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Authors: Joan Overfield
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silence, the pert companion was kept busy fluffing pillows, fetching glasses of lemonade, and, in the case of one sharp-tongued young beauty, fanning the creature while she lolled on her blankets looking smugly pleased with herself. He was considering going over and putting a stop to the nonsense when Prince Bronyeskin suddenly appeared at his side.
"I am sent by the ladies to collect you, Lord Falconer," he said, his accent lightly musical. "You will come now, yes?"
In answer Adam turned his head, his lips pressed togetherin cold disapproval. "And you call yourself her friend," he said, his voice tight with leashed fury.
A dark blond eyebrow raised in princely irritation as Bronyeskin glanced toward the languorous brunette. "That one?" he asked, his mouth curling in disgust. "That one I do not know, nor do I wish to. She is . . . common."
Although Adam shared the prince's estimation of the young lady, he wasn't about to let him off the hook so easily. "You know perfectly well I was referring to Miss Mattingale," he said, swinging around to confront the younger man, his eyes blazing. "How can you stand by and do nothing when she is treated like a blasted lackey!"
Ice-blue eyes regarded him challengingly. "How can you stand by and do nothing, my lord, if you are so offended?"
Adam flinched, furious because, curse it all, the man was right. He dipped his head in curt acknowledgment. "Point taken, your highness."
"Da."
The Russian gave a cool nod. "I can see that it is. Why you do nothing, I cannot say. For me, I must bite my tongue and act the proper guest, or my little queen will box my ears. But never fear, my lord," he added, his voice soft with menace, as he studied the young woman, "I will have my revenge upon the oh-so-lovely Miss Clarvale, that I do promise you."
Again Adam was struck by the prince's resemblance to his friend, Lord St. Jerome; warriors, the pair of them, and neither to be trusted when they had that particular tone in their voices. Hoping to relieve the tension of the moment, he flashed Bronyeskin a look of polite inquiry.
"And how do you mean to do that?" he asked, regarding the other teasingly. "Without getting your ears boxed, that is?"
In answer, the prince gave a slow smile. "We Russians are not so big the fools as you
angleechankas
like to think," he said coolly. "We do two things very well: We fight like demons from hell for what is ours, and we know when and where to take our revenge. A little somethingyou might wish to share with your prince and his circle. Good day to you, Lord Falconer."
The odd conversation was much on Adam's mind later that evening as he sat in the library, staring into the flames dancing in the fireplace. The soft summer afternoon had given way to a sudden storm, and wind and rain lashed against the leaded glass windows as fierce thunder boomed across the valley. The others were in one of the drawing rooms, playing whist and chatting, but he'd slipped away, seeking solitude to brood over what Bronyeskin had told him.
The prince's remark haunted him, and he wondered if it had aught to do with the coming congress in Vienna. He knew the Russians were fiercely determined to get back Poland and other lands lost to them, and knew as well the Austrians were equally determined to keep those same lands out of the Czar's sphere of influence. A break in the alliance at such a crucial juncture would play directly into Napoleon's hands, and that—
"I say, a word with you, Falconer, if I may."
The diffident voice shattered Adam's concentration, and he glanced up to find his host hovering before him. Biting back a sharp retort, Adam managed the semblance of a smile.
"Of course, my lord," he said, hiding his annoyance as he set the book he'd been pretending to read to one side. "What is it?"
"Don't wish to accuse, you understand," the earl muttered, looking every day his age as he eased himself onto the club chair facing Adam. "Daresay you must have had a good reason for
"I am sent by the ladies to collect you, Lord Falconer," he said, his accent lightly musical. "You will come now, yes?"
In answer Adam turned his head, his lips pressed togetherin cold disapproval. "And you call yourself her friend," he said, his voice tight with leashed fury.
A dark blond eyebrow raised in princely irritation as Bronyeskin glanced toward the languorous brunette. "That one?" he asked, his mouth curling in disgust. "That one I do not know, nor do I wish to. She is . . . common."
Although Adam shared the prince's estimation of the young lady, he wasn't about to let him off the hook so easily. "You know perfectly well I was referring to Miss Mattingale," he said, swinging around to confront the younger man, his eyes blazing. "How can you stand by and do nothing when she is treated like a blasted lackey!"
Ice-blue eyes regarded him challengingly. "How can you stand by and do nothing, my lord, if you are so offended?"
Adam flinched, furious because, curse it all, the man was right. He dipped his head in curt acknowledgment. "Point taken, your highness."
"Da."
The Russian gave a cool nod. "I can see that it is. Why you do nothing, I cannot say. For me, I must bite my tongue and act the proper guest, or my little queen will box my ears. But never fear, my lord," he added, his voice soft with menace, as he studied the young woman, "I will have my revenge upon the oh-so-lovely Miss Clarvale, that I do promise you."
Again Adam was struck by the prince's resemblance to his friend, Lord St. Jerome; warriors, the pair of them, and neither to be trusted when they had that particular tone in their voices. Hoping to relieve the tension of the moment, he flashed Bronyeskin a look of polite inquiry.
"And how do you mean to do that?" he asked, regarding the other teasingly. "Without getting your ears boxed, that is?"
In answer, the prince gave a slow smile. "We Russians are not so big the fools as you
angleechankas
like to think," he said coolly. "We do two things very well: We fight like demons from hell for what is ours, and we know when and where to take our revenge. A little somethingyou might wish to share with your prince and his circle. Good day to you, Lord Falconer."
The odd conversation was much on Adam's mind later that evening as he sat in the library, staring into the flames dancing in the fireplace. The soft summer afternoon had given way to a sudden storm, and wind and rain lashed against the leaded glass windows as fierce thunder boomed across the valley. The others were in one of the drawing rooms, playing whist and chatting, but he'd slipped away, seeking solitude to brood over what Bronyeskin had told him.
The prince's remark haunted him, and he wondered if it had aught to do with the coming congress in Vienna. He knew the Russians were fiercely determined to get back Poland and other lands lost to them, and knew as well the Austrians were equally determined to keep those same lands out of the Czar's sphere of influence. A break in the alliance at such a crucial juncture would play directly into Napoleon's hands, and that—
"I say, a word with you, Falconer, if I may."
The diffident voice shattered Adam's concentration, and he glanced up to find his host hovering before him. Biting back a sharp retort, Adam managed the semblance of a smile.
"Of course, my lord," he said, hiding his annoyance as he set the book he'd been pretending to read to one side. "What is it?"
"Don't wish to accuse, you understand," the earl muttered, looking every day his age as he eased himself onto the club chair facing Adam. "Daresay you must have had a good reason for
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