When Lady Sarah had died, the duke had promptly married the already pregnant Maria to legitimize his son and ensure he had a “spare,” in case Geoffrey proved as sickly as his mother.
The marriage had not proved a happy one. Seb’s mother had been far too spirited to be content to stay in the country seat and play duchess. She’d returned toLondon and taken a series of lovers, and the duke had remained in the country and continued his rakish ways with a steady succession of ever-younger actresses and courtesans.
Seb’s mother had died of smallpox when he was eight, and his father had vowed never to remarry. Women, he declared, just weren’t worth the bother. In a perverse show of solidarity for his spirited mother—and a desire to distance himself from his domineering father—Seb had adopted the surname Wolff at school and used it ever since.
It was no wonder his views on the subject of marriage were jaundiced.
“I suppose it’s not surprising that you thought Miss Brown would take your five hundred pounds,” Alex mused, almost as if he’d followed the direction of Seb’s thoughts. “Julia would have jumped at the chance. So would most women, in fact.”
“Which makes me wonder why Miss Brown said no.” Seb frowned. “She didn’t look particularly well-off. Her dress was decent quality, but several seasons old. And she wasn’t wearing any jewelry.”
“There’s only one explanation,” Benedict said. “If she’s not already married or a widow, she must be a virgin, holding out for a respectable offer.”
Seb’s stomach twisted. Surely fate wouldn’t bethatcruel.
“What was she doing in a brothel, then?” he demanded. “No respectable single woman would be on friendly terms with an infamous madam and a gaggle full of lightskirts. It doesn’t make any sense.”
The mystery of the whole situation plagued him. Not only why the elusive Miss Brown had refused him, but why he, in turn, had refused the undeniably lovelyalternative Mrs. Haye had offered him that evening. He’d lost all interest in other women.
It was damned irritating. Where the hell had she gone?
“Enough about Seb’s love life, or lack of one,” Alex said. “Any news on the Russians and our potential spy?”
Benedict shook his head. “Georgie and I attended the Lievens’ reception the other night and met most of the Russian delegation, including Prince Trubetskoi. I invited him to the Tricorn for a few rounds of cards, so we’ll see if he takes me up on the offer.”
Seb shrugged. “And I haven’t had any luck finding out what crest was inscribed on that ring we took from the dead man at the docks. I’ll keep trying.”
“The Dread Dowager Duchess was at the Lievens,” Ben added with a smile. “She said you hadn’t visited her in an age.”
Seb grunted. “That’s not true! I had supper with her only last week. And besides, she mentioned something about going to Everleigh for a week or two.” He clapped his hand to his forehead in sudden recollection. “Oh, hell! She asked me to lend her a couple of men to escort her down to Oxfordshire. I completely forgot.” He glanced over at the clock.
“When?” Ben asked.
“Today.”
“Oh dear.” Alex chuckled. “Someone’s going to get a dressing down.”
Seb stood and tossed back the remnants of his brandy. “Bugger. It’s too late to ask anyone else. I’ll have to go myself.”
Thetoncalled his great-aunt the Dread Dowager Duchess with good reason, but the old battle-ax was one of his few family members he actuallyliked. He’d feel dreadful if anything happened to her. And a promise wasa promise, after all. He might be all kinds of scoundrel, but he always kept his word.
Ben peered out of the window. “It looks like rain,” he said with an infuriating smile. “Have fun.”
Seb sent him an obscene hand gesture that had endured since the Battle of Agincourt and cursed his own sense of familial duty in three different languages.
Chapter 9.
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.
