Dukes to the Left of Me, Princes to the Right

CHAPTER 30

Nicholas felt it was as if last night’s difficult conversation on the sailboat had never happened.

As if the highly sensual encounter they’d had before that conversation had never happened.

As if the intimate laughter, the feeling that they were comfortable—even happy—together, had never happened.

In the afternoon, he’d taken Poppy to the Lievens’, where they’d enjoyed tea and a pleasant conversation in which the Russian ambassador had inadvertently revealed that the Pink Lady portrait would be kept in an alcove in a corridor above the ballroom during the ball. Countess Lieven also told them Revnik’s masterpiece would be brought down and unveiled near the ball’s conclusion.

Good information to have.

Afterward, when Nicholas took Poppy for their afternoon ride through Hyde Park, they were back to being nothing more than two people working on the same Service project.

“I agree that a mole in Parliament is a bad thing,” Poppy said crisply, “but couldn’t Revnik have written Groop a letter? Or gone to visit him? Instead, he had to paint a portrait of my parents and ruin it with some sort of spy gobbledygook?”

“Ssshh.” Nicholas looked around and saw no one nearby. But they couldn’t take chances.

“I’ll tell you,” she whispered, “I think my mother bought it as a surprise for my father. She probably paid good money for it. Revnik had no right to use it for his own purposes. He died unexpectedly, probably of the same smallpox epidemic Mama did, and years later, Sergei found the portrait. He made a claim to it because no one came forward. Well, no wonder. Mama, poor lady, was dead and buried.”

That scenario sounded very likely.

“But it contains something of value to England,” Nicholas said. “Don’t you think your mother would have approved, had she known?”

“I suppose. But it would have been nice of Revnik to ask her permission first.”

“When it comes to national security, you can’t very well ask permission.”

Poppy stared down her nose at him. “Whatever the circumstances were, this painting belongs with my family. Now more than ever, we have to retrieve it.”

“I have to retrieve it. And I’ve every intention of doing just that. Not for your family, I’m sorry to say. The needs of the Service come first. It’s the way things have to be.”

“But what will they do with it?”

“I’ve no idea.”

Poppy looked up at him with flashing emerald eyes. “If they think it belongs to England, Prinny could take it. Or one of his cronies. That’s not right.”

“Life’s not fair.” Nicholas squeezed her hand. “I understand your frustration.”

“Good. Because I’ll need your help. I’m going to prove Mama purchased that painting.”

“I told you—the Service commissioned it.”

Poppy huffed. “Mama was duped. She commissioned it. I’m getting that portrait back, and it’s going over the mantel in Papa’s library. I won’t say a word to my father or my aunt until it happens. It will be a great surprise.”

“Not to mention you’re not supposed to talk to them about anything Service-related, remember?”

“Yes.”

He thought for a minute. “I’m only going to help you look for proof of ownership,” he said, “if I’m still able to proceed on my mission as planned. If you make any moves toward Sergei before the Lievens’ ball, claiming the painting is yours, you’ll compromise OPL. If that happens, probably neither one of us will ever see the painting again. And if you find your proof, you’ll have to wait until I turn the painting over to the authorities to stake your claim. Agreed?”

“Very well.” She glowered at him. “England can get a first look. But it had better be quick.”

“You’re a good citizen,” he said. “I know you’re anxious. If you really want to find out more about the Pink Lady painting, the best way would be to start at home. If your mother commissioned it, there might be a receipt or correspondence in her desk that might prove your claim.”

“I’ve already thought of that.” Poppy beamed. “When I left you last night, I couldn’t sleep.” A becoming blush spread up her face. “I crept into my father’s library and looked through his desk drawers. There was a big, fat file with Mama’s old appointment books, some correspondence from friends, and whatnot. He must have emptied her desk and kept everything, the poor dear. I found her appointment book from St. Petersburg.”

“Good work. Did you see anything interesting?”

“I don’t know. I brought it with me. I wanted to look through it with you. We’re partners, through thick and thin.”

“That’s quite considerate of you,” he said, rather touched.

“No matter what happens in our personal lives,” she said in neutral tones.

“Oh. Right.”

That conversation at the conclusion of their interlude on the boat had been uncomfortable.

While Poppy flipped through the slender volume, Nicholas watched over her shoulder. Her mother’s handwriting seemed to leap from the page, so energetic yet elegant—like Poppy.

She looked up. “Mama mentions many times that she has a sitting with R.”

“Revnik.”

“I think so.” Her face brightened. “Perhaps this might be of interest. She mentions a monetary amount—quite a substantial one—to be given to R.” She grinned. “She did buy the portrait, then. For Papa!”

“It seems like it,” Nicholas said. “But we still have no proof. Cryptic notes, which we all jot down in appointment books, are not enough to establish provenance.”

“What a shame.” Disappointment clouded her eyes. “This seems like proof to me.”

“It wouldn’t hold a bit of water in any legal battle,” he said gently.

She sighed. “It doesn’t seem right that Sergei has our painting.”

“Go through the book one more time,” he encouraged her. “Only this time, from back to front. You might have missed something.”

A tense minute passed.

“I see nothing else,” Poppy whispered. “Except perhaps”—she stared at one page—“here’s one line—it looks like an address, 15 Vine Street.”

“No name with it?”

“No.”

“Nor city?”

“No, unfortunately.”

“Then we’ll assume it’s London.”

“But my mother had this book in St. Petersburg.”

“Yes, but she might have written that address down as a place to mail something. If it were a St. Petersburg address, it would have a Russian name.”

“But 15 Vine Street could be an address anywhere in England!”

“I know,” said Nicholas. “But she lived here, in London. And I know of a Vine Street near Spitalfields Market, in the East End. Sometimes you simply have to go with—”

“Intuition.” She smiled.

“Exactly,” he replied.