Dukes to the Left of Me, Princes to the Right

He looked behind him. Poppy’s pale, slender neck turned, as well.

Everyone in the ballroom was staring at them.

“Where are you going with our painting?” asked Countess Lieven into the silence.

“Um, I—I was taking it home,” said Poppy.

There was a stirring of the crowd. But then a group of gentlemen strode through the front door, Lord Derby and Lord Wyatt among them.

The tension in Poppy’s expression eased a fraction. She was obviously relieved to see her father.

Lord Derby looked around with great concern. “We were called from a useless meeting by a beady-eyed, long-faced man in livery who said a small riot is being waged here. How can we be of help, Count? Countess?”

The count glowered at him and then pointed a finger at Poppy. “Your own daughter is stealing a very valuable Russian painting, right from beneath our noses. Does she think we’re stupid?”

Lord Derby opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out.

“Lady Poppy doesn’t think you’re stupid,” Nicholas intervened. “The painting actually belongs to her, Count, Countess. The provenance can be verified—you’ll understand that we may take it back without asking permission and restore it to its rightful owners, the family of Lord Derby.”

The count’s brow furrowed. “Improperly handled provenance? Are you suggesting this great Russian masterpiece doesn’t belong to Revnik’s niece and nephew and is not ours to celebrate as a grand piece of Russian culture here, tonight, at this ball?”

Nicholas smiled politely. “Yes, Count, Countess. I say that with all due respect.”

“But you’re wrong, Drummond.” Sergei stepped forward. “My uncle Revnik painted this portrait, and we found it under his bed. It is ours. My sister and I inherited our uncle’s estate.”

Lord Derby had found his voice, and now he looked at his daughter with a great deal of worry. “We don’t want to make any mistakes here, Poppy. This could affect relations between our two countries. Until now, I had no idea this painting existed.”

The count’s face turned beet red. “Lord Derby says he doesn’t even know of the painting? What’s going on here?”

The countess put her hand up. “You must prove the painting belongs to you, Lady Poppy.”

“I must agree,” Lord Derby said.

“All agreed, say aye,” piped up one of his Parliamentary colleagues.

A fair number of people in the ballroom raised their hands.

Poppy’s cheeks bloomed pink. “I have proof, Papa. Here’s the receipt.” She pulled yet another paper from her bodice. “It proves Mama commissioned this painting from Revnik, and she paid for it.”

She held it out to her father. He and his colleagues peered at it.

Lord Wyatt cleared his throat. “That’s a fake,” he said calmly to the company. “I’m not free to say more, but this portrait belongs to England, and I hereby confiscate it on behalf of His Royal Highness’s government.”

CHAPTER 45

“You can’t take it!” Sergei cried.

“I agree. That’s outrageous!” Count Lieven crossed his arms and stuck out his chin.

The crowd began talking madly.

Please, Poppy begged the universe, please make sure we get Mama’s painting back in the family. It belongs with us.

The countess raised her hand. “Stop everything,” she said. “Let us show the company the painting first. It is why we held the ball.”

Nicholas unveiled the portrait, and there was a collective sigh of admiration from the crowd in the ballroom.

Poppy could look at the painting all day if she had to. It was that wonderful.

“It’s lovely, no?” said the countess. “Revnik was a master.”

“Indeed he was,” said Poppy, echoing the murmurings of approval from the ballroom floor. She yearned to put that portrait in her father’s library above the mantel so he could see it every time he looked up from writing one of his speeches.

Nicholas and Lord Derby were both staring, transfixed, at the canvas.

“Th-that’s my wife,” said Lord Derby.

“It is, Papa.” Poppy had tears in her eyes. “And that’s you, facing her. See your special cuff links?”

He peered closer. “I do.”

Nicholas met Poppy’s eyes. His were full of something glad and determined.

Could he have uncovered the identity of the mole? She hoped so, but from what she could see, it was simply a painting … of her parents on an extraordinary night.

Papa cleared his throat and addressed the company. “My wife must have commissioned the painting when we lived in St. Petersburg. We went to a magnificent ball at the Winter Palace.”

Poppy laid a hand on his arm. “Mama wanted to remember that night with you.”

Lord Wyatt stepped forward. “Nevertheless, the portrait is now in the custody of the Prince Regent’s government, and I will take it.”

“No, you won’t,” Nicholas intervened, his voice steely and his expression intimidating. “Who are you to say Lady Poppy’s receipt is faked?”

Lord Wyatt’s mouth thinned. He had no answer.

Nicholas held up the receipt. “It’s perfectly proper. I have no doubt we can compare this signature of Revnik’s to another genuine one and it will be a clear match. Now get out of our way. The painting belongs to a private party. England will have to negotiate with Lord Derby and his daughter Poppy for access to it.”

“You’re mad!” Sergei stood before Nicholas. “May I remind you the painting belongs to me and my sister? And I’m determined we should depart with it right now.”

“No, Sergei,” Poppy cried. “My intuition is very good—like my mother’s. And I’m sure she commissioned this painting.”

“Dear Lady Poppy,” Count Lieven said kindly, “both you and the English government still have offered no real proof that the painting belongs to either of you. The government says your receipt is fake. You deny it. Who are we supposed to believe? At the very least, an inquiry will have to be made into this painting’s provenance.”

Lord Derby put his hand on Poppy’s shoulder. “My dear, he’s right. We have no proof beyond your receipt, which is in dispute. I suggest the painting remain in the possession of the Lievens, who will guard it until the matter is settled fairly.”

Poppy couldn’t bear to part with the painting.

But it was slipping away. She just knew it! Lord Wyatt had an almost fanatical look in his eye. He was determined to get it. And so was Sergei. He was flexing his hands as if at the first opportunity he would grab it and run.

She looked at Nicholas.

His eyes were warm, loving, and … and—

She looked at the portrait. She wanted it, yes. For Papa and for her.

But …

She didn’t need it. She needed to cling to the people in her life that she still had. She needed to love them, and let them love her. She needed to immerse herself in life.

With Nicholas.

We’re not going to get it, are we? she said with her eyes.

He took her hand and squeezed it. Don’t give up hope, his gaze said back.

But then Aunt Charlotte appeared at the edge of the crowd. “I believe I can prove who the portrait belongs to,” she said, her voice ringing throughout the room.

Aunt Charlotte?

Everyone turned to her beloved chaperone.