Page 72 of The Princess and the Rogue

Her stomach knotted in misery. Wolff’s proposal, back at the Tricorn, had been utterly unexpected. Her instinctive refusal had been a rejection of the situation, rather than the man, although he hadn’t seen it that way. She sighed. Despite what she’d told him, she did want to get married someday. And the thought of accepting any man other than him left a heavy ache in her heart.

He’d been right; he’d ruined her for anyone else—but not in the physical sense of having been the first in her bed. He’d ruined her because nobody else made her feel as wanted, asseenas he did—as if he understood the silly, stubborn woman she was beneath her royal robes,and preferred her to anyone else. She couldn’t imagine another man touching her as intimately as he’d done. She wantedhim. His kisses, his smiles. A lifetime of sparring and teasing and learning his secrets.

Anya stilled. Dear God, she’d fallen in love with him.

A rap on the door interrupted her stunned amazement, and Mellors slipped unobtrusively into the room. “There is a gentleman at the back door, my lady. He says he needs to speak with you in private. Most urgently.”

Her heart lurched in alarm. “A Russian gentleman? Count Petrov?”

“No, madam. He says he is a barrister, one Oliver Reynolds. The fiancéof your friend Miss Ivanov?”

“Where is he?”

“At present, in the scullery. He did not want to interrupt the ball by using the main entrance. Shall I bring him here?”

Anya was already on her feet. “No, I’ll go to him. Thank you, Mellors.”

The majordomo nodded placidly.

Anya made her way to the back stairs and hurried down them. In the kitchen, she could hear raised voices—Lagrasse and Mrs. MacDougall were having a difference of opinion on how to make “proper” custard, but she was too worried to smile at their squabbling. She entered the scullery and one look at Oliver’s face was enough to strike fear into her heart.

“Oliver! What is it? What’s happened?”

The young man raked his hand through his sandy hair. “Thank God! It’s Elizaveta. She’s been taken.”

“Taken? When? By whom?” Anya already suspected the answer.

“Less than an hour ago. We were returning from the theatre when a carriage pulled up alongside us. I barely paid any attention until two men jumped out. One struckme down”—he rubbed the back of his head as if in painful memory—“and the other one caught Elizaveta around the waist and bundled her into the carriage. They drove off before I could do anything to save her.” He looked as if he was going to be sick.

Anya hugged her arms around her waist as equal parts fury and terror coursed through her. “Those men were working on the orders of a man named Vasili Petrov. He’s a monster.”

Oliver’s face went even greener, but he reached into his jacket and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. The red wax seal was Petrov’s, segmented with a bow and arrow and a full-masted ship to the lower half. “They threw this at my feet. Said to deliver it to you.” His Adam’s apple bobbed down as he swallowed. “They’re going to hurt Elizaveta, aren’t they?”

Anya reached out and clasped his arm in a reassuring grip. “Not if I can help it.”

She tore open the seal and read the short note. It was in Russian, presumably to limit the number of people who could read it if opened.

Princess, I have your friend. If you want her to remain unharmed, you will bring the letters your brother sent you to the stables of the dowager duchess at midnight. My man will be waiting. Do not think to have your English lapdog or his Bow Street brothers accompany you. Come alone or your maid will meet the same fate as your brother.

Anya cursed soundly and glanced at the clock on the scullery wall. It was already half past eleven. Oh, God, what was she to do? She didn’t have the real papers to give him.

They’d expected Petrov to come to the ball tonightand demand the “evidence” he thought she possessed. Anya had chosen three of the letters she’d translated—ones which might conceivably have contained something of import—and bundled them together with a faded ribbon, just to have something to show him in order to lure him somewhere private so that Sebastien and his Bow Street cohorts could arrest him without causing a scene. She should have known he wouldn’t be trapped so easily.

She dropped the letter to the side and gave Oliver a weak smile. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”

She raced back up the servants’ stairs, slipped into the dowager duchess’s library, and found the packet of letters in the desk. They were nothing but dull military reports, but the Cyrillic text and official look of them might fool Vasili’s man.

Unfortunately, they wouldn’t fool Vasili. As soon as he opened them, he would realize they weren’t the incriminating evidence he was after. Anya didn’t want to think what he would do to Elizaveta then. She needed to find a way to get her friend released before Vasili discovered he was being duped.

She stuffed the letters into the pocket of her skirts and returned to find Oliver still pacing below stairs.

“What does the letter say? Where are you going?” he demanded.

She grabbed a paring knife from the side. “To meet Petrov’s man in the stables. Don’t worry,” she said with far more confidence than she felt. “I’ll get Elizaveta back safely.”

She would show the envoy the fake documents but refuse to hand them over until Elizaveta was released unharmed.

“Will you give me your jacket?”

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