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CHAPTER ONE

Russia, 1820

Tzarskoye Selo

THE JOURNEY FROM St. Petersburg to Tzarskoye Selo was hardly an arduous one during the short summer months when the roads were fair and the brisk breeze held a pleasant scent of wildflowers and rich earth.

Which was precisely why the Emperor had left the Summer Palace two days earlier, claiming that such fine weather was too fleeting not to enjoy a few days away from the pressures of Court.

Lately Alexander Pavlovich would use any excuse to flee his heavy duties, but so far as Lord Edmond Summerville was concerned, it was an Imperial pain in the ass.

Coming over the slight swell in the road, he turned his black charger on the path to Ekaterinsky, the larger of the two palaces that sprawled with a majestic beauty across the Russian countryside.

Catherine the Great’s masterpiece was a stunning sight. Over a thousand yards long with narrow wings, it was three stories high and painted a bright blue that contrasted pleasantly with the five golden domes that marked the chapel. Along the front was a line of draped female figures that glowed with a gleaming bronze in the sunlight.

Edmond did not allow his hard pace to slow as he entered the courtyard through the gilded gateway to halt directly before the entrance.

His arrival brought a dozen footmen rushing forward, taking command of his mount and that of his outriders. As the younger son of a duke, Edmond was accustomed to the pomp and ceremony that surrounded royalty and barely noted the scurrying servants as he made his way up the marble stairs and stepped into the vast vestibule.

There he was met by one of Alexander’s more trusted companions attired in a dark gold coat and striped waistcoat that would have been perfectly suitable in any London drawing room. European fashions were always preferred among Russian aristocracy.

Herrick Gerhardt was of Prussian descent and had arrived in St. Petersburg when he was barely seventeen. He possessed a gaunt countenance, a thick crop of silver hair, and piercing brown eyes that held a cold, ruthless intelligence.

This was a man who did not suffer fools gladly and had made countless enemies among the Russian court for his brutal ability to see through their treacherous deceits.

His love of his Emperor was unquestionable, but his talent at diplomacy was sadly lacking.

“Edmond, this is a most unexpected surprise,” he said in the perfect French spoken by all the Russian nobles, his gaze searching Edmond’s starkly chiseled features, the vivid blue eyes that were such a stunning contrast to his thick raven hair and arched brows, and the wide mouth that was missing his usual charming smile.

Despite being the son of an English duke, Edmond possessed the high Slavic cheekbones of his Russian mother, as well as her cleft chin, which had been driving women to distraction since he left the nursery. He also possessed a love for his mother’s land that his elder twin brother would never comprehend.

Edmond offered a respectful nod of his head.

“I fear I must beg a few moments with the Emperor.”

“Is there trouble?”

“Only of a personal nature.” The restless fear that had plagued him since receiving his brother’s latest missive clenched at his heart. “I must return to England without delay.”

The older man stiffened, his thin face hardening with displeasure. “This is an ill time for you to leave the side of the Imperial Highness,” he chided sternly. “It was assumed you were to travel with him to the Congress of Troppau.”

“An unfortunate necessity, I fear.”

“A great deal more than unfortunate. We both know that there is growing distrust of Metternich and his increasing influence on the Emperor. Your presence would assist in keeping the Prince at a distance.”

Edmond shrugged, unable to feel any disappointment that he would be missing the conference of the Quadruple Alliance in Opava. For all his love of politics and intrigues, he despised the stifling formality of diplomatic gatherings. What could be more tedious than watching puffed-up dignitaries strutting about and pinning medals upon each others’ chests?

Serious negotiations were best done behind closed doors and far from the public view.

The fact was that without Britain or France in attendance, the Congress was doomed from the beginning.

Not that he was about to mention his doubts in front of Gerhardt. The Emperor was set on this mission, and it was expected that his loyal subjects would cheer his strong determination to squash the revolution in Naples.

“I believe you overestimate my influence,” he instead murmured.

“No, I am well aware you are one of the few confidants that Alexander Pavlovich still trusts.” Gerhardt regarded Edmond with a fierce scowl. “You are in a rare position to assist your motherland.”

“Your confidence in my meager skills is flattering, but your own presence with the Emperor will dampen the ambitions of Metternich far more than my own humble self.”

A hint of frustration tightened Gerhardt’s thin face. “I must remain here.”

Edmond arched a brow. It was rare for the older man not to be at the side of his Emperor at such an important gathering.

“You suspect trouble?”

“So long as Akartcheyeff is left in charge of the country, there is always danger,” he muttered, not bothering to hide his distaste of the man who had risen to such lofty ranks despite his lowly birth. “His devotion to his Emperor is beyond question, but he will never learn that you cannot use force to earn loyalty. There is a powder keg beneath our feet and Akartcheyeff might very well be the spark that ignites disaster.”

Edmond could hardly deny the danger. He, better than anyone, understood the smoldering dissatisfaction with the Czar that infected not only the masses, but several aristocrats as well.

The last thing he desired was to leave during this volatile time, but there was no choice.

“He is…unfortunately brutal in his dealings with others,” Edmond admitted, “but he is one of the few Ministers who have proven his integrity cannot be swayed.”

Stepping even closer, Gerhardt pitched his voice so it would not carry to the two footmen on duty beside the door.

“Which is why it is so important that you remain at Alexander Pavlovich’s side! Not only do you have the ear of the Emperor, but your…network will learn of any dangers long before any official report is put on my desk.”

Gerhardt’s delicate mention of the web of thieves, prostitutes, foreigners, sailors and more than a few nobles brought a smile to his lips. Over the past eight years, he had managed to create a connection of spies that kept him aware of brewing trouble the moment it began to stir.

It was an invaluable asset to Alexander Pavlovich. One that he had come to rely upon, as did those who considered it their duty to keep him safe.

“I will ensure that my associates keep in close contact with you,” he promised, his expression somber, “but I cannot postpone my return to England.”

Realizing that Edmond would not be swayed, Gerhardt stepped back, his brow furrowed with concern.

“Should I offer my sympathies?”

“Not if I can prevent it, my friend.”

“Then God go with you.”

With a bow, Edmond turned and with swift steps headed toward the Main Staircase, a magnificent work of marble that towered for three stories. For most guests to the Palace it was the extensive collection of Chinese porcelain vases and plates displayed along the walls that captured their attention, but Edmond had always been captivated by the warm glow of sunlight that was reflected in the rich marble. A true architect could breathe life into a building without the fuss of ornamentation.

From there he moved through the Portrait Hall where the painting of Empress Catherine I held a fitting place of glory amid the seeming endless gilded carvings, then through another hall, to at last reach Alexander Pavlovich’s private study.

In contrast to the lavish public rooms, Alexander had chosen a chamber that was refreshingly small and comfortable with a view of the beautiful gardens. Ignoring the guards who stood at impassive attendance, Edmond entered the room and performed a deep bow.

“Sire.”

Seated behind the rigidly tidy desk, Alexander Pavlovich, Imperial Highness, Emperor Czar, lifted his head and offered that singularly sweet smile that never failed to remind a person of an angel.

“Edmond, join me,” Alexander commanded in French.

With his Hessians clicking against the inlaid wooden floor, Edmond moved to settle his tall, lithely chiseled form in one of the mahogany carved and gilded wood chairs, his gaze covertly studying the man who had earned his unwavering love and loyalty since the battles against Napoleon in 1812.

The Emperor possessed the imposing form of his Russian ancestors that had grown a bit stout over the passing years, and the fine, even lines of his mother’s countenance. The golden hair had receded, but the blue eyes remained as clear and intelligent as in his youth.

It was the air of weary melancholy, however, that Edmond silently considered. It was growing worse. With every passing year, the once eager, impractical idealist determined to alter Russian’s future was becoming a defeated, withdrawn man who was riddled with such distrust, of himself and others, that he retreated more and more from the Court.

“Forgive me for my intrusion,” Edmond began gently.

“There are many who I consider an intrusion, but never you, my friend.” He waved a hand to the ever-present tray on his desk. “Tea?”

“Thank you, no, I do not desire to keep you from your work.”

“Always work. Work and duty.” Alexander heaved a sigh, precisely laying down his quill before leaning back in his chair. Like his father, Czar Paul, Alexander possessed a preference for a simple, military-style attire, relieved only by his Cross of St. George. “There are nights I dream of simply walking away from this palace and disappearing among the mobs.”

“Responsibility always comes with a heavy price,” Edmond readily agreed. There had been more than one night he had dreamed of becoming lost among the crowds. A simple, uncomplicated existence was a rare gift that few appreciated as they should.

“A pity I was not like you, Edmond. I think I should have liked to be a younger son, to have had some say in my own destiny. There was a time I even considered abdicating the throne and living a quiet life upon the Rhine.” He offered a wistful smile. “It was impossible, of course, a foolish dream of youth. Unlike Constantine, I had no choice but to accept my duty.”

“Being a younger son comes with its own share of troubles, sire. I would not wish my life on anyone.”

“Yes, you hide your troubles well, Edmond, but I have always sensed your heart is not at rest,” Alexander Pavlovich astonished Edmond by admitting. “Perhaps someday you will share what demons haunt you.”

Edmond battled to keep his face impassive. He had vowed never to speak of the raw wound that festered deep in his heart. Not with anyone.

“Perhaps.” He wisely evaded a direct response. “But not today, I fear. I have come to beg your forgiveness.”

“What is it?”

“I must return to England.”

“Has something occurred?”

Edmond carefully considered his words. “I have been concerned for some time, sire,” he confessed. “The letters that I have received from my brother over the past months have mentioned a number of…incidents that make me suspect that someone is attempting to do him harm.”

Alexander abruptly leaned forward. “Explain these incidents.”

“There have been gunshots from the nearby wood that my brother dismissed as poachers, there was a bridge that collapsed just as my brother’s carriage was upon it, and most recently a fire was started late one night in the wing of Meadowland where my brother’s bedchambers are located.” Edmond gripped the arms of his chair until his knuckles turned white as he recalled his brother’s latest letter. He intended to kill whoever was stupid enough to threaten his twin brother’s life. Slowly, painfully, and without mercy. “It was only because of an alert servant that there was nothing more than a few scorched walls instead of a tragedy.”

The Emperor did not pretend shock that someone as powerful as the Duke of Huntley might be in danger. The previous Czar had been assassinated, with scandalous rumors that Alexander himself had been involved. Then, of course, there was rarely a month that passed without some threat to the throne.

“It is understandable that you are concerned, but surely your brother has taken steps to ensure his safety?”

Edmond grimaced. Despite the fact there was less than ten minutes between their births, the two brothers could not be more different.

“Stefan is a brilliant Duke,” he said, speaking nothing less than the truth. “He tends his lands with the love of a mother for her child, his business investments have tripled the family’s coffers, and he is devoted to the care of those who depend upon him, whether it is his reckless younger brother or his lowest servant.” A rueful smile touched Edmond’s mouth. As different as they might be, the two brothers were devoted to one another, even more so since their parents’ tragic drowning years earlier. “As a man of the world, however, he is extraordinarily naive, completely trusting of others and utterly incapable of deception.”

Alexander gave a slow nod of his head. “I begin to comprehend.”

“I want more than to keep Stefan safe,” Edmond said in a soft, lethal voice. “I want whoever is responsible in my hands so I can choke the life from him.”

“Do you know who it is?”

Edmond’s body clenched with a fury he could barely contain. Along with his brother’s grudging revelation of the odd incidences that had plagued him, had been a passing reference to the fact that their cousin, Howard Summerville, was visiting his mother who lived only a few miles from the Huntley family seat.

Howard was his eldest cousin and the third heir in line to inherit the dukedom if anything were to happen to Stefan and Edmond. He was also a pathetic whiner who rarely missed an opportunity to inform all of society that his family had been ill-used by the Dukes of Huntley.

Who more likely to wish to do away with Stefan?

“I have my suspicions.”

“I see. Then most certainly it is your duty to protect your brother,” Alexander agreed with a grave nod of his head.

“I realize it is an awkward time to leave, but…” His words were cut short as the Emperor abruptly rose to his feet.

“Edmond, go to your family,” he commanded. “When all is settled, you can return to me.”

Edmond gained his feet and performed a deep bow.

“Thank you, sire.”

“Edmond.”

“Yes?”

“Just make certain you do return,” the Emperor commanded. “The Duke has given his loyalty to England, but your family owes Russia one of their sons.”

Hiding a smile at the thought of what King George IV might have to say at the royal command, Edmond merely inclined his head.

“Of course.”

LEAVING HIS SERVANTS AND carriage to follow behind him, Edmond urged his mount to a steady pace from London to his childhood home in Surrey.

Stefan might be a meticulous correspondent, but he tended to devote far too much attention to his crop rotation and newest farm implements. Edmond knew the precise details of the plantings in the north field and very little of how Stefan truly fared.

Still, for all Edmond’s urgency, he couldn’t halt the overwhelming desire to slow his grueling pace as he entered the familiar wooded landscape surrounding his home.

It was all in perfect order, of course. Everything from the neatly trimmed hedgerows to the recently harvested fields. Even the cottages were brightly whitewashed with fresh thatching on the roofs. Stefan would demand no less than perfection. Which was why he was considered one of the finest landlords in the entire realm.

Edmond was surprised, however, to realize he could vividly recall every curve in the road, every tiny stream that cut through the rolling pastures, and every towering oak that lined the long path to the house. He recalled playing pirates with Stefan on the glittering lake in the distance, having picnics with his adoring parents in the Grotto, even hiding from his tutor in the large conservatory.

His heart clenched with a bittersweet pain that only intensified as he cantered past the ivy-covered tower gate and his gaze fell upon the rambling, stone house that had been the crowning glory of the countryside for two hundred and fifty years.

Perched at the end of a tree-lined drive much of the foundation of the great house was still from the original Norman stonework, a testament to the excellent craftsmanship. There were twelve impressive bays that boasted sash windows and stone balustrades that lined the roof. The previous Duke had added a Portrait Gallery and the woodland gardens had been expanded to include several fountains created for his mother by Russian artists, but the overall image remained one of solid, ageless English beauty.

Behind the main house, the stable block was a handsome structure that maintained much of its rustic beauty with numerous wooden stalls and carved pillars. In the past the stables had housed the local villagers when the plague had swept through the country, providing a sanctuary from the ravaging death. These days, however, the building had been returned to its traditional purpose, housing the extensive collection of Huntley horses that were praised in the Sporting Magazine and sought after by foxhunters all over England.

As a youth, Edmond had loved the scent of the stables, often hiding in the hayloft to avoid the tedious lectures of his tutor or, as he grew older, to enjoy a bit of privacy with a willing maid.

Sucking in a sharp breath, Edmond sternly dismissed the memories that threatened to overwhelm him. He hadn’t returned to England to dredge up the ugly past. Or to waste his time brooding on what might have been.

He was here for Stefan.

Nothing more.

Edmond angled his horse toward the side entrance, hoping to avoid the fanfare that always occurred on the rare occasions he made an appearance at his ancestral seat. Later he would make sure he managed to greet the large staff he considered more family than servants, but for now he wanted to assure himself that Stefan was safe. Then he needed to find a trustworthy ally who could tell him the truth of what had been happening here in Surrey.

He managed to slip through the double French doors and make his way through the small study that his brother had confiscated to use for his private art studio. The satinwood furnishings had been shifted to a distant corner, leaving space on the Persian carpet for a stack of canvases and a wooden tripod. Even the pretty green and ivory striped curtains that perfectly matched the wall panels were now folded and stacked on his mother’s writing desk. A smile touched Edmond’s lips. It was a ridiculous waste of space, considering Stefan had managed to create nothing more than a handful of truly ghastly landscapes in the past twenty years.

With a shake of his head, he crossed through the adjoining music room before being caught by the thin, silver-haired butler who was hovering near the marble staircase, as if sensing someone had invaded his domain.

For the briefest moment, a hint of confusion touched the servant’s sharply carved face, as if wondering why the Duke of Huntley would be sneaking through the house like a thief, before realization struck.

Even servants who had known Stefan and Edmond all their lives found it difficult to tell them apart at a glance.

“My lord,” he breathed in shock, hurrying forward with a rare smile curving his lips. “What a delightful surprise.”

Edmond readily returned the smile. Goodson was a genuine treasure, always efficient, well-organized and in ruthless control of the vast staff. His true talent, however, was his ability to maintain the sense of calm peace that so pleased Stefan.

There was never, ever anything to disturb the serenity of Meadowland. No sounds of squabbling servants, no upheavals from unwanted guests who were firmly, but diplomatically, turned from the door, no awkward unpleasantness during the rare social events that were held at the grand house.

He was, all in all, the perfect butler.

“Thank you, Goodson,” Edmond said. “I am shockingly pleased to be here.”

“It is always good to come home,” Goodson replied, able to hide the least hint of reproach at Edmond’s lengthy absence.

The staff would never fully resign themselves to Edmond’s preference for living in Russia. To them he was an Englishman, regardless of his mother’s blood, and a duke’s son. His place was at Meadowland, not some strange, foreign land.

“Yes, I suppose it is. Is the Duke at home?”

“He is in his study. Do you wish me to announce you?”

Of course Stefan was in his study. If his diligent brother was not overseeing the work in the fields he was always in his study.

“No, despite my advancing years, I believe I can still remember my way.”

Goodson gave a dignified nod. “I will have Mrs. Slater bring you a tray there.”

Edmond’s mouth watered at the mere thought. He had eaten the food of the most famous chefs in the world, but none could compare to Mrs. Slater’s simple English fare.

“Will you ask her to include her famous seed cakes? I haven’t had a decent one in years.”

“There is no need to ask,” Goodson assured him dryly. “The woman will be so delighted to have you returned to Meadowland, she will not be satisfied until she manages to produce every dish you have claimed to prefer since you were in shortcoats.”

“At this moment I believe I could eat them all.” Edmond turned toward the steps only to sharply turn back toward the hovering servant. “Goodson.”

“Yes, my lord?”

“My brother happened to mention in one of his letters that Mr. Howard Summerville was visiting his mother.”

“I believe he and his family did stay several weeks with Mrs. Summerville, sir.”

There was nothing to be detected in the bland tones, but Edmond did not doubt the servant knew the precise day Howard arrived in Surrey as well as the exact moment of his departure. It would, after all, be the valet’s unpleasant duty to ensure the sponger did not manage to slip past his guard and trouble the Duke with his tedious pleas for money.

“How many weeks?”

“He arrived six days before Christmas and did not leave until the twelfth of September.”

“Rather odd for a gentleman devoted to the delights of town to leave London for such a protracted length of time, was it not, Goodson?”

“Very odd, unless one believes in village gossip.”

“And what village gossip would that be?”

“That Mr. Summerville was forced to close his town house and retrench.” The disdain deepened. “It was said that the gentleman could not so much as step out his door without being surrounded by bill collectors.”

“It seems my cousin has managed to become an even greater dolt than I had anticipated.”

“Yes, indeed, my lord.”

He sucked in a deep breath. “Once I speak with my brother I would like to have a word with his valet.”

The flicker of surprise was so brief it might have been nonexistent. “I will have James awaiting you in the library.”

“Actually I would prefer the privacy of my personal sitting room, always presuming it has not been converted into a nursery or filled to the ceiling with Stefan’s farming manuals.”

“Your rooms are just as you left them,” the servant assured him in grave tones. “His Grace insists that they always be prepared for your return.”

Edmond smiled wryly. It was predictable of his brother. And oddly comforting. There was something to be said for always knowing there was a place waiting for you.

“Have James meet me in my sitting room in an hour.”

“As you wish.”

Knowing that Goodson would not only have James waiting for him, but would do so with the sort of discretion that would avoid any unnecessary chatter below-stairs, Edmond turned and continued his way to the second floor.

Deliberately avoiding the Picture Gallery, Edmond chose the lesser-used Minstrel’s Gallery to make his way toward the private rooms of the vast house. A faint smile touched his lips as he realized that the pale blue damask wall panels were precisely the same as they had been when he was a child, as well as the blue and ivory silk curtains that framed the high, arched windows that ran the length of the gallery.

His amusement only deepened as he silently pushed open the door to the large study that was nearly overrun with books, ledgers and farming manuals stacked on every available surface. Only the heavy oak desk was relatively clear of debris, with one ledger book spread open. Stefan was seated behind the desk in a leather chair, quill in his hand.

“Do you know, Stefan, it is nothing short of remarkable how nothing ever changes at Meadowland, including you,” he murmured softly. “I believe you were sitting at that precise desk, tallying the same quarterly reports in that same old blue coat the day that I left.”

Lifting his dark head, Stefan stared at him in shock for a long beat.

“Edmond?”

“For my sins.”

With a choked sound between a laugh and sob, Stefan was on his feet and hurrying to clasp Edmond in a bear hug.

“Dear God, it’s good to see you.”

Edmond readily returned the embrace. His feelings for Stefan had never been complicated. His brother was the one person in the entire world he truly loved.

“And you, Stefan.”

Pulling back, Stefan allowed a rueful smile to touch the face that was an exact replica of Edmond’s.

Oh, the discerning eye might pick up the fact that Stefan’s olive skin was a shade or two darker from the hours he spent overseeing the tenants, and that the vivid blue eyes held an expression of sweet trust that would never be seen in Edmond’s. But the thick raven hair curled in exactly the same manner, the chiseled features held the same Slavic beauty; even their tall, lean bodies were exactly matched.

The two had spent their childhood taking great delight in switching places and confusing others who could never tell them apart.

Everyone, that is, but their parents and their young neighbor Brianna Quinn. The tiny minx with a wild mane of autumn-hued curls could never be deceived.

“I will have you know this coat is not above three or four seasons old,” Stefan assured him as he smoothed his hands over the blue coat.

Edmond gave a soft laugh. “I would lay ten quid your valet would tell me differently.”

Stefan wrinkled his nose, his gaze skimming over Edmond’s closely tailored mulberry jacket and silver waistcoat.

“Well, I never was as dapper as you.”

“Thank God,” Edmond said with utter sincerity. “Unlike your feckless brother, you have far more important matters to fill your days than the cut of your coat or gloss of your boots. Not the least of which is allowing me to live in magnificent comfort.”

“I would hardly consider being the guardian angel of his Imperial Highness as being feckless,” Stefan countered. “Far from it, in fact.”

“Guardian angel?” Edmond gave a sharp, disbelieving laugh at the ridiculous words. “You are far off the mark, dear Stefan. I am a wicked sinner, a rake, and a self-indulgent adventurer who has only avoided the hangman’s noose due to the fortune of possessing a Duke for a brother.”

The vivid blue eyes narrowed. “You might be able to fool others, Edmond, but never me.”

“Because you are always determined to believe the best in everyone, even your worthless brother.” Edmond lowered himself into a wing chair near the desk, quite ready to be done with the conversation. “Presumably Mrs. Slater is busily preparing a banquet, but in truth I am in more need of a shot of that Irish whiskey you keep hidden in your drawer.”

“Of course.” With a knowing smile Stefan moved to the desk and pulled out the bottle of whiskey and two glasses. Splashing a healthy measure of the amber spirit into each, he handed one to Edmond and took his own seat behind the desk. “Cheers.”

Tossing the spirit down his throat, Edmond savored the delicious burn.

“Ah…perfect.” Placing the empty glass on a nearby table, Edmond settled back in his seat and took a deep breath. He smiled at his brother. “This room smells of England.”

“And what does England smell of?”

“Polished wood, aging leather, damp air. It never changes.”

Stefan polished off his drink and set his glass aside. “Perhaps not, but I find such familiarity comforting. I am not like you, Edmond, always seeking some new adventure. I prefer a more dull and tedious existence.”

“There is something to be said for familiarity. I am glad you haven’t changed Meadowland. I like knowing that when I return, it will be just as I remembered.” He studied his brother, a wicked glint in his eyes. “Of course, once you take a wife you will no doubt be badgered into constant renovations. We might love this rambling old place with its smoking chimneys, leaking casements and sadly dated furnishings, but I doubt a woman of good breeding would be happy to live among such shabbiness.”

As always Stefan refused to rise to the bait. “No doubt that is the reason I still have yet to take a wife,” he murmured with a placid indifference to his bachelor state. Of course he could be. Everyone knew there wasn’t a maiden in all of England, or the rest of the world for that matter, who wouldn’t leap at the opportunity to become the next Duchess of Huntley. “I cannot bear the thought of altering my treasured home.”

“More likely you are just foolish enough to be waiting for love to strike your heart, and when it does I predict that it will be to some entirely unsuitable miss who will lead you about by your nose.”

Stefan arched a dark brow. “Actually I’ve always assumed that you would be the one to tumble neck deep in love with some spirited lady who will lead you a merry dance. It would be only fair, for all the havoc you have caused among the fairer sex.”

There was no need for Edmond to fake his shudder. He possessed a natural desire for a beautiful woman, but never for more than a passing affair.

He would readily share his body and his wealth, but never anything more.

“Mon dieu, not even I deserve such a hideous fate,” he muttered.

Stefan chuckled, but he didn’t appear nearly as convinced as he should have been. “Now, tell me all the news from Russia. You know I hear nothing here in the country.”

Edmond leaned forward, his smile fading. “Actually, Stefan, I am far more interested in what has been happening at Meadowland.”

IT WAS CLOSE TO TWO HOURS later when Edmond entered his private sitting room. Decorated in soothing shades of cream and sapphire, it possessed a simple elegance. The furniture was fashioned in the solid English style with a satin settee, a mahogany chased ormolu and brass bureau, and a few trellised-backed chairs that smelled of beeswax. On the walls were several Flemish masterpieces that had been collected by a distant ancestor; the floor was covered by a magnificent oriental carpet.

It was the logs laid in the fireplace and fresh flowers arranged on the marble mantle, however, that made his lips twitch with amusement.

Clearly Goodson had not lied. The room looked as if he had never left.

Shifting his attention, he regarded the short, rotund form of his brother’s valet who was standing near the arched windows that offered a stunning view of the nearby lake. The servant was neatly attired in a black and gold uniform, his pudgy face settled in lines of stoic patience.

“James, thank you for coming.”

“My lord. It is good to have you home.” The valet, who had been with Stefan for over ten years, offered a deep brow. Straightening, he dared to allow a hint of disapproval to touch his pale eyes. “His Grace pines for your company when you are gone.”

“Well, I am here now.”

“So, you are, sir.” James covertly glanced over Edmond’s elegant attire. “I would be happy to lend you assistance in your chambers whenever my duties with your brother…”

“No, my manservant should be arriving with my luggage before nightfall,” he interrupted. “What I need from you is information.”

James frowned in confusion. “Information?”

“I want to know every incident, no matter how trivial, that has put my brother in danger over the past year.”

“Oh…thank God.” Without warning, the servant was moving forward and falling to his knees directly before the startled Edmond. “I have tried to convince his Grace that he is in danger, but he refuses to believe that anyone would want to harm him.”

“I assumed as much, which is why I have returned. Unlike Stefan, I am not naive enough to brush aside such obvious attempts at murder. And I can assure you that I will not rest until I discover who is behind these attacks.”