“She must also take care of her pleasures.” His thigh brushed up against hers as he moved to one side. “You may be assured I will see to them.”
“Clearly you understand women,” she murmured.
A low, self-satisfied laugh. “I pride myself on how diligently I have studied the subject.”
Pride cometh before the Fall.
Or so she hoped. As their gazes met again for an instant, Arianna reminded herself not to be guilty of the same sin. Orlov was a lecherous boor, but no fool. One didn’t survive the Byzantine scheming of the Russian court without being both clever and ruthless. She must be careful not to underestimate him.
She lowered her lashes. “I look forward to a full report on what you have learned.”
“Ah, that might take far more than one meeting, countess. But we can begin exploring the breadth and depth of my knowledge tonight.”
“It sounds quite . . . sizeable.”
A chuckle rumbled deep in his throat. “I trust it will surpass your expectations.”
Her brows arched in playful challenge. “You seem very sure of yourself—but be advised I have very high expectations.” On that note, she slid back a few steps and in a louder voice, added, “It’s been a pleasure chatting with you, Prince Orlov. I hope you will enjoy your time here in London.”
Arianna felt his gaze burn against her back as she walked away. She made her way slowly past the clusters of gentlemen, pausing occasionally to exchange smiles and polite pleasantries. After a tiny nod to Constantina, she melted into the shadows and slipped into the dimly lit corridor.
The trap had been baited, and she had no doubt that the predator’s base instincts had been stirred by the smell of blood.
She would have to be careful that the sacrificial lamb didn’t end up in his jaws.
The library was blessedly cool, and as Arianna pushed the door halfway closed behind her, she drew in a lungful of the clean, crisp air, trying to control her racing heart. Her pulse had kicked up a notch, its erratic beat seeming overloud in the stillness of the room.
Steady, steady. She reminded herself of several far more dangerous and unpredictable confrontations from the past. Somehow she seemed to possess an uncanny knack for survival. Perhaps Lady Luck felt inclined to give a small edge in the odds to females who dared to defy convention.
“Let us hope our luck holds,” whispered Arianna, acutely aware at that instant of much she wanted to protect Constantina from the pain that failure would bring.
The thought helped her shake off her momentary lethargy. She moved to the hearth, and after adding a few fresh chunks to the banked coals stirred up a blaze of flames. An oil lamp was lit on one of the game tables, its wick turned low. As she crossed to the sideboard, Arianna saw that a chessboard had been set up for play, the neatly aligned rows of black and white figures facing each other, waiting for the game to begin.
She brushed a fingertip to the crown of the white Queen. It was interesting how the ancient game had made the lone woman of the set the most powerful piece on the board.
Powerful, yes, but there were ever-changing threats on the board, ready to pounce if the Queen’s vigilance slipped for even an instant.
A collection of crystal decanters sat on a silver tray. She chose a dark-hued Scottish malt, its amber color tinged with a hint of reddish fire, and poured a full measure into a pair of goblets. Then, taking up steel and flint, she lit the branch of candles. The sinuous, sensuous dance of flames would add to the aura of seduction. She intended to draw out her flirtations, fanning the prince’s carnal desires to a red-hot pitch.
Distraction and lust were key to her mission. Guile was her strength, and she must make the most of it.
The coals crackled in the hearth, sending up a tiny spurt of sparks. Turning to the looking glass on the wall, Arianna tugged her bodice a fraction lower and loosened a few curls from her topknot. Oddly enough, she felt a strange sort of detachment from the face looking back at her. As if a part of her were merely a pawn . . .
The sound of steps in the corridor snapped her focus back to the business at hand. There was no room for doubts or brooding.
Taking up the goblets, Arianna assumed a position that ensured the flames blazing in the hearth would silhouette her figure in flickers of orange-gold fire.
The paneled oak door swung open noiselessly. A long, slanting shadow fell over the carpet. Orlov crossed the threshold and with the heel of his boot gave the door a nudge. It fell shut with an audible click.
“Ah . . .” He rubbed his palms together. “At last, Lady Saybrook, it’s just the two of us.”
Chapter 9
Arianna held up the goblets. “What say you we toast to the occasion?”
With a sauntering step, Orlov started toward her.
She gestured at one of the chairs arranged around the game table. “But first, why not take your coat off and get more comfortable?”
The prince hesitated a fraction and then paused. “An excellent suggestion.” He shrugged out of the garment and draped it over the tufted leather arm.
“Much better,” she murmured.
A gleam lit in his eyes, giving their topaz hue a molten glow. “An improvement,” agreed Orlov, loosening his cravat before accepting his drink. “But we will soon make ourselves even more comfortable.”
He regarded her over the rim of his goblet. The candlelight caught in the faceted crystal, scattering shards of light across his face. The effect was slightly demonic—the flashes illuminated pale skin framed by curling black sidewhiskers, and a slash of a thin mustache above his full lips.
“Na zdorovje,” said Orlov and then drew in a mouthful of the whisky.
Arianna watched his throat contract in a swallow. She feigned a sip and slipped around the sofa to busy herself with lighting another branch of candles. His eyes followed her.
The air in the room seemed to grow heavier and begin to quiver with a silent thrum. Ignoring the current of tension prickling at her body, she asked him a few innocuous questions about the parties in Vienna.
The prince answered between gulps of whiskey, his voice betraying a growing impatience.
A good sign.
Seeing his glass was empty, she picked up the decanter and in a slow swish-swish of silk circled back around the sofa. “Here, allow me to refill your drink.”
Orlov stood silently while she poured out a full measure of the potent whisky but grabbed her wrist as soon as she was finished.
“Put the spirits down.” He drained his goblet in one fierce swallow and set it on the side table. “Now that my thirst is slacked, I find myself ravenous.” A leer. “How fortunate that I have a sweet morsel close at hand.”
His words were a little slurred . . . which boded well for what was to come.
Arianna allowed him to pull her close. He was a big, heavyset man and the feeling of his fleshy arms coming around her caused her insides to clench. His bulky muscles were soft but not yet turned to flabbiness. He could easily overpower her physically.
I must keep my wits about me, she warned herself. Like the Queen on the chessboard, she must stay one move ahead of the enemy.
He seized her chin and forced her head up. “Krasivaya—beautiful.” His breath was hot with the smoky spice of the malt.
And pure, primitive lust.
His lips took hers. There was nothing gentle about the kiss. It was primal and possessive, the lingering sweetness of the whisky at odds with the hard thrusting of his tongue.
Swallowing her disgust, Arianna opened herself to him. It wasn’t quite time to strike. Just a little bit longer . . .
She shifted, just enough to rub up against him, and in response he spread his legs, planting his booted feet in a wide stance on the carpet. She placed her hands on his thighs and teased them farther apart. Orlov broke off the kiss. His face was ruddy and his breath was a ragged panting. With a feral grunt, he began scrabbling at the fastenings of her gown.
Now, she thought.
NOW.
Mustering all her strength, Arianna slammed her right knee up and into the center of his crotch.
Orlov’s grunt turned into a gasp of agony.
His body spasmed, his knees buckled and gave way . . .
She tried to twist free of his arms, but he was sinking, heavy as a sack of stones, the dead weight of him dragging her down, too. Throwing herself sideways, she managed to break his hold and fell to her knees.
Half-stumbling, half-running, she scrambled to her feet. The chair was close—so close. His coat was almost within reach.
Behind her, Arianna could hear the prince writhing on the carpet, the scrape of his boots punctuating his groans. He seemed to be trying to speak, but couldn’t form any words. No matter—the sounds alone were enough to tell he she had better hurry.
She grabbed up the garment and began a frantic search.
It felt like forever, but finally her fingers found the inner pocket. Grabbing the packet of papers, she whirled around, only to find Orlov had managed to lift himself up on hands and knees. He lunged just as she tried to dart past him, his outstretched arm knocking her off balance. She kicked at his hand, but he managed to grab her skirts and swing her around to hit up hard against a large wood and brass curio case.
The packet flew from her hands.
No, no, no! Pain lanced through her ribs but she righted herself and spun away—just in the nick of time, as he lunged again.
Arianna lashed out another kick, this time evading his grasp.
Damnation—she thought she had hit him hard enough to fell an ox. But rage must have overcome the excruciating agony of having his bollocks crushed.
“You god-benighted, whoring bitch, I’ll make you pay for this,” snarled Orlov in between ragged gasps for air. He had left off the pursuit of her to go after the papers, and while he still could do no more than crawl, like a serpent he was slithering with surprising speed.
Pivoting, she pushed over the armchair to block his path and then made a dash for the papers, which had skidded across the carpet to hit up against the brass fire screen of the hearth.
Arianna scooped them up and once again turned to flee—only to find that the damnable Russian bear had levered to his feet and was blocking her path to the door.
She needed naught but an instant to gauge that her chances of escape weren’t good. Like a wounded animal, he was even more dangerous than before. The threats now spewing from his throat about tearing her limb from limb were likely not idle ones.
Rage had mottled his face to a near-purple hue. His hands fisted, looking bigger than meat mallets in the tangled shadows. He slowly slid a lumbering step closer.
Heat from the fire was burning at her back. Above Orlov’s raspy invectives she could hear the swoosh-swoosh of the dancing flames.
Bloody Hell. She must act in the next instant, or—
Half turning, Arianna threw the documents into the fire, and in the same jerky motion snatched up the iron poker.
Orlov let out a wordless howl as a furious blaze flared up, and the papers quickly turned to ash.
A Pyrrhic victory, perhaps? However, to her way of thinking, she had solved a very complex conundrum in one fell swoop. Grentham had been adamant that the documents must not, at any cost, remain in enemy hands. As for Constantina . . .
All in all, the primary interests of both Britain and the dowager had been well served. Grentham might not have achieved all that he wished for, but clandestine missions rarely went perfectly—
“You she-bitch.” Orlov hobbled closer, a look of murder flashing in his eyes.
Arianna raised the poker and waggled a warning swing. “Stand down, sir! Think about it—do you really wish to suffer the consequences of creating a terrible scene.”
“You’ll suffer more than I will.”
“Oh, I think not.” Another waggle. “As you’ve seen, I’m no lady. I know how to wield this. You won’t be a pretty sight.”
Orlov let out a nasty laugh. “Nor will you.”’
He had, however, halted his advance.
“You think so?” It was her turn to laugh. “How long do you think it will take for the gentlemen in the other rooms to arrive if I start screaming?”
His jaw clenched.
“Tsar Alexander won’t thank you for sparking an international scandal with a powerful ally, especially at this time of delicate negotiations in Vienna,” pointed out Arianna. “And in case you have forgotten, he has a certain fondness for me. How do you think he would react to the news of an assault on my person?”
The prince’s expression betrayed a flicker of uncertainty.
“Your debaucheries are no secret, and while you may get away with such behavior among the lightskirts of London, attacking a titled lady of the beau monde would have our Foreign Office up in arms,” she went on.
“You would be disgraced as a scheming slut if you summon help,” growled the prince through gritted teeth. “What would your husband think, eh?”
Arianna decided that calling his bluff was now her best option. “Let’s find out.” She opened her mouth to scream . . .
And then shut it as the door flew open.
“Dear God in Heaven,” exclaimed Constantina as she and Sophia burst into the room. The dowager widened her eyes in horror as she took in the scene. “Have you gone mad, Prince Orlov?”
Sophia quietly drew the door shut behind them.
“Ye God, how dare you attack the countess?”
Orlov shifted with a pained wince. “You old, conniving battleax, I know your sordid secrets—”
“But now you can’t prove them,” announced Arianna. She flicked the point of the poker at the game table. “Checkmate, Prince Orlov.”
He spat out an oath as the realization dawned on him. “So, the two of you had this all planned.”
Constantina abandoned her show of mock outrage. “Yes, we did. And it appears my great-niece has executed her part to perfection.”
“Not quite perfect,” murmured Arianna. “But the results are acceptable. The letters have been destroyed. No one will be using them for blackmail.” She deliberately didn’t mention the diplomatic documents. It was best for Orlov to think she acted for purely personal reasons.
The reminder of their demise drew another ugly oath from Orlov. “Don’t think for a moment that the two of you will escape unscathed. I may be a foreigner, but I understand that the beau monde of London expects its ladies to be above reproach.”
He eyed Constantina with loathing. “An old hag like you having a sordid affair with an enemy who still holds Bonaparte in high regard? When I spread word of it, along with Lady Saybrook’s sluttish behavior, the doors of Society will be slammed in both your faces. As for Mellon, I doubt the Foreign Office will look kindly on his family being mired in scandal and seditious scheming.”
“My dear Orlov, there is an old English adage that goes: Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me.” The dowager curled an amused smile. “I don’t think you understand the beau monde as well as you think. Let me explain how things will really go.”
She gestured at Sophia. “Miss Kirtland, who by the by is a respected member of Polite Society in her own right, and I came to check on Lady Saybrook, who had retired to the library with a beastly headache, rather than ruin Lord Mellon’s evening by asking to leave the soiree early. We were shocked—absolutely shocked—to find her bravely fighting off brutish, barbarian advances of a drunken lout who had crept in to take advantage of her.”
“All of London knows that Russians have a reputation for being uncouth, uncivilized savages,” pointed out Sophia.
“As for whose version will be believed . . .” Constantina fixed Orlov with her most imperious stare. “I am one of the grand dames of the ton. An arbiter of taste and style, whose bloodlines go back to William the Conqueror. Do you truly think they will take your word over mine?”
The prince began to sputter in impotent rage.
“C
urse all you like, sir—I’ve heard more bad words than you can ever hope to master.” Constantina was clearly enjoying herself. “Once you’ve finished venting your spleen, you have a decision to make. You can either straighten up the furniture, put on your coat and leave the room, whereupon you will immediately leave the house via the servants’ stairs.”
She tapped her cane to the carpet. “Or you may stay here, in which case I shall scream.”
“You have,” added Arianna, “exactly ten seconds to make up your mind.”
“And unless you’re a bigger fool than I think you are, you’ll choose the first option,” finished the dowager. “Oh, and one last thing. You would be wise to leave England as soon as possible. Otherwise, I can’t promise that rumors of your depraved, debauched behavior won’t begin to circulate through the drawing rooms.” A pause. “I don’t think Tsar Alexander would like that. Do you?”
Sophia put her hand on the door latch and raised her brows.
If looks could kill, thought Arianna as Orlov speared them all with a venomous scowl.
Tap-tap. The dowager was keeping counting of the fast-dwindling time with her cane.
Muttering under his breath, Orlov hobbled over to right the fallen chair and straighten the side tables that had been knocked askew. He plucked up his coat and pulled it on, trying to salvage a shred of dignity by carefully straightening the gaudy medal adorning its lapel.
“You may have won this skirmish, Lady Saybrook, but be advised that the battle isn’t over.” The prince’s expression was frightening to behold. “It will never be over—not while both of us still draw a breath.”
With that parting shot, he turned and limped toward the door.
Sophia stepped aside just in time to avoid an ungentlemanly shove.
“You have made a mortal enemy, my dear,” observed Constantina as the door fell shut. “A very dangerous one. One thing a man will never forgive or forget is a blow to his masculine pride.”
“Not to speak of a more primitive part of his anatomy,” said Arianna. “I don’t expect that our paths will cross again. But if it does, I shall be ready for trouble.”
The Stolen Letters Page 7