Chapter 11
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“ A masquerade.” Doubt laced Philip’s tone. “Must we?”
“You were the one who advised a reconnaissance,” Melisende reminded him, diverted by his reaction. Voronsky’s betrayal pressed at her chest like the stones used to torture confession out of heretics. Somehow, if she could have Philip with her, she was certain she could keep from going shrieking mad. “This is the way to get into Voronsky’s house under cover of a crowd. You were the one who insisted we be strategic.”
He didn’t remark her use of that intimate word we, merely cocked his head to one side. “And who am I intended to be?”
“Your namesake, of course. Philip of Macedon, ruler of Classical Greece, commander of one of the world’s most formidable armies and father of Alexander the Great.” She held up the long white tunic, embroidered with gold.
He rubbed the fabric between this thumb, frowning. “I’m wearing breeches beneath this.”
He was with her. Melisende tamped back a smile. “Best that you do.”
“And you are?” He regarded the swaths of embroidered crimson silk hanging from the wardrobe in her dressing room. “No, I can guess. Cleopatra, Queen of the Nile.”
Melisende snorted. “Every third woman will be dressed as Cleopatra. I am Roxana, princess of Persia, Alexander the Great’s first wife.”
“That will make me incestuous, lusting after my daughter-in-law.”
“Nothing new in ancient Greece, or in any ancient culture. Or our own.” She must pretend he was only teasing, tossing off the kind of remark a practiced roué made without thinking. She must not dwell on the thought that Philip desired her. Or that she was alone with him in her fanciful rococo dressing room, wearing only her loose powdering robe, while they plotted. Very like those lovers in that French book she was reading, Les Liaisons dangereuses.
“You approve of the plan?” she asked. “I will leave first for his study. It is on the first floor, at the back of the house. You can use the servant’s stair to follow me. If discovered, we are having a rendez-vous.”
A thrill walked its fingers along her shoulders. He might be obliged to kiss her again. To lend conviction to their performance.
“And when Voronsky finds us?” He examined the cloak that went with his costume.
Melisende curled her hand into a fist. “I will allow him a chance to explain himself. But I will not leave that house without the key.”
Philip shook his head. “How rare for me to be the voice of reason. It is usually otherwise.”
Bruyit rapped on the doorframe, then entered. “I wish to be in the house with you.”
“But how will we get you inside?” Melisende picked up the hand mirror on her dressing table and held a golden earring to her cheek.
“He’s our driver, lingering in the kitchen to tease a hot whiskey out of Cook,” Philip suggested.
“Hot whiskey?” Bruyit rumbled.
“An Irish remedy for a good sleep, guard against a damp night and a cold bed.” Philip nodded. “You could ask for rum, if you prefer.”
“In Merania, the merriment from the servant’s hall would rival that upstairs during a ball,” Melisende said. “But it seems here, drivers stay with their vehicles during a party. A drab, lonely custom, but that is true of so much of England.”
Philip grinned at her. “And that is why we have usquebaugh.”
Melisende snorted. “He is like to get a vodka from Voronsky’s chef, and then he’ll be fuddled if I need to fight my way out of the house.”
“I fight better with a tot in me,” Bruyit insisted.
Philip moved to one window and peered out, turning his head to take in the square. “There will be no fighting tonight, my bloodthirsty princess. We will settle this like diplomats, not savages.”
He’d said we.
That curl of pleasure unfurled once more in her belly, an unwanted tendril, seeing him standing guard over her. She was accustomed to watching out for herself, and her father, who was canny in the ways of men but not women. Her emotions seemed more volatile of late, a fever wakening in her blood, and she could plot the points back to its origin.
That moment of unspoken communication in the library of Arendale House, when Philip distracted Rudyard so Melisende could search for her book.
The moment in her own library where he’d kissed her and her good sense had gone up in flames. He disordered her thoughts with his mere presence, a seduction itself, drat his broad shoulders and smirking mouth and beckoning blue eyes.
The fever had grown in Langford’s library, fed by the sight of Philip in conversation with the engineering boy while she held the earl’s small daughter, for a moment included in the achingly lovely circle of Aldthorpe’s family, the like which she herself had been too young to enjoy when she’d had it.
But in truth, the first feral impulse had stirred the night Philip kissed her in the Maplethorne library. The night he’d shed the mask of the idle rogue before her eyes and became someone dangerous.
And interesting.
The maids came in to dress her, shooing Philip to another chamber to don his own disguise, and as her costume came into place around her, Melisende watched herself transform—but into what, she didn’t quite know.
She’d built her whole life around her purpose. She was the youngest daughter of the grand duke and his duchess, a source of pride to her house and an inspiration to her people. She’d been groomed from birth to marry for the glory of the name and the good of her country. When the scythe of grim fate culled her house and left only her and her sister, her father had rushed to double Melisende’s lessons in languages, geography, history, and etiquette, surrounding her with tutors to instill the skills she would need to rule wisely and well.
When her uncle barred the gates of her own city against her, she’d developed one goal for her life, a cold, steady flame that burned within and guided her every waking action: to give her father back the only thing left to him after his wife and sons had died. His future was her future. Marrying Rudolf would give her a place but not restore her father, so she had refused to consider it. She had one aim, one all-encompassing quest.
Melisende held out her arms as the maid fastened the belt, jewels set in worked gold, that closed her long scarlet caftan over the red linen undergown beneath. She peered into her mirror as if it could reveal to her the woman within.
She had always, always, identified herself by her name, her house, her country. She was Melisende Meinhardin, Melisende of Merania, the grand duke’s daughter, and everything she did reflected on her station. Not once had she done anything for herself alone.
When she accepted invitations, it was to secure a network of support for her father. When she dined with empresses and kings, she knew every grace—or every lack of grace—reflected on her people. When she entertained lovers, they were men who could help her cause. The Patrizio of Venice she had cultivated because he was heir to one of the old families and could influence others in her father’s favor. The Bohemian prince she’d allowed to woo her in Pozsony had ties to Empress Maria Teresa. The Cossack cavalryman in St. Petersburg: he’d commanded one of the best troops in the Russian Imperial Army, should her father require a military. The priest in Barcelona had been nothing more than a flirtation, true—she was determined, not impious—but he’d had a wide network within the Church.
She’d brought Philip into her scheme because she could use his knowledge and his sword. But when she claimed the key from Voronsky and unlocked whatever mystery her too-clever ancestors had designed, her need for Philip’s assistance would be at end.
Once she’d achieved her quest, she would be leaving England. There was no need to stay once she’d secured the books.
One of the maids, the little one from Cornwall, fastened bracelets on Melisende’s wrists and ankles while the other, the Yorkshire girl, placed the headdress over Melisende’s crown of curls, shaped to form a cushion for the high peak. Strings of thick beads dangled from the brim, hiding her face like a curtain. Melisende stared at the figure in the mirror. Exotic. Commanding. Consort of the world’s most powerful king.
Not once had she thought of abandoning her quest. She had never resented her obligation to her name and her father, never regretted the things she sacrificed: security, the comforts of home, the chance to choose her own husband for liking alone. She had never, not even in her thoughts, chafed under what was required of her.
And she would do her duty now. But all at once, she longed, with a vehemence that surprised her, for one thing that belonged only to her. One memory that could become the warm, steady flame within her when she finally reached her objective, returned to Merania, and was restored to her place as heir.
She wanted more time with Philip. Yet everything must end tonight.
Philip’s reaction when Melisende came down the grand stair was entirely gratifying. He looked like he’d swallowed his silver tongue.
“Good Lord.”
“Never say I will not do,” she said lightly, accepting her cloak from the maid. “My maids took such care.”
He swallowed again. “You’ll do.”
He looked magnificent. He wore, not breeches, but flesh-colored stockings beneath a set of golden greaves that hugged his muscled calves and allowed glimpses of equally muscled thighs below the leather skirt girding his tunic. Once one saw Devlin’s legs, there was no ignoring how well-proportioned the rest of him was. A breastplate outlined his solid chest, the leather padding defining the breadth of his shoulders, and the sleeves of his tunic left much of his arms bare, arms firm with muscle. To think, all this lean strength and golden flesh had been hidden beneath those fashionable suits. She couldn’t keep her thoughts in order with his arms bare before her like this.
His face alone was an invitation to sin. With those blue eyes staring down at her, a woman forgot all the warnings she’d heard about resisting the blandishments of a man. The pleasure of his touch, from a man so aware of and in possession of himself, would be worth the risk.
The Russian ambassador had his quarters in Golden Square, which had earlier in the century been home to several embassies, and the Portuguese ambassador still let the house beside. Golden Square lay close to St. James, conveniently close for paying calls on the King and his ministers, and it lay conveniently close to Soho Square as well, enough so that it made sense to hire chairs for the walk rather than calling up a carriage. Philip held the door for her as they stepped outside, where her new boy stood with his torch, ready to light their way.
“What you require is a palanquin,” Philip remarked, “and your tiger to walk alongside with a palm fan.”
“I will consider that next time I bring out this costume.”
“A favorite of yours, is it?”
“I have fond associations with it. I wore it in Varna once, and a bey of the Ottoman Empire offered to make me his first wife before he had even seen my face. I was quite flattered. Of course, he revoked the offer when he discovered I was not Muslim.”
“You say these things to provoke my competitive spirit.” Philip beckoned over the chair bearers that he’d hired while waiting for her to dress.
“Do I?” Her cloak was brocade lined with red silk, and Melisende fastened it about her with a large ruby and gold brooch. She must take care how she flirted with Philip. She wanted him as a conquest, but she needed him as an ally, and in her experience, a man couldn’t be both.
“And you must also know that it’s working.” He handed her into a chair. “Watch your step,” he advised the bearers. “This is a princess of Persia you carry.”
“Gor,” said one, wide-eyed. “Thought she’s the throw of the grand duke or some such.”
“Has a very high opinion of herself,” Philip said, taking his own chair, “yet I can’t say her confidence is misplaced. What’s to be done with such a lady?”
“If a man’s to be king of ’is castle, then he orter treat the missus like a queen,” one of his bearers pronounced. “Leastaways, that’s how me and me moll get on, and I ain’t heard no bellocking yet.”
“Them’s the words of a man as gets clapperclawed on the regular by his halter,” one of Melisende’s bearers observed as they started out.
“Yer sour as you can’t get yer mot to take the yoke,” his companion retorted. “Nuts upon ’er, innit ’e, but she won’t put ’er foot in the parson’s mousetrap.”
“Then perhaps the answer is to treat her better,” Melisende said. “No doubt that would turn her up sweet.”
“Tell her flim flams?” Philip answered. “Pass her Spanish coin, then snap on the shackle? For shame, my lady. Advising a man how to entrap your own kind.”
“I did not counsel him to trick her,” Melisende protested. “I only suppose that any woman would adore being treated like a queen by her suitor of choice.”
Her mind conjured a sudden image of Philip caressing his wife. Drawing the knuckles of one of those beautiful, well-shaped hands along her cheek. Smiling at her with those lips she was about to kiss. Drowning her in the haze of passion clouding his gorgeous blue eyes.
“Aye, they make us their slaves, an then comb our heads for it,” responded the fourth man, who hadn’t yet spoken. “Best stay out from under the cat’s foot, I say.”
Melisende’s stomach bobbed with the motion of her chair as they made their way to Golden Square, through narrow courts and broad thoroughfares, most of the buildings no less than a hundred years old. London was so vibrant and new compared to the ancient capitals with which Melisende was familiar. She liked Philip’s familiarity with the workingmen, whom any other noble would deem beneath his station and treat with the same regard he would show the furniture. Perhaps it was his occupation as a spy that made it necessary for him to inveigle himself into all sorts of company.
Or perhaps he was merely the sort of person who never encountered a stranger, a man with a vast curiosity about the world, ever entertained by variety.
That was the kind of man a woman could take anywhere.
That kind of man would prove a boon to a ruling queen as her consort. He would not sit in effigy on his throne assuming his word was law. Melisende had met enough enlightened despots to know what she wanted for her country, once she had possession of it. And she knew what kind of man she’d want to rule at her side.
Too bad she could never make a poor Irish baronet’s son a grand duke. Her people would think such a match showed her contempt for them, and her father would never approve of her throwing away her hand in marriage—the most valuable asset she had.
But that didn’t mean he wouldn’t make a splendid lover.
By the time her chair halted before their destination, Melisende had her strategy. Find the key. Confront Voronsky. Decode the map, and hold in her hands the proof that made her father the sole claimant to Merania’s throne. The emperor wouldn’t ignore them when they came to Vienna with an imperial patent in hand.
And she would make Philip Devlin her lover before she left. She’d carry one fond memory of wet, cloudy England when she returned to the sunny mountain slopes and lush valleys of her home.
But first, she had to enter the dragon’s lair.
The ambassador’s quarters were one of the larger homes on Golden Square, the five bays of window spilling warm light and music. The Count’s daughter acted as his hostess when she was home, but she had stayed for the summer in Bath, where the matron of her girl’s school had arranged for her to work with some famed astronomer who lived there, a man who had recently amazed the world by identifying a new planet in the heavens. Annis Voronsky was the sort of woman Melisende would befriend, had they ever met, but now she’d never have the occasion. Melisende had attended many a dinner and card party at the hospitality of the Count, and she’d organized his entire masquerade, since she had a talent for throwing entertainments. And all the time, he had been working against them.
To contain her rage she dug her fingers into Philip’s arm as he led her among the flow of guests, all wearing black silk masks, dominos, or paint to disguise their faces. The unveiling would take place after supper, which was scheduled to be served at half one, and in three different seatings to accommodate the estimated three hundred guests. Masquerades at Ranelagh and the Pantheon, Melisende had heard, ran into the attendees of over a thousand, but the count had elected to keep his ball on the intimate side. Less opportunity for some of the risqué behavior that being masked allowed one.
More opportunity to be caught ransacking the library of the man who had been a mentor, nearly a second father since she had arrived in London.
Voronsky greeted his guests in his pillared entrance hall, attired for the evening as a vityaz, one of the fabled knights serving Vladimir the Great, the ancient Grand Prince of Kiev. His ornamental chainmail clinked slightly as he bowed low over Melisende’s hand, and the plume on his helmet waved in the scented air between them.
“I see we are gifted with the presence of her royal highness, Roxana of Bactria, princess of Persia.” She’d guessed he would recognize her character. “Highness, even the sky admires your radiant smile,” he said in Russian. The smooth-tongued liar.
“Even a cat appreciates nice words,” Melisende replied in the same language, and the count laughed deeply.
“You have disarmed me, milady. You travel with Alexander the Great?”
“His father, rather.” Voronsky would deduce who her companion was without a hint, and she switched to English for Philip’s benefit. “All is unfolding as I planned?”
“Like a dream. The kitchens have produced everything you required, and the staff you hired have been impeccable, out of fear of you and adoration of me. Or perhaps it is the other way around?”
“I think love and fear the perfect combination,” she said sweetly. “I assume my father is already here?”
“Charles the Second is in the back parlor presiding over a game of brag with Tamerlane and Hannibal.”
Melisende shook her head and sighed. “I begged him not to set up cards. There will be music and dancing. He needs to circulate.”
“And will you be dancing, highness? I heard you suffered an attack of late. I am not surprised you are not resting in your rooms, though any other woman would take the opportunity to be waited on like a queen.”
Beside her, Philip shifted, and Melisende curled her fingers into his arm again. “I am perfectly well, thank you, sir. We will leave you to your other guests.”
She moved further into the hall, where tall potted palms formed pathways leading to the reception rooms and vines dotted with flowers dangled along the walls. Her theme for the evening had been to replicate the fabled Hanging Gardens of Babylon. Voronsky had allowed free rein to her imagination, since both the young Prince George and the Marquess of Rockingham and his wife had been invited, along with other luminaries of the London scene whom the Russian ambassador was cultivating.
“I thought you said you didn’t tell your father you’d been harmed in the attack.”
Philip’s breath shivered the beads of her headdress, drifting in a tantalizing fashion across her neck.
“I didn’t.” She met his eyes through the curtain of her veil.
“So he would only know if?—”
“Someone from my household had told him, or he was the one who sent the thief.”
Philip nodded and drew her through an arched doorway toward the stair that circled up to the first floor. “I didn’t want to speak of it at your house for that reason. In case we are overheard.”
Melisende narrowed her eyes at him. “Everyone in my house is loyal, sir.”
“You and I both know, highness, that loyalty can be bought, and so can information. I went back to the bookshop and made some inquiries.”
“And?” She leaned closer. No one paid them any mind, just one more couple tête-à-tête at the masquerade, making plans for a romantic assignation later. A tingle pinched the back of her neck. She already had her romantic assignation.
Philip’s breath smelled like mint. “The duchess remembers the man who came asking about your family and information about Merania, but he wasn’t anyone of station. Nondescript, and she didn’t recognize his accent—she said it wasn’t German or Russian. He said he was soliciting information for his master but didn’t divulge his name. That was all she could tell me.”
“Nondescript could describe anyone.” Except Philip. Nothing about him was nondescript; the man was distinctly memorable, from the indent around his lips when he spoke to the tanned-leather and iron scent of his sweat after a swordfight. Even the shape of his fingernails was distinct to her.
“I wonder if Pinochle was paid to distract me. Delay me from getting into the court while the thief attacked you. He showed up at a very convenient time to be in the way.”
“And how did the thief enter the court?”
“Two houses share the garden directly letting onto Angel Court, and there are half a dozen houses along that stretch of Pall Mall with gardens of their own, none with fences terribly high. Then there is the courtyard behind the hotel. I didn’t have time to talk to all the staff to see who had parted with a key, or arranged to leave a gate open. If he didn’t inveigle one of the household staff to help him, the attacker could have pretended business with the hotel and gotten access that way.”
“So it could be anyone.”
“Not anyone,” he answered dryly. “I imagine the number of your enemies is small, highness. In fact, my list of current candidates is one.”
And they were in his home. “You suspected Voronsky from the beginning, long before I did.” Melisende moved them aside as a party of young blades, dressed as monks and friars, came to the foot of the stairs. “Why?”
Philip looked about. “Let us walk. I would like to see the rest of your decorations.”
She led him down the hallway, lined with overarching boughs to create a sort of mystical grotto. “The library is here.” She pointed to the door to the right, currently closed. Voronsky only let his intimates into his library.
Philip nodded. “We must circulate first and let ourselves be seen. Everyone will want to try to guess who is the princess of Persia, and after everyone has seen you once or twice, they will not be able to recall later exactly when you disappeared.”
“Spy work,” she muttered.
“Spying and diplomacy go hand in glove, and you know that.” Philip nodded to a fellow dressed in the long-sleeved tunic and breastplate of a Cossack warrior, his furred hat sporting a feather. “The spy gathers the information and the diplomat uses it, manipulating evidence as needed to turn people’s perceptions to his advantage.”
“You would make a good ruler, were you granted your own principality to govern.” Melisende soaked in the firm warmth of his arm beneath her gloved hand, the flex of muscle as he drew her close to him to avoid the swinging sword of a Musketeer or the sweeping train of Zenobia, Queen of Palmyra. He was doing it again, looking out for her in small ways. Little caterpillars danced along her insides.
“I doubt it would last long. On my own, I’ve no doubt I would turn into the worst sort of despot. One who has never been granted power would not know how to wield it wisely.”
“Then you should have to choose a wise consort,” Melisende murmured.
He glanced down and their gazes met and tangled, his a vivid blue that made her chest constrict.
“Do not doubt, madam, that when the time comes, I will. But I wonder.” He straightened the row of beads before her veil. “Who will you choose?”
This was her moment. He held it out before her as if offering a sweet. She could secure him now, arrange their assignation, and have one pleasant thing to look forward to after the far less pleasant task of confronting the man who had betrayed both her and her father, a man she had trusted in so many ways.
So much for trust. Melisende shivered and turned away.
“I will do what is best for Merania,” she said. “Always. Now, let us begin our mission. I am growing weary of lies.”