Behind the Mask (House of Lords) (34 page)

When the tea had been poured and the various people who had accompanied the princess were settled in the drawing room, Eleanor found herself seated beside young Victoria, who smiled prettily but looked rather nervous.

“Have you been enjoying your journey?” Eleanor asked.

Victoria glanced across the room, where her mother was absorbed in conversation with Eleanor’s mother. “No,” she admitted. “I dislike traveling. But my mother insists, and she always gets what she wants.” Eleanor must have looked taken aback at this remark, for the princess added quickly, “But I’m sure she has my best interests at heart.”

“Of course,” Eleanor said.

The princess lapsed into silence, and Eleanor had no choice but to sit and sip her tea quietly. She felt a surge of relief when Maris and Georgina came to take over and she could escape across the room, where Baroness Lehzen was sitting with Lady Winifred Gascoyne, whose husband was a close confidante of Sir John Conroy’s. The ladies chatted amiably about the other houses they had visited, declaring dutifully that Sidney Park was no doubt the most beautiful of them all. Eleanor received their praise politely. Inside, however, she was longing to escape, to have just a moment’s peace to think about everything that had happened today.

It was not to be, of course. Soon it was time for them to disband and dress for dinner, and she had to oversee the assignment of rooms and ensure that everyone was satisfied with their chambers. She had barely enough time to change her gown and rush back downstairs before dinner was announced. Then she found herself on Sir John’s arm being led in to dinner. He simpered unpleasantly as he held out her chair.

The evening progressed smoothly, though Eleanor’s nerves were on edge. Any moment she expected an assassin to burst in, armed to the teeth. Fortunately the princess seemed blissfully unaware of the danger to her life as she spoke softly to her mother.

More than once she glanced over at Colin to see him sitting with a haunted look on his face. She wondered if he was thinking of the dead man or of his cousin who was locked in the dressing room downstairs with him. As the rain began to fall at last and some of the pressure eased from the air, the tension that had been gripping the room seemed to lessen as well, but Colin remained tight-lipped and white faced.

When the meal had ended Eleanor went to him, pulling him into the hall as the rest of the ladies returned to the drawing room.

“What are you doing?” he hissed.

She did not answer, simply led him into the library and shut the door behind them. Then she slipped her hands under his coat and went up on her toes to kiss him.

His lips met hers eagerly, and his arms came around her, warm and solid and comforting. She sighed against his lips and relaxed into him. When they pulled apart at last he said, “What was that for?”

She smiled and smoothed his waistcoat. “You looked so tense,” she said.

“Kissing me like that will hardly help,” he muttered, shifting uncomfortably against her.

“Then let’s go upstairs,” she whispered in his ear.

He kissed her forehead. “We can’t,” he said.

“Of course we can. No one will notice we’re gone, and if they do they’ll put it down to our newlywed bliss.”

He chuckled. “We both know that’s not true.”

She leaned her head against his shoulder. “Of course,” she agreed, though she felt as though she would scream if she had to go back into that drawing room. But she had had another motive for bringing him into the library. “Would you do something for me?” she asked.

“What is it?”

“Let me come with you tonight, when you bury that man.”

He pulled away, holding her at arm’s length. “No,” he said gravely. “Absolutely not.”

She shook free of his grip. “I’m coming whether you like it or not. You cannot forbid me.”

“You are my wife,” he ground out, “I can forbid you anything I like.”

“So you will lock me up?”

With a groan he stepped away from the wall, running a hand over his hair. “I won’t forbid you anything, Eleanor. Of course I won’t. But it’s too dangerous.”

“There is a man downstairs who is grieving,” she said. “For all that he has committed terrible crimes, or planned to do so at any rate. He deserves to have people at his side while he watches his cousin be buried.”

He stared at her, and she realized that she had done what she had vowed not to—she had revealed her sympathy for the assassin. But instead of chastising her, he simply said, “All right.”

“Really?”

He nodded. “But you must promise to tell
no one
what has happened. Not your mother, not your sisters—no one, do you understand?”

“Of course,” she said. “I promise.”

He sighed. “I can see that you will not be the sort of diplomat’s wife who is content to ignore the less savory parts of the job.”

“No, indeed,” Eleanor said, feeling rather indignant. Had he ever imagined she was that sort of woman? Still, she knew that he could have refused to let her come along, that he certainly would have been within his rights to lock her up if he pleased. So she crossed the space between them and kissed him again. “Thank you, Colin,” she said. Then she slipped out of the library, leaving him to stare after her.

Hours later Colin stood waiting in their bedroom. At last Eleanor emerged from the dressing room, clad in a black riding coat and dark gray breeches that fit her like a second skin. She had pinned her bright hair back in a simple chignon, but her beauty was still starkly apparent.

She looked up at him, resolute and grim as she draped a silk scarf around her neck. “Let’s go,” she said.

He led her silently through the darkened house. Leo met them in the hall. He had been less than pleased when Colin had told him Eleanor would be coming along, but even he had seemed to understand that there was little point in trying to deny his sister.

“She acts meek and obliging,” he had said with a wry grin, “but don’t let her fool you. She’s a lioness.”

Now they waited, and presently Crawley emerged from the servants’ stairs, leading Udad by the arm. Then they went out into the stableyard. They would not be riding however—they did not have that far to go.

They walked through the gate and out into the moonlit park, skirting the open areas for the shadows of the trees, their pace slow to allow for Udad’s wounded foot. Though the rain had stopped, the grass was wet and the air was thick with humidity. No one spoke. After about fifteen minutes they reached a little grove where the wagon bearing the body waited. Strathmore stood beside it, his dark clothes caked with mud, a shovel still in his hand. Beyond the wagon two soldiers in plain clothes were climbing out of the shallow grave they had dug in the wet earth. They had been working for hours, all the time that Colin and the others had been enjoying their lavish dinner. Now they leaned their shovels against the cart and came to help lift the body, wrapped in its thin shroud.

Crawley led Udad over to the grave. The assassin glanced at Strathmore and nodded grimly as he passed, as though thanking the man for his work.

Colin, Eleanor and Leo took their places on the opposite side of the grave. Without prompting, Eleanor lifted the scarf from around her neck and placed it over her hair, draping one end across her chest and over her shoulder. Colin was surprised by the astuteness of the gesture, and when he looked across at Udad he saw that he was as well. But then the body was being lowered into the grave, and Udad’s attention turned back to his cousin.

As Crawley and Strathmore stood on either side of him, Udad began to recite in his native tongue. Colin heard a few familiar words, but mostly it was the emotion behind them that affected him. When he glanced over at Eleanor he saw that there were tears streaming down her cheeks, and he reached out and took her hand, lacing his fingers through hers, touched by her emotion. She had never known the man in the shroud, and her only encounter with Udad had been his attempt on her life, and yet she could feel pity for both of them. For the hundredth time Colin felt his good fortune. There were many diplomatic wives who had become so detached and jaded that they were almost like dolls. Eleanor would never be that sort of woman, not if he could help it.

As he finished the last lines of his prayers, Udad fell to his knees beside the grave. Crawley and Strathmore pulled him back to his feet and turned him back towards the house. Eleanor took a step towards them, one hand held out, and for a moment Colin thought she would protest, but then she pursed her lips and stayed silent.

Leo, Colin and Eleanor fell in behind the prisoner. Strathmore remained behind to oversee the burial, but the rest of them started back towards the house.

When they had reached the hall again, Colin touched Eleanor’s shoulder. “I must go downstairs with them,” he said. “I’ll be up soon.”

She nodded stiffly. Leo came to stand beside her as Colin went to join Crawley. But just as he was pulling open the door to the servants’ stairs, Udad turned and looked at Eleanor.

“Thank you for your sadness,” he said. “Is not right word, I know. But I thank you for the honor you show my cousin.”

Eleanor gave him a small smile and wiped at her cheeks. Then she turned and went into the salon, Leo hard on her heels. Colin started down the stairs.

“That woman is your wife?” Udad asked.

Colin nodded.

“You lucky man.”

“I know,” Colin said, but he refused to say any more.

It was not much later that he finally made his way up to their bedroom. Eleanor was sitting on the bed in the darkness, wearing a slightly less revealing nightgown, her hair once again tumbling in loose waves about her shoulders.

Colin stood before her as he took off his coat and waistcoat. She got up and came to help him with his boots. When he was wearing only his smalls, she kissed him gently and led him to the bed.

For a long time they lay there atop the coverlet, his arms tight around her. At last, she said, “That poor man. He cannot be much older than me, and yet he has lost everything.”

“What do you mean?” Colin asked, his lips against her hair.

“He can never go back home, can he? I am sure the Foreign Office will never let him leave England.”

“No,” Colin said. “You are right there.”

“And he has lost the only tie he had to his homeland, has had to bury his cousin in foreign soil. I cannot imagine his grief.”

Colin propped himself up on one elbow and looked down into her eyes. “He tried to kill you, and yet you can feel pity for him?”

“We don’t know that he meant to kill me,” she said. “You must consider that he may have ended up in my room by accident. You know, this whole operation seems almost haphazard to me.”

He stared at her.

“Just think about it,” she said, “So far they have killed one person, who was not their target, and lost two men in the process. Not a stellar record, in my view. Perhaps they need some help, someone smarter who can tell them what to do next. Maybe that’s what they’re waiting for.”

“Indeed,” he said, wondering what she would think if he told her he suspected that very thing: that there was an Englishman helping the Serraray. He was still convinced it was the case, even though his chief suspect had been ruled out. “You may yet prove to be a better spy than I,” he laughed.

“Are you a spy?” she asked, her voice serious again.

He looked away.

“Colin,” she insisted.

“I was, once,” he admitted, to her and to himself. “Though no one ever told me that’s what I was. But there was a time when espionage was my chief task. I had very little talent for it, and it ended poorly. Now I stick to the lighter side of the foreign service.”