Anya nodded, and he slipped away through the crowd. She’d actually met Trubetskoi on several occasions back in Russia. She didn’t know him well, but he would doubtless recognize her if he saw her unmasked. Still, she was sure she looked so different now from the prim and proper ice princess he’d met in St. Petersburg that she’d be safe.
Russians had a saying:Listen more, talk less,and certainly some of the Tricorn’s guests should have heeded that advice. Anya hovered close to the group, and as Wolff had suspected, they were chatting freely in Russian between themselves. She quickly learned that the one called Kutzov was on a prolonged losing streak, that Krupin was pining after a well-endowed girl named Misha, and that all four of them planned to visit Haye’s later that evening.
Anya smiled at the thought of Charlotte’s delight at having five such good-looking new customers.
Unfortunately, her loitering did not go completely unnoticed. The man named Kutzov slid over and caught her playfully around the waist.
“Gut evening, pretty lady,” he breathed in heavily accented English, and Anya caught the fog of vodka on his breath. “Give Mika a kiss for good luck?”
Anya twisted her head away. As the man undressed her with his eyes, she resisted the urge to give him a set-down and instead, tried to imagine what Tess or Jenny would say in the situation. She gave a coquettish giggle and tried to mimic the accented tones of the Covent Garden flower sellers.
“Oi! Easy, sir. I’m wiv anuvver gent tonight. ’E might not take kindly to you breathin’ all over me.”
She wriggled free of his arm and stepped back, only to bump into a large body positioned directly behind her. The newcomer caught her arm.
“Leave her alone, Kutzov,” the man said easily in Russian. “There are plenty more where she came from. No need to piss off the locals by stealing a cheap whore.”
Anya’s blood turned to ice, and with a sickening sense of dread, she turned to see the man from whom she’d been hiding for more than a year.
Chapter 23.
Vasili Petrov looked exactly the same. Anya glanced into his pale eyes and felt a wave of fear and loathing. His gaze was cold, as dead as a Siberian winter.
Unlike the others, he was dressed in his military uniform, all gilt braid and pale-blue jacket, exactly as he’d been the day he’d told her Dmitri was dead. His hair and blond mustache were neatly trimmed, and he flashed her a charming, meaningless smile, unaware that she knew he’d just insulted her.
She was reminded of a quote from Shakespeare: “O what may man within him hide, though angel on the outward side.” Vasili hid a heart that was blackened and corrupt. Cruelty simmered beneath the surface, soul-deep.
Desperate to escape, she ducked her head and swirled away, thankful for her concealing mask. She threaded her way through the crowd and found Wolff near the doors to the dining room. He was talking with an elderly gentleman, but when he saw her, he held out his arm in a gesture of welcome and drew her into his side.
The older man sent Anya an indulgent smile and nodded at Wolff. “I’ll keep you informed, Mowbray. And cede the field to this delightful young lady who desires your company.”
He walked away, and Anya turned her body into Wolff’s chest, savoring the sensation of safety. She placed her hands on his shoulders and went up on tiptoe to whisper in his ear. “Petrov is here!”
He sent her an easy, polite smile. She stared at him in confusion.
He bent his head to nuzzle her temple and despite the fact that her heart was still pounding in fright, she felt a traitorous curl of desire ripple through her. His lips skimmed her cheek and his nose brushed the pulse below her ear.
“I can’t hear you with that ear,” he whispered softly. “What did you say? If it was ‘Take me to bed, Sebastien,’ I’m all yours.”
A shiver of longing pebbled her skin even as she felt his muscles tense. With a heavy sense of inevitability, she dropped her arms as she saw Vasili and Prince Trubetskoi advancing on them. She thought she might be sick. God, had Vasili recognized her?
Wolff’s arm snaked around her waist, and she was glad of the support. Her legs felt like water.
But neither Vasili nor the prince flicked her more than a passing glance. Instead, the prince said, “Lord Mowbray? It’s a pleasure to see you again. May I introduce a colleague of mine, Count Petrov? We worked together at Vienna, during the talks.”
Vasili gave a stiff, formal bow. “My compliments on the excellent Russian fare you have provided tonight, my lord. The blini with caviar were most excellent.” He paused and lifted one brow in what Anya supposed wasmeant to be a friendly tease. “One might almost think you had a Russian helping you plan it.”
Her stomach lurched, but Wolff gave an easy laugh. His hand stroked her back, kneading the tense muscles there. “No. My chef, Lagrasse, is French. But the recipes are authentic. I’m glad they meet your exacting standards.”
Vasili flicked a glance over at her, but there was no recognition in his gaze. “So, this pretty piece is yours, is she?” He chuckled, but it was more malicious than amused. “No wonder Kutzov had no luck.”
Wolff slid his finger down her arm to the sensitive skin at the bend of her elbow in an unsubtle display of ownership. “There are plenty of other women to keep your friend company,” he said pleasantly. “I’m afraid this one’s engaged for the evening.”
He bent and placed an easy kiss on the bare skin of her shoulder, and Anya almost jumped out of her skin.
“Go wait in my rooms, sweetheart. I’ll be along in a few moments.” He patted her playfully on the bottom, playing the part of eager lover to the hilt.
Anya stretched her lips in a parody of a smile and grasped the excuse to leave. Ignoring Vasili and the prince, she leaned in and pressed a kiss to the very corner of Wolff’s mouth. “Hurry,” she murmured, trying to emulate Charlotte’s throaty purr. “I’ll be waiting.”
