potent force to contend with.“
Lady Octavia jabbed her walking stick in his direction. “You will certainly pique hers. Sylvia has an insatiable appetite for handsome rogues.”
He arched a brow. “Indeed?”
“But her tastes change even more quickly than her fashionable gowns and hairstyles.”
“From what you say, it does seem odd that she would suddenly have a hankering for Highland air,” observed Shannon. The whisky sat untasted in her hands. “Unless, of course, she simply misses her niece and nephew.”
The statement was greeted with a muffled snort. “Ha! More likely, what she misses is money for her many indulgences. Angus has been most generous in the past, lending a brotherly hand. But she ought to know I am not such a soft touch.”
“Likely she is unaware that he is absent.”
The dowager’s furrowed brow dug to deeper depths. “Strangely enough, she seems informed of that fact. Which only makes me more convinced that her situation is extremely pressing.”
The spirits took on a sharper burn in Orlov’s mouth. Mere coincidence? Cynicism had long ago sharpened his suspicions that such chance occurrences were rarer than hen’s teeth.
Shannon seemed to be of the same mind. “You say she is bringing a party of friends. Are you acquainted with them as well?”
Lady Octavia shook her head. “Sylvia makes no mention of their names. But I am sure they will be her usual entourage of silly fribbles and Tulips of the ton .”
“Is she pretty?” he inquired.
“Before you get any ideas, young man, be warned that she hasn’t a feather to fly with.”
Fearing that perhaps their interest in the impending visit was appearing too sharp for mere strangers, Orlov decided to add a more frivolous note to the mood. “If I were looking to marry—for money or for beauty—I should not have to let my gaze stray too far.”
“Have a care with your flirtations, Mr. Oliver.” She waggled a bony finger. “I might say yes, and then where would you be?”
“In heaven,” he replied with an air of angelic innocence.
“Hmmph!” Try as she might to be stern, her snort sounded suspiciously like a chuckle. “The devil you say.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Orlov saw that Shannon appeared to be listening to the exchange with only half an ear. Her gaze had swung around to the alcove overlooking the stone terraces. The interior was unlit, but he knew from an earlier exploration that a narrow doorway, locked and barred from the inside, allowed access to a small walled herb garden.
She suddenly rose and without explanation disappeared through the darkened doorway.
“Fie, sir!” Lady Octavia twisted at the fringe of her India shawl. “I fear you have wounded Miss Sloane’s feelings with your silliness.”
“Miss Sloane is all steel beneath those dowdy gowns. She has no tender sentiments toward me. And even if she did, she is quite capable of defending her heart from errant thrusts.” He said it lightly, but his muscles tensed, and he shifted in his seat, ready to spring to action at the slightest hint of trouble.
“Really, Mr. Oliver. I have seen her little dagger, but I can’t quite picture her wielding one of my forefather’s Viking broadswords.”
“She might surprise you,” he murmured, slipping a hand inside his coat to loosen the hidden knife.
“The young woman is trained as a governess, not a Death’s Head Hussar.” The dowager sighed. “A very competent one, so far as I can tell. But an embroidery needle is probably the only weapon she has wielded with regularity. More likely she is shedding a private tear or two.”
More likely she was shedding her shawl and climbing around the manor walls to see if she could spot any trouble, he thought wryly. But in the next instant, the humor of the situation quickly faded. At the idea of her encountering D’Etienne alone, he could no longer sit still.
“I had best go see if she is in need of . . . comfort.” Cold comfort it would be if she stumbled up against the Frenchman’s ruthless blade.
But before he could move, Shannon slipped back into the room. “Forgive me.” The smudge of dirt on her sleeve was almost imperceptible, as was the scrape on her knuckles. “I felt a sudden draft and thought I should check that the windows were all properly fastened before you took a chill, milady.”
He quirked a brow in question.
“And indeed, a latch had come loose. I set it back in place, and checked that the others are snug.” She smiled at Lady Octavia before slanting him a meaningful look. “No harm done. But we should ask the gardener to tighten the hinges and bolts. I will make a note of it. ”
“How very thoughtful of you, Miss Sloane. It appears that my son has hired not only a governess but a guardian angel.”
“You might need divine intervention, milady, to keep you safe from my advances,” murmured Orlov, seeking to divert the dowager’s attention before she spotted the telltale leaves clinging to the hem of Shannon’s skirts.
Catching his glance, Shannon reached for her notebook and pencil, shifting just enough to cover the bits of brown.
The teasing earned him another sharp reprimand from the dowager. “Though with my advancing age and infirmities,” she added with a sigh, “I would not mind being swept off my feet. I am finding it deucedly difficult to move around like I used to.”
“You don’t appear to have slowed a whit.”
The elderly lady met his wink with a thoughtful look. “Another splash of whisky, if you please. My ancient bones cannot bear too much excitement in one evening.”
Shannon rose to refill Lady Octavia’s glass. The man could charm the scales off a snake. And it seemed that no female between the ages of eight and eighty were safe from his flirtations. Save, of course, for herself. But then, she knew the truth about him.
“Now, it’s time you tell me something about your history, Mr. Oliver.” The dowager squinted through the cut crystal. “Miss Sloane has given an accounting of her background, but you have yet to give any hint of your credentials.”
Shannon set down her glass, curious to hear how he would explain himself.
He didn’t bat an eye. “My mother’s family is from Yorkshire. I attended Oxford where I studied philosophy and the classics, along with a spot of English literature. I had hopes of reading for law or perhaps the church, but as my family suffered a series of severe financial setbacks during my first year, I was forced to give up my scholarly endeavors and make my own way in the world.”
“A pity. I imagine you would have been quite good at either profession,” mused the dowager. “So you became a tutor?”
“No. As I was quite skilled at riding, I joined a traveling circus of acrobats. Our travels took us through the Low Countries and along the Baltic coast. Where, I confess, in Hamburg I became enamored with a merchant’s daughter and signed on as driver for a trade caravan headed East. Alas, it turned out she was engaged to the head purser, so I found myself stranded in Warsaw.”
“And then?” urged the dowager, clearly fascinated by the tale.
“I worked at a number of odd jobs which allowed me to travel to even more exotic places. I spent quite a bit of time in St. Petersburg and Moscow.”
“Doing what?”
“Oh, serving as a secret agent for Tsar Alexander, among other things,” he replied with a perfectly straight face. “Then I made my way down to the Black Sea and Constantinople. It was quite an education in itself.”
Lud, the man ought to turn his hand to writing horrid novels, thought Shannon. Her own pencil paused on the page. With such a fanciful imagination and uncanny ability to lie through his teeth, his outrageously romantic tales would no doubt have the ladies of the ton swooning for more .
“After all that, I would think that teaching would be a trifle boring,” remarked the dowager.
“I have had my share of excitement in life.” As Orlov lowered his lashes and assumed a soulful smile, he looked innocent as a choirboy. A look he no doubt had perfected in the cheval glass. Shannon almost found herself believing his story. “I am quite content to put my experience to work on Master Prescott’s behalf.”
“How fortunate to have found you. Or rather, for you to have found us.” Lady Octavia set aside her glass and slowly rose from the leather armchair. “Much as I have enjoyed the evening, I shall leave you and Miss Sloane to work out the fine points of the weekly lessons while I seek my bed. Haven’t the stamina I once had.”
“What a bouncer,” hissed Shannon as the dowager tapped her way down the hallway. “How did you ever come up with those stories?”
He fixed her with an inscrutable look. “What makes you think they are lies?”
“Oxford?” She said it with pronounced skepticism.
“Merton College to be more precise. Professor Henry Gilmartin is a renowned scholar on the Socratic tradition.”
“I thought . . .”
“Think what you will.”
He was right of course. She really knew nothing about him, save for the bare bones facts of his last few exploits. It had been her own imagination that had fleshed out the man. Assumption had shaped his character, sculpted his features to fit her own perceptions. Art and reality. She had painted a portrait of him in her head. Maybe she needed to look a bit more closely at the actual shape of her subject .
“Have I a bit of haggis on my chin?”
Caught staring, Shannon quickly looked back down at her notebook and resumed sketching a floorplan of the manor house. Yet somehow the pencil moved from the straight lines and right angles of the walls to scribing a fanciful curling of squiggles. A lock of hair took shape, then an ear, a nose, a sinuous curving of lips. Damn. Her impulsive doodlings were likely no more accurate than the other views. Her skills were too clumsy, his character too complex to capture on paper.
“Anyone I should know?” He had moved swiftly, silently across the carpet. “With fangs like that, it looks to be a wolf in sheep’s clothing. Or, perhaps, the other way around.”
She snapped the pages shut. “We have wasted enough time in frivolous banter. The moon is full tonight. I mean to make a more careful survey of the grounds and see if I can spot any signs of surveillance.”
“I’ll come along. Two pairs of eyes are better than one.”
“No.” Her objection was a touch shrill. Somehow, his closeness caused her body to tighten, her breath to quicken. “We ought not leave the children’s rooms unguarded. In fact, we had better be extra vigilant. There was no sign that the window had been tampered with, but it was a chilling reminder that D’Etienne can strike at any moment.” She drew a deep breath. “In the morning, we ought to see about setting up a series of trip wires to signal an alarm in one of our bed chambers. It won’t be easy with children and the animals, but some of the access points can be covered.”
A change came over Orlov. Subtle but sure. He no longer looked the lounging drawing room rake. His body tautened, taking on a coiling of muscle, a predatory alertness that sharpened his gaze to a frightening intensity. A wolf. Though he had left off wearing the gold earring, its bared fangs seemed to glint from the loosened strands of hair.
“I’ll go, while you keep a watch over the corridors,” he said. “I am at home prowling over wild hills such as these.”
“I’m quite capable of making my way over the moors,” she said tartly. “As you should well know.”
His eyes narrowed at the reference to Ireland. “I recall your exploits. Just as I recall that in hand-to-hand combat, I was the one who came out on top.”
Their gazes locked, a silent clash of steel and will.
“Damnation,” he said softly, seeing that neither of them was willing to flinch. “Let us not be at daggers drawn with each other, Shannon. Pride must give way to pragmatism. I am asking you to be reasonable—I am not questioning your strength or skills. But if you look at the situation with a dispassionate eye, you have to agree that it makes more sense for me to venture out while you stay here. Both tasks are equally important.” He paused. “If we are to make this mission successful, we must work together.”
She wished she could counter his logic, but no arguments came to mind. “Very well. But let us set a time for the surveillance. An hour should be sufficient. If you haven’t returned by then, I will assume the worst and act on one of our alternative plans.”
“If I fail to come back, don’t try to be a bloody hero. Get the children and Lady Octavia into the carriage as quickly as possible and drive hell for leather to your comrade’s inn at Dornach.” Orlov took her arm lightly, but Shannon was aware of the force pulsing from his fingertips. Beneath the casual show of grace, they were hard, callused from constant contact with roughened steel. “Despite what you may think of me personally, golub , I am very good at what I do.”
“I trust that is so.” Trust. Lynsley’s same word echoed in her ears, a chill reminder that she must always be on guard.
“It is.” Releasing her, Orlov turned for the hallway, moving quickly, quietly. In an instant, he was naught but a blur in the shadows.
Shannon crossed her arms, goosebumps prickling her flesh. The draperies fluttered, mirroring the strange shiver running down her spine. She was suddenly glad he was not stalking her.
Whatever his faults—and they were legion—Orlov was a formidable adversary.
Mano a mano.
She hoped it would not once again come down to that.