Stay away, was what he meant, of course.

Natasha obviously understood. Her eyebrows gathered over her nose, and she opened her mouth to speak, but before she could say anything else, Nicholas took the reins from Poppy’s hands.

“Good day, Princess,” he said, and urged the horses forward.

“Yes, good-bye, Princess,” Poppy called back to her. “Oh, and I’ve decided I would like to go shopping with you, after all. I’ll be in tooouch!”

They passed her and her collection of dogs in mere seconds. Nicholas was grateful his horses were prime goers.

“Drummond,” Poppy remonstrated with him when the yapping had faded. “How could you?”

“Here, take them back,” he said, and handed her the reins.

She immediately accepted them. “Not that. I’m talking about the princess. You cut her off as she was about to speak.”

“I didn’t notice,” he lied. “Feel free to maneuver where you wish. There’s a flashy clump of flowers over there you might enjoy. As pink as a drunkard’s eyes.”

But Poppy ignored the clump and drove on. “You told her I’ll be too involved in wedding details to see her.”

“You shall be busy.” He sighed inwardly.

“Not too busy for her. Not anymore, at any rate.”

“You mean, you won’t be too busy for him.” He took the reins back without asking, feeling a sudden pique. “We both know it’s Sergei’s attention you desire.”

“So? You should seek his attention, too. Natasha’s, as well.”

“I don’t give a diamond-studded shoe buckle about Russian royalty.” He felt rather bitter about being passed over for Operation Pink Lady.

“But Mr. Groop says you must pay attention to them,” Poppy said. “He said so in the note Kettle and I found in your cane.”

Nicholas pulled the horses to an immediate stop. “What did you say?” Truly, he couldn’t have heard her correctly.

“I said Mr. Groop. And it was really quite an easy code to decipher, especially if you’re familiar with Hamlet’s first soliloquy—”

“Not—another—word.” He gripped her hand to make the seriousness of his intentions clear.

“But—”

“Poppy. I mean what I say. If you speak again, I shall kiss you senseless in front of Lady Jersey, who’s approaching to our left.”

“Go ahead.” She tossed her head.

He sighed. “I was threatening you. If I kiss you senseless in front of Lady Jersey, you’ll never make it into Almack’s again.”

“The lemonade is blasted weak,” she asserted. “I don’t think I should miss it.”

He took a deep breath. “You won’t say another word to me until we may speak in private.”

She looked down her nose at him. “All right. But I’m not accustomed to people threatening me, staring down my bodice, baldly confessing they’re after my money, and having secrets. I find the whole situation quite reprehensible.” She leaned closer. “And in the oddest way … invigorating.”

He threw her a look. “Invigorating, did you say?”

The damned lust was rising in him like sap.

The chit was driving him mad.

Mad.

And not just in an annoyed sort of way. It was spring. The sun was shining. She was flushed and sweet-smelling, and there was a quiet little shady spot nearby that no one ever seemed to bother with. He’d always wanted to use it for kissing a delectable girl.

A delectable, brazen girl with a brilliant mind was even better. Those codes took him all night to solve.

“I’m taking you home now,” he said in neutral tones, to mask the covetous sensations burning through him.

She looked at him as if she were a bound-and-shackled prisoner—a bound-and-shackled prisoner with very kissable lips—but fortunately she said not a word.

Truth be told, Nicholas found threats and secrets invigorating, too, and if he understood the situation correctly, Operation Pink Lady—OPL—was now his.

His.

And the MR that went with it. Thank God, when it rained, it poured. A substantial monetary reward certainly couldn’t hurt matters, even if he were marrying an heiress.

But he was also alarmed. How in bloody hell had Poppy found out about Groop? How much did she know?

And how would he keep her out of his business?

He turned the horses toward the east. She’d no idea what she’d stepped into, did she?

He stole a glance at her.

Apparently not.

The “tortured captive” look was gone. She had a self-satisfied “I’ve-got-a-secret” look. She should never play card games for money, he thought. And she most certainly would never make it in the Service. She wore too many emotions right there on her flimsy, puffed-up sleeve.

A shabby steed bearing a portly young man in an ill-fitting, stained coat pulled alongside the curricle just before they were to leave the park. Nicholas was disappointed to see that it was Frank.

He prayed for patience. “Yes, little brother?”

Frank ignored him and leaned close to Poppy. “I wouldn’t marry my brother if I were you. He’s only marrying you because the estate needs money. You’re filthy rich, so you’ll suit.” He chuckled. “Not to mention I’ll cost you a fortune. I’m an inveterate gambler, you know.”

She stared at him for a cool few seconds, long enough that his horse grew restless and a pucker of uncertainty marred Frank’s brow.

“You’re not fooling me for a minute,” she told him. “You’re terribly excited I’m marrying your brother because you hope I’ll be the big sister you never had. Well, you’re right. I’ll not tolerate your gambling for a minute. I’ll box your ears if you misuse my fortune.”

“Is that all?” Frank laughed.

“You’ve obviously never had a sister.” She arched her brow at him. “We’re capable of more. So much more.”

Frank wheeled about on his horse and scowled at Nicholas. “You think you’ve got the best of me, aligning yourself with this Lady Poppy person, don’t you?” He tried to laugh, but it was a poor imitation. “Well, think again.”

He tore off on his horse.

They watched him wreak havoc among a party of picnickers, galloping over their blanket.

“My goodness,” said Poppy. “What a brother.”

“You’re almost as provoking as he is.” Nicholas shook his head and picked up the reins. He was amused by her just a tad, even though the amusement wasn’t nearly as strong as the desire he had to peek down her bodice again.

She cast him an arch glance. “You’re not my father, nor my employer. I do what I want when I want—”

“With whom you want. I know. You spinsters are quite a handful.”

When they rode out of the park into the busy streets of London, he wondered how in hell he was ever going to explain her to Groop.

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.