Blackstone's Bride by Kate Moore Page A

country. Bandits and warlords have more sway than any government.”
    “Have you been home yet?”
    At the word
home
he stiffened almost imperceptibly. “No.”
    She blinked at the abruptness with which he closed the topic. “You’ve made yourself known in London.”
    “No more than before.”
    She thought she had achieved a nice symmetry with the owls, the urn, and Frank’s bronze clock. “What induced you to work for the government?”
    “I have some expertise they need, and the work is hardly facing cannon.”
    She returned to the bench, giving in to the pull of his presence. It was idiotic, but she still felt it, as if she’d waded into a swift stream whose current threatened her balance, dragging her inevitably towards him. “I should think you’d prefer the cannon.”
    “You would, I’m sure. What story shall we tell the world?” He reached over and stilled her fingers where she twisted the ring he’d given her. “We’ll never convince the prince and his lot that we are betrothed if you twist my ring off your finger.”
    Blackstone did not pat as the prince did. He gripped with a firm, uncompromising hold. His touch jolted her. Violet’s senses sputtered to life, like a fire catching in tinder and crackling, sending sparks cascading upward. Her fingers stilled under his touch. She did not do anything so foolish as to pull away. Cursed awareness streaked through her. She forced an answer past her tight throat.
    “You should have informed your employer that we had a past history that makes you the wrong man for the job.”
    He released her hands. “Sadly for you, Violet, they know all and chose me for that very history. Resign yourself to tell the world that you changed your mind, discovered that we do suit after all, and have put the past behind you.”
    He stood, putting his back to her again.
    Penelope would never forgive her. “Let’s do nothing yet. For now we need only deceive the prince.”
    “No announcement in the papers then?” He glanced over his shoulder at her.
    She shook her head.
    “Very well.” He moved to stand behind the bench.
    “What does Frank’s note say?”
    “Frank didn’t write it.”
    “It’s not his hand?” She could hear at once that he found that detail significant, as did she.
    “It’s his hand, but the words are not his words.” Violet pulled the little note from her sleeve. “Someone must have told him what to say.”
    Blackstone held the paper in the light. As he read, he seemed to forget her presence. “He always called you ‘V.,’ didn’t he? Will you trust Preston to make a copy for me?”
    Violet nodded. Blackstone tucked the note in his waistcoat pocket.
    She returned her gaze to Frank’s trunk.
    “What’s your impression of the prince?”
    “When he isn’t flattering me, he’s flattering England.”
    “Did you get him to say anything about Frank?”
    “Every mention of my brother led him to name some London wonder that Frank recommended his highness see. The prince can’t wait to ride in the park, visit a gasworks and the menagerie, dance at a ball, and attend a balloon ascension. But he didn’t act like a man with any guilty knowledge. He seems genuinely not to know where Frank went.”
    “Did he mention meeting the foreign secretary?”
    “Never. That is the purpose of his visit, isn’t it?” She remembered Frank telling her something like that.
    “Yes, to report on his progress in building up the Moldovan army.”
    “Is Moldova supposed to hold Russia back from Turkey?”
    “It seems improbable, unless miles of gold braid will frighten the tsar.”
    “Excessive, isn’t he?”
    “He gives new meaning to the term.”
    Blackstone’s familiar voice was having an effect on her, and she tried to shake it off. She would gain nothing by staring longer at Frank’s trunk. She rose again and returned to the hearth. No fire had been lit, and she felt the room’s chill. Frank had been away for weeks, and the cold had settled in the