The Stolen Letters Page 6

  The left bank of drawers held only more invoices, and a rather large collection of erotic etchings. She moved on. The right bank proved equally uninteresting . . . until she came to the bottom drawer and felt a frisson of hope on finding it locked.

  Retrieving the steel pin from her topknot, she made quick work of springing the catch. Here, at least, there appeared to be official papers. But a careful search turned up nothing but routine dispatches from Berlin.

  Fisting her hands, Arianna leaned back to take stock of her options. Which were, she admitted, cursedly few. She dared not stay more than another quarter hour, so trying to scrabble through the unorganized jumble of files lying around the room seemed a waste of effort. And yet, to have to face Constantina and admit defeat without putting up more of a fight stuck in her craw.

  Think! Think!

  There was really only one sensible strategy . . .

  Her gaze moved around the room again, looking for any object that might serve as a hiding place. There was a lacquered tea chest inlaid with ivory, a large porcelain lion, its painted mane topped with a gold crown, an ornate wooden globe on a gilded stand.

  The globe. She decided to start with the globe.

  Rising, Arianna crossed the carpet and placed her hands on the rounded surface. With a gentle nudge, she set the orb in motion. It spun smoothly in the brass-rimmed base, the intricate geographic detailing turning to a dark blur in the muddled light.

  A flattening of her palms brought it to a halt. Leaning down, she tap-tapped a forefinger to the varnished wood.

  A good sign—it sounded hollow.

  Now to find if there was a hidden release point. It would be constructed so as to blend in with the artwork.

  Tap-tap. Her fingertips moved over the curved top, exploring for any seam or inset piece of metal that might spring a hidden latch. Finding nothing, she started to rotate the globe sideways—

  Tap-tap.

  It took an instant to realize the sound wasn’t coming from her. It was distinctly metallic. Steel probing against steel.

  A key? That would leave her only scant seconds to . . .

  Arianna darted for the draperies, praying the voluminous folds of heavy fabric would conceal her. She just managed to take cover behind the velvet, hide the toes of her slippers and tuck in a telltale flounce of her gown before the lock released and the door eased open.

  “Do try to smile, my dear,” counseled Constantina in a whisper as the two Austrians moved away to fetch more champagne. “And do stop glancing at the corridor. You look as jumpy as a cat on a red-hot griddle.”

  “Sorry—I thought I saw some movement in the shadows,” answered Sophia. “What if . . .” A nervous swallow. “What if she’s caught?”

  “She won’t be,” replied the dowager firmly. “She’s far too clever for that.”

  “Of course.” Sophia bobbed an uncertain nod and forced her lips to curl upward. “It’s just that I . . . I could swear I caught a glimpse of a gentleman—or maybe several—moving toward the rear of the house.”

  “You’re seeing specters,” chided Constantina. “To reach the corridor from the drawing room or the adjoining salon, they would have had to pass by us and I would have seen them. I’ve been keeping a very careful eye on the guests.”

  “You’re right.” Sophia darted a quick glance at the shadows beyond the open door, then drew a measured breath. “I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about.”

  “The Austrians are returning,” warned the dowager. “Let us make sure to keep them amused.”

  Flattening her back against the window frame, Arianna held herself still as a statue. Footsteps scuffed over the carpet.

  “You see, I told you there wouldn’t be a soul around.”

  She didn’t recognize the voice, but a shiver skated down her spine. The fellow was speaking Russian.

  “Still, we must hurry. I’ll guard the door.” A second Russian, also unknown to her, answered his companion.

  Arianna shifted just a fraction and angled her head to see past the edge of the draperies. She could view only a small section of the room—the shadowed corner holding the globe—but dared not make any other movement. Muscles tensed, she waited for them to speak again. During her stay in Vienna, she had picked up a little of the language.

  Perhaps they aren’t here for the same thing I’m after, she told herself . . . and then realized how ridiculously absurd such wishful thinking was. And perhaps the porcelain lion on the side table will turn into a silver-winged unicorn and fly to the moon.

  But just as she was thinking that her devil-cursed luck couldn’t get any worse, a third voice cut like a knife blade through the momentary silence.

  “Come, come, Kerzensky—you said you know where the packet is hidden.”

  Arianna suddenly felt as if an iron fist were squeezing the air from her lungs. No, no, no—surely it was just a strange echo and her own overwrought nerves distorting the sound.

  However, at the next words, there was no denying the truth.

  “Stop dawdling,” snapped Prince Orlov, “and get it now.”

  More footsteps, and then a gentleman dressed in a bottle-green swallow-tailed evening coat came into her line of sight. He approached the globe. “During my last meeting with von Stockhausen, he got very drunk and wasn’t careful enough in closing the door when he came to fetch a document we needed to consult. I followed him and saw where he kept it hidden.”

  Damnation. That her instincts had been right left naught but a sour taste in her mouth.

  Orlov joined his compatriot. “Open the bloody thing,” he growled impatiently.

  The man turned the globe so that the Kingdom of Prussia faced the ceiling, then simultaneously pressed two points on opposite sides of the orb. The top half of the globe popped open, allowing it to be swung up on a hidden hinge.

  She saw him reach inside and fish out a packet, which Orlov immediately snatched from his hand.

  The moonlight caught the flash of unfolding papers. Silence shrouded the room, save for a whispery rustling, as Orlov skimmed through the documents. Looking up, he smirked.

  Arianna remembered that look of supreme arrogance—and how immensely satisfying it had been to wipe it off his lordly face.

  “Excellent,” crowed the prince. “Dampierre will have to dance to our tune now.” The smirk widened. “Even better, it appears we have a hold over Lord Mellon as well. His relative, Lady Sterling, has thoroughly compromised herself. Women—especially old women—are fools when it comes to love.”

  The other two men laughed.

  Orlov refolded the documents. “Come, let us retrace our steps down the back stairs to the main entrance hall and make our official arrival for the soiree.” He tucked the packet into the inside pocket of his evening coat. “Pay the porter an extra few guineas to keep his mouth shut, Kerzensky. This little gambit has proved well worth its weight in gold.”

  Orlov and his compatriot moved out of her line of sight. She heard shuffling and a click-click as the door opened and shut, followed by the sound of the lock’s tumblers being reset.

  Arianna waited a few agonizing moments before leaving her hiding place. The chill night air blowing through the cracks in the window casement had left her feeling cold as ice. She paused to chafe some semblance of warmth back to her bare arms.

  All was lost.

  The bitter taste of bile rose up in her throat, but she made herself choke down its burn . . .

  Or was it? She would rather eat a barrel of hell-forged nails than concede victory to Orlov and let him destroy her loved ones.

  There had to be a way to turn disaster on its ear.

  She just needed to think of it . . .

  And quickly.

  Chapter 8

  “You look pale as ice.” Sophia took Arianna’s arm drew her into one of the picture alcoves. “D-Did you find—”

  “Where is Constantina?” she interrupted.

  “Mellon wished for her to meet with some old acqua
intances in the main drawing room,” answered her friend.

  “Go and draw her away, but do it discreetly, without making a scene.”

  “Oh, dear,” intoned Sophia. “I take it the documents were not to be found.”

  A humorless smile pinched at Arianna’s lips. “Yes and no.”

  Her friend frowned in confusion.

  “By which I mean we have to improvise,” said Arianna tersely. “Go,” she added, “while I mingle for a bit so people don’t start to remark on my absence.”

  As Sophia headed off, Arianna moved into the crowd and struck up a light conversation with the two Sicilian diplomats. As the pleasantries flowed by rote from her lips, her mind was spinning with far darker thoughts. An idea was slowly taking shape. One that was hard to stomach.

  But the alternative was even less palatable.

  Orlov had not made an appearance in the salon. He must still be going through the motions of greeting the other diplomats in the main drawing room. A duty she hoped included imbibing a goodly amount of champagne.

  It would help her plan if he was intoxicated with wine as well as his own princely vanity.

  Time seemed to tick by with excruciating slowness, but at last she spotted Constantina and Sophia making their way down the corridor.

  “If you will excuse me, sirs,” she said to the Sicilians, “I must make sure my great aunt isn’t feeling too fatigued by all the excitement of the evening. She is of a certain age, you know . . .”

  The gentlemen politely moved away.

  Arianna edged into the nook behind the massive urn of flowers and waited for them to reach her. Constantina was first to round the plinth. She was smiling but apprehension was pooled in her eyes. Sophia followed, balancing three glasses of champagne she had plucked from the tray of a passing footman.

  Sharp thinking—they would simply appear to be taking a moment away from the crowd for refreshments.

  “I take it the plan didn’t work,” murmured the dowager.

  “Not precisely,” answered Arianna, and then quickly explained what had taken place.

  Sophia swore a rather colorful oath under her breath.

  “A setback,” agreed Arianna. “But the night isn’t over.”

  “Are you suggesting there might be a way to salvage the situation?” Constantina eyed the tiny bubbles fizzing up in her glasses. “Aside from pulling a pistol on the prince and shooting him.”

  Arianna was relieved that the dowager’s spirit didn’t appear crushed by the bad news. “We may not have to resort to bullets.”

  “A pity,” said Sophia. “From what you’ve told us about him, he richly deserves to have his bollocks blown off.”

  “Too messy,” she quipped in reply. “Besides, I have another idea, one that avoids any bloodshed.” Though just barely.

  “Go on,” said Constantina.

  “It will take some maneuvering, not to speak of some luck, but I am counting on Orlov’s overweening pride to make it work.” Arianna fluffed up her skirts. “I plan on approaching him and making it clear that my past refusal of his attentions was because I dared not risk stirring Saybrook’s suspicions in Vienna. I’ll explain that things have changed since our return to London, and I’m now free to make it clear that I find him . . . irresistible.”

  The dowager frowned and looked about to speak.

  “Please wait and hear me out,” she asked.

  Constantina hesitated, then gave a grudging nod.

  “After I’ve convinced him that I’ll welcome a more intimate tête-à-tête, I’ll suggest we retreat to the library room here on this floor.” She had spotted it on her return from the upstairs study. It was far enough down the corridor that it was unlikely to attract any of the other guests. “Once there I’ll encourage his amorous advances—and in the process find a way to take the documents from his coat and retreat.”

  “You make it sound simple,” observed Sophia. “But I can’t imagine a brute like the prince will make it quite so easy.”

  “That’s putting it mildly,” said the dowager, her voice taking on a hard edge. “I won’t let you take such a terrible risk.”

  “I’ve faced far more dangerous men than Orlov,” murmured Arianna. Constantina and Sophia knew something of her past life—the daughter of a disgraced gentleman forced to leave England and live in the rough and tumble world of the West Indies. But she had taken care to hide the grimmer details. She wasn’t proud of some of the things she had done to survive after her father’s murder. But so be it. Early on, she had learned that toughness and resilience, not genteel manners and delicate sensibilities, were what kept a lady alive.

  “I don’t like it,” insisted Constantina. “He’s as big as a bear, and if things go wrong, there is no way you can fight him off—”

  “There are ways to counter physical strength,” cut in Arianna. And she knew most of the filthy tricks it took to do so.

  A martial light lit in the dowager’s eye. “No. I won’t let you risk yourself on account of my stupidity.”

  Arianna countered with steely calm. “I’m not asking you to let me. I’m asking you to help me.”

  Sophia gave a resigned sigh. “Let’s not waste any more breath in arguing. What do you need us to do?”

  “Keep Mellon distracted while I approach Orlov,” she answered. “And once the prince follows me to the library, be aware of how long I’m gone. If I don’t return in a reasonable amount of time, you have my permission to investigate.”

  Constantina didn’t look at all pleased with the plan but refrained from further argument. All she said was, “I shall never forgive myself if you come to grief over this.”

  “I won’t,” assured Arianna, even though she knew a number of things—a great number, in fact—could go wrong.

  Be that as it may . . .

  “If there are no more questions, let us be off and start putting the plan into play.”

  “Prince Orlov! Why, how delightful to see you in London.”

  Orlov turned. Unsmiling.

  With a coquettish little flourish, Arianna sidled closer. She caught his gaze and held it for a moment before batting her lashes and holding out her hand.

  “When did you arrive?”

  “Lady Saybrook.” Orlov brushed the requisite kiss to the top of her glove. “You are looking lovely as ever,” he added slowly, his gaze running over the full length of her body. “I arrived from Vienna a fortnight ago.”

  “Come, you must tell me all the gossip from the Peace Conference.” She slipped her arm through his and flashed a brilliant smile at the gentlemen with whom he had been conversing. “Will you excuse us? The prince and I are old friends and have much to catch up on.”

  Orlov let himself be led to a quiet corner of the room. “I must say, such a warm welcome from you comes as a surprise.”

  “Don’t you like surprises?” countered Arianna coyly. Seeing she had his attention, she lowered her voice to a husky murmur, “Especially unexpected ones?”

  His gaze turned lidded. “They can be titillating,” he allowed as he shifted his stance, angling his big body closer.

  By sheer force of will, she managed not to shy away. “Indeed they can.” She shifted, her hip deliberately grazing his. “Had I known you were in London, I would have made sure that we met before this evening.”

  A certain alertness took hold of him. A subtle tautening of every muscle, like a predator scenting his prey. “Tell me, are you always so fickle with your favors, countess?”

  “A lady’s prerogative.” She looked up. “Come now, don’t tell me you are holding a grudge from Vienna. I tried to find you later that day to apologize for any embarrassment I might have caused you with your friends.”

  She added a shrug, deliberately designed to reveal a little more cleavage. “You’re a pragmatic fellow—you must understand that my husband was in the palace that afternoon, and I couldn’t risk him hearing any tittle-tattle. Things were already strained over another incident.”

&
nbsp; Arianna caught the spark of primal lust light in his eyes.

  “And now?” asked Orlov.

  “And now it doesn’t matter. Since returning to London my husband and I have come to an agreement that allows us both some freedom in arranging our private lives.”

  His mouth curled in a wolfish smile. “How very civilized.”

  She gave a playful touch to the fancy medal pinned on his left lapel. Yes, the documents were still inside his coat. “My sentiments exactly.”

  “However . . .” said the prince in what she imagined was his boudoir voice. “I must say, I haven’t entirely forgotten about your flirtatious games. They were very . . . unsatisfying.”

  Arianna exaggerated a pout. “Is there nothing I can do to earn your forgiveness?”

  Orlov sidled closer. His face was flushed—with any luck it was from the wine—and she could feel the heat of him oozing through his expensive evening clothes, along with the cloying scent of sandalwood cologne. She shallowed her breathing, finding the mixture of sweetness and sweat repulsive.

  “I can think of several things,” he replied. “Alas, none of which can take place in a crowded room.”

  “Then perhaps we should go elsewhere.” Arianna wondered for an instant whether she was appearing too eager. However, a glance at his hungry expression allayed her misgivings. The prince was not a man of subtleties. “I noticed a small library down the corridor when I made an earlier visit to the ladies’ withdrawing room. I doubt we will be disturbed there.”

  “Naughty girl,” he murmured.

  You have no idea of how naughty.

  Arianna let out a sultry laugh. “I’ll slip away there now. You may follow after a discreet interlude, But do take care not to be seen—”

  “Don’t worry, sweeting.” Another wolfish grin. “I’m quite adept at stealth, especially when it comes to stealing what belongs to another man.”

  As am I.

  “Your husband is not here tonight?” he inquired.

  “No,” she responded. “He is away dealing with estate business. But his uncle is present, so as I said, discretion is called for.” Again she batted her kohl-darkened lashes. “A lady must take care of her reputation.”