by Candace Camp
“Must I?” Kyria replied coolly. “I am afraid, Captain, that I have promised the first waltz to Mr. McIntyre.” She slipped her hand through Rafe’s arm.
“Yes,” Rafe confirmed, closing his other hand possessively over Kyria’s where it lay on his arm, his gaze remaining on the captain’s for a long, challenging moment. Then he turned toward Kyria, smiling. “And I believe I hear them striking up now. If you will excuse us, gentlemen…”
He bowed toward the others and Kyria gave them a smile as she allowed Rafe to lead her toward the dance floor.
“We will be lucky if we can make it through this crowd before the dance is over,” Kyria commented as they wound in and out through the throng.
Rafe grinned. “As long as we get away from your platoon of admirers, it’s all right.”
“They are just bored. The season is over, and a great many people are gone.”
He cocked a brow at her. “Do you expect me to believe that those men flock to you only when the other belles are gone?”
Kyria chuckled. “No, I am not that humble.”
They reached the dance floor at last, and Rafe smoothly pulled her into his arms and out into the flow of dancers. For the moment, Kyria abandoned all thought of the purpose of their evening and just enjoyed whirling about the room, secure in Rafe’s arms.
All too soon, however, the waltz ended, and Kyria returned to reality with a little sigh. She glanced around, finally spotting two of London’s premier hostesses. If anyone could introduce her to Lord Walford tonight, she was sure that one of these two women could.
As she and Rafe made their way toward them, the women’s faces brightened, their eyes sliding curiously over Rafe. One of them opened her fan and brought it up to her face in a coquettish gesture at odds with her age.
“Lady Kyria,” the other, older one greeted her. “Surprised to see you here tonight.”
“Yes, I have returned to London unexpectedly,” Kyria told her, smiling, and continued, “Lady Colcaughten. Mrs. Marbury. Pray allow me to introduce you to Lord St. Leger’s American partner, Mr. McIntyre.”
“Mr. McIntyre, how delightful,” Lady Colcaughten twittered, laying her hand on his arm and subtly turning him a little away from the group. “I have heard so much about you.”
“You have?”
“Oh, my, yes. Why, the St. Leger wedding was quite the talk of London—so small, so quiet, so fast, one might say.”
“Might one,” Rafe replied enigmatically.
“Everyone who was privileged to attend was full of news about it, which is only to be expected.” She edged away, tugging a little at his arm. “Please let me introduce you around.”
Rafe cast a glance back at Kyria, who nodded encouragingly. With a resigned look, he turned and allowed himself to be steered away.
Mrs. Marbury appeared chagrined at being cut out by her companion and started to go after them, but Kyria stopped her with a hand on her arm. “Mrs. Marbury, you are just the person I was hoping to see.”
“Really, dear?” The woman perked up at Kyria’s compliment. It certainly never hurt one’s standing in society to win Kyria Moreland’s approval. “I’m so glad.”
“There is someone here tonight that I have been hoping to meet,” Kyria went on.
Mrs. Marbury’s eyes lit up at the prospect of learning a bit of gossip. “Really? Who?”
“Lord Walford. His father, you know, was a great friend of my father’s.”
“Yes, the dear duke. How is he?”
“Quite well.” Kyria knew that “the dear duke,” if asked, would not have the slightest idea who Mrs. Marbury was. “The thing is, my father is interested in corresponding with Lord Walford, as he did with his father. Lord Walford is, I understand, also interested in antiquities. But I, alas, have never been introduced to Lord Walford. I was hoping that you might know him…”
“Oh, my, yes, I met him at the Featherstone ball in April. Such a lavish affair—I am sure you remember.”
“Of course,” Kyria lied without compunction.
“An elegant gentleman. Quite distinguished—and handsome!” She laid a hand on her breast, closing her eyes in a sort of mock swoon. “If I were not a married woman…” She let out a merry little laugh. “Well, I would be happy to introduce you, if you’d like. I hadn’t realized he was here this evening.”
The woman quickly began to scan the room for their quarry. “I don’t see him around here. Let’s try looking this way.”
She started off through the crowd, and Kyria followed her. It was clear that Mrs. Marbury was an expert at hunting the elusive party goer, for it took her little time to tour the ballroom and hallway beyond, glancing into the various nooks and corners where someone might be conversing. At last spotting their quarry near the stairs chatting apparently desultorily, with another couple of men, she straightened and swept toward the group like a battleship under full sail.
“Ah, Lord Walford,” she caroled gaily. “And here I was telling Lady Kyria that you were not at this rout.”
One of the gentlemen turned to look at her, then bowed slightly and offered up a faint smile. “Mrs. Marbury, how nice to see you again.” His voice, while polite, conveyed a distinct lack of enthusiasm. His eyes went past her, however, to Kyria, and his face brightened a little.
He took Mrs. Marbury’s hand and kissed it in an old-fashioned, courtly way that brought out a little giggle from Mrs. Marbury. “I knew you would be pleased to see me,” she teased, wagging her fan flirtatiously at the man. “I’ve come to introduce you to Lady Kyria Moreland.”
Lord Walford turned to Kyria, giving her a polite nod. “My lady. I believe our fathers were great friends. “Tis a pity that we have never met before.” He looked at Mrs. Marbury. “I must thank you for correcting that unfortunate situation.”
Kyria studied Lord Walford as Mrs. Marbury continued to gush at him. He was a tall, lean man with thick, black hair, marked by matching waves of silver at each temple. His skin, like Rafe’s, had obviously been tanned by years in the hot sun, and his eyes were an odd color somewhere between green and hazel. Razor-thin cheekbones pushed against the skin of his face, giving him an almost fierce demeanor.
It took some more minutes of polite conversation with Mrs. Marbury before the woman spotted someone who offered better grist for gossip and left Kyria alone with Lord Walford.
“I am sorry to interrupt your conversation,” Kyria told him, nodding toward the two men with whom Walford had been talking.
He smiled. “You needn’t worry. I was merely putting in my time until I could politely leave. I am not one who enjoys parties overmuch, I am afraid.” He paused, then went on, “Now, is there something I can help you with?”
Kyria glanced at him, a little startled, and blushed. “I am sorry. I must seem most ill-bred to you, forcing an introduction on you this way.”
“One can scarcely consider it forced when one is introduced to a young woman as beautiful and charming as yourself. However, it is also obvious that you have no need of male companionship. I feel sure that you are accustomed to being surrounded by a flock of eager suitors. Therefore, I must think that there is some reason you wished to make my acquaintance.”
“There is,” Kyria admitted. “I want to talk to Mr. Ashcombe. Mr. Nelson Ashcombe.”
“My father’s archaeologist?” Walford asked, his eyebrows going up in surprise. “I must say, I never would have guessed that that was your request.”
“Does he not work for you, as well?” Kyria asked.
Walford gave an elegant shrug. “I am not sure if anyone can really claim that Nelson Ashcombe works for him. I think it is more that he works for himself and allows someone else to pay the bills for it.”
Kyria smiled. “That hardly seems like a good proposition for you.”
“Ah, but he also allows you to hang around his dig and poke about among the things he unearths. And I am afraid that I inherited my father’s fervor for such things. I got into a spot of trouble w
hen I was young…” He gave her a wry smile. “I was a little wild, you see, and my father shipped me off to one of his digs to keep me out of trouble. I was supposed to learn the error of my ways, I think, but in reality, what I learned was that I loved the dig just as much as he did. I loved the area, too—Turkey, Persia, Mesopotamia—the ‘cradle of civilization.’ There’s no place else quite like it. Once I had been there a few months, I never wanted to leave it. Of course, when my father died, I had to come home—one’s duty and all that, but I miss it sorely.”
“And do you, like Mr. Ashcombe, believe in a reliquary containing Constantine’s banner?” Kyria asked curiously.
“The Holy Standard?” Walford gave her a quizzical smile. “I have to admit that I think that it is probably just a legend. Ashcombe is a little mad on the subject. It has rather hurt his reputation, you know, which is too bad. He is a tremendous scholar, a giant in his field. I have supported him, of course—I mean, I could scarcely not do so, after the years he worked with my father.” He paused, then asked, “What about you? Do you believe in the reliquary?”
“I am rather beginning to,” Kyria replied cautiously. “I went to Mr. Ashcombe’s this morning to talk to him about it, but he refused to see me.”
“Really?” Walford looked surprised. “Ashcombe is usually quite happy to discourse on it. You must have caught him on a bad day. Or perhaps he thought you were there to ridicule him in some way. Ashcombe is a proud man. I will send him a note tomorrow morning and request that he speak to you. How is that?”
“That would be wonderful,” Kyria said, smiling. “I can’t tell you how grateful I am to you.”
“It’s no trouble, I assure you.” He gave her a small, deprecating smile. “The least I could do for Theo’s sister.”
“Theo?” Kyria glanced up at him, surprised. “Do you know Theo?”
He nodded. “We are well acquainted. We got to know each other when we were in Turkey at the same time. Fellow Englishmen in a foreign land, that sort of thing. But it turned out that we had more than that in common. We had many a conversation regarding the propriety of taking historical objects out of their native countries. Looting, the way Theo and I saw it.”
“Yes, I have heard him express his views on the subject.”
“Is he in England again?” Walford asked. “I would quite like to see him.”
“No, I’m afraid he isn’t. It has been a while since we’ve heard from him. I’m not sure exactly where he is.”
Walford smiled, shaking his head in an admiring way. “He is one of a kind.”
Kyria wondered just how well Walford knew Theo. Was it possible that he knew anything about Kousoulous or the box that lay at home in their safe?
Surely, she thought, if he knew about it, he would have mentioned it when she inquired about Ashcombe and his search for the reliquary. Or perhaps Theo would not have mentioned it to him if he was planning to ship the object out of the country; it sounded as if Lord Walford was very much opposed to such things. All in all, she thought, it would be better for her not to say anything to the man about it.
Smiling, she thanked him again for his time and trouble and turned away, looking for Rafe. Before she was able to locate him, however, she was besieged by several admirers looking for a dance with her, and she spent the next half hour dancing. She saw Rafe at a distance now and then, usually dancing with someone, and she could not deny the fact that seeing him with another woman in his arms sent a sharp stab of jealousy through her.
She told herself she was being ridiculous. She had no claim on Rafe, after all. She had known the man for only a few weeks. And even though his kisses had made her feel strangely weak in the knees, it didn’t really mean anything. She did not intend to marry, and he…well, Kyria was sophisticated enough to realize that his kissing her a few times did not mean that he loved her. Nor did she love him, she reminded herself hastily.
She was so deep in thought regarding Rafe that she bade her last waltzing partner a rather distracted goodbye and walked right past one of her friends without seeing her until she heard her name being called loudly.
Kyria stopped and glanced around. “Alicia!” She felt a blush rising in her cheeks as she realized what she had done. “I am so sorry. My head was in the clouds.”
She turned back to the plump, blond woman who had been one of her best friends when they made their debut together. Alicia Forquay had made an advantageous marriage and was now Lady Hargreaves, the proud mother of three rambunctious sons, as well as a leading society matron.
“Don’t worry, I am not offended,” her friend assured her. “But I want to introduce you to someone.” She half turned toward the tall man beside her.
He was dark-haired and sharp-featured, and the gaze he turned on Kyria was bright and searching.
“Kyria, this is Prince Dmitri Rostokov. He is visiting from Russia and is a very good friend of Lord Buckley. Your Highness, this is Lady Kyria Moreland.”
“My lady.” He bowed with precision over her hand. “I have been most anxious to make your acquaintance.” His English was fluent, though spoken with a distinct Russian accent.
“How do you do?” Kyria smiled politely at him.
“I am very well, thank you. I wished to speak to you about a certain matter…” He looked pointedly at Lady Hargreaves.
Alicia returned his gaze blankly for a moment, then her brows shot up and she said, “Oh. Well, I, um, I should go…um, somewhere.”
Kyria turned her own surprised gaze back to the Russian. She wasn’t sure if the prince was simply rude or arrogant or did not understand the language well, but it was unusual for Alicia to accept a dismissal so meekly, which made Kyria think that the Russian prince must be a very important person.
“I must speak to you on a matter of great importance,” Rostokov told her.
Kyria felt a sinking sensation in the pit of her stomach. “Indeed?”
“Yes.” He moved fractionally closer and lowered his voice. “I have been told that you have come into possession of a certain box.”
Kyria gazed back at him levelly. “I am sorry. I am afraid I don’t know what you—”
“Come, come, my lady. There is no point engaging in this charade. It is well-known in certain circles that Mr. Kousoulous brought this object to your house. Now you suddenly appear in London not long after your family removed to the country. It takes little thinking to surmise that your surprise visit concerns the reliquary.” He paused, then went on, “I am personally interested in this box. I would like to acquire it from you.”
“I am sorry. If I did indeed possess your reliquary, it would not be for sale,” Kyria replied, and started to turn away.
“No, my lady, you do not understand. This matter is of great importance to me. I am willing to pay you a great deal of money.”
Kyria countered, “Why is everyone so eager to get their hands on this thing?”
“It is, well, of historical value. You must understand. Lord Buckley tells me that your father is a collector of rare objects.”
“My father is greatly interested in antiquities,” Kyria conceded. “However, he does not normally travel to other countries and try to wheedle people’s possessions from them.”
“Wheedle? I do not know this word.”
“Nor does he try to steal them.”
“Steal!” The Russian’s eyes widened, and he looked seriously affronted. “What do you mean?”
“I mean that this box seems to have aroused villainous instincts in some people.”
“I have never stolen anything in my life!”
“Probably not, but I have no way of knowing who exactly is behind the attempted theft—actually, I am not sure theft is the appropriate word for breaking into one’s house and threatening to harm one’s family if one does not surrender the box.”
“Someone has done this?” Rostokov asked, his eyes narrowing.
“Yes. Other people have also tried to buy the box from us, and the man who brought
it to me was killed on our doorstep. You will pardon me if I am somewhat suspicious about anyone who is interested in this box.”
“I am sorry,” he said shortly. “I assure you that I have nothing to do with any murder or threat or theft. Is the box safe? Do you have it here in London?”
Kyria arched an eyebrow. “Do you honestly think I am going to tell you where the box is? You may be certain that you have not been engaged in any criminal activities, but I am not.”
“Ask Lady Hargreaves. Her husband. Or Lord Buckley. They will vouch for my honor. I am a prince of Russia.”
“In any case, sir, I have no intention of selling the box.”
Prince Dmitri scowled. “You do not understand.”
“No, you do not understand. I have refused your offer. I do not intend to sell the box. Now, if you will excuse me…”
Kyria started to turn away, but the prince grabbed her arm. “No! I cannot allow you to endanger the reliquary!”
“I beg your pardon!” Kyria looked pointedly down at the hand that so tightly gripped her arm.
He, too, looked at his hand, then released her arm and bowed a little. “Please accept my apologies. However, I must—”
“Having a little trouble here?”
“Rafe!” Kyria turned toward him with relief.
He gave her a quick grin, then turned toward the other man, his face suddenly hard and challenging. “You bothering this lady?”
“What? Don’t be absurd.” The prince glowered at him. “Please go away.”
“Well, now, I don’t think I can do that. The lady here doesn’t seem to be enjoying your conversation all that much.”
“It is none of your concern.”
“You’re wrong there,” Rafe responded, taking a step closer to the Russian, his eyes boring into the man’s.
The Russian drew himself up, his eyes glittering. “You, sir, overstep yourself.”
“And you, sir, are in danger of getting tossed out of here on your—”
“Gentlemen, please!” Kyria said sternly. She looked pointedly at Prince Dmitri. “You are attracting attention.”