by Anna Randol
“No, unfortunately.”
“Unfortunately?”
“I killed her husband. I doubt it’s something she’s forgiven.”
Chapter Eleven
Olivia wasn’t entirely sure what she expected of Princess Katya. A regal dowager. Or a delicate young girl with blond ringlets.
The woman who sailed down the corridor was dainty, but she was only a few years older than Olivia. Sunset red curls hung down her back. She was dressed in buff breeches with a flowing white shirt and a long emerald vest over the top.
She also spoke with a crisp English accent. “Baron Komarov.” She lifted her arm, revealing a pistol. She aimed it directly at Clayton’s heart.
“Clayton!” Olivia cried.
He pushed her backward as the pistol fired. Smoke, sulfur, and bits of plaster drifted through the air. Plaster. The princess had fired into the ceiling at the last moment.
“Pleasure to see you, too, Kate.”
The princess planted her free hand on her hip, glaring at Clayton. She glanced briefly at Olivia. “I apologize for startling you, my dear. But you—” She jabbed the gun at Clayton. “Six months. Six months—”
Clayton held up his hand. “This discussion should be held in private.” He motioned toward the servants who’d gathered in the corridor.
Princess Katya’s lips thinned, but she led them into a nearby parlor. She motioned for Olivia to take a seat. “Can I offer you tea? Coffee?”
Olivia shook her head.
The princess shut the door with an ominous click, then rounded again on Clayton. “You soulless monster. You let me think he was dead. I mourned him. Mourned. Not that you’d have any idea what an emotion like that would feel like.”
Clayton simply stood there, his hands behind his back. As emotionless as the princess claimed.
Olivia wasn’t. “He isn’t a monster.”
Both of the other occupants turned to her with eyebrows raised.
Olivia was a touch surprised herself. Apparently, old habits still lingered. But she wouldn’t let anyone speak of Clayton like that.
“Perhaps we should be introduced now,” the princess said, her face tense.
Olivia stood again. “Olivia Swift,” she replied before it occurred to her that perhaps she shouldn’t use her real name.
Kate folded her arms. “I don’t know what you are doing with this man. But let me warn you, I trusted him once, then he lied to me and robbed me of what I cherished most.”
Clayton’s gaze finally moved to the princess. “His uncle and the minister of police had to believe he was dead. Your pain was a means to bolster that image.”
The princess’s hand clenched at her sides.
“I trusted you.”
“Unfortunate. You said you only mourned him six months. How did you discover he was alive?”
“I received a parcel containing a book of William Blake’s poetry. At first, I thought it was some sort of cruel jest. But then I put the pieces together. Your sudden appearance—a distant cousin I’d never heard him mention. His missing body. The nonsensical reason you gave for him being on the bridge that night. He’d sent me the book to let me know he was alive. So where is he?”
Clayton shrugged. “It’s not for me to say.”
“Why not? You were the one behind it, were you not? You were the one who came to me with the news.”
“I played the part I was assigned.”
“Played? Played? Is this a”—her voice cracked—“a game? It may have been to Sergey. It may be to you. But it is not for me.” Her lip trembled. “Where is he? Can you at least give me that?”
“For a cost.”
Olivia had thought his icy reserve stemmed from his plans for her and her father. In fact, the thought had been rather comforting. It meant the boy she’d known was still in there somewhere, just hidden from her.
But perhaps he wasn’t.
And yet, a memory surfaced of Clayton taking a scolding from her father over some small error. He’d stood just as proud and uncaring as he did now. She hadn’t thought a word her father had said meant anything to him until she’d sneaked out to meet him later and he’d held her tight until his shuddered breaths had calmed.
If that sensitivity was still there somewhere, he’d hidden it so deeply that she doubted even he knew where it was.
She had to help him find it. When was the last time Clayton had been truly happy? She might not be able to give him happiness any longer, but at least she could remind him to want it.
The princess collapsed on a settee, her eyes pinched shut. “You dare . . . Yes. I see that you do. What do you need?”
“A place to stay. Clothing. An audience with the emperor.”
Princess Katya stood, smoothing her long vest. “Tell the servants what you need. I’ll see what I can do about the emperor.” She seemed to remember Olivia’s presence. “He’s a beast. Don’t ever doubt it.”
She strode from the room, her shoulders straight and her chin lifted at a proud tilt.
Clayton paced to the window. “I don’t need you to speak in my behalf. I make no apologies for my actions.”
“I’ve noticed.” She didn’t like not seeing his face, so she moved next to him.
“It will do you no good to appear sympathetic to me.” He spoke so matter-of-factly. As if he expected her to change her opinion simply because he’d said so.
“You’re right. From now on I’ll shriek obscenities at you when we are around others.”
His gaze was fixed on some distant point on the horizon. “It might be safer for you if you did.”
“Why do you care if I’m safe?”
She thought for a moment that he might admit to some sort of concern. Some emotion.
Instead, he stepped away. “I already saved you once. I have no desire to do so again.”
A brisk, gray-haired housekeeper arrived to lead Olivia and Clayton to their rooms.
“The princess say one room?” she asked in heavily accented English as they mounted the stairs.
“Two.” Olivia and Clayton both spoke at once, so emphatically that the housekeeper’s eyes widened. Olivia couldn’t help looking at Clayton, and heaven help her if the tension around his lips hadn’t relaxed a touch.
The housekeeper opened a door revealing a pale blue room with intricate plaster moldings and frothy white lace. She darted a glance from Olivia’s muddy boots to the carpet. “The footman bring bath?”
Nothing had ever sounded so divine. “Yes.”
“Your friend has room through there.” She pointed to an adjoining door. “Bath for you, too?”
Clayton nodded and the housekeeper left.
“Are we safe here?” she asked, when Clayton didn’t immediately go to his room.
“As close as I can come.” Weariness pierced his response so completely that she glanced up at him. But his face was as impassive as always.
“That isn’t precisely reassuring.”
Clayton bowed. “Knock when you’re finished. I’ll dress your wrists.”
After an hour spent scrubbing layers of grime from her skin, Olivia shrugged into an incredible banyan—sapphire silk adorned with a silver Chinese dragon swirling across the lower half—that had been supplied by one of the maids.
If she closed her eyes, she could almost believe she was home. Not that she’d owned silk for many years, but the smooth slide of the fabric over her skin felt like sanctuary.
Someone knocked on the door. Perhaps that was the maid bringing her clothing?
She crept to the door, trying to convince herself that she wasn’t showing that much leg, and opened it.
Princess Katya sailed in. “So you aren’t his mistress.”
Olivia blinked at the bluntness. “No.”
Princess Katya cleared her throat. “Then I fear I must apologize for my poor manners earlier.”
“No—”
The princess shook her head. “No. It was definitely a scene. And the only thing worse than
participating in a scene is being forced to witness one between two other people.” There was genuine regret in the woman’s eyes. “I can promise that despite what you saw, I’m neither insane nor . . . dramatic.” The word was pronounced with distinct distaste. “In fact, most people would call me completely unflappable.”
“I’m sorry about your husband.”
“So am I.” She picked up a crystal perfume bottle, then set it back on the table. “And I suppose I owe the baron an apology, too, if he did save my husband’s life. But I cannot bring myself to offer that yet. He deserves to stew first. Not that I suppose my words had any effect on him.”
“He isn’t as cold as he appears.”
The princess sighed. “I thought that once, too. Now I have no idea.” Her expression lightened. “I realize my introduction earlier was incomplete. I am Princess Katherine Rosemore Petrovna.”
The princess held out her hand for a handshake, and Olivia immediately revised her opinion of the woman. There was nothing so refreshing as a lady who was willing to give a brisk handshake. And the name sounded familiar for some—
“A Lady Pedestrian’s Guide to Traversing Siberia! You wrote that? The book?”
For the year after Clayton had died, she’d been worthless. Both overwhelmed with the sudden responsibility of caring for her ill father and dealing with her grief at Clayton’s death. She’d spent every day with a new doctor who promised a cure for her father. She’d arranged for her father to go to springs, visited experts, forced medications down his throat.
All to help the man who’d just killed the boy she loved.
After the vicar had given up counseling her with verses from the Bible, he’d given her a copy of the princess’s book. He’d probably hoped to inspire her to do something more than bemoan her fate.
He couldn’t have expected her to devour the book. To realize she didn’t just have to accept what happened to her. She could make decisions on her own.
Her father had wanted her to appear cultured, not to actually have any knowledge cluttering up her mind. The princess’s book was the first she’d read from cover to cover that wasn’t mainly composed of pictures. After that, she devoured books, reading everything she’d been able to find.
And for the first time, she hadn’t been Swift’s daughter or even Clayton’s sweetheart. She had been her own woman.
A crease appeared in Princess Katya’s forehead. “Yes. I wrote it.”
Olivia knew she was babbling but she couldn’t help it. Katherine Rosemore. She’d read and reread the book until the pages were worn and falling from the binding. “You walked across Siberia. Alone. Without an escort. You never let anyone stop you.”
“Yes. To the continued ire of proper society everywhere.”
It had inspired Olivia to form the Society for the Humane Treatment of Child Criminals. Rather than sitting about wishing she’d done things differently, she could make things different. The book had given her the courage to keep going in the rough moments. If Katherine Rosemore could eat camels and bargain her way out of a slave market, Olivia could continue to knock on the doors of the politicians who laughed in her face.
“But how did you become a princess? Your father was baronet, was he not?”
Kate patted her trousers. “An unlikely princess, I know. You must call me Kate, by the way.” Her eyes grew wistful. “I met Prince Sergey Petrov at one of my talks. He had questions about one of the tribes I stayed with in the Ural Mountains.”
“If he’s a prince, then is he related to the czar?” Perhaps Kate could take the warning about Arshun’s plan and the killer already in place.
“No. The Russians allow royal families from the lands they conquer to keep their titles. Various princes and princesses are as common as droskies. Sergey was Latvian.”
“Is that why he was working for the English?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know much of anything except he worked with that bastard you came with.”
“He’s actually quite brilliant at what he does, if that’s any consolation.” Getting her out of Arshun’s house of armed men had been an amazing feat. As was the fact that he’d found her in the first place. But why was she defending him again?
“Not really. What are you doing with him?”
“He rescued me.”
“What did the baron— But is he truly a baron or is that a ruse? What is his actual name?”
“Clayton.” He spoke from the door that connected the two rooms before Olivia could decide whether she should reveal his real name. How long had he been there? From the way his gaze lingered on her, long enough to hear her comment about his brilliance.
He’d bathed, shaved, and dressed in a white shirt—open at the collar—and dun breeches. His black leather gloves were back in place even though they were indoors.
Kate’s good humor vanished. “I’ll ensure you have the key to lock that door before tonight. So, Clayton, if I’m being forced to aid you, can I at least know who we’re fighting?”
“Prazhdinyeh.”
“Ah, I’d wondered why you’d really come.”
Clayton tried to keep his gaze on Kate’s face. Whose idea had it been to dress Olivia like she’d stepped from some eastern harem?
“Vasin is dead.” Kate paused. “Truly dead. I saw his corpse.”
“Prazhdinyeh has re-formed.”
“Who—”
“Count Arshun appears to be leading it.”
Olivia flinched at the name, her hand going to her throat.
She was working with the count, Clayton reminded himself. The flinch was most likely an act. He turned until he could no longer see her at all.
Kate scoffed. “Arshun is a sick little weasel.”
“Agreed.”
“What has this to do with me?”
“You nursed Vasin in his final illness, did you not?”
“Because he was Sergey’s uncle.”
“He put a plan into motion before his illness. We need to know if he spoke to you of it.”
A frown formed on Kate’s face. “He was mad by the time I cared for him. Do you think he would have let the wife of his greatest traitor near him otherwise? He never forgave Sergey for working with the British, not even after Sergey’s death.”
“I’ll need to know everything he said in those last days. Every last ramble. Every rant. You were also given his belongings. I’ll need anything he left behind.”
“I have a few boxes of books in the attic, but everything else is gone.”
“Then I’ll need those books.”
“Why?”
Clayton wasn’t about to explain his thoughts on the code and how it might be broken, but he supposed some explanation was in order. “We need to find something before Prazhdinyeh can.”
Kate pulled at a loose stitch on the arm of the settee. “Is it something that needs to be found?”
“Obviously.”
The two women shared a commiserating look. For a moment, he remembered when he’d stayed up late into the morning trying to beat Kate and Sergey at a game of chess. The two of them against him. The taunts. The tension. The laughter. For a few hours, he’d felt like a man, not a spy.
But those moments were long past. And he wasn’t going to put this mission at risk because of female annoyance.
“I’ll also need your husband’s effects.”
“What?” Kate’s curls bounced as she shook her head. “No.”
“That isn’t a request.”
“Then ask him yourself.”
Olivia spoke before he could. “They plan to kill the czar and his family.”
That had been Madeline’s role in their interrogations—to be the compassionate one who gained their target’s trust. He didn’t like that Olivia slipped into it naturally.
“Why do you care?” Kate asked.
He shouldn’t have made the mistake of looking at Olivia when she answered. The sincerity in her expression was too damned convincing. And the wet strands of hair d
rying in soft curls against her neck didn’t precisely help his objectivity. “I have to try to stop it. I don’t have a choice.”
“If he is forcing you—”
But Olivia shook her head. “I cannot let innocent people die.”
Did Olivia have to finger the neckline of that blasted robe? She’d pulled it tight to her neck, but each twitch revealed the delicate line of her collarbone. He wanted to run his tongue along it and trace it to the hollow at the center of her throat.
“But what does that have to do with Sergey’s belongings?” Kate asked.
Clayton paced to the window. “That is not your concern.”
“Not my concern? You want to take the only things I have left from my husband and you dare say—” Her green eyes flashed and she stood. “Fine. You already took everything from me that matters.” She tugged at the heavy ruby ring on her thumb and threw it at his feet. It landed with a thud on the carpet, then rolled until coming to rest next to his boot. “There, you can start with that. You told me you pulled it from Sergey’s body.” She prowled toward him. “You realize that coming here puts me and my household in danger from the revolutionaries.”
He made no move to pick up the ring. “You can send us away.”
“You know I cannot, you bastard.”
No. Not with the information about her husband he held over her.
When Clayton had told Sergey of the plan to save him, the prince had fought against it, refusing to leave his wife. Clayton had thought him foolish and overly sentimental. After all, a woman could hardly be worth one’s life.
Yet as Kate prowled toward him, he felt the first flicker of understanding. A slight stab of jealousy for the man who had someone in his life so desperate to keep him.
He’d never had any woman want him that much. Not even his own mother. She was more than happy to run off with her lovers again and again.
He’d once hoped Olivia would fight for him in such a way.
“Perhaps we should stay elsewhere.” Olivia pulled the robe tighter, the silk clinging to her rounded hips. Damnation, was she bare under that robe?
