Dukes to the Left of Me, Princes to the Right

by Kieran Kramer

  “Which are?”

  “I can’t tell you. They’re confidential.”

  A covetous, predatory look came into his eye. He never appeared more dangerous, Poppy thought, than when he was after a secret.

  “Hmmm,” he muttered, “said like a real clandestine agent. Although your friends let me know about a couple of your requirements. They both involve love. Is that what you’re seeking?”

  There was a beat of silence.

  “Of course.” She felt out of breath when she said it. “Which is why I won’t marry you. I must love my husband, and he must love me.”

  Nicholas looked down at the deck of the boat, and her heart sank.

  When he met her gaze again, his was shrouded. “It’s time to go back.”

  No fairy tales, she told herself, and hardened her heart. “You don’t want to discuss frivolous things like love,” she said evenly. “You think I’m foolish.”

  He shook his head. “Not foolish. I think you’re fanciful, yes.”

  She huffed. “You believe love isn’t possible.”

  “No.” He stood and began unraveling a line. “I told you my parents loved each other. So it can happen.”

  “Then why are you so against the idea?”

  “I never said I was.”

  “You could have fooled me.” She hesitated. “You’re afraid of it, aren’t you? Because you saw what happened to your father when he lost your mother. You saw how changed he became after she died. He was weak. Easily led. You don’t want that to happen to you.”

  He didn’t say a word.

  She sighed. “I’m in a similar situation. I can’t say my father has recovered from his loss, but you know what? I’ve decided I’d rather have one day of what he had with my mother than never have it at all. And if I marry a man I don’t love, I ruin all my chances. Which is why I’m willing to risk being a Spinster for the rest of my life. I refuse to settle.”

  Nicholas stared at her a moment. “I think we should marry. We’ll make a great team. But I won’t lie and spout romantic notions about love to coerce you. We understand each other. We’ll protect each other. Isn’t that enough? Do we have to add potential hurt to the mix?”

  Poppy couldn’t say another word. She was too disappointed. And angry.

  She watched Nicholas put up the mainsail and sail the little boat back to shore, back to a world where young ladies and gentlemen danced and flirted … and then put their secret passions aside and married wisely.

  Her heart clenched.

  Didn’t love matter at all?

  CHAPTER 30

  Nicholas felt it was as if last night’s difficult conversation on the sailboat had never happened.

  As if the highly sensual encounter they’d had before that conversation had never happened.

  As if the intimate laughter, the feeling that they were comfortable—even happy—together, had never happened.

  In the afternoon, he’d taken Poppy to the Lievens’, where they’d enjoyed tea and a pleasant conversation in which the Russian ambassador had inadvertently revealed that the Pink Lady portrait would be kept in an alcove in a corridor above the ballroom during the ball. Countess Lieven also told them Revnik’s masterpiece would be brought down and unveiled near the ball’s conclusion.

  Good information to have.

  Afterward, when Nicholas took Poppy for their afternoon ride through Hyde Park, they were back to being nothing more than two people working on the same Service project.

  “I agree that a mole in Parliament is a bad thing,” Poppy said crisply, “but couldn’t Revnik have written Groop a letter? Or gone to visit him? Instead, he had to paint a portrait of my parents and ruin it with some sort of spy gobbledygook?”

  “Ssshh.” Nicholas looked around and saw no one nearby. But they couldn’t take chances.

  “I’ll tell you,” she whispered, “I think my mother bought it as a surprise for my father. She probably paid good money for it. Revnik had no right to use it for his own purposes. He died unexpectedly, probably of the same smallpox epidemic Mama did, and years later, Sergei found the portrait. He made a claim to it because no one came forward. Well, no wonder. Mama, poor lady, was dead and buried.”

  That scenario sounded very likely.

  “But it contains something of value to England,” Nicholas said. “Don’t you think your mother would have approved, had she known?”

  “I suppose. But it would have been nice of Revnik to ask her permission first.”

  “When it comes to national security, you can’t very well ask permission.”

  Poppy stared down her nose at him. “Whatever the circumstances were, this painting belongs with my family. Now more than ever, we have to retrieve it.”

  “I have to retrieve it. And I’ve every intention of doing just that. Not for your family, I’m sorry to say. The needs of the Service come first. It’s the way things have to be.”

  “But what will they do with it?”

  “I’ve no idea.”

  Poppy looked up at him with flashing emerald eyes. “If they think it belongs to England, Prinny could take it. Or one of his cronies. That’s not right.”

  “Life’s not fair.” Nicholas squeezed her hand. “I understand your frustration.”

  “Good. Because I’ll need your help. I’m going to prove Mama purchased that painting.”

  “I told you—the Service commissioned it.”

  Poppy huffed. “Mama was duped. She commissioned it. I’m getting that portrait back, and it’s going over the mantel in Papa’s library. I won’t say a word to my father or my aunt until it happens. It will be a great surprise.”

  “Not to mention you’re not supposed to talk to them about anything Service-related, remember?”

  “Yes.”

  He thought for a minute. “I’m only going to help you look for proof of ownership,” he said, “if I’m still able to proceed on my mission as planned. If you make any moves toward Sergei before the Lievens’ ball, claiming the painting is yours, you’ll compromise OPL. If that happens, probably neither one of us will ever see the painting again. And if you find your proof, you’ll have to wait until I turn the painting over to the authorities to stake your claim. Agreed?”

  “Very well.” She glowered at him. “England can get a first look. But it had better be quick.”

  “You’re a good citizen,” he said. “I know you’re anxious. If you really want to find out more about the Pink Lady painting, the best way would be to start at home. If your mother commissioned it, there might be a receipt or correspondence in her desk that might prove your claim.”

  “I’ve already thought of that.” Poppy beamed. “When I left you last night, I couldn’t sleep.” A becoming blush spread up her face. “I crept into my father’s library and looked through his desk drawers. There was a big, fat file with Mama’s old appointment books, some correspondence from friends, and whatnot. He must have emptied her desk and kept everything, the poor dear. I found her appointment book from St. Petersburg.”

  “Good work. Did you see anything interesting?”

  “I don’t know. I brought it with me. I wanted to look through it with you. We’re partners, through thick and thin.”

  “That’s quite considerate of you,” he said, rather touched.

  “No matter what happens in our personal lives,” she said in neutral tones.

  “Oh. Right.”

  That conversation at the conclusion of their interlude on the boat had been uncomfortable.

  While Poppy flipped through the slender volume, Nicholas watched over her shoulder. Her mother’s handwriting seemed to leap from the page, so energetic yet elegant—like Poppy.

  She looked up. “Mama mentions many times that she has a sitting with R.”

  “Revnik.”

  “I think so.” Her face brightened. “Perhaps this might be of interest. She mentions a monetary amount—quite a substantial one—to be given to R.” She grinned. “She did buy the portrait, t
hen. For Papa!”

  “It seems like it,” Nicholas said. “But we still have no proof. Cryptic notes, which we all jot down in appointment books, are not enough to establish provenance.”

  “What a shame.” Disappointment clouded her eyes. “This seems like proof to me.”

  “It wouldn’t hold a bit of water in any legal battle,” he said gently.

  She sighed. “It doesn’t seem right that Sergei has our painting.”

  “Go through the book one more time,” he encouraged her. “Only this time, from back to front. You might have missed something.”

  A tense minute passed.

  “I see nothing else,” Poppy whispered. “Except perhaps”—she stared at one page—“here’s one line—it looks like an address, 15 Vine Street.”

  “No name with it?”

  “No.”

  “Nor city?”

  “No, unfortunately.”

  “Then we’ll assume it’s London.”

  “But my mother had this book in St. Petersburg.”

  “Yes, but she might have written that address down as a place to mail something. If it were a St. Petersburg address, it would have a Russian name.”

  “But 15 Vine Street could be an address anywhere in England!”

  “I know,” said Nicholas. “But she lived here, in London. And I know of a Vine Street near Spitalfields Market, in the East End. Sometimes you simply have to go with—”

  “Intuition.” She smiled.

  “Exactly,” he replied.

  CHAPTER 31

  Poppy had never been in this part of London’s East End, and now she was navigating narrow, unfamiliar streets with Nicholas in an unmarked carriage.

  Only a few days before, she’d promised to give up indulging in whimsy, but here she was, dressed like a milkmaid. “I can’t believe you have things like this in your possession,” she marveled.

  He’d even given her a small wooden pail to carry.

  He laughed. “I usually don’t keep disguises for women. But after our meeting at St. Paul’s, I decided I’d best be prepared with you involved.”

  She rather admired how quickly he’d developed a five o’clock shadow on his jawline. “Burned cork can do wonders. You look rather roguish.”

  “My intent.”

  Poppy couldn’t help being amazed at the transformation in him, from London gentleman to rough workman. His broadcloth shirt gaped to his muscled belly. His pantaloons were tucked into a sturdy pair of boots. He had a broad piece of canvas rolled tight and tied with a worn rope—it looked as though he used it as a sleep roll and traveled from job to job with it.

  She had a sudden urge to jump in his lap and run her hands all over his broad chest. She remembered what it had looked like when they’d been completely naked together atop the sailboat.

  She looked up and caught him looking down her bodice. It was rather tight.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” he said dangerously.

  “Yes, but guess what? I’ve been around you long enough now to know what you’re thinking, too.”

  “You knew from the very beginning when you saw me on the stairs at the Grangerford ball.”

  “Not the very beginning.”

  “Are you sure?” He gave her a devilish smile. “I think you knew well.”

  She pressed her lips together. “What a thing to say to a lady.”

  But he was right. She had known.

  The carriage turned onto Vine Street.

  “There it is,” she said. “Number fifteen.”

  It was a plain, modest row house with clean windows and a freshly painted blue front door. No smoke rose from the chimney. A small tree out front rattled its leaves in the stiff breeze.

  She smelled that peppery smell that comes before a storm.

  The hired driver took the horses by the house at a slow walk.

  “It appears no one’s home.” She craned her neck to see into the house, but it was nearly impossible from where she was in a moving vehicle. “Shall we knock anyway?”

  Nicholas shook his head. “I instructed the driver to make a slow inspection of the street and to come back around in fifteen minutes. See if there are any changes.”

  “I don’t see any neighbors about.”

  “Let’s hope it stays that way,” he said. “We don’t want to attract any attention.”

  “You mean, you don’t want to talk to the neighbors?”

  He shook his head. “Not if we can help it. We don’t want them going to the man who lives here and telling him someone’s snooping about his business.”

  “How do you know it’s a man?”

  “No curtains.”

  Aha. Poppy felt a dash of admiration for Nicholas’s skills of observation. “He must not have anything to hide, then. Which is a good thing. My mother wouldn’t have a sinister man’s address in her appointment book.”

  “You’d think not. But having no curtains could also be his cover. Hiding out in the open, so to speak.”

  “Why would Mama have his address? She wouldn’t know anyone in this neighborhood.”

  “It could be 15 Vine Street from another city or village,” Nicholas reminded her, and called to the driver to go to the opposite end of the street.

  “We’ll walk back to the house on foot,” he said. “And don’t worry. Just stay with me.”

  She let out a nervous breath. “Of course I’m worried. It’s not every day a girl breaks into someone else’s home.”

  “We’re going straight to the front door. I’ve got my bundle of wood, so if someone answers, I’ll offer to sell it. What will you do if we’re discovered?”

  “Run to the designated meeting place on Pearl Street,” she said. “If you don’t appear within fifteen minutes, I’ll have the driver take me home.”

  “Good.”

  Poppy’s chest tightened when they strode up the pavement toward 15 Vine Street.

  And then five children came scampering down the street, laughing and chasing each other. They lingered beneath the tree in front of 15 Vine, swinging from its branches.

  “What bad luck,” she whispered.

  “Happens all the time,” Nicholas said. “Turn here.”

  Exactly ten houses down from their target, they turned right and came up a dirt alley to what Nicholas counted out as the back door of 15 Vine Street. The chickens in the coop behind it greeted them with nervous clucks, their feathers lifted by the increasing wind.

  Poppy waited nervously, her hair flying about her face, as he knocked on the back door.

  No one was home.

  Nicholas worked the door with a small tool and managed to twist the knob. But the door stayed shut.

  “Bolted,” he whispered, strong gusts moving snatches of his hair as well.

  He looked above them. And then behind them. There was no way in from the roof, Poppy could see. And behind them all she saw was the coop with a small shed inside. A sound came from it, a slight creaking.

  “What’s that noise?” she asked.

  “Let’s go see.”

  She entered the coop with Nicholas, and he peered inside the shed, chickens scattering at his feet. “There’s a false wall in here,” he said. “Keep the chickens back, please.”

  Oh, God. How did one keep chickens back?

  She did her best, pushing chickens away from the shed with her feet and even her hands while Nicholas examined the wall. But the birds were making so much noise.

  Too much noise, but what could she do?

  When Nicholas was finally done moving something about—she had no idea what—he left the coop and tossed his canvas roll and the logs behind some empty barrels. “Hide your bucket there,” he said. “And wait by the back door. I’ll see you in a minute.”

  Poppy was aghast when he entered the coop again and disappeared into the small shed. She hid her bucket behind the barrels, and was much relieved when she saw him appear a few minutes later at the back door.

  He slid the bolt back and d
rew her in.

  She fell into his arms. “It was a tunnel?”

  “Yes. Behind the false wall. There’s a ladder propped in it. That noise you heard was the wind catching at a lantern swinging from one of its rungs. Someone needs to repair the shed walls to make it airtight.”

  The sounds of the children out front had faded away. Nicholas took her hand and they walked into a pristine room with an oak table, two mismatched chairs, a smoothly made bed, and a fireplace with a large black pot swinging from it.

  “Come quickly,” he said. “We’ve only a few minutes.”

  He led her behind a hung blanket, where they discovered a serviceable desk with neatly arranged stacks of paper on it, a small signet ring, a quill and inkpot, a set of keys, a scarf, and on the floor, several crates of papers. A colorful braided rug was the only adornment to the space.

  “Oh, dear,” she said. “We can’t look through all that in a few minutes.”

  Nicholas was already on the floor. “He’ll have a system.” He was scanning the tops of the files in one of the crates.

  For a moment, he sat back on his haunches, apparently surprised by something.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “No time. I’ll tell you later.”

  “Nicholas.”

  “I promise.” He was sifting through the files again. “They’re not alphabetized or organized by year.”

  She looked over his shoulder at the contents of the crate. “What a strange way to file things. A number in the top right-hand corner. They’re in sequential order but with big gaps in between them. And a few have identical numbers. There seems to be no rhyme or reason.”

  “That’s because he doesn’t want anyone to understand his filing system.” Nicholas paused for a moment, then sifted quickly through the files and pulled one out. He put it back, thought some more, and pulled out another file. Opening it, he lingered a few seconds on the first page.

  His eyes glowed with satisfaction. “I’ve got it,” he said. “What year was your mother born, what month, and what day?”

  Poppy told him.

  He sat quietly for a moment. “Look for the number thirty in the second crate while I look here,” he said, then went to work sifting through the first box.