One Night of Sin

by Gaelen Foley

  “As my grandfather’s solicitors have assured me, that rumor is indeed true. Which explains why I found my poor young cousin living like a peasant in Yorkshire. Shocking, really.” With a bewildered shake of his head, Mikhail took a seat across from the duke on one of the striped armchairs. “Whatever affliction of female hysteria came to Rebecca by blood was no doubt worsened by the conditions in which she was raised. She is nearly one-and-twenty, but her prospects have been as neglected as her education.”

  “Really?”

  “She has been allowed to run wild, literally. She spends most of her time walking out on the moors!” he exclaimed with an air of perplexity. “She has seen nothing of the world beyond her village, speaks no French, has none of the usual accomplishments of a young lady of her birth. She can barely make a curtsy. Not to speak ill of the dead, but I fear my grandfather was too hardhearted in his grudge. The girl’s father was unsuitable, yes, but that is hardly the child’s fault. It’s not as though she were illegitimate. It was a legal marriage, by all accounts.”

  “Quite. Well, yes, alas, I cannot disagree with you on the point of Lord Talbot’s hard-heartedness.” Westland offered a wan smile. “Your grandfather was one of the old hard-line Tories who opposed tooth and claw every reform we Whigs brought before the Lords.”

  Mikhail nodded with a glum snort. “I believe it. When I learned that his will had named me as Rebecca’s guardian, I went to fetch her, knowing it would be a challenge to oversee the process of marrying off an eligible young lady, but I never expected anything like this. All I sought was to bring her to my London house and introduce her quietly around Society until a suitable husband could be found for her, but Rebecca went absolutely mad over being forced to leave her precious Yorkshire. At first I thought it was merely feminine moods, but within a few days of our arrival in London, it became clear that there was something, well . . . wrong with her.”

  Westland shook his head sympathetically.

  “I have made some inquiries,” Mikhail confessed in a lower tone, lying deftly through his teeth. “One of the former mad-doctors to King George has agreed to examine her.”

  “Tragic.”

  Mikhail summoned up a rare smile. “Forgive me, Your Grace. I should not have burdened you with all of this, but I can only continue to apologize for the way she burst in on your home and abused your servants.”

  “Not at all, not at all, dear chap. I only pray the girl is not a danger to herself.”

  “If it is not too much trouble,” he added hesitantly, “I would be most grateful if we could keep this matter quiet, to spare Rebecca’s dignity and my family’s good name.”

  “Of course, Kurkov. Say no more. If the young lady is disordered in the mind, she needs help, not needless mockery. I do hope your men won’t be too rough with her,” he added, glancing toward the window with a frown. “She is so young.”

  Mikhail twitched, but suppressed his angry certainty that it was not his men Rebecca needed to worry about on that point. She would pay for embarrassing him like this. “I have given them strict orders to forbear her curses and to use minimal force.”

  Westland absorbed this with a satisfied nod and took a sip of his tea.

  Pleased that he had sufficiently discredited his young cousin so that no one would believe her now even if she tried to report what she had seen, Mikhail followed suit, hiding a cold, narrow smile behind the rim of his cup.

  Just then a crystalline voice sounded in the hallway. “Papa! Papa, I need your opinion on something!” Lady Parthenia Westland came striding into the drawing room at that moment in a rustle of white muslin. “Papa, I am meeting with the Charitable Ladies this afternoon to finalize arrangements for the Brighton whist drive and I can’t decide if we should serve chicken or woodcocks at the Winner’s Ball—Oh!”

  The duke’s daughter suddenly stopped at the sight of Mikhail. Her long-lashed eyes widened in surprise, while the sunlight gleamed on her white-gold hair. It was sleek, smooth, and shiny as platinum, fashioned into a sophisticated knot at her nape.

  Mikhail rose abruptly to his feet, tongue-tied by the diamondlike elegance of her beauty.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry!” she exclaimed, lowering the pad and pencil that she held in her hands. “Forgive my intrusion. Papa, I did not realize you had a visitor.” She nodded to Mikhail. “Good morning.”

  He bowed.

  “Do come in, darling,” Westland said. “It’s quite all right. Allow me to present Prince Mikhail Kurkov, the Czar’s friend.”

  “Prince Kurkov? Oh, it is an honor, Your Highness,” she said, gliding closer with an intrigued smile. “One cannot go about in Society without hearing reports of your valor in the war.” She offered him her hand.

  He bowed over it with precise formality, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword. “The honor is mine, Lady Parthenia.”

  She sketched an answering curtsy worthy of an artist’s brush, then wafted over to her father’s side. Mikhail watched her, decidedly impressed.

  Westland gave her a fond squeeze around her shoulders. “Well, now, chicken or woodcocks, eh? These are weighty matters beyond my ken, daughter. Perhaps Prince Kurkov has an opinion.”

  “Do you, Your Highness?” Parthenia turned to him with a bright and friendly smile.

  Mikhail stammered, thrown off balance. Menus for entertaining were hardly his forte, but more astonishing by far was his sudden realization that he was looking at his perfect bride.

  Healthy, he could see in a glance. Good breeding stock, superior bloodlines. Impeccable manners, and beautiful enough to impress even the Czar.

  Most important, marrying Parthenia Westland would cement his alliance with the elite Whigs.

  Stunned by his good fortune, he could barely manage a shrug, slipping readily into the familiar role of a blunt, simple soldier. “Forgive me, Lady Parthenia. I know not.”

  “My thoughts exactly,” Westland agreed.

  “Oh, Father,” she chided him fondly, and then turned to Mikhail with a speculative air, tapping the blunt edge of her pencil against her chin. “If you would not think me too forward, sir, might I ask if Your Highness enjoys a bit of cards now and then?”

  The question startled him, coming from such a demure creature. “Why, yes, my lady. Not intemperately, of course, but there is much waiting during a war, and cards are a common pastime amongst soldiers in their tents and officers in the mess.”

  “Just what I had hoped to hear!” she replied, dazzling him with her smile. She turned to her father. “May I ask him about the whist drive, Papa?”

  “Oh, go on,” Westland muttered, obviously quite the doting papa. “If you must.”

  Parthenia turned to Mikhail again. “Each year, Your Highness, the Ladies’ Charitable Society, of which I am a part, arranges a whist drive by the seaside town of Brighton to raise funds for our charitable foundation benefiting navy widows and their children.”

  “Admirable,” he answered with a nod.

  “Unfortunately, the difficult times our country has suffered of late have greatly increased the need for aid, and so, this year, we are determined to expand our charity to include widows and children of men from all branches of the military. To do so, we have doubled the entry fee from last year, but on the other hand, I can assure you the annual Brighton whist drive always guarantees great excitement and notoriety for those who make it into the final round.”

  “All that enjoyment for only ten thousand pounds,” Westland said drily.

  Mikhail nearly choked. “Ten thousand pounds?”

  “Too steep for you, sir?” she teased with a jaunty grin.

  Startled by her charm, Mikhail laughed and glanced at her father. “I see why they put such a pretty lady in charge of signing up the players.”

  “An indecent sum of money, is it not?” Westland agreed. “Only such smiles could induce a man to go along with such folly.” He pinched his daughter’s cheek with sardonic affection. “I swear to you, I did not want my little gi
rl involved in such wranglings, but she is difficult to say no to.”

  “So I see.”

  “Oh, hush, Papa. It’s for a good cause, as you well know. Don’t be fooled, Your Highness. My father is signed up for it, as well,” she added matter-of-factly. “And that means it must be respectable.”

  “Wasted funds. I am hopeless at cards.”

  “Oh, Papa, winning is not the point. It is a donation.”

  “As long as they don’t match me up with a damned Tory for a partner.”

  She laughed and turned prettily to Mikhail again. “I do hope Your Highness might consider it soon. There are only thirty-two seats in the game.”

  “For the thirty-two richest men in England,” the duke remarked.

  She gave her father a scolding tap on the arm. “The Regent’s playing, too.”

  “Well, he’d hardly miss a chance to squander England’s coffers,” Westland muttered.

  “If you can avoid being eliminated through all four rounds,” she explained, “the winner and his partner get to split the prize of 320,000 pounds—minus ten percent for the poor, of course.”

  “A small price to pay for the chance to please Lady Parthenia.” Mikhail offered up this flattery with a Continental bow. “I shall be honored to participate, my lady. Count me in.”

  Westland gave his daughter a doting pinch on her cheek. “Well, that was easy, wasn’t it?”

  As the battle in the mews raged on, Becky could not believe what a skilled fighter Alec was. He was magnificent. More than that—fearless. She was astonished at his skill, speed, and ferocity with a sword. He had been right. She had underestimated him, and she was sorry for it.

  The second Cossack was still trying to drag her away, but she kept looking back in worried amazement as Alec held his own and then some against one of Mikhail’s fiercest warriors. “Ow! Get your hands off me!” she muttered to no avail, tripping over an uneven cobble in her efforts to resist the Cossack’s pull.

  Suddenly, a bellow of pain rose from the embattled men behind them. Both she and her captor stopped struggling and turned to see which man had been hurt.

  Her eyes widened, hearty pride rushing into them. Alec had stabbed the giant Cossack again, this time in his biceps.

  The Cossack cursed him in his native tongue, but Alec merely watched him with glittering eyes. He was in full control of the fight now and appeared in some dark way to be enjoying it. Becky’s captor, watched the fight for a few seconds in apparent confusion and rising anger.

  His nostrils flared, as though he scented real danger to his comrade now. Perhaps loyalty to his fellow soldier weighed even more heavily on him than Mikhail’s orders, for after a moment’s hesitation, the second Cossack sent Becky a pitiless glance, and then he was in motion once more, dragging her toward the horse’s now empty corral.

  He reached for one of the lead-ropes draped over the post.

  “Oh, no, no, you don’t—stop it! Damn you!” In short order she was tied to the fence post, her hands bound in a very Gordian knot at about shoulder height.

  She fought her bindings. “Alec, look out!” she yelled as the second Cossack entered the fray, going to his wounded comrade’s aid.

  He arrived too late to save him, though, for at that moment Alec plunged his sword into his first opponent’s belly with such exquisite form that it looked as if he had practiced it for a dozen years, like a deadly ballet.

  Becky shuddered and looked away as the soldier bellowed and fell to his knees.

  Alec withdrew the blade and spun gracefully to meet the next opponent as the first one toppled facedown, but the second Cossack did not intend to make the same mistake.

  Instead, he reached for his pistol.

  Alec dove as the Cossack fired, but Becky heard his curse of pain and knew that her hero was hit; taking cover by pure instinct, she flung herself behind the post that she was tied to. Landing on the ground, Alec brought up his pistol in answer and fired back at the Cossack.

  Boom!

  Becky was glad the Cossack was facing forward, because she did not want to see where exactly Alec’s bullet had struck him. She only saw the man’s big, uniformed body jerk, the sudden movement so violent that his odd-shaped helmet fell off.

  The Cossack grabbed at his throat, his scream cut off before he could make one. Then he went crashing to the ground.

  She closed her eyes tightly and leaned her forehead against the fence post, shaking the whole length of her body and unnerved by the deafening silence in the alley.

  Her heartbeat was a crazed staccato; she suddenly felt rather dizzy, slightly nauseated. She knew the Cossack’s bullet had hit Alec, but she did not know how badly he was hurt, and for a second could not bring herself to look. This was exactly what she had feared.

  The worst part was her ridiculous, infuriating sense of helplessness: Trussed up like a Christmas goose, she was unable to free herself or use her hands. If Alec was down, there was nothing she could do to help him. It was unbearable. God, let him be all right.

  Just as she gathered the courage to look, she felt a hand touch her arm and let out a shriek, nearly jumping out of her skin.

  “Shh, it’s only me,” Alec panted.

  “Are you hurt?” she asked frantically. “You were hit—”

  “Just a scratch.” He glanced down at his left arm. His coat sleeve was torn at the top, nearly at his shoulder, and she saw blood seeping through the dark blue broadcloth. “Damn,” he said, “I liked this coat.”

  “Don’t you dare make a joke at a time like this!” she wrenched out.

  “Shh, calm down, it barely grazed me. Come, we’ve got to get out of here,” he murmured, but his eyes were dark and troubled as he worked swiftly to untie her wrists.

  His hands shaking slightly with the aftermath of the fight, he fumbled with the Cossack’s puzzlelike knot only for a moment before losing patience and simply slicing the ropes in two with his blade.

  The second she was free, Becky hugged him hard around his waist, pressing her cheek to his chest.

  “Shh. It’s all right. They can’t hurt you now,” he whispered, holding her just for a heartbeat. She nearly cried out at the denial when he pried her back a small space and tilted her face up to meet his gaze.

  His chiseled face was taut, his mouth a hard, unsmiling line. “Hurry, we must go. There were two more sent after you. The sound of gunfire will draw them here any minute now. Can you run?”

  “Yes, of course.” She forced a nod, feeling braver now that she saw he was not too seriously injured.

  “This way.” Alec grasped her hand firmly and cast one last regretful look at the dead men in the mews. “For the record, Becky, I have no idea who you really are or what the hell is going on, but you’re going to explain it to me, do you understand?” he ordered in a low tone. “You owe me that.”

  The cool, leashed anger in his glance cut her, but she really couldn’t blame him.

  “Come on,” he murmured. “We’ll cut through the stables.” Scanning the area, he tugged her forward by her hand.

  Behind them, they heard deep, foreign voices calling out from the direction of the street as the other pair of Cossacks approached, searching for both their quarry and their companions.

  Alec and she exchanged a grim look, then stealthily slipped away.

  Westland’s butler marched into the drawing room with an anxious look. “Beg pardon, sirs, my lady. One of Prince Kurkov’s officers below has asked to speak to His Highness.”

  A taut glance passed between Mikhail and Westland, but they did not speak of the unpleasant matter of Rebecca in front of Lady Parthenia.

  The duke strode over to the window, glanced out, then shook his head at Mikhail, relating the negative answer in silence. Mikhail absorbed this, then sent the butler a grim nod.

  “Tell him I’ll be right there.”

  “Very good, Your Highness.” With a short bow, the butler exited.

  Mikhail glanced at his host apologetically. �
��I should be on my way, in any case. I have imposed for too long. Your Grace. Lady Parthenia.” He stared for a moment longer at the duke’s radiant daughter, and then bowed to her again.

  “He is an odd man, isn’t he?” Parthenia whispered to her father after the tall, imposing prince had marched out.

  The duke shrugged and gave her a fond smile. “He is a soldier. And a Russian. Their ways are different than ours. In all, though, I think well of him. And I daresay His Highness thinks well of you,” he teased, tugging a light spiral curl on her nape as he strode past.

  “Oh, Father, you and your matchmaking,” she scolded his retreating back.

  “I would like to meet my grandchildren before I die, Parthenia,” he said breezily as he went off to continue with his morning’s correspondence. “The chap’s a prince, after all. You could do worse.”

  Parthenia considered this, left standing alone in the drawing room. Then she drifted to the window and looked down cautiously at Prince Kurkov conferring with his exotic retinue of guards. How fierce they looked!

  She could hear them talking but did not understand a word. He was rather handsome, she supposed. He was not an exciting, though irritating, challenge like Lord Draxinger, but at least Prince Kurkov behaved like a grown-up, which was more than she could say for the earl and his fast-living friends.

  She snorted at the thought and then shrugged the matter off, leaving the window to figure out the rest of the meal for the grand Winner’s Ball to be held at the conclusion of their whist drive fund-raiser.

  Meanwhile, outside the Westlands’ house, Mikhail could not believe what he was hearing. “You’re telling me she got away?”

  “Your Highness, it’s—worse than that,” Boris said grimly.

  “How—worse?” Mikhail growled.

  The Cossack’s gaze fell to the ground.

  “Well?” Mikhail demanded.

  Pytor answered for the sergeant: “Ivan and Vasily are dead.”

  “What?” Mikhail turned to him in furious incredulity.

  In a low voice Pytor quickly explained how they had found the pair, one shot, one nigh disemboweled.