Dukes to the Left of Me, Princes to the Right

“Funny,” she said. “I feel the same way.”

“So you can have no objections to our betrothal. I understand you, don’t I?”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “But there are other things on the list, too.”

“What list?”

“The Spinsters Club list. A girl can’t resign her membership unless a potential mate meets all qualifications.”

“Which are?”

“I can’t tell you. They’re confidential.”

A covetous, predatory look came into his eye. He never appeared more dangerous, Poppy thought, than when he was after a secret.

“Hmmm,” he muttered, “said like a real clandestine agent. Although your friends let me know about a couple of your requirements. They both involve love. Is that what you’re seeking?”

There was a beat of silence.

“Of course.” She felt out of breath when she said it. “Which is why I won’t marry you. I must love my husband, and he must love me.”

Nicholas looked down at the deck of the boat, and her heart sank.

When he met her gaze again, his was shrouded. “It’s time to go back.”

No fairy tales, she told herself, and hardened her heart. “You don’t want to discuss frivolous things like love,” she said evenly. “You think I’m foolish.”

He shook his head. “Not foolish. I think you’re fanciful, yes.”

She huffed. “You believe love isn’t possible.”

“No.” He stood and began unraveling a line. “I told you my parents loved each other. So it can happen.”

“Then why are you so against the idea?”

“I never said I was.”

“You could have fooled me.” She hesitated. “You’re afraid of it, aren’t you? Because you saw what happened to your father when he lost your mother. You saw how changed he became after she died. He was weak. Easily led. You don’t want that to happen to you.”

He didn’t say a word.

She sighed. “I’m in a similar situation. I can’t say my father has recovered from his loss, but you know what? I’ve decided I’d rather have one day of what he had with my mother than never have it at all. And if I marry a man I don’t love, I ruin all my chances. Which is why I’m willing to risk being a Spinster for the rest of my life. I refuse to settle.”

Nicholas stared at her a moment. “I think we should marry. We’ll make a great team. But I won’t lie and spout romantic notions about love to coerce you. We understand each other. We’ll protect each other. Isn’t that enough? Do we have to add potential hurt to the mix?”

Poppy couldn’t say another word. She was too disappointed. And angry.

She watched Nicholas put up the mainsail and sail the little boat back to shore, back to a world where young ladies and gentlemen danced and flirted … and then put their secret passions aside and married wisely.

Her heart clenched.

Didn’t love matter at all?

CHAPTER 30

Nicholas felt it was as if last night’s difficult conversation on the sailboat had never happened.

As if the highly sensual encounter they’d had before that conversation had never happened.

As if the intimate laughter, the feeling that they were comfortable—even happy—together, had never happened.

In the afternoon, he’d taken Poppy to the Lievens’, where they’d enjoyed tea and a pleasant conversation in which the Russian ambassador had inadvertently revealed that the Pink Lady portrait would be kept in an alcove in a corridor above the ballroom during the ball. Countess Lieven also told them Revnik’s masterpiece would be brought down and unveiled near the ball’s conclusion.

Good information to have.

Afterward, when Nicholas took Poppy for their afternoon ride through Hyde Park, they were back to being nothing more than two people working on the same Service project.

“I agree that a mole in Parliament is a bad thing,” Poppy said crisply, “but couldn’t Revnik have written Groop a letter? Or gone to visit him? Instead, he had to paint a portrait of my parents and ruin it with some sort of spy gobbledygook?”

“Ssshh.” Nicholas looked around and saw no one nearby. But they couldn’t take chances.

“I’ll tell you,” she whispered, “I think my mother bought it as a surprise for my father. She probably paid good money for it. Revnik had no right to use it for his own purposes. He died unexpectedly, probably of the same smallpox epidemic Mama did, and years later, Sergei found the portrait. He made a claim to it because no one came forward. Well, no wonder. Mama, poor lady, was dead and buried.”

That scenario sounded very likely.

“But it contains something of value to England,” Nicholas said. “Don’t you think your mother would have approved, had she known?”

“I suppose. But it would have been nice of Revnik to ask her permission first.”

“When it comes to national security, you can’t very well ask permission.”

Poppy stared down her nose at him. “Whatever the circumstances were, this painting belongs with my family. Now more than ever, we have to retrieve it.”

“I have to retrieve it. And I’ve every intention of doing just that. Not for your family, I’m sorry to say. The needs of the Service come first. It’s the way things have to be.”

“But what will they do with it?”

“I’ve no idea.”

Poppy looked up at him with flashing emerald eyes. “If they think it belongs to England, Prinny could take it. Or one of his cronies. That’s not right.”

“Life’s not fair.” Nicholas squeezed her hand. “I understand your frustration.”

“Good. Because I’ll need your help. I’m going to prove Mama purchased that painting.”

“I told you—the Service commissioned it.”

Poppy huffed. “Mama was duped. She commissioned it. I’m getting that portrait back, and it’s going over the mantel in Papa’s library. I won’t say a word to my father or my aunt until it happens. It will be a great surprise.”

“Not to mention you’re not supposed to talk to them about anything Service-related, remember?”

“Yes.”

He thought for a minute. “I’m only going to help you look for proof of ownership,” he said, “if I’m still able to proceed on my mission as planned. If you make any moves toward Sergei before the Lievens’ ball, claiming the painting is yours, you’ll compromise OPL. If that happens, probably neither one of us will ever see the painting again. And if you find your proof, you’ll have to wait until I turn the painting over to the authorities to stake your claim. Agreed?”

“Very well.” She glowered at him. “England can get a first look. But it had better be quick.”

“You’re a good citizen,” he said. “I know you’re anxious. If you really want to find out more about the Pink Lady painting, the best way would be to start at home. If your mother commissioned it, there might be a receipt or correspondence in her desk that might prove your claim.”

“I’ve already thought of that.” Poppy beamed. “When I left you last night, I couldn’t sleep.” A becoming blush spread up her face. “I crept into my father’s library and looked through his desk drawers. There was a big, fat file with Mama’s old appointment books, some correspondence from friends, and whatnot. He must have emptied her desk and kept everything, the poor dear. I found her appointment book from St. Petersburg.”