Splendor (15 page)

for the more renowned (or should I say infamous) members of our society? For even a certain visiting foreign dignitary was seen entering one of the rooms upstairs, this man a prince no less.

Nicholas stared down at Copperville's article in shock. He had just returned home to change after a late lunch, before leaving to pick up Carolyn for a jaunt in the park. His mind spun, his pulse raced. Was it possible? Was Carolyn Browne, who was Charles Brighton, also Charles Cop-perville?

It was absurd.

It made perfect sense.

But that would mean that she had frantically written the column and delivered it to the Chronicle's offices sometime yesterday. Perhaps she had even penned the satire the evening of their visit to Claire's. His jaw tightened, ground down. He stood up, staring down at his desk. He did not beUeve in coincidence. What were the odds of Copperville just happening to be at Claire's while he and Carolyn were there? It was possible^—but not likely.

What was likely was that little Carolyn Browne was Charles Copperville.

And then he began to laugh. Hard. Until tears streamed down his face. Good God! He should have guessed from the beginning that Copperville was a woman, but he had assigned the satirist's naivete and romanticism to youth, not the female gender. Well, now he knew it was due to both youth and femininity. He shook his head, amazed. And suddenly he understood Carolyn's disguise—it was a strategy for her to gather news for Copperville's colunm. Of course she was not a political spy. How else would she gather news when she was no peer? His smile widened. Of course Carolyn was Copperville—they shared the exact same views!

Complete comprehension struck him then. To have expected Carolyn, who posed as Brighton, to be anything less than a satirist like Copperville would be absurd. She was

too clever, too well read, too enthusiastic, romantic, and optimistic not to challenge society and attempt to turn it on its head. His admiration for her knew no bounds.

And now her disguise made as much sense as her prowling about his house. She had been spying on him not because he was a Russian envoy sent by the tsar to negotiate an important treaty, but because she needed grist for her mill.

Of course, that still did not explain what her father was hiding. He was up to his ears in something unpleasant, and something far less innocent than Carolyn's charade. Nicholas had no doubt.

Nicholas paced the library, hands clasped behind his back. How stealthy and clever she was.

But not, he decided, as clever as this one visiting foreign dignitary.

Carolyn told herself that she must not change into a nicer dress, put a ribbon in her hair, or even, God forbid, rouge her lips. She was not a silly, vain, besotted nitwit, and she was not going to act that way.

Anticipation filled her. Why had he invited her to drive in the park?

This was the man who had taken her to a brothel the other night—one he was no stranger to. It was the same man who had carried on with the equally ravishing Lady Carradine. He was married, or so it was said, to one of the most beautiful women in the world. What could his invitation mean?

There was an obvious conclusion. He was a rake. She was a woman. In spite of his promise to return her home unharmed, he wished to amuse himself at her expense. She was courting jeopardy by driving with him in the park. Any sane person could see that.

Her pulse was pounding wildly. Carolyn glanced at the small clock in her room; it was already three. She took her blue shawl from the wall hook and went downstairs. She could not refuse this challenge; she was not like the other women he usually pursued, and he was about to find that out.

She had already told George she had some things to do in the afternoon. He was sitting behind the counter, reading. A novel Carolyn recognized as being by William Cobbett was beside his elbow, but her heart skipped when she saw the Morning Chronicle open on the countertop before him. She had taken a risk in writing about the brothel, but she had been unable to resist—there had just been too much to write about to pass up the opportunity. She was prepared, too, for the next time she encountered Sverayov as Brighton. He would probably assume that Brighton was Copper-ville, but she would deny it, maintaining that Copperville must have, coincidentally, been present that evening as well. He could be as suspicious as he wished; Carolyn would not ever confess to Brighton's other identity. And she smiled to herself, a small thrill of excitement rushing over her. Sverayov was clever and he knew it—but she was very clever, too.

George looked up and stared gravely at her. "How on earth did you write this, Carolyn?"

Carolyn gave a worried glance at the door. But Sverayov was not in sight. "I have my sources, Papa." She managed a bright smile.

His scrutiny was intense. "If you went into that kind of establishment in your disguise, then I must put my foot down," he finally said.

Carolyn hurried behind the counter and put her arm around him. ' 'Papa, you know that no journalist can reveal his or her sources!"

He was very grim. "You were there, were you not? Carolyn, you have gone too far."

She felt her cheeks heating. "Papa, did you not enjoy the column?"

He finally sighed. "Was Woodhaven really there?"

Carolyn nodded, mouth pursed.

"I cannot believe it! What hypocrisy! And who, miight I ask, was the other gentleman—the member of Liverpool's cabinet?"

Carolyn's eyes sparked and danced. "Perhaps that is for

me to know and you to wonder about," she said happily.

George sighed with mock exasperation, putting his arm around her. "You are not being careful, Carolyn."

Carolyn glanced again nervously at the doorway, but no tall, tawny form loomed there. "Actually," she said in a hushed tone, "it was the elder Davison."

"Really? Well, one never truly knows what goes on in a man's mind, now does one?"

Carolyn agreed. "It is amazing."

George shook his head, smiled. "It's a perfect day to go out. Where are you going, my dear? And do not tell me you are doing more investigative work."

Carolyn hesitated. "Actually, I am going for a drive in the park," she said carefully.

George's eyes twinkled. "With young Davison?" The bell over the front door was tinkling.

Carolyn's heart leapt as she turned. She started upon seeing Anthony Davison strolling into the store. "Er, no," she said quickly to her father.

"I do not understand," George said.

Carolyn hesitated. "I am going with Sverayov."

George's eyes widened and Carolyn knew he disapproved and was about to protest. But she turned her back on him—something she never did—as Davison came forward, smiling. Carolyn saw that he held a bouquet of flowers in his hand. Her eyes widened, but she was already smiling. "Hello, Lord Anthony."

"Miss Browne." He bowed over her hand. "Mister Browne. I brought you these," he said, his blue eyes holding hers.

Carolyn hadn't expected flowers, but was hardly amazed. In fact, she was rather preoccupied with her pending outing in the park. "Why, thank you,'' she said, taking the lilies. "How very thoughtful. Let me get a vase and put them in some water."

The bell over the door sounded again.

Carolyn tensed as Prince Sverayov strode into the bookstore. Behind him, she glimpsed a small cabriolet, a vehicle

which seated two. She had expected to see his black lacquer town coach emblazoned with the snarling red wolf atop the crossed swords, and his mounted armed guard of a dozen Cossacks behind. The cabriolet seemed remarkably small— and remarkably intimate.

She thought about that night again. Specifically, she recalled the incredible tension she had felt all during the evening. But as she had been in disguise, she assumed that she had been the only one to experience it.

Sverayov approached. Her heart tightened because even casually dressed in a riding jacket, breeches, and high Hessian boots, he was too striking for comfort. "Good afternoon, Miss Browne." He bowed briefly, did not take her hand. His eyes seemed to sparkle, as if he knew something amusing which he was keeping to himself. "Mister Browne." His gaze settled briefly on Anthony Davison before returning to Carolyn. "If you hold that bouquet any tighter, you shall strangle the flowers," he said.

Carolyn felt herself turning red. "I was just about to get a vase," she said. Her glance went from Sverayov to Anthony. The younger man was also flushed, and quite obviously dismayed.

"A nice gesture," the prince said easily to Anthony. "I do not believe that we have had the pleasure. Prince Nicholas Ivanovitch Sverayov, at your service."

"Anthony Davison," Anthony replied with a bow. "I have seen you at several gatherings. Excellency, but we were not introduced."

"I am flattered," Sverayov said, his smile both cool and amused. It was definitely superior.

Carolyn felt awkward and uncomfortable. The men gave off the impression that they were rivals—which was absolutely ludicrous. "I'll be right back," she said, fleeing into the kitchen behind the shop. She quickly pumped water into a porcelain vase and slipped in the bouquet of lilies". Her heart felt as if it were staging a riot inside of her chest. "Do calm down," she gritted to herself. "He is only a man, even if he is gorgeous, and he is a rotten one at that! With

no morals. He frequents brothels!" she reminded herself.

George entered the kitchen. "Are you talking to yourself?" he asked, his expression somber.

Carolyn faced him. "Caught in the act," she said brightly.

"You are driving with him?"

She paused. "Yes."

"Carolyn. I do not approve."

She was very still, holding the vase of flowers in her hands. "Why?" j

"He is only toying with you. As you yourself have said, ^ he is immoral, a rake. He wants only to use you. You will be hurt."

Carolyn stared. Had she not already drawn precisely the J same conclusion? The prince had no honest intentions to- " ward her. Not that she would even define what honest intentions meant! He was a cad, he used women, frequented harlots, ignored his wife. Her father had been terribly blunt. But not as blunt as the thoughts Carolyn was now entertaining. Sverayov undoubtedly wished to make love to her once or twice—the way he had carried on with Victoria.

Caroline's lungs somehow lacked air. She got a grip on herself. She was an enlightened thinker—but not that enlightened. Because for one astounding moment, the notion of accepting his advances had flashed through her mind. Carolyn sighed and turned to George.' 'You are right, of course," she said slowly. She reminded herself that she had no interest in passion. She had never had any interest in passion. She did not even understand it. Not even now. She believed in true love—the kind of love that had existed between her mother and her father—the kind of love that was so rare.

"Good," George said flatly. "I am glad you have come to your senses. If you wish, I can tell Sverayov that you are too busy to accompany him this afternoon."

"Papa, that would be rude. I have already committed myself. Besides, I am hoping to learn something useful for a future column."

George flinched. "Carolyn, I have never forbidden you anything before."

She hfted her chin. "Then do not start now. I am eighteen. Legally I may be under age, but we both know I am an adult woman and an enlightened thinker. Surely you trust my judgment. And if he tries something wicked, I will resist." She smiled. "He is not one of those cads renowned for forcing women against their will, Papa."

George was clearly torn. "I do trust your judgment, I always have, but it is the prince's intentions which I do not trust—and his powers of persuasion."

"Bah!" Carolyn scoffed, waving her hand. "You have nothing to worry about." And at that moment, she meant it.

Sverayov handed Carolyn up into the cabriolet, his grip firm on her elbow. Carolyn wished she were not so excruciatingly aware of him. He settled on the seat beside her, his hard thigh against hers. He shot her a smile and lifted the reins.

Trying to move over and put some distance between them, thinking about her father's warnings and her own fears, Carolyn saw Anthony Davison regarding them from the doorway of the bookstore. His expression was one of dismay. Feeling badly for him, Carolyn sent him a smile and a parting wave. The cabriolet jolted forward. She tumbled against Sverayov.

' 'Poor chap. Your admirer is not pleased to see you driving with me," Sverayov remarked.

"He is hardly my admirer," Carolyn said. She gave up trying to keep an inch between their thighs.

Sverayov leaned back against the seat, as if driving were effortless for him. He had one leg stretched casually out. That leg brushed against her. ' 'No? Does your average customer bring you flowers?"

Carolyn flushed. ' 'I seem to have a lot of customers who are buying books for their sister," she said, giving him a sideways glance.

"How odd," Sverayov remarked.

Carolyn started. She had just glimpsed a newspaper rolled up in the comer of the seat. Briefly, he followed her glance. Then he turned the single gelding around the comer. Hyde Park was across the street.

"I imagine you keep abreast of the news," Sverayov said.

Carolyn hoped, fervently, that the journal was not the Morning Chronicle. Her heart thrummed against her ribs. But she would deny, to her dying breath, that Brighton was Copperville. And then she grimaced, almost exclaiming out loud. She was Carolyn—not Brighton. There would be no disclaimers to make today.

"I try," she said, a fib. She read at least one paper every day. It was her responsibility to herself. How else could she remain an enlightened thinker?

"Hmm. And which paper do you prefer?"

She hesitated. "The Times.''

He swiveled his head, eyes wide. "Really!" he exclaimed. "I would have never guessed. The Times is a very conservative joumal. Run by Tories, you know. Written for Tories, too. I assumed you were a Whig."

Of course she was a Whig. "Acmally," Carolyn said, "I read the Times because it is cmcial to know what the opposition is thinking and saying and hoping to do."