She could scarcely believe she was suggesting something so scandalous, but Wolff already considered her the worst sort of hoyden anyway, so what did it matter?
His lips twitched again at her challenge. “Very well. I’ll see what I can do.”
He rose and she matched the move, unwilling to stay seated with him looming over her.
“You may return to your rooms, Miss Brown.”
Less than half an hour later, Mickey delivered a pair of clean brown woolen breeches, a white shirt, a shapeless brown wool jacket, and a pair of scuffed knee-high riding boots to her chambers.
With a spurt of excitement, Anya put them on, remembering all the times she’d borrowed Dmitri’s clothes to romp around the forests with him when they were children. The boots were a little big, but not enough to signify. She plaited her hair into a single thick braid and pinned it in a coil to her head, then shrugged into the jacket. It, too, was too big, but it disguised her curves, which was the aim.
Wolff was waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs. He glanced up as she descended and narrowed his eyes, taking a slow inventory. A simmer started in her blood and her step faltered. In contrast to her scruffiness, he looked impeccable. His boots gleamed, his greatcoat fell in heavy folds almost to his ankles. He held a black riding crop in his hand; he tapped it impatiently against his thigh. The sight made her pulse leap.
She waited for some rude comment, but he simply nodded once and strode to the door. She followed him out into the stables where two mounts had been saddled. The dark horse was the one he’d been riding when he’d come to the rescue on Hounslow Heath.
He indicated the second horse, a handsome grey with liquid eyes. “That’s Borodino, and this”—he patted the bay—“is Eclipse.”
“Borodino? After the battle?”
“Yes. I had him shipped back from the Peninsular. He’s so used to noise that nothing disturbs him, not barking dogs, brawling street vendors, or rattling carts. He never flinches. You’ll be safe with him.” He frowned down at her. “Are you sure you want to go? It’s cold.”
Anya chuckled. “If you’d ever faced a Russian winter, you wouldn’t call this cold. I’m used to snow several feet deep, my lord. I’ll manage.”
He plucked a cap from a nail on the wall and tossed it to her. “Cover your hair.”
She tugged the peak low over her brow, then put her foot in the stirrup and mounted without his assistance. She caught a brief look of surprise on his face at her skill. Presumably he was accustomed to women who needed to use a mounting block or to be lifted up into the saddle by a man. Well, she was no damsel in distress.
She adjusted the reins as he mounted his stallion with a fluid movement that spoke of endless familiarity, and they urged the horses out into the mews yard. Wolff watched her for a moment to see how she handled her mount then led on, apparently satisfied.
“Stay behind me. You’re dressed as a groom. You must act as one. If anyone sees you, they’ll assume you’re exercising the grey.”
Anya nodded meekly, unwilling to do anything to make him change his mind.
“We’ll go to St. James’s Park, it’s closest.”
Within minutes, they rode through the gated east entrance of the park and started along one of the tree-lined paths designated for riding. As expected, the place was almost deserted.
“We can’t stay long. This place is dangerous at night, no matter how genteel it appears in the daytime. It’s a notorious haunt for prostitutes.”
“I thought the gates were locked at night?”
“They are. But it’s estimated there are over seven thousand keys in private possession, so it might as well be left open.”
She brought her mount level with his and glanced up at the sky. “It smells like it’s going to snow.”
He shot her an amused glance. “You can smell impending snowfall?”
“Of course! You can sense it in the air.” She shrugged. “Perhaps it’s a Russian thing. We’re clearly experts. Just as no two snowflakes are alike, so no two snowfalls are alike. There’s wet snow. Slushy snow. Dry, powdery snow. Snow that’s perfect for making snowballs. We have at least four different words for a snowstorm.Metelis wind-driven snow.V’yugais a common literary term.Buranis a regional word, used in Siberia. AndPurgais more like a blizzard.”
He shook his head with a chuckle. “Well, you’re not likely to see a blizzard here in England. The most we usually get is a light dusting. Winters used to be much colder a century ago, so I’m told. The Thames regularly froze over, and each time it did, a Frost Fair would be held on the ice. All kinds of stalls would pop up, with tradesmen selling everything from spiced ale to gingerbread and roast oxen.”
“It sounds wonderful.”
“The last one was two years ago. I was off fighting in Portugal, but Dorothea said they led an elephant out by Blackfriars Bridge to prove the thickness of the ice.”
“I would have loved to see that. We’re so used to frozen rivers in Russia, we never do exciting things like that. I suppose the novelty has worn off. Still, they say itwas the harshness of our winter that defeated Napoleon when he invaded with hisGrande Armée. He was beaten by General January and General February.”
Anya’s smile faded as she recalled the grim statistics that had been reported in the news sheets at the time. “I heard he lost hundreds of thousands of men on that campaign.”
