Dukes to the Left of Me, Princes to the Right

gentleman.”

“Perhaps I’m not.” He pulled a cheroot out of his pocket and lit it. As usual, it was a fine distraction and he only wished he had some brandy to go with it. “But it was only a game. Nothing worth naming seconds over.”

He puffed on the cheroot once, removed it, and let the smoke curl upward into the night.

“Game?” She flicked a wary glance at his breeches. “For whom? You or me? Being called an Impossible Bachelor shouldn’t grant you leave to have boorish manners. Has no other female called you on them? I’m here to work with you—as your colleague. Not to be treated like one of your … your women.”

“Yes, well, I am sorry.” He couldn’t believe it, but even though the cheroot was a fine one, he couldn’t stave off a vague feeling of shame. He ground the smoky thing under his boot, then sprawled out on the stone floor of the gallery. “Sit.” He patted the stones beside him. “We’ll waste no more time on petty quarrels.”

Deuce take it, he wished he could perform his sensual Indian maneuver on her, the one that calmed the angriest of females, but she wasn’t naked, and that was a requirement for it to work properly.

“I won’t sit.” She arched a brow. “Not until you receive a comeuppance. Flimsy apologies won’t do.”

He heaved a sigh. “Come now. I already said I was sorry.”

He tried to ignore the fact that her bodice was still unlaced, but he also didn’t want to tell her. Glancing at it was like taking a sip from a hot buttered rum on a freezing cold day.

She pursed her lips. “Stay where you are, Drummond. I know the perfect punishment for a smug rogue like you.”

“Is that so?” He couldn’t resist a small chuckle.

Her.

Punishing him.

Ha.

“Remember,” she ordered him. “Don’t move.” With slow fingers, she loosened her laces even further.

He lurched forward. “Wait a minute.” He could really use that brandy now. His mouth was perfectly dry. “What’s going on here?”

She sent him a well-satisfied look, then turned her back—and, much to his shock, shimmied out of the top of her gown and stays.

She looked at him over her bare shoulder. “I’m not one of your jaded mistresses, nor am I a silly debutante. I’m a Spinster. You’d do well to remember.”

He was mesmerized by her flirtatious stance, her hands on her hips, and by the sight of the smooth plane of her back tapering to a tiny waist. He could only imagine what her breasts looked like. She was beautiful and strong—and he wanted her.

Badly.

“This is certainly an exquisite sort of punishment,” he murmured. He was unsettled by her, to say the least, and not only by her curvaceous form.

“Well, it’s over,” she said lightly. And with quick, sure movements, she pulled her gown and stays back up, laced herself in, and turned back around, delivering him one last disapproving look. “Now, if you’d like to continue a discussion between equals, we may proceed.”

And with a flounce, she sat down next to him.

He studied her, more intrigued than he’d been in ages. He’d never met a female like her. “I’m supposed to be able to recover from that?” He gave a small laugh of disbelief. “Seeing a proper young lady reveal herself in almost half her naked glory?”

She shrugged, adjusting her bodice. “You’ll have to.” She tried to maintain a severe expression, but then the corner of her mouth quirked up.

He grabbed her wrist. “I deserved every bit of that torture.” He was pleased to see she allowed herself a small grin. “Just don’t make me go through it again, will you? Or maybe you should. But from the other side.”

She slapped his hand. “Absolutely not,” she said, then wagged a finger at him. “You must promise me not to tell any of your drinking friends what I did. It was only to prove a very important point. And if you have to ask what it is, you didn’t learn a thing.”

“Believe me, I learned.” She’d brought him to his knees, at least figuratively. He couldn’t remember the last person who’d managed that. He wasn’t so sure he wanted any of his friends to know.

“Now,” she said, her pique completely vanished, “we can get back to business.” She gave him a warm smile, and he tried not to feel pleased about being back in her good graces.

“Very well,” he said. “Here’s the thing. I have to retrieve a painting for England.”

It felt good to confide the details of his job with someone other than Groop.

“Tell me more.” She leaned closer, her pupils sharpening and her lips parted like two pink rose petals.

Two very soft, supple rose petals.

Which he would ignore, he told himself. Duty must come first. Always.

And besides, she wanted him to treat her like a man.

No, not a man. As his partner. His colleague.

He could do that.

“We refer to the portrait as Pink Lady,” he said. “It’s said to be of a gorgeous woman in a pink gown dancing with her lover.”

“It sounds lovely.” Her eyes sparkled at the additional revelations.

“It might well be. But it’s in the wrong hands.”

“Whose hands?”

“Natasha and Sergei’s, the Russian twins.”

Poppy’s eyebrows shot high. “You can’t take anything from them. I’m sure they truly own the painting.”

“Oh, but they don’t. I can’t say how I know, but I do. And the government has excellent reasons for wanting it. Somewhere in the background of the painting is a secret message. It reveals a mole in Parliament.”

“A mole?”

“Someone on our side spying for another country.”

“I do know what a mole is.” She gave him a droll look. “I’m the daughter of a very active member of the House of Lords, remember. But what sort of person hides a message about someone as dastardly as a mole in a painting?”

“Someone who works for the Service. We tend to like drama. Besides, letters get intercepted. Messengers get killed. Who’d think to look at a painting? It’s a clever method of communication.”

She released a little huff of air. “So you have to steal it.”

“Not steal. Retrieve. Big difference.”

“Of course.” Spoken like a true Service professional. She scooted closer to him. “Go on.”

“The difficult part”—it was hard to think with her shoulder touching his—“is that Sergei and Natasha believe they own it.”

“But they don’t. Poor things. Why can’t you just ask them to hand it over?”

“Two reasons. It’s worth a great deal of money, and it brings them all sorts of attention. Their uncle Revnik painted it, after all. They don’t know he worked for us and had every intention of getting that painting to his English contacts in the Service. But he died rather suddenly of the smallpox, and the Service had no idea what happened to the painting.”

“What drama!”

She was right.

“Now the twins are in England,” he said, “cutting their swath through London society. They’re bored, they’re rich, and they crave constant amusement.” Nicholas laid a hand on her knee. “We can’t let them know we want the painting. It’s a matter of national security.”

“Oh, heavens,” she whispered, putting her own hand over his and squeezing hard. “National security. Papa deals with that all the time. How do you plan to retrieve the portrait?”

“At the ball at the Russian ambassador’s residence. We’ll take it that night, before anyone sees it.”

“With all of London society there?”

“It’s the best time. Distractions will abound. And when they finally realize the portrait’s missing, they’ll have a long list of possible suspects to sift through.”