by Anna Randol
Her eyes widened as she surveyed the crates and books piled to chest height. “Those are all papers from Vasin and the prince?”
“Kate claims they are.”
She hurried back into the room and returned with the code. “So what rumors have you heard?”
“That he used books to code his messages.”
“How would that work?”
“One way to encode messages is for both sides to have the same book or writing and an agreed-upon page.”
“Then what?”
“Then to encode a message, the sender takes the first letter from that page and adds that letter’s number to the first letter of the message. For instance, if the first letter on the agreed-upon page is B, they would add two to the first letter of the code. If it was C they would add three.”
Her teeth nipped at her lower lip as she analyzed the process. “The results would appear random.” Her lips parted softly as she stared at the paper in her hand. “Like this.” She glanced up. “So what do we do?”
“The best way to proceed is for one of us to catalogue the prince’s items while the other does the same for Vasin’s.”
Olivia lovingly trailed a finger down a row of books, a caress he felt down his spine. “What are we looking for?”
“The prince corresponded with Vasin. They would both need to be able to encode and read the messages. If my theory is correct, there will be a book in common between them.”
“So how will we figure out if we are right?”
“We try it on the code.”
“Couldn’t Prince Sergey tell us?”
“He’s in Wales.”
A light sparked in her eyes, and he cursed his tongue.
“You cannot tell Kate.”
“Why not? She loves him.”
“The prince has been free to tell her where he is. If he hasn’t, then I must assume he has his reasons.”
She tapped a jar of ink before picking it up. “Where do you want me to start?”
“On the bed.”
They both froze and then started talking at the same time.
“I believe those belong to—”
“Whose books—”
She motioned for him to continue.
“Those are Vasin’s books. I believe there are far fewer of them.”
“Are you trying to be kind?”
Was he? He shrugged. “I’m a faster writer.”
But as she shifted a pile of books so she could sit on the edge of the bed, a slight smile still pulled at her lips.
And he found himself inordinately pleased to be the one who had put it there.
She tugged her dressing gown tighter around her neck. “Your room seems colder than mine.”
“It is. I think it’s Kate’s way of welcoming me.” He settled in the corner of the room, his back turned to the tempting picture she made on his bed, and began to create his own list. A crick in his neck finally forced him to look up.
Olivia now sat in the center of the bed, her knees tucked under her. The books she’d already listed sat in a neat pile on the floor. At some point during the past hour and a half, she’d smudged a line of ink on her chin. She’d always had the bad habit of tapping her chin while she worked.
He could have come back for her ten years ago.
The thought made him ache with a cloying bittersweetness. He’d come back to England many times.
But no. He straightened the books in his pile, then straightened them again until his thoughts followed suit.
What would he have done if he’d come back? Married her? The hurt would have been too fresh and he’d still had his duty to the Crown.
And the more time he spent with her now, the more he was certain he would never make any woman a good husband. He was too harsh, too quick to suspicion, too scarred inside and out.
Then there was the matter of the mill.
He suspected she held out some hope that she’d be able to change his mind. That his agreement to work with her on the code would mean he’d be willing to compromise on other things.
He would just have to let her see that would not happen. Ever.
Chapter Eighteen
Hands swept under her shoulders. Caressed behind Olivia’s knees. “Clayton.” The moan of her own voice jolted her awake.
Clayton loomed above, his face only inches from hers.
She squeaked and jerked away, colliding with a pile of books. She blinked as she put the pieces together. She was still in Clayton’s room. From the pale gray washing over the ceiling, it looked to be early dawn.
Clayton pulled away and straightened, a somewhat pained grimace on his face. “I was about to move you to your room before the maids come to build up the fires.”
The last time she’d looked at the clock it was three. She’d slept on his bed, but then where had he slept?
The slight crease running from his temple to his chin made it appear as if he’d fallen asleep on a book. There was a crumpled blanket nearby where he’d been working.
She felt a pang of guilt. “You should have woken me. I would have given you back your bed.”
Somehow, the fact that he hadn’t yet folded the blanket along neat, precise lines made everything more intimate. That blanket would still be warm from Clayton’s body if she touched it. Or curled up in it.
What would he think if she snatched it up and wrapped it around her? If she breathed deep to capture his scent?
“You were exhausted.” He smoothed back a lock of her hair, his fingers following it around the shell of her ear and down the side of her neck. Her shudder had nothing to do with the cold. He’d removed his jacket at some point during the night, as well as his boots and cravat. But strangely, not his gloves.
“But you must have been freezing on the floor.”
“Once, near Paris, we had to ford a river to escape a French patrol. We ended up taking shelter in an old farmhouse. The French army had already stripped it of anything of use, so Madeline suggested . . .” His words trailed off and a frown darkened his face. “Go to your bed.”
“Did you love her?” The words came out before she could stop them. She could only blame them on her exhaustion and on the strange ease she found in this early morning conversation.
“Madeline?”
Of course, Madeline. The woman who was so beautiful men lined up to spill their secrets in her bed. The woman so incredible she had managed to gain Clayton’s trust despite how badly Olivia had broken him. The woman he was doing all of this to protect.
“Is that La Petit’s name?” She knew as soon as she asked that it was too much. Clayton would freeze up. Accuse her of trying to steal information.
Instead, although he frowned slightly, he nodded.
Air rushed into her lungs. Cleansing. Free.
Strangely, Olivia wasn’t jealous as she awaited his answer, at least not much. She was more . . . curious. Hopeful. She still didn’t fool herself that she had any future with Clayton. There was too much heartache in the past and more still to come between them. But if he had loved—or still loved, she thought with a jolt—this Madeline, then she could prove to him that he might not be as empty as he believed.
If she could help him realize that, then maybe she’d be able to move on as well.
The thought drove all the other joy away. She wanted Clayton to be happy so she could be free of guilt?
Despite the thuds of her heart, she refused to give in to the panic. No. She wasn’t that girl anymore. That wasn’t why she wanted him happy. She wanted him happy because he deserved to be.
She’d broken the hold her past had on her, but there was still one more thing she had to do.
She spoke before she could change her mind. “I went to my father because I was afraid of what would happen to me if you were right about your accusations. I wasn’t just foolish. I was spoiled and terrified of losing what I had. I never, never expected my father to accuse you of his crimes. Even in my darkest imaginings, I never—never— though
t past him denying your charges. But I was selfish. I am selfish. I like to have my own way far too much. I think sometimes that I’ll never be able to escape it.” She sucked in a breath and then exhaled it slowly.
After a moment of silence, she forced herself to look up so she could see the disgust on Clayton’s face. She deserved it.
His expression was neutral, but his eyes caught and held hers. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t do anything but look into their depths and try not to reel under their intensity.
He reached out and stroked a finger across the crease on her forehead. His caress continued down the bridge of her nose to that small divot above her lip.
“Madeline is like my sister.” He didn’t need to say that he loved the other woman. It was there in the gravity of his words. He lifted his hand away and tucked it behind him.
A small weight lifted off her chest. “Did she truly do those things people claim?”
“She saved kings. Entire armies. Me.”
“You miss her.” Why did her heart ache?
But his small moment of candor was over. “You’ll want to try to sleep again. I suspect Golov will arrive in a few hours to offer his help.”
“He thinks I’m working for him.” She thought it best to be honest. They had enough conflict still between them.
“What?”
She recounted the conversation from the night before. “I decided it was best if he thought I agreed.” It wouldn’t help either of them if Golov knew how much Clayton meant to her.
Clayton scrubbed his fingers along the stubble on his chin. “Why only feign acceptance?”
Because she loved him. Instead, she asked, “Would he actually pay?”
“Would that change your answer?”
“No.”
“Not even if it meant saving the mill?” He held up a hand to silence her, then closed his eyes briefly. “Go to bed.”
Golov arrived before Clayton had finished breakfast, which was a shame because he’d saved his bacon for last and now he wouldn’t enjoy it.
“I see I have interrupted your meal. My apologies.”
He’d no doubt planned it that way.
Clayton hadn’t had time to work out which of the servants reported to Golov directly yet, but he’d narrowed it down to one of two footmen. And a blond upstairs maid, but she’d been so obvious in her attempts to spy that it hadn’t even posed a challenge.
Clayton lifted a piece of bacon, determined not to show how Golov’s papery, sallow face rendered all notion of eating unpalatable.
“Have you had any success with the code?”
“Baffled, I fear. You?” Clayton had a copy of the page delivered before the ball yesterday.
Golov inclined his head. But since he was here, Clayton had to assume he didn’t know how to break the code yet, either.
Clayton also needed to discover where Golov’s loyalty lay. The man must know something of the plot. He kept too close a watch on the city and his family not to know his brother was a revolutionary. Was he committed to the revolution? Willing to let it happen?
Or did he actually want to stop it?
“I’m honored by your personal attention to this matter. I never knew codes were your specialty,” Clayton said.
“No, that is yours, I believe. And that of your friend.”
Clayton took a sip of tea so the sudden dryness in his throat would betray nothing. Even Golov with his nearly unlimited resources shouldn’t have had time to find out those types of details about Olivia yet.
“She did destroy the weapons cache.”
No. She’d been safely sleeping. But Clayton wouldn’t correct him.
“I suppose you could have broken that code, but I was under the impression you were assigned elsewhere when she retrieved those documents from Vasin.”
Madeline. Golov was speaking of Madeline, not Olivia. Relief swept through him, but was quickly quashed. Golov knew far more about the Trio’s actions than he should. And he was flaunting it. How did he know Clayton had been assigned to Moscow while Madeline and Ian had worked on Vasin?
Clayton examined his tea. Madeline had stolen a packet of papers from Vasin, but they’d never translated them. They’d turned them directly over to the Foreign Office as per their orders.
But in Vasin’s boastings as he’d tried to bed Madeline, he’d given away the location of a stockpile of weapons, which they’d tracked down and destroyed.
It had been a rather marvelous explosion.
That location must have been one of the things revealed in those papers. That was why the revolutionaries thought Madeline could break the code.
He couldn’t allow that misconception to linger. “I broke the code.”
“If you were the one to break the code, I must question why you’re unable to do so now?” Golov cracked the knuckles on his right hand, the sound more dry and brittle than it should have been.
“I must be losing my touch. As are you, if you don’t know what Prazhdinyeh is planning for the fete.”
“I know other things. For instance, I know Miss Swift is obviously not La Petit. The question is, does that make her more valuable to you or less?”
Clayton set down his fork. The clink of the silver against the plate rang just a touch too loud.
Golov smiled, his lips never parting. “Ah.”
Clayton’s mouth tasted bitter and metallic. “She told me about your offer of employment.”
That seemed to please Golov more. “Did it make you trust her? She’s clever.”
“I already trust her.”
“No, you don’t. You and I don’t trust anyone.” Golov settled into a chair. “She’s clever, that one. I’d be happy to take her from you.”
Never. Not as long as there was a breath left in his body. Hell, even after. He’d claw his way out of a grave to keep Olivia from Golov.
Olivia strolled through the door in a frothy pink dress, her back straight. Her step was light. “Golov. I’m so pleased you were able to come this morning.”
“I hear you’ve rejected my offer of employment.”
Olivia’s gaze darted between them, but she smiled. “For now. But I will tell you we’ve been unable to get anywhere with this code. I am thrilled you are here to help us.”
Golov blinked twice. He wasn’t a man to receive many smiles.
She allowed him to raise her hand to his lips, the man’s gallantry oily and disturbing.
“I suspected as much, but I’m glad to have it confirmed. Why don’t you retrieve the page, Baron? I’m sure Miss Swift and I can entertain ourselves for a few moments in your absence.”
He wasn’t about to leave Olivia alone with that monster. “I have it on me, of course.”
Olivia spooned jam onto an oatcake and then helped herself to a large portion of eggs. Apparently, Golov didn’t affect her appetite at all.
Over the next hour, Clayton realized he’d severely underestimated Olivia again. He didn’t know much about her work with the society she’d mentioned, but watching her now, he was surprised they weren’t ruling London.
As they worked, she maintained the same constant worry about the czar, but managed to bring the whole process to a near standstill. She forced them to explain every type of pattern they tried, earnest in her desire to understand the mechanics, yet easily befuddled at the same time.
If he wasn’t certain she already knew half the techniques they’d tried, he might have been fooled himself. She was the perfect imitation of an amateur eager to help.
“Have you caught Arshun yet?” she asked.
Golov stroked his chin, which pulled down the skin by his eyes and gave him the appearance of an old, sick hound. “Not yet.”
“What about the other revolutionaries from his estate?”
Clayton didn’t look up from the page. He kept the exact same expression on his face. Hoping, in fact almost praying, that her question would slip by unnoticed.
“What do you know of other revolutionaries? Did yo
u see any others at the count’s estate?” Golov leaned closer. His breath smelled of fish and vodka. “I thought you were incarcerated.”
Too late.
He’d picked up on the slip Olivia had no idea she had made.
Until that moment.
Clayton had to give her credit for her instant awareness of the increased tension in the room. “I was. I couldn’t see anything well,” Olivia said.
“But you did see something.”
“Not really. They had me locked in the attics. I could see very little.”
“I will need you to tell me everything so I can protect the czar.”
Clayton doubted the czar fit into the man’s calculations at all. He wanted to protect his brother.
“Certainly. I’ll tell you what I can.” Olivia recounted her time there. She was vague on everyone but Arshun and a man named Nicolai that the count had murdered in front of her. The tremble in Olivia’s voice as she described his death was genuine, as was the slight gagging she couldn’t hide as she described the blood.
He would slit Arshun’s throat when he found him.
And why hadn’t he asked for more details of her capture before Maxim-bloody-Golov had?
Because he didn’t want to know. Every wound, every terror, every discomfort would be his fault.
His stomach clenched.
Golov reached out a hand and placed it over Olivia’s, stroking it gently. “We’re doing our best to apprehend him.” Golov’s nostrils flared and his lips disappeared. “And you can be certain he’ll feel the full wrath of the Russian empire for what he did to you.” He actually sounded sincere.
But Clayton also didn’t for a moment believe that Golov trusted Olivia’s words. Not if he knew his brother had been there.
His next words confirmed it. “You play me well. But you would do well to trust me with everything you know, koteek.”
Golov had just called Olivia a kitten. Clayton didn’t try to keep the disgust off his face. He stood and moved closer to Olivia. “She’s told you everything.”
Golov shrugged. “I find hidden depths fascinating. You, I think, hate her for them.”
Clayton didn’t like that she was keeping things hidden from him, but he didn’t hate her. He was farther from that than he’d ever admit.