A Lady Unrivaled

by Roseanna M. White

  “I know. Every day, I think that if I had only kept Byron with me that afternoon, perhaps the crib death wouldn’t have snatched him. I should have let him sleep in my arms, as he had wanted to do. But I had guests coming. Things to do.” Lady Pratt swiped at her cheek. “It is enough to devour me whole.”

  Kira’s knee throbbed in commiseration. She didn’t dare speak up and say how she mourned the loss of herself in much the same way. She didn’t want to belittle the literal loss of life, of spouses and children. It wasn’t the same.

  But still, the regret was familiar. The sure knowledge that one could drown under the reality pressing in. That all one’s dreams, all one had sacrificed for, all one had ever loved could be taken away in the blink of an eye.

  Death was an inescapable part of life. She had always known that, as surely as she knew that the winter would be long and the summer too short. As surely as she’d known that there were questions not to be asked if she wanted to keep her babushka smiling. Still, she had always believed that in this age of freedom her grandparents celebrated, she could fight to keep what she had fought to earn.

  But life could be as cruel as winter. A truth Babushka would be shocked to realize Kira had not known instinctively.

  Lady Pratt sighed and turned to meet Kira’s eyes. “Have you eaten?”

  It felt weak, somehow, to shake her head. But she saw little point in lying. “But I am not—”

  “Lareau, if you haven’t learned it yet, I’m not often given toward thoughtfulness. Take advantage while the opportunity presents itself and eat. I can sit with her for a few minutes.”

  That, too, felt odd. Wrong. But Felicity didn’t send her any gazes begging her to stay—and why should she, when they were barely even acquainted? With a nod, Kira turned, remembering too late that she ought to have curtsied as well. But Lady Pratt was paying her no mind.

  It still felt strange to navigate the servant hallways. She had never been in a grand house in Russia, much less the bowels of one, and in France she had always been on the other side of those halls, the side where the serviceable had been papered over and plated in gold until function was superseded by beauty. Perhaps she should have felt more at home here, where wood was coated in nothing but flat paint, like the small house she had once called home.

  She didn’t.

  But the kitchen was warm and fragrant when she entered, and that was something she missed from her growing-up years. The heat from a hearth and a stove, the air colored with the scents of cooking and cleaning up. It was only missing the bustle of mothers and grandmothers, the shouts of brothers, the rumbling laughs of fathers and grandfathers.

  The only one in residence in this kitchen just now was Dorsey, Lord Rushworth’s valet. Kira had scarcely exchanged five words with the man up till now, but he greeted her arrival with a handsome grin and a wave toward the counter, where bread and meat and cheese were laid out, along with vegetables and fruit.

  “The cook left food out for everyone, what with the uproar.”

  Kira nodded and returned his smile, heading for the counter. “Quite a day, nyet?”

  “That is was. Are you fetching something back for the maid, or will you join me here at the table?” With his foot he scooted a chair out across from him in an invitation that any one of Kira’s brothers could have made.

  It teased a smile to her lips. Mamochka would have scolded her sons for putting their mud-caked boots onto a chair, and no doubt Dorsey wouldn’t have done it had the cook or housekeeper or Lord Rushworth been present. She had, in their limited days together, never seen Dorsey be anything but decorous.

  Getting a glimpse at the boy beneath the elegantly-clad man was more refreshing than it should have been. She fixed herself a quick plate and took the chair. “Spasibo.” At his raised brows, she added, “Merci. Thank you.”

  “Ah.” He grinned, and looked ten years younger than she had thought him. “Quite welcome. We’ve not had the chance to really speak thus far, but I’ve been meaning to give you a proper welcome to the Rushworth household.”

  Not that she intended to be a part of it any longer than she must. But she nodded. “Have you served Lord Rushworth long?”

  “Half of forever, it seems.” He raised a slice of apple to his lips and bit. “About twelve years, if we’re counting actual time.”

  Twelve years. Twelve years serving and bowing and handling other people’s things instead of one’s own. Kira shook her head. “Twelve years ago I was in short dresses, tumbling about my babushka’s knees.”

  “You saying I’m old?” He didn’t seem it as he laughed. He seemed more likely to chuck that bit of apple at her head. That’s what Boris would have done, anyway, had it been her brother across from her. “I feel it sometimes, at that. But as positions go, it’s been a good one, and Lord Rushworth knows I don’t intend to serve him forever.”

  Her brows lifted. It seemed a strange statement in light of how long he’d been doing it already. “No? What else do you plan to do?”

  Dorsey tapped the half an apple slice against his lips, his eyes distant. “Who’s to say? I’d like to see a bit of the world. Africa, maybe. Go on safari.”

  Dreams, then. She was tempted to discount them as nothing more—but everyone in her village had thought the ballet just a dream of hers. Dreams could be powerful things. “You have a fondness for wild animals?”

  His grin was quick, bringing his blue eyes back into focus. “I have a fondness for open spaces and no one to tell me how to run about in them. I get on right well with his lordship, but he does like to dictate my every minute.”

  She wanted to press, to ask what things Rushworth might have dictated, and whether any of them had to do with diamonds. Instead she said, “And yet he knows you intend to leave service and does not mind it?”

  The blue eyes sobered, went . . . not hard exactly. Not cold. More like . . . flinty. Hard and cold, yet capable of producing sparks. “No. Not so long as I do my job best I can until then. Loyalty and precision, that’s what it’s all about with Lord Rushworth. But he knows things change. So long as I do my part until they do, he doesn’t mind me having other goals.”

  “So you will someday go on safari.” The someday still niggled at her. How would a valet afford to do so?

  Perhaps he heard her silent question. He sighed. “I’ve been saving for years. I can get there, I daresay. Though I won’t be living like a king when I do. Probably end up working for some long-mustachioed lord over there who hunts for lions like Lord Rushworth hunts for freedom.”

  “Freedom?” She didn’t mean it to sound scoffing, but it must have.

  Dorsey’s eyes went back to flint. “Don’t let the title fool you, Lareau. He’s had a hard go of it.”

  She stretched out her aching knee under the table. “My father always says that suffering is no respecter of status. It visits rich and poor alike.”

  “Aye.” The softness came back, and the smile. “Though to be sure, certain types of suffering visit one more than the other, and I wouldn’t mind trading which ones I’ve got, trying the other on for size. How about you?”

  She thought of her flat, of her things, of the jewels she’d brought with her to keep them from being stolen. Of wondering how long home would be home. Wondering, sometimes, if she even had a home. She had spent most of her life wishing for what she couldn’t have, and the rest afraid she’d lose what she’d gained.

  Not so different, really, those two. She sighed and toyed with her food. Her stomach was still empty, but it had nothing on that deeper ache inside. “I have tried enough to know that none of them suit me.”

  Dorsey laughed and raised the glass of water that had been beside his plate. “Hear, hear.”

  Kira took a bite of her sandwich, promising herself a walk later. Preferably to some tucked-away corner of the property that would allow her to stretch and plié, to dare an arabesque on her bad leg. To force the knee to strengthen again.

  Dorsey polished off his remaining
apple slices, but he didn’t then get up. Instead he leaned back in his chair and folded his hands over his stomach in contented repose. He had the look she always associated with the English—that wave of brown hair over his forehead, the easy blue eyes, the straight, narrow nose. All Western, those features, with none of the Eastern influence that could sneak into Russian eyes and noses and cheekbones here and there, courtesy of the Mongols who had held the land in their fists for five hundred years.

  His smile was carefree and friendly. “Can I ask you a question, Lareau? You don’t have to answer if you would rather not.”

  She finished chewing, letting her raised brows invite the question, along with a slight nod.

  Dorsey narrowed his eyes at her, but in a way that made him look as though he were concentrating, not cross. “What brought you to service? You’re a beautiful young woman. I would have thought the men would be clamoring to make you their wife.”

  An echo of what her family had said so many times—“You can have your pick of the village boys. Let go these foolish dreams and do what you should, Kiraka.” She shook her head to clear it of those voices. “I was not interested in a husband and family. I wanted to see some of the world. Make my own way.”

  She hadn’t known his grin was so quick, but it flashed again, bright as the laugh that followed. “I can hardly argue with that, can I?” He leaned forward again, eyes teasing. “How do you feel about Africa? I daresay life on safari would be easier with a pretty girl at my side.”

  Kira just took another bite of her sandwich and chewed it, holding his gaze without flinching. It was, she’d found, the best way to show a man that she wasn’t going to be swayed where she didn’t want to go.

  Dorsey chuckled, shrugged, and stood. “Can’t blame a chap for trying. And don’t count me out yet, Sophie Lareau—I’m a good bloke. You might just tumble straight into love with me.”

  She sent him on his way with a good-natured roll of her eyes. He could be the best “bloke” in the world, whatever that was, and she highly doubted her heart would be in any danger of falling for him. Her purpose here was too clear. Find out where the Fire Eyes were. Get back to Andrei. Reclaim her position in the ballet.

  After a few more bites, she shoved her plate away and stood. She hadn’t found anything of interest in Lady Pratt’s things today and didn’t dare go back up now, when the lady could return to her room at any moment. But she could work on her knee. Best to ensure that when she went back to Paris with Andrei’s precious information in hand, she was strong enough to recapture her life.

  Fourteen

  Ella clawed her way from sleep with talons and heaves, desperate to leave behind the dark images that chased her. In her dreams, it wasn’t some stranger lying there under a season’s worth of mud and leaves and sticks. It was her father. Young Mr. Abbott. Then her brother. And then, as she denied that possibility too, Cayton.

  She ripped herself from the dream and to the light of day, which streamed through the window brightly enough to confuse her for a long moment. Her pulse still hammered, and her breath wasn’t quite steady. But the light helped. Bright and warm and free.

  Too bright and warm for her normal hour of waking. She scrubbed at her eyes until the haze of fear cleared from them and then pushed herself up. Her nightgown and sheets were damp from terror, and the clock on the mantel told her it was already midmorning.

  The price, she supposed, of jerking herself awake at least five times last night, and then lying there whispering prayers rather than going directly back to sleep. She untangled the sheets and scooted to the edge of her bed, praying again that those at Anlic Manor had found more peaceful repose than she had.

  The thought of breakfast made her stomach turn, and the thought of ringing for the maid the Staffords had provided for her made her heart ache. She didn’t want a stranger in her space and offering words that wouldn’t help. She wanted someone who knew her. Someone who would draw her close and hold her.

  Someone who smelled of oil paints and turpentine.

  Sighing, she shoved to her feet and shook away thoughts of Cayton. She ought to be embarrassed at having thrown herself into his arms yesterday. Except that she wasn’t. Couldn’t be. She’d needed the arms, and his had come around her easily enough. He’d held her there, exactly like she’d needed him to, and . . .

  Her eyes narrowed the closer she got to her dressing table. Her hair pins were scattered about—perhaps not unusual for her, but she had watched the maid put them away last night. And a gold chain was half-out of her traveling jewelry case. Odd indeed, given that she hadn’t worn any jewelry yesterday to put away, and again, the maid kept things tidy.

  Was it residual unease that wracked her, left over from the dark dreams? From yesterday? She didn’t think so. It was rather a whole new twist in her stomach.

  Someone had been in her room. Last night . . . during one of her bouts of intermitted sleep. Someone had been right here, while she tossed about her bed, and they had pawed through her things. Not seeing to them, not like the servants always did, but carelessly searching them.

  She opened the lid of the jewelry case. It would look like a jumble to most people, but she knew where everything was in it. Mostly. She certainly never kept her earrings in the same compartment as her bracelets, but there was one of the red-orange crystals, tossed among the gold. And the necklace that was half-out, and another necklace dangling between two compartments.

  Her hand may have gone cold as she righted it, but it didn’t shake. It didn’t shake.

  Someone was looking for the Fire Eyes—someone knew she had them, and must be in the employ of Rushworth. He had . . . had hired someone to pilfer her things. After he’d taken her hand yesterday afternoon, as she stumbled her way back into the Stafford car to come home. After he’d looked so sympathetically into her eyes and said he prayed she could rest well, after he’d thanked her so sweetly for spending time with his sister.

  Letting the lid of the box snap shut, she curled her fingers into her palm. He wished her to rest well indeed—so he could send a thief into her room while she slept. She should have kicked him in the shins.

  Feeling grimy from more than the nightmare-induced sweat, Ella stomped into the newly remodeled water closet and took a long shower. To avoid ringing for the maid, she slipped into a simple Paul Poiret day dress and twisted her hair into a bun that would probably not last the rest of the morning. But she wasn’t looking to impress this morning. She was looking to . . .

  She didn’t rightly know what she was looking to do, but she had best start by shedding the foul mood that still had her in its claws.

  Breakfast would no doubt already have been put away, and though she knew they’d expect her to ring for something, she was still in no mood for people. So instead she sought the out-of-doors. She would take a stroll through the gardens.

  But no. Every time she glanced up at the windows of the castle, she wondered if the would-be thief was behind the drapes, watching her. Better to wander a little farther, to escape any prying eyes for just a few minutes. She wouldn’t go far, would keep the castle within sight—and earshot, if she ran into trouble.

  The sun was even warmer and brighter without her window interfering with it, and the brisk pace she set past the paddocks left her nicely flushed. Her stomach growled—proof that it was no longer quite so twisted and sour.

  She headed briefly into the trees, careful to stop before they could obscure her view of Ralin’s turrets, much as she would have preferred getting herself good and lost. Alas, no knight, neither in shining armor nor tarnished, was likely to rescue her today. “Just as well,” she said to the sparrow perched in a limb above her. Though she wasn’t quite sure why it was just as well. Even surly Cayton appealed to her, rudeness and all. But then, she knew well the rudeness was a front. That he was trying to put her off. Which was, in a convoluted way, rather sweet. He wanted to protect her from himself.

  Her gaze settled back down to earth, where a few spr
ing wildflowers were just beginning to open their petals. Himself was the least of their concerns just now. They would do better to protect themselves from Rushworth.

  Silently promising the birds and trees that she would explore again another day, she turned back toward the safety of lawn and paddock and castle. She drew in another long breath of fresh, sunshine-washed air. And saw again those telltale pins and necklace chain.

  To be thorough, she ought to ask her maid. Perhaps it was something as simple as her noticing an item left out and trying to tidy it up without waking Ella this morning, but being unable to do so in the dark.

  The tension in her shoulders didn’t ease at that thought, though. She would ask the woman, but she fully expected a blank look and a quick denial.

  Then again, whoever had searched her jewelry was sure to greet any questions with the same. But someone had. And it could be anyone, absolutely anyone at Ralin Castle. Which, if the house of Stafford employed as many people as Nottingham did, meant well over a hundred.

  She would tell Stafford as soon as she got back to the castle. And Brook, of course. She would talk to Brook first—she probably knew the female staff better than Stafford did, and if Rushworth were going to hire someone to search her room, wouldn’t a girl make more sense? No one would bat an eye at some under maid slipping in, but a man in that wing of the house would garner unwanted attention.

  “You’re trying to convince yourself, Ella. You might as well admit you want to think that because it would frighten you less.” Having no rebuttal for herself, she huffed out a breath and increased her pace.

  Ralin loomed large, if a bit distant, beckoning her back. It may have been the first time she’d gone on a promenade without getting the least bit lost. “I’ll have to write Brice to tell him.”

  “Tell him what—that his sister talks to herself?”

  The voice didn’t startle her so much as fill in one of those aches inside with a happy Yes. She turned until she spotted Cayton, leaning on a horse pasture fence. He wore no hat, which meant his hair was wind tossed, and his clothes were mud spattered. He must have been riding with Stafford this morning, not just studying the Word in the tower office. She gave him as much of a smile as she could muster. “He knows that already. Where’s Addie?”