Splendor (36 page)

Suddenly one of the boys turned and kicked the ball hard, away from the sidewalk, into the traffic of the street. Carolyn could not imagine why he would do such a thing, but was not given even a moment to contemplate it, for the two boys were suddenly on the sidewalk, racing up it furiously. Carolyn and her entourage stood directly in their path. She suddenly realized they were all about to be barreled over and she stiffened, gripping Katya's hand more tightly, beginning to drag her away.

But it was too late. The bigger boy barreled his body between Carolyn and the child, severing their grip. Carolyn cried out, "Katya!" But she saw, with relief, that Raffaldi had grabbed her and jerked her aside safely. And then she felt her reticule being torn out of her other hand. She cried out again, in protest, comprehending what was happening, yet now she was shoved hard to her knees. Carolyn gasped as she hit the stone sidewalk, the cutpurse fleeing with her bag.

It had all happened so quickly and Carolyn was briefly dazed. Then the anger began. As a gentleman offered to help her stand, his lady friend crying out in concern, Carolyn glanced around with worry, trying to locate her charge

and the Italian. She espied them standing on the steps of the museum with sheer relief. She had been thoroughly separated from Katya and Raffaldi, however. Carolyn had been pushed to the curb. "I'm fine," Carolyn muttered.

But no harm was done. She'd had little of value in her reticule, and Katya was all right. Carolyn supposed that she had two bruised knees. It could have been worse.

"Are you all right, Miss Browne?" Raffaldi called over to her.

Carolyn was about to reply, the stranger helping her up. And suddenly Raffaldi screamed to her in warning—^just as someone slammed into her, hard, from behind. Carolyn was shoved violently forward—into the street. She landed on her hands and knees and then her face. Her cheek and temple burned, a pain shot through her side, and the wind was knocked completely out of her. For one instant, blackness enveloped Carolyn.

"Carolyn!" It was Raffaldi, screaming. "The dray!"

The cloud of blackness lifted. Carolyn was seized with comprehension. She twisted to her hands and knees, glancing up. Horror immobilized her. The dray being pulled by the huge draft horses was bearing down upon her. And it was obvious that, the horses being so huge, the driver could not see Carolyn, prone in its path.

Katya screamed, shrill and high. Strangers also cried out.

Carolyn rolled. Hard and fast, to the side. And as she lay there, she watched, in disbelief, huge hooves pounding down by her head, her shoulder, her hip. Narrowly missing her. In fact, Carolyn could feel the draft caused by each hoof. Then the oversized wheels rolled by. And the dray was gone.

Carolyn lay in the street, unmoving. Sweat streamed down her body. Her heart beat with frantic urgency. And then she began to shake.

Katya flew off the museum steps, followed by the Italian, and knelt beside Carolyn. "Miss Browne, Miss Browne!" she sobbed. "Don't be dead, please!"

Carolyn inhaled, trembling. She had almost been rufi

over. "I'm not dead, Katya." Sweat continued to pour down her body. She tested her arms and legs, gingerly, and found that she could move. But pain lanced through her side. "Oh, God," she said, sitting up slowly.

Raffaldi squatted beside them, his swarthy face filled with concern. Bystanders had formed a half circle around them. Carolyn heard several ladies chatting rapid-fire, indignation in their tones. Someone cried, "Did you see that? She was pushedV

"Miss Browne, dear God, let me help you up. Are you hurt?" Raffaldi asked, wide-eyed.

"I think I am fine. Except for my side, which may be strained." Carolyn's shock was severe. It was hard to think of anything other than that she had almost been run over by the draft horses. But how had she fallen into the street?

An image of the two boys, playing with the ball, seared her mind, as did the bigger boy barreling tlirough her and Katya, in order to steal her purse.

"You are bleeding," Katya cried. "Your face is all scraped!"

Carolyn touched her cheek and found her fingertips stained with blood and dirt.

"Let me help you up," Raffaldi said, putting his arm around her. "We should get out of this street."

As Carolyn stood, the pain renewed itself in her left side, and she bit off a gasp. Her knees refused to hold her up. She had fallen into the street, hadn't she? The exact sequence of events was scrambled in her mind.

' 'She was pushed!''

The woman's shocked statement echoed in Carolyn's mind. Had she been pushed? Carolyn touched her throbbing temples. But why? Why would someone push her into the street—and into the path of the oncoming dray?

"Miss Browne, you need a physician," Katya said, her voice choked.

Carolyn looked down at her, saw she was close to tears

and terribly frightened. "I am fine, Katya." She hugged the child only to wince with pain again. Then she looked up and met Raffaldi's eyes. "It was just an accident." His expression was severe. And doubtful.

<^ Twenty-four ^

NICHOLAS hesitated on the threshold of the nursery classroom, but it was vacant. Of course, it was past teatime, and he had not really expected to find either his daughter or Carolyn in the schoolroom at this hour. Nicholas turned and walked down the corridor toward his daughter's rooms. He heard Katya's voice, followed by Taichili's firmer tones. He knocked upon the door. It was promptly opened by the governess. "Good afternoon," Nicholas said to her. He smiled at Katya, but quickly saw that Carolyn was not present in the room. He was disappointed, undeniably so. "How was your outing, Katya?"

She looked at him and said not a word.

Nicholas entered the room. "Did you enjoy the museum?"

Katya remained silent.

"Surely you have some wonderful anecdotes to share, perhaps about the pharaohs?" he prompted. He was becoming concerned.

Katya finally said, reluctantly, "We saw a mummy."

Nicholas was somewhat alarmed now, and he glanced at Taichili, who was suddenly very busy in the comer of the bedroom, folding clothing—which the maids usually did. He faced his daughter. "Katya, clearly something is amiss. What?"

She appeared ready to burst into tears.

Nicholas wheeled. "Taichili. Do you know what is wrong?"

Taichili faced him with maddening slowness. "Apparently there was some, er, trouble on the, er, excursion, Your Excellency."

He was on alert. "What kind of trouble?"

Taichili saiid, ' 'There was a mishap. The, uh, companion was robbed."

He stared. "Miss Browne was robbed? Where is she? Is she all right?" He was more than alarmed—and stunned by the intensity of his concern for Carolyn. He turned to gaze at his daughter again. "You are all right, Katya?"

She nodded, eyes wide.

"Where is Miss Browne?" he demanded.

"In her room, I suppose," Taichili sniffed. Then she said, under her breath but loud enough for him to hear, "An excursion, hmph. Taking a small child out on the streets was asking for trouble, I say." She glared at the floor.

Nicholas strode from the room. Carolyn's door was closed. He rapped smartly on it, but there was no answer, and he knocked again. "Miss Browne?"

When there was no response, he opened the door. The room was empty. It quickly occurred to him that she must be downstairs, taking her supper with the staff. Nicholas strode down the hall, pounded down the stairs, reminding himself that she was not harmed. As he approached the kitchens, which he had never entered before, he could hear the uproar and clamor from within—pots and pans clanging, knives chopping and thudding on cutting boards, and quiet conversation punctuated by someone's—the chef's, he assumed—near-hysterical directives. He stepped inside. Cooks and their helpers were in the midst of supper preparations—chopping and slicing, mixing and baking, stirring heavy iron cauldrons. Other servants were scurrying about with pots and pans, while others were scrubbing them. The room was resonant with chatter, gossip, and even chuckles and laughter. But suddenly someone, a maid, saw him and

cried out. Everyone turned—and froze. A dozen pairs of eyes riveted upon him. The silence was so absolute that he could hear his own breathing.

Nicholas ignored everyone. Carolyn stood with Raffaldi by the huge iron sink, her back to him. His coachman, he realized, was also with them—which made little sense. "Miss Browne?"

Her shoulders stiffened. Both Raffaldi and the coachman, whose name he did not know, faced him immediately. Raffaldi smiled obsequiously, but was pale beneath his swarthy coloring. His coachman's smile was frozen in place. And finally, Carolyn also turned.

He was shocked. One side of her face was scraped raw. Her dress was torn on the same shoulder, and rudely stained everywhere else. He cursed. "C/zorr voz'mil What happened?" he cried, striding forward.

She was pale. "My lord, your daughter is unharmed."

"I know that," he said furiously. "Are you hurt?"

"No."

"I want to know what the hell happened," he demanded.

She blanched even more. "A cutpurse stole my reticule— and I fell into the street."

His active mind absorbed that instantly. He knew she was not telling him everything—he saw it in her green eyes. "And?"

She forced a smile. "And that is all."

"Carolyn." He tilted up her chin. "There is more."

She shook her head, avoiding his eyes.

He glanced at Raffaldi, who also avoided his gaze, and cursed again. "You need a physician."

"No. I am fine."

He looked at the coachman. "Bring a physician to the house immediately."

"Yes, Your Excellency." The coachman bowed and ran from the kitchens.

"Come with me," Nicholas ordered. He stepped back and waited for Carolyn to precede him. He followed her into the corridor, his booted steps sounding briskly on the

parquet floors. "To the library," he instructed.

She turned down another corridor and they entered the room, where a small fire had been set in the tawny marble hearth. Nicholas went to the sideboard and poured a large glass of vodka.

"I am beyond needing that," she said quietly.

He ignored her, removed a handkerchief from his breast pocket, and dipped it into the liquid. "This will sting, but it will help to avoid infection—and scarring."

She met his gaze. Their eyes held. "I can do that," she said slowly.

Nicholas did not respond. He dipped the kerchief in the alcohol and gently washed the abrasion on her cheek, noting that Carolyn neither gasped nor flinched. Their gazes met again. Where her sleeve was hanging off her shoulder the skin had also been bruised, and he applied alcohol to that scrape too. "Is there more?" he asked.

"No."

He planted his hands on his hips. "Now," he said, "why don't you tell me what really happened?'

She hesitated. "I have already told you. It was a boy. I'm sure he did not mean to hurt me, and that he is tremendously disappointed with the meager contents of my purse."

"I will replace those contents," he said automatically. "You are dissembling."

She stiffened.

"I am adept at reading people, Carolyn." His tone was low.

Her jaw flexed. Her gaze wandered. "Very well. I may have been pushed."

His brow lifted. "You said you fell."

"I'm not sure."

Nicholas studied her silently. "The cutpurse pushed you? Accidentally?"

"I assume so," she said.

"I am glad it was not worse." But his mind was racing. "You are upset."

"A little," she admitted. She lowered her gaze. "It was terrifying. Almost being run over by that dray. And I feel that I have let down my charge. If I cannot take Katya on a simple excursion—"

"You were almost run over!" He was aghast.

She looked up. "Yes."

He stared, his heart pounding, sweat upon his brow. "God," he finally said, and reflexively, he reached out and cupped her cheek. Immediately their gazes met.

And he thought about last night, in the kitchen behind the bookshop. Nicholas dropped his hand and paced away from her, disturbed both by what had happened and what seemed to be happening now. Controlling his feelings for Carolyn no longer seemed quite so simple.

Finally he faced her, only to find her regarding him intently. "This was not your fault. Next time you will have a pair of brawny footmen as an escort."

"Most people do not need an escort to go to the museum, Your Excellency."

Again he thought about last night—about how Carolyn had looked in her cotton nightclothes, about how she had felt in his arms. "Nicholas," he said softly.

She was still.

"Carolyn." He hesitated. "There is something I must discuss with you." His business in London had been concluded that afternoon. A treaty had been signed between their respective countries. He had, obviously, been right. Davison had been the last obstacle to the conclusion of the alliance. In the very near future not only would Marie-Elena be returning home, but so would Katya, and so would he.

"What is it?" she asked, her tone strained.

"We signed the treaty this afternoon."

Her eyes widened.

"I have akeady sent a courier home with the good news."

Carolyn had turned white.

But before he could ask her if she would be returning with them, his wife burst into the room. She saw them and

froze on the threshold. Nicholas felt a twinge of guilt when he saw her, in spite of all that she had done. Being estranged was one thing, but having strong feelings for another woman was quite different.

Marie-Elena's smile was brittle. "I do hope I am not intruding," she said, entering the room.

Nicholas eyed her. "If I had wished to be left alone, the door would have been closed." His gaze met his wife's.

She looked at Carolyn. "Oh, my. What happened to you, Miss Browne?"

Carolyn was staring at Marie-Elena with obvious dismay. "I... have had an accident."

"Oh, really? What kind of accident?" Marie-Elena asked with blatantly feigned concern. Clearly she did not care.

Carolyn said, unsmiling, "I had a minor run-in with a cutpurse, Your Highness. Now, if you will both excuse me, I am very tired."