A look of anxious distress clouded her features. “I had an appointment with a certain gentleman at eight o’clock this evening. A rather critical appointment.” She lifted her sodden gown with one hand, then let it fall with a dejected sigh. “Now everything’s ruined. Even if we were to reach Monaco in time, I couldn’t go looking like this.”
“Surely he’ll understand.”
“Not Monsieur Remy,” she said, letting out another sigh. “He’s very particular about punctuality and appearances. Besides, everything was arranged over a month ago. Now I don’t know what I’ll do.”
“You’ll find another Monsieur Remy.”
Her brows drew together in a confused frown. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“I trust the purpose of your meeting was to determine whether the two of you might be suitable for matrimony.”
She stiffened and turned slightly, allowing him the benefit of her full glare. “What an insulting assumption.”
“Young, unmarried girls rarely travel halfway across the continent without the benefit of a chaperon merely to enjoy the sights,” he stated flatly, lifting his shoulders in an indifferent shrug. As she opened her mouth to object, he continued smoothly, “There’s no shame in it, Miss Alexander. In Monaco, where the wild game consists of wealthy dukes, earls, viscounts—all blessedly free of the encumbrances of both spouses and common sense—hunting is practiced without permit and throughout the year.”
“How very reassuring,” she replied.
Her tone was as icy as the north wind, but there was no denial in her words. So his instinct had been right, Nicholas concluded silently, she had come to Monaco to find herself a rich man to marry. That and to rob as many people blind as she could. It was an uninspired plan on her part, but one which fit nicely with his own needs.
“Which do you have your sights on,” he continued blithely, “a title or money? Poor, unchaperoned women rarely command both, even those with the distinct, rather creative allure of modern-day gypsies.”
She met his gaze with a look of scorching disdain. “I’m beginning to understand why our coach wrecked. Obviously you were too busy jumping to ridiculous conclusions about me to properly focus on handling the team.”
Nicholas ignored the jab and continued walking. As they strode along the Corniche the final details of his plan took shape in his mind. The prim little Miss Alexander was a thief and a fraud—but she was good at both, and that was what mattered. When Lady Stanton discovered that her jewelry was missing, Miss Alexander would be the last person anyone would suspect.
Not only was she a good thief, he thought, but she apparently had nerves of steel. They could easily have been washed over the cliff and smashed to bits on the rocks below, yet she had risked her own life to save the horses. Then, when everything was over, she had picked herself up and started walking—carrying her own bag, no less. Remarkable, really, when compared to most of the women he knew. Anyone else would have fallen to pieces.
Miss Alexander would suit his purposes very nicely, he thought. The only question that loomed unanswered was whether she would be able to suitably mix with his peers. He sent her a sideways glance, silently assessing the woman. At the moment her drab gown was covered in mud, her hair was caked with debris, and her spectacles gave her an decidedly spinsterish quality. But she had exquisite eyes, he noted, remembering the brief glimpse he’d had earlier when she’d removed her glasses. They were an amazing lavender color, wide-set and fringed with thick, dark lashes. If she were cleaned up, dressed in an exquisite gown, and decorated with a few jewels?
Nicholas spared her a sideways glance. She would do just fine, he decided. Just fine, indeed.
They arrived in the principality of Monaco just as twilight was descending. Nicholas’s mood had sobered considerably as they’d drawn closer to the town. The daunting nature of the task awaiting him loomed too large to be ignored, and served to put the cliffside escapade with Miss Alexander into proper perspective. Nor had he anticipated that the specter of his brother would shadow him through the streets, an unshakeable presence that seemed to lurk beyond every corner. Apparently his dark mood was contagious, for even Miss Alexander seemed to have withdrawn into her own troubled thoughts.
In stark contrast to the somber pair they made, an atmosphere of indolent merriment filled the air around them. Gaslights lit the beautifully manicured parks and gardens, regal coaches rolled down the wide avenues. Richly dressed pedestrians crowded the sidewalks and the cafes bustled with activity. Although they drew several openly appalled glances, given the ragged state of their attire, Miss Alexander didn’t slow her purposeful stride or appear the least bit embarrassed. Instead, she met the rude stares of passersby with a cool, composed gaze—another point in the woman’s favor, Nicholas decided.
As they turned a corner on Rue Grimaldi, she drew to an abrupt stop. “This is where I’m staying,” she announced.
He looked at the modest structure she indicated. The villa was respectable enough, though far from first class. It consisted of three narrow floors, all freshly whitewashed. The windows were framed by intricate wrought-iron balconies, and a neat bed of shrubbery filled the garden. A Rooms to Let sign hung above the front door.
He shifted her carpetbag from has grasp and set it on the ground beside her. “Your bag, Miss Alexander.”
“Thank you, Mr.—” A startled expression flitted across her face. “I don’t know your name.”
“Duvall. Nicholas Duvall.”
“Mr. Duvall.” She thought for a moment, then said, “Should I write you a letter?”
He looked at her. “I beg your pardon?”
“A letter to the coach company, explaining that the loss of the conveyance truly wasn’t your fault. I’d hate to think I played a part in depriving you of your income.”
“Ah, yes. That. No. That won’t be necessary. I’ll settle the matter tomorrow.”
“If you’re certain…”
“I’m certain.”
“Very well, then.” She gave him a quizzical look, then primly offered her hand. “In that case, farewell. I trust this is the last we shall see of each other.”
A smile touched his lips at her haughty words of parting. And she claimed to lack a flair for the dramatic. From the corner of his eye, Nicholas caught sight of a young girl selling flowers. With a nod he summoned her to them. He selected a long-stemmed white rose, handed the girl a coin, and then presented the soft bud to Katya. “A small token to remember me by.”
A startled laugh escaped her lips. “After this afternoon’s events, I could hardly forget you.”
“Excellent. In that case, I hope you won’t refuse to see me when I call.”
“Call? But—”
“I’ll need a few days to put my affairs in order first. Then we’ll make the necessary arrangements.”
“Arrangements? I’m afraid I don’t understand, Mr. Duvall.”
His smoky gaze locked on hers. “All in good time, Miss Alexander. All in good time.”
Katya watched as Nicholas Duvall turned and strode away. His words made no sense. Undoubtedly the strain of their journey was beginning to cloud both their thinking and their judgment. Anxious to put a little distance between them, she took another step backward, stumbling as she did so over a small potted plant.
“Yes, well… goodbye.”
With those awkward words of parting, she turned toward the villa. The landlady answered the door at the second knock. After a long and horrified appraisal of Katya’s filthy attire, the woman reluctantly accepted the fact that she was indeed the lodger who had written over a month ago to secure a room. With a beleaguered sigh, she ushered her new guest inside.
As Katya followed the landlady across the threshold and into the villa, she took one final glance over her shoulder. Nicholas Duvall had vanished completely and his disappearance caused a pang of dismay to sweep through her. Ridiculous, really, when she wasn’t even certain she even liked the man. Resolving to push all th
oughts of the enigmatic Englishman aside, she followed the landlady through the modest house and to her room.
She set down her carpetbag and glanced around the small chamber. Although distinctly unglamorous, it was entirely adequate. It contained a narrow bed, a chest of drawers, and a table with two chairs. She also noted a privacy screen, behind which rested a small tub for bathing, a stand with a pitcher and water basin and—an unexpectedly gracious touch—a stack of jasmine-scented soaps.
As she crossed the room, Katya caught a glimpse of herself in an oval looking glass and gave a gasp of horror. Her hair was completely undone and thoroughly matted with mud and leaves. Her face and hands were coated with a thin film of grime, as were her spectacles, and her gown was caked with mud and various bits of debris. No wonder her landlady had looked so horrified.
A wry, self-deprecating grin touched her lips. No wonder the Englishman had vanished so quickly. Deciding to immediately avail herself of every bucket and pail of hot water she could carry from the kitchen to her room, she set about the task of bathing. By the time she had finished and changed into the crisp white linen nightshirt she carried in her carpetbag, her bathwater ran black.
She dumped the stale water in the vegetable garden outside her window and quietly padded back for more hot water for her clothing. That accomplished, she knelt down in front of the tub and placed her garments inside. As she rinsed out the clothing she felt a thick lump in the pocket of her skirt. She reached inside, expecting to find a fistful of rocks or perhaps an undissolved clump of mud.
Instead she discovered a man’s leather riding glove. Katya stared at it in perplexed silence. Then with a sudden rush of understanding she realized how it had come to be in her possession. The Englishman’s glove had slipped off in her hand as he had tried to pull her up the cliff. Although she didn’t recall doing so, in her panicked state she must have tucked it into her pocket.
Abandoning her wash for the moment, she squeezed the glove free of excess moisture and brought it with her to the table. She sat down and turned the glove this way and that, unaccountably fascinated by the item and—though she was loathe to admit it—the man to whom it belonged. Without stopping to examine her motives she lifted the glove close to her face. It carried a compelling mixture of aromas: leather, horses, the sweet jasmine of the soap, and the heady, unmistakably masculine scent of the Englishman’s skin.
She rubbed the smooth leather between her fingers, then slipped her hand into the glove. As she did so she felt a small, round object strike her third finger. Frowning, she removed her hand and gave the glove a hard shake. A ring tumbled out onto her palm. She must have been gripping Nicholas Duvall’s hand so tightly that she had pulled off his ring along with the glove.
As Katya studied the ring a chill ran up her spine, making her shiver despite the warmth of the room. There was something oddly ominous about the thick band of gold, something she couldn’t define. Confused by the strong emotions the ring evoked within her, Katya examined it more closely. The band was heavy and doubtless very valuable, for it appeared to be made of solid gold. It looked like a signet ring of some sort, one that had likely been passed down from generation to generation. Ancient, intricate carvings decorated the sides of the band, giving it a feeling of timelessness. The stone that crowned the center of the band was solid onyx, as black and as fathomless as the Englishman’s eyes. The onyx had been carved as well, but she couldn’t quite make out the design.
Her curiosity whetted, she found a candle and dripped a bit of hot wax onto a sheet of paper and then she pressed the onyx into the wax. As the wax cooled, she recognized the figure of a bird of prey A hawk, or perhaps an eagle or a falcon. There was something profoundly unsettling about the figure of the bird, but she couldn’t quite articulate it. She peered inside the band for an engraved name, date, or set of initials, anything that might tell her more about the ring. What she found instead was a squat cross with an inverted ‘V’ at each of the four ends.
Katya dropped the ring with a gasp of horror.
The cross on the inside of the ring was the Maltese Cross.
The bird of prey carved into the onyx was a Maltese falcon.
Duvall… DuValenti. Clearly this was a modern version of the ancient family name. Katya stared at the ring that sat on the table before her. With a shock of apprehension and disbelief, she realized that she had just accomplished what centuries of her ancestors had been unable to.
She, Katya Sofia Rosskaya Alexander, had found the Maltese, her family’s mortal enemy.
CHAPTER FOUR
“Regrettably, Miss Alexander, your request is impossible.”
Katya sat in the cluttered office of Monsieur Remy, theater manager for Monte Carlo’s stunning new entertainment hall. She had enjoyed very little sleep the night before. Her thoughts had swung between the grim state of her financial affairs, the momentous encounter she had had with Nicholas Duvall, and her nagging worry that Monsieur Remy would refuse to see her at all, since she had missed their appointment the previous night.
But the man had consented to see her—albeit after keeping her waiting outside his office for a good hour. Unfortunately the interview wasn’t going at all well. She shifted in her chair, struggling to maintain an air of poised composure. Displaying any sign of the naked desperation she felt inside would hardly endear her to Monsieur Remy, nor would it help her secure the post she sought.
She leveled her tone to one of cool professionalism and persisted, “But certainly, monsieur, you can see my position.”
“I see nothing,” he replied flatly. He pulled a timepiece from his breast pocket, frowned at it, then snapped the case shut. “I expected you last night, not this morning. Punctuality and reliability are of the essence in this business, Miss Alexander. You have done nothing to demonstrate why I should possess any confidence in you in either regard. If a performer cannot meet a simple appointment, I have little faith he or she can meet a schedule as rigorously demanding as one imposed by life in the theater. Our discussion is finished.”
Katya regarded him without moving. The man was short in stature and given to pudginess, a trait he tried to disguise with his immaculate dress. He wore his hair slicked back with perfumed oil; his body reeked of heavily scented cologne. While she certainly hadn’t expected sympathy from him, neither had she anticipated such callous disregard. For the first time since she had stepped into his office, anger replaced the fear and trepidation that had nearly overwhelmed her.
Her father, after all, had been the Great Professor Alexander, Wizard of the North, King of the Conjurers, Magician Extraordinaire. Her mother? None other than the legendary Anastasia, dark-eyed assistant to the great professor. Her parents’ final performance had taken place on Monsieur Remy’s stage, a mere fifty feet from where they sat. Given that fact, surely it was not asking too much that he treat her with a modicum of professional courtesy.
Resolved to terminate the interview with her dignity intact, she stood and slowly pulled on her gloves. “Would you be so kind as to inform me to whom I should speak regarding the shipment of my parents’ costumes and props to London’s Egyptian Hall? Mr. Townsend, the manager there, has already indicated a great interest in being the first in the world to introduce a female magician who can perform the Silver Bullet.”
This was pure fiction. She mentioned the competing hall only as a way of saving her pride. But to her considerable surprise, Monsieur Remy’s head snapped up, his eyes alert with interest. “You didn’t mention the Silver Bullet.”
“On the contrary, monsieur. I said that I was fully able to perform every illusion in my parents’ repertoire.” She moved to the door and paused. “Now then, to whom shall I speak regarding shipping arrangements?”
Monsieur Remy stood. With a tight smile that revealed a row of tiny yellow teeth, he gestured toward a chair. “Perhaps we’ve both been a bit hasty, Miss Alexander. Do sit down.”
Katya studied the chair in silence, as though debating whether to ac
cept his offer. Inside, however, she was quaking with both relief and apprehension. The Silver Bullet had frightened her since she was a little girl. It was among the most deadly feats a conjuror could perform and was practiced only by the most skilled magicians.
On the surface, the act was simple. A gun, along with three silver bullets, was given to a random member of the audience. He was instructed to inspect the weapon for any signs of trickery, and if he found the piece sound, to load the bullets into the chamber. The gun was then passed to another member of the audience, who was invited to join the magician onstage. The first two bullets were fired at a piece of lumber, proving the weapon’s deadliness. The last bullet was fired directly at the magician, who—God willing—caught it in his hand. It required precise timing, nerves of steel, and an inordinate amount of luck. The trick had become infamous not only for its sheer dramatic power, but for the number of magicians who had been killed onstage while attempting to perform it.
Pushing any thoughts of her own peril aside, Katya sank smoothly into the chair offered by Monsieur Remy. “Was there something else you wanted to discuss?” she asked, affecting an air of complete indifference.
Remy strode back and forth behind his desk, absently running a hand over his well-oiled head. “As it happens, I do have an opening for a performer on Saturday evenings.”
She flicked an imaginary piece of lint from her sleeve. “Really.”
“Given that your props and costumes are already here in Monte Carlo, it would seem logical to feature your act here first, rather than bearing the expense of shipping it all off to England.”
Katya made a noncommittal sound.
“I can promise you top billing.”
Thick silence hung between them After a long minute, she inquired coolly, “At what rate of compensation, monsieur?”
Monsieur Remy named his price.
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