On several occasions, the dowager had tried to coax her to move into the huge Grosvenor Square townhouse she inhabited, but Anya had refused, citing Elizaveta, and her need for independence. Recent events, however, had caused her to reconsider that option. Her roommate had gained a beau; a handsome, charmingly disorganized barrister by the name of Oliver Reynolds.
Elizaveta had found work as a seamstress for Ede and Ravenscroft, a tailor in Chancery Lane specializing in ceremonial robes; black cloaks for judges in court, gowns for university dons, and the ermine-trimmed capes worn by peers for the state opening of Parliament. They’d met when Oliver had come—in a great hurry—to buy a new set of court robes for an appearance at the Old Bailey. He’d set fire to his previous set by leaving them too close to the stove. Elizaveta had assisted him, and by the end of the encounter, they had both been equally smitten.
Elizaveta snipped off the end of her thread, smoothed her hand over the fur-edged cloak she’d been trimming, and glanced at the mantel clock Anya had purchasedfrom the pawn shop down the road. Unlike the beautiful, hard-paste porcelain produced by the Russian factories, this was a cheap, soft-paste English piece that resembled a lump of cake icing that had melted in the sun. The gaudily painted, lopsided couple supporting the clockface looked permanently intoxicated. Anya loved it.
“I should go and get ready,” Elizaveta said.
“You’re meeting Oliver tonight?”
“Yes. He’s taking me to see Edmund Keane play Sir Giles Overreach at Drury Lane again.”
“I heard his first performance was so powerful that Mrs. Glover actually fainted on stage.”
Elizaveta giggled. “Oh yes, he’s quite terrifying. Which gives me the perfect excuse to clutch Oliver and for him to put his arm around me!”
Anya laughed approvingly. “You’re shameless.”
The sound of someone tripping on the stairs, and a muffled oath, interrupted them, and Elizaveta rolled her eyes fondly. “That will be him now.”
Anya shook her head. Oliver was tall and thin, with the air of a man who’d grown to adulthood without ever becoming accustomed to the additional size of his own body. He was always bumping into things and sporting interesting bruises on his person. If there was a runaway donkey, a pot of ink to spill, or a set of steps to trip up, Oliver would find them.
Luckily, his physical ineptness masked a mind as incisive as a razor. He was a formidable barrister, fiercely intelligent, though prone to going off on obscure tangents if distracted. Elizaveta, with her practical, organized nature, was the perfect complement to his haphazard style. Anya had no doubt the two of them would be blissfully happy together.
The looming possibility of their engagement, however, had forced her to question her own future. She loved herjob with the dowager duchess, but it didn’t give her much opportunity to mingle with many men her own age.
Unlike Elizaveta, who was firmly entrenched in the working classes, Anya had found herself in a strange subset of society reserved for governesses and penniless-yet-genteel poor relations. She featured somewhere above servants and tradeswomen, but below the landed gentry and aristocracy, who lived off the income from tenants, property, and investments.
She had all of those things back in Russia, of course. And despite her disappearance, she had no fear that her property would have been dispersed among the remaining members of her family. A few weeks after they’d arrived in London, she’d written to her trusted man of business in St. Petersburg, informing him that she was taking an extended tour of Eastern Europe. She’d been sure to request that should anyone—especially one Vasili Petrov—inquire about her, that Mr. Lermontov feign complete ignorance of her whereabouts. Since Lermontov’s family had served as financial advisors to the Denisovs for well over a hundred years, Anya was confident of his discretion.
Oliver’s arrival interrupted her recollections.
“Good evening, Miss Anna,” he said, removing his cap to reveal a thatch of mussed, sandy hair. His smile widened as his gaze found Elizaveta. “And good evening, Lizzie. Sorry I’m late. There was a rat on the steps of my office, but when I went to chase it away, it turned out to be a kitten. The poor little mite was soaking. Some cruel bugger had tried to drown it, I think.”
His brows drew together in a disapproving line. “Of course, I couldn’t just leave it there to die. I had to get it some milk and find someone to look after it, and”—he extended his arms to the sides in a hapless gesture—“well, the end result is that I’m late. Are youready? We’ll have to hurry if you want to catch the opening act.”
Elizaveta shot Anya a laughing look at her beloved’s habitual tardiness and sent him a dazzling smile. “You’re a good man, Oliver Reynolds. Not everyone would have been as kind as you.”
Oliver’s neck reddened at her praise.
“Let me just get my hat and my gloves, and we can be on our way.”
Elizaveta took the few steps needed to cross the room and enter her bedchamber and reappeared moments later, tying the laces of her cloak. “There. All ready. Are you sure you’ll be all right on your own?” Her last comment was addressed to Anya.
Anya nodded, amused by her friend’s concern. She refrained from saying that if anyone accosted her, she’d be sure to hit them over the head with a vase. Elizaveta still didn’t like to joke about their near miss with Petrov.
“I won’t be here for long,” Anya said. “I’m going next door. I promised Charlotte I’d continue the girls’ lessons. You two have a wonderful evening.”
Chapter 5.
Half an hour later, Anya slipped through the back door of London’s most exclusive brothel and smiled at the owner, her friend and neighbor, Charlotte Haye. The infamous madam was dressed in the height of fashion, her naturally blond hair arranged in an elaborate style, her voluptuous figure displayed to its best advantage in a gown of lavender silk.
Anya divested herself of her gloves and bonnet. “Are the girls ready?”
“They are indeed. Tess is looking forward to reading a whole chapter on her own. And Jenny’s been practicing her penmanship all week. Amy’s with a customer, but she’ll be down as soon as she’s free.”
Anya’s smile dimmed a little. When she’d first realized that the house next to the modest apartment she and Elizaveta had rented in Covent Garden was a brothel, she’d been dismayed. But a chance encounter with Charlotte on the front steps had led to an invitation to tea, andAnya had discovered that the notorious Mrs. Haye was one of the kindest, wittiest women she’d ever met.
The interior of the brothel was as tastefully appointed as an ambassador’s residence. Charlotte had spared no expense to make her rooms as luxurious and appealing as possible, and the strategy had clearly worked, because the place was frequented by only the wealthiest and most aristocratic of clients.
