Page 11 of A Swirl of Shadows
“I understand,” murmured her friend. “Action is like a powerful drug. It can be . . .”
“Addictive?” Arianna frowned in thought. “I’d like to think my change of heart iscaused by more admirable motivations than simply a craving for danger.”
“There is no question about what motivates you,” replied Sophia. “Your principles and your loyalty—not to speak of your courage—are among the things I admire most about you.”
“Of late, I’ve been feeling anything but courageous—”
Sophia gave her arm a reassuring squeeze. “We all have times in life when our spark deserts us. You just needed a challenge to rekindle it.”
“I have to confess.” Arianna made a wry face. “Sandro is under the impression that we still have a choice to make. But my mind is now made up. I can’t in good conscience allow Richard to face the perils in Russia alone.”
“How fortuitous.” A smile curled at the corners of her friend’s mouth. “For I met a very interesting guest at last evening’s soiree, and came here to tell you about her. She’s just arrived from St. Petersburg, and given your decision, you may wish to speak with her.”
“Indeed, I do. And it behooves me to do so before Sandro returns.” Arianna thought for a moment. “Do you think the lady will see us at this hour?”
“Baroness Anna-Maria Gruzinsky strikes me as someone who doesn’t pay strict attention to the rules of propriety,” answered Sophia dryly. “Shall we summon your carriage? I’ll explain what I know of her on the way to where she is staying.”
The wheels were soon rolling down Conduit Street as the coachman turned the team of matched greys toward Bloomsbury.
“The baroness claims to be a confidante of the Tsar’s mother,” began Sophia, “who, according to her, is a formidable power within the Imperial Court.”
“I have heard the same,” mused Arianna. Saybrook’s uncle, Lord Mellon, was a senior official in the Foreign Office, and she spent time during diplomatic receptions with the Russian delegation stationed in London. “Maria Fedorovna, the mother empress, holds her own court within the court, and few in the city dare to offend her by failing to pay frequent homage.”
“Precisely,” said Sophia. “Which means that every whisper of gossip or intrigue swirls through her section of the palace.”
“It would be only natural,” said Arianna, “that having been visiting in Paris at the time of Prince Orlov’s death, we show some curiosity concerning his family when we speak to Madame Gruzinsky.”
Her friend nodded. “Indeed.”
Hooves clattered over the cobbles as the horses swerved to avoid a lumbering wagon.
“Do you have any idea as to why the baroness has come to London?” she asked.
“She was being awfully coy about it, which was another thing that caught my attention,” said Sophia. “She dropped several hints that she had something of great interest to share, but she couldn’t say with whom.”
“How mysterious,” Arianna replied. “Assuming, of course, that she’s not simply trying to make herself appear important—and hoping that allure will open doors to the drawing rooms and ballrooms of Mayfair.”
The carriage came to a halt on Hart Street in front of a nondescript building whose soot-dulled Portland stone gave it the air of an elderly pensioner slowly sinking into his dotage.
“The Cumberland Hotel caters to country gentry who are looking to stretch their pennies,” murmured Sophia as the footman came around to open the door. “It’s respectable but cheap.”
They entered the establishment and asked the clerk on duty whether the baroness was in.
“Top floor,” he replied, not looking up from his newspaper. “Room Two.”
The stairs could have used a good sweeping, noted Arianna, lifting her skirts to avoid the crumblings of horse dung as she and Sophia started to climb.
The oil sconces were turned down low, leaving the way up shrouded in gloom. The faded watercolors of bucolic country scenes which hung in the landings did little to soften the harsh shadows cast by the balustrades.
“Clearly, one doesn’t come here to be pampered,” she commented as they made the final turn.
The baroness’s room was at the rear of the building. Sophia knocked softly, but there was no reply.
“She might well have gone out,” observed Arianna. “The fellow at the desk seems awfully lackadaisical about his duties.”
Sophia knocked again, harder this time—only to have the door creak open several inches.
Feeling the tiny hairs on the back of her neck stand on end, Arianna regarded the sliver of space, regretting that she hadn’t thought to bring along her pocket pistol.
