And yet . . .
On spotting a friend of her great-aunt Alison, the dowager Countess of Peake, Charlotte felt compelled to stop and exchange pleasantries before following Sheffield and Cordelia.
Her own glass still half full, she paused as she entered the drawing room and, after slipping into the shadows of a large floral display, took a moment to watch the interactions of the crowd.
The crème de la crème of London Society was here, she mused. One could almost see the silvery strands spinning through the guests, weaving a web of power and influence.Alliances being made, deals being sealed, secrets being revealed . . .
“A penny for your thoughts, Lady Wrexford?”
The voice from behind her sent a prickling down her spine.
Charlotte slowly turned and met the gentleman’s gaze with a cool smile. “I doubt you would find them worth a farthing, Mr. Kurlansky.”
She had crossed paths with the Russian diplomat during their last investigation. He had been introduced to her as the private secretary to Prince Rubalov, Russia’s top military attaché stationed in London—though Kurlansky had later admitted that was a lie.
He was far more important—and far more dangerous—than that.
“Oh, you might be surprised at how much I value the way your mind works,” replied Kurlansky.
She ignored his flummery. “I thought you had left England and were headed to the Peace Conference in Vienna.”
“I tarried in Paris for several weeks. But then Tsar Alexander sent word for me to return to London and resolve a small matter before journeying to Austria.”
“What matter would that be?” asked Charlotte.
He chuckled. “Nothing that concerns you. Or your husband.”
She hadn’t expected a real answer. “I devoutly hope not.” A pause. “For both our sakes.”
Kurlansky laughed again and cocked his glass in salute. “Please give my regards to Lord Wrexford.” Without waiting for a reply, he turned and, in the blink of an eye, disappeared in the crowd.
“Was that—” began Sheffield as he and Cordelia squeezed their way past a group of French diplomats and came over to join her.
“Yes,” she said through gritted teeth.
“What’s Kurlansky up to now?” asked Cordelia.
“I have no idea,” replied Charlotte. “But we can be sure that it’s nothing good.”
CHAPTER 6
Adark, churning sea, fraught with peril and uncertainty . . .
Charlotte gave a wry grimace as she took up her cup of fresh-poured coffee and went to stand by the breakfast room windows. She wasn’t usually plagued by bad dreams, but the past night had brought yet another troubled reverie—one that felt like a metaphor for her current state of mind.
A silvery mist still clung to the plantings and ornamental trees in the gardens, blurring the textures and colors to an amorphous grey as she fretted over her various worries.
The stony silence of McClellan, the air of tension between Sheffield and Cordelia, the Russian’s mysterious appearance . . .
Her mood was further dampened by Wrexford’s continued absence. Charlotte had been disappointed to find no missive from the earl in the early morning post. As she took another sip of coffee, she couldn’t help but wonder what was keeping him in Oxford.
A sigh misted the glass panes. Oddly enough, the only letter on the silver salver had been addressed to Peregrine. She hoped it wasn’t bad news. The boy had suffered enough losses for someone of his tender years.
The sudden patter of footsteps caused her to turn away from the window. Half-hidden in the shadows, Peregrine was standing in the doorway, with Raven and Hawk just behind him.
“I’m sorry to disturb you, m’lady—” began the boy.
“But Falcon has just received a special invitation!” blurted out Hawk. “And we are all included—”
