Splendor (8 page)

And how could she leave him alone? If he continued to provide material for her colunm, why then, she would use it as any civic-minded journalist would. The whole point of Copperville's column was to expose any and all hypocrites to the rest of society—and maybe, just maybe, make some of them think twice about their own behavior.

Carolyn wondered if he would be at the Sheffield dinner dance a few days hence. Although it was not a ball, a hundred guests had been invited, making it a grand event—for it was to honor Lord Sheffield on his fifty-fifth birthday. Caroline had already surmised just who was on the guest list. She knew for a ifact that Prinny was attending, for there was little that the prince regent did or intended to do that Caroline was not aware of, as she had excellent connections with a member of his household staff, and leading Tories had apparently been invited as well, including Liverpool. She imagined that if Sverayov had not been invited he would probably change that himself. But she knew Lady Sheffield. She would never exclude any royalty, much less a gorgeous Russian prince, fi:om a party of her making. Caroline's diary already listed the fete as a "must-do." She had no intention of missing it.

She stared at herself in the mirror atop her small bureau and washstand, frowning at her reflection. Her cheeks remained flushed, her eyes very bright. She was seeing an interior lit up with a dozen chandeliers, couples waltzing across a parquet floor, an orchestra playing, just hidden

from view, with servants rushing to and fro with refreshments. Suddenly she could see Sverayov, standing a head taller than the crowd, watching the dancers with a jaundiced eye. And she did not want to masquerade as a footman again, and be resigned to observing the dinner dance from the ranks of the servants waiting outside.

But did she dare? Could she give herself a title, gain entree to the fete, and actually participate? Could she avoid detection—and being thrown out on her ear? Surely, once inside, no one would notice her amongst the crush.

Her pulse went wild. But how could she not try? There would be so much more information to glean if she were on the inside instead of the outside. And she was not taking such a risk because of Sverayov!

When Carolyn went downstairs a few minutes later, excited now at the scheme taking place in her mind, George was putting on his own frock coat and top hat. He picked up a bundle of books from the counter. *'I shall be about two hours," he said.

Carolyn nodded, realizing he was meeting a client. The shop was empty, so she walked him to the door. "I am so glad you are home," she said earnestly, kissing his cheek.

George put his arm around her. "There is no place like home," he declared. "I am taking us out tonight. We'll share a pint or two."

*'That will be fun," Carolyn said, hugging him again.

After he had left, Carolyn went to the money drawer to check the morning's receipts. They'd had only one sale, and her spirits sank slightly, but then she purposefully buoyed them up. Depression was not in her nature; optimism was. It had been a long winter and a slow spring, but she just knew it would be a wonderfully busy summer—it had to be. The war had hurt them as much as it had hurt anybody. Inflation, shortages of goods, lost employment, these factors impacted on all but the very rich. Although Carolyn did not want to think about it, it was getting harder and harder every month to pay the rent, and harder each year to pay the government taxes. She was very thankful

that Copperville had become an instant success when he had first been published last year. She and her father desperately needed the extra income generated by the column.

The doorbell tinkled. Carolyn slipped the receipts away, smiling brightly and looking up. And her heart careened to a halt.

Prince Sverayov stood in the doorway, tall and powerful, golden and bronze, filling it up. His form actually blocked out the sunlight from outdoors.

Carolyn could not believe her eyes. And then her heart began to beat again, but hard and fast, so hard, and so fast, that she could not breathe adequately. She did not move.

He stared at her. His mouth formed a smile. And he stepped inside Browne's Books, closing the door behind him.

Carolyn began to shake. Her mind came to life. Panic filled her. He knew. He knew she had been disguised as a man, spying on him while he was at home.

But Sverayov did not make any such accusations. He strolled forward, a slight, very masculine swagger to his stride, his gaze sliding over Carolyn from her head of blond curls to the tips of her breasts—all that was revealed of her because she remained frozen behind the counter. "Good day," he said, the slightest Slavic accent tinging his otherwise flawless English.

Carolyn opened her mouth to speak but no words came out. He had to know. This could not be a coincidence. But she hadn't noticed anyone following her. Yet neither had she checked to see if she were being pursued.

He moved closer, his eyes now on her face, moving languidly from feature to feature. He seemed to stare longer than necessary at her mouth. Carolyn knew her cheeks were burning as her mind raced. Had he followed her? Think, she ordered herself. But her mind refused to cooperate and she could not recall a thing about her short trip home.

He smiled at her. Carolyn's heart turned over from the impact of that wolfish smile. '*I have been told that this is the finest bookstore in London. That this is the place to

come when one wishes to locate a rare manuscript."

Carolyn wet her lips. She berated herself for having lost her wits. She had no choice but to play this out. To see where this would lead—and whether he knew about her subterfuge or not. "Yes. Good day. What is it that you are looking for?" She thought her tone sounded like a croak. He paused very close to the counter—so only a dozen inches separated their bodies. Carolyn was forced to crane her head slightly to look up at him. Her pulse continued to pound. He was wearing his military uniform, studded with close to a dozen medals. He was intimidating. Not just because of his power, but because of his very potent, very bold sensuality. It was there in his heated amber eyes, suggested by the bare curve of his full mouth. There was a cleft in his chin. Carolyn told herself that she would not faint, by God. She was not going to be affected this way by him, she was not like those other mindless women. She was an independent thinker—and proud of it. He was a hedonistic tyrant. She must remain focused on that fact.

"I am looking for an original copy of Peter Abelard's Sic et Non and an unoriginal version of Bartholomew's encyclopedia of universal knowledge," Sverayov said, staring unblinkingly at her.

Carolyn jerked to attention. 'T beg your pardon?" He began to repeat what he had said, but she interrupted. "Abelard's original treatise is in Latin," she said. He smiled slowly at her. "I am aware of that." She nodded, reached for a quill and made a note. She wished her hand would stop trembling, hoped he would not remark it. So he read Latin? And was interested in academic dialectic thought? ' 'It will be extremely hard to find such a manuscript." She lifted her eyes to his and felt seared. Her heart leapt wildly. "Abelard wrote in the eleventh century."

"You are very well informed," the Russian said calmly. "For a woman."

Carolyn stiffened. Was there a double meaning to his words? "I have read Abelard," she said far more heatedly

than she wished. "I read him when I was eleven years of

age."

If he were impressed, he did not show it. "The original—or in translation?" he queried.

Her chin tilted. "The original." She did not add that she had also read the translation.

"I am impressed," he said, something slipping into his tone that was husky and intimate. "It is unusual, a woman well versed in Latin."

Carolyn lost her wits again. She was riveted by his magnetic gaze. "I am also fluent in French," she managed.

His brow lifted. "The language of the Russian court. How interesting. And you have also perused Bartholomew?" he asked.

"Yes."

He leaned on the counter, the movement bringing him even closer to her. His face was only inches from hers, and Carolyn could feel the heat generated by his big body. "And who was responsible for your unusual education?"

She knew her cheeks flamed. Her gaze wandered to his lips. Why was it so suffocating in the shop? "My father," she said.

"Mr. Browne?"

"Yes," she whispered.

His gaze slid slowly over her face again, down her bare neck—Carolyn was terribly relieved that she was wearing a high collar—and over her chest. He straightened. "When shall I be able to meet with Mr. Browne to discuss the probability of success in his executing my request?''

"He will be back in a few hours," Carolyn managed. Sverayov was coming back? She felt oddly elated—yet she also remained eerily afraid.

His hand slipped into an interior breast pocket. He handed her a snow-white calling card. ' 'This is where I can be reached." He smiled slightly. "In case you have a need to do so."

Their fingertips touched. Carolyn flinched. Was he mocking her? Was he trying to tell her that he knew all about

her escapade that morning? Surely he was not flirting with her—and intimating that she might wish to contact him for personal reasons?

"Th-thank you," Carolyn said, slipping the card into the drawer of the counter without even glancing at it. "We shall probably have some luck with Bartholomew." She had the awful feeling that he knew her every single thought.

"I am. more interested in Abelard," he returned coolly.

Carolyn swallowed.

"In any case, tell Mr. Browne that I look forward to our association," Sverayov said, "If he can accomplish this mission, I shall use him again."

"Yes, of course," Carolyn said.

Sverayov's mouth curved again. Carolyn expected him to bow. Instead, he suddenly had her hand in his—and was lifting it to his lips as he bent over it.

She stared in shock. Then he straightened—a flicker of amusement in his eyes?—and he bowed briefly and strode out of the store.

Carolyn sank abruptly to the floor, her legs having turned to jelly.

<4£i Sex ^

HER father returned earlier than she expected him. He came into the bookstore appearing a bit harried. Carolyn had long since recovered from her encounter with Sverayov. She had still not decided if he had followed her from his leased town house or not. The possibility raised a portentous question. Did she dare attend the Sheffields' soiree on Tuesday next? But it was one way of finding out for certain if he knew of her masquerade or not.

Her blood pulsed. Fear mingled with exhilaration. At least Copperville was at no risk. He must remain anonymous at all costs.

She had briefly forgotten about "The Royal Sham." Now she cringed somewhat. Had he seen it? Did he even read the Morning Chronicle'^ Eventually, she knew, someone would mention it to him. Thank God he did not know she was Copperville!

"How has business been?" George asked, hanging up his coat.

"Mrs. Henson came in to buy that novel that was written anonymously," Carolyn said. "Sense and Sensibility." She handed her father the note itemizing Sverayov's requests. He read it, his eyes narrowing.

"Someone wants an Abelard original? That's impossible!" George exclaimed. But he was smiling now.

"Impossible or unlikely?"

"Both." He put the note down. "Bartholomew I can find. I saw a copy in Prague at the home of a private client. If this customer wishes to pay, and dearly, I can obtain it." He studied Carolyn. "Who has made these requests?"

She smiled at him, not suspecting what his reaction would be. "You will never guess. None other than our illustrious Russian prince, Sverayov."

George stiffened. "He was^ here?"

"Papa." Carolyn was puzzled. "Is something amiss?"

He stared at her. "Carolyn, you write about him as Cop-perville, the column was published this morning, and the man suddenly appears in our store. Is that not worrisome? Only your editor and myself are aware of your real identity."

Carolyn became a bit uneasy. "We have a bookshop and he is looking for rare books," she said. "It's impossible that he has connected me to Copperville. He probably hasn't even read the column yet—or even learned of it." She hesitated. "But it's possible he followed me this morning," she confessed.

"I don't like this," George exclaimed. "You have never gone this far before!"

That was true. "Well, he did not expose me as a trespasser or worse," Carolyn said slowly. "So if he knows what I was up to, he is keeping closemouthed about it. But I cannot think of why he would do such a thing," Carolyn said, ' 'for surely if he knew it was I who was in his gardens this morning, he would accuse me outright."

"He is here to negotiate an alliance between his country and ours, Carolyn. He is a Russian prince, a colonel, and a close personal friend of Tsar Alexander," George said quite grimly.

Carolyn frowned. "What are you trying to tell me?" she asked.

"I think you are going too far with Copperville. Until now, you have written about the wildly extravagant or illicit behavior of society—but never have you targeted such a public figure before. It is a mistake. You could get into

trouble, Carolyn, for interfering with the conduct of official state business in this time of war."

Carolyn was genuinely alarmed now as George turned and walked up the narrow staircase. It was certainly true that for several years now, the laws had become very strict about expressing one's opinions, whether written or not, especially if those opinions were at all political. But no one could accuse her of interfering in the treaty negotiations just because she had blasted Sverayov for his amoral behavior last night! Carolyn suddenly realized that George's concerns were natural—those of a worried father trying to protect his wayward daughter. Perhaps she should be a little bit more cautious in the future.

Carolyn felt a tad guilty. George would be distraught if he knew just what she intended to do—even though he never forbade her anything. Carolyn was certain of it. Therefore, he must not know that she would still attend the Sheffield dinner affair.