How To Distract a Duchess (24 page)

“Don’t drop me,” she hissed as they tottered dangerously.

“Furthest thing from my mind,” came the muffled reply. He spread his stance and braced his feet, grasping her buttocks to steady her. Artemisia’s wobbling ceased. She felt his breath hot on her delicate folds. The feeling was delicious.

  
“Larla,” his voice floated up to her through the many layers. “Any fellow who tells you this isn’t a man’s dearest dream is lying, but perhaps we could choose a more appropriate time and place.”

She pulled her skirt and petticoats up and looked down into his face. Here they were, breaking and entering, preparing to burgle, and Trevelyn could still set her pulse dancing.

“Perhaps we could,” she conceded. “I don’t suppose you have a linen closet back at the Golden Cockerel.”

“No, but I’m inspired to have one built.” He waggled his eyebrows at her naughtily.

Swallowing a giggle, she eased her thighs off his shoulders and slid down his body till her toes touched the floor. How she loved the hard, broad planes of him. He slipped a finger under her chin and tipped her face up. His brows now furrowed together.

“It will probably be dark in the ambassador’s chambers,” Trevelyn said in a whisper. “You said the statues are very like.”

“They are. The poses are virtually identical,” she admitted. “But I can tell them apart by feel.”

“How?”

“Perhaps you didn’t notice this afternoon, but Mr. Beddington has . . . well, I tried to make him realistic, you see,” she said.

“From the brief glimpse I caught of your work between drinking the ambassador’s vodka and killing his fern, I’m sure both your statues are true to life.”

“Yes, but Mr. Beddington has a . . . well . . . it’s really quite understated, but I always aimed for realism even as a child.” She rolled her eyes at him. “Mr. Beddington is definitely a male.”

She felt his belly quiver with a suppressed laugh. “You mean to say he’s got a tallywhacker.”

“An exceptionally small tallywhacker. In fact, you might miss it if you didn’t know it was there.”

“You do seem bent on making them smaller than usual. How old did you say you were when you sculpted him?”

“Twelve,” she said primly. “I wonder if that’s why my art was considered precocious.”

“Without doubt.” His lips curved into a lop-sided grin.
 
“A kiss for luck, my precocious one.” He covered her mouth briefly and then released her. The smile disappeared. “If something goes awry—“

“It won’t.”

“If it does, I will detain whoever is interfering with us and I want you to take the statue and run. Do not look back. Take the horse and do not stop until you’re safe in your own home.” He lifted the candle from the shelf and put a hand on the ivory doorknob. “Promise me, Larla.”

She swallowed hard. No matter how enthusiastic Trevelyn was about ‘The Great Game,’ clearly this was no child’s play. “I promise.”

“And even if you must destroy it, the key must not fall into the wrong hands.”

And if it comes into Trev’s hands
, she reminded herself with a catch in her breath,
he’ll be gone with the next ship.
With great effort, she thrust that thought away. The peril to Mr. Shipwash and the fate of her father’s operatives back in India were surely of more import than her personal loss.

It just didn’t feel that way right now.
 

She nodded, and he turned the knob. The latch gave with a soft click and they tiptoed into the hallway. There were three doors leading from it besides the linen closet.

“Which one?” she asked with the barest of whispers. It still sounded like a shout to her ears. It really was most fortunate the ambassador had dismissed his extra servants. She wondered if the gruff-voiced Lubov was still somewhere in residence, perhaps sleeping behind one of the closed doors.

Trevelyn pointed to the dark portal at the end of the hall. No light showed on the polished hardwood through the crack at the base of the ambassador’s chamber. Artemisia followed Trev down the narrow corridor. They took care to move slowly, feeling their way to avoid any creaky boards.

He stopped when they reached the door and tossed her a wink. It eased her nerves no end. They might be in a precarious position, but Trevelyn’s light manner kept her from panic. She smiled back at him and wished they’d had more time—no, she couldn’t let her mind travel that road. She must focus on retrieving Mr. Beddington, not on whether this would be their one and only great adventure together.

Trevelyn blew out the candle and set it down outside the threshold of Ambassador Kharitonov’s room. The scent of old wax and burnt wick rose around them. He eased the door open by inches while Artemisia prayed someone had oiled the hinges lately.

One of the ambassador’s windows had been left open, the dark curtains billowing. The room was much too cold for sleeping by English standards, but the stentorian snores coming from behind the bed curtains proved Kharitonov was unaffected by the brisk breeze. Fortunately, moonlight followed the fresh night through the open window washing the room in shades of silver and gray. There was light enough to see her way as Artemisia crept toward the shelving in the corner that held the ambassador’s collection.

She hadn’t feigned interest in the statues. They were fascinating. After a glance at the ones he kept in his chamber, clearly the others weren’t even his finest pieces. Here was an Arabian stallion of worked gold with carbuncles for eyes, an onyx and ivory zebra, a small marble piece obviously the work of an ancient Greek—it was all Artemisia could do to keep her hands from straying to explore the exquisite pieces.

But where was Mr. Beddington?

Finally, she spied him on the topmost shelf, far beyond her reach.

“Up there,” she mouthed to Trevelyn.

He stretched, but even his long arms were unequal to the task.

She pointed to the overstuffed chair before the cold fireplace and lifted her shoulders in a questioning shrug.

It was a massive piece of furniture with gigantic wings protruding on each side. She suspected Trevelyn and she could fit snuggly together in the deep seat. The ambassador was a large individual. He obviously chose his furnishings with an eye to his scale.

Trevelyn tried to heft the unwieldy chair, but as Artemisia feared, it would take two men and a boy to lift it. And when Trev dragged it, the scuffing sound on the hardwood forced him to stop.

Behind the bed curtains, the rhythmic snoring ceased and the ambassador snorted loudly. Artemisia and Trev froze. Kharitonov smacked his lips twice, loosed a prodigious rolling fart and fell back into his deep wheeze.

Artemisia released her pent-up breath.

Trevelyn moved, light-footed as a cat to her side and pantomimed lifting her to reach the statue.

She nodded and placed her hands on his shoulders. He bent and wrapped his arms just beneath her hips, then lifted her in a clean motion. Unlike in the linen closet, when the tower they created together tilted drunkenly, now Trevelyn had a firm grip on her and she held her back rigid to help him balance.

He’s much steadier without his face between my legs
, she mused. A little thrill of power coursed through her with the thought that she seemed to be able to weaken the knees of this strong man.

He edged toward the shelves, backing toward them so Artemisia could face forward. When his tight buttocks came within inches of the lower shelves, Artemisia dug her thumbs into his shoulders to signal him to stop.

She patted his cheek in way of thanks, then raised one arm toward the top shelf. The fitted bodice of her ensemble had extremely tight sleeves that limited her arm movement. She was only able to brush the base of Mr. Beddington with one fingertip.

Bother and confusticate those French dressmakers!

She strained toward the statue and felt the seams of her garment pop under the pressure. She managed to poke two fingers at Mr. Beddington but only succeeded in pushing him farther away.

Artemisia looked down at Trevelyn in frustration. She motioned for him to lift her higher. He grimaced back at her and grasped one of her feet to give her a boost. She shifted her weight and leaned a knee on his shoulder. He was surely suffocating under the press of her many layers of skirt and petticoats. If she could only stretch high enough, she’d be down again in three shakes of a lamb’s tail. As she reached again, she heard a tiny ripping noise when her shoulder seam gave way. She leaned farther. Just another couple of inches and she’d—

Got him!

She clutched Mr. Beddington to her chest with one hand and leaned her other one on Trevelyn’s head, hoping he’d realize she needed to descend. He took the cue and let her slide down slowly through his grip, her skirts bunching around her waist.

In that moment, she realized why Trevelyn was so drawn to “The Great Game.” All her senses were on full alert. Her ears pricked to such sharpness she suspected she’d hear an ant treading on the window sill. Every item in the ambassador’s chamber was doubled with a sharp-edged moonlit shadow. She was surrounded to the point of intoxication by Trev’s sandalwood scent and the pounding drum of his heartbeat as he lowered her. Even through their clothing, she felt the hard length of him pressing against her belly.

She was shiveringly alive. Outlandish erotic thoughts danced in her head and spread warmly down her body. She wished suddenly that Trevelyn would push her against the wall and have his very thorough way with her.

But of course, there was no time for even the quickest of couplings, however much her aching core demanded one. With effort, she stepped back from the circle of his arms and turned toward the door. Trevelyn followed closely behind her and pulled the door shut with a gentle click of the latch.

Artemisia continued down the hall, the statue still pressed against her breasts. Her relief at slipping in and out of the ambassador’s chamber undetected left her feeling almost giddy. Her fingers slid over the smooth glazed clay, then stopped.

“No, it can’t be,” she whispered.

“What?”

She ran her hand over the statue’s belly again. The small horse had no tallywhacker at all.

“This is not Mr. Beddington.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive,” she whispered with a sigh. “The statue was so far out of reach, I just assumed it must be the one we wanted. I should have realized something was wrong when we didn’t find both Mr. Beddington and Miss Bogglesworth together. Do you suppose Mr. Kharitonov has discovered Beddington’s secret already?”

Trevelyn shook his head. “If he knew he had the key, he’d be on his way out of the country with it by now. Beddington must still be in his room. I’ll have to go back.”

“No, Trev. We go together.”

“There’s no need. Since you so kindly removed the look-alike, I’m not likely to mistake the statue this time.” His quick smile absolved her niggling guilt over her mistake.

“But two sets of eyes are better than one,” she insisted. “Other than the bed and the chair before the fire, oh and a monstrous wardrobe opposite the statuary, I don’t recall seeing any other furniture in the room. If it’s not on the display shelves, do you suppose he’s hidden Mr. Beddington in the wardrobe?”

“No point in having art if you’re not going to display it.” Trevelyn dragged a hand over his face. Then his eyes lit with sudden discovery. “Didn’t he say something about seeing it last thing at night and first thing in the morning?”

She nodded.

“There must be some kind of shelf on his bedstead,” Trev reasoned. “I’ve seen the like before.”

For a waspish moment, she wondered how many bedchambers Trevelyn had been in and out of. He certainly knew his way around the mysteries of the female body with the assurance of an adept. She forcefully banished the thought. She had no claim to him, no right to feel possession of either his past or future. She only had him now.

“Which is why I insist on accompanying you,” she said as though she’d voiced her thoughts and was completing them aloud. “I mean, you may need my help in ways you can’t envision now.”

He hesitated only a moment, then took her hand and led her back to the ambassador’s door. His lips brushed against her temple before he turned the knob.

“Remember your promise, Larla.”

“I always keep my word,” she said testily. Then because she needed to lighten the tension that banded her chest, she crossed her eyes and stuck her tongue out at him. “Like a craven coward, I will bolt at the first hint of trouble and leave you to twist in the wind.”

“I’m serious.”

Her false smile faded. “So am I.”

“Good girl.”

He pushed open the door and they tiptoed back into the chamber. The ambassador’s snore continued to cleave the night with the rhythm of a two-man saw. Moving with stealth, Artemisia followed Trevelyn to the bedside nearest the open window.

Good thinking. The moonlight will show us what is on the other side of the ambassador’s bed curtains.
It was nice to know that along with being clever and exceptionally fine to look upon, Trev was also practical.