Dukes to the Left of Me, Princes to the Right

CHAPTER 26

At the rout Poppy found Eleanor in a corner in a small crowd watching a mime pretend to crawl up a ladder. Where he came from, no one knew, but odd things like that tended to happen at routs.

Poppy had gone to see her best friends earlier in the day to explain to them what she was doing this evening. She couldn’t tell them about the painting called Pink Lady—that was a Service secret—but she did tell them she needed further closure with Sergei and required their help to get it.

“He doesn’t seem to comprehend I’m not interested in him,” Poppy had told them.

“That’s obvious,” both of them had said.

As usual, the Spinsters stuck together. Beatrice and Eleanor endorsed her plan wholeheartedly. They were well over lamenting the fact that the only man for Poppy no longer suited—that he was, in fact, a roué. They couldn’t wait to hear what the special event was that he had planned and only asked her to be careful.

Now Poppy tugged on Eleanor’s sleeve. “You promise you and Beatrice will stay in separate rooms and on separate floors until I get back?”

“Yes,” Eleanor replied, patting her hand. “If Nicholas finds me, I’ll chat with him for as long as I can, and when he gets antsy and asks after you, I’ll say I just saw you but that now you must be talking to Beatrice. And then when he goes looking for her, she’ll say you just left her and came back to me. It should work for at least a half hour. And it should take another half hour before he becomes desperate enough to seek us out. Which gives you an entire hour to go see Sergei. Good luck.”

Eleanor kissed her cheek.

“Thank you!” And Poppy scurried off, or tried to. The crush was getting bigger, and she had to avoid Nicholas, which would involve a lot of luck. Her hair was like a beacon, and she had no idea what rooms he’d travel through.

But the crowd served as a good cover, and although leaving was difficult, three minutes later, she was finally out the front door and down the steps.

Her young stableboy waited a little ways down the street, beyond the long row of carriages pulling up to the Merriweathers’ or departing.

She grinned when she saw him, relieved not to be alone. London had its dangers, especially at night, and only a foolish girl would allow herself to be alone in the darkness.

“We must hurry,” she whispered when she saw him.

“Right, mum,” he whispered back with a grin.

“Do you have your pistol? And the slippers and mask?”

“I do.” He handed her the slippers—sturdy and comfortable—and she quickly donned them.

“Very good,” she said. “Off we go.”

Together they covered the two blocks to Sergei’s apartments in record time, racing beneath gas lamps, in and out of shadows the whole way. Once at Sergei’s door, she handed the stableboy back the sturdy slippers and her shawl and put on the delicate slippers he gave her. The last thing she did was don the mask he’d been holding for her.

“Right,” she said with a nervous smile. “See you in forty minutes.”

“I’ll be standing here waiting, miss.” He threw her a little salute.

She knocked on the door and was shy and anxious when she saw the stern face of the Russian guard appear.

“You’ve arrived just in time for dinner,” he said. “Everyone has gathered in the drawing room.”

He took her down a long, gloomy hall lit only by a few sconces, each holding only one miserable candle, to a room at the far end emanating light.

It was like being in one of Cook’s stories …

Poppy’s hands began to sweat. When she turned into the drawing room, she saw a colorful tableau—masked women in bright gowns and feathers sitting on several sofas with masked men in fabulous waistcoats and intricate cravats lounging between them.

Something inside her recoiled. She didn’t like the masks. They lent a faint air of menace to the atmosphere. And the whole scene appeared … too informal.

Sergei was bending over one of the men, filling his glass with an amber liquid. A woman next to that man laughed loudly, leaned over, and whispered something in his ear. He laughed back, grabbed her knee, and caressed it with his hand.

Goodness.

That was awfully familiar of him. She wasn’t sure if they were married, but even husbands and wives, at proper dinner parties, didn’t show such obvious physical affection to each other. It was ill-mannered. Such touching was to be kept private.

She had a strong recollection of the extremely private moment she and Nicholas had shared in the library.

“H-hello, Prince.” She forced herself to smile.

He looked up, the crystal decanter still in his hand. She could see his eyes widen behind his mask.

“It’s you!” he said loudly, and chuckled. “Lady X!”

One of the men put a quizzing glass up to his mask. “This is your Lady X?”

“Yes,” said Sergei, approaching her and kissing her hand. “And isn’t she a beauty?”

“She’s got amazing eyes,” a woman with wild hair cackled. “She’d make a lovely Cleopatra.”

“I’d be her Antony,” said one man with burnished curls. “We’d complement each other perfectly.”

No, you most certainly would not, she longed to tell him.

“Where’s my dagger?” said yet another man.

One of the women giggled. “By the bottle of sow’s blood, you idiot.”

Sow’s blood?

Poppy felt herself freeze in place even as her heart thumped harder. Why on earth were these people talking about sow’s blood and daggers? And even though she knew Sergei called her Lady X to preserve her anonymity, it felt disrespectful, rude, and even frightening to be in a place where people’s actions weren’t connected to their names.

Who was Sergei, really?

And why had she ever thought that spending one week with him when she was fifteen meant she knew him?

The prince lifted her chin with a finger. “No need to worry. Tonight is to be a pure romp. Enjoy yourself behind that mask, and no one will be the wiser tomorrow.”

“But Sergei—” She shook her head. “You said—”

He’d said in his note he was sorry for being boorish. He’d written her a lovely apology.

“Yes, Lady X?”

She clenched her fists at her sides. “I—I can’t—”

She couldn’t stay. That’s what she was trying to say. The room grew quiet. Everyone stared at her. Sergei’s brow furrowed, and Poppy felt alone.

Very alone.

She wished she could turn around and march out, but she couldn’t, not when everyone’s attention was focused on her. She had a horrible suspicion the prince or his bodyguards would come after her—make her stay.

Those gloomy candles in the hallway were no help. She was beginning to panic.

Yet she pulled herself together and smiled—a small, uneasy smile. “I can’t … wait to see the portrait. When shall we?”

Sergei seemed to relax. “We’ll eat first,” he said. “I’ve had my cook prepare an eight-course meal. We’ll wine and dine and make merry, and then we shall have a surprise. Later, when the clock has struck midnight, we’ll view the portrait.”

Midnight?

Poppy’s heart sank. There was no way they’d finish an eight-course meal in an hour, and she certainly couldn’t stay to make merry and have a surprise—she’d no desire to find out what it was—and then stay until