Texas Viscount (18 page)

      
“You just pissed in my hip pocket, Nicki, ole hoss. Now, just to show you what an easygoing son of a bitch I am, I'll let it pass...this time. Do it again, and you'll be pickin' your teeth up off the floor,” he drawled in a deadly calm voice, then polished off his shot of whiskey and poured another round.

      
For a moment it looked as if Zarenko was going to throw the drink in Josh's face, but then a small white hand touched the Texan's shoulder and the overpowering scent of gardenias filled his nostrils. Natasha leaned over and purred, “Please do not use that six-killer on my foolish brother.”

      
Looking up at her, he could see the warning light in her eyes as they glared at Nikolai Zarenko. Josh patted her hand and smiled engagingly. “Why, ma'am, I wouldn't dream of discommoding a lady. May I offer you a drink of Kentucky's finest?”

      
“I thought you said this was Texas whiskey.” She regarded the glass of amber liquid he poured for her.

      
“It is, but we have a deal with Bourbon County, Kentucky, to make it for us.” He stood up and held her chair, scooting it in just the way Sabrina had taught him.

      
Like Alexi, she swallowed it down in one gulp, then looked up at him with a startled expression on her face.

      
“Tastes a mite stronger than vodka, doesn't it?” he asked with a grin.

      
“But it is good,” she replied, her black eyes glowing as she held up the glass for a refill.

      
Before long he paid one of the barmen to go out to his car and unlock the trunk where he kept another three bottles of Who Shot John. He hoped the colonel and the British Foreign Office appreciated the sacrifice he was making for both of his countries.

      
The drinking continued for another hour, and one by one the participants began to fall to the wayside. Josh was careful to drink as slowly as he dared while appearing to keep up with the others. He acted considerably more inebriated than he actually was, listening to the drunken conversations around him, most of which were in French or Russian.

      
Although he had been studying Russian grammar and knew the words for Japan, treaty, minister and assassination, to mention a few, nothing he could understand was pertinent to the conspiracy. Then as Alexi slumped over the table and Josh and Sergei began to reposition their companion so he wouldn't tumble to the floor, some signal was exchanged between Natasha and her brother.

      
Pretending not to notice, Josh observed the pair move discreetly to that small alcove in the back. How could he position himself to listen? “I gotta bleed my goose,” he announced drunkenly to the assembly, who laughed and exchanged a series of ribald jokes with him as he staggered outside.

      
After his first visit to this place, he'd checked the position of the windows and doors. He knew there was a small window just above the alcove where Natasha and Nikolai were talking. Praying they would follow the custom of all Russian aristocracy since the days of Peter the Great and speak French, he quickly made his way to it. The weather was unseasonably warm and the room filled with smoke. Every window in the place was open. Their voices carried in hushed whispers on the late-night air.

      
“I don't like it,” Nikolai said in slurred French. “How do you know you can trust that stupid boy?”

      
“He has copies of the papers. You know there is no way I could obtain them through George. They have agents watching him and me all the time now. He's becoming suspicious about my interest in Japan. I can protest all I like about loving Kabuki, but he remembers talking about their Foreign Secretary's arrival while I was listening in the next room.”

      
“Will he turn you out?” Nikolai asked worriedly.

      
Josh could hear the purr in her voice as she replied, “He's far too besotted for that, but I will have to be more careful in the future. As soon as his wife returns to their country seat, I know he'll have me move back in. That will make my work easier.”

      
“We don't have time. She may not leave for weeks yet.”

      
“That's why our Englishman is so valuable in the meanwhile. Pick up the papers, Nicki darling,” she said with fond impatience. “They contain all the notes on the treaty prepared by the Foreign Office for Hayashi. We'll know what the British are proposing before Tokyo does. All you have to do is meet him in Hyde Park tomorrow at three.”

      
She went on to describe a statue of Wellington where the exchange would take place. The British traitor was to be paid a moderate sum in exchange for the crucial information. Unfortunately for Josh, neither of them named the traitor or where he worked.

      
As the conspirators continued to talk, Josh heard the sound of drunken stumbling just around the corner and knew he could listen no more. Pretending to straighten his pants, he headed toward the approaching man. It was Sergei, weaving precariously as he unbuttoned his fly in plain view of the street. And he was about to make water on Josh's prized Mercedes! Cursing beneath his breath, Josh hurried to redirect the befuddled marksman's aim, then assisted him back inside.

      
When they took their seats at the table, Natasha and her brother were arguing sotto voce. Josh could tell by their angry gestures that he was most probably the cause of the fight. After a moment, she shoved back her chair and stalked toward the door, pausing only long enough at his side to whisper, “Later,
mon cher.
” Glowering, “darling Nicki” followed her like a bodyguard protecting a very valuable person, which Josh imagined Natasha was.

      
Her access to Albany's son made her invaluable to the conspirators. She also was obviously connected to the double agent in the Foreign Office. But how could Josh find out more if her brother watched her as close as a cow pony eyeing a maverick? Nikolai had undoubtedly forbidden her to have anything to do with him. But why? Josh was certain Zarenko had no idea he was anything but a loutish American who'd accidentally stumbled into the peerage. Perhaps he feared that a new lover might distract her from their mission.

      
Whatever else developed, at least Josh would learn who was passing information from the Foreign Office to Zarenko tomorrow at three. That was a damn good start.

* * * *

      
“My intended
what
?” Josh croaked in a whiskey-roughened voice that matched the sandpaper inside his head.

      
“Wife, my good boy, wife,” the earl repeated calmly as if explaining to a child.

      
“When I took this job of viscounting, I was not fixing on getting married—least of all to some female I've never laid eyes on.” Josh reached across the breakfast-room table and seized the silver coffee pot before Sally could reach it, pouring himself a hearty refill.

      
He'd been up half the night drinking with the Russians, pouring Alexi into his bed at the Metropole, and conferring with Michael Jamison until well past dawn. He was exhausted, hung over and out of six bottles of the only decent whiskey in the British Isles. Then his uncle summoned him to eat kippered herring at the uncivilized hour of ten in the morning and proceeded to announce that he'd picked out a suitable girl for him to marry!

      
“You must understand how things are done in families of consequence,” Hambleton went on, stirring cream into his tea and ignoring the glowering outrage on his nephew's face. He'd fully expected the reaction. “The Marquess of Chiffington's daughter Eunice is a charming young lady. Just made her debut this year. Fresh as a spring breeze.”

      
“I don't care if she's strong as a fall hurricane, I'm not marrying anybody. Why, I'm only twenty-nine,” Josh protested, stabbing angrily into a pair of fried eggs—he'd be damned if he'd eat fish for breakfast.

      
“Precisely. As my heir, your duty to provide an heir for the Cantrell titles is long overdue. If you'd been raised here in England, you would have wed by the age of twenty-one.”

      
Josh shuddered. “Hell, Uncle Ab, I wasn't even dry behind the ears then.”

      
“Well, consider your ears dry as toast now,” the earl replied, placing a generous dollop of marmalade on a perfectly browned piece of bread and popping it into his mouth.

      
Josh considered his options. Much as he was growing fond of the crusty old curmudgeon, he was damn certain not going to let his uncle pick him a wife, no matter if she was pretty as an acre of pregnant red sows. Just thinking of that brought Sabrina's face to mind, and he grinned in spite of himself. If he ever did decide to marry—mind,
if—
he might consider her.

      
What was he thinking? This musty, history-steeped English air was turning his brain to mush. He wanted to bed Sabrina, not marry her. Josh Cantrell had been as free and independent as a hog on ice since he was a tadpole. Gertie had always admitted that, even to him. Nosiree, if push came to shove, when this business with the Russians was finished, he'd just take the next steamer back to Texas and forget about being a viscount or anything loftier.

      
The earl observed the play of emotions passing over Joshua's face with positive glee. According to all reports, the boy was an expert card player, and could bluff magnificently in the business arena as well. But right now his expression was clear as glass. Of course, the earl was far more skilled at reading faces than most people on either side of the Atlantic. “Will you at least have the courtesy to meet the young lady and her parents next weekend? They've extended an invitation for us to join them at their cottage near Brighton. I assume your lessons with Miss Edgewater have progressed sufficiently so as to assure proper etiquette?”

      
What would it hurt? He was only stalling for time anyway while he and Michael Jamison solved this mess...and he had time enough to enjoy Sabrina. Josh wiped his mouth with his napkin, then said, “I reckon I can hold my own, but just to be certain, maybe we should bring my tutor along.”

      
The earl appeared to consider that. “A bit unorthodox...but the marquess does have another younger daughter. I could inquire about having them interview Miss Edgewater for a position working with her. Once you've proven yourself a proper enough gentleman, her reputation will have to be returned to its previous pristine condition. My recommendations can undo what I did in securing her services for you.”

      
The services Josh had in mind for Sabrina at that moment had nothing whatever to do with etiquette.

      
And the earl knew it.

* * * *

      
What a perfect day for a ride. Josh had called her earlier in the day and suggested that she teach him the intricacies of assisting a lady while horseback riding, confessing he'd never even seen a sidesaddle until he came to England. Of course, she was still piqued with him over the previous night's debacle with the Russian ballerina, but she had taken a snide bit of satisfaction in refusing his offer of a midnight ride in his automobile and in having Mrs. Bretton waiting for them at the door.

      
The look of disappointment on his face had been quite comical. This was her job, she reminded herself. But it was still a perfect day for a ride. And riding was a luxury she had seldom been able to enjoy since coming to London. Since many wealthy Cits had never ridden to hounds or, indeed, ridden horseback at all, she had now and then taught their daughters. This would be great fun.

      
If she was spending the afternoon with the Texan in the process, Sabrina preferred not to think about how much that added to her pleasure. She stood watching him as he led their horses out of the mews, a bay stallion and a dappled gray mare. The animals were magnificent, but her eyes kept straying to the man. He wore denim pants that seemed as if they'd been weather-softened to his long legs, and a pair of those odd high-heeled boots. His plain white shirt was open at the collar—highly improper, she had scolded, but she was happy he'd ignored her protest.

      
A bit of black hair peeked through at the base of his throat, making her breath catch when she imagined what it might feel like to touch it. He was hatless and his hair curled around his nape as he bent over to adjust a stirrup on her mare. Her fingers literally itched to brush through the black curls and feel the hard warmth of his broad shoulders. She watched with a dry mouth while his muscles bunched and flexed as he worked.

      
Then he raised his head and smiled at her. “Cloudy's ready. Are you?”

      
She was a vision in a dark-green riding habit that set off the color of her hair. Of course, it was piled high in a bun, and a silly little hat with a green feather in it perched on top of her head. He imagined tossing it away and pulling the pins from her hair, then running his fingers through it, watching it fly like a banner behind her as she rode. Her reply broke into his erotic fancies.