Dukes to the Left of Me, Princes to the Right

“What is it?” Sergei asked her.

“I feel a bit faint.”

The woman across from her looked skeptical. “Do you?”

Poppy drew herself up. “Yes, I do!” she said indignantly, then remembered she should sound weak—and sighed. “If you don’t mind, I’ll need to excuse myself from the table. I’ll need only a few minutes, of course.”

Sergei’s brow creased. “My footman will escort you to a room where you may recover yourself.”

At least he was being kind enough to allow that.

She gave him a hasty smile and stood.

“Lady Poppy shall return,” Sergei told the company.

They were getting awfully drunk.

A footman brought her into the hallway—she looked longingly at the front door—and up the stairs to the next floor, where he deposited her in a bedchamber.

“I’ll wait outside the door,” he said gruffly, as if she were a prisoner.

He pulled the door shut, and she immediately went to the windows and looked out. There was no balcony, no possible way out. She’d have to outwit the footman and get back down the stairs and out the front door.

But what about the painting? God knows, after tonight, she’d probably never see Sergei again. She should try to see the painting if at all possible.

Inhaling a deep breath, she opened the door again. “Excuse me.”

The footman looked terribly bored. “Yes?”

Not even a yes, milady, she noticed.

“I forgot to ask what room the portrait is in. The one to be unveiled.”

The footman raised a brow. “That’s not to concern you until midnight.”

She gave a little laugh. “I know. But I’m one of those curious types.”

“Are you?” He looked a bit more interested.

“I simply want a peek,” she said, “before the others. I like the thrill it gives me, to do things without other people knowing. Do you know what I mean?”

She had another flashback to that sensual encounter in the library with Nicholas. She would choose the unlikely word thrill when she was scared witless. Nicholas was nowhere near, but thinking of him gave her a small boost of courage.

“I think I do know what you mean,” the footman said, and came closer, his mouth curving in a hopeful smile, his eyes roaming over her in a brazen manner.

Oh, dear. She didn’t want to go in that direction.

Quickly, she pulled a ring off her finger, being careful not to take one of her mother’s. “If you show me the portrait, I’ll give this to you.” She held the ring up for his inspection.

He reached for it, and she snatched it back.

“Not yet,” she whispered. “Hurry. Let’s look quickly, and then I’ll give you the ring.”

“You swear?”

“Yes, I swear.”

It would be a small price to pay.

So he led her to another chamber on the same corridor.

“Right,” he whispered. “Don’t make a sound. In a moment, you’ll see Revnik’s final masterpiece. Prepare yourself. Your peek shall end in ten seconds.”

He swept off the red silk drape.

Poppy sucked in a breath.

Goodness.

The painting!

Why, it was—

It was stunning.

Poppy tried to keep her head about her as she gazed at a full-length scene of a beautiful woman in a pink gown. She was looking up with something akin to adoration at her dancing partner, whose back was to the viewer.

It was the Pink Lady, the painting the Service had been hoping for. Somewhere on the canvas was the key to the identity of the mole in Parliament.

Poppy forced herself to breathe in. Then out.

It was an extraordinary work. Revnik had managed to pay homage to a shining moment in both a couple’s personal history and Russia’s cultural history. And on a deeper level, the painting was a timeless tribute to lovers everywhere.

“Time’s up,” the footman said, and replaced the drape.

“Wait!” Poppy swallowed. “Please. One more look.”

“Absolutely not.” The footman then beckoned her to follow him out of the room. “I want that ring now.”

She handed it to him with trembling fingers.

“Let’s get you back to the dining room,” he said.

“No,” she replied. “Take me to the front door instead. Tell the prince I was too ill to stay.”

“You do seem a bit off at the moment.”

“Believe me, I do feel ill.”

“But the prince will be angry at me for letting you go.”

“You’ve got the ring for compensation if he fires you. And here’s another one.” She twisted off a second ring and handed it to him. This one was her mother’s, but she knew Lady Derby would have understood her giving it away. “Would you really care if you leave his employ? It’s awfully gloomy here.”

“It’s not always that way—”

“Please,” she interrupted him. “I simply need your help to leave.”

He shrugged. “All right, although you’re going to be missing the best part.”

“I already saw the painting.”

“Not that. The special event.”

“Please,” she said. “I don’t care about a special event. I simply want to leave without anyone hearing us. Perhaps we should go out the back way.”

“Fine.” He took her down the servant stairs and out the back door.

She ran down the alley and around to the street, feeling like she’d made a narrow escape. But it wasn’t the only feeling she had. She was even more overcome by shock.

The stableboy was waiting on the corner. “Only a little late, miss!” He attempted to hand her the sturdy slippers.

“No time,” she said, and they went racing down the street, back to the rout.

She must stay calm. She mustn’t let anyone know what she’d seen—

Her own mother waltzing with Papa in that portrait.

* * *

“You let her go?” Nicholas said to Eleanor and Beatrice.

Eleanor bit her lip and nodded. “She’s with a stableboy. He’s got a pistol.”

“She’s perfectly safe,” Beatrice said.

“I’m not so sure about that,” said Nicholas, “but I’ve no time to talk. I must find her now.”

“We’ll come, too,” the girls said together.

With Nicholas leading the way, the three of them hastened down the front steps of the Merriweather mansion and onto the pavement.

“It’s not the streets of London I’m worried about so much as Prince Sergei and what he’s planning,” Nicholas said, striding fast.

Eleanor and Beatrice looked at each other, then back at him.

“Poppy knows he’s not the man for her.” Eleanor scurried to keep up with him.

“She’s only going to say good-bye,” said Beatrice. “And she always carries a pin in her sleeve. She won’t put up with any nonsense from Sergei.”