Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
T he arrival of the two other traveling coaches heralded a flurry of unusual activity in the castle. While Rawley oversaw the serving of a cold collation of refreshments for the London lords and ladies, the personal maids and valets set to sorting out the luggage and seeing it conveyed to the upper floors.
Not without a fair amount of grumbling over work that fell beneath their dignity, noted Shannon. Drawn by the sound of strange voices, she had left the children doing sums in the schoolroom to take a quick peek into the entrance hall. By the load of baggage still remaining on the slate tiles, it looked as though a regiment had taken up residence, rather than a half dozen members of the beau monde.
They were, she imagined, already in the drawing room. As for Orlov, he was nowhere to be seen.
It was not until the supper hour that she caught her first glimpse of the guests. The harried butler had paused in his puffing just long enough to convey Lady Octavia’s request that she and Orlov continue to take their meals with her. The position of governess and tutor was often an awkward one when it came to protocol. They were not quite servants, not quite social equals. In the end, it was left to the discretion of the family on how to treat the relationship.
That the dowager was not one to stand on ceremony was fortunate, thought Shannon. It afforded the opportunity to subject the guests to a closer scrutiny than circumstances would otherwise have permitted. She scraped her hair back and fastened it in a prim bun at the nape of her neck, then stepped back from the looking glass to assess the effect. A governess was supposed to appear colorless. Her dress, a shapeless design cut in a drab shade of iron grey, was suitable for her station. And after adding another few hairpins to tame an errant curl, she decided she looked the part.
The bulge of the small pistol was hidden by the heavy folds of wool. As was the blade strapped to her leg.
“Ah, there you are, Miss Sloane.” A rap of the dowager’s cane summoned her closer. “Come meet the guests.”
Shannon crossed the drawing room carpet, aware of a momentary lull in the conversation.
“This is Lady Sylvia St. Clair, Angus’s sister-in-law.”
If the lady in question was annoyed by the breach in proper etiquette concerning the introductions, she hid it well.
“Her companions are Miss Helena Talcott and her sister, Miss Anna.” To the three ladies, the dowager added, “Allow me to present Miss Sloane.”
They acknowledged her with tiny nods.
The gentlemen, who had been examining the old fowling piece hung above a painting of a hunting scene, proved rather more forthcoming as the exchange of names was made.
“My sisters are Helen and Annabelle,” murmured their brother with a quick wink. He had a broad, friendly countenance, though the redness of his nose and a puffiness around the eyes seemed to hint at a tendency to overindulge in spirits. He had a glass of whisky in hand rather than sherry.
“Sloane?” he continued after a sip of his drink. “Are you perchance related to the Shropshire Sloanes?”
“No,” murmured Shannon. “I doubt you are acquainted with my branch of the family.”
“The ladies are all enjoying champagne. May I pour you a glass, Miss Sloane?” Shannon thought she detected a flicker of annoyance in Lady Sylvia’s gaze as Lord Jervis moved to the sideboard.
“Just water, thank you.”
“Ah, but we are celebrating.”
What? She wondered.
He went ahead and filled a crystal coupe with the wine, prompting yet another question. Was he the sort who refused to take no for an answer?
“Miss Sloane has very strict notions of propriety.” Orlov moved in quickly and lifted the glass to his own lips. “While I, on the other hand, confess to having slightly less lofty standards.”
Biting back a titter, the younger Miss Talcott fixed the tutor with a bold stare that was a bit forward for a young miss just out of the schoolroom. The gentlemen did not look quite so amused.
As for the dowager’s relative, her topaz eyes seemed to reflect the same mysterious effervescence as the champagne.
“A man after my own heart,” announced Lady Octavia. “Come here, Mr. Oliver. And bring the bottle with you.”
“Allow me to propose a toast.” Lady Sylvia raised her glass. “To family, and to friends, both old and new.” Her gaze never left Orlov.
“ Santé ,” said the Frenchman, his mouth turning up at the corners, as if savoring some private jest.
“ Móran làithean dhuit is sìthm ,” countered the dowager in Gaelic.
De Villiers offered a silent salute.
“Lead me in to the supper, Mr. Oliver, before the soup gets cold.” The dowager’s demand once again upset protocol, forcing Talcott to offer his arm to Shannon. He did so with good grace, and indeed, he seemed loath to relinquish his hold on her when they came to her chair.
“Lady Octavia says you attended school near London.” He seated himself beside her.
“Where?” asked Helen quickly. “Perhaps we have mutual friends.”
Shannon did not wish to keep the attention focused on herself. “I cannot think so. It is a very small academy, and one which does not attract students from the higher circles of Society.”
“Your family does not come to Town for the Season?” asked the comte.
Shannon kept her eyes on her plate. “I am a governess, sir, not a belle of the beau monde.”
Good manners demanded that the subject be dropped. De Villiers tried to draw the dowager into conversation, but his attempts were rebuffed with brusque replies. To relieve the muted clink of silver and china, the Londoners fell to discussing the highlights of their journey—a topic which only seemed to drive Lady Octavia deeper into her uncharacteristic silence.
Intimidated? It was not like the dowager to retreat from any challenge. And yet, the elderly lady was definitely subdued. Once or twice Shannon even noticed the soup spoon shake in her hand. She wondered if Orlov had any inkling as to why. They had not yet had the opportunity to confer about the new arrivals.
Was he as surprised as she was to find a Frenchman making up one of the party?
“What of you, Mr. Oliver?” Jervis suddenly directed his attention to the tutor, his tone taking on an edge of mockery. “Did you, too, attend an obscure institution of higher learning?”
“I suppose, milord, it would depend on how familiar you are with the educational offerings in England.”
The subtle barb did not miss its mark. Jervis colored ever so slightly as Lady Octavia answered, “Mr. Oliver attended Oxford.”
Shannon wondered if he was deliberately tweaking the London lords. Most likely the answer was yes, she decided. His arrogance was like a second skin, and the ladies seemed to be finding his attitude intriguing. Especially Lady Sylvia.
“Ah, a serious scholar,” remarked De Villiers. “Are you, perchance, fluent in French, monsieur? I should find it pleasant to converse in my native tongue.”
“I know Greek and Latin, of course, but modern languages are not my field of expertise.”
“Which is?” inquired Lady Sylvia .
“English literature and ancient history,” he replied smoothly.
Jervis patted a napkin to his mouth. “Rather dry subjects, to say the least. I prefer more active pursuits than holing up in a library to study moldering manuscripts.”
“Those who do not recall history are doomed to repeat it.”
“Bonaparte would agree with you,” remarked the comte. “By all accounts, he is a keen student of the subject.”
Before Orlov could form a reply, Lady Sylvia interjected her own comment. “Mr. Oliver does not have the look of a man who spends all of his time in a dark, stuffy room.”
“Do you hunt?” asked the elder of the Talcott sisters. Like her brother, Helen had thick auburn hair and wide hazel eyes. Her features were pretty enough, however her face was a bit full and her nose a trifle sharp—she would never be thought beautiful, especially in comparison to Lady Sylvia. Perhaps that was why her mouth appeared pursed in a perpetual pout.
“On occasion,” answered Orlov. “Do you?—”
“Then you must join us on a shoot,” interrupted Jervis as he sliced off a morsel of pheasant. “Tell me, have you noticed much game in the area?”
“I have seen plenty of grouse on my morning walks.”
“I was thinking about something more challenging than birds.”
Orlov allowed a small smile. “I would imagine that these moors offer plenty of sport.”
“Excellent. I look forward to seeing how well scholarly skills translate to stalking roe deer. ”
Shannon sipped her mushroom bisque. No, you do not .
The meal proceeded without further incident. As Lady Octavia remained unresponsive to polite conversation, the London contingent turned to discussing the merits of a recent exhibit of landscape painting among themselves. Though Orlov listened politely, he was aware of how pinched the dowager’s expression had become, and how deeply her eyes had sunk in their sockets. As if she had withdrawn to some inner place of refuge.
Why? It was yet another unanswered question. He felt his grip tighten on his knife. And there were too damn many of them for his taste.
When she rose abruptly and suggested that the ladies leave the gentlemen to their port, he pushed back his chair as well. “Allow me to assist with the tea service, milady. I am sure that these gentlemen would prefer to relax in some privacy.”
Jervis seemed to realize that such an arrangement would leave the tutor alone with the ladies. “Let us not stand on ceremony,” he announced. “We will take our postprandial drinks with you in the drawing room, if that is agreeable, Lady Octavia.”
She shrugged her bony shoulders. “Suit yourself. But be advised that if you wish to blow a cloud, you will have to do it on the terrace.”
After escorting the dowager to her favorite chair by the fire, Orlov contrived to brush by Shannon. “Keep the gentlemen occupied here for the next quarter hour.”
“Why?” she whispered.
“I want to make a quick search of the comte’s quarters, while his servant is still at supper. ”
She looked uncertain. “I am not sure how?—”
“Think of something.” He moved away quickly as Helen approached, and took the tea tray from Rawley. “Would you prefer to pour, milady? Or might you like one of the ladies to serve as hostess.”
“I am sure Lady Sylvia would take pleasure in presiding,” answered the dowager. “I find myself rather exhausted from the day’s commotion and prefer to retire for the night .”
Bowing, Orlov offered his arm.
“You needn’t abandon the company on my account, young man. I have my stick to lean on.”
“I was about to take my leave as well. I have several sections of Homer’sOdyssey to review for Master Prescott’s history lesson.”
The Talcott sisters looked disappointed. “La, we were hoping you might join us in a hand of whist,” said Annabelle. “We have all grown far too familiar with our usual partners.”
Steam from the teapot obscured Lady Sylvia’s reaction. “Do you play, Miss Sloane?”
“Cards? No, not well at all.” Shannon had already moved past the table to where the ancient firearm hung on its bracket. She ran a hand along its varnished stock. “Monsieur De Villiers, you seemed so very knowledgeable about the working of this weapon earlier in the evening. Might I ask you to explain again just how the firing mechanism works?” The request was accompanied by a flutter of lashes. “I confess to being absurdly ignorant on these things. I hardly know which end is which.”
So the warrior hawk could metamorphize into a flirtatious dove? Seeing this side of her nature for the first time, Orlov was torn between amusement and a more primal irritation.
“But of course, mademoiselle.” All smiles, the comte came to her side, standing a bit closer than was necessary. “You see here . . .”
“Hmmph.” Once in the hallway, Lady Octavia recovered enough of her usual aplomb to voice her opinion. “Miss Sloane certainly exhibited no such ignorance the other day, when I observed her take that weapon off the wall and subject it to a thorough test of its working.” She paused for a fraction. “And do not imply that I had left off my spectacles, lest you wish to be digging the point of my stick out of some vital portion of your anatomy.”
“You are too sharp by half,” he murmured. “I would not dare question your sight or your sleight of hand.”
“I wonder why she would take pains to hide her skills with firearms,” mused the dowager. Candlelight flashed off her lenses, casting a kaleidoscope of patterns across her wrinkled face. Her hand suddenly felt cold upon his sleeve.
“I imagine she has her reasons.”
“Which, I take it, you are not about to reveal?”
Orlov sought to slice a fine line between truth and lie. “I cannot claim to be in the young lady’s complete confidence. We are not . . . intimate friends.”
“Hmmph. I wonder why a man as clever and charming as you are has not found a way to penetrate her defenses.” Her steps seemed a bit labored as she climbed the stairs. “Well, I am afraid you are on your own. Do not expect me to invite you into my boudoir.” Her stick tapped his toes. “Run along, Mr. Oliver. I can find my way from here. ”
“ . . . and so, when you pull the trigger, the flint strikes the pan, and voila ! The powder goes up in smoke.” The comte’s fingers curled around hers, drawing them down to the smooth curve of steel. “Here, you try it.”
Shannon did not have to feign a maidenly hesitation. Though the Academytrained all of its students in the art of allure, she had always felt awkward, unsure of her skills in flirtation. Her roommate Sofia had an innate knack for wrapping men around her little finger, while she, on the other hand, was far more comfortable with a length of leather or steel pressed in her grip.
A warrior or a woman . In her, the combination seemed to clash.
Surely Orlov was aware of her lack of charm. And yet, she thought wryly, his curt command had likely not meant that she should challenge De Villiers to a bout of fisticuffs in the middle of the drawing room. Given her limited options, she had no alternative but to exercise her feminine wiles. No matter how tentative.
“Don’t be afraid, mademoiselle.” The comte’s touch sent another small shiver down her arms. “It is not loaded. And I have firm hold of the barrel. It will not slip from my grasp.“
“Arnaud fancies himself quite an expert on hunting birds, Miss Sloane. But his technique can be a trifle too heavy-handed.” Jervis, who had joined them, gave a cocky smile. “Allow me to demonstrate.” Plucking the old fowling piece from his friend, he took mock aim at one of the winged cherubs adorning the carved ceiling.
“Do put that down, Randall, before there is an unfortunate accident.”
snapped Lady Sylvia.
Her friend laughed. “I doubt it has been fired since Cromwell’s time. ”
“Sylvia is right,” announced Annabelle loudly. Shaking off her sulky silence, the younger Talcott sister sought to draw some of the attention to herself. Flaxen curls set off a heart-shaped face and lush, rosebud mouth. She was far prettier than her sister, and with another year or two of polish to round off the adolescent edges, she would be a Diamond of the First Water.
But patience did not seem to be one of Annabelle’s virtues, noted Shannon. Throughout supper, the girl had seemed greatly annoyed that the gentlemen were not making more of a fuss over her.
Exaggerating a shudder, Annabelle added, “How you can bear the touch of it is beyond me. Weapons are far too dangerous. The mere sight of such horrid things sends chills down my spine.” A flutter of lashes seemed to invite the comte to offer his soothing support to her, rather than a lowly governess.
De Villiers did not appear to notice.
“Only in the wrong hands, Bella.” It was her brother who answered.. “Sylvia is made of sterner stuff. I can vouch for her skills in archery.”
“She is a crack shot with a bow and arrow,” agreed Jervis as he set the old musket back in its place. “As I can well attest. She beat all of us gentlemen soundly at Lord Henniger’s houseparty.”
How interesting . Shannon shot the lady a sidelong glance. So those graceful hands were not quite as dainty as they seemed.
“Perhaps we should organize a re-match.” The comte perched a hip on the edge of the console table and began buffing his nails on his sleeve. “Seeing as the choice of entertainments here promise to be rather sparse, it would provide a source of amusement. ”
The others applauded the suggestion.
“Are you adept with a bow and arrow, Miss Sloane?” he asked.
“A governess is not ordinarily trained in such skills,” she replied obliquely.
“Not ordinarily.” The rich scarlet hue of his coat—strikingly similar to the color of British regimentals—set off his dark coloring to perfection. A choice, no doubt, as deliberate as the flash of pearly teeth. “But being a country miss, I thought you might have some experience with such sport,” he continued. “You did say you were from the country, did you not?”
Lady Sylvia proved an unwitting ally in deflecting the question. To Shannon’s eye, she looked none too happy with the fact that her gentlemen friends were paying attention to a mere servant. “Lady Octavia was adamant about us not distracting Miss Sloane from her duties in the schoolroom. I should not like to cause my dear aunt any distress.”
“Oh.” Looking disappointed, Annabelle nibbled a sugary bit of cake. “I was hoping to see Mr. Oliver display his prowess at hitting the bull’s eye. He looks to have an admirable form for sport.”
“Your eyes ought not be straying to the tutor,” began her brother. “Your infantile infatuation with Lord Norbert—a country nobody was bad enough, but?—”
“He is not a nobody,” responded Annabelle hotly. “He is a perfectly respectable gentleman. You have no right to look down your nose at a barony, just because it is located in Yorkshire.”
Her brother’s voice rose too. “I’ll not permit you to squander your chances of making a good marriage in London by allowing some feckless fribble to come sniffing around your skirts. If you thought to ask him to follow you here, be advised I will boot his?—”
A stirring of Lady Sylvia’s silks nudged Talcott to silence. “Let us not begin squabbling in front of strangers,” she said with a pointed look at Shannon. “Miss Sloane will think us ill-mannered savages.”
Glancing at the clock, Shannon decided her delaying tactics had served their purpose, and it was safe to withdraw. It would not do to make an enemy of the dowager’s relative so early in the game.
“Not at all,” she replied softly. “Indeed, you have all been more than kind to tolerate my presence with such good graces. I am well aware that Lady Octavia’s notions on the social status of the household help are not shared by a majority of the ton .” That yet another stranger might soon be arriving at the castle was unwelcome news, but she dared not ask any questions about the Talcott family argument. “If you will excuse me, I, too, have lessons to go over for the morrow.”
Looking somewhat mollified by the humble tone, Lady Sylvia unbent enough to offer a slight nod. “Good evening, Miss. Sloane. Pray, do not feel intimidated by our arrival. You have a formidable enough adversary to cope with in my aunt. We should hate to add to your travails.”
“How kind.” She could not quite read in the gentlemen’s faces whether they seconded the sentiments. Talcott’s features were too slurred with drink to reveal much of anything, but the other two looked as if partridge and grouse were not the only birds they intended to stalk.
To many men of wealth and rank, servants were fair game.
The comte left off polishing his person to escort her to the door. “ Bon soir , mademoiselle.” He lifted her hand to his lips. “And beaux rêves .”
Sweet dreams, indeed. For the moment, let him think she was naught but a pigeon ripe for the plucking. When the time came, he would learn how quickly she could unsheathe her talons.
Much to her dismay, Shannon did not move quite fast enough the next morning to catch Orlov in the breakfast room. Distracted by all the questions she had concerning his nocturnal forays, she rushed through the morning lessons with Emma, hoping to have a word with him before nuncheon. Only to have the housekeeper call her to the kitchen for an opinion on whether the London ladies would prefer roast beef or leg of lamb for the supper meal.
When she returned to the schoolrooms, the tutor and both children were gone.
Damn. Damn. Damn.
Taking the back stairs two at a time, she hurried through the scullery and took the shortcut out to the gardens. The sun, playing hide-and-seek among the thick clouds, had not yet warmed the chill from the air. It caught in her throat, like a sliver of ice.
Where had Orlov taken Prescott and Emma?
The path forked and she plunged on to the right, passing under a low pergola covered with climbing roses. Thorns caught at her cloak. Had she been wrong to let her guard slip? Looking to the distant moors, she was about to turn for the stables when a raucous cackling sounded from behind the nearby boxwood bushes. Sliding cautiously along the line of the hedge, she peered over the curling leaves .
“In Russia, they are called wolf birds.” Orlov was coaxing one of several big black ravens closer with a crust of bread. “But despite their predatory looks, they are quite gregarious.”
“T-they won’t bite? Or peck out my eyes?” Emma flinched as the bird flapped its glossy wings, her clenched little fists turning white at the knuckles. But seeing that her brother didn’t budge, she kept her seat on the low stone wall.
“No, my little elf.” Circling her shoulder, he drew her closer to his side. “Here.” He turned her palm upward and crumbled a bit of the bread into a fine powder. In a deep voice, he uttered a few Russian words. “There, I’ve said the magic spell. If they come any closer you can throw Druid dust in their eyes, and turn them into tiny sparrows.”
She giggled. “There are no such things as spells and Druids. Papa says it’s just the stuff of old legends.”
“Perhaps. But it never hurts to keep an open mind. As a scientist, your father would no doubt agree.” Orlov tossed the crow a crumb. With a hop and jab, the bird caught it in mid-air and gobbled it down, setting off a flurry of protest from the others.
Forgetting her fears, Emma clapped her hands together. “They look so funny, with their bobbing heads and great big feet.”
“Aye, they do.” He mimicked their motion, drawing more laughs from the children.
Shannon smiled, in spite of her still-pounding heart. The Russian was a contradiction, a conundrum. A cold-blooded killer, a kind-hearted guardian—the two seemed hard to reconcile. Which was a truer measure of the man? She had a sense that there was no easy answer. And yet . . .
The errant thud of her pulse, fast and furious as a stallion’s gallop, warned her to rein in her wild speculations. She had promised Lynsley to keep her impetuous emotions from riding away with her. Alexandr Orlov was a man of hardened will, tempered arrogance, carnal appetites. Whatever inexplicable attraction sparked this powerful heat in her veins, she must fight it at all costs..
“Is something wrong?” To a chorus of aggrieved squawks, Orlov suddenly looked around to meet her gaze. He swung Emma up into his arms and rose. A blur of black wings cast a momentary shadow over their faces.
Aware of her wind-snarled hair and thin muslin dress, Shannon felt rather foolish. “Cook is looking for the children. She has baked a special treat of hot mutton pasties and they are fast growing cold.”
Would the same thing could be said for her burning cheeks. The man had an uncanny knack of making her feel. . . naked beneath his raking eyes.
His mouth curled up at the corners. “I do hope she has made an extra batch. I am famished.”
“I missed you at breakfast.”
“I rose early and decided to take a walk while the weather held. I did pocket a few slices of bread, but I fear they have now gone to feed our winged friends.”
“St. Francis of Assisi would be impressed.”
Orlov flashed a choirboy grin. “Lord knows, I have little claim to sainthood. However?—”
“Scottie was teasing me about being afraid of crows,” piped up Emma. “And Mr. Oliver offered to teach me that they aren’t so bad, once you see past the black feathers and sharp beaks.”
“Yes, appearances can be deceiving.” Shannon resisted the urge to sneak a peek at the Russian. “It is an excellent lesson to keep in mind. Now run along, the two of you, before Cook’s feelings are hurt.”
“I take it the invitation does not include me?” said Orlov as the children scampered away.
“Stay a moment,” she replied a touch sharply. “I wish to know what transpired last night.”
“Precious little of any import. I found nothing incriminating in De Villiers’s rooms. Most gentlemen would pack a brace of pistols for such a journey.” He made a face. “However his taste in cologne is grounds for being shot on the spot.”
“The carriage—” she began.
“I checked it this morning, while the coachman was still sleeping. Again, I saw no sign that anything is secreted within the paneling or the upholstery.”
“No maps.” She frowned in thought. “No hidden messages, no stash of money.”
“That is not to say that a more thorough search would not turn up something of the sort. I will keep my eyes open for any opportunity to dig deeper. But so far, there is nothing to arouse suspicion.”
“Save for their very arrival.”
“Save for their arrival,” repeated Orlov.
The furrow between Shannon’s brows deepened. “Then you are not fully convinced that is it merely coincidence?”
“Oh, as I told you before, golub , I take a rather jaded view of the world and those who people it.” He looked to the moors as the sun gave way to shadow. Mist was beginning to blow in from the coast, hazing the hills with austere shades of windswept gray. A breeze, redolent of approaching rain, ruffled the twisting ivy and from far away, the growl of distant thunder rumbled against the stones. “That way I am rarely disappointed.”
Fallen leaves rustled against the gravel.
“In this case, I am inclined to agree—” she began.
Orlov suddenly shoved her up against the stone archway and kissed her hard. “Look outraged . . . but not too outraged,” he murmured, angling his mouth to nip at her earlobe.
She gasped, her anger hot against his flesh.
“Yes, that’s it.”
Struggling, Shannon freed her arms. She clawed at his shoulders, then her hands softened as they slid into his hair. He felt the burr of callused fingertips, the stretch of sleek muscle as her body molded to his. She had not been neglecting her training. Her lethal grace—all long limbs and lithe curves—once again brought to mind a lioness. A regal huntress. Matching him strength for strength.
With a low groan, he kissed her again on the lips, the pretense of passion deepening to a more primal need.
Shannon shivered as she arched back and entwined herself in a more intimate embrace. Emboldened, Orlov slid his hands over her breasts. Shifting his stance he nudged a knee between her skirts.
She appeared to be taking his orders to heart. Rather than fight him, she opened her legs to his scandalous advance. In another moment. . .
He pulled back.
“Hit me,” he whispered, bemused to find his voice strangely fuzzed. “Hard.”
Her palm came across his cheek in a stinging slap.
They froze, facing each other in stiff-armed silence. Surprise held them still for some moments.
“Well played,” he finally murmured, slowly brushing a tangle of curls from the nape of her neck. “If ever you tire of your current employment, you might consider a career on the stage.”
“What the devil was that all about?” Her face was flushed and her breath was a bit ragged.
“The ladies were watching.” With his eyes, Orlov indicated the screen of yews bordering the upper terrace. “They are gone now.”
“Why—” she began
“By playing the role of a rake, I mean to see what hidden tensions I can stir up among the London party. This little scene will help to convince Lady Sylvia and the Talcott sisters that I am not quite a gentleman.”
“Isn’t that exactly the sort of male a gently bred young lady is taught to avoid?”
“Ah, but a taste of the forbidden has been an irresistible attraction since the Garden of Eden was put on this earth . . .”
Shannon’s kiss-swollen lips pressed together.
Was it his imagination, or did they quiver ever so slightly? “You won’t be jealous, will you, if I flirt with them?” he asked.
She swore, drawing a small laugh from him. “No, I didn’t think so, golub .” He turned, then hesitated as an unwelcome thought came to mind. “But no doubt they will gossip to the gentlemen about your own availability. Be aware that they may seek to take the same liberties as I just did.”
“I can handle myself, Mr?—”
“Alex,” he interrupted. “Remember that we had agreed to dispense with formalities. And it suits our intimacy. If we were carrying on an illicit affair, we would hardly be calling each by our surnames.”
“I—it is only an act.”
Orlov found himself savoring the sight of her blush. Color spread slowly over her cheekbones, the dark crimson hue pooling in the hollows, then lightening to a more nuanced shade of pink as it crept towards her eyes. “Ah, but they don’t know that, do they, Shannon?”
“Let us hope it is not the only falsehood they fail to discover,” she muttered. The temperature was dropping, and Orlov felt the pebbling of goosebumps beneath the thin fabric of her sleeve. “De Villiers was awfully attentive during our little tete a tete last evening. He even inquired where in the country I was raised.”
“How did you keep him occupied?”
She exaggerated the flutter of her lashes. “By asking him to explain the mysterious workings of a 17 th century fowling piece.“ The thick fringe of gold seemed to spark flecks of fire in her emerald eyes. “By the by, his discourse on ballistics was woefully inaccurate. It was the Bavarian necromancer Moretius who wrote a treatise on the principles of rifling, not some Benedictine monk from Savoy. In 1522, not a century later.”
Orlov couldn’t help but smile at the thought of the Frenchman’s expression had she gone ahead and tossed the facts back in his face. “You didn’t correct his error, I trust?”
Her gaze turned slitted. “You are not the only one can play the game of flattery. The Academy’s training includes expert instruction on the arts of seduction as well as weaponry. I am well aware that men cannot bear to be wrong in anything.”
His humor suddenly darkened to match the clouds overhead.
“You won’t be jealous, will you, if I flirt with him and his friends?”
He swore, surprising himself with the vehemence of his oath.
“No, I didn’t think so.” Hugging her arms to her chest, Shannon turned into the teeth of the wind.
“Be careful,” he warned. “Don’t get too close to De Villiers. He may be naught but a pompous prig, but if he is in league with D’Etienne, he is a trained killer.”
“Then it will be a match made in heaven,” she shot back. “I shall take pleasure in sending him straight to hell.”
“Take care you don’t get burned.”
“As you saw in Ireland, I am very good at handling lucifers.”
“Playing with fire is always unpredictable—in case your damn training failed to make that clear.” Her announcement had taken him by surprise. Though why he should be disturbed to learn of her schooling in feminine wiles was odd. It was merely another weapon in their arsenal, and if she could wield it well, all the better for their chances of success.
“I know full well the dangers of what we do.”
Orlov wished he could feel so sanguine. “Well then, you need no further counsel from me.”
“Indeed not. As I said, I can take care of myself.”She patted at her skirts—no doubt checking that her knife had not shifted during their amorous interlude. “I would rather you worry about how we can make any further progress in securing the house from intruders. The terrace is now protected by tripwires, but there are a good many other ways into the place.”
“I, too, am not in need of a lecture to alert me to the dangers lurking at our gates,” he snapped. “After a wee dram of spirits with Rawley andEuan last night, I was able to learn which side doors and cellar entrances are never used. I’ve shut them with my own set of padlocks, so that cuts down on the number of ways into the house.”
She nodded. “And all jesting aside, your earlier comment about nailing the windows shut is not a bad idea either.”
In defensive strategy, at least, they saw eye to eye. Orlov held her gaze for a moment longer before turning for the terrace. “I’ll see to it before supper if you will take my place at the chess board.”
“One other thing—I also overheard a squabble between Annabelle and her brother. Apparently, she began a flirtation with a Yorkshire baron they met on their way north. From what I could gather, there may be a moonstruck young man on the way north, hoping for an invitation to join the house party here.”
“Damn, there are too many strangers as it is,” he muttered.
As for any offensive gambits by their enemy . . . he would have to stay on guard.