Page 11 of The Princess and the Rogue

He bowed, and Anya made a stiff curtsey, silently laughing at observing the formalities when he’d been kissing her witless moments before.

“Sebastien,” he said. “I feel sure you should call me Sebastien.”

“My lord,” she said, just to annoy him, and felt a jolt of dark pleasure at the irritated twitch of his brows. As a member of the aristocracy—presumably a wealthy one—he doubtless had everyone he met obeying his commands. A little insubordination would do him a world of good.

“My girls are most anxious to meet you,” Charlotte said.

“I don’t need to meet any of your other girls. I’ve made my choice. I would like to engage the services of Miss Brown.”

Charlotte sent Anya a quick, questioning glance and gave a soft laugh. “Oh, I’m afraid that’s out of the question. Miss Brown is not one of my girls.”

Anya picked up the book of fairy tales Tess had abandoned and clasped it to her chest like some kind of medieval shield. She was still shaky and breathless. “Indeed, I am not. Lord Mowbray, enjoy your evening.”

She started for the door, but he sidestepped to block her escape and sent a dark glare at Charlotte. “Mrs. Haye. If this is some paltry attempt to try to secure a higher sum from me, it is quite unnecessary. You know of me?”

Charlotte nodded.

“Then you will also know that I have more than enough funds to afford whatever exorbitant fees you care to charge.”

He strode over to the inkpot Jenny had abandoned on the desk, dipped a pen into it, and began to write on a blank sheet of paper. “I, Sebastien Wolff,” he said aloud as he wrote, “promise to pay Mrs. Haye of CoventGarden the sum of five hundred pounds.” He signed his name at the bottom with a flourish, thrust the paper at Charlotte, and raised his brows impatiently.

Charlotte sent Anya a comically incredulous look.

“It’s no scheme, my lord,” she assured him hastily. “As much as I wouldloveto take your money, Miss Brown is not for sale. For any price.”

Anya was barely listening. All she could hear was the ringing in her ears as she finally made the connection that had been eluding her ever since she’d heard the name Sebastien Wolff.

This man was her employer’s great-nephew.

She’d never met any of the dowager duchess’s relatives in person. She’d seen a few portraits, of course, dotted about the house, but the shockingly masculine specimen in front of her bore little resemblance to the dark-haired young man in those paintings.

The duchess was inordinately fond of her youngest nephew. He regularly came to visit her at the Grosvenor Street mansion, but Anya had never been present; she’d always made sure to slip away whenever the duchess was expecting company. The fewer people in the aristocracy who saw her, the better.

The chance of anyone recognizing her, either from Paris or from her life in St. Petersburg was slim, but until she had absolute confirmation of either Vasili Petrov’s death, or his marriage to some other unfortunate female, she refused to take any unnecessary risks.

Wolff sent her a molten look. “Are you sure I can’t change your mind, Miss Brown?”

Anya stifled a near-hysterical snort. The man was temptation incarnate.

His surname was certainly apt. She’d seen a real wolf once, back in Russia. She and Dmitri had been out riding and a lone male had followed them for several miles,running parallel within the tree line. She’d caught flashes of its silver-grey fur, heard the tireless crunch of its paws in the snow as it ate up the miles, easily keeping pace with the horses.

This man had the same unblinking stare and sinuous grace. He exuded the same subtle threat of danger. Anya shivered. Sebastien Wolff might appear civilized, in his perfectly cut jacket and snowy-white cravat, but every instinct told her to beware.

She’d thought Vasili’s clumsy assault in Paris had given her a permanent distaste for men, but she was horribly tempted to take Wolff’s outstretched hand and allow him to draw her upstairs. To let him show her the pleasure he seemed arrogantly confident of providing.

The thought was enough to shock her into action. “Good night, my lord.”

With a regal tilt of her chin, she hurried from the room and heard Charlotte’s husky laughter as she moved forward to intercept him. Anya rushed back to the kitchens, desperate to leave, and found a cluster of girls chattering like a bunch of excited magpies.

“Is it true?” Amy asked, catching Anya’s sleeve. “The big bad Wolff? ’E’s never been ’ere before.”

“Itis’im,” Jenny insisted. “My friend Kitty’s seen ’im ’undreds of times at the theatre.”

“The last of the Unholy Trinity,” Amy sighed reverently.

“Unholy Trinity?” Anya echoed.

“That’s what everyone used to call ’em. Lords Mowbray, Melton, and Ware. Before the war, before they were earls, they were the most shocking rogues you can imagine. But Melton and Ware are married now. Mowbray’s the only one left.”

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