The Princess and the Rogue

by Kate Bateman

  “Alex, do you have any idea why our friend is frowning at my fireplace as if he wants to tear it apart?” Benedict poured himself a glass of amber liquid. “Did someone disparage the cut of his coat? Malign his cravat?”

  Alex snorted in amusement. “It’s even worse than that, I’m afraid. The end of days is upon us. Seb’s finally met a woman who could resist him.”

  “You don’t say?” Benedict slid sideways into his own leather wingback and hooked one knee over the armrest. “Tell me more.”

  Seb shot them a disgruntled glare. They sat like two hefty, irritatingly good-looking bookends on either side of him. “Oh, bugger off.”

  “That’s what she said, I gather.” Benedict snickered. “Only rather more politely. Where did he meet this miracle?”

  “At Haye’s,” Alex supplied. “Last week. Seb tried to engage her ‘services,’ but it turns out the woman was only a visitor, and not one of Haye’s infamous girls. Neither the prospect of five hundred pounds nor Seb’s devastating good looks could sway her.”

  Ben opened his eyes wide in feigned astonishment. “But who could resist all that manly glowering? And the brooding. No one does dark and brooding like our Seb. Not even Byron.” He pursed his lips as he tried not to laugh. “She must have been blind as well as simple, Seb. You had a lucky escape.”

  Seb sent him a poisonous glare. “Will you shut up, before I throw you out the window?”

  “You can’t.” Ben chuckled. “This is my house. It would be unforgivably rude. And Georgie would kill you. She’s very much against defenestration. Especially when it involves her husband.”

  “She’d forgive me. Eventually,” Seb said darkly.

  Benedict laughed, uncowed. “Does this mystery lady have a name?”

  “Anna Brown. Although if that’s her real name, I’m the fat Prince of Wales. She had a foreign accent, French mixed with something else. She certainly wasn’t English.”

  The name Anna Brown was all wrong for her, Seb thought crossly. It conjured images of a dull, dried-up spinster, not a luscious blue-eyed beauty whose every gaze was a challenge and whose body called to his in the most sinful of ways.

  “He’s been looking for her all week,” Alex continued, clearly relishing Seb’s discomfort. “And as you can tell from his expression, he’s had no luck.”

  “It’s as if she’s disappeared into thin air,” Seb grumbled. “I asked the girls at the brothel, but none of them would tell me anything.”

  No amount of bribery had worked, and in truth, he’d been astonished by their loyalty. He’d offered life-changing sums, but none of them had talked and they’d earned his grudging respect. In his experience, most people had a price at which they’d conveniently discard their morals and their so-called allies. But the whores had protected Miss Brown with silence.

  She’d clearly earned their trust and affection. From his years in the army, he knew that inspiring such devotion was no small accomplishment.

  It was difficult to find someone in a city with over a million inhabitants, but not impossible. When asking at Haye’s had failed, he’d enlisted his Bow Street resources and his contacts in London’s criminal underworld, confident they would succeed in unearthing “Miss Brown’s” true identity and location in no time.

  They’d failed.

  “We’re supposed to be the finest bloody investigators in England,” Seb growled to nobody in particular. “Our network of informants stretches from Land’s End to John o’ Groats. How can one small, extremely distinctive woman evade us? It beggars belief.”

  Benedict took a slow sip of his brandy. “Why are you still looking for her, if she refused you? There are plenty more fish in the sea.”

  Seb took a gulp from his own tumbler and tried to find words that wouldn’t make him sound like a raving lunatic. He could barely explain it to himself.

  “There was just … something about her. I don’t know. She’s a mystery. An enigma. I want to know why she turned me down. I hate it when a case remains unsolved.”

  Alex and Ben shared a knowing look that immediately raised his hackles. He finished his drink and crossed to the sideboard for a refill.

  When he’d first seen Anna Brown at Haye’s, he’d almost lost the power of speech. He’d seen hundreds of beautiful women, had slept with plenty of them over the years, but none of them had made the world stand still, as she’d done that evening. He’d felt a gut punch of recognition, of connection. Which was clearly impossible, because they’d never met before. And yet his every sense had reached out, seeking her, wanting her. Byron, or Shelley, or another of those overly dramatic poets would have said his soul called out to hers, or something equally nauseating. Still, it had been the strongest reaction he’d felt for anything or anyone in a very long time, and he wanted to explore it further.

  “Maybe she just didn’t like the look of you?” Benedict gave a wicked chuckle.

  Seb eyed the window longingly. He’d pay Georgie for the repairs. “She was interested,” he growled.

  He knew how to read women. He’d seen the answering spark of interest, of fascination in her eyes. Her enthusiastic reaction to his kiss hadn’t been feigned either. He was sure that if they hadn’t been interrupted, he could have kissed away her reservations, taken her upstairs, and enjoyed several delightful hours making love to her. Both of them would have left the encounter sated and content. He knew how to please his partners. It was a matter of personal pride. Now things were left unfinished between them and it … bothered him.

  “Maybe she’s happily married?” Alex said.

  Seb shook his head. “She wasn’t wearing a wedding band. And she didn’t know how to kiss.”

  He’d found her artless enthusiasm utterly delightful.

  Ben and Alex shared another raised-eyebrow look at the revelation that he’d kissed her.

  “A widow, then?”

  “Wouldn’t have been introduced as Miss Brown,” Seb finished.

  They all sat in contemplative silence for a moment.

  “I should have offered more,” Seb muttered.

  Alex let out a sigh. “There you go, thinking money can solve every problem.”

  “It usually does. Admit it. Life’s a great deal easier now that the three of us have it.”

  “So cynical,” Alex tutted.

  “She’s not the only woman who ever turned him down,” Benedict said suddenly. “Don’t you remember, Alex? There was that girl, years ago, when we’d just come down from university? What was her name? The silly one with black hair. From Norfolk.”

  “Julia Cowes,” Seb supplied wearily.

  Trust Benedict to drag up that sorry farce. He’d been all of nineteen, young and relatively innocent, intoxicated by his first taste of London and foolishly convinced he was in love. He’d quickly learned his lesson.

  Alex snapped his fingers. “That was it! The fair Julia. At one point I thought you were on the verge of asking for her hand.”

  “Her hand wasn’t the only thing she wanted to give me,” Seb said dryly. “It was also her father’s crippling mortgages and her brother’s impressive gambling debts. As soon as she found out I was only a second son, untitled, and penniless to boot, she dropped me like a hot brick. I thank her for showing me just how mercenary the ladies of the ton can be.”

  “A salutary lesson,” Alex murmured.

  “She came to see me last month, actually,” Seb said. “She married old Skeffington while we were away in Portugal.”

  Benedict frowned. “Isn’t he at least sixty?”

  “He is. But as rich as Midas, which made him an attractive prospect, at least financially. Julia thought I’d be interested in an affair, seeing as her husband was so often away from home.”

  Benedict rolled his eyes. “Please tell me you refused.”

  “Of course. No married women, ever.”

  “I’d never cheat on Emmy,” Alex said fervently.

  “And I wouldn’t cheat on Georgie,” Benedict added. “And not o
nly because she’d have me shipped off to the Arctic if I were unfaithful. I don’t want to sleep with anyone but her.”

  Sebastien shook his head, pretending to be disgusted by their post-marriage monogamy.

  In truth, Ben and Alex’s marriages were two of the few happy ones he’d ever encountered. They’d both been fortunate enough to make a love match. They not only desired their partners in a physical sense, but they’d also found an inner compatibility that bound them together, one of shared humor and values.

  Seb’s own family was the antithesis of that, a sordid tangle of infidelity and scandal. It was the worst kept secret in the ton that his father hadn’t been married to his mother at the time of his conception. The duke’s first wife, Lady Sarah, had died giving birth to his older half-brother Geoffrey. Seb was the result of an affair the duke had had with a volatile Italian Contessa, Maria Wolff, herself already a young widow.

  When Lady Sarah had died, the duke had promptly married the already pregnant Maria to legitimize his son and ensure he had a “spare,” in case Geoffrey proved as sickly as his mother.

  The marriage had not proved a happy one. Seb’s mother had been far too spirited to be content to stay in the country seat and play duchess. She’d returned to London and taken a series of lovers, and the duke had remained in the country and continued his rakish ways with a steady succession of ever-younger actresses and courtesans.

  Seb’s mother had died of smallpox when he was eight, and his father had vowed never to remarry. Women, he declared, just weren’t worth the bother. In a perverse show of solidarity for his spirited mother—and a desire to distance himself from his domineering father—Seb had adopted the surname Wolff at school and used it ever since.

  It was no wonder his views on the subject of marriage were jaundiced.

  “I suppose it’s not surprising that you thought Miss Brown would take your five hundred pounds,” Alex mused, almost as if he’d followed the direction of Seb’s thoughts. “Julia would have jumped at the chance. So would most women, in fact.”

  “Which makes me wonder why Miss Brown said no.” Seb frowned. “She didn’t look particularly well-off. Her dress was decent quality, but several seasons old. And she wasn’t wearing any jewelry.”

  “There’s only one explanation,” Benedict said. “If she’s not already married or a widow, she must be a virgin, holding out for a respectable offer.”

  Seb’s stomach twisted. Surely fate wouldn’t be that cruel.

  “What was she doing in a brothel, then?” he demanded. “No respectable single woman would be on friendly terms with an infamous madam and a gaggle full of lightskirts. It doesn’t make any sense.”

  The mystery of the whole situation plagued him. Not only why the elusive Miss Brown had refused him, but why he, in turn, had refused the undeniably lovely alternative Mrs. Haye had offered him that evening. He’d lost all interest in other women.

  It was damned irritating. Where the hell had she gone?

  “Enough about Seb’s love life, or lack of one,” Alex said. “Any news on the Russians and our potential spy?”

  Benedict shook his head. “Georgie and I attended the Lievens’ reception the other night and met most of the Russian delegation, including Prince Trubetskoi. I invited him to the Tricorn for a few rounds of cards, so we’ll see if he takes me up on the offer.”

  Seb shrugged. “And I haven’t had any luck finding out what crest was inscribed on that ring we took from the dead man at the docks. I’ll keep trying.”

  “The Dread Dowager Duchess was at the Lievens,” Ben added with a smile. “She said you hadn’t visited her in an age.”

  Seb grunted. “That’s not true! I had supper with her only last week. And besides, she mentioned something about going to Everleigh for a week or two.” He clapped his hand to his forehead in sudden recollection. “Oh, hell! She asked me to lend her a couple of men to escort her down to Oxfordshire. I completely forgot.” He glanced over at the clock.

  “When?” Ben asked.

  “Today.”

  “Oh dear.” Alex chuckled. “Someone’s going to get a dressing down.”

  Seb stood and tossed back the remnants of his brandy. “Bugger. It’s too late to ask anyone else. I’ll have to go myself.”

  The ton called his great-aunt the Dread Dowager Duchess with good reason, but the old battle-ax was one of his few family members he actually liked. He’d feel dreadful if anything happened to her. And a promise was a promise, after all. He might be all kinds of scoundrel, but he always kept his word.

  Ben peered out of the window. “It looks like rain,” he said with an infuriating smile. “Have fun.”

  Seb sent him an obscene hand gesture that had endured since the Battle of Agincourt and cursed his own sense of familial duty in three different languages.

  Chapter 9.

  Anya slipped through the bustling flower market, still brooding. It was sheer luck that she glanced up and saw the tall figure descending the front steps of Haye’s. Male callers were commonplace at any time of the day or night, but there was something about the flash of pale hair and the size of the man that sent a prickle of warning down her spine.

  She ducked behind a flower seller’s stand. The overpowering scent of rotting flower water and overblown hyacinths filled her nose as she peered around a bucket of tulips.

  Another glimpse confirmed her worst fears; Vasili Petrov paused on the pavement, his forehead furrowed in an expression of frustration. As she watched, he replaced his hat, wrinkled his nose in distaste at a ragged posy seller on the corner, and set off toward St. James’s with long, purposeful strides.

  Anya took a deep, calming breath and willed her hands to stop shaking. She felt vaguely sick. Good God! If she’d walked a little faster, if she hadn’t paused to admire that bonnet in the window on Bond Street, she’d have run right into him.

  What was he doing in Covent Garden? Was it mere coincidence that had brought him almost to her doorstep? Or something more sinister?

  Thoroughly rattled, she knocked on Charlotte’s door.

  “That man,” she said without preamble. “The blond one who just left.”

  Charlotte’s rosebud mouth pursed in anger. “Count Petrov? One of your countrymen, I believe. He’ll not be allowed back, I assure you.”

  Anya’s stomach gave a somersault of dread. “Why? What did he do?”

  “He asked if I had any Russian girls, but I told him no. He settled on Tess, but after only a few minutes, she came running back downstairs saying he’d slapped her. He said she wanted it rough, and he got carried away, but Tess says she never agreed to that. I told him to leave.” Charlotte frowned. “Do you know him?”

  “I know he had a bad reputation with women back in St. Petersburg,” Anya said with perfect truth, deftly dodging the direct question. “I’m glad you told him he wasn’t welcome.”

  She forced a breezy smile to her lips and pretended to dismiss the subject of her boorish countryman—as if he wasn’t the very reason she was being forced to leave.

  “I came to tell you I’m going to spend some time in the country with the dowager duchess. A few weeks, I expect. Will you keep an eye on Elizaveta for me? I don’t like the thought of her staying in the apartment alone.”

  Charlotte’s face softened into a smile. “Of course I will. Don’t worry about her. And I doubt she’ll be spending too much time alone, with that lawyer of hers to keep her company.” Charlotte’s arch smile indicated she approved of that particular liaison.

  “Thank you,” Anna breathed. “Now, I must go and pack. The dowager wants to leave right away. Tell Tess to keep practicing her reading!”

  As she mounted the stairs to her own apartment, Anya’s stomach still churned at the uncomfortably close call. The fact that Petrov was in Covent Garden and looking for Russian girls didn’t bode well. Had he somehow picked up her scent?

  She packed a small travelling bag, noting with detached amusement that she could now fit everythin
g she needed into one small receptacle. When she’d travelled from St. Petersburg to Paris, she’d had at least fifteen trunks of various clothes, shoes, and other accessories. Sometimes she missed having such a frivolous, expensive wardrobe, but she was also proud of the way she’d learned to economize since coming to London. She’d become adept at haggling with the market traders for the best price, at wearing her dresses for more than one paltry season.

  When Elizaveta finally returned, she told her about Petrov’s unexpected appearance.

  “What a dreadful coincidence!” Elizaveta murmured, aghast. “Imagine if he’d seen you.”

  Anya nodded. “Far too close for comfort. Which is why I’m going with the dowager to Oxfordshire. No chance of accidentally running into him there.”

  “Do you want me to come? I’m sure I could ask work if—”

  “No need. I doubt Petrov would recognize you, even if he saw you. And I know how much you’re enjoying Oliver’s company.” Anya laughed at Elizaveta’s furious blush and gave her a fond hug. “It’ll be deadly dull, I promise. No plays, no noisy operas. You’ll have much more fun here.” She leaned back and fixed her friend with a serious stare. “But please, be careful. We both know what he’s capable of.”

  Elizaveta nodded. “You too, my love.”

  Anya kept a sharp lookout for Vasili, or anyone else, following her, as she walked the half mile back to Grosvenor Square, but detected nothing out of the ordinary. She found the dowager ready to leave.

  “You look worried, child. Whatever is the matter?” The dowager’s eyes were as shrewd and as inquiring as a raven’s.

  “Count Petrov was in Covent Garden. He was asking questions of my neighbor, Mrs. Haye. I’m worried that he’s somehow discovered where I live.”

  The dowager rose to her feet with the aid of her favorite silver-topped walking cane. “I can’t see how he would have managed that, my dear. But I say it’s a good thing we’re headed into the country, hmm? Better safe than sorry.”

  Anya nodded. “Are you sure you still want to go? I don’t want to put you in any danger.”