A Lady Unrivaled

by Roseanna M. White

  Ice replaced the remnants of fire in Kira’s veins. She stepped away from the pressing finger and pointed her own at the door. “Get out of my chamber. And keep your threats to yourself.”

  The lady pushed past, all haughty indignation. But then she stopped in the doorway and turned back, and her face was softer than Kira had expected. “Lareau . . . it isn’t a threat. I don’t much like you and certainly don’t trust you, but I don’t want to see you hurt or killed. I don’t want to see anyone else hurt or killed.”

  Not knowing how to respond to that, Kira said nothing. She just waited for Lady Pratt to leave, and then she folded up the letter and stuffed it into the drawer with her jewels. She closed the door. Pulled a chair into the scant open space. Closed her eyes and summoned the echoes of music.

  Rond de jambe en dehors, closing back into fifth position.

  She would not let a foul-tempered woman—or her unexpected softness—derail her.

  Attitude on her inside leg—her good leg—devant. Fondu on her supporting leg—her bad leg. It didn’t hurt so much today. Improvement. Progress.

  She would find what Andrei needed, somehow, and she would get out of this place and go home. Smell the baguettes baking and order up her café au lait and . . . and never bother with a man again. Not with Andrei. Not with any other dukes or princes or merchants with more money than morals.

  Arm sweeping out to second position. Retiré and straighten that bad knee, stretching it into new pain—but it was a pleasant, working pain, not the scream of injury. Arm to fifth position en avant.

  “The last pretty little maid of mine he dallied with ended up dead.” Kira’s body continued its drill, habit taking over from thought. Her mind kept replaying those words.

  She had wondered, yes, when she first met him, whether she’d have to worry with parrying his advances. But in all honesty, he didn’t seem the type. Or hadn’t. Now she wasn’t so sure. She wanted to dash out now and find someone to answer her question, but she would never regain her role in the ballet if she cut even such basic practices short. She finished the drill, did it again.

  Then headed for the kitchen. Dorsey wasn’t there, but she spotted him just outside. “Dorsey.”

  He turned, eyes sparkling, when she stepped out into the warm, clean air. “Come looking for me, sweetheart? Changed your mind about the safari already, obviously.”

  A smile asked her permission to appear, so she let it. “Africa is too hot for me, I think. I am built for Russian winters, not perpetual summers. But I do have a question for you.”

  He took her hand and made a show of kissing her knuckles. “Ask me anything, lady fair.”

  Her smile stayed in place. He may not have the polish of the crowd she had taken to, but he had the charm. “It is . . . I feel silly asking, but Lady Pratt said something, and I . . . have I anything to worry about? From Lord Rushworth? As a woman, I mean. She said something about a pretty little maid he . . .”

  “Nah.” Dorsey squeezed her fingers but didn’t let them go. “He’s too quiet a sort to make advances. Hannah was the one what made it clear she fancied him. Besides which, right now all his energies are focused on courting that Lady Ella.” Dorsey wiggled his brows. “Pretty girl, I grant. Though not so pretty as you.” He kissed her fingers again. Winked. “It’s his valet you have to worry about.”

  Kira laughed—and tugged her fingers free. “I think I can handle you, Mr. Dorsey.”

  “Don’t be so sure. I always get my girl.” His grin was infectious, his eyes more confident than they had a right to be.

  Kira shook her head and took a step away. “Then get yourself one who likes the heat of Africa.”

  His laughter followed her around the corner of the house. She followed the sidewalk through the garden, not sure where she was headed. Not sure what would make this disquiet inside calm and fade away.

  At the front of the manor, well out of earshot of the house, she spotted a trio that only made the disquiet quicken. Lord Cayton, Lady Ella, and Brook’s father. What was his name? Whitby.

  She ought to tell Lord Cayton what Lady Pratt had said. But she ought to wait until the two visitors from Ralin Castle left, oughtn’t she?

  Perhaps she was staring too intently as she wondered, because Lord Cayton turned, caught her gaze, and motioned her over. Since she could hardly pretend not to have seen him, she trekked over the lawn to where they’d positioned themselves under the spreading boughs of a beech tree. And told herself that, despite her internal squirming, Lord Whitby couldn’t recognize her simply because his daughter would have.

  “This is her maid,” Cayton was saying. His voice was hushed, and he didn’t bother with a smile of greeting. “We were just discussing how Lady Pratt disappeared during tea. Was she all right, do you know?”

  Kira didn’t know which of them to let her gaze rest on. Following his lead, she spoke softly. “She seemed well enough. Perhaps she wanted to give her brother time with the lady?”

  The lady didn’t so much as flush at the suggestion. She just edged a little closer to Cayton and tossed a grin Whitby’s way. “She left us alone for at least half an hour—my chaperone ought to have intervened.”

  Whitby grunted. “Your chaperone who wasn’t even invited to tea. By any of you.”

  Cayton tore his gaze away from Lady Ella—Rushworth obviously wasn’t the only one taken with her—and put it back on Kira. Frowning. “Did you need something, Lareau? Have you . . . ?”

  She looked to his companions, away.

  His frown eased. “They know everything. You can speak freely.”

  Hardly. But she supposed she could tell them this. “Lady Pratt said something about a maid Lord Rushworth dallied with who ended up dead. His valet said her name was . . . Anna?”

  “Hannah?” Lady Ella’s face washed pale, her eyes went wide. “Hannah, from Delmore?”

  Cayton only blinked. Lord Whitby’s mouth thinned to a grim line. “The one attacked and killed at the house party last year.”

  Not until he said it like that, so starkly, did she realize that some part of her had hoped that “ended up dead” was by coincidence. A fever. A carriage accident. Something other than murder.

  “What did the constable determine about that? I scarcely remember it—Addie had just been born, Adelaide buried . . .” Cayton shook his head. “That month is a haze for me.”

  “Nothing was determined, really.” Lady Ella delivered it calmly, but her expression hadn’t cleared. “Their prime suspect was the valet of some baron I scarcely know—they were seen talking the day before, I understand. Then he vanished during the investigation, which threw the suspicion his way. Did they ever find him, Whit?”

  “Not that I heard. Though I confess with much gratitude that I haven’t had much cause to talk to the constable in the last several months.” He looked beyond them all, down the road. Perhaps to his son-in-law’s castle. Perhaps beyond even that. “I can talk to him, though. We’re on good terms, and I’m certain he would be interested in anything new we can offer him. I daresay the information that Lord Rushworth was involved with her would qualify as news.”

  Cayton pulled away from Lady Ella. “You should discontinue these teas.”

  “Do stop trying to dictate to me, my lord.” Her voice was mild. Her eyes were flint. “If you would prefer we not enjoy our tea here, in the safety of your home where you can join us whenever you wish or post a trusted someone within earshot at all times, then I suppose we’ll simply go back to the tea room each afternoon.”

  Cayton growled and looked to Whitby. “Speak sense to her.”

  “I haven’t the time to try. I need to head to Yorkshire.” As if he intended to walk there—though Kira knew from the map she’d consulted that it was nearly two hundred miles away—he headed down the driveway. “Can’t trust this to a letter or telegram, you know. Ella?”

  “Coming.” Ella leaned up and planted a kiss on Cayton’s cheek. “I’m going to adopt Brook’s French ways. Just to w
atch you react like that.”

  The “that” was to pull away as if she’d shocked him . . . and turn his face to hide the pleasure in his eyes.

  Kira bit back a smile.

  Ella didn’t bother biting back her laugh. “You’re supposed to give me your other cheek.”

  “Go home, you little minx.”

  “I’ll see you tomorrow. Practice your adoring face in the mirror.” She stepped away, but she didn’t follow Whitby yet. She paused before Kira. “It’s a pleasure to see you again, Lareau.”

  Belova—Kira Belova. How long before someone used her real name again? She barely remembered to dip a curtsy. “Da. And you as well, my lady.”

  “Thank you for helping. Us and . . . and her. She needs friends.”

  Lady Pratt didn’t deserve friends. But Kira swallowed those words down and inclined her head. “I will do what I can. For everyone.”

  “And we will do what we can for you. If you need our help, don’t hesitate.” Now the lady hurried after her chaperone, slipping her hand into the crook of his elbow.

  Kira watched them for a long moment. “She is not nearly so cloying as Lady Pratt made her sound.”

  Cayton breathed a laugh. “A lesson in dealing with Kitty—the less she likes someone, the nicer they are.” He paused, considered. “And the opposite too—the more she likes someone . . .”

  Felicity being the exception, of course. Kira lifted her brows. “But she seems to like you well enough, my lord.”

  “My point exactly.” Hands in his pockets and an odd smudge of white on the back of his neck, he wandered back toward the door.

  Nineteen

  Ella scribbled another sentence onto her crowded page. Her handwriting had devolved since she began—first it was happy and full of her usual flourishes, with a few awful sketches in the margins to remind herself of what she was talking about.

  That was twenty sheets and nine days ago. Now she dashed off whatever words she thought would get her point across to herself, with arrows often drawn across paragraphs, pointing elsewhere, or page numbers scrawled here and there.

  Her eyes were ready to cross. She tossed her pen down and rubbed at them. “I think I may need spectacles before this is all over.”

  From the corner armchair, Cayton chuckled. “What about this one? Ayyappa? I see the word tiger in here.”

  “Ayyappa. Ayyappa.” Ella flipped through her notes, looking for the double Y, the double P. “Ah. No. Ayyappa was just a godling who rode on a she-tiger.”

  “Blast.” A thump sounded, the unmistakable sound of a book slapping the floor. “You do realize, of course, that there are probably scores of legends never written down and put into English.”

  “Really, James, if you have nothing helpful to say, I am quite happy with silence.” She used his first name in a casual tone, but with tension inside—would he chide her for the liberty?

  He grunted. “For about thirty seconds. Until you need to muse about the spelling of something or wonder what shade of yellow saffron is.” Apparently the grunt wasn’t over his given name.

  She smiled, stretched, and let her gaze settle on the orange and white and black tiger that stared at her from the other side of the table where she’d propped the frame. “Dak says you should be nice.”

  “Dak?” The grunt this time had a laugh hiding inside it. “Who names a picture of a tiger?”

  “Moi.” Her page was full. Again. She added a number to the bottom corner and shuffled it to the bottom of her stack of notes. Another blank page waited for her beneath it. “Did Lord Rushworth say anything yesterday?”

  “No. Though he was in quite a good mood, for Rush, after tea. What did you say yesterday?”

  Was it jealousy in his tone? She couldn’t be sure. If it was, it sounded an awful lot like irritation. She rested her elbow on the table and her chin in her hand. “Well, he was telling me all about the countries in South America he has been longing to visit. I suspect that’s where he intends to go if he can sell the Fire Eyes. But if he was in a good mood, it was probably because I said I longed for a dinner party and would try to convince Brook to host one after she begins to feel better. No doubt he had visions of me wearing the earrings so he can snatch them straight from my ears.”

  Cayton sat forward in his chair, all frowns. “He should try it, here, right under Stafford’s nose. I daresay he’d get a fist in his.”

  “Well, Brook is still all but confined to her chaise, poor thing, so it was nothing but a carrot dangled before that would-be punched nose, at any rate.” Her neck hurt from bending over the stacks of books so long, and her fingers were cramped. “Time for the next phase?”

  “Might as well. I’ll fetch Addie and tell Stafford where we’ll be and meet you at the side door.”

  She nodded as he left . . . and plotted how to lead him off his set course while they were out walking. She appreciated, of course, that they were trying to determine who the spy was and so had to do what they could to see who could be watching them. But that meant taking very specific paths around the castle, and Stafford hovering inside trying to see which servants passed by windows from which they could spot them.

  So very boring. And difficult, given that Rushworth didn’t exactly say every day, “So I hear you were in the lower garden this morning . . .” He only occasionally made a comment to Cayton that he could decipher in such a way.

  She also appreciated that the library was safe from prying eyes and ears, that people could only tell that they were there, not what they were doing. But it meant he stayed in his corner and she at her table. No hand tucked around elbow, no heads leaning together.

  Yes, she was ready for the walking segment of their supposed courtship. It was far more fun.

  She went ahead and turned to the next chapter in her current book, tidying her space so it was ready for her when she returned. The words Dakshin Ray jumped out at her from the new page. Sinking back into the chair, she read a bit. Just a paragraph. Or two. Or perhaps the page.

  Her breath caught in her throat when she flipped to the next one. Coincidence? Coincidence or hope?

  A knock sounded. “Ella, I thought you were meeting me at the door.”

  Not looking up, she waved Cayton over. “Here. This is . . . It could be it. Maybe. I don’t know. Is it too abstract? A fluke of the translation?”

  She heard the click of the door behind him, felt him as he drew near. Caught the scent of oil paints and turpentine and a not-quite-masking whiff of cologne.

  He lowered Addie into her lap and leaned over her shoulder to better see the page where she tapped. “Flaming eyes. That does sound promising.” He spoke more to the book than to her, turning back to the previous page. “This isn’t a real tiger?”

  “No. A statue.”

  “Statue.” When he looked down and over into her eyes like that, she almost expected him to forget his fears and just sink another few inches to kiss her. “Did anyone ever mention a statue?”

  Intercepting Addie’s hand—which was reaching, as usual, for a curl—Ella shook her head. “Not in the story I overheard from Brice. But it would make sense, wouldn’t it? Why else would there be diamonds called eyes, if they were not actually the eyes of something?”

  “Excellent point. But what happened to the statue?”

  “I didn’t get that far.”

  “Hmm.” He turned back to the book, shifting closer in his distraction, until he brushed up against her side. Though he moved away again, he didn’t hurry about it, obviously lost in whatever he was reading. “Interesting. The idol, it seems, was stolen. And wherever it was seen, the tiger prowled, bringing death and destruction with it.”

  “That matches the story of the curse.”

  “Indeed.” He straightened, his eyes cloudy with thought. “Walk?”

  “Let’s.”

  After helping her up, Cayton led her out of the library and then through the exterior door with a hand at the small of her back. Addie babbled something happy and
full of Ls and Bs. Ella let herself imagine, for a moment, that they were a family. On their way from the Staffords’ home to theirs.

  Damp air greeted them, and the clouds rolling in promised rain before the morning was spent. She would probably have to give in to the offer of a car or carriage to go to tea today. A mile in the sun was one thing—a mile in the rain something else altogether.

  Cayton led her to today’s designated path and offered his arm. “So if they were part of a statue, what does it change?”

  Addie was secure on Ella’s opposite hip, so she accepted the offer. “I don’t know that it changes anything, exactly. But it gives us more understanding of them. Of where they came from, their history. Did it say what became of the statue?”

  “No. It didn’t even say it had diamonds for eyes, just ‘flaming’ eyes.”

  “I’ll contact a few of the museums in that region—perhaps one will know something. And in the meantime, I’ll keep looking in other books on the area. Another may be more specific.”

  “Or lead us in more circles.” He leaned close. “We all know how fond you are of going in circles.”

  She laughed as if he’d just told her she was the sun missing from the sky this day. “If you mean that to be an insult, you had better try again.”

  “Very well.” He gave her a smile meant to look to any observers like he was trying to melt her heart. “Your hair’s looking particularly red today, my dearest.”

  Too bad even that didn’t keep the smile from working. “Better. Did Stafford mention whether he’d heard from Whitby?”

  “A letter arrived while I was up there.”

  Ella lifted her brows. And then fluttered her lashes for the sake of the unseen observer. “I thought he said letters weren’t to be trusted in this.”