Dukes to the Left of Me, Princes to the Right (31 page)

“I can’t believe—” She giggled. “I mean, I really can’t believe—” She sat up ramrod straight and stared at him. “Did we just
do
that?”

Nicholas, even rougher-looking now than he was earlier, arched a brow. “Yes, we did, and the papers bulging out of your bodice are proof.”

Dear God. She’d forgotten about the papers in all the excitement. She pulled them out—luckily, they were mostly dry—and tossed them on the opposite seat.

“I don’t know if I can look at them quite yet. I need to recover.”

“I do, too,” he said. “And not just from breaking into that house. From
you
. You’re delicious as a sodden milkmaid.”

There was a beat of silence, and she let out a breathy sigh. “You’re appallingly good-looking in your workman’s disguise. Especially when wet.”

“Am I?”

“Yes.” She splayed her hands against his chest and stared into his eyes.

He tugged on one of her bodice laces and stopped, the lace taut in his hand.

She looked up at him.

And stopped breathing.

Something in his eyes melted her heart. He leaned forward … she met him. And they kissed. In the middle of it, Poppy realized it was the best kiss she’d ever had. Because that kiss told her everything her heart already knew.

She was in love.

With Nicholas.

*   *   *

A few seconds after the most riveting kiss he’d ever had, Nicholas admitted to himself that doing Service work with Poppy was much more exciting—and yes, more risky—than working alone.

But the risk seemed worth it.

She was becoming rather an addiction, and he’d have to be careful. After they married—a future he refused to consider wouldn’t come to pass—he was to deposit her at Seaward Hall. But he was already asking himself how he could go back to work in London knowing she was sleeping in
his
bed, having
his
children, arranging flowers from
his
garden, and having adventures in
his
castle.

Because he was sure she would. Life at Seaward Hall would never be dull with her in residence.

“I’m ready,” she said, her lips cherry red from their kissing. She moved back to the other seat. “Tell me what surprised you at that house. Something did.”

“I’ll say.” Nicholas was still trying to take it in. “The house belongs to Mr. Groop. I immediately recognized his handwriting on the files. And on his desk, I saw a scarf he often wears to his office.”

Poppy held her hand to her mouth. “Heavens, what was it like, knowing you’d burgled your own employer’s home?”

“Like entering the Prince Regent’s bedchamber,” he said, “something completely off limits and, quite frankly, a place you never want to see.”

“How did you find my mother’s file when all you had was those cryptic numbers to go by?”

He enjoyed seeing her eyes sparkle with excitement.

“Part luck,” he said. “Part knowing Groop and his quirks. His hobby is learning everyone’s birthdays, and he enjoys playing with numbers. So I did some mental arithmetic with my own birthday to see if I could find my file. I tried a few different combinations, and one worked. It turns out he adds the digits comprising the year, month, and day to come up with that mysterious number. It was easy enough to get your mother’s number using the same formula.”

Poppy leaned toward him, her eyes sparkling. “Did you see your own file?”

He hesitated. “Yes. But I didn’t have time to read it.”

“I’ll bet you wanted to.” She chuckled.

“I’m not so sure.”

“You were completely focused on helping me, and for that I thank you.”

The grateful, overlong look she cast him warmed him at the center of his being. “You’re welcome,” he said gruffly.

She smiled, and there was an easy silence between them. He wasn’t used to enjoying being with a woman so much. She put on no airs. Yet she was always a lady to him.

Even at her most wanton.

“He goes by Mr. Harlow at home, apparently,” she said.

“And puts on a broad Yorkshire accent.”

Poppy’s brow furrowed. “Why would my mother have anything to do with Mr. Groop?”

“Let’s look at the papers and find out. But I must warn you”—he pulled her across to his seat and looked deep into her emerald eyes—“it appears as if Revnik wasn’t the only one working for the English government.”

Poppy’s mouth dropped open. “You’re jesting, aren’t you?”

“No. Your mother had Groop’s address. Not many people do. I never have.”

Poppy shook her head. “Let’s look through the papers,” she whispered.

Together they did just that.

“Twenty years in the Service,” Nicholas said, scanning one page. “She was known as the Pink Lady.”

Poppy’s lips were a round O as she read another page. “
My
mother. A spy for the English.” She put the papers down and stared at Nicholas. “But she never acted like a spy. She acted like a mother. And a wife. And a friend.” Her eyes got a little shiny. “I—I didn’t even know she loved pink so much that she’d choose it as her spy name.”

“She might not have. She might have chosen it because she
never
wore pink. To throw off anyone who got hold of the name.”

Poppy sniffed. “You’re right, actually. She never did wear pink. Except in the portrait. And that was probably a clever little thing she did for the Service, in honor of her spy name.”

It was one thing Nicholas loved about the Service. The people who worked for it were resourceful. Brave. And clever.

“Remember,” Nicholas attempted to reassure her, “even though she was employed by Groop, she was still your mother. And a wife. And a friend.”

Poppy shook her head. “But I still feel hurt. It’s as if … I didn’t know her.”

The atmosphere in the carriage grew decidedly gloomy, like the weather outside.

“Of course you knew her,” Nicholas insisted. “You know me, don’t you? And I happen to do secret things. It doesn’t change who I am. You can trust me.”

“That’s true.” Poppy bit her lip thoughtfully.

He was flattered she agreed.

“And how about you?” He grinned. “You’re in the clandestine business at the moment. Are you any different? Or are you still … Poppy?”

She gave a little shrug. “I suppose I am. I wonder if Papa knew?”

“That’s hard to say.”

“But when you love someone … shouldn’t you tell them
everything
?”

He had an unbidden, brief recollection of that entire night he’d spent with Natasha at the Howells’ residence.

“Sometimes,” he said carefully, “to protect that person from harm, you don’t tell them everything. It’s not because you don’t love them. It’s because you
do
.”

Not that he loved
her,
but he hated to disappoint her. And he knew of many Service people who shielded their loved ones from harm by keeping secrets close to their chests.

“If Mama took her secret to the grave,” Poppy said, “then I suppose it’s not mine to reveal to Papa.”

“I tend to agree. But I’ve also learned, never say never about anything.”

They resumed their perusal of the papers. Poppy took her time, seeming to cherish each page. Once she was through reviewing one sheet, she’d pass it carefully on to Nicholas.

“This is my mother, after all.” Her eyes glowed with quiet pride. “I want to read everything carefully. Apparently, she was an expert at her job.”

A moment later, she held a paper aloft and grinned. “
Ta-da!
The receipt we’ve been searching for.”

She thrust it at Nicholas, and he read it carefully. “It does appear Lady Derby commissioned the painting,” he said. “But … I hate to tell you—”

“What?” Poppy placed a hand on his arm, her eyes wide.

He spoke as gently as possible. “Now that we know your mother worked for the Service, this receipt could be a falsified document she carried in St. Petersburg. It would validate to anyone questioning her activities that she was a legitimate client of Revnik’s. In other words”—he paused, hating to disappoint her after all their hard work—“the painting probably belongs to the Service. I’m very sorry, Poppy, if that’s the case.”

She stared at the receipt. “I hate the Service,” she whispered. Then she looked at him, her mouth determined. “I know this receipt is real. Mama mailed it to Groop for safekeeping.”

“I’m not saying she didn’t, but—”

Poppy put out a palm to stop him. “She knew Revnik would use the portrait to convey a message about the mole, but Mama paid for it. And she wanted to give it to Papa.”

She had a bold, clear light in her eye. “If you’re right, Nicholas—and Mama was still Mama when she was doing things in secret—that’s how she would have worked. She’d have selflessly allowed the government its bit, but she would have been thinking of Papa more.”

She folded the receipt and put it back in her bodice. “In fact, I’m sure Mama’s the genius who came up with the idea of painting the mole’s identity into the portrait. Who was to know Revnik would die of the smallpox, and she shortly thereafter?”

She had both hands on her hips, her eyes flashing green fire now.

What was she, Nicholas wondered, Athena come to life?

He wanted her more than ever.

And he respected her more than ever.

“I wouldn’t dare to disagree with a person showing such conviction,” he said softly. “You’ve already proven to me that your gut instincts are good, so I’m not at all disheartened by these new revelations, are you?”

“Absolutely not.” She threw back her shoulders. “It simply means I have more work to do before I can get Mama’s portrait back.”

“Which I still have to retrieve, you know.”

“
Steal
is the right word, actually.” She gave him a cool glance. “It’s mine. Not the government’s. But I’ll stay true to Mama’s wishes and allow the government a first look.”

He grabbed her upper arms and pulled her close, his heart gripped by her passion. “You’re bloody marvelous, do you know that?”

She laughed. “It’s Mama’s influence.”

It was hard to kiss and grin at the same time, but they managed. And they managed a lot more than that. The carriage rolled up to 17 Clifford Street at the exact moment he put his mouth over her bared breast and ran his tongue around her puckered nipple.

“We’re getting much too brazen,” she whispered, and pulled her bodice up hastily.

“And you love it,” he said.

“I do, actually.” Her tone was cheeky.

Perhaps one day they could take a trip to Sussex to his small property there. They’d bring Aunt Charlotte to chaperone and feed her a large meal with lots of brandy-laced trifle, and then he’d take Poppy on a small picnic by a stream, but it would be a feast of a different kind …

“Nicholas?” She had her hand on the carriage door.

For the first time, he felt vulnerable letting her go. To the point that—

Well, he just hated to see her go. No use delving into his feelings more than that.

“I want to thank you for today,” she said almost shyly. “I’ll never forget it. Remember how we both said on the sailboat that sometimes you feel like you’re living the wrong life? Today … today I felt like I was living the right one.”

God, she was lovely.

And too good for him.

He took her hand again and kissed it. “You say the most impossible things.”

She gave a little laugh. “Yes, and you’re an Impossible Bachelor. Put us both together and we’re…”

“We’re what?” he asked her.

“Why, it’s obvious.”

“It
is
?”

Something shimmered in the air between them, but he wasn’t sure what it was.

Poppy almost looked as though she felt sorry for him. “Good-bye, Nicholas,” she said with a restrained little smile.

And before he could help her out, she opened the carriage door and left.

CHAPTER 33

Possible,
that’s what Poppy thought she and Nicholas were. But if he couldn’t see it for himself, then she wasn’t going to bother explaining. Nor would she marry him. The only man a Spinster would marry was someone who knew as well as she did they were meant to be together.

She shouldn’t have to convince a man to love her, should she?

And the same went for her relationship with Papa. The next afternoon, she gathered her courage and stood before his closed library door. Aunt Charlotte had left that very morning for their country home in Kent to visit a dear old friend. She’d be gone a week, and Papa would be home more to watch over Poppy. It was as good a time as ever for her to approach him.

She lifted her hand, bit her lip, and knocked at the library door.

“Come in,” Papa called, ever stern.