She turned her back on the princess, only to see Lord Eversly approaching, a hopeful light in his eyes. “Lady Poppy! How good it is to see you.”
She forced herself to smile. “Hello, Eversly.”
He took her elbow and, in the kindest, gentlest manner possible, led her to a corner. “I must know your answer now. We’re about to have the first waltz, and of course, I want to dance it with you. And then soon we shall have our own ball to make our betrothal announcement.”
She looked at him, her heart beating hard, and shook her head. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “My answer has to be no. You’re a wonderful man, and I do hope you’ll find a woman who appreciates you. But I’m sorry—I can’t be the one.”
His sweet expression dissolved into disappointment, which tore at her heart.
“It’s still the Duke of Drummond you love, isn’t it?” he whispered.
She nodded. “I know it’s impossible.”
“It’s all right.” He gave her a kiss on the cheek. “I believe in true love, too.”
She took his hand and squeezed it. “You’re so kind.”
And he left her.
She followed him with her eyes and saw several young debutantes eyeing him as if he were a tremendous catch. And then a matron stopped and spoke to him, gesticulating to a pretty miss to come forward. She did just that, giving him a sweet curtsy. He held out his arm and she took it, her face beaming. And as fast as that, Eversly was swept back into the social whirl.
Natasha was right. Poppy was alone, without even Eleanor and Beatrice for company. They’d left the ball and were hiding in the bushes below the terrace leading to the rear gardens, waiting until just the right moment to enter the ball again.
It was all part of her plan to steal the painting back for Papa and herself.
“It’s time,” Sergei said from a small stage near the musicians. “Time for the first waltz and an official announcement.” His eyes roamed around the room and alighted on Nicholas, who looked more cold and intimidating than she’d ever seen him. Natasha clung to his elbow, her dark, scheming eyes alight with triumph. “Come forward, you two.”
Nicholas strode forward with Natasha, looking as if he were about to go to the guillotine. They both stepped on the stage.
Poppy pushed her way to the front of the crowd.
Nicholas refused to look at her. But Natasha did, and her mouth was pursed in a satisfied smile.
Poppy did her best to remain calm, ignoring her increasingly shallow breaths.
“You can do it,” someone said in her ear. She flinched, looked behind her, and saw a long-faced, beady-eyed footman just disappearing between two matrons.
Mr. Groop was right. She could. And she would.
She looked up at Nicholas, her heart in her throat.
Sergei smiled at the crowd. “It gives me great pleasure to announce the betrothal of my sister, the Russian princess Natasha, to—”
“Stop!” Poppy interrupted him.
A hush fell over the crowd, and she pointed to Nicholas. “That man is not the Duke of Drummond. I have proof that his missing uncle—the one everyone thought had been murdered—is still alive. He’s the Duke of Drummond, not Nicholas.”
“She’s lying.” Natasha stared daggers at her.
Sergei scowled. “What’s this about, Lady Poppy? Duke?”
“I’ve no idea,” Nicholas said low.
“I have his uncle’s signet ring here.” Poppy held it up. “It even has his initials. It was given to me by Tradd Staunton himself. He’s kept his identity hidden all these years because he works for the Service.”
“The Service?” was the general outcry, except for a few debutantes who exclaimed, “What’s that?” and one ancient gentleman who insisted the Service had been disbanded years before.
“He goes by the code name Mr. Groop,” Poppy went on, and saw Nicholas’s face blanch. “But a document signed by Prinny himself proves Groop’s claim and his right to the Drummond title and properties. So I’m afraid, Nicholas Staunton, you’re back to being Lord Maxwell. You’ll inherit someday, but your uncle is so busy with the Service, the Drummond title, properties, and coffers are his very last priority.”
Everyone gasped.
“Show me that ring,” Nicholas demanded, and looked at her as if she were mad. “And where’s that document?”
“Here’s your ring!” She tossed it into the air. There was a collective gasp when it landed in the crowd. “Groop was here just one minute ago, dressed in livery, but you’ll never discover him. He’s a master of disguise. One of the servants has the document on a tray. Have fun finding it and the ring.”
People burst into talk and many held up quizzing glasses to see where the ring might have gone and where this document might be and if Groop were still lurking somewhere in the vicinity.
“I despise you, Nicholas Staunton!” cried Natasha. “I marry no less than dukes.”
“But what about the baby?” someone called from the crowd.
It was Lord Howell.
“What baby?” Natasha crossed her arms over her chest and pouted.
“You mean … you lied?” Lord Howell’s face was purple.
“I am a Russian princess,” Natasha answered, and strode off, calling for her attendants.
Was that the best excuse she could give for her bad behavior? Poppy huffed, but no one noticed—no one except Countess Lieven.
“Portrait or not,” she said in Poppy’s ear, “that girl is not representing our country at all well. I will send her packing in the morning, back to St. Petersburg. Her mother will put her in the convent for sure this time. Strike up a lively tune!” she called to the small string orchestra, and she strode toward Natasha.
The band dutifully began a Viennese waltz. At the same time, a strange honking noise arose from the back of the room, near the doors to the garden, which were now flung open.
And much yapping.
Followed by several high-pitched screams.
Poppy’s mouth dropped open. Nicholas Staunton, she thought, this is the distraction you created to retrieve the painting?
She was in shock, yet she wasn’t. The man was cheeky.
Finding their flat-footed way amid a forest of silks, satins, muslins, and crisp cotton was a gaggle of geese—waddling, nipping, honking, demanding attention. But their noise wasn’t nearly as bad as the yapping from the corgis.
Poppy sucked in a breath when she saw Boris. He and the rest of the dogs were enthusiastically trying to herd the geese, one of which looked very familiar.
“My beloved dogs!” Natasha could be heard screeching. “Save them!”
There were loud shouts and several crashes of presumably precious china and crystal. The musicians continued stumbling through a waltz. Count Lieven stood near them, his face sweating as he desperately called for order.
“I am a Russian prince!” Poppy heard Sergei yell. “Get this blasted gander away from me!”
She felt as if she were in a dream.
She also knew one thing—she loved Nicholas. But neither he nor anyone else was going to decide where her mother’s painting was going except her.
Her hands began to sweat. She had to go. Now. And retrieve the painting before Nicholas did. It was all right. He wouldn’t need the M.R. anyway. No, indeed.
She wished she could be there when Nicholas heard the reason why.
A quick glance at Eleanor and Beatrice satisfied her that they were doing their jobs. They were scurrying about, dressed in livery and powdered wigs and holding their trays aloft with documents glued to them (the real one was safe at home), while guests chased them. Groop had long ago disappeared. A large crowd followed Beatrice right out the door to the gardens.
Eleanor sped in big circles around the ballroom, or tried to. The geese and corgis got in her and everyone’s way.
Aunt Charlotte, her hand to her breast, caught up with Poppy. “What’s going on, dear?”
“I have to take the painting,
” she said calmly, striding toward the stairs.
“No,” Aunt Charlotte gasped.
“It’s quite all right, Aunt. It’s my painting, and I can—”
“No, dear. Not that. A large goose is following Prince Sergei as if it’s besotted with him. It’s quite a charming sight.”
And she left her.
Nicholas was a mischief-maker. But Poppy couldn’t afford to be amused by him or the presence of Lady Caldwell’s gander—not yet. She was almost to the stairs, at the top of which was a corridor, an alcove, and the painting. If she could just get through this crowd of people, geese, and dogs, she’d be home-free.
Out of the corner of her eye, she caught Nicholas ignoring the servants with trays and heading toward the stairs himself.
She must beat him.
She kept walking—faster.
It’s now or never, she told herself when she reached the lowest stair, and sprinted up them. Silently, she sped down the corridor. The footmen had left their posts and were attempting to restore order in the ballroom.
Just as Count Lieven had said over tea, the painting was positioned in an alcove under a window. It rested on an easel and was draped in a red silk cloth.
She’d have to take it down the servants’ stairs and out the back way.
When she picked up the frame, Poppy had never been more nervous or excited. Goodness, it was heavy! Heavier than she’d thought it would be. And the blasted drape was sliding off and catching under her feet.
“Stop right there,” a low, menacing voice said behind her.
But it didn’t scare her. How could it? It was only Nicholas.
She stole a quick glance at him. “No,” she insisted. “I’ve no time, and you had best go away and look for that document. Don’t you care that Groop’s your uncle?”
But he didn’t, the bounder. At least not at the moment.
Instead, he grabbed the painting from her arms. “What do you think you’re doing?”
She tried to rip it out of his hands, but he was too strong for her. And then he held the large rectangle over his head.
“I’m stealing it,” she whispered loudly, and leaped to get it.
He held it higher. “You can’t steal this.”
“Most certainly I can. It’s mine.”
“I’m stealing it,” he said, and moved toward the stairs. “For you, you minx, not the Service, so please get out of my way.”
“Oh, no, you’re not.” She gave one more mighty leap and still fell short of the painting’s edge. “Wait. What did you say?”
“I quit the Service. I’m stealing this for you.”
“You did? You are?”
“Yes. And I don’t give a rat’s arse at the moment that Groop’s my uncle, although you were quite clever to try to throw me off like that. You’re all that matters to me, you saucy Spinster, you.”
“Really?” It felt as if her whole world lit up.
They both heard a movement on the stairs and locked gazes.
“Hurry,” he said. “To the curtains.”
Quickly, he put the painting back on the easel. Poppy adjusted the red silk drape over the portrait, and they ran to the curtains.
She pressed against Nicholas’s body and closed her eyes, not because she was afraid—but because she was so glad to be near him again, to be inhaling his man scent, to be leaning on his strong chest.
“What do you think we should do?” whined one footman, clomping up the stairs.
“I dunno,” said another. “It’s pandemonium. If we bring it out now, we might drop it.”
“Or a damned goose will nip it.”
Poppy looked up into Nicholas’s eyes. They were full of mirth. She stifled a giggle with her hand.
But just as suddenly, his mysterious gray eyes—which she’d come to adore—softened.
“I love you,” he mouthed.
The two footmen went back and forth, discussing the merits of taking the portrait to the ballroom now versus taking it later, when things had calmed down.
Poppy tried to convey hope in her gaze to Nicholas. She hoped the footmen would leave. She hoped she and Nicholas could grab the painting and leave themselves.
She hoped …
They could have a happy ending.
Was it too much to ask?
He leaned down and kissed her. A quick kiss, but it said much. He knew her. He knew her better than anyone, and when she kissed him back, she was saying she knew him better than anyone, too.
And they were meant to be together.
Forever.
“I love you, too,” she mouthed silently.
Nicholas held her close and pressed a lingering kiss on top of her head. She took comfort in the beating of his heart.
* * *
The footmen decided to leave the painting for the time being and return to the chaos in the ballroom.
Thank God, Nicholas thought.
As the thunk of footsteps disappeared, he squeezed Poppy’s elbow. “Let’s be quick about it,” he whispered.
“Right,” said Poppy.
They’d steal the painting together. Neither one said so out loud, but that moment behind the curtains clearly sealed the bond he’d been denying.
Love wasn’t exactly a convenient thing to have happen at the moment, Nicholas realized. But it was there, big, warm, and new—but a fact of his being, as natural a part of him as breathing.
Not that he could think about love right now. Or the shocking news about Groop. Or his own unexpected reduction in title back to Lord Maxwell (which didn’t bother him in the slightest).
There was a painting to be stolen.
Recovered, he amended.
Poppy ran to the servants’ stairs. “Over here,” she called softly.
They began the descent and went only five steps before they heard two voices from below—maids who were in hysterics, being yelled at by someone to get brooms—and they were coming upstairs.
The rightness of their purpose gave Nicholas an extra boost of resolution. “We’ll simply take it out the front door.”
Poppy’s eyes grew wide. “We have no choice, do we?”
“Who’d even notice?”
He turned the draped portrait sideways and grabbed the upper front corner. Poppy took the lower rear corner.
And they walked down the front stairs with it.
No one seemed to care. Or notice. The geese and dogs were causing too much disruption. Sergei and Natasha were red-faced and upset. Eleanor and Beatrice were nowhere to be seen, but a large crowd was still looking for the ring, their heads bent to scan the ballroom floor.
The orchestra played another waltz to which only one couple danced, Eversly and the sweet girl Poppy had seen him with earlier.
No one stood at the front door of the ballroom to see Nicholas and Poppy out. It was flung open, and an elderly couple were taking their leave, talking loudly of the geese’s honking. Nicholas allowed them to go first, and he and Poppy were right behind them when Nicholas felt a jerk on the painting.
“Heavens,” said Poppy from behind him. “Do let go of my gown, Boris!”
And then Boris saw Nicholas. He yapped and bounded up to him, hugged him on the leg, and refused to let go.
“This dog is evil,” Nicholas said, three feet from the front door.
“He’s in love with you.” Poppy couldn’t help giggling. “The way the gander is with Sergei.”
“Very funny,” Nicholas said dryly.
Into complete silence.
He looked behind him. Poppy’s pale, slender neck turned, as well.
Everyone in the ballroom was staring at them.
“Where are you going with our painting?” asked Countess Lieven into the silence.
“Um, I—I was taking it home,” said Poppy.
There was a stirring of the crowd. But then a group of gentlemen strode through the front door, Lord Derby and Lord Wyatt among them.
The tension in Poppy’s expression eased a fraction. Sh
e was obviously relieved to see her father.
Lord Derby looked around with great concern. “We were called from a useless meeting by a beady-eyed, long-faced man in livery who said a small riot is being waged here. How can we be of help, Count? Countess?”
The count glowered at him and then pointed a finger at Poppy. “Your own daughter is stealing a very valuable Russian painting, right from beneath our noses. Does she think we’re stupid?”
Lord Derby opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out.
“Lady Poppy doesn’t think you’re stupid,” Nicholas intervened. “The painting actually belongs to her, Count, Countess. The provenance can be verified—you’ll understand that we may take it back without asking permission and restore it to its rightful owners, the family of Lord Derby.”
The count’s brow furrowed. “Improperly handled provenance? Are you suggesting this great Russian masterpiece doesn’t belong to Revnik’s niece and nephew and is not ours to celebrate as a grand piece of Russian culture here, tonight, at this ball?”
Nicholas smiled politely. “Yes, Count, Countess. I say that with all due respect.”
“But you’re wrong, Drummond.” Sergei stepped forward. “My uncle Revnik painted this portrait, and we found it under his bed. It is ours. My sister and I inherited our uncle’s estate.”
Lord Derby had found his voice, and now he looked at his daughter with a great deal of worry. “We don’t want to make any mistakes here, Poppy. This could affect relations between our two countries. Until now, I had no idea this painting existed.”
The count’s face turned beet red. “Lord Derby says he doesn’t even know of the painting? What’s going on here?”
The countess put her hand up. “You must prove the painting belongs to you, Lady Poppy.”
“I must agree,” Lord Derby said.
“All agreed, say aye,” piped up one of his Parliamentary colleagues.
A fair number of people in the ballroom raised their hands.
Poppy’s cheeks bloomed pink. “I have proof, Papa. Here’s the receipt.” She pulled yet another paper from her bodice. “It proves Mama commissioned this painting from Revnik, and she paid for it.”
She held it out to her father. He and his colleagues peered at it.
Lord Wyatt cleared his throat. “That’s a fake,” he said calmly to the company. “I’m not free to say more, but this portrait belongs to England, and I hereby confiscate it on behalf of His Royal Highness’s government.”
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