“Am I simply wallowing in self-pity?” She thought for a moment. No, it wasn’t that . . .
It was guilt gnawing at her insides.
She felt so damnably guilty, even though everyone had assured her that she was blameless.
The leaves around her ruffled softly. It was a soothing sound, and she was suddenly aware that the demon-dark voices inside her head had grown fainter.
Arianna sat quietly, mulling over her dilemma.
The Tsar’s request . . . the kick of a pistol . . . the sleuthing for clues to solve a murder—recent events had stirred up the embers of her old fire. A part of her yearned to rejoin the battle against Evil. And Arianna knew that she was skilled at it.
While living as a shadow of her former self did no one any good.
A flicker of warmth caressed her cheek. She opened her eyes to find a blade of sunlight had pierced through the thick twines of ivy.
It was strange how clarity could come in a flash.
In that instant, a smile touched her lips. Her blood began to thrum. She was suddenly certain that she was ready to put mourning behind her. Smoothing her shawl around her shoulders—she felt a lightness, as if a lead weight had lifted—she started to rise.
“This way.”
Arianna froze.
“Nobody strays into this part of the garden. But if we’re spotted, I’ll simply say I was showing you the Roman fountain.”
Something about the tautness in the gentleman’s voice made Arianna sit back down and hold herself very still.
Steps crunched over the path, coming closer and closer. She had chosen to wear a forest-green gown, and with the tangle of ivy hanging over the pergola, it was unlikely that she would be spotted.
Two figures—she caught a glimpse of them through the leaves and saw one was in a military uniform.
“By the bones of Rurik—there are thorns here!” A grunt and a pause as one of the gentlemen disentangled his sleeve from a rosebush. “Did we really need to come into the wilds to talk?”
“You would rather risk having our conversation overheard?
“We could speak Russian.”
“I’d rather not raise any suspicions. Or remind people of my Russian heritage.”
Arianna felt her insides clench. It was Major Prescott speaking—she was sure of it.
“Lord Grentham suspects that there are still officials within the Foreign Office whose loyalties lie elsewhere,” pointed out Prescott. “So we need to be very careful.”
“Bah—Grentham isn’t as powerful as he once was.”
“Even wounded, the minister is still dangerous. It was reckless to draw his attention with an unnecessary murder.” Leaves crackled, as if the major was shifting to keep watch on the surroundings. “Why the devil did you kill the baroness? My understanding was that you were simply going to search her rooms.”
“She woke up and tried to put up a fight, despite my operative’s warning. He had no choice but to silence her.”
“It was damnably clumsy. I trust you will be less so in the future,” muttered Prescott. He let the veiled warning hang in the air for a moment before adding, “Was the risk worthwhile? Did he find anything of interest?”
“No, he found nothing,” conceded the Russian. “But she visited a gathering of eccentric females—I believe they are called Bluestockings—earlier in the evening, so she might have passed something on to one of them.”
“Women?” Prescott gave a dismissive snort. “That strikes me as highly unlikely.”
“A Miss Kirtland was one of the other guests. She is a friend of the Earl of Saybrook and his wife. The three of them were in Paris during the time our grand plan was discovered and stopped at the last moment.”
“And you think Miss Kirtland played a part in that?” Prescott made no attempt to hide his skepticism.
