Page 9 of My Lady Melisende (Ladies Least Likely #6)

CHAPTER EIGHT

L angford House lay in Queen Square, a fashionable plaza less than a century old and a favorite haunt of the Queen’s. Devlin insisted on driving, less because of her supposed injuries, Melisende thought, than because he clearly loved handling her cattle. He guided them down Great Russell Street past the grand edifice of Montagu House, home, he explained, to the collections of the British Museum, which were opened for free, following Enlightenment ideals, for the instruction and enjoyment of all.

Melisende didn’t reveal that no less than three different men had already conducted her thither for tours, though her favorite visit had been under the aegis of Lady Bessington, a woman known and revered in circles of diplomatic, intellectual, and fashionable prominence. The men wanted to impress her with their knowledge of the world and its ancient civilizations. Lady Bess had gotten Melisende access to the Harley Library and let her run free there, long enough to ascertain the collection didn’t hold anything useful to her.

Beside Montagu House stretched the monumental brick edifice of Bedford House, occupying the entire north end of Bloomsbury Square. Devlin pointed to the corner of the square where stood the house of the Earl of Mansfield, the Chief Justice who had been attacked in the London riots two years previously. His library had been burned, but the earl and his countess had escaped with their lives.

A great relief Mansfield hadn’t possessed a copy of her book, Melisende thought. Her quest would be at an end if so. The eleven volumes she’d collected didn’t contain the patent, nor any clues about where to find it, and the map, crude as it was, told her nothing.

It had been a risk to bring Devlin into her confidence. She wouldn’t have blamed him if he’d abandoned her yesterday after the brawl in Angel Court and she never saw him again. But he’d called late that night to check on her health and take a sip of schnapps in the library with her and her father, who’d been given a highly edited version of events. This morning he’d shown up on the doorstep of Fauconberg House in a wine-red wool riding coat with long tails, buff breeches tucked into tall black boots, and a tall crowned hat and whip. She’d done well to choose a dashing escort, but she had already seen that, far from the useless dandy he let people believe him to be, Devlin’s mind was as sharp as the cut of his coat.

“Everyone you ask will give you a different reason for the riots,” Devlin said. “War on too many fronts and fears of British defeat. Fears that King George aspired to an absolute monarchy, like the emperors of Europe. But the trigger was Gordon and his hatred of Catholics, of even the smallest efforts to let us have the rights and freedoms of full citizens.”

“Britain might have made allies of Emperor Joseph if not for those riots,” Melisende murmured. How novel to have a man, a man who was not the age of her father and his cronies, speak to her of something of political import. “I heard the talk coming out of Vienna. The emperor has been attempting for years to press his edicts of religious toleration, and it wouldn’t do to make friends with proponents of religious extremism.”

“The emperor may pass all the edicts he wishes,” Devlin said. “But will the people support him?”

They clipped past the stately townhouses of Southampton Row and Devlin turned them down a narrow court that let out into Queen Square. Other carriages, tradesmen, and carriers crossed the cobbles, and ladies in fine gowns promenaded along the iron fence enclosing the green, parasols at the ready though the day offered a gathering gloom. The aspect to the north opened to rolling green fields that Devlin called Hampstead, lending the air of a country retreat. A young boy sped their way, his waistcoat too large, his breeches too small, cloth shoes held to his feet with little more than luck.

“’Old yer cattle, guv?”

“Won’t sell them while you’re waiting for us, will you?” Devlin tossed him the ribbons and descended.

“I never!” The boy was missing several of his milk teeth, betraying his age, but his scowl had all the world-weariness of a seasoned sage.

“If my horses bolt, they will trample that child.” Melisende stepped into the arms Devlin held out to her. She set her mouth as the wound in her shoulder pulled. He’d insisted on examining it that morning, requiring her to unwrap, then rewrap the thick linen neckerchief she’d adopted for the day. But none of her cuts so far showed signs of a dreaded infection, so there might be some wisdom to his solution of soap and schnapps.

Melisende wasn’t a stranger to a man’s hands on her body. She’d been handed up and down from carriages and from horses, found a man’s hand moving during the course of a dance, and had known the touch of lovers. There was no reason that Devlin’s hands grasping her waist should inspire a rush of heat around her middle. Even if she had left off the set of boned stays and opted instead for a set of padded jumps that didn’t press on her wound, there was no reason his touch should excite her.

And yet it did.

“I’ve a feeling this scamp can fend for himself. Now attend me. Lady Aldthorpe’s Venetian breakfasts are not small affairs,” Devlin reported as he settled the horses and Melisende shook out her skirts. “Aldthorpe isn’t fond of entertaining, but she is. The two children go with them everywhere, and so often do Aldthorpe’s younger brothers, though I’ve heard they’re a set of devils. Lucifer and Daring, they’re called. Langford, the marquess, likes having his family around him, all the more so after his lady’s passing.”

She nodded, holding her hemlines above the dusty cobbles as he led her to the front porch, framed by Doric pilasters and a jutting cornice. Langford House was one of the larger homes on the square, with four bays of windows set against a yellow brick facade, neoclassical in its proportions. The same building craze for Greek styles had touched Merania, too.

“I replied to my invitation some while ago. I hope her ladyship will not mind I have brought you as my escort.”

“I think you will find I am welcomed at these functions, Melisende.”

Bold of him to use her given name, as if he had a right to the intimacy. She narrowed her eyes at him. “The way Florence Maplethorne welcomed you?”

His grin was jaunty, cocksure. Melisende wished she didn’t have a sneaking affection for justly placed confidence in a man.

“Can I help it if I am a favorite among the unmarried ladies? But I am equally befriended by all the blooded young bucks, from the dandies to the macaronis to the Corinthians. I seem to have a gift for getting along with others.” He set his hand to the knocker and gave the door a smart rap.

“A chameleon as a well as a spy,” Melisende murmured. She wondered which was the man’s true face. “What about the mothers and fathers?”

“Well-placed flattery is a powerful tool.” He grinned as the butler opened the door. “Better than a lockpick for opening doors.”

“Then I shall take care how you flatter me,” Melisende said.

The butler ushered them into a foyer designed like a Greek temple, with columns lining the walls and the doorway leading to a large inner hall the size of a ballroom. An enormous staircase swept to the floor above, where a balcony overlooked the hall and the ceiling soared to a vaulted dome painted with cherubs and frolicking gods. Melisende swept a quick gaze over the art: statues of passingly good execution, the kind favored by a young English nobleman who had taken the obligatory Grand Tour, and massive oil paintings of historical subjects, not by masters but good imitators. The family had wealth and adequate taste, though not a true connoisseur among them.

She shot a quick look at Devlin as he took her arm, and he nodded briefly. Somewhere in the rooms beyond lay the library, and therein lay her book. They simply needed to find a way to slip away from the enormous crowd that had turned out for Lady Aldthorpe’s Venetian breakfast.

Melisende gave no evidence that she felt the stares arrowing to her as she and Devlin made the rounds of the room. She was accustomed to scrutiny. As the offspring of the Grand Duke of Merania and his beloved Grand Duchess, she’d been on display at every state function, celebration, fair, and festival since the moment of her birth.

Later, as one of their only two children to survive the devastation of fever and plague, she and her sister had been met in their country with nearly the same veneration as a saint. Magret’s marriage to the Duke of Carinthia had been declared a national holiday, and her wedding anniversary was celebrated as a feast day, or had been, before the coup.

When Melisende and her father returned from a trip to Italy to observe funeral rites for her mother and found the duke’s royal guard barring the door to their own castle against them, every eye in the duchy had been trained on the duke and his daughter, wondering what he would do. More than one citizen had promised to fight for the deposed duke, and letters of support and pleading continued to arrive from merchants feeling the weight of the new duke’s taxation, diplomats concerned by increasingly isolationist policies, prosperous citizens regarding with apprehension the expanding military and guard, and regular citizens directing to the deposed duke complaints about unjust treatment that the new grand duke wouldn’t hear. Melisende’s heart bled for the state of the duchy under her uncle’s control. This wasn’t what she’d been raised to believe. This wasn’t how she’d been taught to lead her people.

But being in exile brought a new kind of attention, and not always in the admiring vein she’d felt at home. There were those who were sympathetic to her cause, usually friends of her father’s, but their wives watched Melisende closely to ensure she was deserving of sympathy. There were those who took her uncle’s side, shrugging that might made right and if he’d had the gall to steal the ducal scepter, then it was his to wield. They watched Melisende for any confirmation that they were right to shrug and sit on their hands.

Then there were the society ravens, doyennes, and arbiters of taste who watched the foreign exile for any reason to cut or slight her, alert for signs of moral license. There were those who watched equally closely for signs of Continental ways that they could imitate and adapt to their advantage. And everyone who interacted with Melisende watched the others interacting with her to see which way the wind was blowing, and to make sure they stayed on the sweet side of any sudden gales.

She’d taken Devlin into her confidence for logical reasons—one of them being the old adage that it was wise to keep one’s enemies close. But now she wondered what effect his company would have on her image and standing, and by extension her father’s cause.

It wouldn’t matter if she could only get her hands on the book. Nothing mattered but that. Until then, she balanced on a tightrope, and with so many eyes watching her she needed to be conscious of every gesture, every word, the intonation of her voice, the figure she cut in company.

“Lady Melisende! You wouldn’t have tamed this rakehell?”

Melisende placed the name and standing of the woman accosting her, little older than Melisende herself: Lady Clara Bellwether, wife of a knight of some repute and standing, whose advanced age and protracted illness had not kept his dame from her fashionable pursuits and ensuring she was seen in all the best places. Melisende wondered where she fell today on the scale of the lady’s affections: an exotic bloom to cultivate, in the hope that she might shed some Continental sophistication on those seen to associate with her, or in line for a snub.

“Mr. Devlin, a rakehell?” Melisende arched her brow. “That must be some quaint English term. It sounds a terrible reputation to have, yet Mr. Devlin has been nothing but attentive to me. Devotedly so.”

“Indeed.” The lady gave her a coy smile. “You must be in possession of some potent charms, Lady Melisende. Or some potent foreign seductions. A special skill you ladies develop in those wild and rugged Austrian mountains you hail from?”

Melisende smiled sweetly. “There is in fact a plant that grows in Tyrol, Lady Bellwether, that is said to be able to sway the affections of any who ingest it. But it can only be harvested in the light of a full moon on the eve of a saint’s day. You had best believe, on those sacred eves, the hillsides are thronged with hopeful maidens and the swains wishing to win them. It’s said to be a heady spell. I suppose your British hills would have something like it?”

The lady’s smile turned brittle and she looked past Melisende’s shoulder. “I see Count Voronsky is here. How you foreigners do gather together.”

She moved on quickly. The snub, then. Melisende set her jaw.

“She is Lady Clara,” Devlin murmured in her ear, drawing Melisende aside for a momentary pause. “Not Lady Bellwether.”

“I thought she was married to the knight. Sir—Egg something.”

“But she is an earl’s daughter. A small and unremarked estate, it is true, and a recent elevation, but she can claim that courtesy title nonetheless, and it marks her as superior to her husband’s rank. Someone should have explained it when you were introduced.”

“Verdammt ,” Melisende muttered. “Your English titles are confusing.”

“While the nine hundred different ways to address Continental royalty and nobility make perfect sense to you, your royal highness,” Devlin pointed out.

“That is how you address my father,” Melisende murmured. “Just highness will do for me, though it is your noble highness if you wish to be precise.”

“You’re right. Not confusing at all. Next here is Lady Cranbury, a baron’s wife; she is styled Lady Cranbury, but do not address her as baroness, as she does not hold the title in her own right.” Devlin bowed as they came beneath the piercing eye of the older matron. “Your ladyship. You know her highness, the Lady Melisende.”

Lady Cranbury tightened her lips, a bright red slash across her powdered face. She didn’t like the reminder of Melisende’s status. “That sister of yours is to be married, I hear,” she said to Devlin. “The groom hasn’t cried off yet?”

“I imagine he doesn’t wish to,” Devlin said in a lazy tone. “Roisin has always been held to be the most fetching of the girls, and none of them are thought antidotes.”

“And now you seek to attach yourself to a ducal vine.” Lady Cranbury sniffed. “Shows more enterprise than I’ve given you credit for, Devlin.”

“Thank you, madame. I think.”

“I thought you said you were welcomed at these functions,” Melisende murmured beside his shoulder as they moved among the guests clustered about the marble-tiled hall.

“I did say welcome. I did not claim to be admired.”

“Because you are a lesser son, Irish, or Catholic?”

“All of the above. See? You are a quick study, milady.”

“And you are a rakehell. Meaning?”

He shrugged. “A young man who enjoys himself in ways ambitious mamas consider will make unpromising matches for their unmarried daughters.”

“Ah. I wonder if it will harm or elevate your reputation to attach yourself to me.”

His eyes gleamed like bolts of blue. “That depends on the nature of the attachment.”

“Lady Melisende. How true that one sees you everywhere these days.”

The Duchess of Highcastle confronted them. Melisende noticed she had changed her headgear to a Turkish turban of striped copper silk with a tassel dangling over one shoulder. Perhaps a nod to Ottoman influences in Venice, although the moniker for their current entertainment hearkened after that fabled city in little more than its reputation for excess. Melisende determined not to say a word about the lady’s style. The duchess was a commanding woman, and had the Highcastles been introduced at the court of Merania, Melisende suspected she and her father would be dealing with the duchess in their matters of business and not the more genial, distractible duke.

“Your father tells me your marriage prospects are the cousin currently sitting in his ducal seat,” the duchess said without preamble. She turned toward the current centerpiece of the hall, a small fountain which had been made, for the occasion, to run with some sweet-smelling beverage, with footmen to capture and distribute the liquid. The duchess accepted a small, delicate glass from the server who nearly emptied it in the execution of a deep bow. “Yet there is no formal contract, he tells me?”

“No, Your Grace. More a gentleman’s agreement that I should wed my cousin, Rudolf, in due time.”

“Wouldn’t your father have higher prospects for you? I thought you were related to the Habsburgs. Surely Uncle Joseph might take an interest in disposing of you.” The duchess sipped from her glass with a noisy slurp.

“The emperor is my cousin several times removed, and I am not certain he would see any benefit to him in deciding my marriage.” Melisende accepted the glass Devlin gave her, but her throat was too knotted to admit food or liquid. These English functions were worse than court for needing to keep on one’s toes.

“But why bury you in the land where you were born?” the duchess asked. “Surely your father would wish grander things for you.”

“After a century of wars and expanding empires, there are not many grand duchies left, and few independent ones,” Melisende said. “As I am not like to marry into an imperial family, a grand duchess would be the highest rank I could aspire to.”

“And you would have that in your own right had your cousin not usurped the title and duchy from you,” the duchess mused. “According to your father, women can inherit in the royal line in—wherever it is you are from.”

Melisende curled her fingers around her glass. “That is true, madam. At my father’s passing, may that day be far from us, he would have had the right to bestow the duchy where he chose. He had announced his intentions to make me the grand duchess, had my uncle not quarreled with the line of succession.”

The old rage snapped at her, stealing her breath. Her uncle had stolen her home, her land, her hopes, her future, and reduced her to…this. Being evaluated by English earl’s daughters and baron’s relics, and found wanting. Being reduced into sneaking into noblemen’s libraries, when she should be sitting at the head of a governmental cabinet and signing laws.

Devlin was affecting his careless air again, draining his first glass of punch and prompting the server for a second. Melisende tasted her glass and wrinkled her nose. “What is this?”

“Cyprus wine, madam,” the footman said with a bob of his head. “Straight from the island, courtesy of Lady Aldthorpe.”

“Made from elderberries,” the duchess said dismissively. “My housekeeper has the same recipe. You must give Nell full marks for trying to impress us. I believe she’s trying to rival the breakfast you hosted, Melisende.”

Devlin turned toward her. “You didn’t invite me to your breakfast.”

The duchess tilted her head, and her headpiece tipped dangerously to the side. “Perhaps she hasn’t, until now, been in need of a suitor.”

“Why would the lady be in need now, if not earlier?”

“Because I’ve heard that her cousin Rudolf, the one her father said he’d marked out for her, is courting a Russian princess.” The duchess lifted painted-on brows, which likely had small relationship to her real ones. “Or perhaps I am misled by gossip?”

“There is always gossip about Rudolf, madam, but I wonder where you heard this on dit ,” Melisende said coolly. She would bite the inside of her lip until it bled before she allowed the duchess to see that her arrow had hit its mark.

“From the count, who says he had a letter from his daughter, away at that girl’s school. Why he chose to punish her with Bath, I cannot say, when London surely has better prospects for a foreign girl in need of a husband.”

“And if she is not in need of a husband?” Melisende inquired.

The duchess snorted. “Every woman is in need of a husband. They have their purposes. When my Frederick is down from school, I ought to introduce you, Lady Melisende. He’s a winning sort. He won’t inherit the Highcastle estates, of course, but we’d see he was left well off if he decided to marry high.”

“You would see advantages in acquiring me into your family, madam? I must say I am flattered.”

“But why not pitch her at Cleydon, Your Grace? If you wanted a Continental grand duchess in your family. Cleydon’s the heir. Courtesy title,” Devlin added for Melisende’s benefit.

“Don’t be obtuse, Devlin,” the duchess said. “We want money as well as breeding for Cleydon, a hostess and a leader of Society. We can afford to be a bit eccentric with Frederick, and since Melisende is looking for some security?—”

“As well as something better than this punch. I heard our hostess has a table and a new wonder laid out in every room, not to mention we must see the gardens.” Devlin took Melisende’s arm. “Good day, madam.”

He dumped the rest of the wine into his mouth, then shoved the glass at the footman as he dragged Melisende away. She nearly laughed at the look on the duchess’s face.

“What can she be about?” Devlin muttered. “Freddy is barely out of long pants. I’m certain he’s not old enough yet for college, and at least ten years younger than you are. Not that I would dare be so bold as to inquire your age.”

“Thank you. It is a relief to encounter some small courtesy in these rooms.”

He steered Melisende into an enormous drawing room with lines of chairs facing a makeshift stage and a costumed woman singing in a pure, sweet soprano. “Will you look at that? She’s engaged Harriet Abrams. Lady Aldthorpe has indeed spared no expense.”

“I’m more curious how the duchess heard about Rudolf.” Melisende didn’t want to admit how much this news rattled her nerves. “He’s never left Merania. It’s doubtful that prospective brides are coming to him, or that my uncle would have summoned them. It was his idea that Rudolf and I marry, since he believes that would end my father’s mission of finding allies to reinstate him. His letters are nothing but trying to woo me to return, so why would he be pitching other women at Rudolf?”

“Perhaps your cousin has ideas of his own.” Devlin nodded to acquaintances but hustled Melisende past the singer’s rapt audience. In the dining room next door, folding tables swathed in white linen groaned beneath platters of dishes that smelled as if every variety of meat, along with fish and shellfish, were laid out upon them. A second drawing room, equally large, held a table of confections, with an enormous and exquisite swan, made entirely out of sugar, rising in the center, wings spread.

“Rudolf never had an independent thought in his life,” Melisende said. “His ideas are completely derivative. As a child he was always the most biddable among us. I’d be surprised if he isn’t entirely my uncle’s creature at this point.”

“What of his mother?”

“Biddable also, if she’s still alive. She’s been an invalid and a virtual recluse for years. In truth I keep forgetting about her. My sister and I used to believe she was a revenant who still lingered on the earth, long dead, but our uncle could not bring himself to bury her.”

“So perhaps the duchess is only repeating idle gossip, though I wonder how the count heard it.”

Melisende looked around. “I must find Voronsky.”

“You can invite Voronsky to call upon you at home. This is our chance to crack the Langford library.”

“We’ve been to all the rooms on the ground floor. There isn’t a library.”

Devlin nodded his head toward the green baize door tucked into the far corner of the drawing room. “It will be upstairs.”

“Another rendez-vous in a library, Mr. Devlin?” Melisende murmured.

“Will a kiss be involved, Lady Melisende?”

She needed to disguise the thrill that soared through her at that thought. “No.”

He leaned close and breathed on her neck as he escorted her with lazy elegance back to the hall and up the grand circling staircase. “Beware I don’t convince you otherwise.”

The Langford library was undoubtedly a masculine enclave, with the panels on the wall, the flooring, and the tall carved bookcases made of dark, heavy wood. The chatter of the crowd downstairs and in the gardens outside, where Lady Aldthorpe’s guests were merrily enjoying themselves, receded to the gentle murmur of waves lapping on a sandy shore. There were books nominally scattered about the occasional shelf, but clearly the major function of the room was retreat and refuge. Leather-upholstered chairs were arranged in groups, one sofa looked as if it also served as a daybed, and the large oak desk was cluttered with papers bearing the weight of daily estate business.

A young man sat at the large table, drawing on a sheet of paper he had unrolled across the polished wooden surface. He was a strikingly beautiful boy, with his golden brown hair worn long and pulled back in a queue and firm features promising a full masculine beauty when he matured. He didn’t glance at them when they entered, as if he couldn’t be bothered, but continued with his sketching.

“You must be the one they call Daring,” Devlin said.

The boy looked up, and his eyes were a lighter blue than Devlin’s, disorientingly bright. He gave the other man a cool stare.

“Lord Daring,” Devlin said, his lips twitching. “This is the Lady Melisende of Merania. She was curious about your library. Highness, this would be Lord Darien, if I have guessed right. Langford’s third son.”

“No debauchery here,” the boy said, returning to his drawing. “Nell won’t have it.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Devlin said, moving into the room with an easy stride as if he were not an interloper but owner of the place. “We’ve heard praise of your father’s collection.”

The boy snorted. “It wouldn’t be my father’s doing. My mother was the one who loved books.”

Was. Melisende shot a look at Devlin. “I am sorry to learn of the princess’s passing,” she said gently. “Our families had…something of a connection.”

This got the boy’s attention. Those blue eyes really were unsettling, or perhaps it was their setting in that face. Devlin was a handsome man, distractingly so, and his aspect improved upon acquaintance. This boy was mesmerizing from the first glance. He was going to be devastating to women when he learned his power, and learned how to wield it.

“She was related to Merania?” the boy demanded.

Melisende carried out swift mental calculations. They couldn’t browse the library with the boy here, and the entertainments elsewhere; it would make them suspect. She required his help.

“Actually, she inherited a family heirloom of ours,” Melisende said. “A book on the history of my country. I understand she brought it with her to England when she married your father. I’m curious to see it.”

“Her collection is there.” The boy waved toward a case standing against a far wall. “You can look if you like.” His manner indicated he couldn’t care less either way.

Melisende swept to the bookcase, scanning the shelves quickly. She knew what to look for by now: the green leather stamped with gold letters turning orange with age on the spine. Devlin looked over the boy’s shoulder.

“What are you designing?”

“A trebuchet,” the boy said. “So Lucien and I can lob dung bombs at Horse’s windows.”

“Hmm,” Devlin said. “I can see many a good use for such equipment.” He leaned closer. “The arm looks rather long.”

“It needs to be longer than the base pieces.”

“That’s a great deal of counterweight.” Devlin pointed.

“Yes, you need several times the weight of the projectile, for leverage.”

“But what if you’re throwing dung bombs of different sizes? You’d have to adjust the counterweight every time. You’ll want a method that would allow you to add and subtract weight for each throw, wouldn’t you? Or your brother is like to catch you while you’re busy reloading.”

Lord Darien regarded Devlin, for the first time, as if he were a being worth his notice. “What do you suggest?”

“Devlin,” Melisende called, turning back to the shelf, “you wouldn’t be encouraging a lord’s son in the destruction of property, would you?”

“I am cultivating his obvious engineering talents,” Devlin answered, taking a seat at the table. In moments the two were deep in discussion about dimensions, the proper material for an axle, and whether to construct a sling or paddle as a throwing device.

“Lucien is going to India,” said a small voice from the area beside Melisende’s knee.

She looked down to see that a young child had materialized beside her, a girl child from all appearances. She had a cloud of curly black hair and shared the same blue eyes as the boy at the table, but her beauty, with her button nose and dimpled chin, was of a far different cast.

“Oh,” Melisende said. “Er. India is very far away.”

“Somewhere called Mysore. It sounds dreadful.” The child reached up a tiny starfish hand and tugged at Melisende’s. “Will you show me where it is?”

“Oh.” Melisende followed awkwardly as the child drew her toward a large terrestrial globe sitting in its cradle, housed at the far end of the room, away from the bookcase that held what she needed.

Melisende could boast facility with people of all ages, backgrounds, and walks of life. She could speak across barriers of age, language and social class, conversing with a blacksmith and baker and charming a rich burgher on her way to tea with a queen. But she did not, and had never learned how to, have anything to do with children. The requirement for her interactions were that the other had achieved the age of reason; before they were fully developed, small humans were an uncharted territory for her.

“I am not sure I know myself where Mysore is,” Melisende confessed. The child seemed capable of logic; hopefully she could manage at least some semblance of conversation.

“You said you were from there.” The girl frowned, her lovely blue eyes darkening as her brows drew together.

“I am from a place called Merania, a small little duchy in the Austrian Alps, in a county called Tyrol. Here.” Melisende placed her finger on the globe, a lovely piece of engraved silver? but a bit outdated now that Cook’s voyages had produced knowledge of several new islands in the South Pacific seas.

The child regarded her with gentle reproach. “I can’t see.” Indeed, the globe’s cradle was about the level of the child’s eyes. She couldn’t be five years old, though she spoke in perfectly formed, rational sentences.

“Oh. I see.” Melisende looked around for a small stool or other apparatus. With a patient sigh, the child held up her arms to be lifted.

Oh, dear. She would have to touch the thing. Hold it, even. Was it like holding a kitten? Their palace, when she was a child, had contained cats; her mother had been fond of them. Gingerly Melisende put her hands in the child’s armpits and hefted her into the air. She was surprisingly light, yet sturdy at the same time. Very much like a cat.

Far more comfortable with this practice than the woman holding her, the child clipped herself to Melisende’s hip, and, with one arm slung around her back, leaned forward to peer at the globe. “Merania is small?”

“Smaller than England, even.”

“And India is here.” The child moved the globe more or less in the appropriate direction.

“Mysore is in the south,” the boy called from the table, breaking his discussion with Devlin.

The girl frowned. “And Lucien is going there. He won’t be able to play with me anymore. He’ll be gone a long time, until the British beat the—who are they fighting, Darien?”

“Hyder Ali, who is Muslim and trying to extend his kingdom, challenging British control of the Carnatic,” the boy replied, as if it were perfectly logical to expect this small child to comprehend the complexities of imperial conquest.

“You have a better grasp than most, if you understand that much, son,” Devlin said, surprised.

The boy returned his cool, calculating stare. “I ought to know where my brother is being sent, shouldn’t I, and why he’s required to risk his life?”

His gaze flicked toward the wall, and Melisende followed his line of sight. A large oil painting hung above two short bookcases, so fresh she could almost see the paint still drying. A boldly handsome young man posed in the distinctive red coat of the British Army, cocked hat under one arm, gleaming in his row of buttons and gold trim. He had the same dark hair and blue eyes of the child, and Melisende wondered if this Lucien were the girl’s father.

The girl wiggled, and Melisende gratefully replaced her on the floor, whereupon she trotted to the boy’s side and gazed fearlessly into Devlin’s face. “Are you a soldier?”

“He’s nothing useful,” said the boy, scorn in his voice. “One of those lesser sons who riots about spending his allowance on gaming hells and women of the demimonde. Parasites, your grandfather calls them.”

Melisende watched Devlin’s face. He didn’t flinch at this poor evaluation and swift dismissal, rather gave his lazy smile. “That’d be the marquess who says so, then?”

“Bales men do their duty,” the boy said. “Horse will run the estates. Lucien is fighting for British glory. And I shall make inventions.”

Devlin crossed his arms and leaned back in the chair, accepting the skin he’d been given. Melisende wondered if it irked him to be so judged. She’d misjudged him the same way, hadn’t she? Dismissed him for his dissolute reputation, never guessing he’d cultivated a persona to hide his mission and his own service, such as it was.

Who was the man beneath, the real Philip Devlin? The man who kissed her in a library to provide distraction while she stole a book. The man who had drawn his sword in Angel Court to protect her, who had salved her wounds while she sat nearly naked before him in her bed. And she sensed there was more to him she hadn’t seen.

She wanted to see that more.

God help her. She couldn’t afford distractions, not when she was so close. She left the men to their drawings and advanced to the bookshelf, and her hand had just lighted on the volume she sought—her heart skipped a beat as she read the title—when another voice came from the doorway.

“Daring, you wouldn’t be hiding here, would you? Missing all the fun?”

“I’ll come out when the dancing girls and the tightrope walker arrive, Horse,” the boy answered, his attention absorbed in his sketch. “And, of course, the fireworks.”

“Dancing girls, a tightrope walker, and fireworks?” Devlin drawled. “This will be the event of the Season.”

“Devlin, kind of you. My wife will be thrilled you’re here,” the man called Horse said courteously. He somewhat resembled a horse, with a long face and heavy jowls, though he shared the same blue eyes as the rest of the family. “Daring, have you seen Ray Ray? Her nurse said?—”

“Here, Papa,” the little girl sang and rushed toward the newcomer. He swept her into his arms with the ease of a man who handled children regularly and chucked her under the chin.

“Naughty little puss. You’re not to run away from your nurse, Horatia.”

The girl made a face. “All she cares about is Lucretius. All anyone cares about is Lucretius.”

“We could be set on fire,” Darien agreed, “and the cry would be, save Lucretius! You’ll get used to being overlooked, Ray. There’s opportunity in it, for certain.”

“Daring,” his elder said sternly, “you are a part of this family and must start acting it. Nell—oh, I say.” His eyes fell on Melisende, who stood before the bookcase feeling caught between a beam of light from heaven and the yawning fires of hell. She’d only had a moment to glance at the book.

There was nothing that looked like a royal patent affixed with an imperial seal.

She forced a smile to her face. Time to perform. “You must be Lord Aldthorpe? How do you do.”

“Aldthorpe!” another voice cried, a woman’s high-pitched, cultured tones. “Horatia is being naughty again, and I haven’t time to hunt for her. The Duchess of Highcastle said that the grand duke’s daughter is here, but no one has seen her, and it’s no use to me if she—oh. Is in the library.” The woman, without a doubt Aldthorpe’s lady, rushed into the room on a billow of flowery satin, then drew to a stop when she saw the assembled tableau.

“Lady Melisende.” Lady Aldthorpe smiled, her cheeks rosy with pleasure. She was a small dumpling of a woman, all warm curves and pastel colors, the prettiest thing it was possible to imagine. She gave Melisende a deep curtsy.

“Lady Aldthorpe. How very kind of you to invite me. I’m honored to be here.”

To find her book. Which didn’t hold the precious document she sought. They’d betrayed her, all of them, and she wanted to shriek with fury, rain down curses and hellfire, except this innocent family had nothing to do with the betrayal. They were going about their business of being a family, and, it seemed, a warmer and more connected family than was the custom among the highborn, since the parents were leaving the entertainment they were hosting to search for a small child who was the nurse’s responsibility, surely. And, moreover, a strange sort of child who approached and quizzed, without a sign of fear, her parents’ guests.

Lady Aldthorpe advanced across the room and took Melisende’s hands. “You mustn’t let Mr. Devlin hide you away in the library, my dear. There are musicians outside, and a small labyrinth I had designed just for this occasion, and Aldthorpe had a little gondola made to sail on in the garden pond, so charming. You must see it all, and you must call me Nell, as I believe we are going to be bosom beaux. Horatia, my dove, Nurse was meaning to bring you to see my garden of sugared flowers, but you were a pixie and ran away.”

“I didn’t run,” Horatia explained. “She went off to fetch something for Lucretius and his nurse, so I came here to be with Darien.”

Her ladyship wove an arm firmly around Melisende’s. “Aldthorpe, my darling,” she said to her husband, “it seems it is time to hire another maid for our growing nursery! A mother’s work never ends,” she confided to Melisende, “as you will find when it is your turn, my dear. May I persuade you to come downstairs? Mrs. Abrams has one more aria to perform before the quartet sets up.”

“I’d be delighted,” Melisende said. “Only I wonder if you would indulge me in one small request. You see, I came in search of a book. As I told your—” she thought quickly— “nephew, it is a book about my family’s land, a sort of history. I’ve heard of the volume, but not read it, and I daresay it is full of interest. I don’t suppose you would loan it to me?”

“Of course! Take whatever you wish, my dear! I mean, your highness .” Lady Aldthorpe giggled and waved a dimpled hand in the air. “Take all the books you want. Daring’s the only one who reads them.”

“I am learning to read, Mama,” little Horatia said with an aggrieved air.

Aldthorpe cleared his throat. “I don’t wish to gainsay my lady,” he said, “but—that book came from this shelf, did it not?” He indicated the bookcase behind Melisende with a wave of his hand.

“It did, sir,” Melisende said, her stomach clenching.

The earl looked uncomfortable. “Under all other circumstances, milady?—”

“ Highness, ” his wife hissed.

“Your highness.” Aldthorpe gulped. “But that book was my mother’s. And we—well, I…”

“Princess Pip?” Horatia asked.

“Yes, puss, that is what we called her.” Aldthorpe looked miserably at another portrait, this one hanging in pride of place in the center of the far wall.

Giuseppina had been beautiful, no mistake, and while her piles of hair were powdered white, the elegant arch of her eyebrows attested to the source of the ink-black hair her son and granddaughter inherited. Her lips curved in a sweet, distant smile, and she sat in a pool of expensive silk at a delicate escritoire, one hand holding a quill over a parchment. One hand, in her lap, held a book.

A glance confirmed it. The history of Merania. Melisende’s book.

“It was a favorite of hers,” Aldthorpe said apologetically. “I’m afraid I couldn’t bear to part with it.”

“Not even for a few days?” Melisende said through tight lips. “I understand the language, you see. It is Ladin.”

“Oh, is it? I’d assumed some Italian dialect. Mother was fascinated with the place, said she always wanted to visit, but of course…” He trailed off awkwardly.

“I shouldn’t presume on your hospitality, sir.” Devlin had risen from his chair when Lady Aldthorpe entered and stood lounging against it, arms crossed across his chest. Melisende noted, with the part of her mind that was constantly aware of him, how this action defined the muscles of his shoulders and chest.

“Nor yours, milady,” he went on, nodding on Lady Aldthorpe, “but what if the Lady Melisende called on you again to the read the book here in your library? That is, if you wouldn’t mind the imposition.”

“A grand duke’s daughter, in my library?” Lady Aldthorpe’s eyes shone with joy. “But of course. Now come, dear.”

Devlin took the book from Melisende’s nerveless fingers as her hostess nudged her toward the doorway. She felt on fire and yet cold at the same time, as if she’d been thrust in and out of a hot pudding. She stared at him, feeling the bleak wind gathering, about to howl through her body and extinguish all her hopes.

She’d failed.

Devlin leaned forward slightly and breathed against her neck. “Trust me.”

She nodded numbly and let herself be led away. It didn’t matter where she was going. Nothing mattered. The book didn’t hold the patent; it held another map.

Her quest was over.

“Devlin, you’ll come with us of course?” her ladyship trilled. “Daring, you too. Put away your silly papers before your father sees them. You know how he frets about you and your tradesman’s tendencies.”

“I’ll come when I’ve finished the blueprint,” Daring answered, “and you’d better hope I don’t have the trebuchet built before your party is over, Nell.”

She almost hated to leave this little scene. Melisende too might have had a large, happy family, had the fates been kind, but the plague had come before she was old enough to remember many of them. As the youngest, her sister ten years older, she’d never had a playmate. If she had nieces and nephews of her own, she didn’t know of them. Her own mother had been lovely but distant, weakened from the fever that ravaged her after she had nursed child after child to no avail, a beautiful wraith.

She’d little dreamed of having a family for herself, too focused on her mission. But her heart hurt at the imprint of this brief interlude with a family circle: the bluff, good-natured Horse so in love with his wife, dimpled and beaming Nell so pleased with everything, even the surly, beautiful young Lord Daring and the alarmingly endearing Horatia. She would never have this, a large and gracious home of her own a husband who adored her, small children tugging at her hands, a growing son impatient to make his own way in the world.

The patent was a myth. Her father would never get his duchy back. Melisende had no future now.