Kieran Kramer - Dukes to the Left of Me, Princes to the Right

Poppy sniffed. “You’re right, actually. She never did wear pink. Except in the portrait. And that was probably a clever little thing she did for the Service, in honor of her spy name.”

It was one thing Nicholas loved about the Service. The people who worked for it were resourceful. Brave. And clever.

“Remember,” Nicholas attempted to reassure her, “even though she was employed by Groop, she was still your mother. And a wife. And a friend.”

Poppy shook her head. “But I still feel hurt. It’s as if … I didn’t know her.”

The atmosphere in the carriage grew decidedly gloomy, like the weather outside.

“Of course you knew her,” Nicholas insisted. “You know me, don’t you? And I happen to do secret things. It doesn’t change who I am. You can trust me.”

“That’s true.” Poppy bit her lip thoughtfully.

He was flattered she agreed.

“And how about you?” He grinned. “You’re in the clandestine business at the moment. Are you any different? Or are you still … Poppy?”

She gave a little shrug. “I suppose I am. I wonder if Papa knew?”

“That’s hard to say.”

“But when you love someone … shouldn’t you tell them everything?”

He had an unbidden, brief recollection of that entire night he’d spent with Natasha at the Howells’ residence.

“Sometimes,” he said carefully, “to protect that person from harm, you don’t tell them everything. It’s not because you don’t love them. It’s because you do.”

Not that he loved her, but he hated to disappoint her. And he knew of many Service people who shielded their loved ones from harm by keeping secrets close to their chests.

“If Mama took her secret to the grave,” Poppy said, “then I suppose it’s not mine to reveal to Papa.”

“I tend to agree. But I’ve also learned, never say never about anything.”

They resumed their perusal of the papers. Poppy took her time, seeming to cherish each page. Once she was through reviewing one sheet, she’d pass it carefully on to Nicholas.

“This is my mother, after all.” Her eyes glowed with quiet pride. “I want to read everything carefully. Apparently, she was an expert at her job.”

A moment later, she held a paper aloft and grinned. “Ta-da! The receipt we’ve been searching for.”

She thrust it at Nicholas, and he read it carefully. “It does appear Lady Derby commissioned the painting,” he said. “But … I hate to tell you—”

“What?” Poppy placed a hand on his arm, her eyes wide.

He spoke as gently as possible. “Now that we know your mother worked for the Service, this receipt could be a falsified document she carried in St. Petersburg. It would validate to anyone questioning her activities that she was a legitimate client of Revnik’s. In other words”—he paused, hating to disappoint her after all their hard work—“the painting probably belongs to the Service. I’m very sorry, Poppy, if that’s the case.”

She stared at the receipt. “I hate the Service,” she whispered. Then she looked at him, her mouth determined. “I know this receipt is real. Mama mailed it to Groop for safekeeping.”

“I’m not saying she didn’t, but—”

Poppy put out a palm to stop him. “She knew Revnik would use the portrait to convey a message about the mole, but Mama paid for it. And she wanted to give it to Papa.”

She had a bold, clear light in her eye. “If you’re right, Nicholas—and Mama was still Mama when she was doing things in secret—that’s how she would have worked. She’d have selflessly allowed the government its bit, but she would have been thinking of Papa more.”

She folded the receipt and put it back in her bodice. “In fact, I’m sure Mama’s the genius who came up with the idea of painting the mole’s identity into the portrait. Who was to know Revnik would die of the smallpox, and she shortly thereafter?”

She had both hands on her hips, her eyes flashing green fire now.

What was she, Nicholas wondered, Athena come to life?

He wanted her more than ever.

And he respected her more than ever.

“I wouldn’t dare to disagree with a person showing such conviction,” he said softly. “You’ve already proven to me that your gut instincts are good, so I’m not at all disheartened by these new revelations, are you?”

“Absolutely not.” She threw back her shoulders. “It simply means I have more work to do before I can get Mama’s portrait back.”

“Which I still have to retrieve, you know.”

“Steal is the right word, actually.” She gave him a cool glance. “It’s mine. Not the government’s. But I’ll stay true to Mama’s wishes and allow the government a first look.”

He grabbed her upper arms and pulled her close, his heart gripped by her passion. “You’re bloody marvelous, do you know that?”

She laughed. “It’s Mama’s influence.”

It was hard to kiss and grin at the same time, but they managed. And they managed a lot more than that. The carriage rolled up to 17 Clifford Street at the exact moment he put his mouth over her bared breast and ran his tongue around her puckered nipple.

“We’re getting much too brazen,” she whispered, and pulled her bodice up hastily.

“And you love it,” he said.

“I do, actually.” Her tone was cheeky.

Perhaps one day they could take a trip to Sussex to his small property there. They’d bring Aunt Charlotte to chaperone and feed her a large meal with lots of brandy-laced trifle, and then he’d take Poppy on a small picnic by a stream, but it would be a feast of a different kind …

“Nicholas?” She had her hand on the carriage door.

For the first time, he felt vulnerable letting her go. To the point that—

Well, he just hated to see her go. No use delving into his feelings more than that.

“I want to thank you for today,” she said almost shyly. “I’ll never forget it. Remember how we both said on the sailboat that sometimes you feel like you’re living the wrong life? Today … today I felt like I was living the right one.”

God, she was lovely.

And too good for him.

He took her hand again and kissed it. “You say the most impossible things.”

She gave a little laugh. “Yes, and you’re an Impossible Bachelor. Put us both together and we’re…”

“We’re what?” he asked her.

“Why, it’s obvious.”

“It is?”

Something shimmered in the air between them, but he wasn’t sure what it was.

Poppy almost looked as though she felt sorry for him. “Good-bye, Nicholas,” she said with a restrained little smile.

And before he could help her out, she opened the carriage door and left.

Possible, that’s what Poppy thought she and Nicholas were. But if he couldn’t see it for himself, then she wasn’t going to bother explaining. Nor would she marry him. The only man a Spinster would marry was someone who knew as well as she did they were meant to be together.

She shouldn’t have to convince a man to love her, should she?

And the same went for her relationship with Papa. The next afternoon, she gathered her courage and stood before his closed library door. Aunt Charlotte had left that very morning for their country home in Kent to visit a dear old friend. She’d be gone a week, and Papa would be home more to watch over Poppy. It was as good a time as ever for her to approach him.

She lifted her hand, bit her lip, and knocked at the library door.

“Come in,” Papa called, ever stern.

When she entered, he looked up, his eyes etched with his usual worries about the state of the country and his role in Parliament.

“This is a welcome diversion.” He paused in his writing.

“Am I, Papa?”

He sighed. “Of course you are.”

She bit her lip. “I’m sorry. It’s just that—”

“Yes?”

She sank into a chair. “You’re gone all the time. And I never see you. And I wonder sometimes if you wish Mama had never had me. Often when you look at me, you appear angry.”

Lord Derby laid down his quill. “I’m not angry at you. I do what I do for love of you. To make you proud. And to leave this country in a better way for you and your children after I’m gone.”

Poppy studied his dear, lined face. “I’m thankful. And proud of you. But sometimes I wish you were here with me, laughing with me, talking to me. Sometimes I think that would help me more than you doing your duty. How can I tell my children funny little stories of their grandfather if you’re not here? They’ll learn all the grand things, of course, about your time in Parliament. But I want them to know you. That you like three lumps of sugar in your tea. And very shiny black boots. And singing. Not that you’ve done that in ages, not since before Mama died.” She swallowed. “But sweet, special things like that.”

Lord Derby hesitated. “I—I don’t know what to say. Other than I’m sorry you feel ignored.”

Her throat tightened. “I know you’re doing your best. But I wish we talked more about Mama. Since she’s been gone, we never do.”

Lord Derby frowned. “You’re asking a great deal this morning. Why now?”

She shrugged her shoulders, feeling sheepish. “Only because I’m growing up, I think. I’m trying to be brave and live in the present, rather than the past. And the present includes you. I want to be part of your life, Papa. I want more from you than a frown and a lecture. I want my old father back. It might mean we have to start in the past and work our way to the present moment, but please. I’d like us to try. We’ve missed so much that we could have shared together.”