The Princess and the Rogue

by Kate Bateman

  Chapter 15.

  Wolff entered her suite without knocking. Anya glanced up from the desk and then swiftly back down, determined to pretend the incendiary encounter on the balcony the previous night had never happened.

  It was easier said than done. The knowledge was a humming awareness between them, tugging like an invisible thread. She cleared her throat and willed the heat in her face to subside.

  “I’ve been through all these letters. There’s no mention of Petrov or anyone named the Cossack.”

  She’d found a mention of her brother, though, a single casual reference in a list of those near Wellington at Waterloo, and her heart had felt like a stone, heavy in her chest.

  Wolff shrugged, the movement emphasizing the muscled breadth of his chest beneath his shirt. “It was a long shot, anyway. I have a better plan.” He leaned one shoulder casually against the doorframe. “I’ve been looking at the club’s members’ list and very few of your countrymen are on it. I want to lure them here so I can watch and listen to them.”

  “I thought the plan was for me to avoid my countrymen? Can’t you observe them at a ton party?”

  “I want a relaxed setting. A man behaves very differently in a gaming club among his friends than he does at a public ball where ladies are present.”

  “There were ladies on the gaming floor last night.”

  “There were women. None of them were ladies.”

  Ah. He meant demimondaines, mistresses. Actresses and whores.

  “You won’t be in any danger,” he said. “You’ll stay here, out of sight. Can you suggest some ways to attract them?”

  “Perhaps you’re not providing the entertainment they want.”

  His lips thinned at the suggestion that his beloved Tricorn was anything less than perfect, and Anya suppressed a smile. He really was arrogantly conceited when it came to his business. When it came to most things, actually.

  “And what is that?” he said testily. “We have cards, dice, roulette. The best French chef in London. An incomparable wine cellar.”

  “You can get those anywhere.” Anya paused, enjoying the way he seemed to be hanging on her every word. “If you really want to attract Russians, you need vodka.”

  His disgusted expression almost made her laugh out loud. “What’s wrong with brandy and port?”

  “Nothing, but Russians prefer vodka. Believe me, nothing gets a Russian drunk enough to spill his secrets like vodka.”

  He frowned, apparently considering this revelation. “All right, I’ll try it. It can be a novelty. Something that sets the Tricorn apart from clubs like Crockford’s and Brooks’s.”

  “You could host a whole Russian evening,” Anya suggested, warming to the idea. “Have your chef make all kinds of Russian foods in honor of the delegation. That will bring them in for a taste of their homeland.”

  A frown marred his perfect forehead. “There may be a slight problem with that. Monsieur Lagrasse is not only the best French chef in London, he’s also the most temperamental. There’s a strong chance he’ll refuse to cook such foreign monstrosities.”

  “Let me talk to him.”

  With a shrug and a sigh that indicated she was wasting her time, Wolff led her down the curving main staircase and to the top of the steps leading down to the kitchens. The clatter of pans and a stream of French curses echoed up from below.

  “I warn you, he won’t thank us for invading his kitchens. He’s a despot worse than Bonaparte. This is his own personal fiefdom.”

  Anya sent him a droll glance. “I’m sure we’ll get along famously.”

  “Can you cook?”

  “Not at all. My housemate Elizaveta is the one who saves us from eating bread and jam every night.”

  Wolff shook his head. “This is going to be a disaster.”

  They reached the bottom of the stairs and entered a large, airy kitchen. The room was set half-belowground—the high windows revealed a set of steps leading up to the cobbled mews at the back of the club. An impressive assortment of shiny copper pans and bunches of dried herbs hung from hooks on the ceiling, and a huge cooking range emitted a sweltering heat. Two maids were in the process of chopping vegetables, and a short, rotund gentleman wearing a black apron was elbow-deep in a large copper bowl. This, Anya surmised, was the great Lagrasse.

  As they watched, he withdrew a ball of bread dough, threw it down on the tabletop, and proceeded to slap and pummel it with his fists as though he wanted to ensure the thing was completely dead.

  He glanced up with a fearsome frown, not at all subservient at the appearance of his lordly employer, and his thin black mustache quivered in irritation.

  “My lord. Zis is a most inconvenient time. I am at a crucial stage wiz my dough. If you wish to ’ave food for two ’undred zis evening, I would appreciate no interruptions.”

  Anya suppressed a smile.

  “Monsieur Lagrasse,” Wolff said evenly. “This is my guest, Miss Brown. She has some suggestions for you.”

  The chef glared, clearly astonished that anyone should be questioning the perfect composition of his menu. Anya stepped forward, keen to forestall any objections, and spoke rapidly in French.

  “It is an honor to meet you, sir. I hail from St. Petersburg, and believe me when I say that tales of your culinary genius have spread even as far as there.”

  The Frenchman broke out into a delighted grin. “Why, but you speak the mother tongue like a native, my girl!”

  Anya smiled. “Please, call me Anya. And of course. We Russians love everything French. I spent a wonderful year in Paris before I came here.”

  She held out her hand and the little man bowed over her fingers in formal greeting.

  “What are these suggestions of yours?”

  From the corner of her eye, she saw Wolff raise his brows in shock, although whether it was at her flawless French or the fact that she’d managed not to infuriate his volatile employee, was unclear.

  “Lord Mowbray has assured me that you’re the finest chef in London, and from the food I tasted last night, I’m inclined to agree with him.”

  The little man puffed up like a rooster, and Anya threw out her lure. She’d dealt with temperamental artists like this before, both in Russia and in Paris. She knew just how to handle him. Men like Lagrasse needed to be constantly challenged or they lost their spark.

  “However—”

  Lagrasse sent her a steely look. “Madame?”

  “I’ve also heard of a rival of yours, a man named Eustache Ude.”

  From behind her, she heard Wolff let out a low groan of disbelief.

  Lagrasse’s face reddened. “Ude? Bah! He used to be in the service of Napoleon’s mother, but he works at Crockford’s now. Crockford pays him two thousand pounds a year! And for what? The man’s pièce de résistance is nothing more than mackerel baked in clarified butter.”

  Anya adopted a serious expression. “And I am quite certain you’re the better chef. But still, people talk. Wouldn’t you like the chance to prove it, once and for all?”

  Lagrasse’s mustache twitched and his eyes took on a steely glint. She had him.

  “What do you suggest?”

  “Well, clearly you’re both exceptionally skilled when it comes to preparing French cuisine. But isn’t the ultimate test whether you can master food from a different country? To prepare it so well that even natives of that country pronounce it the best they’ve ever had?”

  She paused to let the idea marinate. “Lord Mowbray would like the Tricorn to serve some Russian delicacies in honor of the tsar’s delegation. I’ve bet him you can produce food so authentic that even I won’t be able to tell it was prepared by a Frenchman.”

  Anya held her breath. The gauntlet had been thrown down. She prayed the chef would rise to the challenge.

  He did not disappoint. He drew himself up to his maximum height of five foot two. “Madame, there is nothing you can ask of me, no recipe so complex that I, René Lagrasse, cannot master.”

/>   “That’s precisely what I told Lord Mowbray. I shall be your official food tester. I will judge each dish before we serve it to the club’s patrons.”

  “Which foods do you suggest?”

  “Let me think. The first that comes to mind, of course, is blini. They’re tiny little Russian pancakes. Similar to your crêpes, only made with a yeasted dough, which makes them lighter. You can serve them with any number of things, sweet or savory. I personally like them with smoked salmon, sour cream, and caviar. Or with honey.”

  Lagrasse nodded. “Very well. But pancakes are not very complicated.”

  “That is true. You could try medovik. It’s a layered honey cake which takes a great deal of skill. There are hundreds of regional variations. You must make layer upon layer of honeyed pastry and alternate it with sweetened cream or custard, then cover the outside of the cake with pastry crumbs. It is incredibly labor intensive. The tsarina, Elizabeth Alexeievna, gobbles it up whenever it’s served.”

  Lagrasse’s eyes widened. “You’ve dined at the emperor’s court?”

  Anya bit her lip as she realized her slip. “Oh, well, I went there a few times, certainly. With my mistress, Princess Denisova. I would go down to the kitchens and sample the leftovers.”

  The chef nodded, apparently satisfied by her explanation. “Very well. You may bring me recipes.”

  “Thank you, Monsieur Lagrasse. I know you will rise to the occasion.”

  Anya turned on her heel and swept back up the stairs, confident Wolff would follow.

  “That,” he said, when they’d reached the safety of the hallway, “was masterful.”

  The undisguised awe in his tone made her preen a little.

  “I have medals from my military campaigns, Miss Brown. I have faced Bonaparte’s canons and cavalry. But even I would hesitate to suggest to a Frenchman that he bake a Russian cake.”

  Anya sent him a triumphant grin. “You speak French?”

  “Well enough to know that you’re wasted as a secretary. You should be a diplomat. I’ve never seen such soothing of ruffled feathers. When you mentioned Ude, I thought he was going to stab you with a bread knife, but you played him like a fiddle.”

  “We have a saying in Russia: ‘you catch more flies with honey than vinegar.’”

  Wolff smiled. “Or in this case, with honey cake. Where are you going to find the recipes? Can you write them down for him?”

  “Oh. I don’t know any by heart. Perhaps I could go—”

  “You’re not going anywhere,” he countered, reading her mind with infuriating ease. “If you need anything, I’ll send someone to get it.”

  Anya gave a huff of frustration. She’d hoped to be allowed out to a bookshop or library, at least. “Very well. Send someone to look for a book of recipes at Hatchards, or in one of the antiquarian book sellers on Publisher’s Row. It can be in Russian. Or French. I can always translate.”

  Wolff stopped walking and turned, so she stopped too.

  “You are a woman of many hidden talents, Miss Brown,” he said with a smile. “And those desserts sound delicious.” His gaze dipped to her mouth, and he let out a low chuckle that made her stomach flutter. “I am longing for a taste.”

  Chapter 16.

  Wolff left the house shortly after their visit to the kitchen. Anya heard the slam of the door with a slight twinge of resentment, but she was saved from boredom by the arrival of a package and letter from the dowager duchess.

  Oxfordshire is deadly dull without you, my dear. You will be relieved to know that John Coachman is none the worse for our adventure on Hounslow Heath. I’m sure Sebastien is guarding you well; do try to restrain the urge to strangle him, despite what I’m sure will be endless provocation. His methods may be unorthodox, but I have complete faith in his abilities, as does my good friend Sir Nathaniel Conant at Bow Street. I imagine you’re feeling quite cooped up; I’ve sent you our little project to keep you amused.

  Anya opened the illustrated book of fairy tales that had accompanied the letter and began to read.

  Three hours later, she’d been swept away to a world of beautiful women, brave princes, dark woods, and wondrous animals. She’d read of Baba Yaga the witch and Vasilisa the Beautiful. Of the Tsarevna Frog, and Tsarevich Ivan, the Firebird and the Grey Wolf. Of Father Frost—Ded Moroz—and the Snow Princess Snegurochka.

  Perhaps she was sensitive about the subject, but she noticed that many of the tales featured people hiding their true nature. Princes hiding as frogs. People cursed into golden birds or fearsome bears. She quashed a guilty twinge. She was hiding her own identity for a perfectly good reason: self-preservation.

  There were lots of wolves in the tales too. One helped Ivan catch the firebird, but more often than not, the creature’s role was ambiguous at best. They could be noble and fearless—or pitiless and sly. Of course, wolves featured in the stories of many other countries. The English book Tess had been reading told of Red Riding Hood’s encounter with a wicked, predatory beast.

  Anya wrinkled her nose. She’d always had a soft spot for the wolf in that tale. What if he were really a man trapped in the body of a beast? What if he fell under the spell of the beautiful girl? What if she tamed him? He’d be the very best protector. She let out a soft laugh at her own foolishness. Wasn’t that what every woman dreamed? That she’d be the one to gentle the beast? No doubt they believed it right up to the moment they were eaten up for dinner. She wasn’t such a fool.

  After lunch, she made her way down to Wolff’s library. She tried to snoop through his desk, but most of the drawers were locked. Disappointed, she nevertheless found a small tin of watercolor paints, a pencil, and some blank sheets of paper and entertained herself by sketching instead.

  Before long, she’d drawn a whole host of vignettes. There was her family’s dacha, their summer house in the country outside Moscow, complete with stables and orchard. A wave of nostalgia hit her as she remembered climbing the trees and picking fruit for vareniy, a kind of liquid jam, with Dmitri and her parents.

  She sketched some of the dresses she’d worn in Paris, then Petya, her pet wolfhound who’d lived to the ripe age of fifteen before he’d succumbed to old age. She didn’t try to draw Dmitri or her parents. Already their familiar features seemed indistinct in her mind; to capture them on paper was more than her artistic ability allowed.

  Lastly, she drew the tiara she’d destroyed. The design formed in her mind with guilty clarity. Two rows of graduated diamonds formed the top and bottom borders, kokoshnik style. More diamonds suspended like drops of rain within an open lattice of anthemion leaves, alongside sapphires the bottomless blue of a Russian lake.

  She allowed herself a little artistic license. If she ever won a fortune at cards, she would take this drawing to a jeweler and ask him to remake it. Money would be no object, so she’d have the gems set in white gold or platinum instead of the original yellow gold. The silvery color would made the diamonds shimmer like sunlight on snow, the perfect diadem for the ice princess they’d once called her.

  She shook her head at such fantasy. Of all the diamonds she and Elizaveta had hidden in their flight from Paris, only a handful remained. The rest had been used to pay for their passage from Ostend to Dover, for food and rent when they’d reached London. They’d received far less than the stones’ true worth on several occasions; there were always unscrupulous characters ready to take advantage, but they’d been desperate and unwilling to attract attention by making too much of a fuss.

  The last time she’d been forced to sell a gem, she’d followed Charlotte’s suggestion and gone to the royal jewelers, Bridge & Rundell. The proprietor, the elderly Mr. Rundell, had treated her with the kind of polite disdain at which the English so excelled. He’d given her shabby dress and practical boots a knowing glance and accepted her story of being given them by her deceased employer with subtle incredulity and silent disapproval.

  It was clear that he suspected her of being a demimondaine selling the favors give
n by a lover, or at the very least of having dubious associates, but his eyes had brightened when he’d realized the gems were of the highest quality, and he’d paid her a fair sum.

  Anya had no doubt they’d end up around the wrist or neck of some man’s lady love. She liked to imagine they’d be bought by a doting husband, but life had taught her to be cynical. From what she’d seen of society, whether in Moscow, Paris, or London, most men barely tolerated their wives, let alone bought them expensive baubles. It was the mistresses who received the expensive trinkets.

  She wondered how many pieces Wolff had bought for women over the years.

  The sound of the back door opening and Mickey’s deep growl welcoming his master had her sitting straighter in her chair. The two men conversed for a few moments, too low for her to hear, but she heard Wolff’s inquiry after her whereabouts.

  “Your study, sir,” Mickey said, and she braced herself as Wolff strolled down the hall and into the room.

  He was dressed, as ever, in exceptionally well-fitting clothes. His dark jacket molded faithfully to his broad shoulders, his buff breeches outlined his slim hips and long muscular thighs. His hair was rumpled from the wind and his face glowed with health and vitality. Anya swallowed. Why did he have to look so damned appealing? It wasn’t fair.

  She did not stand to greet him. He’d lent her no such courtesy.

  He sauntered over to the desk and glanced at the pages in front of her. “What are these?”

  “Just some idle sketches.” She tried to slide the drawing of the tiara under the pile, but he leaned one hip against the desk edge, reached out, and pulled the papers toward him.

  Anya felt an embarrassed heat mount in her cheeks.

  “These are very good,” he said, and the genuine admiration in his tone warmed her even more. He tapped the sketch of the tiara. “Is this a design you have imagined, or a reproduction of an existing piece?”

  “It was real. It belonged to Princess Denisova’s grandmother.”