Seb glared at the door to the ballroom. Petrov still hadn’t made an appearance, and where the hell was Anya? Why was she taking so long? An uneasy, prickling feeling assailed him, and he went in search of her, ignoring the beckoning smiles of the women as he passed and the jovial greetings of the men.
“Mellors, where is she?”
The servant needed no further clarification. “I believe the princess is meeting a gentleman in the scullery, sir.”
Seb’s eyebrows rose into his hairline. “She’s what?”
“Not a Russian gentleman,” Mellors said swiftly, as if that were any kind of reassurance. “I believe he is a friend.”
Seb didn’t wait to hear more. He pounded down the servant’s stairs and past the open kitchen door. Mrs. Mac-Dougall and Lagrasse were bickering about something. The scullery was empty, but a sheet of paper on the counter caught his eye. He snatched it up and cursed when he saw the indecipherable scribbles of the Russian alphabet.
Fear and fury thundered in his ears as he took the steps out to the mews two at a time. A shout from the stables caught his good ear, and he raced inside to find Jem Barnes on the floor with a thin, sandy-haired stranger crouched over him.
Seb hauled the man to his feet and slammed him hard against the wall.
“What the hell’s going on here? Where’s Anya? Who are you?”
“Oliver Reynolds,” the man gasped, raising his palms in a gesture of surrender. “I’m a barrister. Don’t hit me! I’m engaged to Elizaveta Ivanova. A friend of the princess.” He gestured down at Jem. “I found him like that.”
Jem exhaled a low groan and rolled over onto his side. He clutched the back of his head, and when he pulled his hand away, it was coated in blood.
Seb released the man and dropped to Jem’s side. “Stay still, lad. You need a doctor.” He glared up at Reynolds. “Where’s the princess? I told her not to leave the bloody house.”
The skinny man swallowed hard. “She came out here to meet a messenger from Count Petrov. He’s taken my fiancée.”
“He took her too,” Jem muttered groggily. “The princess. Couldn’t stop ’im.”
A cold wash of terror froze Seb’s blood. “Petrov has her? Where’s he taking her?”
“I don’t know,” Reynolds groaned. “Maybe there’s something in there?” He indicated the letter that was still crumpled in Seb’s fist.
Seb gazed down at the meaningless squiggles and was filled with impotent fury. “Who speaks Russian?”
Jem and Reynolds sent him identical blank looks. He raced back inside, angrily aware that he couldn’t just burst into the ballroom like a wild man.
“Mellors, bring me Prince Trubetskoi or the Russian ambassador, Lieven, to the pink salon,” he ordered. “Immediately. And Lords Harland and Wylde too.”
The majordomo nodded, his expression inscrutable, and Seb wondered what it would take to discompose the man. Nothing short of Armageddon, probably.
He caught sight of Anya’s tiara lying abandoned on the side table and a shaft of terror pierced his heart. She should have kept it with her, to remind Petrov of her elevated position. To underline the wrath that would rain down upon his head if he hurt her.
Prince Trubetskoi stepped into the room. “You wished to see me, Lord Mowbray?”
Seb scrutinized the other man closely. Petrov was a friend of Trubetskoi. For all he knew, the prince could have been the one feeding Petrov sensitive information. They could be in league together, but it was a risk he had to take. He had to trust the man would translate the letter accurately.
“I need you to read this aloud. In English. Now.”
Trubetskoi did so, his face a picture of shock when he comprehended the contents. “Who wrote this?
“Count Vasili Petrov. He believes the princess has evidence that he’s been spying for the French since before Waterloo.”
The prince shook his head in astonishment. “I can scarcely believe it. I’ve known him for years. I always knew he was ambitious, but I had no idea he was capable of such wickedness. This practically admits there are incriminating documents.”
“It does. But I don’t care about that. He’s taken the princess. My princess.” Seb turned to leave. “Thank you, Your Highness.”
Alex and Benedict entered the library and sent him twin inquiring glances.
“I’m off to Bow Street,” Seb said.
“Now? What’s going on?”
“Petrov has the princess, but I don’t know where he’s taking her. The prisoner we’re holding in the cells will know, though.”
“The one who tried to snatch her from the Tricorn? He’s refused to say anything for the past week,” Alex cautioned.
Seb lowered his brows. “We clearly haven’t been persuasive enough. I’ll make him talk. Are you with me?”
Neither Alex nor Ben hesitated. “Of course.”
“Then let’s go.”
“I have pistols in my carriage,” Alex offered, hard on Seb’s heels as they clattered down the kitchen steps.
“Me too,” Benedict added.
“Good,” Seb said grimly. “You’re going to need them.”
A murderous fury slid through his veins as he headed for the stables. He was going to find Petrov and put a bullet through the blackmailing bastard once and for all. His trusty Baker was back at the Tricorn, but he had a pistol in his saddlebag. It would have to do.
The ride from Grosvenor Square to Bow Street didn’t take long, especially at a gallop, and soon Seb was greeting the night officer on watch at number three.
“Evening, George. We need another talk with our Russian guest.”
The prisoner blinked in sleepy confusion when Seb, Alex, and Ben barged into his cell. Bypassing the usual preliminaries, Seb reached down, hauled him off the hard pallet, and smashed him hard against the wall.
“Where were you supposed to take the princess?”
The Russian sent him a cocky smirk. “Petrov has her, does he?”
Seb punched him in the stomach, and the man doubled over with a surprised “oof.” The chains around his wrists prevented him from retaliating. Seb bent and whispered in his ear, ignoring the rancid smell of the man’s unwashed body.
“I’ll ask you one more time. Where. Is. The. Princess?”
The Russian shook his head stubbornly, and Seb let out a sigh of irritation. “I don’t have time for this.” He turned to Ben and Alex, who were flanking the door. “If he’s not going to tell us anything, there’s no need to keep him alive. Agreed?”
Alex merely shrugged, going along with Seb’s bluff, and Ben did the same. Seb sent up a grateful prayer for having such intelligent friends. Both of them knew he’d never actually kill a man in custody, however great the provocation, but the Russian didn’t know that.
The Cossack let out a surprised gasp. “What? You can’t shoot me.”
“Oh, I can,” Seb growled. “Here in England, lords like us can do pretty much anything we like. If you die, I doubt we’ll get more than a slap on the wrist. In fact, Sir Nathaniel will probably thank me for not burdening Newgate with another inmate.”
Ben gave a dry chuckle. “He’s doing you a favor, believe me. I’ve spent some time in Newgate. Death is better.”
Alex gave an amused snort.
Seb withdrew his pistol, a lead ball, and a powder flask from his jacket pocket, and proceeded to load the weapon with brisk efficiency.
The Russian gave a strangled, disbelieving cry and retreated to the far corner of the cell, his hands raised in front of him in a paltry defense. “Wait!”
Seb poured an exact measure of powder into the pistol’s pan and shook his head as if confused. “I just don’t understand why you’d stay loyal to someone like Petrov. Do you think he cares about you? He’s left you in here to rot for the last week, hasn’t he?” He paused to let that sink in, then gave a nonchalant shrug. “If it’s any consolation, it’ll be quick. I’m an excellent shot.”
“The best,” Ben chimed in. “You should have seen him in Portugal. He could hit a target at two hundred yards with a wicked crosswind.”
“Thank you.” Seb sent him a dry nod of acknowledgment and turned back to the prisoner. “Now, would you prefer the head or the heart?” He lifted the pistol, pulled back the hammer, and levelled it smoothly. His arm didn’t waver an inch.
“His ship!” the Russian shouted desperately.
Seb tilted his head. “I’m listening.”
“Petrov wanted me to take her back to his ship,” the Russian continued quickly. “The Suvarov. It’s moored at Blackwall docks. That’s all I know.”
Seb lowered the pistol. The Russian slid down the wall in relief, and Seb took a savage satisfaction in the wet stain that spread across the front of the man’s breeches as he pissed himself. He glanced at his friends. “Let’s go.”
Five minutes later, they were heading east along Piccadilly as quickly as the evening traffic would allow. Seb cursed every slow-moving carriage and late-night reveler who crossed his path.
A pounding need to hurt, to punish Petrov, coursed through him, along with a terrible spike of fear. His lack of control over this situation made him want to scream. He had to get to Anya. To protect her. God, she’d already braved and suffered so much in her life.
“Why a ship?” Alex asked as they slowed for a barrel-filled brewer’s wagon. “Do you think he’s planning to take her back to Russia?”
Seb growled at the mere thought. “Maybe. He wants to marry her. Not just for her money, but to guarantee her silence.”
“That’s it, then,” Ben said. “Since they’re not Church of England, he can’t wed her here. I bet he needs a Russian Orthodox priest to make it legal.”
“Maybe he’s found one in London,” Alex suggested. “Maybe he has one on board? That’s what I’d do if I—”
Seb snapped, “Stop talking and ride.”
The thought of Anya married to Petrov made him want to break things. Bones, mainly. She belonged with him, damn it. He’d rather die than see her with another man, let alone a blackmailing bastard like that. If anyone was going to marry her, it would bloody well be him.
A sense of calm acceptance slid over him as he registered the truth of that thought.
He wanted to marry her.
He wanted her in whatever guise she chose to adopt, whether it be princess, dowager’s companion, or courtesan.
He would rescue her from Petrov, prove he was worthy of her, and ask for her hand again.
True, she’d refused him once, but his first proposal hadn’t been the best, had it? In fact, now that he thought back on it, he hadn’t actually proposed. He’d just told her they were expected to marry. No woman wanted to hear that. Especially not one as stubborn and determined to forge her own destiny as Anya. No wonder she’d turned him down.
He’d do a better job next time. He’d tell her all the reasons he wanted to marry her. Like the fact that he loved the way she challenged him. That he loved her strength and her arrogance, her humor and her wit. Not to mention that he’d never met anyone he desired more. One night with her had merely whetted his appetite. He wanted her in every way he could think of, and a hundred more besides.
“If that bastard hurts one hair on her head, he’s a dead man,” Seb growled to nobody in particular.
He kicked his heels to Eclipse’s sides and remembered the first time he’d ridden into battle for her. He hadn’t known it at the time, but he’d met his very own Waterloo on Hounslow Heath, in the shape of a lying, irresistible Russian blueblood.
Alex sat straighter in the saddle as they finally neared Blackwall docks. “Hoi. You remember that Russian who was killed? The other Orlov? The tavern where it happened is just over there. Ten to one Petrov had something to do with it.”
Fear stabbed Seb’s chest like shards of ice, and he breathed a plea to the frigid night air.
Hold on, Anya. I’m coming.