Dukes to the Left of Me, Princes to the Right

CHAPTER 13

“Five hundred thirty steps.” Poppy stopped, took a deep breath, and wondered how many other young-ladies-turned-spy the gray-eyed duke had brought up here. “We’re only on three hundred ten.”

“It’s worth it,” Drummond said, and held tight to her hand.

They were climbing up to the Golden Gallery at the very top of St. Paul’s Cathedral—at night. “No one can hear us up there,” he said. “And no one can approach without our knowing. We can speak freely.”

She withheld the comment that they could speak freely in her drawing room, too—if Cook or Kettle or one of the maids didn’t eavesdrop, which would be a rarity. So perhaps she should grant that he knew best where to conduct a clandestine meeting.

She’d lied and told Papa they were off to see a play on Drury Lane, and she’d begged to be allowed to go unchaperoned, claiming her advanced age and betrothal to a duke were sufficient protection against any gossip.

Besides, she’d said, the play in question was one Aunt Charlotte had already seen.

Aunt Charlotte had merely winked at her. She hadn’t seen that play, but she knew, of course, that Poppy was doing all in her power to maintain her membership in the Spinsters Club, and sometimes that dedication required some creative thinking that went beyond the usual evasive techniques a Spinster employed with her suitors.

“As the betrothal is official, you must take Drummond head-on, I’m afraid,” Aunt Charlotte had told her earlier in the day, sympathetically patting her hand. “Even if that means you have to be near his handsome personage quite frequently and devise as many moments as possible alone with him.”

Although Poppy hoped their attachment would be temporary, her duty as a Spinster, according to her aunt, was to continue asserting her own interests and desires to the duke.

“Preferably at close range,” Aunt Charlotte had clarified.

Poppy knew from her former governess’s assessment of her that she was more sensible and astute than most young ladies. But the desire of her heart had nothing to do with books or rationality. Her primary desire, having been brought up on Cook’s stories—and having lived her young life as the daughter of two people very much in love—was for adventure and romance herself.

She hadn’t realized she could have either here in England, but Sergei was here now, so he’d take care of the romantic part, and she was climbing onward and upward with Nicholas to a secret place where they could discuss secret things, and at night, no less, which certainly counted as an adventure.

Although the adventure was dragging on rather a long time. Step after step she climbed. Finally, after many odd turns—with one brief rest so she could fix her slipper—and many more steps, they were there, at the top of St. Paul’s.

When she walked outside and to the railing, her mouth almost dropped open.

“This is London?” She’d never seen it this way.

It was beautiful—even the drifting smoke that floated over portions of the city.

She looked out over a sweeping panorama of thousands of glowing lights, dignified architectural silhouettes, narrow streets, and the winding Thames, all encircled by a starry night sky and a waxing moon.

“It’s magical,” she choked out, nearly overwhelmed.

Drummond stood behind her, his hand lightly touching her waist. “Isn’t it, though?” he said near her ear.

She was tempted to lean back in the circle of his arms and simply gaze at the glorious view … but she couldn’t very well assert herself if he unleashed her recently discovered appetite for kissing. When they were kissing, all thoughts of defying him went out the window.

Besides, she was trying to save her kisses for Sergei.

“I can’t see the stars like this from the street,” she admitted. “And the city is … breathtaking.” She’d never known it could be. Nothing in her experience had ever compared to St. Petersburg, but here she was—in the midst of a majestic scene—right at home.

She looked back at him. “Thank you for bringing me here.”

His eyes were dark pools. “You’re welcome.”

Poppy couldn’t breathe, he was so handsome. But he’s not Sergei, she reminded herself. He was an arrogant Englishman with her silk stocking in his pocket, ever ready to force her hand. Who cared that when he kissed her, she longed to disrobe and have him run his hands all over her body?

“The paper, please,” he said.

“Oh, yes.” She pulled it out of her bodice—realizing a bit too late that hiding it there might not have been the best idea. She hoped he couldn’t see her blushing. “Kettle and I enjoyed playing with that clever cane.”

Drummond took the scrap from her, lit a match, and burned it without reading it.

She gasped.

“I already know what it says,” he explained.

“We could have burned that at home.”

“Yes, we could have, but it wouldn’t have been nearly as much fun.” He leaned on the railing next to her, his eyes on the city landscape. “Up here, you’re much more likely to listen to what I have to say. There’s something about this view that gives one clarity. Are you ready?”

“I suppose.” She leaned next to him, elbow to elbow, and marveled at the incredible vista.

“You must stay out of my business while we’re engaged,” he said, staring straight ahead. “For your own good. I get involved in things that a proper young lady should know nothing about.”

“Then I don’t want to be a proper young lady,” she blurted out.

“Of course you do,” he said, censuring her with a look. “Proper young ladies don’t create risk. Risk is part of my business. I must eliminate all unnecessary danger.”

“Are you saying I’m a danger?” She backed away from him a step.

He was the Duke of Drummond, after all. Perhaps he’d planned to take her up here so he could throw her over the side of the gallery to her death.

“I’m not going to eliminate you,” he told her with a chuckle. “Although I fear you could wreck the operation.”

“What operation?”

“Operation Pink Lady. My assignment. My secret assignment. The one mentioned in that paper inside the cane.”

Heavens.

For a moment, she could barely speak. “So that’s what OPL means.”

“Exactly.”

“I want to help,” she said. “And by the way, you’re not the only one who deals with subterfuge. My friends and I have our own secret organization.”

“Is that so? What’s it about?”

“None of your business. It’s secret.”

“I’ll bet it has to do with men. Women always have secrets about men. How to capture them, stifle them, and break their hearts.”

She scoffed. “That’s ridiculous. Men are the ones who do that to women, and yes—that’s a bit what our secret organization is about, protecting women’s interests.”

He gave a short laugh. “And you want me to entrust you with secrets? Look how easily you just told me yours.”

“I was making a point. And I never told you any details.”

“I got details enough.” He lifted her chin. “The best way you can help me is to do nothing. Say nothing. And behave yourself, as any good fiancée would.”

But she wasn’t a good fiancée. She was a Spinster.

“No,” she said. “I know too much now. Your employer shouldn’t have left that cane at my house—”

“You shouldn’t have been nosy.”

“If you want my silence, you’ll give me something to do.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m having fun. And if you don’t, I shall find a way to get involved anyway. You’re right. I am a danger. I know just enough to wreak havoc. You’d best keep me close.” She crossed her arms and raised her chin. “In case you haven’t guessed, this is my way of paying you back for stealing my stocking.”

She was asserting herself and her desires, wasn’t she?

He stared at her a moment. “I wonder if I’m not insane to have brought you up here thinking you’d cooperate.”

“You’re not insane,” she said, then wondered if she were wrong. All the stories Cook told almost made him out to be crazed. But surely he wasn’t, she decided, even though she had no clue what had happened to his uncle.

Nobody did. It was still a mystery.

She cast a sideways glance at him.

“Very well,” Nicholas said, his eyes boring into hers. “I’ll keep you close. But this won’t work if you don’t trust me.”

She bit her lip. “All right.”

“I’m about to confide secrets to you, and I need a sign that you’ll not go back on your word.”

She drew in a deep breath. “Give me your pinky finger.”

He laughed. “That won’t do.”

“Then what?”

The heated look he gave her made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up, and warmth spread through her limbs. “You’re not suggesting—”

“I am.”

“What?” she whispered. “A kiss?”

He shook his head. “Nothing so paltry.”

She gulped. “You already have my stocking.”

“That was to guarantee your adhering properly to your role as devoted fiancée. This is to get your pledge that you won’t reveal secrets of another sort.”

“What must I do?”

“What all my colleagues and I must do, those of us who work for Groop. Disrobe. And run around the gallery three times.”

She gasped. Had he been reading her mind? She longed to disrobe … and have him run his hands all over her body.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I won’t touch you. No one ever gets touched. We do it to prove our mettle.”

Blast.

She shook her head. “I can’t.”

“So much for your fun.” He began to walk toward the door.

“All right,” she cried.

He turned around, his expression serious. “Very well, then.”

She rather liked the idea, if she were honest. She’d be disrobing for king and country. Even the martyrs buried at St. Paul’s wouldn’t fault her for doing her duty.

Slowly, she pulled at the ribbons of her bodice.