Romancing Lady Stone (A School of Gallantry Novella)

by Delilah Marvelle

  Cecilia sat up. “Eight days? I cannot strand her for that long. I’m carrying all of our money. Please. Tell the driver I will pay him a hundred rubles to change out the horses at the next stop and turn this coach around.” She loosened the string on her reticule and dug into it, trying to find money to count out for the driver. “Tell him I have more than enough to—” She paused, swatting the emptiness of the silk inside. Where was her money? And more importantly, what had happened to her son’s letter? The one with the address where she was supposed to call on him once she got to Saint Petersburg?

  She looked up, her fingers savagely tightening against her reticule. “Where is my money? And where is the letter that was with it? Did you take it?”

  He leaned back, his rugged features tightening. “You may not want to insult your savior.”

  Savior? That was a bit much. “You are the only man sitting in this coach with me,” she pointed out raggedly. “What else am I to think, sir? I cannot readily verify what you and the driver did or did not say. For all I know you and he are orchestrating this.”

  “Have you considered that these two men who paid the driver might have emptied your reticule long before I boarded?”

  “And why would they have left it behind? They could have made good money off the reticule alone.” She shook it. “It was stitched and beaded in Paris.”

  He swiped his mouth in an attempt to hide a smirk behind a large, ungloved hand. “Oh, yes. Every man in Russia looks for reticules stitched and beaded in Paris.”

  She glared. “I am stranded and have been robbed, sir. And you dare amuse yourself with my situation?”

  “I can assure you, it is not your situation I am amused by.” He leaned far back and slowly held open both sides of his coat, exposing the pinstriped waistcoat that made his broad chest look even broader. “Search me. I insist.”

  Feeling her body heat and ripple at the bold invitation, she shot him an exasperated look. “I am not touching you.”

  “I am trying to set your mind at ease and get you to trust me. Now search me.” He held his coat open wider. “I have pockets in my trousers, too.”

  She refused to look at those pockets or those trousers. “I am fine with assuming you don’t have it.”

  He released his coat. “You mentioned your son. Did he want you coming into Russia? Would he have arranged for this?”

  Heavens above what sort of people was he used to dealing with? John would never ambush his own mother. He was a good boy. Most of the time. “No. He would never. He and I are very close and get along very well.” As long as she and John didn’t get on the subject of his women. “He is marrying a Russian actress.” And the worst of it? All of her friends looked at her as if she had somehow put the idea into her son’s head. Only her daughters thought the whole affair to be incredibly exciting and romantic. Which was why she left them back in London with the governess. Lest any of her daughters get fanciful ideas and start marrying their own set of Russians actors well before they turned eighteen.

  He let out a low whistle. “A Russian actress? I wish to offer him many blessings and congratulations.”

  Cecilia held up a hand. “I ask that you please not offer either. I am actually going to stop the wedding. Whilst an actress is hardly something a mother ought to boast about, in truth, it’s the least of my worries. I genuinely wanted to support it, given my son claims to be in love with her, but she is twenty-four years older than him and he is heir to a very large estate. He has to have children.”

  “Ah.” He tilted his head. “I am now rather curious. Which actress is he supposed to marry? I may know the name. I attend theatre performances all the time.”

  She blinked. He hardly seemed the sort to attend theatrical performances. But then who was she to judge? “Her name is Mrs. Kat…er…ino…chkin. Did I say that right?”

  “Katerinochkin?” He coughed out a rough laugh and winced. “Allow me to pray for your son’s soul whilst he still has one.”

  She pulled in her chin. “What do you mean? Do you know her?”

  He rolled his eyes. “No. She is simply a very well known actress coming to the end of her popularity. I saw her perform last year when she came into Moscow. She is known for bleeding men dry.” Using a forefinger to replicate a pistol, he pointed it to his head and flicked down his thumb. “Her last lover put a bullet through his head upon discovering she had emptied his pockets down to the lint before moving on to another man. It was all over the papers.”

  Papers that her son apparently did not read. Oh Lord. She didn’t need this. And most certainly not now. “I have to get to my son. I knew this woman was taking advantage of him. He is far too young to marry and has always been incredibly shy around women.”

  “Shy?” He grunted. “Must be nice. How old is he?”

  “One and twenty.”

  He pointed at her. “Save him.”

  “I plan to.”

  “Good.” Dropping his foot back to the floor with a thud, he reached out and dragged her empty reticule toward himself. Turning it upside down, he shook it once, to verify that it was in fact empty. With the flick of a wrist, he tossed the reticule onto the seat across from them. “I do not wish to add to your panic, but I am beginning to think this Bogdanovich of yours, whom you were travelling with, robbed you. That would explain why she is not with you. Did you have any trunks? Because there were none attached to the coach when I boarded.”

  Her lips parted. No. No, no, no. She shook her head, refusing to believe it. “That isn’t possible. Mrs. Bogdanovich is a respectable woman. One I have gotten to know quite well. She came into Russia with me from England. She also has our travelling papers and—” A gasp escaped her. How was she going to leave the country without papers?

  He paused. “The kvass you drank. You mentioned it was strong. It should not have been. Who gave it to you?”

  Oh, no. “Mrs. Bogdanovich.”

  “After you drank it, what happened?” he pressed.

  Oh, no. “I could barely stay awake. She insisted we retire instead of travelling on and assisted me into a room that was blurring. So I…” She was so stupid. “I don’t remember anything after that.” She knew that kvass didn’t taste right. It had been overly bitter. And she drank the whole thing!

  He puffed out a breath. “Drugging tourists during a meal is commonplace in Russia. Once a tourist is unconscious, swindlers take everything, put them on a coach and pay a driver to deposit them hours away so no one knows about it.”

  This couldn’t be happening. “But the woman came highly recommended to me.”

  “By who?”

  “A friend of mine.”

  “Consider them your friend no more. How much money did you travel with? Did this woman know about it?”

  She wanted to cry. “Yes. She knew I had brought three thousand.”

  “Three thousand?” he echoed, straightening. “You should never travel with that sort of money. Never.” He muttered something in Russian and then said, “She was probably working with others. Possibly her family. Which would explain the two men who delivered you to the coach. She could not have done it all on her own.”

  She paused. “You certainly know quite a lot about these things.”

  He was quiet for a moment. “I have seen a lot. More than a man should.”

  She refrained from hitting her head against the window of the carriage beside her. “What am I going to do? I have no money, no clothes and no idea where I’m even at!”

  “Where are you going? What is your final destination?”

  She was officially dependant on a complete stranger. “Saint Petersburg.” She turned toward him, her dark skirts bundling against the seat between them. “How many days away am I? Do you know? Am I on the right coach?”

  He intently searched her face.

  Cecilia stared back. “Please don’t tell me I’m on a coach to Siberia.”

  He rumbled out a laugh. “No.” He rubbed his chin. “If you get off at the next s
top, you will only be seven hours away from Saint Petersburg. Coincidentally, I am heading there myself to catch a boat on the Baltic.” He dropped his hand onto his knee. “Allow me to pay for your connecting coach into Saint Petersburg.”

  Astounded by his generosity, she leaned in. “I wouldn’t be imposing?”

  His gaze held hers. “No. Not at all.”

  Why was he staring? “Thank you.”

  His voice grew husky. “Of course.”

  She tried not to let the raw huskiness of that voice trace her spine. Though she wanted to be at ease knowing she was fortunate enough to have transportation to Saint Petersburg, she now had a much bigger problem. How was she going to find her son without an address or a street name? “Sir?”

  “Yes?”

  “How well do you know Saint Petersburg?”

  His gaze remained riveted to her face. “I was born and raised there prior to moving to Moscow a few years ago. Why?”

  A breath escaped her. He knew English and Russian and knew the city of Saint Petersburg. He was a Godsend. “Forgive me for even asking, but would you consider assisting me locate my son once we get into Saint Petersburg? I know nothing about the city or the language and have no idea how I am to find him.”

  He sat straighter. “Where in Saint Petersburg are you going? What street is he on?”

  She bit her lip hard. Her son’s letter, which had been in her reticule, bore the address, which sadly, she couldn’t remember. She had only glanced at it only once or twice. The street name was…Ga…something. Or was it Gor…something? Either way, it was hardly helpful. “My son bought a home. I don’t remember the street name or the address, as it was quite recent, but he wrote in his last letter that it overlooked the Neva River on the east side. Do you know where the river is? Maybe we can find him that way.”

  He lowered his chin. “Do you know how big the Neva is? ’Tis over fifty miles long. We would be better off standing in the street yelling out his name.”

  Her mouth went dry. She was lost. In Russia.

  He eyed her. “Are you married?”

  She pulled in her chin. “What does that have to do with anything?”

  He adjusted his dagger at his waist. “Because I wish to know what I can and cannot do with you.”

  Cecilia leaned away from him and that dagger. “Begging your pardon, but you are not doing anything with me.”

  “You misunderstand. You have a son and appear to be respectable, therefore you must have a husband. Is your husband in Saint Petersburg with your son? Because I have no wish for misunderstandings. I have had my share of it and husbands can be needlessly aggressive.”

  She blinked. Oh. “No. You needn’t worry about— My husband passed away. Seven years ago.” It was so odd to say it aloud. She rarely thought about Frederick anymore and felt incredibly guilty knowing it.

  He dropped his hand to his side. “So you have no man?”

  The way he said it made her think he was about to volunteer to be that man. “No.”

  He hesitated and searched her face. “How old are you?”

  She blinked. Was he flirting with her? Now? Knowing she was in a state of panic and lost in the bowels of Russia? “Surely, you jest. I am old enough to be your mother.”

  His features stilled. “My mother is no longer alive. So do not speak of her.”

  Her heart squeezed. “Oh. Forgive me. I didn’t mean to…”

  Turning to the small, mud spattered window beside him, he propped his head against the glass. “She was very ill. She suffered.”

  Now she felt like a complete dolt. She softened her voice. “In answer to your question, sir, I am forty.”

  “Are you?” He veered his gaze back to her. “I am a full thirty.” He said it as if to impress her. Lifting his head from off the window, he leaned toward her and draped an arm against his own knee. His eyes boldly raked over her. “You are incredibly beautiful.”

  She almost sank deeper into the seat. Were all Russians like this? His casualness toward her was unnerving. She was a titled widow with four children.

  “The name is Konstantin Alexie Levin.” He inclined his head, holding her gaze.

  Why did she suddenly feel like fanning herself? “’Tis a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Levin.”

  He still held her gaze. “Is it?”

  Now she really felt like fanning herself. “I can assure you it is.”

  “Might I ask for a name? Since we are officially travelling together?”

  “I am Lady Stone.”

  “Lady?” He raised himself off his knee. “You mean to say you are of British aristocracy?”

  “Yes.”

  He draped a long, muscled arm across the back of the upholstered seat, straining his coat against the movement. “Did you think travelling with another woman was a good idea?” It was obvious by his gruff tone he wasn’t looking for an answer, but was actually issuing a reprimand. “A lady of your standing ought to be travelling with a man. And guards. Because another woman can do nothing to protect you. Nothing.”

  She blinked rapidly and edged away, feeling her skin prick beneath that penetrating gaze. He clearly did not understand the underpinnings of British society. Or that she would rather be robbed all over again than to have had her own cousin, Lord Gunther, travel alongside her. “Hiring a female companion is what respectable women of my circle do when they travel, Mr. Levin. I have no male relatives I would willingly travel with and a male companion outside of one’s family insinuates indecency. Which is why I hired Mrs. Bogdanovich.”

  He slowly shook his head from side to side. “Here in Russia, where land is vast and the people are desperate, such respectable thinking ends badly. Most robberies in Russia result in death. Why? Because the majority of swindlers have no understanding as to how much laudanum goes into a cup. Given how deeply and how long you slept, I have no doubt if you had been given a touch more laudanum, you would have been dead. You should have been dead if Strelna was where you were drugged. Because that means you have slept for over ten hours.”

  She swallowed knowing he was right. She would have been dead without having ever gotten around to seeing her daughters or her son properly marry. She would have been dead before she could hold her grandchildren or travel to Paris and breathe in the sort of wild adventure she had always yearned for. She had once read in the gossip papers that Parisian women waltzed naked with their lovers in the privacy of their flats and smoked cheroots in public. Secretly, she had always wanted to try both.

  Mr. Levin leaned back against the seat. “Fortunately for you, Lady Stone, your son is associating with a well-known actress, which will make it easy to find him. All we have to do is inquire at the theatre she performs in when we get into Saint Petersburg. Depending on how well that goes, you should be with your son in two days. Three at most.”

  She almost slumped back against the seat. She had never been more thankful. “Your kindness has no bounds.”

  “Let us not exaggerate. It has its bounds.”

  She bit back a smile. She liked him. He didn’t pretend to be anything more than what he was. She envied people who didn’t have to lead their lives according to a title. Unlike her, they could waltz naked with a cigar. “I cannot thank you enough. Is there anything I can offer you in return for the assistance you are providing?”

  He extended his long, trouser-clad leg and let his worn, leather boot hit the upholstered seat across from them. Flakes of dried mud spattered the seat. “A beautiful woman should never ask a man what he really wants.” His green eyes studied her and his mouth quirked. “He may tell you.”

  Her pulse fluttered knowing he was flirting with her. She tightened her hold on her shawl. “You certainly are anything but coy, Mr. Levin,” she countered.

  He dropped his leg from the seat and took back his arm from the seat. His eyes brightened as he shifted toward her. “Being coy never got me anywhere.”

  She locked her knees together. “My son will pay you when we find him,” she
offered, trying to change the course of their conversation. “I will ensure it is generous.”

  “I would never take anything for assisting a woman.” He leaned in across the seat, that charred, smoky scent of wood drifting in from the heat of his body. “Even if there was something I wanted.”

  Unspoken words of ‘Which there is’ hung between them.

  She felt her entire body ripple in awareness. She leaned back, her shoulder bumping into the wall of the carriage behind her.

  He smirked. “You are not as bold as you paint yourself, Lady Stone, are you?” Drawing in closer, he brushed a hand over her shoulder, lowering his gaze to his fingers that traced an area of her cashmere shawl. “Sadly, there appears to be some damage to your shawl. A part of it is unraveling.”

  She swallowed, feeling faint from the tips of her ungloved fingers down to the tips of her toes buried in her stockings and half boots. Her shawl wasn’t the only thing unraveling. For some reason, she now envisioned him shredding apart her clothing at the stitch with bare hands and whispering words in Russian to her until she herself spoke Russian. Her heart lurched, her breath coming in uneven takes. It was amazing how being away from her three girls had suddenly turned her into a woman. Not a mother. A woman. She had honestly forgotten what that was.

  Almost dying apparently did something to a woman’s mind.

  He took back his hand. “Forgive me. I should not have touched you.” Rising from the seat, he turned and fell back into the seat across from hers. His sharp features dimmed. He dragged out his watch and flipping it to the backside of the silver casing he slid a finger across what appeared to be etched words. He tucked it back into his waistcoat pocket and shifted his unshaven jaw, watching her.

  Despite the coolness of the air in the carriage, her palms grew moist. The man made her want to do things she thought she’d long outgrown. Because, holy heaven, he was everything her husband had never been. Young, good-looking, dashing and outspoken.