“Very amusing. Double that figure and we shall have a bargain. Otherwise…” Allowing the threat to speak for itself, she lifted her shoulders in an indifferent shrug.
Remy’s jaw worked in clenched silence. Finally he spit out, “Agreed.”
Katya favored him with a gracious nod. “How lovely that we were able to come to terms.”
As she moved to pass him, he studied her with a look of acute discomfort. “You realize, mademoiselle, that you’ll be performing on the very stage where your parents…”
Died, she silently finished for him. She swallowed tightly, once again checking her emotions. “I am well aware of that fact, monsieur.”
“I see.” He nodded, clearly relieved at having dispensed with the awkward topic. “I shall inform the local press that you will be performing the Silver Bullet as the finale to your show on Saturday evening.” Anxious to broadcast word of his latest theatrical coup, he moved to the door and held it open for her, thus indicating that their interview was at an end. “I trust that settles everything, Miss Alexander.”
“It does. Good day, monsieur.”
He stopped her with one final thought as she turned to leave. “Will you be in touch with your parents’ manager?”
“My parents’ manager?”
“The man who came to claim your parents’ props and possessions. I would have turned the lot over to him had I not received your letter first.” At Katya’s blank look, he lifted his shoulders in an indifferent shrug. “If he comes again, I will have him speak to you.”
“Please do.”
Determined not to waste any time getting underway, Katya left Monsieur Remy’s office and walked backstage. There she met the two stagehands who would be assisting her with her act. With a bright smile pasted on her face she greeted the men with what she hoped would pass for eager excitement rather than acute anxiety.
Maintaining that pose proved far more difficult than she could have imagined. First she battled an overwhelming surge of nostalgia and melancholy while going through her parents’ trunks of props and costumes. It was one thing to think about reviving her parents’ act in the abstract, but actually working onstage without them made their sudden absence from her life all the more painfully tangible. Then she discovered that her fingers, after a lengthy absence from the world of magic, weren’t quite as nimble as they used to be. Nor was her memory of the flow of routines as tight as she had presumed. Fortunately her new assistants worked patiently with her, performing a trick over and over again until she had perfected the timing and the rhythm.
Saturday night arrived all too quickly. Ignoring the nervous flutters that filled her belly, she reviewed the stage set one last time. The effect she had tried to achieve was that of stepping into Aladdin’s den. Lush Turkish carpets and overstuffed pillows covered the floor. Gauzy curtains were opulently draped across the stage. The seductive whine of the Indian sitar, the steady beat of the Turkish kanun, and the soft jangle of Arabian bells added to the mood of Eastern exoticism and mystery.
Katya had decided to open the show with the Birth of the Butterfly. As the curtain parted the audience found her two assistants center stage. They were dressed entirely in black and gold, complete with turbans, satin slippers with turned-up toes, and deadly scimitars strapped to their hips.
The music gradually changed from an ancient rhythm into a flowing, gentle melody reminiscent of the soft sounds of springtime. On cue, her assistants lifted a sheet of opaque parchment and spun the paper around a dense wire hanging from center stage, like two moths spinning a cocoon. Once the cocoon was complete they sent it spinning, whirling in midair. The music tempo rose until it became almost frenzied. Abruptly the cocoon and the music came to a synchronized stop.
The audience heard a faint scratching from within the cocoon, one that grew steadily louder until the cocoon was split in two. A single, elegant hand emerged from within the parchment, wriggling as though it had just been given life. Finally the cocoon split open. Keeping her motions slow and provocative, Katya stretched to her full height, lifting her arms to reveal huge monarch wings. A crackling murmur of tension and disbelief rippled through the theater as Monsieur Remy stepped forward and greeted the audience. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he bellowed to the astonished assembly. “I give you Katya, the Goddess of Mystery!”
From that point forward, Katya moved from one illusion to the next with an ease and fluidity that was the result of years of practice, despite the time her skills had lain dormant. She worked her father’s magic and spoke in the Magyar of her youth, her mother’s language, the language of her gypsy ancestors. She flirted with the audience like an accomplished courtesan, drawing them ever closer; then she pushed them away as she performed an illusion too impossible to comprehend. By the time she reached her finale and performed the Silver Bullet, her audience gasped in stunned awe, then burst into thunderous applause. At last the curtain fell and she took her final bow.
She walked through the backstage maze of props and stage sets to her dressing room, feeling both exhausted and exhilarated. The show had been a success. With that contented thought in mind, she opened the door to her dressing room and stepped inside.
She removed her stage attire and slipped into a loose silk robe of pale lavender, belting it tightly around her waist. Next she unpinned her hair, allowing it to tumble freely around her shoulders. Although she had lost her trunk when the coach crashed, her parents had stored nearly every piece of her extensive traveling wardrobe. While some of the rich and exotic garments had been designed for the stage, most of the clothing was meant for everyday wear.
As she scanned the assortment of gowns, a light knock sounded on her dressing room door. Assuming it was the cleaning woman, Katya called out, “Come in, Marie. I’ll be out of your way in a minute.”
Silence greeted her words, then the door clicked softly shut. From the other side of the screened partition, she heard the echo of heavy footsteps followed by the distinct and unmistakable sound of a cork being popped from a bottle of champagne.
Katya stepped out from behind the screen with a frown. “Marie?” she began, but stopped in mid-sentence. Nicholas Duvall occupied the armchair in the corner of her dressing room, looking supremely relaxed and perfectly at ease. A bottle of champagne and two tall crystal goblets rested on the table near his elbow.
“There’s no hurry, Miss Alexander,” he intoned politely.
Her hand flew instinctively to the immodest neckline of her dressing robe. In the week that had passed since she had last seen him, Katya had convinced herself that he couldn’t possibly be as handsome as she remembered. But in truth, his appearance was even more striking and self-assured. She paused, studying him with a frown. If she had considered the DuValentis at all—something she rarely did—she had always imagined them as monsters. Ugly, horned beasts with scaly tails and hairy palms. But that was obviously far from the case with Nicholas Duvall.
Gathering the fabric of her gown protectively to her throat, she demanded, “What are you doing here?”
“I would think that’s fairly obvious. I came to help you celebrate your opening night. My felicitations.” So saying, he poured two glasses of the bubbly liquid and attempted to pass one to her.
She studied him stonily, not moving. “You were not invited.”
He gave a light shrug and set the glass on the table beside her. “It may reassure you to know that I am not in the habit of intruding on the privacy of a woman’s dressing chamber.”
“I know nothing of your habits. But I certainly hope they aren’t as bad as your manners.”
“Worse, I’m afraid.” He lifted his glass and took a deep swallow of champagne, studying her with a look of mild amusement. “‘Katya, the Goddess of Mystery.’ Is that truly your name? Katya?”
“Yes.”
“Katya.” He said her name slowly, as though experimenting with the feel of it on his tongue. “It suits you. Exotic, yet not unapproachable.” His dark gaze moved appraisi
ngly over her. “So my little caterpillar has turned herself into a beautiful butterfly,” he remarked.
Katya wasn’t certain whether he was referring to the opening act of her performance, or to her transformation from the mud-soaked girl he had left a few days earlier into the immodestly clad woman who stood before him now. In either case, it didn’t sound like much of a compliment. She told him so.
“On the contrary. There wasn’t a man in that audience who wouldn’t desire you in his bed.”
“I’m not sure that’s a compliment, either.”
A knowing smile curved his lips. “Given tonight’s crowd, you may be right.”
It was an odd remark to make, especially since the audience that night had been comprised mainly of what was considered the better class: lords and ladies of the realm, the gentry, the wealthy, and the titled. “That reminds me,” he continued smoothly. “I don’t believe I’ve fully introduced myself. My card.” He passed her an elegant square of cream linen. Nicholas Duvall, Earl of Barrington.
“You’re an earl.”
“I am.”
She studied him in a new light, wondering why she hadn’t seen it earlier. Of course the man was wealthy and titled. That explained his haughty arrogance and air of complete self-assurance, his immaculately tailored clothing and his entree into Monaco’s most exclusive gatherings. So the DuValentis had prospered all these years, while the Rosskayas had for centuries barely managed to scrape by. The DuValentis had acquired wealth and status, while the Rosskayas had fled from country to country, forever hunted and persecuted by their ancient blood enemy.
“Do I detect a frown?” he inquired. “I disappoint you. Perhaps you were expecting a duke or a marquis.”
She coolly raised her gaze to meet his. “I expected an Englishman who was down on his luck and looking to earn a few extra francs by offering to drive our coach.”
“Not very perceptive of you, Miss Alexander.”
“If you weren’t desperate for money, why did you agree to drive us into Monaco?”
“It was a foolish wager, nothing more,” he replied, impatiently dismissing both the question and the topic. He took a long swallow of champagne, studying her for a moment in thoughtful silence. Finally he replied, “I attended your performance tonight. Very impressive. Do you know which part of your act I enjoyed the most?”
“I can’t imagine.”
“I believe you called it Flying Purses. Wasn’t that the part where various possessions belonging to different members of the audience magically flew into your hands onstage? Watches, pipes, brooches, rings, even one woman’s tiara. It was quite impressive—especially when those audience members swore you hadn’t been anywhere near them.”
“I’m glad you enjoyed it. Now if you’ll excuse me—”
“In fact, I was so impressed, I couldn’t help but try to fathom how you accomplished it. It occurred to me that you must have gotten physically close to them at some point in order to snatch their belongings. Suddenly I remembered an elderly, bumbling usher who seated a few of the guests for tonight’s performance—the very guests whose possessions found their way into your hands. That usher was you, was it not, Miss Alexander?”
Katya hid her surprise and dismay. Had she been that obvious? It was on the tip of her tongue to deny it, but she could tell by the smug expression on his face that that would be fruitless. “Congratulations, Lord Barrington, you win a prize.”
“Don’t look so disheartened. I sincerely doubt that anyone else saw through your disguise.”
“How very comforting.”
“I did have an edge, after all,” he continued blithely. “I witnessed you employ your considerable talents on the road to Monte Carlo.”
She studied him with a puzzled frown. “I’m afraid you’re quite mistaken. I didn’t perform any magic on the way here.”
“Really?” An odd light filled his eyes as his enigmatic smile returned. “I believe you have something of mine, Miss Alexander.”
Katya’s first thought was that he was referring to the Stone. Then she noticed that he had held up his right hand, subtly indicating his third finger. His glove and ring, she realized with a start, reaching into her reticule for the items. She passed them to him with a murmur of apology.
“They came off in my hand when you tried to pull me up the cliff,” she reminded him.
“Did they?” There was a note of condescending disbelief in his tone, as though he were humoring a small, corrupt child.
Her brows snapped together. “Are you suggesting that I deliberately stole your possessions?”
“You needn’t take offense, Miss Alexander. It was a natural assumption after I witnessed you deftly remove that black pouch from Lady Stanton’s bag. Granted, you were far smoother onstage this evening, but it was an impressive display nonetheless.”
Katya’s thoughts spun in a tangled disarray. He believed she was a thief. She had assumed that Nicholas Duvall had sought her out in order to find some resolution to the ancient feud that existed between their families. Instead, he was under the misguided notion that she was a common pickpocket.
“You needn’t look so stunned, Miss Alexander,” he said smoothly. “What else could I have thought? Particularly after you pointedly told me nothing of yours had been taken.”
“I hate to disappoint you, but you are entirely mistaken, Lord Barrington. What you saw, that is, what you think you saw, was merely—”
“You recovering your own goods,” he finished. “Though I hold that didn’t occur to me until I saw you on stage this evening. You’re quite talented. Amazing, really. Rather than admit to me that you’d been taken, you simply chose to remedy the crime on your own.”
“I assume there’s some point to this.”
“I have a proposition for you. One that will benefit both of us.”
“I’m not interested.”
“There is an object I need recovered,” he continued, as though she hadn’t spoken at all. “I have reason to believe the person who stole it is here in Monte Carlo. Someone of your abilities could make the task of finding the object considerably easier for me. In turn, I could make your stay in Monaco considerably more profitable for you.”
“You’re asking me to steal for you?”
“Quite the opposite. I’m merely asking you to recover an object that rightfully belongs to me—just as you recovered your possessions from Lady Stanton. I’ll take care of everything after that.” He paused, a look of somber reflection on his face. “I have a few ideas as to who might have stolen it, but I’m not certain. The item is small enough that whoever has it might very well be carrying it on his person. Then again, he may have secreted it in his residence. I’d like you to discreetly search both the men themselves and their rooms.”
His voice sounded vaguely distracted as he spoke, as though he were discussing ledgers and accounts, rather than the astonishing suggestion that he employ her as a thief.
She stared at him in incredulity. “You can’t be serious.”
“Can’t I?”
“I’m sorry you’ve wasted your time, but I couldn’t possibly—”
“I’ll double the amount Monsieur Remy is paying you. Triple it, if you like. Your fee is of little consequence, so long as we are successful..”
“I see.” Katya sank into the chair beside him, her thoughts careening in clumsy turmoil. Triple what Monsieur Remy was paying her?
He removed a timepiece from his breast pocket, frowned at the hour, and shifted impatiently in his seat. “What do you say, Miss Alexander? The path to riches begins with one single step.”
“So does the road to ruin,” she murmured absently. Although she knew she should turn him down and order him from her room, her curiosity had been whetted. She found herself asking, “What am I to look for?”
“A parchment scroll. It has little actual worth, but great sentimental value to my family.”
Katya’s breath caught in her throat. The stories and ancient legends tha
t had filled her childhood rushed through her mind. The DuValentis held one third of the scroll, the Rosskayas held a third, and a third resided at an isolated abbey. According to ancient lore, when the three scrolls were joined, the Stone of Destiny could finally be claimed by its rightful owner.
The absurdity of the situation hit Katya with a sudden, shocking impact. He was asking her, a Rosskaya, to retrieve the DuValenti parchment. Nicholas Duvall had absolutely no idea who she was.
Then again, she thought, why should he recognize her? The parchment was passed down through the women in her line—women whose names changed when they married, women who moved from country to country, women who had a tendency to die young and leave their legends and their legacies to their daughters. Perhaps over the centuries the DuValenti men had simply lost track of the wandering Rosskaya women.
Katya’s mind raced as she considered the ramifications of what he was proposing. Not only would her immediate financial problems be solved, but the wrong that had been done to her family centuries ago would finally be avenged. Spying the glass of champagne sitting on the table before her, she reached for it and took a long, comforting swallow. If only William were there. He could sort it out, make sense of everything. But William wasn’t there. Instead, Nicholas Duvall sat a mere arm’s length away, his intense, masculine presence almost overwhelming within the dainty confines her dressing room.
Aware that he was awaiting a response from her, she forced her mind back to the question at hand. “How do you suggest I get close enough to these men to search their persons?” she inquired.
He gave an indifferent shrug. “I won’t question your methods, Katya, so long as they bring results.”
Her eyes flashed toward him at the sound of her Christian name on his tongue.
Guessing her intention, he immediately forestalled her objection. “What else should I call my new mistress, if not her given name? And you, of course, shall call me Nicholas.”
Her eyes widened and her champagne glass nearly slipped from her grasp. “Your mistress?”
“What better way to explain your sudden, constant appearance by my side? I saw you perform this evening and instantly fell under your spell.” An odd, burning light filled his eyes as his gaze traveled slowly over her body. “And your charms are considerable. Katya, the Goddess of Mystery. That suits you far better than the prim little spinster act you feigned earlier.”
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