by Kate Bateman
The music came to an end on an uplifting series of chords, and she forced her hands down to her sides. She tried to think of something to say, but words completely deserted her. She, the queen of polite small talk, who’d spent years making effortless conversation with everyone from cardinals to courtesans, could think of nothing to say to this man who’d come to mean far too much to her.
She stepped back, instantly regretting the cool distance that swept between them. “I … Excuse me. I need some air.”
His dark bows lowered into a frown. “You can’t leave the house. Don’t even venture into the gardens. Not until we know where Petrov is.”
She nodded and slipped away through the crowd, employing his tactic of pretending not to hear those who hailed her. She needed a moment of quiet to process the jumbled feelings churning in her chest.
The tiara was giving her a headache. She gave a half-hysterical laugh at the irony. Wasn’t it one of Shakespeare’s kings who’d bemoaned, “Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown”? The weight of her position was quite literally pressing down upon her.
She nodded to Mellors, who was guarding the corridor that led into the private wing of the house, and slipped into the unoccupied pink salon. The noise of the ball dulled as she closed the door behind her and sank into one of the pretty upholstered French armchairs.
She removed the tiara and placed it gently on a side table with a sigh. She’d drawn it from memory, so it wasn’t exactly the same, but it was still remarkably similar to the one she’d crushed in Paris a year ago. Back then, she’d mourned the future Denisov brides who wouldn’t be wearing it to wed, but Wolff had given her a chance to resurrect that family tradition.
Not that a wedding looked to be on the horizon for her any time soon.
Her stomach knotted in misery. Wolff’s proposal, back at the Tricorn, had been utterly unexpected. Her instinctive refusal had been a rejection of the situation, rather than the man, although he hadn’t seen it that way. She sighed. Despite what she’d told him, she did want to get married someday. And the thought of accepting any man other than him left a heavy ache in her heart.
He’d been right; he’d ruined her for anyone else—but not in the physical sense of having been the first in her bed. He’d ruined her because nobody else made her feel as wanted, as seen as he did—as if he understood the silly, stubborn woman she was beneath her royal robes, and preferred her to anyone else. She couldn’t imagine another man touching her as intimately as he’d done. She wanted him. His kisses, his smiles. A lifetime of sparring and teasing and learning his secrets.
Anya stilled. Dear God, she’d fallen in love with him.
A rap on the door interrupted her stunned amazement, and Mellors slipped unobtrusively into the room. “There is a gentleman at the back door, my lady. He says he needs to speak with you in private. Most urgently.”
Her heart lurched in alarm. “A Russian gentleman? Count Petrov?”
“No, madam. He says he is a barrister, one Oliver Reynolds. The fiancé of your friend Miss Ivanov?”
“Where is he?”
“At present, in the scullery. He did not want to interrupt the ball by using the main entrance. Shall I bring him here?”
Anya was already on her feet. “No, I’ll go to him. Thank you, Mellors.”
The majordomo nodded placidly.
Anya made her way to the back stairs and hurried down them. In the kitchen, she could hear raised voices—Lagrasse and Mrs. MacDougall were having a difference of opinion on how to make “proper” custard, but she was too worried to smile at their squabbling. She entered the scullery and one look at Oliver’s face was enough to strike fear into her heart.
“Oliver! What is it? What’s happened?”
The young man raked his hand through his sandy hair. “Thank God! It’s Elizaveta. She’s been taken.”
“Taken? When? By whom?” Anya already suspected the answer.
“Less than an hour ago. We were returning from the theatre when a carriage pulled up alongside us. I barely paid any attention until two men jumped out. One struck me down”—he rubbed the back of his head as if in painful memory—“and the other one caught Elizaveta around the waist and bundled her into the carriage. They drove off before I could do anything to save her.” He looked as if he was going to be sick.
Anya hugged her arms around her waist as equal parts fury and terror coursed through her. “Those men were working on the orders of a man named Vasili Petrov. He’s a monster.”
Oliver’s face went even greener, but he reached into his jacket and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. The red wax seal was Petrov’s, segmented with a bow and arrow and a full-masted ship to the lower half. “They threw this at my feet. Said to deliver it to you.” His Adam’s apple bobbed down as he swallowed. “They’re going to hurt Elizaveta, aren’t they?”
Anya reached out and clasped his arm in a reassuring grip. “Not if I can help it.”
She tore open the seal and read the short note. It was in Russian, presumably to limit the number of people who could read it if opened.
Princess, I have your friend. If you want her to remain unharmed, you will bring the letters your brother sent you to the stables of the dowager duchess at midnight. My man will be waiting. Do not think to have your English lapdog or his Bow Street brothers accompany you. Come alone or your maid will meet the same fate as your brother.
Anya cursed soundly and glanced at the clock on the scullery wall. It was already half past eleven. Oh, God, what was she to do? She didn’t have the real papers to give him.
They’d expected Petrov to come to the ball tonight and demand the “evidence” he thought she possessed. Anya had chosen three of the letters she’d translated—ones which might conceivably have contained something of import—and bundled them together with a faded ribbon, just to have something to show him in order to lure him somewhere private so that Sebastien and his Bow Street cohorts could arrest him without causing a scene. She should have known he wouldn’t be trapped so easily.
She dropped the letter to the side and gave Oliver a weak smile. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”
She raced back up the servants’ stairs, slipped into the dowager duchess’s library, and found the packet of letters in the desk. They were nothing but dull military reports, but the Cyrillic text and official look of them might fool Vasili’s man.
Unfortunately, they wouldn’t fool Vasili. As soon as he opened them, he would realize they weren’t the incriminating evidence he was after. Anya didn’t want to think what he would do to Elizaveta then. She needed to find a way to get her friend released before Vasili discovered he was being duped.
She stuffed the letters into the pocket of her skirts and returned to find Oliver still pacing below stairs.
“What does the letter say? Where are you going?” he demanded.
She grabbed a paring knife from the side. “To meet Petrov’s man in the stables. Don’t worry,” she said with far more confidence than she felt. “I’ll get Elizaveta back safely.”
She would show the envoy the fake documents but refuse to hand them over until Elizaveta was released unharmed.
“Will you give me your jacket?”
Oliver frowned, but did as she asked, and she slipped the oversize garment over her dress and tucked the knife into the sagging pocket.
“Surely you don’t mean to go alone?”
“I must. Petrov was very specific.”
Oliver swore even as she brushed past him. Lagrasse and Mrs. MacDougall were still quibbling over crème patissière, but Anya hurried past the kitchen and out into the mews yard. To her dismay, Jem Barnes, one of Wolff’s Bow Street urchins, skulked out of the darkness as she entered the stables, silent as a cat.
“Oi, Princess, where d’ye think you’re goin’? Wolff left orders you was to stay inside.”
Anya cursed silently. How to get rid of him? Eclipse’s inquisitive black nose appeared over the door of one of the stalls, and h
e gave a soft whicker of welcome. She sent the young man a confiding smile.
“I just came out here for a few minutes alone. It’s so hot in the ballroom. I was going to talk to Eclipse.”
Jem scrunched up his face. “Funny fing fer a princess to do.” He sent a glance down at her glittering skirts beneath Oliver’s outsize coat. “Ye’ll get yer dress all dirty.” He shrugged, as if the decisions of the upper classes were ever incomprehensible. “Well, I can’t leave you alone, anyways. Wolff’d ’ave me guts fer garters.”
Anya had to admire the lad’s dedication, even if it was inconvenient. She’d just opened her mouth to tell him some story when a dark shape loomed out of the shadows behind him. Jem must have seen her horrified expression because he started to turn, but it was too late: Vasili Petrov dealt him a sickening blow to the side of the head with the handle of a pitchfork. Jem collapsed on the floor like a sack of grain.
Anya let out a shout of horror and sank to her knees next to the fallen boy. To her utter relief, he was still breathing, although he was definitely unconscious.
“You bastard!” she hissed, fury overriding her fright momentarily. “How could you? He’s no more than a child!”
Vasili gave an unrepentant shrug. “I told you to come alone.”
Anya’s heart began to pound. She got to her feet, watching him warily.
“What? No greeting for your long-lost fiancé?” Vasili sneered. “You’ve led me a merry chase these past months, Princess. Fleeing from me in Paris, then hiding here in London. I have been most inconvenienced.”
Anya set her chin. “I don’t care. Where’s Elizaveta?”
“Back at my ship. Do you have the letters from your brother?”
Anya tried to recall everything Sebastien had taught her about lying. “The ones that prove you’re a traitor? Yes, I have them,” in a just and perfect world.
His eyes gleamed with triumph. “I knew you were lying. Give them to me.”
“They’re somewhere you’ll never find them.”
Vasili’s face hardened into a mask of fury. “You little bitch. This isn’t a game.” He took a threatening step toward her, and she shrank back in anticipation of a blow.
“You can have them when you release Elizaveta,” she said quickly.
Vasili’s lip curled. “Always giving orders, Princess. But in this case, I’m neither your servant, nor your subject. I’m your master.”
“You are not.”
“I soon will be.”
He took another step, closing the distance between them. “Whatever you’ve done with them, you’ll still not testify against me if you’re my wife. I meant what I said in Paris. We shall be wed.”
Anya fought a wave of nausea. Sebastien had shown her how beautiful the act of making love could be. He was the kind of man she wanted to marry. Vasili was the complete opposite. If he attempted to consummate the marriage, it would be a grotesque violation fueled by violence and greed. She would not be subjected to such defilement. Even death would be preferable.
He made a sudden lunge forward, catching her off guard. He hoisted her off her feet. Anya struggled furiously, trying to incapacitate him, but her efforts were ineffective. He was almost twice her size and weight. He half-dragged, half-carried her to the back door of the stables. She tried to bite his forearm, but the thickness of his jacket prevented it.
“Oliver!” she shouted desperately. “Help!”
Vasili gave her a vicious shake. A carriage was waiting behind the stables, the door standing open, and with a savage jerk, he threw her up into it. She landed awkwardly across the single seat.
“Back to the ship!” he called to the waiting driver. “Go!”
He leaped into the carriage and closed the door with a slam. Anya tried to get up, but she was hampered by her skirts and Oliver’s oversize jacket. Her heart pounded in terror as Vasili loomed over her. She fell back, kicking and punching wildly in the darkness, and experienced a fierce stab of pleasure when her heel connected with some soft part of his anatomy. He uttered a foul curse.
Then she saw his fist in her peripheral vision. And everything went black.
Chapter 34.
Seb glared at the door to the ballroom. Petrov still hadn’t made an appearance, and where the hell was Anya? Why was she taking so long? An uneasy, prickling feeling assailed him, and he went in search of her, ignoring the beckoning smiles of the women as he passed and the jovial greetings of the men.
“Mellors, where is she?”
The servant needed no further clarification. “I believe the princess is meeting a gentleman in the scullery, sir.”
Seb’s eyebrows rose into his hairline. “She’s what?”
“Not a Russian gentleman,” Mellors said swiftly, as if that were any kind of reassurance. “I believe he is a friend.”
Seb didn’t wait to hear more. He pounded down the servant’s stairs and past the open kitchen door. Mrs. Mac-Dougall and Lagrasse were bickering about something. The scullery was empty, but a sheet of paper on the counter caught his eye. He snatched it up and cursed when he saw the indecipherable scribbles of the Russian alphabet.
Fear and fury thundered in his ears as he took the steps out to the mews two at a time. A shout from the stables caught his good ear, and he raced inside to find Jem Barnes on the floor with a thin, sandy-haired stranger crouched over him.
Seb hauled the man to his feet and slammed him hard against the wall.
“What the hell’s going on here? Where’s Anya? Who are you?”
“Oliver Reynolds,” the man gasped, raising his palms in a gesture of surrender. “I’m a barrister. Don’t hit me! I’m engaged to Elizaveta Ivanova. A friend of the princess.” He gestured down at Jem. “I found him like that.”
Jem exhaled a low groan and rolled over onto his side. He clutched the back of his head, and when he pulled his hand away, it was coated in blood.
Seb released the man and dropped to Jem’s side. “Stay still, lad. You need a doctor.” He glared up at Reynolds. “Where’s the princess? I told her not to leave the bloody house.”
The skinny man swallowed hard. “She came out here to meet a messenger from Count Petrov. He’s taken my fiancée.”
“He took her too,” Jem muttered groggily. “The princess. Couldn’t stop ’im.”
A cold wash of terror froze Seb’s blood. “Petrov has her? Where’s he taking her?”
“I don’t know,” Reynolds groaned. “Maybe there’s something in there?” He indicated the letter that was still crumpled in Seb’s fist.
Seb gazed down at the meaningless squiggles and was filled with impotent fury. “Who speaks Russian?”
Jem and Reynolds sent him identical blank looks. He raced back inside, angrily aware that he couldn’t just burst into the ballroom like a wild man.
“Mellors, bring me Prince Trubetskoi or the Russian ambassador, Lieven, to the pink salon,” he ordered. “Immediately. And Lords Harland and Wylde too.”
The majordomo nodded, his expression inscrutable, and Seb wondered what it would take to discompose the man. Nothing short of Armageddon, probably.
He caught sight of Anya’s tiara lying abandoned on the side table and a shaft of terror pierced his heart. She should have kept it with her, to remind Petrov of her elevated position. To underline the wrath that would rain down upon his head if he hurt her.
Prince Trubetskoi stepped into the room. “You wished to see me, Lord Mowbray?”
Seb scrutinized the other man closely. Petrov was a friend of Trubetskoi. For all he knew, the prince could have been the one feeding Petrov sensitive information. They could be in league together, but it was a risk he had to take. He had to trust the man would translate the letter accurately.
“I need you to read this aloud. In English. Now.”
Trubetskoi did so, his face a picture of shock when he comprehended the contents. “Who wrote this?
“Count Vasili Petrov. He believes the princess has evidence that he’s been spyi
ng for the French since before Waterloo.”
The prince shook his head in astonishment. “I can scarcely believe it. I’ve known him for years. I always knew he was ambitious, but I had no idea he was capable of such wickedness. This practically admits there are incriminating documents.”
“It does. But I don’t care about that. He’s taken the princess. My princess.” Seb turned to leave. “Thank you, Your Highness.”
Alex and Benedict entered the library and sent him twin inquiring glances.
“I’m off to Bow Street,” Seb said.
“Now? What’s going on?”
“Petrov has the princess, but I don’t know where he’s taking her. The prisoner we’re holding in the cells will know, though.”
“The one who tried to snatch her from the Tricorn? He’s refused to say anything for the past week,” Alex cautioned.
Seb lowered his brows. “We clearly haven’t been persuasive enough. I’ll make him talk. Are you with me?”
Neither Alex nor Ben hesitated. “Of course.”
“Then let’s go.”
“I have pistols in my carriage,” Alex offered, hard on Seb’s heels as they clattered down the kitchen steps.
“Me too,” Benedict added.
“Good,” Seb said grimly. “You’re going to need them.”
A murderous fury slid through his veins as he headed for the stables. He was going to find Petrov and put a bullet through the blackmailing bastard once and for all. His trusty Baker was back at the Tricorn, but he had a pistol in his saddlebag. It would have to do.
The ride from Grosvenor Square to Bow Street didn’t take long, especially at a gallop, and soon Seb was greeting the night officer on watch at number three.
“Evening, George. We need another talk with our Russian guest.”
The prisoner blinked in sleepy confusion when Seb, Alex, and Ben barged into his cell. Bypassing the usual preliminaries, Seb reached down, hauled him off the hard pallet, and smashed him hard against the wall.
