distracted her by stroking the stripe between her golden eyes. This set off a low chorus of purring. "You have charitable neighbors? Intriguing. And I thought I knew the neighborhood well."
"Social-climbing neighbors, then. They'll make a contribution to Tatiana's school, just to have a chance to say they have visited with the princess in her home. But Tatiana's Russian, remember, and her idea of neighborhood is rather commodious. She's got some coming from as far as Exeter." He tore off a piece of the newspaper and balled it up, tossing it up and catching it. The kitten stopped purring and started watching. Then, with a growl, she leaped off John's leg and seized the ball of paper, tumbling to the floor with it. Devlyn took the loss of his toy dispassionately, then observed, "Now that you are a respectable baronet, you have no excuse."
The Devlyns had always invited John to their parties, and sometimes, if he was in a defiant mood, he accepted. But Dorset wasn't as accepting of unconventionality as London, or perhaps they just knew him better. The mysterious past that fascinated a few London hostesses was no mystery here where John grew up. He might be a hero of sorts to the wilder youth on the South Coast, but to the gentry he was just the criminal upstart son of an apothecary. It would be entertaining, at least, to see how they would treat him now that he was titled.
Titled. Good Christ, what was the Regent thinking?
Devlyn must have sensed an opening, because he added, "Tatiana wants your consultation on decorating the ballroom."
"That, I suppose, is the clincher? In order to receive such a commission, you think I will jump at your invitation? I know nothing about decorating ballrooms."
"You need only endorse the plans she has. She thinks you have buckets of good taste. I expect it's the company you keep. Come, she will want to greet you anyway."
Devlyn led him back through the dark library, into the sunfilled great hall, past the bust of Napoleon John had gotten after Marshal Ney's execution. He remembered, back when they were boys, that the Keep was almost empty, stark even beyond the usual spare precision of a Palladian home, the only evidence of life the figures writhing on the Michelangelo-inspired dome. Now that Devlyn had hired a staff, bought back most of the lost furnishings, and installed a new generation of Danes, the great dome no longer echoed with loneliness.
The primary reason for this change was approaching them even now, running down the stairs with a hand skimming over the oak bannister, her red hair loose about her shoulders like a girl's. The Princess Tatiana called out gaily, "John! Just in time for my party. Come see what I mean to do to the ballroom."
Devlyn smiled sympathetically and murmuring, "Better you than I," headed back to his refuge on the balcony.
But this was, after all, what John had been waiting for, a chance to get the princess alone.
Between them was none of the complexity that characterized his relationship with Devlyn. From the first, when the Russian princess had boarded his sloop for her secret voyage to England, they had been something akin to friends. She had the same ease that made her cousin the Regent an unexpectedly good companion: She noticed no one's class but her own, treating everyone with equal, imperial charm. John liked that, and liked her, and in this, as in most things, he would do her bidding.
"I'm no expert on decorating ballrooms, God forbid. But I will walk with you there."
So he let her bear him away to the empty space at the back of the Keep where he and Devlyn used to skate in their stockinged feet. Unlike the rest of the house, this austere room had resisted Tatiana's efforts to make it comfortable. It was so cavernous that their footsteps echoed like gunshots against the panelled walls, and they had to speak softly to keep their conversation from resonating. The sun through the tall windows glanced off the marble floor, but the light brought
"Social-climbing neighbors, then. They'll make a contribution to Tatiana's school, just to have a chance to say they have visited with the princess in her home. But Tatiana's Russian, remember, and her idea of neighborhood is rather commodious. She's got some coming from as far as Exeter." He tore off a piece of the newspaper and balled it up, tossing it up and catching it. The kitten stopped purring and started watching. Then, with a growl, she leaped off John's leg and seized the ball of paper, tumbling to the floor with it. Devlyn took the loss of his toy dispassionately, then observed, "Now that you are a respectable baronet, you have no excuse."
The Devlyns had always invited John to their parties, and sometimes, if he was in a defiant mood, he accepted. But Dorset wasn't as accepting of unconventionality as London, or perhaps they just knew him better. The mysterious past that fascinated a few London hostesses was no mystery here where John grew up. He might be a hero of sorts to the wilder youth on the South Coast, but to the gentry he was just the criminal upstart son of an apothecary. It would be entertaining, at least, to see how they would treat him now that he was titled.
Titled. Good Christ, what was the Regent thinking?
Devlyn must have sensed an opening, because he added, "Tatiana wants your consultation on decorating the ballroom."
"That, I suppose, is the clincher? In order to receive such a commission, you think I will jump at your invitation? I know nothing about decorating ballrooms."
"You need only endorse the plans she has. She thinks you have buckets of good taste. I expect it's the company you keep. Come, she will want to greet you anyway."
Devlyn led him back through the dark library, into the sunfilled great hall, past the bust of Napoleon John had gotten after Marshal Ney's execution. He remembered, back when they were boys, that the Keep was almost empty, stark even beyond the usual spare precision of a Palladian home, the only evidence of life the figures writhing on the Michelangelo-inspired dome. Now that Devlyn had hired a staff, bought back most of the lost furnishings, and installed a new generation of Danes, the great dome no longer echoed with loneliness.
The primary reason for this change was approaching them even now, running down the stairs with a hand skimming over the oak bannister, her red hair loose about her shoulders like a girl's. The Princess Tatiana called out gaily, "John! Just in time for my party. Come see what I mean to do to the ballroom."
Devlyn smiled sympathetically and murmuring, "Better you than I," headed back to his refuge on the balcony.
But this was, after all, what John had been waiting for, a chance to get the princess alone.
Between them was none of the complexity that characterized his relationship with Devlyn. From the first, when the Russian princess had boarded his sloop for her secret voyage to England, they had been something akin to friends. She had the same ease that made her cousin the Regent an unexpectedly good companion: She noticed no one's class but her own, treating everyone with equal, imperial charm. John liked that, and liked her, and in this, as in most things, he would do her bidding.
"I'm no expert on decorating ballrooms, God forbid. But I will walk with you there."
So he let her bear him away to the empty space at the back of the Keep where he and Devlyn used to skate in their stockinged feet. Unlike the rest of the house, this austere room had resisted Tatiana's efforts to make it comfortable. It was so cavernous that their footsteps echoed like gunshots against the panelled walls, and they had to speak softly to keep their conversation from resonating. The sun through the tall windows glanced off the marble floor, but the light brought
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