The Duke of Olympia Meets His Match by Juliana Gray Read Free Book Online Page B

exactly how much stock to put in the Duke of Olympia’s idle and fleeting regard, if it even existed.
    She thought of the portfolio in her trunk, and the conversation with the duke in the deckhouse last night. “I warn you,” Madame de Sauveterre had said, “there may well be others on board this ship, seeking to know the contents of these papers, and I implore you above all not to draw any suspicion to yourself. Do not, I say, let a single person know of this matter.” And then, leaning forward, blinking her beautiful gray eyes with rapture: “Secrecy is of the gravest importance,
ma vielle chère amie
. You must trust no one, do you hear me?
No one
is to know that you have received these papers.” And finally, sitting back again, smiling with that peculiarly French satisfaction, sipping her tea: “You are such a dear little widowed mouse, of course, no one would suspect you in ten thousand million years. You have the perfect . . . what is the word?”
    Cover,
Penelope had said, a little sadly, but a little thrillingly, too, because—
    â€œMiss Morrison, isn’t it?”
    Penelope turned in aggravation. As a rule, she didn’t allow herself to be snuck up on, not since her husband’s death, which had made her feel as if life would never be secure again. She had developed all kinds of watchful habits, large and small, in an attempt to regain that firmness of ground beneath her feet, and none had succeeded. Still, to be snuck up on! She could only blame her deep desire to separate herself from the people on deck.
    â€œYes?” she said, in her most unwelcoming voice. But she softened by the time she reached the
s
, because the intruder was only Miss Crawley’s ugly attendant, whose circumstances in life seemed even grimmer than her own. That unfortunate nose! At least Penelope still possessed the nose of her youth, an elegant line that had seemed too severe when she was nineteen, but into which she had grown, as one eventually grew into cheekbones and a strong jaw, so unsuitable on a debutante.
    â€œI was hoping to find you alone,” said the attendant, holding out her hand. “I’m Harriet Harris.”
    â€œPenelope Schuyler.” She shook the woman’s hand. “You’re with Miss Crawley, aren’t you?”
    A long-suffering sigh, one familiar to Penelope. “Yes. Our third ocean voyage this year.”
    â€œOh, I wouldn’t mind that. I enjoy travel.”
    â€œYes. You look like the sort who does.” Miss Harris regarded her critically through those bottle-thick spectacles that made her eyes seem twice as large and rather alarmingly goggly, like an overgrown blue-eyed insect. “I understand we have a mutual friend.”
    â€œDo we?”
    â€œYes. An acquaintance back in New York. Madame de Sauveterre?”
    The coincidence was so sudden, Penelope struggled not to start. “I beg your pardon?”
    â€œMargot de Sauveterre. We went to school together, many years ago. The Hellenic Academy, in Switzerland. I believe you attended as well?” She pushed her spectacles up the bridge of her nose. “I was older than Margot by a few years, and you were younger. I don’t think our paths ever crossed.”
    â€œHow extraordinary.” It would be pointless to deny the connection, wouldn’t it? Pointless and even suspicious. “I must confess, I don’t remember you. Harris, did you say?”
    â€œHarriet Harris. We never met.” She leaned a lank elbow on the railing. “I would have remembered.”
    â€œBut it’s always a great pleasure to meet a fellow Academian. Are you and Madame de Sauveterre close friends?”
    â€œNot all that close, no. Our circumstances, of course, are so different.” Miss Harris made a deprecating gesture. “I never married, and she—well.”
    â€œYes. I attended her wedding in Paris. A prince, my goodness! She