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 everything 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.”
The dowager snorted. “Oh, pish. A bit of danger would add a welcome dash of excitement to my life, let me tell you.” She nodded to Mellors, her stone-faced majordomo, as he opened the door and helped her into the waiting carriage. “Thank you, Mellors. Now come along, Miss Brown.”
English carriages were not at all like Russian troikas. For one thing, they were completely enclosed. Anya climbed up into the luxuriously appointed interior and smiled in delight. Her luggage, what little of it there was, had been stowed in the exterior box by the duchess’s burly coachman, John.
The sky promised snow, or at the very least rain. The duchess drew a fur-lined travel rug across her lap and leaned back against the velvet seat. Anya placed her feet on the warm brick on the floor and tugged the edges of her favorite Russian travelling cloak around her. It was the one she’d bought in Paris, hemmed with diamonds; pale blue wool edged with white ermine and embellished with silver thread. Elizaveta always joked that it made her look like the fictional Russian Snow Princess, Snegurochka, the daughter of Winter himself.
“Ready, yer ladyship?” John the coachman called down.
“One moment!” Anya replied.
The dowager raised her brows in inquiry, and Anya sent her an apologetic smile. “It is a Russian superstition. We must observe a moment of silence to ensure a safe trip.”
The dowager chuckled. “What wonderfully strange customs you have, my dear. What good does a minute of silence do? I suppose it might offer the chance to remember all the things we’ve forgotten to pack.”
Anya laughed. “I’m not sure, but everyone does it.”
“Very well, let us have our minute of silence. Heaven forbid we get stuck in a thunderstorm.”
The bustle of Grosvenor Square continued outside as the two of them sat quietly for a brief moment.
“There. That should suffice.” The duchess frowned. “No sign of any outriders. I did mention it to Sebastien, but the wretch must have forgotten. Never mind. John has a blunderbuss under his seat.” She rapped smartly on the carriage roof with her walking cane. “Onward!”
They lumbered out of the mews and into Grosvenor Square, with its well-tended central garden lined with smart black-painted railings. Each resident of the stately houses which faced the square had a key to unlock the private gate and gain access to the garden.
The carriage soon turned onto Park Lane, then headed west toward the Knightsbridge turnpike. Buildings gave way to fields and trees and a chill wind blew through the cracks between the door and window.
The dowager’s country estate lay several hours’ drive to the west of London. Anya watched the changing landscape with interest. When she and Elizaveta had crossed from Belgium and made their way to London last year, they’d been too tired and worried to take note of the scenery. And since arriving, they hadn’t had enough money to venture from the capital.
A flock of sheep clustered together to shelter from the wind. Perhaps winter was coming early this year? Charlotte had said that England didn’t experience such impressive snowfall as Russia, but Anya liked being warm, so that didn’t bother her at all.
The idea that she might never return to her native land elicited a brief, wistful pang of homesickness. She quashed it. She’d made the right decision. However difficult life was here, however reduced their circumstances, she and Elizaveta were safe.
Or at least, they had been. Was Vasili’s presence in London merely coincidental? Or had he received some clue that she was hiding here? Anya shivered at the possibility. She was glad to be leaving London.
They passed Hammersmith, then a public house called the Dog and Duck and rumbled onto the vast, lonely stretch of moorland known as Hounslow Heath. The sky had grown steadily darker, bringing a gloom to the landscape that matched Anya’s brooding thoughts.
She sent a fond glance over at the dowager, who had fallen asleep, her head propped against the corner of the padded seat, her mouth slightly open in repose.
It began to rain, and Anya cursed quietly. Russians believed that rain on the day of your trip was good luck, but muddy roads would make the journey even slower. The clouds seemed to have come down almost to the ground; they formed a mist that made it difficult to see.
A cry of alarm sounded from above. A crack like thunder rent the air, and the carriage gave a sharp jolt. The horses reared in the traces, whinnying in distress, and the dowager jerked awake with a start. Anya grabbed the leather strap by the window to steady herself as the carriage lurched and rocked on its springs.
She squinted through the rain-spattered window and saw three men on horseback burst from the trees and thunder down the hill toward them. Her heart seized in fright. All three of them were wearing hats pulled down low, with scarves tied over their faces to disguise their identity. Each one carried a firearm.
John’s blunderbuss discharged above them with a deafening roar.
“What on earth is going on?” the dowager demanded.
“Footpads, ma’am,” shouted the coachman. Metal clicked as he struggled to reload. “Three o’ the devils, coming down fast.” Another shot rang out, this time from the brigands, and a sound like gravel flung against the carriage panels made Anya duck instinctively. John cursed. “Hit, b’gad!”
“Good heavens!” the dowager cried. “John, are you shot?”
“Aye, ma’am! But ’tis only me arm. I’m—”
The three assailants were upon them before he could say more.
“Stand and deliver!” the nearest one bellowed, wheeling his horse. His two companions positioned themselves on the opposite side of the coach, their weapons at the ready.
The dowager stiffened in outrage. “Well, really!”
Anya’s heart was thundering, but she almost smiled at the older woman’s disgruntled tone. The dowager gave an irritated sigh, as if being held up on the King’s Highway was a regular inconvenience. She reached down between the cushions and pulled out a small drawstring purse. “So much for your minute of silence, my girl. Highwaymen! Don’t worry. I keep a small amount of silver for just such an eventuality. Pull down the window.”
An icy blast of rain splattered Anya’s face as she slid down the glass. The dowager tossed the purse out of the window, where it landed with a dull chink in front of the hooves of the leader’s mount.
“There,” she called out crossly. “There was no reason to injure my coachman, you brute.”
While the other two robbers kept their weapons trained on the coach, the leader dismounted and scooped up the purse. He weighed it in his hand, silently assessing its value, then slipped it into the folds of his dirty brown jacket.
The dowager spoke again. “Now, I’m sure you fine gentlemen have homes to go to, and I very much dislike being kept out here in the cold. Move aside.”
Anya held her breath, hoping the ordeal was over, but the leader shook his head.
“No. Out of the coach.”
Anya frowned. The man’s voice was thick, his vowels slurred. Was he drunk? A cold shiver of fear slid down her spine. Get out? That wasn’t usual, was it? Surely robbery was all these ruffians had in mind and nothing worse?
“Get down? We’ll do no such thing!” the dowager said imperiously. “It’s raining.”
Anya gasped as the door was wrenched open.
“I said, get out!” The man reached in and grabbed her by the arm. She reared back, struggling.
“Unhand her!” The duchess took a swing at the man with her cane, but it was no use; Anya was pulled clear from the carriage. She half fell onto the road and gave a gasp of pain as her ankle twisted beneath her. Her foot slipped in an icy puddle.
“This her?” the leader rasped, glancing over at the other two riders as if for confirmation. He caught the hood of her cape and tugged it back to expose her face and hair. Confused, Anya glanced up at the nearest man, but all she could see was a pair of pale eyes between hat brim and scarf. The eyes narrowed on her face, and he nodded briefly.
“Da. Is her. We go.”
Anya’s stomach plummeted as she placed the man’s accent. Russian. These weren’t footpads. They were kidnappers. How in God’s name had Vasili known where to find her?
“Come on, then! Take her.”
The leader tugged Anya to her feet and thrust her toward the second man. She began to fight in earnest. She swung her fist and made contact with her captor’s jaw. He cursed and stumbled back, and she pressed the advantage, clawing at his face. His scarf fell away, revealing a swarthy, ugly face she’d never seen before.
He gave her a shake that made her teeth rattle in her skull. “Stop, woman!”
The mounted Russian reached down to pull her up onto his horse, but they were interrupted by the third man’s warning growl.
“Quick! Someone comes. A rider!”
The relentless beat of hooves reached Anya’s ears and a thrill of hope tightened her chest. She squinted back down the road.
A black horse came thundering around the bend, its mane and tail flying. The rider was a dark shape hunched low over the horse’s neck. His greatcoat streamed behind him like wings, like some hell-sent rider of the apocalypse. Anya’s breath caught in her throat.
The rider straightened in the saddle; he had a rifle in is hand. Surely he wasn’t going to try to shoot from a moving horse? No sooner had the thought formed than Anya saw him take aim—straight toward her—and her heart lurched to a stop.
The man next to her cursed. She heard a crack and saw a puff of smoke rise from the rider’s weapon. The hold on her arm slackened, and she turned to find her captor sprawled on the ground at her feet, his eyes wide and staring. A red trickle of blood seeped from the hole in his chest into the muddy puddle next to him.
One of the mounted brigands fired his weapon, and the leader’s loose horse bolted away down the road. The approaching rider ducked and fired again, from a second gun, and the Russian slumped dead in the saddle. His mount reared, confused by the suddenly unresponsive weight on its back, and the body slipped sideways. The terrified horse raced for the trees, but the corpse’s foot was still caught in the stirrup; it bounced along, caught by the leg, as it went.
Anya could barely comprehend what she was seeing. She glanced up at the third and final footpad. His scarf had fallen from his face, and she got a good look at his features. With a harsh shout, he kicked his heels to his horse’s sides and thundered off up the hill after his fallen brethren.
Anya turned—and suppressed a scream as her savior’s enormous horse clattered to a stop directly in front of her. It reared, pawing the air, almost threatening to trample her, but the rider kept his seat with consummate skill, and she felt a surge of admiration. As a horsewoman herself, she knew the strength it took to control such a gigantic beast.
She peered up at the rider, her heart pounding, trying to see the man who’d come to her rescue, but he was silhouetted against the grey sky and rain obscured her vision. Then, the dry voice of the dowager came echoing from the interior of the coach.
“Well, Sebastien. That was quite the entrance. Still, better late than never.”