The Princess and the Rogue

by Kate Bateman

  “No. The printsessa comes with me.”

  Her heart missed a beat. For one brief, hopeful moment she thought Wolff wouldn’t register the Russian word for princess, but of course he missed nothing. His eyes narrowed.

  “Princess? What are you talking about?”

  “Princess Denisova,” the man repeated. “She comes with me.”

  Wolff actually smiled at what he thought was the other man’s mistake. “I hate to break it to you, old man, but you’ve got the wrong girl. That’s not the princess. That’s her maid. Anya Ivanov.”

  Her captor let out a belly laugh of genuine amusement. “A maid? Is that what she’s told you? By the saints! I can see why you would think it, with her dressed in these clothes like a common whore, but I make no mistake. This is Princess Anastasia Denisova. Cousin to the tsar.”

  Anya stared at Wolff, mutely pleading with him to dismiss the claim, but the look he sent her dashed any hope. She saw the exact moment he drew the correct conclusion. His eyes narrowed and his jaw tightened in fury.

  “Princess Anastasia Denisova,” he repeated, and the name was like an accusation on his lips, practically dripping with disdain.

  He returned his attention to the man holding her. “Put the knife down and let her go. I don’t want to have to hurt you. Go and tell your master the princess is under my protection.”

  The knife pressed more firmly to her throat and her captor’s arm squeezed her belly in warning. “I’ll cut her.”

  “No, you won’t. Petrov won’t want her harmed.”

  “Step back, Englishman.”

  Anya wasn’t sure what happened next. Wolff’s hand shot out and caught her assailant’s wrist, forcing the knife away from her. The arm holding her waist slackened, and she stumbled forward into Mickey’s beefy arms.

  She turned to see the Russian slash the knife in a wild arc toward Wolff, who ducked and then dealt the man a punishing blow to the temple and another to the underside of his jaw. The knife clattered to the ground, but the big Russian wasn’t beaten. He put up his fists in a boxing stance and the two men traded jabs. Wolff managed to land a hit on the side of his head, but received a punishing left to the cheekbone in return. He staggered, but didn’t go down.

  Then the Russian changed tactics and lunged forward, catching Wolff around the waist in a bear hug and hurling them both to the ground. The two of them rolled over and over, fists and curses flying, and Anya had to stop herself from crying out in dismay at the ferocity of the attack.

  Wolff finally ended up on top of the larger man. He straddled his body and delivered a barrage of brutal punches to the man’s face. The man’s nose broke with a sickening crunch, and he finally went limp. Panting, Wolff unfisted his grip on the man’s shirt and let the body drop back onto the cobbles. With a final curse, he stood and brushed down the front of his shirt, now smeared with blood and dirt.

  Mickey gave a grunt of congratulation, then straightened Anya and, with his giant paws, dusted off the straw sticking to her back.

  Wolff turned to her and the look of fury on his face was enough to make her chest squeeze in fright. He looked wild. Utterly ferocious, with his hair a disordered mess and his cheekbone already turning an ugly shade of scarlet from the blow he’d received.

  He crouched down to inspect the unconscious man’s outstretched hand. A gold signet ring glinted in the pale morning light. “The Orlov family crest,” he said grimly. “Just like the dead man down at the docks.” He stood and dusted his hands.

  “The Orlovs have been allies of the Petrovs for centuries,” Anya said quietly.

  Sebastien ignored her. “Mickey. Take this idiot over to Bow Street and lock him up.” His eyes flashed back to Anya and her heart missed another beat. “And you?” he bit out. “My study. Right now.”

  He turned and stalked away, fury evident in every long stride.

  Anya gulped. For a cowardly minute, she imagined leaping up onto Borodino and galloping back to the dowager duchess, but that would only delay the inevitable confrontation.

  “Better go, miss,” Mickey said gently. “’E don’t like to be kept waiting.”

  Anya nodded glumly. Now there would be hell to pay.

  Chapter 27.

  “Princess?”

  Seb strode to his desk then pivoted on his heel, fury scalding his insides. “You’re the bloody princess? Cousin-to-the-tsar, wear-a-crown-to-bed princess. Christ alive, woman!”

  The gorgeous wretch sidled into his study and hovered just inside the door. He clenched his fists against the urge to release every profanity he knew, one after another.

  “I don’t wear a crown to bed,” she said coolly. “As you well know. I don’t even have a tiara.”

  Her reminder of his monumental mistake didn’t help cool his temper.

  “Should I bow?” he growled with deep sarcasm. “Your Majesty.”

  “I believe ‘Your Highness’ is the correct form of address.”

  He scowled at her equally sarcastic tone and gave a bitter, self-recriminatory laugh. “You’re a bloody little liar, that’s what you are! All this time, pretending to be something you’re not.”

  She gave a dainty shrug. “We’re all pretending to be something we’re not. You, for example, pretend to be a rational, sensible human being. If you’ll just let me—”

  “Does Dorothea know?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “Of course she does, the old schemer.”

  God, he’d been so stupid. He should have realized who she was straight away. All the signs had been there. Her haughty demeanor, her polished manners, her strange worldly innocence. The way Dorothea had been oh-so-keen to throw them together.

  He’d been set up.

  By a septuagenarian battle-ax.

  She frowned. “I don’t see why you’re getting so angry—”

  “I slept with you!”

  “So?”

  “So? You came to me under false pretenses.”

  She crossed her arms. “And what difference would it have made if I’d told you?”

  “I never would’ve slept with you! I do not seduce well-bred—” He stopped short and glared at her. “Oh, God, you were a virgin, weren’t you?” The guilty look on her face was enough to incriminate her, and he swore again, furious at himself as much as her. “Christ alive! I don’t bed virgins. Ever. I bed wenches. Actresses. Widows. Tarts.”

  Her eyes widened at that, but she lifted her chin in that haughty way he should have realized came from a lifetime of privilege.

  “Well, now you’ve fucked a woman who outranks you. Congratulations.”

  His jaw dropped at her shocking use of profanity, but she wasn’t finished.

  “I’m glad I didn’t tell you. I’m not ashamed of what we did. I wanted you. You wanted me. I fail to see the problem.”

  “Fail to see the problem?” he echoed in disbelief. “I’ve ruined you! You’re the lost princess. You’re—”

  “I’m not lost,” she countered, equally incensed. “I’m not a parcel! I know exactly where I am. I chose to come here to England. I chose to give myself to you.” Her expression took on a cynical slant. “What? Will you fight Vasili in a duel over my ‘lost honor’?”

  Seb glared right back at her. “Hardly. I never fight duels.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’d kill my opponent.” He shrugged at her raised eyebrows. “That’s not false modesty. I spent three years in the Rifles. I’m a bloody good shot. It would be unfair advantage. I’ve seen too many men die for important principles to indulge in a petty squabble at Chalk’s Farm over a woman. Besides, duels are outlawed, technically.”

  “I hardly think it would be the first law you’ve broken,” she sniped.

  “I’ve never broken a law. Merely bent them on occasion.”

  Seb squeezed his temples with his hand, trying to banish the tension that was pounding in his skull. His knuckles stung from the fistfight, and his cheekbone throbbed with every pulse of his heart.

 
He strode to the sideboard, poured himself a large measure of brandy, and downed it. His hand wasn’t entirely steady. He did not offer any to her, despite the fact that she looked like she could do with it. He wasn’t feeling that charitable. God, what a mess.

  “What the hell was a princess doing in a brothel?” he growled.

  “I’m Charlotte’s neighbor. I’m teaching some of her girls to read and write.”

  He let out a snort of self-directed humor. “Her neighbor. In Covent Garden. Oh, bloody brilliant.” He took another steadying draught of liquor. “You do realize we’ll have to marry now, don’t you?”

  Her mouth dropped open in shock. “Don’t be ridiculous! There’s no need for that. You haven’t ruined Princess Anastasia. You’ve ruined secretary Anna Brown, whom nobody cares about in the least. Princess Anastasia doesn’t exist. She’s dead.”

  He pinned her with a level stare. “I’m honor bound to do the right thing.”

  She looked a little panicked, and Seb felt a stab of malicious pleasure. Good, the little pretender ought to be afraid. Her subterfuge had landed them both in a situation that would ruin the rest of their lives.

  “I’m not marrying you,” she said crossly. “I’m not marrying anyone. As soon as Vasili returns to Russia, I’ll go back to working for the dowager duchess.”

  “Dorothea will expect us to marry, even if nobody else in the ton knows who you are. Do you honestly think she’d let me seduce you and then abandon you without the protection of my name?”

  “You didn’t seduce me! We seduced each other. And you didn’t”—her face turned a delicious shade of pink—“that is to say, you finished—” She trailed off again in acute embarrassment, and Seb was more than happy to let her squirm. “There’s no chance that I could fall pregnant from the encounter,” she finished stiffly.

  He shrugged. “It’s the principle of it.”

  “I don’t care about principles. You don’t want to marry me. And I have no desire to wed someone who’s only offering because he feels guilty or because of some misplaced sense of honor. Nobody will know what happened between us, not even the dowager, unless you tell her. Because I’m certainly not going to mention it.”

  Seb raked his fingers through this hair. He didn’t want to marry the infuriating woman, of course, but her strident refusal still stung. “Tell me the truth about Petrov. Is he really your fiancé?”

  “No. Never. He wants what I am, what I stand for. A title. A fortune. Generations of good breeding.” Her lips curled in disdain. “But what is a princess? Nothing! Polite conversation and perfect manners. A brood mare for little princes. I was worse than useless. At least here in London I’ve learned some practical skills. I can light a fire. Sew a seam. I’ve taught the girls at Haye’s to read.”

  She tilted her chin, and Seb fought the sensation of drowning in the cornflower blue of her eyes.

  “Do you know what happened when Napoleon arrived in Moscow four years ago?” she said fiercely. “The inhabitants burned their own beautiful city to the ground rather than let him take it. And I would rather kill myself than let a brutal pig like Vasili take me.”

  Seb frowned. He had no answer to that.

  “He wants to marry me to ensure my silence because he thinks I have evidence that he’s a spy.”

  “Do you?”

  “No. I told you. If my brother found anything, he never sent it to me. I assume it was on his person when he was killed at Waterloo and was buried with him.”

  She shuddered, and Seb quelled the ridiculous impulse to cross the room, take her in his arms, and comfort her. He had similar haunting memories from his years in the Rifles, images of friends dead or dying that he could never erase from his brain. She looked so small, so vulnerable in those ridiculous boy’s clothes, like one of the scrappy street urchins he used to run messages and gain information for Bow Street.

  “Perhaps there was some evidence, and he managed to hide it before he was killed?” he said.

  “If he did, I can’t imagine where you’d look for it. If it was hidden in his belongings wherever he was staying the night before the battle, it’s been looted or destroyed by now.”

  Seb pulled out the chair behind his desk and sat, striving for some semblance of normalcy. “So. Petrov knows where you are.”

  She leaned back against the closed door and her slender shoulders sagged in defeat. “Yes.”

  “You can’t keep on hiding forever. And I have a business to run. I can’t drop everything to be your personal bodyguard twenty-four hours a day.”

  She sent him an irritated glare. “Nobody’s asking you to.”

  He ignored that. “It’s time to put an end to your little farce. Princess Denisova must be resurrected. You can be introduced to the ton as the protégé of my great-aunt. Nobody will dare contradict the Dread Dowager Duchess.”

  “What? No! How will that keep me safe from Vasili?”

  “You’ll be more difficult to reach if you’re surrounded by members of the ton. Society will shield you, just as it shields every unmarried young woman from the unwanted attentions of men. You’ll have a chaperone. Constant companions. You’ll have to face Petrov, but it will be in full view of a hundred witnesses. You can deny you were ever betrothed.”

  Her skin paled. “He’ll be furious.”

  “What can he do in a room full of people? He’s too conscious of his own social standing to make an ugly scene. I know men like him. How he appears in public is very important to him.”

  She shook her head. Several wisps of straw still clung to the strands, blending in with her honey-colored hair. She looked like a rumpled dairymaid. One he still wanted to tumble, damn it.

  “He’s relentless,” she said wearily. “He’ll try something.”

  “We’ll make it clear you’re under Bow Street’s protection.”

  An odd expression flitted over her face, one Seb couldn’t identify. It almost looked like hope. Eagerness. “So I would remain here?”

  “No. You’ll stay with Dorothea. Alex, Benedict, and I will take it in turns to guard you there.”

  “Oh.” She seemed almost disappointed, but he must have been mistaken. She was probably regretting she ever let a rogue like him anywhere near her royal personage.

  Of course she’d refused him. He wasn’t good enough for her. He hadn’t been good enough for the likes of Julia Cowes a decade ago, and even though he’d made a fortune and gained a title on his own merit since then, he was still no fit mate for a bloody princess.

  She needed to go and marry some charming European aristocrat—one with a spotless reputation who didn’t go around propositioning strangers in brothels and getting into fistfights—and end up as queen of some balmy Mediterranean principality.

  Seb drummed his fingers on the leather desktop, imagining and discarding ways out of the ridiculous situation. “If Petrov thinks you have incriminating documents, perhaps we take can advantage of that. We can set a trap for him.”

  “How?”

  “We’ll force his hand. He’ll get desperate and make a mistake—he’ll try to get to you, or try to get the evidence back. And when he does, we’ll be ready.”

  “I don’t want to meet him. Either in a ballroom or a back alley. He’s dangerous.”

  Seb narrowed his eyes. “Do you think I’m not?”

  She had the grace to flush and look away, and he nodded, mollified. “I protect what’s mine.”

  She gave him that haughty look he’d come to detest. “I’m not yours, Lord Mowbray.”

  “Yes, Princess.” He drawled the title like an insult, a deliberate bastardization of the term of endearment. “For now, you are.”

  He lifted his brows, just daring her to argue, but she wisely held her tongue. He cast what he hoped was a scathing glance at her boy’s attire. The sight of her slim legs and the hint of her breasts beneath the fabric made him want to throw her over his shoulder, carry her upstairs, and lose himself inside of her, princess or not.

 
; Damn her.

  “I’ll have Mickey bring you a valise. Pack your things. We’ll leave for Dorothea’s house in thirty minutes.”

  “Isn’t she’s still in the country?”

  “No. She returned to Grosvenor Square last night. She sent me a note.”

  Chapter 28.

  The dowager duchess took one look at Anya’s stony face and turned to Seb. “I do hope you’ve been treating Miss Brown with the utmost care and respect, Sebastien?”

  Seb sent her a dry glance as he removed his gloves. “You can dispense with the charade, Dorothea. I know exactly who she is.”

  “You do? Oh, well, that makes everything so much easier, doesn’t it?”

  “Does it? I’m rather of the opinion it makes everything that much worse.”

  She frowned. “I see. You’re in one of those moods, are you? Not that I’m not delighted to see you both, but what are you doing here? Has the odious Petrov left town?”

  “He has not. But it’s no longer practical for the princess to be at the Tricorn. From now on, she’ll be staying here.”

  “But what about the danger to her?”

  “I will arrange for armed guards from Bow Street. In in ten days’ time, you will host a ball to present the newly discovered Princess Denisova to polite society.”

  The dowager raised her thin brows in an expression remarkably like Anya’s. “Only ten days, Sebastien? Are you mad?”

  “I have every faith that you can accomplish it. You will invite the whole world, and they will come.”

  “And Petrov?”

  “Invite him too. And you must hint that there’s a mystery surrounding the princess. That will get people talking.”

  Anya finally spoke. “To what purpose?”

  Seb glanced at her and his chest tightened. She’d changed into one of the morning gowns he’d bought for her, a pale sage green that clung to her figure and made her look like some woodland sprite or naiad. He could hardly bear to look at her. Already she seemed different, more self-possessed, more unapproachable, as if an invisible shield had formed between them. An image of her, pink and tipsy in front of the fire, assailed him, but he tamped it down. There would be no more evenings like that.