When Konstantin had fallen deathly ill as a boy, and the doctors could not lower his fever and the priest was brought in, he remembered his father gallantly tucking that watch into his hand and staying with him all night. Whilst other fathers might have given their sons the crucifix during a serious illness, his father gave him the watch.
Miraculously, Konstantin had recovered and learned to believe in its power.
And so it was, barely a decade ago, at exactly midnight, his father, his hero, his mentor, who had been battling consumption for months, took his last breath. Miss Bane’s watch slipped from that noble hand and fell against the floor beside the bed, shattering the glass casing within. The watch had ceased ticking right along with his father. It was a sign from beyond.
Blinded by his own grief during a wake attended by every influential criminal in Russia that offered their condolences (and work), Konstantin had tried to clasp that broken watch into his father’s limp hands, but his mother wouldn’t permit it. She insisted the watch be pawned. He couldn’t do it. He understood his mother had always been sensitive about the subject of Miss Bane, but he also knew what that watch meant to his father. He therefore hid it at the bottom of a drawer. It wasn’t until his poor mother died that he had a clockmaker repair the damaged watch. He had carried it in his pocket ever since. It had become an old friend, which protected him and gave him the luck he knew didn’t have.
Much like his father, he never went anywhere without it.
Heavy, booted steps scuffed against the floors of the vast lobby behind him.
Konstantin yanked the dagger from his leather belt and spun toward the sound. He slanted the blade toward the darkness beyond the lantern and called out, “I do not appreciate being summoned to an abandoned hotel as if it were your mother’s parlor.”
Two men emerged from the shadows and into the dim light. They paused shoulder to shoulder. Expensive, thick fur coats tightly bound their hefty bodies.
“We apologize for inconveniencing you, Mr. Levin,” the taller one said. He grinned, exposing crooked but clean teeth. “I am Boris.”
“And I am Viktor,” the shorter one offered, inclining his head. “We appreciate you meeting us at this hour with the weather being what it is.”
Despite their overly warm smiles, Konstantin knew better than to put away the dagger. Midnight may be a lucky hour, but that didn’t mean he was stupid.
The one on the left, Viktor, resembled an oil-painted gentleman. From that tonic- drenched blond hair that shone like glass, to a smoothly shaven face. Only vain men insisted on fully shaving their beards during the winter in Russia, because everyone knew facial hair protected the face from all the goddamn wind, ice and snow.
The other one, Boris, looked like most Russians, poor bastard. His dark, shaggy hair touched the large shoulders of his fur coat and his bushy, black beard with its tendrils of grey still held a clump of stew he hadn’t properly wiped away from a late supper.
Konstantin gestured toward the man’s beard. “You were in a bit of a hurry to get here, I see.”
Viktor leaned in and in a quiet tone pointed out the clump of stew to his associate.
Boris hurriedly brushed it out of his beard.
Konstantin lifted a brow. “Your missive indicated this matter was of unmitigated importance.” He refrained from tapping his blade against each of their foreheads. “I have no idea who you represent, but I am on the straight path and have been for three full months. I am working alongside a butcher.” For measly pay, but it was legal. He was learning a whole new set of skills. “If you have an offer, it had better be respectable and not involve weapons or a fist.”
Viktor eyed the blade, then slowly reached into the inner pocket of his fur coat and withdrew a folded parchment. “Should you confuse our visit with your family’s sordid past, we wish to assure you we are here on behalf of Duc de Andelot. Forgive the location and the hour but he insisted we call on you outside of prying eyes given the nature of our news. You are being asked not to discuss the details of this meeting with anyone. For your safety.”
Konstantin paused. Duc de Andelot? He didn’t think he’d ever hear from that one again. Andelot was third cousin to the King of France. Or who had once been the King of France. During the storm of the revolution, the duc’s face had been heavily marred, forcing him into wearing a black velvet mask. No one had ever seen him without it. Whatever money he’d escaped France with, he had invested heavily into merchant ships sailing into the West Indies.
It made him into the god of gold and power he now was.
The duc had bought a large estate and lived like an aristocratic Russian, even though he was half-French and half-British. Every year, Andelot donated thousands of rubles to the poor, and during harvest, and despite his age of five and sixty, the man stripped down to a linen shirt and trousers, with his mask in place, and went out into the fields with a scythe to muddy his own boots alongside his laborers.
The man was a legend.
Everyone in Moscow revered the duc.
Well…almost everyone.
Three months earlier, Konstantin had been approached by an anti-aristocratic criminal organization to abduct Duc de Andelot and deliver the man into their hands so they could kill him. They believed the duc was a threat to their organization because the peasants liked him too much. What they didn’t know was that Konstantin had always secretly admired the duc and that despite bearing his father’s well-known name, he, much like his father, wasn’t the brute everyone thought he was. Konstantin took the assignment because he was determined to protect Andelot. The night before the appointed abduction, Konstantin was almost killed trying to deliver a secret missive to the duc. Konstantin sustained a bullet to his left shoulder but survived. All of the men involved in the plot to kill Andelot were arrested within six hours and sent to Siberia. The duc, as it turned out, was good friends with the Emperor.
It made Konstantin realize that supporting the violence only created violence.
So he retired from the business.
The duc, in vast appreciation, had invited Konstantin into his grand home for a meal and billiards. Not being able to see his face beyond a mask was a touch unnerving, but as the evening went on, Konstantin felt like they were old friends. The duc, in between casual billiard shots, had eventually asked Konstantin what he wanted in return for saving his life. Konstantin asked the man for respectable work so he could become the gentleman his father had once been before criminal life had erased the Levin name. The duc told him he’d be rewarded with something far better. But a day later, the duc had quietly left Russia to go to London to resolve a private matter. That was three months ago.
“I am listening.” Konstantin tried not to sound too agitated. He hadn’t saved the duc’s life to be rewarded, but he didn’t appreciate being led on, either. “What can I do for him that I haven’t already?”
Boris set his mutton-like shoulders. “The stars have decided to shine brightly for you, Mr. Levin.”
Konstantin refrained from rolling his eyes. “Metaphors belong to poetry I reserve for beautiful women. Now get to the point. What does he want?”
“The duc has officially declared you one of three beneficiaries to his estate. He made the decision whilst in London. You would not be able to inherit his title, as that privilege passes only from blood to blood, but also, according to France’s law of 1808, his title no longer exists amongst the titles Napoleon re-instated. You will therefore only be able to inherit a portion of the funds tied to his name. We were sent to deliver the news to you at an undisclosed location so you were not put into any immediate danger given the amount involved. You are to receive an equal sum of one hundred thousand pounds. Not rubles. Pounds. Unlike the other two names stipulated in his will, your portion of the estate will be delivered into your hands in the next three months. He is, after all, in excellent health and wishes to reward you now, rather than later. You are therefore being mandated to leave Russia and go to London to collect the
entire sum.”
Konstantin nearly choked on his own spit. One hundred thousand?! Holy— This had to be a joke. It had to be. “And where is your proof that either of you actually represent the duc?” He pointed his five-inch blade toward their faces. “I want to see it.”
Viktor hit Boris in the shoulder. “Give him the proof he requires.”
Boris puffed out a breath, unfolded his arms and patted his fur coat. From an inner pocket, he withdrew a velvet pouch, which he unstrung. Digging into the pouch with gloved fingers, he removed a gold signet ring with a crest used for legalizing documents. He held it up, angling it toward Konstantin. “His seal. We are sworn to only use it upon his command and destroy it upon his last breath.”
Konstantin’s eyes widened. It was indeed the duc’s seal. He’d seen a similar ring emblazoned on the duc’s hand when he dined with the man three months ago. Stunned, Konstantin lowered the dagger. “The duc intends to give me one hundred thousand pounds?”
Boris slid the ring back into it velvet pouch. “Yes.”
“Without any stipulations or provisos?”
Viktor nodded. “Yes.”
Konstantin pointed the dagger. “Why?”
Viktor glanced toward the blade. “Is that necessary, Mr. Levin?”
“Forgive me.” Konstantin sheathed the dagger into the scabbard slung around his hip. “I am still transitioning into respectable life.”
Viktor promptly held out the parchment he’d taken out earlier. “His Grace asked that we deliver this letter into your hands.”
Although good things were known to happen to a Levin at midnight, this was a touch ridiculous. Konstantin tugged the letter from Viktor’s gloved hand and turned it over.
Breaking the jet-black wax seal, Konstantin unfolded the parchment and tilted it toward the sliver of light emitted from the lantern hanging beside them. He paused. Similar to the conversation they had shared over a meal and billiards, it was in English.
Mister Levin,
After a long night of getting to know you, which I will admit reminded me of days in my youth spent with old friends who have sadly perished amongst the flames of the revolution, I have concluded you need a more suitable reward for the risk you took in saving my life. My reasoning behind giving you such a large sum goes beyond mere appreciation. Your upbringing has made it difficult for you to erase your past and start anew, which is why I intend to gift you with an opportunity to become the man I know you to be. The one your father and Russia had never allowed you to be. I hope we will continue to be friends. I have very few acquaintances I trust, but you have earned your place amongst those few for life. Please find me at my new home at 32 Belgrave Square in London. I look forward to seeing you again and apologize for having left Russia so abruptly without sending word.
Gratefully,
Duc de Andelot
Jesus. This offer was real.
Pulling out a leather satchel, Boris tossed it at him.
Konstantin caught its weight with a free hand, coins tinkering within.
“It will cover your travelling expenses,” Boris explained. “Be frugal. You will not see anything more until you arrive into England. He suggests taking the boat out of Saint Petersburg by way of the Baltic Sea. It will get you to London faster.”
Slowly pushing the satchel into his pocket, Konstantin tightened his hold on the letter.
This was actually happening to him. He was going to be disgustingly wealthy. He’d earned thousands merely by doing the right thing.
Imagine that.
Lowering his gaze to the letter, he let out the breath he didn’t realize he was holding. No more trying to cover the holes in his boots with polish. No more drinking vodka that might make him blind. No more cleaver swinging at a butcher shop and inhaling acrid meat for mere rubles a week in order to get respect. Life was going to be whatever he imagined. With a hundred thousand, the possibilities were limitless.
He’d always wanted to go to London.
Just for the women alone.
Much like his father, he had become obsessed with British women and had often watched them coming in and out of the expensive hotels in Moscow as they pertly bustled from shop to shop under lace parasols. They were educated, knew how to speak fluent French and smelled divinely of expensive perfume whenever they breezed past in those well-corseted hips that swayed in the latest fashion. They lacked the pretentious formality of the Russian ladies.
Of course, women of such caliber never noticed men like him. It made for a rather pathetic life of him watching and never touching. Sadly, the last time he’d even attempted to engage any woman of any caliber was almost a year ago. He had met her during a theatrical performance he had attended. The woman was beautiful, intelligent and…married. He didn’t know she was married until after he’d had sex with her in a hotel room she had rented for them. He should have known better. He’d forgotten to wear his watch that night. Not even an hour later, her husband showed up at the hotel door with four other men and whilst two held him, the rest took turns beating the blood out of him until he lost consciousness.
He didn’t blame the husband at all.
But he’d stayed away from women since. He figured he would live longer.
Folding the parchment, Konstantin tucked it deep into his pocket. He still didn’t want to believe it. “Whilst I genuinely question the duc’s sanity, tell him I am beyond grateful and will travel to London at once.”
Boris dug out a calling card from his fur coat. He flicked it out, holding it between two thick fingers. “Should you have any other questions or concerns before leaving Moscow, please call on us in a manner that would not bring attention to your circumstance.”
Konstantin took the card. “Thank you.”
“We will inform the duc of your response by courier. A good-evening to you, Mr. Levin.” Both men smiled, inclined their heads and turned. Their heavy footfalls echoed on their way out before disappearing out into the wind and snow.
Silence reigned again in the abandoned building.
Konstantin exhaled a frosty breath, letting tension seep out from his chest. It was the strangest midnight he’d ever known. And something told him, this was just the beginning.
Lesson Two
Adventure is good for the soul. Most of the time.
-The School of Gallantry
Somewhere in Russia
Weeks later
A warm male hand smoothed away the pinned curls from her forehead and tucked her better against the curve of his arm and lap. The tips of his calloused fingers gently skimmed her cheek before resting on the curve of her chin. That lingering touch promised more than unending pleasure. It promised a lifetime of all things beautiful and romantic. It was pulse rending, genuine and divine.
She didn’t want to wake up.
But of course she did.
Lady Cecilia Evangeline Stone was startled out of a deep slumber when she was jostled against the cushioned seat of the travelling coach. A strange haze edged into her vision, blurring the shadows of the night with the golden halo of a lantern that dimly illuminated the small, upholstered space. It was so odd, but everything swayed more than the actual carriage.
She froze, realizing her cheek and pinned hair, was pressed against a trouser-clad muscled thigh and that a long, masculine arm was heavily draped around her waist. It was a male thigh and a male arm she had never remembered meeting or inviting into her life.
Unable to breathe against the soft scent of charred wood and soap drifting from his clothing, she scrambled up and out of that lap and shoved his arm away. Stumbling toward the far end of the seat, she tightened the cashmere shawl around her cloak, gown and shoulders, unable to make sense of what was happening.
A young, good-looking man, who clearly hadn’t shaved in days, intently searched her face from where he sat beside her. His black hair was scattered beneath a low-slung cap that shadowed the color of his eyes. His rugged intensity softened as his glance slid to her décolletage befo
re lifting again. He inclined his head as if hopeful of an introduction.
She gaped. Who was he? And what was he doing in her carriage? Scanning the empty seats surrounding them, which were dimly lit by the coach lanterns, she stilled. This was not her carriage. The upholstery was old, ragged and barely clung to the walls and ceiling.
Her heart skid to a frenzied halt as she glanced toward the empty, frayed seats and the mud spattered windows that framed a black, starless night and a rapidly moving road and open fields. Dearest God. Where was her translator and travelling companion? “Mrs. Bogdanovich?” she called out in disbelief, as if the woman were hidden somewhere within the upholstery.
Cecilia pressed a trembling hand against her mouth to keep herself from screaming as panic flared through every inch of her body.
The carriage jerked.
She stumbled, almost falling off the seat.
Large bare hands jumped toward her and grabbed her corseted waist. The man steadied her, pulling her back onto the seat beside him. Well-muscled arms shifted against her from beneath his travelling coat as the hilt of a large dagger attached to a sizable leather belt grazed her thigh and skirts. His hands casually slid up her back, adjusting her against his side and the seat.
With a solid push of panicked hands, she broke his hold on her.
He held up both hands to demonstrate that he had no intention on harming her.
Despite the fact he wore a distinguished, pinstriped waistcoat beneath a wool coat of respectable means, there was no cravat around that neck and his linen shirt was scandalously left open, exposing a masculine throat and the upper portion of a broad, well-muscled chest that had clearly seen too many hours of labor.
My Favorite Rogue: 8 Wicked, Witty, and Swoon-worthy Heroes Page 142