Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
“ S tolen,” Devlin drawled. “From beneath your nose, Rudyard? You don’t say. I wonder what the blighter was after.”
Melisende regarded Devlin—no, she could call him Philip now; he’d given her leave to use his Christian name. He lounged in the padded chair with one ankle crossed over his knee, the spur dangling from his tall black riding boot. The man did have a shapely leg, the leather of his polished boots hugging the muscle in his calves, and as for his thighs and arse in the tight-fitting tan leather breeches?—
Time to stop thinking of Philip’s nether regions, Melisende told herself.
And time to stop letting her thoughts roam down fanciful paths of any sort. She hadn’t the time for fantasies. She needed, urgently, to find the supposed key to this unexpected map and its supposed hint of treasure, before the desperate man who’d attacked her in Angel Court found her again.
Attack seemed unlikely as she sat in the enormous and heavily ornamented drawing room in Arendale House that the family referred to as the library. Bookcases ranged along one end of the room, tomes arranged in harmonious rows. A harp stood in one corner, a piano in another, across from a small desk, and there were couches of every shape and size arranged into small sitting areas. Cadmus, the Viscount Rudyard, sprawled over the end of one, like Philip outfitted in riding gear, but he was a rougher, blunter version of Devlin’s casual elegance and sharp grace.
“Clearly the blighter was after the book,” Cadmus agreed. “Wanted the demned treasure. Pardon the language,” he added in a perfunctory fashion, clearly not concerned whether Melisende took offense.
She had bigger things to worry about than the level of courtesy or deference the heir to an English marquess would decide to show her. “Whoever gave you the notion there was a treasure attached to this book?” she asked instead.
“Eh?” The viscount, who had not given Melisende more than a passing glance when Philip strolled into his library on the pretense of a social call, settled his gaze on her. He took his time in his perusal, and Melisende waited, aware that her polonaise gown of burnished gold, draped over an apricot petticoat and trimmed with apricot ruffles, showed her figure to advantage. She was not at all surprised when the bodice, narrowing to a sharp point over a stomacher that flattened and pushed up her breasts, caught the viscount’s eye.
“I say,” Cadmus said with evident surprise. “You’ve quite a fine piece here, Devlin.”
“She’s a lady.” She noted the drop in Philip’s tone. Almost the same tenor he’d purred in her ear last night when—no, she’d not entertain that memory here.
“A cut above the usual opera dancers and actresses, then,” Cadmus chortled. “How do you afford her, old man?”
“He won me with his manners,” Melisende said sharply. “Who were you saying told you of a supposed treasure?”
The viscount narrowed his eyes. “Peculiar, how many people of late are interested in that bit of information.”
“I’m afraid it’s a false bit of information,” Melisende said. She’d erred to choose this particular gown and the stomacher, for much as it enhanced her décolletage, it also interfered with her ability to take a deep, steadying breath. “I’m familiar with the other books in the collection of which your volume forms a part. There’s no map to treasure within them.”
A slight lie. There was a map. But to what? And why had it been added?
And where was the dratted patent, the real prize she sought? She felt like swearing herself, but she’d likely shock the viscount with the language she knew. Philip certainly hadn’t seen that side of her yet.
Cadmus rubbed his jaw, where a slight mark suggested his valet had cut him shaving. “I don’t recall.”
“Yes, you do,” Melisende said in a pleasant tone. “But you are waiting to see what it’s worth to me, and what it could possibly be worth to you.”
Cadmus stopped stroking his chin and stared at her. So did Philip.
Melisende met Philip’sraised brows with a shrug. “We are past the time for diplomacy. Lies have short legs.”
The viscount moved his calculating gaze to Philip. “Sharp tongue on her.”
Philip gave his lazy smile. “Sharp mind, too.”
Philip wouldn’t be drawn into some masculine agreement to intimidate and silence her. A small bead of warmth rose in Melisende’s throat. That morning, he’d presented himself at her house for fencing practice, and he’d very nearly bested her, given the range of her thrusts was limited by her wound. Possibly he held himself back in his attacks because she was a woman and he had, she’d learned, a deeply ingrained sense of chivalry. But he’d never regarded her as less intelligent, less able, or less skilled.
How unusual that made him among other men of his class. She had the mold for that cast sitting before her, throned like a king in the library that would one day be his, along with a title and all the wealth his massive estates yielded. Insolent, self-important, and handsome, a lord of the earth, and he knew it.
“Mind’s a waste on a woman,” Cadmus noted, swerving his attention back to Melisende.
She sighed. How much she preferred Philip’s wily manner, the charm of a man who had learned to use every opportunity to his advantage, over the viscount’s assured self-complacency.
But it wasn’t like her to be insolent when her own woman’s wiles were bound to be more effective on a man like Rudyard. She simply didn’t want Philip Devlin watching while she beguiled and manipulated another man.
It wouldn’t do to become nice about Philip, Melisende reminded herself, smoothing her gloves over her fingers. She must be prepared to use him, too, and discard him when his usefulness was complete. She had done so with others, and without a single regret. He might be her accomplice at the moment, but he was still an accessory.
“There is no treasure, Rudyard. You’ve been hoaxed. The book stolen from you has no value to anyone but the Meinhardin family, the grand dukes of Merania. But there was another piece to that book, which is also of interest, and we would like to know if you still have it.”
The viscount watched her with his slow calculation. “Is it worth anything, this other book?”
“Not unless it’s in the hands of the person whose business it concerns.” Melisende battled to retain her cool tone. She’d danced with kings, dined with emperors, had been a favorite of the Empress Catherine when she was at the Russian court. She wasn’t about to let one clodpole of an Englishman make her lose the leash on her temper.
“Tell me what this book contains, and I’ll see if I have it.”
They regarded one another with mutual disdain. Somewhere in the house, a door slammed, cutting off eruption of a shrill feminine voice. Traffic resounded from the street outside, the scrape of wheels and clanks of harness, shouts of men. The wooden frame of the couch creaked as Cadmus shifted.
Philip tapped his fingers on his knee. Any other man would have leapt in by now to speak for her, try to take control of the situation. Philip Devlin sat back and watched what Melisende would do.
“It will be a small volume, possibly a single document, marked with an imperial seal. A letter from Ferdinand I, Holy Roman Emperor and Archduke of Austria, commending the Grand Duke of Merania for his loyal service.”
That was a slight lie. The viscount wouldn’t know that, but Philip did. He looked with interest around the room, fingers still tapping his knee.
Cadmus snorted. “A letter? And what is that worth?”
“Nothing, outside the hands of the Meinhardin family. I told you there was no treasure, Rudyard. I’d like to know who is spreading that fairy tale.”
The viscount shrugged. “Don’t recall. Some bloke I met at a gaming table one night. Rather a grim looking sort. You’d know the place, Devlin.” He turned to her companion with a grin malicious in its glee. “Lost a cod of money there, you did, and got your jacket laced over that old ewe—remember? The bed-maker. Wasn’t for sale, but you and Pinochle were each determined to have a go. You came out on top, I think?”
Pinochle. The surly lord at the bookstore whom Philip blamed for distracting him while Melisende’s attacker was let into the alley, or slipped into the alley with the key to a lock on a gate he didn’t own. Melisende watched him with a sharp eye, but Philip responded to the viscount’s tale with an unruffled shrug.
“Don’t recall that night. Don’t recall many of them,” he drawled, trading a knowing smile with his host. He rose to his feet, lithe as a big cat unfolding, and padded to a portrait on the library wall. “I say, did you sit for Reynolds?”
Rudyard strolled over to join him, a shorter, stockier shadow, and side by side, the contrast was vivid. Cadmus was a plump, petted house cat, watching the world with smug satisfaction from his silken cushion. Devlin was a sleek tomcat, living by cunning and strength, who could ape the fashion and manners of the house cat but would never be mistaken for one.
Not a man to be tamed or domesticated. And not a man to be crossed.
“That’s Jem, my younger cousin, with me,” Cadmus said. “M’mother had fits about including him. His mum was a draper’s daughter—m’uncle married her for the money, the one wise thing he ever did. Jem’s a bang up sort, always good for a mischief.” Cadmus chortled. “And always ready to take the fall. M’father don’t know half the schemes we got into, but Jem never bit back when he got the caning and I got a slap on the wrist.”
Melisende glanced at the portrait as she rose. Two boys with pale, sweet faces stared out from a wooded garden. One, standing in a silk suit, leaned on a walking stick and stared boldly at the viewer, while beside him sat another boy, looking up at his cousin while petting a small spaniel who rested its paw on his knee. Cadmus, a viscount from birth, wore his worth with arrogance, but the other, Melisende thought, had the more honest, intelligent face. He was significantly more handsome because of it. Grown, he’d be a man she’d pause to consider if she saw him in a crowded drawing room or at a garden party.
As she would Devlin. As she had Devlin, and hoped he never learned how she’d marked him when she first saw him at the Duchess of Highcastle’s soiree . Born and bred to diplomatic circles, she recognized a man of power when she saw him. A man like Cadmus had influence through his name and wealth, and used it to his benefit whenever he could in the dullest and most obvious of ways.
But Philip had that manner of watchfulness, of keen intelligence and discernment, that marked the men who truly knew the ways of things and, behind the backs of the stomping giants, quietly pulled the strings into place that held the balance of the world.
She’d been puzzled, then, when he was described to her as a dissolute rake, a gamester and a seducer, someone to avoid. What a waste, she’d thought at the time, surprised to be misled by a mere roué. Now the conundrum made sense. It was an act he assumed as easily as she settled a shawl about her shoulders.
“Reminds me of the time you and I—” Philip drew the viscount into a reminisce, and Melisende tuned them out. She didn’t need the small crook of his finger, as he held his hands behind his back, to tell her he was clearing her path. Holding her skirts quiet, she padded to the table near the bookcases and sorted through it.
Nothing. Nothing on the nearest shelves. Nothing in the drawers in the console table—she held her breath when one squeaked as she pulled on it—and nothing in the cabinets below the shelves holding trinkets and artifacts that Arendale heirs had brought back from their obligatory Grand Tour.
The key wasn’t here. Rudyard didn’t have it. Breath caught high in her throat, pressing on her ears, pushing a red haze before her eyes. The key was gone .
“Oh, that bit?” Rudyard’s harsh voice broke through her trance, her brain looping in whirls of defeat and confusion. “Went with your book, you say? Shame. Mum had a caller, suitor for Bertie, she thought, who said he could read it. A language he knew of, something foreign, I couldn’t say.” Cadmus shrugged. “So she gave it to him.”
“Who?” Melisende’s voice ghosted out of her, a wraith hanging in the still air of the library. “Who asked for the pamphlet?”
“Hmm. Russian. Diplomat sort? Too old for Bertie, by the bye, but Mum’s rushing her fences at this point, wants so badly for m’sister to be a success.” Cadmus scrunched up his face. “Veron—Verona?—”
“Voronsky,” Philip said quietly.
“I say, that’s it.” Cadmus eyed his friend. “Know him, do you?”
“No,” Melisende said, meeting Philip’s gaze squarely. A thrill leapt through her, that knot in her throat transforming, as she saw that he read her reaction perfectly. “But I do.”
“Traitor.” Melisende seethed all the way back to Fauconberg House. “Vile betrayer. I’ll have his head.”
“Can you do that?” Philip asked, holding his hat onto his head.
Melisende in a rage was a rather magnificent sight. Gold sparks fairly shot from her glittering eyes. She drove her pair with a reckless speed that made the wind tug her heavy curls free from their pins and brushed her cheeks rose. That and the way her breasts rose and fell with her short, angry breaths was making his palms itch to take the ribbons so he had somewhere to focus his attention that would not end with his hands on her.
“Can you call for his head,” he added. “I mean, who would provide it?”
“I could cut it off,” she said shortly.
“Perhaps you ought to let him explain himself first.”
“Or perhaps I ought not . What will it gain me to listen to his lies? The man is a diplomat by nature and training. He’ll have a story prepared.”
She wheeled around a corner at an unwise speed, and one of the large wheels lifted off the cobbles. From his seat behind them her new boy, dressed in a tiger’s livery, whooped encouragement.
“Steady, Melisende. You can’t rush straight to his home to confront him.”
“That is exactly what I intend. And if he isn’t there, we’ll break into his house.” She shot him an arch glare. “Surely you know at least five ways to get inside.”
He chuckled at her boldness. “I’ll not help you crack the ken of the Russian ambassador to Great Britain. I won’t be able to talk my way out of irons if we’re caught.”
“So we don’t get caught,” she answered.
“Say you find he has the key.” Out of reflex he shot out a hand to pull back on the ribbons as a heavy cart turned into the street before them. The horses snorted and reared, and his heart stopped beating for a moment as he yanked Melisende close to his side as if he could prevent her falling.
Once the horses had their feet, snorting, his heart resumed beating, and he resumed speaking. “Then what would you do?”
“Then I would cut off his head.”
“And never know why he wanted it. Why he approached Rudyard to get the key before you could.” He squeezed her wrist. “Slow down, and let’s think this through.”
“ Verdammnt noch mal! ” she hissed and shook the ribbons to start the horses again, though this time at a slower pace. Her tiger leaned over to shake a small fist at the careless carter, even his slight weight tilting the vehicle.
“I never thought you would be the voice of reason, Devlin. What good are you to me if you won’t put your thievery skills to use now?”
“I only steal when it’s the most expedient method,” he answered, amused by her fiery temper. He’d suspected that passion smoldered beneath her facade of calm elegance; that slant to her eyes was a dead giveaway, and he’d had proof the first time he held her in his arms. He pushed that thought away—another distraction. “I don’t steal when there are better methods to employ first.”
“Direct challenge? A fencing duel?”
“Reconnaissance. Talk to your father first. See what he knows. Then we can plan how to approach Voronsky.”
She wheeled the pair in the direction of Soho Square, ignoring the squawk of a dame in a sedan chair whose passage she abruptly cut off. “You are not playing your role. I am meant to be the strategist, and you are meant to be my lackey.”
Philip chuckled. “Melisende, a stór .” He leapt nimbly to the street when she pulled the horses before the impressive house and, as her tiger took the ribbons to soothe the horses, he lifted his arms to help her down. She was by no means a slight woman, yet she felt like bundled heather in his arms.
“You should know by now,” he added as he set her on her feet. He dropped the words into the curve of her neck. “I am no one’s lackey.”
He relished the way she jerked her chin up, responding to his breath over her sensitive skin, the warning and promise in his words. This was a woman who would demand a long, careful pursuit, and she was worth every moment of the effort.
Now, if only he could persuade her he was worth the effort in return.