The Duke of Olympia Meets His Match (3 page)

The light evaporated in a quiet
click
.

Penelope swung her feet to the floor and into the waiting slippers. She picked up her dressing gown from the end of the bed, belted it swiftly around her waist, and slipped through the door just as the edge of Ruby's skirt flew around the end of the corridor.

Penelope allowed herself a single exasperated sigh, and started off after her.

***

In his salad days, the Duke of Olympia had relished a good midnight caper. A young chap bred on tradition and privilege only really came alive when he was knocking about dark alleyways in the dead of night for Queen and country, sifting through shadows, his very blood on the alert.

Now it only meant a good sleep spoiled.

When had it crept up on him, this sense of dissatisfaction? This ennui—he hated the word, but what else could he call it?—this ennui that dogged him. He had first noticed it last year, when his family had gathered together for the birth of his grandniece, every last loving couple billing and cooing, every last great-grandchild running about unchecked. A man should have felt satisfaction at a moment like that. A job well done; a life well spent protecting those he loved, defending the country he worshipped.

Instead, he had never felt more alone. He had never felt so empty of purpose, as if he had sailed unexpectedly into a calm sea, without a breath of wind to urge him onward, without even the sight of land to yearn for.

Curious.

Still, life went on, didn't it? Duty called, and duty this particular night took the form of an unlit Cuban cigar and a nonchalant stroll along the larboard side of the promenade deck, exactly like an elderly duke worn down by the demands of public life, too preoccupied to sleep. In his pocket he carried the scrap of paper delivered to him by the faithful Mr. Simmons, which had been found on the floor of the first-class saloon when the tables were cleared, wedged by the leg of a dining chair, not far from the spot where he himself had been sitting.

The code was simple, the ink hasty. But it was enough to bring the duke out into the dank air of the promenade deck at half past midnight, wrapped in a thick overcoat against the March draft, caressing a small revolver against the silky lining of his inside pocket, just in case of need.

Olympia turned up his collar. By God, he'd thought these days behind him. What was the point of getting old if you couldn't leave this sort of discomfort—to say nothing of inconvenience—to the young and foolish? But there was no one else in New York at the time, no one else who could reliably pop aboard an ocean liner for a spot of interception, neat and clean. And there existed this familiar old thread of excitement, dangling its way through the ennui in his veins. No, he couldn't deny that. He didn't try. If you couldn't feel that thread, you might as well settle yourself in your grave, toes pointed toward the heavens, because you certainly weren't alive.

But by God. If only it were June instead of March.

If only he gave more of a damn.

The ship surged steadily beneath him, destroying the calm pattern of the waves below. He paused to lean against the rails, exactly like an old duke contemplating the eternal heave of the ocean under a solemn half-moon. His gaze traveled down the deck and then, just as negligently, back up. In the dim glow of the lanterns, he could make out no telltale movement along the covered passage between the railing and the side of the ship. He slipped one gloved hand inside his pocket and consulted his watch. Thirty-two minutes past twelve. The French were always late.

Olympia returned his watch to his inside pocket, next to the revolver, and as he patted his lapel back into alignment, a flicker caught the corner of his eye, about halfway down the deck.

Without altering stance in the slightest, he took a small box of safety matches from his outer pocket and lit the cigar that dangled from his lips.

At the sound of the striking match, the figure—perhaps seventeen yards away, Olympia judged, or maybe eighteen—made a startled movement and turned toward him.

Olympia coaxed the cigar to life in a series of languorous puffs. He turned his head, caught the man's look of startled horror, and raised his hand in an affable wave. “Never could sleep the first night out,” he called. “You?”

“No, sir.” The man recovered himself and leaned an elbow against the railing, exactly like a fellow shipboard insomniac, except that he clearly wasn't. He was a young chap, at least by his figure and carriage, which were a shade too eager to suggest anything older than thirty-five, and he wore a suit of dark wool beneath a thick scarf, but no overcoat. His hat sank low on his forehead.

Olympia patted his pockets. “Cigar?”

“No, thank you.” An American.

“Are you certain? It's a damnably chill night for a man to be out alone without a bit of well-seasoned tobacco to lift his spirits.”

A little flash of white as the man smiled. “Don't smoke, sir. But I appreciate the offer.”

Olympia pushed off the railing and stretched, affording the fellow a good survey of his massive wingspan. “I do believe this night air is settling the old head after all. Good night, sir.”

“Good night.”

The duke strolled down the deck, offering a friendly smile as he passed the young man. He was a handsome chap, tall and fresh-faced: sturdy jaw, wide red American mouth. Large thick-lashed eyes, which he averted quickly, turning his head and placing two hands on the rail as if struck by something he glimpsed out to sea. A man, then, with something to hide.

But—and this caught the sticky end of Olympia's rampant curiosity—the fellow was certainly
not
among that list of companions the duke had gathered to his dinner table that evening.

Olympia paused. “Perhaps, sir, if you're unable to sleep, you would care to join me in a game of chess in the gentlemen's smoking room.”

“Sir?”

“I find that chess turns one's mind from one's troubles in an admirable fashion.”

“I—sir—I haven't got any troubles.”

Olympia lifted one eyebrow. “Really, sir? None at all?”

“No more than—that is, no more than the next man.”

“Forgive me. I must have mistook. You look quite as if—well, the weight of the world and all that.” Olympia waved his cigar hand, sending a ribbon of fragrant smoke to curl around the young man's ear. “Do join me.”

The man cast a helpless glance up the deck. “But I can't.”

“Can't? You wound me.”

“I—that is, I require fresh air. For my health.”

“Good God. At this hour?” Olympia shivered. “I shouldn't be surprised if I catch cold, myself.”

“Well, the thing is, I never catch cold. So I should be all right.” Another glance up the deck.

The fellow was either a nincompoop or an expert actor. Olympia suspected the former, but couldn't rule out the latter. On the other hand, he himself wasn't the real prey in this affair, was he?

“Lucky man, then. I'll leave you to it.”

“Thank you, sir.” The man's face relaxed into abject gratitude. “Good night, sir.”

“Of course,” Olympia went on, puffing his cigar, “there's something to be said for a bracing lungful of the briny stuff, isn't there?”

“N—no, sir!” the fellow gasped, grasping the rail.

The duke removed the cigar and stuck out his hand. “Olympia.”

“Olympia?”

“My name.”

“Oh.” The fellow found his hand and shook spasmodically, in such a manner that he might just as easily have vomited on it. “Langley.”

“Mr. Langley. Business or pleasure?”

“I beg your pardon?” He was edging his way along the railing now, like a young bug attempting to crawl from beneath a magnifying glass.

Olympia sucked happily on his cigar. “I mean the purpose of your voyage, Mr. Langley. Business or pleasure?”

From the hollowed-out terror on Langley's face, Olympia guessed neither.

“Sir! I mean, Mr. Olympia. I don't—”

“Just Olympia will do, as it happens.”

“Both!”

“Both?”

“Business
and
pleasure,” Langley said miserably, and then something caught his eye up the darkened deck, near the bow, and he made a staggering motion, looked helplessly back at Olympia, and turned to grab the rail with both hands and howl at the moon.

Well, not quite. For one thing, the moon wasn't quite grand enough to attract a good howl this evening. For another, Langley's despair seemed to have squeezed all the howl out of him.

Olympia, however, had also caught sight of the fair apparition that now hovered near the bow, shimmering of nightdress and iridescent of complexion, the cause of the howl that refused to rise in poor Langley's throat. He extracted another puff from his cigar and said, “Go on, then. I won't tell.”

Like a racehorse, the man galloped off, hooves clattering along the sleek wooden boards of the promenade deck. Olympia stood long enough to observe the darting forth of Miss Ruby Morrison toward the forbidden arms of Mr. Langley—no feigned passion, that—and turned away to step back inside the shelter of the deckhouse, where he stubbed out his cigar in the nearest receptacle and considered a recuperative glass of brandy.

Young love always turned his stomach.

Before he could turn down the corridor to his cabin, however—a noble suite amidships, served by a private White Star butler in addition to his own faithful valet—his keen eye detected a hint of shadow where no shadow should exist on board the dim-lit RMS
Majestic
, at the unfavorable hour of three o'clock in the morning, atop the open ocean.

For such an immense man, Olympia could move with featherweight silence when the circumstances required it. His massive feet made not the slightest indentation on the pillowy White Star carpeting; his Atlas shoulders vibrated not a single particle of air as they slipped down the corridor. Many a seasoned scoundrel, finely trained in the art of espionage, knew that footfall as the very last sound he didn't hear.

Olympia's shipboard shadow, therefore, must have possessed an inhuman superabundance of senses, for the duke was no more than halfway down the corridor when it made a tiny flurry of a movement and disappeared.

By damn,
he thought.

He pressed ahead and turned at the exact spot where he had seen the shadow, which proved—as he had suspected—to be the short corridor ending in the hatch out to the promenade deck.

A figure stood against that hatch, barring his way. An upright and shapely figure of the very best sort, belted firmly into a dressing gown of olive-green damask, who returned his look of suspicion with a pair of beautifully arched eyebrows.

A flow of pure oxygen swept through Olympia's chest, awakening each atom of bone and muscle and cartilage, blowing away the ennui in a single gust and filling his empty sails with air.

“Good evening, Mrs. Schuyler,” he said. “What a great and unexpected pleasure.”

“Good evening, sir. Come to take the air again?”

“I have, in fact.”

“I wouldn't recommend it. The chill is unexpectedly severe.”

Her chin brooked no opposition. The oxygen spread down along his limbs, warming his fingers and toes. “Mrs. Schuyler, I assure you, there's no need to enact a defense, as charmingly gallant as it is. I know very well what lies behind that door.”

“You do?”

“I left Mr. Langley's company not a minute ago. A fine chap, if a little watery, though he may solidify with age and responsibility. I hope he manages to overcome the objections of Miss Morrison's connections. I rather suspect that responsibility will fall on the shoulders of Miss Morrison herself, however.”

Mrs. Schuyler's palms, which had been resting protectively against the door, fell to her sides. “I see. You don't mind?”

“Mind? Why should I mind?”

“You must have perceived where the Morrisons' preferences lie, in respect of sons-in-law.”

Olympia laughed quietly. “My dear Mrs. Schuyler. I have not the slightest interest in a girl of Miss Morrison's age, no matter how delectable the wrapping. I do trust the Morrisons were not pinning any serious hopes on my lechery?”

“They do observe, quite naturally, that you have no direct heir.”

“I am happily satisfied with the heir I possess, a fine and serious young fellow who is just now beginning a career at Oxford, which I expect will do him credit. My brother's grandson. I have no objection whatever. I find a man accepts a dukedom more graciously when he hasn't lived in its expectation all his life.”

“I don't disagree. I've seen many promising young men ruined by the certainty of inherited wealth.”

The rush of elation was beginning to quiet now, into something more deeply pleasurable. “Then you'll understand, Mrs. Schuyler, that I have no interest whatever in an alliance with your young friend.”

But Mrs. Schuyler knew her duty. “She
is
very beautiful. You have a reputation—forgive me, sir—as a connoisseur of beauty.”

“So I am. But I am not—forgive me, Mrs. Schuyler—inclined toward marriage, certainly not at this stage of my life. I am content to admire.”

She made a sound of disbelief. Even in the dim electric lighting of the corridor, her skin retained the glow that had captured his attention earlier: the calm pearlescence of a lady who maintained her hat and gloves and serenity through all misfortunes of health and weather. Her thick, dark hair hung in a braid that had somehow curled its way over her shoulder and into her bosom—probably against her wishes—and her eyes had that American habit of looking at you in an unyielding way, as if to deny you the privilege of your dukedom. As if to suggest you were just an ordinary human being, after all. She had to be more than forty, but how much more? The lines about her eyes were inscrutably fine.

“May I be so bold as to ask you a question, Mrs. Schuyler?”