“Is he dead?”
“I don’t know, and I don’t care,” Elizaveta said briskly. “He deserved it, threatening you like that.” She poked Vasili with the toe of her boot and gave a disappointed sigh. “No, he’s just out cold.”
Anya’s hands were shaking. Vasili had hit upon an uncomfortable truth: without a male protector, shewasdangerously vulnerable. If he’d truly tried to molest her, she doubted she’d have had the strength to stop him. What if Elizaveta hadn’t come? It didn’t bear thinking about.
They hurried out into the hallway. Anya locked the door and dropped the key into the flower vase—now conspicuously lacking its twin—which flanked the door.
“We can’t stay here. Not now that he’s found us.”
“Should we go to the authorities?” Elizaveta asked. “Or to General Di Borgo?”
“I doubt either could help. The whole city’s in turmoil. There’s too much going on.” Anya shook her head, her thoughts in a whirl. “Although, this chaos might work to our advantage. If we disappear now, we’ll be harder to trace.”
She didn’t doubt Vasili’s threat to follow her. His pride was fierce, and he hated to be thwarted. She hurried toward her bedchamber with Elizaveta hard on her heels. Vasili would expect her to head back to Russia. Even if they managed to evade him on the journey, he would catch up with them in St. Petersburg and attempt to enact his absurd plan there. They needed another destination. And to throw him off the scent.
“What if I pretend to kill myself?”
Elizaveta frowned. “What?”
“As a diversion. I’ll leave a note. I’ll say I can’t bear to live without Dmitri and would rather die than marry Vasili.” Anya’s voice cracked at the mention of her brother, but there was no time to grieve him now. She had to think. To act.
“You think he’ll believe it?”
“It’s worth a try. At the very least it will give us some time before he starts looking for us.”
Anya glanced around her comfortable bedroom. She had a wardrobe full of clothes, silver-backed brushes and mirrors, a host of expensive luxuries she’d always taken for granted. She pushed down a brief pang of regret. “We’ll have to leave all of this behind.”
Elizaveta nodded decisively. She selected a small bag and thrust a few choice articles inside, then picked up Anya’s travelling cape and the reticule of diamonds. “Thank goodness we didn’t leave these in there with him.”
Anya pulled her leather jewelry box from the back of the wardrobe. “I have some coins. And we can take a few more jewels. Vasili won’t know what’s missing.” She grabbed the satchel she used for watercolor paints and thrust her favorite pair of leather ankle boots inside, along with a shawl and a few clean chemises. “Hurry! Heaven knows how long we have before he wakes up.”
She rushed to the writing desk in the corner, snatched up a pen and paper, and dashed off a short note proclaiming her intention to throw herself into the Seine. That done, she joined Elizaveta at the front door to the apartment. A thousand contradictory thoughts crowded her brain.
Good God. How had it come to this? Thrust from a life of peaceful contentment into one of terrifying uncertainty, all in the space of a few days. If they ran, they would be just like every other citizen out there; they’d have to make their own way in the world without the cushion of rank or fortune to ease the way.
The thought was oddly beguiling. Anya might never have experienced the hardship of living without family, or wealth, or social status, but she’d developed a certain amount of cunning while learning to survive the scandals and machinations of the Russian court. Neither she nor Elizaveta were fools. They were determined and resourceful. They would rise to this challenge. And really, could whatever awaited them out there be worse than the fate Petrov had planned for her?
She doubted it.
Anya took a fortifying breath. This might be an ending, but it was also a beginning. A chance to experience all that life had to offer. Her whole life she’d been seen as little more than a means of enrichment or a political pawn; it was time to see what she could achieve on her own.
She grasped Elizaveta’s hand. “Are you sure you wantto come with me? I can give you enough money to get back to St. Petersburg, if you want.”
Elizaveta returned the squeeze. “I wouldn’t dream of leaving you, my love. What’s the plan?”
“All right. We’ll find a carriage heading north, toward Belgium. There will be plenty of wounded soldiers returning home. We’ll attach ourselves to them and say we’re widows, or looking for our husbands. We’ll go to England. Vasili won’t think to look for us there.” Anya gave a decisive nod. “Think of an English surname.”
Elizaveta wrinkled her nose. “Smith? Brown? What was the name of the family in that English book we read last year? Bennett?”
“Perfect. You can be Elizabeth—no, Lizzie—Bennett. Or Smith, if you prefer. And I shall be Anna. Anna Brown. From this moment, Princess Anastasia Denisova is dead.”
Chapter 3.
One year later. September 1816.
Sebastien Wolff, Earl of Mowbray, frowned down at the dead man at his feet and sighed in irritation.
He wasn’t dressed to investigate a murder. He’d been about to leave for the opera and a visit to the infamous Mrs. Haye’s brothel in Covent Garden, when his two best friends, Benedict Wylde and Alex Harland, had arrived at the Tricorn Club, commandeered his carriage, and effectively kidnapped him.
