we will see you at dinner.’
* * *
With a flutter of hands and parasols, the Kilmun twins headed off in the direction of the orchid house. Immediately lost in his own thoughts, Fergus took himself in the opposite direction through the heavily scented rose garden and into the maze. According to the Programme of Events, there was to be cards and conversation after dinner. He’d eschew winning at cards and instead do his best to make winning conversation with Lady Verity. Perhaps when she came to know him a little better she would thaw somewhat. And he would warm to her too.
Perhaps. The uneasiness in his gut was becoming more persistent. It was the same feeling he had when something wasn’t right in the field, the same instinct that had saved his life and that of many others on numerous occasions. It was becoming a struggle not to listen to it.
A false turn took him to a dead end in the maze. Fergus stared at the dense wall of hedge. The trick was always to turn right. Or was it left? There was no performance on the tightrope to look forward to tonight. He wondered how Katerina occupied herself when she was not practising. Another turn, and then another, and soon he was in the centre of the maze, and Fergus’s question was answered for there she was, in the shade of a large copper statue of Atlas.
She was asleep, her cheek resting on her clasped hands, her back against the plinth. The Greek god, crouched down carrying the world on his shoulders, cast a shadow over her, protecting her from the blazing heat of the afternoon sun. The statue was likely the duke’s little conceit, a reference to his role in underpinning English society, Fergus reckoned. ‘Though right now, I know how you feel,’ he said under his breath, eyeing the copper god’s straining muscles and pained expression with a stir of empathy.
He returned his gaze to the much more enticing sight of the sleeping Katerina. Her gown was lemon-coloured sprigged with pale green, the puffed sleeves drawing attention to her slim, toned arms, the modest neckline displaying the curve of her bosom. She had taken off her slippers, Fergus noted with amusement, and her legs were bare. Though she was wearing a great deal more than when he had previously seen her, the sight of her naked toes peeking out from the hem of her gown made his blood stir. A long tendril of hair had fallen over her face, glinting fiery red highlights in the sunshine. He fought the urge to tuck it behind her ear. He tried to force himself to turn away, to leave her undisturbed, but once again the allure of her was almost irresistible. He could not take his eyes from her.
The intensity of his gaze must have registered with her, for she woke, blinked, pushed back her hair herself, and Fergus told himself it would be rude to retreat straight away, so he remained where he was, and was rewarded with a sleepy smile.
* * *
‘Fergus.’ Katerina rubbed her eyes, just to be sure she was not still dreaming.
‘I didn’t mean to wake you.’
She got to her feet, shaking out her crushed skirts. ‘I didn’t intend to fall asleep. I was reading.’ She handed him a rather dog-eared book. ‘Les Liaisons Dangereuses. Are you familiar with the work?’
‘I’m afraid my French is not up to reading anything more substantial than captured battle orders and dinner menus,’ Fergus replied.
‘It’s quite shocking. The Vicomte de Valmont is even more of a schemer than the Duke of Brockmore—though his purposes are a good deal less benign.’
Fergus was frowning, looking distinctly uncomfortable. He ran his hand distractedly through his hair. ‘I am not sure that I’d call the Silver Fox benign. If Brockmore is anything like his good friend Wellington—and I suspect he is very similar—then he’ll take as good care to avenge his failures as to reward his successes.’
‘Perhaps he models himself on the Vicomte de Valmont after all,’ Katerina said. ‘For your sake, I hope you will be one of the duke’s success stories.’
She meant it lightly, but his frown deepened. ‘Which would be worse, do you think, a miserable marriage, or a miserable career?’
‘Must it be one or the other?’
‘The army is my life. I can’t imagine another, any more than you can.’
‘But you won’t be a soldier in Egypt, will you? I thought that the point of diplomacy was to keep the peace, not go to war.’
‘I’ll be serving my country. It’s the same thing.’
She couldn’t see how it was the same thing at all, but she could see that it was what Fergus wanted to believe. ‘I know nothing of these matters,’ Katerina said. ‘My only dealings with diplomats have been to secure appropriate travel papers. Which, given the itinerant nature of our performing life, has been a regular requirement.’
‘We must have travelled a good few of the same countries, you and I.’ Fergus lowered himself on to the grass under the statue and stretched his long legs out in front of him. ‘Mind you, I doubt we saw them in the same light,’ he added with a grin. ‘When you visit a place, I expect you’re welcomed with open arms, rather than the barrel of a gun.’
‘That very much depends on the arms,’ Katerina said wryly. ‘There are those who find our act shocking. In the early days, before we were famous, we occasionally had to abandon a performance, flee a town, having raised the ire of the local populace.’
She sat down beside him on the grass, tucking her bare feet under her skirts. ‘Our presence was not always universally welcomed. So you see, we have more in common that you thought.’
Fergus chuckled. ‘Wellington’s army never fled—at least, that’s how Wellington would tell it.’
‘I would like to hear you tell it.’
‘Do you want the death-and-glory version, or the real one?’
‘The real one, though I will be very disappointed if it contains no death or glory.’
Fergus talked reluctantly at first, but gradually, as they identified places they had both visited, as they compared and contrasted their experiences of those places, he became more at ease. He was modest when it came to himself, glowing when talking about his men. He was renowned in the Mess as the last man standing, he joked, but confessed, when she probed, that he did remain on the battlefield long after the last shot was fired, until every one of his men was accounted for. Shadows crossed his face at times, dark memories scudding past like black clouds, but they were few in number—or perhaps he was at pains to limit their appearance. By and large, those startling turquoise eyes were alight with humour, aglow with remembered excitement.
‘Enough,’ he said, too soon. ‘That’s more than enough about me. I want to hear about you.’
‘Do you want the death-and-glory version, or the real one?’
Fergus smiled. ‘Definitely the real one.’
His knee brushed hers as he turned towards her. It would be silly and churlish to move away, when he most likely had not even noticed. ‘The real one is very tedious, I doubt you will be interested.’
‘I’ll be the judge of that.’
Katerina leaned back on her hands. ‘The glamour of the tightrope accounts for a very small part of my life. When an audience watches me up there, they don’t realise they are seeing the result of countless hours
