Nicholas strode forward with Natasha, looking as if he were about to go to the guillotine. They both stepped on the stage.

Poppy pushed her way to the front of the crowd.

Nicholas refused to look at her. But Natasha did, and her mouth was pursed in a satisfied smile.

Poppy did her best to remain calm, ignoring her increasingly shallow breaths.

“You can do it,” someone said in her ear. She flinched, looked behind her, and saw a long-faced, beady-eyed footman just disappearing between two matrons.

Mr. Groop was right. She could. And she would.

She looked up at Nicholas, her heart in her throat.

Sergei smiled at the crowd. “It gives me great pleasure to announce the betrothal of my sister, the Russian princess Natasha, to—”

“Stop!” Poppy interrupted him.

A hush fell over the crowd, and she pointed to Nicholas. “That man is not the Duke of Drummond. I have proof that his missing uncle—the one everyone thought had been murdered—is still alive. He’s the Duke of Drummond, not Nicholas.”

“She’s lying.” Natasha stared daggers at her.

Sergei scowled. “What’s this about, Lady Poppy? Duke?”

“I’ve no idea,” Nicholas said low.

“I have his uncle’s signet ring here.” Poppy held it up. “It even has his initials. It was given to me by Tradd Staunton himself. He’s kept his identity hidden all these years because he works for the Service.”

“The Service?” was the general outcry, except for a few debutantes who exclaimed, “What’s that?” and one ancient gentleman who insisted the Service had been disbanded years before.

“He goes by the code name Mr. Groop,” Poppy went on, and saw Nicholas’s face blanch. “But a document signed by Prinny himself proves Groop’s claim and his right to the Drummond title and properties. So I’m afraid, Nicholas Staunton, you’re back to being Lord Maxwell. You’ll inherit someday, but your uncle is so busy with the Service, the Drummond title, properties, and coffers are his very last priority.”

Everyone gasped.

“Show me that ring,” Nicholas demanded, and looked at her as if she were mad. “And where’s that document?”

“Here’s your ring!” She tossed it into the air. There was a collective gasp when it landed in the crowd. “Groop was here just one minute ago, dressed in livery, but you’ll never discover him. He’s a master of disguise. One of the servants has the document on a tray. Have fun finding it and the ring.”

People burst into talk and many held up quizzing glasses to see where the ring might have gone and where this document might be and if Groop were still lurking somewhere in the vicinity.

“I despise you, Nicholas Staunton!” cried Natasha. “I marry no less than dukes.”

“But what about the baby?” someone called from the crowd.

It was Lord Howell.

“What baby?” Natasha crossed her arms over her chest and pouted.

“You mean … you lied?” Lord Howell’s face was purple.

“I am a Russian princess,” Natasha answered, and strode off, calling for her attendants.

Was that the best excuse she could give for her bad behavior? Poppy huffed, but no one noticed—no one except Countess Lieven.

“Portrait or not,” she said in Poppy’s ear, “that girl is not representing our country at all well. I will send her packing in the morning, back to St. Petersburg. Her mother will put her in the convent for sure this time. Strike up a lively tune!” she called to the small string orchestra, and she strode toward Natasha.

The band dutifully began a Viennese waltz. At the same time, a strange honking noise arose from the back of the room, near the doors to the garden, which were now flung open.

And much yapping.

Followed by several high-pitched screams.

Poppy’s mouth dropped open. Nicholas Staunton, she thought, this is the distraction you created to retrieve the painting?

She was in shock, yet she wasn’t. The man was cheeky.

Finding their flat-footed way amid a forest of silks, satins, muslins, and crisp cotton was a gaggle of geese—waddling, nipping, honking, demanding attention. But their noise wasn’t nearly as bad as the yapping from the corgis.

Poppy sucked in a breath when she saw Boris. He and the rest of the dogs were enthusiastically trying to herd the geese, one of which looked very familiar.

“My beloved dogs!” Natasha could be heard screeching. “Save them!”

There were loud shouts and several crashes of presumably precious china and crystal. The musicians continued stumbling through a waltz. Count Lieven stood near them, his face sweating as he desperately called for order.

“I am a Russian prince!” Poppy heard Sergei yell. “Get this blasted gander away from me!”

She felt as if she were in a dream.

She also knew one thing—she loved Nicholas. But neither he nor anyone else was going to decide where her mother’s painting was going except her.

Her hands began to sweat. She had to go. Now. And retrieve the painting before Nicholas did. It was all right. He wouldn’t need the M.R. anyway. No, indeed.

She wished she could be there when Nicholas heard the reason why.

A quick glance at Eleanor and Beatrice satisfied her that they were doing their jobs. They were scurrying about, dressed in livery and powdered wigs and holding their trays aloft with documents glued to them (the real one was safe at home), while guests chased them. Groop had long ago disappeared. A large crowd followed Beatrice right out the door to the gardens.

Eleanor sped in big circles around the ballroom, or tried to. The geese and corgis got in her and everyone’s way.

Aunt Charlotte, her hand to her breast, caught up with Poppy. “What’s going on, dear?”

“I have to take the painting,” she said calmly, striding toward the stairs.

“No,” Aunt Charlotte gasped.

“It’s quite all right, Aunt. It’s my painting, and I can—”

“No, dear. Not that. A large goose is following Prince Sergei as if it’s besotted with him. It’s quite a charming sight.”

And she left her.

Nicholas was a mischief-maker. But Poppy couldn’t afford to be amused by him or the presence of Lady Caldwell’s gander—not yet. She was almost to the stairs, at the top of which was a corridor, an alcove, and the painting. If she could just get through this crowd of people, geese, and dogs, she’d be home-free.

Out of the corner of her eye, she caught Nicholas ignoring the servants with trays and heading toward the stairs himself.

She must beat him.

She kept walking—faster.

It’s now or never, she told herself when she reached the lowest stair, and sprinted up them. Silently, she sped down the corridor. The footmen had left their posts and were attempting to restore order in the ballroom.

Just as Count Lieven had said over tea, the painting was positioned in an alcove under a window. It rested on an easel and was draped in a red silk cloth.

She’d have to take it down the servants’ stairs and out the back way.

When she picked up the frame, Poppy had never been more nervous or excited. Goodness, it was heavy! Heavier than she’d thought it would be. And the blasted drape was sliding off and catching under her feet.

“Stop right there,” a low, menacing voice said behind her.

But it didn’t scare her. How could it? It was only Nicholas.

She stole a quick glance at him. “No,” she insisted. “I’ve no time, and you had best go away and look for that document. Don’t you care that Groop’s your uncle?”

But he didn’t, the bounder. At least not at the moment.

Instead, he grabbed the painting from her arms. “What do you think you’re doing?”

She tried to rip it out of his hands, but he was too strong for her. And then he held the large rectangle over his head.

“I’m stealing it,” she whispered loudly, and leaped to get it.

He held it higher. “You can’t steal this.”

“Most certainly I can. It’s mine.”

“I’m stealing it,” he said, and moved toward the stairs. “For you, you minx, not the Service, so please get out of my way.”

“Oh, no, you’re not.” She gave one more mighty leap and still fell short of the painting’s edge. “Wait. What did you say?”

“I quit the Service. I’m stealing this for you.”

“You did? You are?”

“Yes. And I don’t give a rat’s arse at the moment that Groop’s my uncle, although you were quite clever to try to throw me off like that. You’re all that matters to me, you saucy Spinster, you.”

“Really?” It felt as if her whole world lit up.

They both heard a movement on the stairs and locked gazes.

“Hurry,” he said. “To the curtains.”

Quickly, he put the painting back on the easel. Poppy adjusted the red silk drape over the portrait, and they ran to the curtains.

She pressed against Nicholas’s body and closed her eyes, not because she was afraid—but because she was so glad to be near him again, to be inhaling his man scent, to be leaning on his strong chest.

“What do you think we should do?” whined one footman, clomping up the stairs.

“I dunno,” said another. “It’s pandemonium. If we bring it out now, we might drop it.”

“Or a damned goose will nip it.”

Poppy looked up into Nicholas’s eyes. They were full of mirth. She stifled a giggle with her hand.

But just as suddenly, his mysterious gray eyes—which she’d come to adore—softened.

“I love you,” he mouthed.

The two footmen went back and forth, discussing the merits of taking the portrait to the ballroom now versus taking it later, when things had calmed down.