by Anna Randol
She had coded letters from a spy? She didn’t know—
Ah, that was what Clayton had been doing for the past ten years.
Clayton swore as he wove his way through the dark streets of St. Petersburg. The ship he’d commandeered should have been faster than the kidnappers’ frigate, but the winds had been wrong through the Oresund Strait and he’d had to wait to be towed through by the rowers. Then it had taken him time to track down the man in Cronstadt who could provide him with papers to get off the island that served as the port and actually into St. Petersburg.
According to the harbormaster’s records, Olivia’s ship had arrived yesterday morning.
He was only a day and a half behind now. But he knew from experience what a hellish eternity a day could be.
After all, it had taken only minutes for the French to flay the skin from his back. An hour for them to break every—
Clayton tugged his greatcoat around him, banishing the memories. He had survived. The French had been defeated.
Olivia had been with her kidnappers for sixteen days.
The deadness in his chest only grew. If he needed proof that there was nothing resembling a soul left in him, this was it. No panic. No desperation. Those had been lost to him long ago. Now there was only a void that deepened with each passing day.
He would find her. Then he would destroy her kidnappers. It was as simple as that.
The mud had begun to freeze with the evening air, leaving an icy crust that crunched under his boots with each step. The cold increased the ache in the misshapen bones in his right hand until he had to tuck it into his coat for relief. Unfortunately, his coat and gloves had been designed for an English autumn, not for the start of a Russian winter.
The door to the Hammer and Anvil stood wide open despite the temperature. Clayton strode in and took a seat. He didn’t attempt to look for Daisy. She didn’t miss a thing that went on at the inn. She certainly wouldn’t miss him.
Like most of the inns and hotels in St. Petersburg, this one was run by a foreigner—in this case an Englishwoman.
But unlike most, the Hammer and Anvil had a rather different clientele. Sooner or later, every unsavory fellow in Russia made his way through here. And she gleaned information from every single one.
As he’d expected, Daisy slid in across from him before the barmaid had fetched his food. While her dimpled cheeks and graying curly hair might have given her the look of a hearty farmwife, she had the heart of a shark.
Perhaps that was why they got along so well.
“Cipher. I didn’t expect to see you here ever again.” Her accent bespoke her Welsh origins, but the slight gloss of Russian hinted at just how long she’d lived in St. Petersburg.
She pushed a glass of vodka toward him, which he ignored.
“You’re working, then,” she concluded.
“Has Prazhdinyeh re-formed?”
She tapped her fingers on the table. “They were never gone. Hatred of the czar won’t be stopped by the death of one revolutionary. Someone else picks up the pieces and keeps going. I’ve been hearing about them for months.”
“Where? Who is behind it now?”
She waited a few moments. “You remember how this works, right? You give me something of value and then I see if I can help you.”
Clayton considered what he could give up. “They tried to kidnap La Petit.”
Daisy pinched her lip as she thought. “Did they succeed?”
“No.” There was no reason to tell her about Olivia.
“Interesting.” He could see her tucking away that information to be sorted out later. “Now, who their leader currently is, I cannot say. But many supporters have been visiting the estate of Count Arshun.” She sketched out brief directions where to find it on the edge of the city.
“What are they planning?”
“Ah, I do not know that, either. But it’s interesting timing. At the birthday fete of the Grand Duchess Ileana Narcosky later this week, a portrait of the imperial family will be unveiled.”
“Why is that interesting?” The imperial family was always having some painting done while their people starved.
“It is of the entire family. Uncles. Cousins. Nieces. The artist traveled all over Russia for the past three years to gather sketches of them.”
Clayton waited. Daisy never said anything without purpose. “It is said that the artist then painted the portrait under the czar’s personal direction. Everyone is curious how the czar views them.”
“They will all attend the fete to find out their level of imperial favor.”
“Every last one. They haven’t all been together like this since the coronation of Alexander. Many people in my inn find that of interest.”
Revolutionaries who detested the monarchy were stirring at the same time there was to be an unrivaled gathering of royals.
Daisy continued. “Now what I find of interest is, if the revolutionaries didn’t get Petit, why are you here?”
“They have something that doesn’t belong to them.” He could see her curiosity, but she didn’t press further. She knew when to hold back.
She frowned. “Prazhdinyeh is different than before. More wild. Unruly. Unless I am mistaken, you don’t have your associates with you this time?”
While he would have given much to have Madeline and Ian with him, he could save Olivia on his own. “I’ll get what I’ve come for.”
She shrugged, not overly concerned with his demise. “Dobre vecher.” She stood after wishing him a good evening, apparently done.
He, however, was not. “You still owe me.” He pointed to the bullet hole in the rafter, a reminder of when the police had stormed the inn. It had taken all the Trio’s skills to save her from execution.
Daisy paled. “You’re a cruel man to remind me of that.”
He didn’t contradict her. “I need supplies.”
Chapter Five
Olivia pressed her face against the tiny pane of glass, trying to get a better view of the courtyard below. The carriage had arrived this afternoon. Bright and new with a golden crest on the side. Count Arshun had finally returned, accompanied by a group of three well-dressed associates. Two of them appeared to be young and one an older, portly man. She didn’t know where he’d been for the past two days. Blin hadn’t known that detail.
Arshun had been followed by several carts full of long wooden crates. They were unloading them below. She couldn’t tell what was in them, but the men strained under their weight.
Suddenly, there was a loud shout from the side of the courtyard. One of the crates had been dropped. Pipes? No.
Rifles. Muskets.
She stepped back, seeking comfort from the rough woolen blanket wrapped tightly around her since it offered little warmth. Blin had fought to get her the thin gray scrap of material. Coal for the small stove in the room was out of the question.
The count was here and he wouldn’t expect her.
He’d expect La Petit.
She studied the distance to the ground from the tiny window. Even if she managed to break the glass and squeeze out, the drop to the ground would kill her.
Perhaps that wasn’t a bad option. After all, it would be quick and her choice. But she couldn’t bring herself to do it, not while there was any hope left.
“Blin?” He was still her best option for escape. He’d been kind to her, standing watch, protecting her from Nicolai and the other men. She didn’t know if he slept outside her door, but he was there when she fell asleep and when she woke. Blin might not be smart, but he was good at heart, if stubborn.
“Yes, baryshnya?”
She’d tried to get him to use her given name but he’d refused, insisting on addressing her formally as miss. “Have you heard when I’m to see the count?”
Silence.
She pressed her face against the wood of the door. Blin never failed to respond. They spoke of his mama at home on the count’s country estate. She knew of the farm, his dog, and his sister Oksana’s suitor,
his babushka’s gout, his brothers’ constant bickering. Silly, simple things. But they had kept her sane.
A key turned in the lock. She scrambled back, hoping to find Blin. But when the door swung open, Nicolai entered, carrying a dress of fine blue wool. “You will put this on. Count Arshun wishes to see you at dinner.”
Blin had let slip bits and pieces of the horrors the count inflicted on his serfs. She wasn’t eager to see him. But dinner meant leaving the room. And a chance to escape.
She must have hesitated too long because Nicolai pulled out a knife. “Unless you continue to claim you’re not La Petit . . . then I’ll kill you now and save him time.”
She took the dress.
His gaze slid over her, and something like panic entered his eyes. “A maid will bring up fresh water and arrange your hair.” From what she’d been able to gather, La Petit had been gloriously beautiful and skilled at seducing men. Perhaps Nicolai was beginning to doubt her identity after all.
She prodded at the weakness. “I thought you were certain about me.”
Nicolai glowered. “I am.”
“Then why are you concerned about the count?”
“He is exacting.”
“I thought Arshun was your friend.”
Nicolai glanced over his shoulder. “I never claimed that honor. He is my leader.”
A maid appeared in the doorway and Nicolai scurried away. She should have been relieved he didn’t try to watch her undress; instead, her unease intensified.
“What is your name?” Olivia asked as the maid began to unfasten her dress.
The maid didn’t even look up.
“I won’t tell anyone you spoke to me.”
Nothing.
Well, she wasn’t going to learn anything new from this girl. She used the time to try to think of a plan of escape, but all she could come up with was run at her first opportunity.
After the girl finished, Olivia patted the intricate loops twisted into her hair and shivered as the air slid over a generous amount of exposed bosom. She was glad for the moment that there was no mirror in the room. At least she could imagine herself transformed into a temptress.
She burrowed her face in the scratchy woolen blanket one last time, then squared her shoulders. She refused to huddle away. She’d faced down an angry duke outside the House of Lords, she could survive a count.
Surely, what La Petit did as a spy couldn’t be that much different from when she tried to convince politicians not to hang children. She knew how to flatter, how to find common ground. She could spin a tragic tale to make men weep.
She’d even mastered fluttering her eyelashes.
She exhaled. She could do this. If the count wanted to find La Petit, she would be La Petit.
Or at least give the count reason to believe she might be. He surely wouldn’t expect her to confess. So if she claimed to be Olivia Swift, she wouldn’t need to fear contradicting herself.
She’d hoped Blin would escort her, but Nicolai was there as the door opened again. His eyes widened as he surveyed her, then he pulled two metal bands from his coat.
If he thought she’d allow him to restrain her again—
But they were silver cuff bracelets. He clasped the cool metal around the scabs and bruises encircling her wrists.
Nicolai’s hands were sweaty as he released her.
“Afraid?” she asked him. “I seem to recall the count didn’t want me hurt.”
His lips twisted, but he had to fight to keep the expression from trembling. “Nothing will come of it. He will understand my methods. After all, he chose me for this mission.”
His fingers dug into her arms as he forced her down a set of stairs. She kept her shoulders slumped but her head up. She’d have only one chance to escape. She couldn’t afford to miss it. After that, she’d either be dead or more tightly restrained.
From what little she’d seen out her window, the servants were still occupied with the count’s arrival. She hadn’t seen a single person in the corridor.
It was only Nicolai.
Her chances were never going to be better than this.
She drove her elbow back into Nicolai’s stomach. She jerked away and darted into an empty parlor, slamming the door behind her. She threw a chair against it, then ran to the window. The latch was stuck. She rammed her fingers against it three times. Four.
The chair scraped along the floor as the door opened.
She reached behind her, searching for something. A candlestick. A book. Something to smash the glass. Something to protect herself with.
Pain slammed against the side of her head, and she fell against a small table, sending it clattering against the wall.
A red-faced Nicolai blurred in front of her. “Fool!” He grabbed her arm, pulling her to her feet. He shook her, making her head snap back. “Do you have any idea—”
He wrenched himself away.
“What is the meaning of this?” A man’s voice spoke in French. Olivia twisted toward it.
A well-dressed youth stood in the doorway. He was young, perhaps twenty. Slight, fair-haired, and perfectly dressed. Two hulking servants flanked him.
“She tried to escape.” Nicolai’s French was halting, not nearly as smooth as his English.
She’d forgotten most Russian aristocrats chose to speak French.
The young man placed a hand on his hip. “She is La Petit.” He minced toward them. “You should have brought guards when you moved her.”
If this was the count, perhaps she had a chance after all.
Nicolai backed away.
“You more than live up to my expectations.” Arshun’s eyes devoured her bosom.
What if he thought she’d be willing to bargain with her body? Was she willing?
She exhaled, not ready to make that decision. He was young. Perhaps he could be swayed. “I am not La Petit. I’m the daughter of a papermaker.”
Arshun laughed like it was a hilarious jest. “Exactly as I’d hoped!” He cleared his throat as if preparing to play a role. “Do not provoke me. I know you can decipher the code.” Then he grinned.
Was this a game to him, then?
“I’m looking forward to our time together,” he continued, his voice more normal. “I must hear how you seduced our glorious founder. From what I hear, he was a dried-up husk of a man. If you could sway him, I’m intrigued to see what you’ll do for me.” He grabbed her hand to lift to his lips, but paused with her fingers inches from his mouth. A mottled flush crept up his neck.
He pushed back the bracelet, revealing the wounds left by the ropes. “You marked her. I told you I didn’t want her marked.” His voice grew louder, like that of a petulant child. “This is how you repay me for my trust?”
Nicolai pressed himself against the wallpaper. “You said yourself, she is La Petit. I had to ensure—”
Arshun snapped his fingers. The man to his right drew a pistol and shot Nicolai through the heart. He fell to the ground, a stunned expression locked on his face.
Arshun just dusted a speck of gunpowder from his sky blue sleeve and offered Olivia his arm.
Olivia’s breath came high and fast in her chest, and she wasn’t sure until she took her first step that she’d be able to move. La Petit had no doubt seen many deaths. She couldn’t afford to give herself away by fainting now.
Don’t look down. Don’t look down.
She’d hated Nicolai, but now his blood squished in the rug under her satin slippers. She didn’t fool herself that she’d be able to keep from retching if she looked down.
Instead, she focused on the glinting silver button on Arshun’s waistcoat and accepted his arm with the grace countless governesses had drilled into her. “You are quite the decisive leader.”
Arshun’s chest puffed. “One has to be.” He placed his hand over hers. “Shall we go in to dinner? I’ll explain my plans for the imperial family.”
Clayton crept away from the open crate. Arshun was gathering weapons. That didn’t
bode well.
There weren’t many here yet. Perhaps one hundred. They’d need to be destroyed.
But first he needed to find Olivia.
Clayton stepped over the servant he’d tied and left next to the crates. The bald man was still unmoving, but the heavy coat he wore should keep him alive until he either awoke or was found by the next patrol of guards.
Hugging the shadows of the house, Clayton inched closer to the brightly lit window. He needed to get a sense of where most of the people were in the house, so when he entered to begin his search, he’d have few surprises. Once he determined the number of servants and Arshun’s whereabouts, he could find where they were keeping her—
Right there.
He’d prepared himself to have arrived too late. He thought he’d find her bloody and broken.
He hadn’t expected to find her sipping turtle soup and dabbing her lips with white linen. His own stomach rumbled. How many meals had he skipped in his haste to get here?
She smiled at the youth next to her, a pimpled, sallow lad who couldn’t seem to look above her neckline. Count Arshun. Clayton had discovered as much as he could in the few hours before he’d rushed here. The count was spoiled, vain, and cruel, hated by his serfs, and ignored by other nobles. But he made grandiose promises to the poor of St. Petersburg.
Olivia smiled and lifted a bite of chicken to his lips.
Had she made a fool of him again? Was this some sort of trap laid for him? To lure him here? Clayton knew it sounded vain, but why else would she still be safe in the hands of the most brutal revolutionary group in Russia unless the plan had been for him to give chase?
The mill had received a sizable influx of capital a few years ago. Clayton had never been able to track where it had come from. He’d assumed more of her father’s suspicious dealings.
But what if they had been hers?
Chapter Six
Arshun unlocked the drawer to the desk and pulled out a paper. “Does this look familiar?”
Olivia shook her head. But rather than scowling at her as he’d done with increasing annoyance as the evening progressed, his chin lifted. “You didn’t know Vasin made a copy, did you?”
