A Study In Seduction (20 page)

“Do they?” Her breath was uneven.

“Mmm. It’s called a
schoty
. They use it to tabulate both simple and complex calculations. I imagine several of my Russian ancestors were shopkeepers. So it must be in my blood.”

His hand reached hers, his fingers sliding across her knuckles.

“What must be in your blood?” she asked.

His thumb rubbed back and forth, back and forth, over her hand. “The effectiveness of touch.”

A tremble coursed through her, little shivers raining up her arm. He hardly needed an abacus to prove that to her. Or, she suspected, to any other woman.

She drew back. “My lord.”

“Alexander,” he murmured. “I want you to call me Alexander.”

Her gaze flew to his. “I beg your pardon?”

“Alexander,” he repeated. His breath stirred the tendrils of hair at her temple. “Say it.”

She wanted to. The urge filled her mouth like warm cream. She wanted to give voice to this man’s name, to listen to it flow through the thick, dusty air. She wanted to say it aloud, the sharp
X
sound slicing the elegant vowels like a knife through soap-soft leather. She wanted to hear the acute consonants scarring the liquidity of the word.

She loved
Alexander
. Loved the name’s imperfection, the melting of soft and hard sounds, the way it trailed off into a purr at the end. She could never think of him as
Alex
, could never cut short the silver ribbon of his name.

“Lydia.” In his deep voice, her own name acquired new depth, like poetry that only he had the power to explain.

In that instant, Lydia had the strange, profound revelation that if she were to say his Christian name, it would be like severing the rope leading her from a maze. She would be left within a complex yet utterly compelling labyrinth with nothing but Lord Northwood’s hands wrapped around hers and his breath on her skin.

She would not be able to find her way out. She would not want to find her way out. She would belong to him forever.

Her hands tightened on the abacus. His hands tightened on hers. She lifted her head, seeing herself reflected in the glossy dark surface of his eyes. Her voice was a steady, unfurling whisper.

“Alexander.”

J
ane peered out the window at the man standing across the street. Something about him seemed familiar, though she couldn’t figure out what it was.

She turned away and paced. With Lydia gone, Jane didn’t quite know what to do with herself—Grandmama had taken her to the park this morning, but then had gone off shopping with a friend and left Jane in the care of Mrs. Driscoll.

Jane glanced out at the man again. He appeared tall and thin, his hands in his coat pockets, his hat pulled low over his forehead.

A knot pulled just beneath Jane’s chest. She wondered what Lydia was doing at Lord Rushton’s country estate.

She slid her hand into her pocket, where the locket key still rested. She hadn’t yet tried the key in any lock, though she knew of only one or two places where the little thing might fit.

“Would you like some tea, dear?” Mrs. Driscoll appeared in the doorway.

Jane shook her head and muttered that she wasn’t hungry.

She slipped past the housekeeper and went downstairs. Unaccountably, her insides began to twist with nerves. Before she lost courage, Jane crossed to the closed door of her father’s study and went inside.

The box sat on a shelf near the cedarwood desk.
Copper
, Jane thought as she ran a finger over the floral engravings. She’d seen the box numerous times, noticed the little lock holding it closed, though she’d never wondered about its contents. Until now.

She glanced over her shoulder, then inserted the key into the lock and turned. A faint click echoed through the room. She lifted the lid to reveal a padded velvet interior.

In an odd contrast to the rich-looking material, there was a worn brown envelope with frayed edges. A tattered string held the envelope closed. Jane picked it up and examined it. No writing or stamps marred the smooth exterior.

She hesitated. This was wrong. This was obviously private, or her father wouldn’t have locked it away.

Jane put the envelope back in the box and started to close the lid. She looked at it for a moment, her heart beginning to thump a heavy beat inside her head.

She had the sudden feeling that the contents of the envelope were of the utmost importance.

Her heart hammered more loudly. Before she could change her mind, she grasped the envelope again and tore off the string. Her hands shook as she opened the flap and removed a piece of paper, yellowed with age, the sheet divided into separate boxes, each enclosing a few words.

She studied the page, the scrawled, loopy handwriting
that exceeded the boundaries of the printed boxes, only realizing after a moment’s perusal that most of the words were in French.

French. Her mother had lived in France for years… a convent or sanatorium run by Dominican nuns. She’d died there, too, so perhaps this was a certificate of death or…

Jane gasped.

“My father visited Russia several times at the behest of the czar,” Lord Rushton said, slicing into the filet with one stroke. “He always spoke of the country with great affection, and I often went along when I was a boy. He was quite pleased when I was appointed ambassador to St. Petersburg. Of course, that was a long time ago.”

Lydia could have sworn she saw wistfulness pass across the earl’s face before he gestured for a footman to pour more wine.

“Do you go back often?” Lydia asked, glancing at Sebastian, who sat to her right. “To St. Petersburg, I mean?”

His expression clouded. He shook his head and reached for his glass.

“Like Papa, we visited quite often when we were children,” Talia said, her voice a bit too bright. “It was a second home to us. Our brother Darius still lives there. Lovely city, Miss Kellaway. You must visit one day. You’d find a number of fellow scholars, I’m quite sure.”

“What is it like?” Lydia asked.

Silence fell. The three siblings exchanged glances, as if each waited for the other to speak. As if none knew how to answer her simple question. Alexander shrugged.

“Cold winters.” His voice vibrated with something distant, foreign. “That’s what it’s like. A bitter cold that
steals your breath. Snow piles everywhere, ice covers the windows, the river and canals freeze layers thick. Polar winds are as sharp as glass and drive gusts of snow through the streets. Darkness sets in midafternoon and doesn’t lift until morning. The ice doesn’t thaw until May. Sometimes it seems as if winter will never end.”

“Not all that pleasant, eh?” Castleford remarked. “D’you know I’ve never been?”

“Really?” Talia looked at him. “Haven’t you been everywhere?”

“I prefer warmer climes, my lady, especially if St. Petersburg is buried under a layer of ice six months out of the year.”

“That’s when you learn another way of living,” Alexander said. His gaze came to rest on Lydia, and then it seemed as if he spoke only to her. “In winter, the sound of troika bells replaces summer birdsong. Candlelight fills the churches, and well-tended stoves keep the houses warm. The theaters host concerts, plays, and operas. There are sleigh races on the frozen Neva. The city holds festivals with music, dancing, skating, puppet shows, ice palaces, vendors selling hot tea and pastries. You can lose yourself in the Hermitage, the cathedrals, the academies. And when you don’t want to be lost, you can find yourself in the white darkness. In the silence.”

An emotion passed across his face that Lydia did not recognize, something solitary and bleak, as if he had lost something of value and had no idea where to begin looking for it.

“Quite right, Northwood,” Rushton muttered.

“Well.” Alexander forced a smile. “I suppose one can find similar amusements anywhere.”

“No.” Talia put her hand over his, her voice soft. “Not anywhere.”

Rushton cleared his throat and stood, clapping his hands to break the solemn mood. “Coffee in the drawing room. And let’s find out if Miss Kellaway is truly the brilliant scholar she claims to be.”

Lydia looked at Alexander, but he only shrugged and indicated that they should accompany the earl. After they were seated in the drawing room, Rushton rummaged through a stack of books on a table and produced a folded paper.

“And now, Miss Kellaway.” The earl placed his reading glasses on his nose and peered at her over the rims. “Your sister recently informed me that the puzzle does not exist that you cannot solve. So I set forth to find one of substantial difficulty, which took me no small degree of research. I daresay, without meaning to impugn your intelligence, this simply cannot be done.”

A hush fell over the company, as if the earl had just thrown down a gauntlet. A sense of pride—of challenge—rose in Lydia.

She extended a hand to Lord Rushton. “May I see the problem, my lord?”

The earl gave the paper an irritated shake but allowed her to take it from him. “You cannot solve such a puzzle with mathematics. This is a trick of some sort.”

“Read it aloud, if you would, Miss Kellaway,” Sebastian suggested.

“Take a number of persons not exceeding nine,” Lydia read. “After you leave the room, one person puts a ring upon his finger. Upon returning, you must determine the wearer of the ring, the hand upon which it rests, and the specific finger and joint.”

The earl spread his hands. “I swear it cannot be done.”

Lydia studied the problem, her mind working around the idea for several minutes before she looked up. “Actually, my lord, this is an application involving the determination of a number fixed upon. It’s a bit of a trick using the principles of arithmetic.”

“Show us.” Alexander stood, extending a hand to Talia. “Might we borrow a ring?”

“My rings won’t fit any of your fingers, which isn’t fair for the puzzle.” Talia glanced around the room and went to a vase from which a spray of spring flowers bloomed. She removed a primrose and broke off the flower, then twisted the stem into a ring. “There.”

“All right, then,” Lydia said. “You must all sit in a specific order, and I will assign numbers.”

The company moved to sit in the places she indicated. Lydia designated the earl as number one, Lord Castleford number two, Talia three, Alexander four, and Sebastian five.

“Your right hand is also numbered one,” she continued. “Your left is number two. Your thumb is number one, your forefinger number two, and so on. The joint nearest your palm is number one, the next number two, and the last is three. Now I’ll leave the room while you determine who will wear the ring.”

She stepped outside the drawing room until Talia called for her to return. Lydia went back into the room, where everyone sat with their hands behind their backs.

“Now, then, Miss Kellaway,” Rushton said with a challenging look of his own. “How will you use arithmetic to determine the wearer of the ring?”

“I’ll require your help, my lord,” Lydia said. “
Without telling me anything yet, would you please double the number of the person who has the ring?”

The earl nodded. “Done.”

“Then add five and multiply the result by five.”

“Done.”

“Add ten, plus the number denoting the hand bearing the ring.”

“Do you require pencil and paper?” Talia asked her father in a sweet tone.

“Only to extract you from my will,” the earl retorted.

Sebastian and Castleford both chuckled. Even Alexander grinned.

“What next, Miss Kellaway?” the earl asked.

“Multiply your result by ten, then add the number of the finger holding the ring. Then multiply that sum by ten and add the number of the joint.”

“All right.”

“Then add thirty-five and tell me the sum you’ve reached.”

“Seven thousand six hundred fifty-seven,” Rushton replied.

Lydia performed a quick calculation in her head and turned toward Alexander. Her heart did a little twist as she saw the intense way he was looking at her.

“Lord Northwood,” she said, her eyes locking with his, “is wearing the ring on the second joint of the forefinger on his right hand.”

Silence descended over the company, so swift and hard that for an instant Lydia feared she’d made a mistake. Then Lord Rushton laughed, a big booming sound that echoed against the walls and ceiling of the elegant room.

A slow, beautiful smile spread across Alexander’s face
as he extended his right hand to reveal the flower stem wrapped around his forefinger.

Talia turned an astonished stare upon Lydia. “How on earth—”

“It’s quite simple, really, if you assign each part of the problem a fixed number and know the equation.” Lydia’s face heated slightly at the realization they thought she’d performed some astonishingly complex feat. “If you subtract three thousand five hundred thirty-five from the final number Lord Rushton provided, you have the solution. Seven thousand six hundred fifty-seven minus three thousand five hundred thirty-five is four thousand one hundred twenty-two. Lord Northwood was designated number four. And he wore the ring on his right hand, on the second joint of the second finger.”

“Miss Kellaway, you’re a marvel.” Rushton stood and clapped his hands. “I’d have sworn it couldn’t be done.”

“You did swear it couldn’t be done,” Sebastian replied, throwing Lydia a grin. “Impressing the earl can be an insurmountable task, which makes its achievement quite an event.”

Lydia glanced at Alexander. He was watching her with a curiously intent expression—his brow creased, a slight frown pulling at his mouth, as if he were attempting to reach a conclusion that still eluded him. Then he stood and approached Lydia with determination.

Her skin prickled with the sudden anticipation that something momentous was about to take place. Something both thrilling and devastating. The back of her neck dampened with perspiration, the candlelit room suddenly cloying and hot.

“I… I need to take some air.” She stepped back to
escape his increasingly imposing presence, attempting not to hurry as she went toward the doors leading to the terrace. “If you’ll excuse me—”