by Kate Bateman
The dowager snorted. “Oh, pish. A bit of danger would add a welcome dash of excitement to my life, let me tell you.” She nodded to Mellors, her stone-faced majordomo, as he opened the door and helped her into the waiting carriage. “Thank you, Mellors. Now come along, Miss Brown.”
English carriages were not at all like Russian troikas. For one thing, they were completely enclosed. Anya climbed up into the luxuriously appointed interior and smiled in delight. Her luggage, what little of it there was, had been stowed in the exterior box by the duchess’s burly coachman, John.
The sky promised snow, or at the very least rain. The duchess drew a fur-lined travel rug across her lap and leaned back against the velvet seat. Anya placed her feet on the warm brick on the floor and tugged the edges of her favorite Russian travelling cloak around her. It was the one she’d bought in Paris, hemmed with diamonds; pale blue wool edged with white ermine and embellished with silver thread. Elizaveta always joked that it made her look like the fictional Russian Snow Princess, Snegurochka, the daughter of Winter himself.
“Ready, yer ladyship?” John the coachman called down.
“One moment!” Anya replied.
The dowager raised her brows in inquiry, and Anya sent her an apologetic smile. “It is a Russian superstition. We must observe a moment of silence to ensure a safe trip.”
The dowager chuckled. “What wonderfully strange customs you have, my dear. What good does a minute of silence do? I suppose it might offer the chance to remember all the things we’ve forgotten to pack.”
Anya laughed. “I’m not sure, but everyone does it.”
“Very well, let us have our minute of silence. Heaven forbid we get stuck in a thunderstorm.”
The bustle of Grosvenor Square continued outside as the two of them sat quietly for a brief moment.
“There. That should suffice.” The duchess frowned. “No sign of any outriders. I did mention it to Sebastien, but the wretch must have forgotten. Never mind. John has a blunderbuss under his seat.” She rapped smartly on the carriage roof with her walking cane. “Onward!”
They lumbered out of the mews and into Grosvenor Square, with its well-tended central garden lined with smart black-painted railings. Each resident of the stately houses which faced the square had a key to unlock the private gate and gain access to the garden.
The carriage soon turned onto Park Lane, then headed west toward the Knightsbridge turnpike. Buildings gave way to fields and trees and a chill wind blew through the cracks between the door and window.
The dowager’s country estate lay several hours’ drive to the west of London. Anya watched the changing landscape with interest. When she and Elizaveta had crossed from Belgium and made their way to London last year, they’d been too tired and worried to take note of the scenery. And since arriving, they hadn’t had enough money to venture from the capital.
A flock of sheep clustered together to shelter from the wind. Perhaps winter was coming early this year? Charlotte had said that England didn’t experience such impressive snowfall as Russia, but Anya liked being warm, so that didn’t bother her at all.
The idea that she might never return to her native land elicited a brief, wistful pang of homesickness. She quashed it. She’d made the right decision. However difficult life was here, however reduced their circumstances, she and Elizaveta were safe.
Or at least, they had been. Was Vasili’s presence in London merely coincidental? Or had he received some clue that she was hiding here? Anya shivered at the possibility. She was glad to be leaving London.
They passed Hammersmith, then a public house called the Dog and Duck and rumbled onto the vast, lonely stretch of moorland known as Hounslow Heath. The sky had grown steadily darker, bringing a gloom to the landscape that matched Anya’s brooding thoughts.
She sent a fond glance over at the dowager, who had fallen asleep, her head propped against the corner of the padded seat, her mouth slightly open in repose.
It began to rain, and Anya cursed quietly. Russians believed that rain on the day of your trip was good luck, but muddy roads would make the journey even slower. The clouds seemed to have come down almost to the ground; they formed a mist that made it difficult to see.
A cry of alarm sounded from above. A crack like thunder rent the air, and the carriage gave a sharp jolt. The horses reared in the traces, whinnying in distress, and the dowager jerked awake with a start. Anya grabbed the leather strap by the window to steady herself as the carriage lurched and rocked on its springs.
She squinted through the rain-spattered window and saw three men on horseback burst from the trees and thunder down the hill toward them. Her heart seized in fright. All three of them were wearing hats pulled down low, with scarves tied over their faces to disguise their identity. Each one carried a firearm.
John’s blunderbuss discharged above them with a deafening roar.
“What on earth is going on?” the dowager demanded.
“Footpads, ma’am,” shouted the coachman. Metal clicked as he struggled to reload. “Three o’ the devils, coming down fast.” Another shot rang out, this time from the brigands, and a sound like gravel flung against the carriage panels made Anya duck instinctively. John cursed. “Hit, b’gad!”
“Good heavens!” the dowager cried. “John, are you shot?”
“Aye, ma’am! But ’tis only me arm. I’m—”
The three assailants were upon them before he could say more.
“Stand and deliver!” the nearest one bellowed, wheeling his horse. His two companions positioned themselves on the opposite side of the coach, their weapons at the ready.
The dowager stiffened in outrage. “Well, really!”
Anya’s heart was thundering, but she almost smiled at the older woman’s disgruntled tone. The dowager gave an irritated sigh, as if being held up on the King’s Highway was a regular inconvenience. She reached down between the cushions and pulled out a small drawstring purse. “So much for your minute of silence, my girl. Highwaymen! Don’t worry. I keep a small amount of silver for just such an eventuality. Pull down the window.”
An icy blast of rain splattered Anya’s face as she slid down the glass. The dowager tossed the purse out of the window, where it landed with a dull chink in front of the hooves of the leader’s mount.
“There,” she called out crossly. “There was no reason to injure my coachman, you brute.”
While the other two robbers kept their weapons trained on the coach, the leader dismounted and scooped up the purse. He weighed it in his hand, silently assessing its value, then slipped it into the folds of his dirty brown jacket.
The dowager spoke again. “Now, I’m sure you fine gentlemen have homes to go to, and I very much dislike being kept out here in the cold. Move aside.”
Anya held her breath, hoping the ordeal was over, but the leader shook his head.
“No. Out of the coach.”
Anya frowned. The man’s voice was thick, his vowels slurred. Was he drunk? A cold shiver of fear slid down her spine. Get out? That wasn’t usual, was it? Surely robbery was all these ruffians had in mind and nothing worse?
“Get down? We’ll do no such thing!” the dowager said imperiously. “It’s raining.”
Anya gasped as the door was wrenched open.
“I said, get out!” The man reached in and grabbed her by the arm. She reared back, struggling.
“Unhand her!” The duchess took a swing at the man with her cane, but it was no use; Anya was pulled clear from the carriage. She half fell onto the road and gave a gasp of pain as her ankle twisted beneath her. Her foot slipped in an icy puddle.
“This her?” the leader rasped, glancing over at the other two riders as if for confirmation. He caught the hood of her cape and tugged it back to expose her face and hair. Confused, Anya glanced up at the nearest man, but all she could see was a pair of pale eyes between hat brim and scarf. The eyes narrowed on her face, and he nodded briefly.
“Da. Is her. We go
.”
Anya’s stomach plummeted as she placed the man’s accent. Russian. These weren’t footpads. They were kidnappers. How in God’s name had Vasili known where to find her?
“Come on, then! Take her.”
The leader tugged Anya to her feet and thrust her toward the second man. She began to fight in earnest. She swung her fist and made contact with her captor’s jaw. He cursed and stumbled back, and she pressed the advantage, clawing at his face. His scarf fell away, revealing a swarthy, ugly face she’d never seen before.
He gave her a shake that made her teeth rattle in her skull. “Stop, woman!”
The mounted Russian reached down to pull her up onto his horse, but they were interrupted by the third man’s warning growl.
“Quick! Someone comes. A rider!”
The relentless beat of hooves reached Anya’s ears and a thrill of hope tightened her chest. She squinted back down the road.
A black horse came thundering around the bend, its mane and tail flying. The rider was a dark shape hunched low over the horse’s neck. His greatcoat streamed behind him like wings, like some hell-sent rider of the apocalypse. Anya’s breath caught in her throat.
The rider straightened in the saddle; he had a rifle in is hand. Surely he wasn’t going to try to shoot from a moving horse? No sooner had the thought formed than Anya saw him take aim—straight toward her—and her heart lurched to a stop.
The man next to her cursed. She heard a crack and saw a puff of smoke rise from the rider’s weapon. The hold on her arm slackened, and she turned to find her captor sprawled on the ground at her feet, his eyes wide and staring. A red trickle of blood seeped from the hole in his chest into the muddy puddle next to him.
One of the mounted brigands fired his weapon, and the leader’s loose horse bolted away down the road. The approaching rider ducked and fired again, from a second gun, and the Russian slumped dead in the saddle. His mount reared, confused by the suddenly unresponsive weight on its back, and the body slipped sideways. The terrified horse raced for the trees, but the corpse’s foot was still caught in the stirrup; it bounced along, caught by the leg, as it went.
Anya could barely comprehend what she was seeing. She glanced up at the third and final footpad. His scarf had fallen from his face, and she got a good look at his features. With a harsh shout, he kicked his heels to his horse’s sides and thundered off up the hill after his fallen brethren.
Anya turned—and suppressed a scream as her savior’s enormous horse clattered to a stop directly in front of her. It reared, pawing the air, almost threatening to trample her, but the rider kept his seat with consummate skill, and she felt a surge of admiration. As a horsewoman herself, she knew the strength it took to control such a gigantic beast.
She peered up at the rider, her heart pounding, trying to see the man who’d come to her rescue, but he was silhouetted against the grey sky and rain obscured her vision. Then, the dry voice of the dowager came echoing from the interior of the coach.
“Well, Sebastien. That was quite the entrance. Still, better late than never.”
Chapter 10.
Seb’s heart thundered against his ribs as he brought his lathered mount under control.
What the bloody hell had his great-aunt got herself into now?
He’d spurred Eclipse into the fray without a thought. After so many years in the Rifles, it had been second nature to ride toward the enemy when shots had been fired, and he’d dealt with the footpads swiftly and efficiently. He was only sorry he hadn’t been able to reload his Baker quickly enough to finish off the third man.
He glanced up at his aunt’s coachman, who was in the process of tying a handkerchief around his bleeding forearm.
“You were hit, John? How badly are you hurt?”
“Nothing too bad, milor’. Just a few pebbles o’ shot. Good thing them rascals had fowling pieces and not rifles like yersel’. They ain’t half so accurate.” He sent Seb a wide grin of admiration. “That were some fine shootin’, sir, from a movin’ horse.”
Seb sent him an answering smile. “Well, I should hope so. I spent three years in His Majesty’s Rifles. Never thought I’d need the skill in England, though.”
Reassured that the coachman wasn’t seriously injured, he turned his attention downward. Dorothea was peering out of the carriage with a faintly amused expression, but it was the woman standing beside the carriage, the one in the pale blue cloak, who caught Seb’s attention. Recognition, swift and hot, speared through him.
It was her! The woman from the brothel. What in God’s name was she doing sharing a carriage with his great-aunt?
“You!” He wrenched his gaze from her shocked face and glared at Dorothea. “What the hell is going on?”
The dowager sent him a congratulatory smile. “I’m so glad you arrived, Sebastien. That was impeccable timing. It was a shame you had to kill them, however.”
He glanced at the corpse on the roadside. “They were footpads. They would have hung anyway. This way was quicker.”
The dowager’s brows twitched. “True, but we can’t question dead men.”
“Why would you want to?”
“They weren’t merely thieves. They were kidnappers.”
Seb frowned. “Why would anyone want to kidnap you?”
“I’ll have you know, I’m an extremely desirable target,” the dowager said with mock offence. “But it wasn’t me they were after.” She glanced over at the woman in the road. “It was her.”
Seb turned back to the beauty in front of him.
“I don’t think you two have met,” the dowager said. “Anna, this is my great-nephew, Sebastien. He’s the Earl of Mowbray. Bastien, this is Anna Brown. My companion.”
“Anna Brown?” Seb repeated scornfully.
“That’s right,” the girl said stiffly. There was a hint of something in her eyes, a flash of challenge that made his pulse pound in response.
“And Miss Brown is your companion, you say?”
The dowager glared at him. “Yes. Haven’t I just said so? She’s been with me for almost a year. What of it?”
“You’re being gulled.” He narrowed his eyes and subjected the girl to a slow, deliberate inspection from head to toe.
She straightened her spine and sent him a haughty look, despite the fact that she was spattered with mud and her hair was in wild disarray. She was several inches shorter than himself—and he was still astride Eclipse—yet she somehow still managed to look down her nose at him.
God, she was as striking as he remembered.
Thanks to her, he’d endured a week of self-imposed celibacy and a succession of ridiculously erotic dreams. Several times he’d actually awoken in the throes of a climax—something he hadn’t done since he was a randy, under-sexed youth. Now, against all logic, the object of his heated fantasies was here. Standing in front of him in the middle of Hounslow Heath, looking shocked, bedraggled, and still—impossibly—gorgeous.
Seb pinned her with a hard stare.
Her blue eyes were framed by lashes a few shades darker than her honey-colored hair. The thick coils were askew from her struggle, falling down around her face, and her skin was pale except for a slight flush on her cheekbones, pink roses against snow.
His cock twitched, but her beauty only served to annoy him. She was clearly not what she seemed.
“She’s not a companion,” he said bluntly. “She’s a—” He paused, unsure of the phrase he sought. “An impostor,” he finished. “Have you checked your jewelry box recently? I wouldn’t be at all surprised to find she’s been robbing you blind.”
No wonder she hadn’t wanted his money back at Haye’s. She was probably pilfering things from his great-aunt.
The beauty gasped in outrage. “How dare you? I would never—”
The duchess burst out laughing. “Oh no! Sebastien, you’re quite mistaken. Anna would never steal from me. Come, why are you being so disagreeable?”
“It’s obvious. She’s trying to
wheedle her way into your good graces, to gain your trust.”
“That’s absolute codswallop,” the duchess said in a tone that brooked no argument. She glanced over at the girl and her expression sobered. “She’s a young woman in very grave danger.”
Seb glared the girl. “Why? Why would anyone want you?”
She flinched at his scathing tone, and the two women exchanged a telling, complicit glance. His anger increased. They were hiding something, both of them.
“What’s your real name?”
The girl gave a resigned huff. “Anya.”
“Anya,” he echoed, rolling the word around his mouth experimentally. “Excellent. Progress. You’re Russian?” That would explain the accent he’d detected back at Haye’s. Russian mixed with a hint of French. Intriguing.
“Yes.”
“Anya what?”
“My family name’s not important.”
He raised his brows. “Considering those men were apparently trying to kidnap you, I’d say it was of rather vital importance, wouldn’t you?”
She scowled at his sarcasm. “Anya—Ivanov.”
He didn’t miss her minute hesitation. Ivanov was one of the most common family names in Russia, the equivalent of Smith or Brown in England. She was still lying to him, the little charlatan.
“Who would want to kidnap you? Do you owe someone money?”
“It’s nothing like that.” The dowager sighed. “Anya used to be personal maid to the Princess Denisova. The princess took her own life in Paris last year, but there are those in St. Petersburg who refuse to believe she’s dead. Since poor Anya was a witness to her mistress’s final hours, they wish to question her about it.”
“So why don’t they just call on her?”
“Anya refuses to speak of it, and I fully understand her reluctance to reopen such painful wounds. The Princess Denisova is gone. There’s no more to say.” The dowager nodded decisively. “I was taking her to Everleigh to escape those who would bedevil and distress her. But it appears they were more determined than we anticipated.”
A thoughtful look came into his aunt’s face, which gave Seb pause. He’d witnessed that same calculating expression before. It usually preceded Dorothea giving someone a scathing set down or making a startling pronouncement sure to offend.
