Dukes to the Left of Me, Princes to the Right

“It’s all right.” He gave her a kiss on the cheek. “I believe in true love, too.”

She took his hand and squeezed it. “You’re so kind.”

And he left her.

She followed him with her eyes and saw several young debutantes eyeing him as if he were a tremendous catch. And then a matron stopped and spoke to him, gesticulating to a pretty miss to come forward. She did just that, giving him a sweet curtsy. He held out his arm and she took it, her face beaming. And as fast as that, Eversly was swept back into the social whirl.

Natasha was right. Poppy was alone, without even Eleanor and Beatrice for company. They’d left the ball and were hiding in the bushes below the terrace leading to the rear gardens, waiting until just the right moment to enter the ball again.

It was all part of her plan to steal the painting back for Papa and herself.

“It’s time,” Sergei said from a small stage near the musicians. “Time for the first waltz and an official announcement.” His eyes roamed around the room and alighted on Nicholas, who looked more cold and intimidating than she’d ever seen him. Natasha clung to his elbow, her dark, scheming eyes alight with triumph. “Come forward, you two.”

Nicholas strode forward with Natasha, looking as if he were about to go to the guillotine. They both stepped on the stage.

Poppy pushed her way to the front of the crowd.

Nicholas refused to look at her. But Natasha did, and her mouth was pursed in a satisfied smile.

Poppy did her best to remain calm, ignoring her increasingly shallow breaths.

“You can do it,” someone said in her ear. She flinched, looked behind her, and saw a long-faced, beady-eyed footman just disappearing between two matrons.

Mr. Groop was right. She could. And she would.

She looked up at Nicholas, her heart in her throat.

Sergei smiled at the crowd. “It gives me great pleasure to announce the betrothal of my sister, the Russian princess Natasha, to—”

“Stop!” Poppy interrupted him.

A hush fell over the crowd, and she pointed to Nicholas. “That man is not the Duke of Drummond. I have proof that his missing uncle—the one everyone thought had been murdered—is still alive. He’s the Duke of Drummond, not Nicholas.”

“She’s lying.” Natasha stared daggers at her.

Sergei scowled. “What’s this about, Lady Poppy? Duke?”

“I’ve no idea,” Nicholas said low.

“I have his uncle’s signet ring here.” Poppy held it up. “It even has his initials. It was given to me by Tradd Staunton himself. He’s kept his identity hidden all these years because he works for the Service.”

“The Service?” was the general outcry, except for a few debutantes who exclaimed, “What’s that?” and one ancient gentleman who insisted the Service had been disbanded years before.

“He goes by the code name Mr. Groop,” Poppy went on, and saw Nicholas’s face blanch. “But a document signed by Prinny himself proves Groop’s claim and his right to the Drummond title and properties. So I’m afraid, Nicholas Staunton, you’re back to being Lord Maxwell. You’ll inherit someday, but your uncle is so busy with the Service, the Drummond title, properties, and coffers are his very last priority.”

Everyone gasped.

“Show me that ring,” Nicholas demanded, and looked at her as if she were mad. “And where’s that document?”

“Here’s your ring!” She tossed it into the air. There was a collective gasp when it landed in the crowd. “Groop was here just one minute ago, dressed in livery, but you’ll never discover him. He’s a master of disguise. One of the servants has the document on a tray. Have fun finding it and the ring.”

People burst into talk and many held up quizzing glasses to see where the ring might have gone and where this document might be and if Groop were still lurking somewhere in the vicinity.

“I despise you, Nicholas Staunton!” cried Natasha. “I marry no less than dukes.”

“But what about the baby?” someone called from the crowd.

It was Lord Howell.

“What baby?” Natasha crossed her arms over her chest and pouted.

“You mean … you lied?” Lord Howell’s face was purple.

“I am a Russian princess,” Natasha answered, and strode off, calling for her attendants.

Was that the best excuse she could give for her bad behavior? Poppy huffed, but no one noticed—no one except Countess Lieven.

“Portrait or not,” she said in Poppy’s ear, “that girl is not representing our country at all well. I will send her packing in the morning, back to St. Petersburg. Her mother will put her in the convent for sure this time. Strike up a lively tune!” she called to the small string orchestra, and she strode toward Natasha.

The band dutifully began a Viennese waltz. At the same time, a strange honking noise arose from the back of the room, near the doors to the garden, which were now flung open.

And much yapping.

Followed by several high-pitched screams.

Poppy’s mouth dropped open. Nicholas Staunton, she thought, this is the distraction you created to retrieve the painting?

She was in shock, yet she wasn’t. The man was cheeky.

Finding their flat-footed way amid a forest of silks, satins, muslins, and crisp cotton was a gaggle of geese —waddling, nipping, honking, demanding attention. But their noise wasn’t nearly as bad as the yapping from the corgis.

Poppy sucked in a breath when she saw Boris. He and the rest of the dogs were enthusiastically trying to herd the geese, one of which looked very familiar.

“My beloved dogs!” Natasha could be heard screeching. “Save them!”

There were loud shouts and several crashes of presumably precious china and crystal. The musicians continued stumbling through a waltz. Count Lieven stood near them, his face sweating as he desperately called for order.

“I am a Russian prince!” Poppy heard Sergei yell. “Get this blasted gander away from me!”

She felt as if she were in a dream.

She also knew one thing—she loved Nicholas. But neither he nor anyone else was going to decide where her mother’s painting was going except her.

Her hands began to sweat. She had to go. Now. And retrieve the painting before Nicholas did. It was all right. He wouldn’t need the M.R. anyway. No, indeed.

She wished she could be there when Nicholas heard the reason why.

A quick glance at Eleanor and Beatrice satisfied her that they were doing their jobs. They were scurrying about, dressed in livery and powdered wigs and holding their trays aloft with documents glued to them (the real one was safe at home), while guests chased them. Groop had long ago disappeared. A large crowd followed Beatrice right out the door to the gardens.

Eleanor sped in big circles around the ballroom, or tried to. The geese and corgis got in her and everyone’s way.

Aunt Charlotte, her hand to her breast, caught up with Poppy. “What’s going on, dear?”

“I have to take the painting,” she said calmly, striding toward the stairs.

“No,” Aunt Charlotte gasped.

“It’s quite all right, Aunt. It’s my painting, and I can—”

“No, dear. Not that. A large goose is following Prince Sergei as if it’s besotted with him. It’s quite a charming sight.”

And she left her.

Nicholas was a mischief-maker. But Poppy couldn’t afford to be amused by him or the presence of Lady Caldwell’s gander—not yet. She was almost to the stairs, at the top of which was a corridor,