The Princess & The Rogue (Bow Street Bachelors #3)
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Chapter 1.
Paris. June 1815.
Princess Anastasia Denisova took careful aim with the hammer.
“Anya, no! Not the Denisov tiara.”
Anya sent her best friend a quick glance, then returned her attention to the glittering headpiece in front of her. “We can’t hide it like this. We need small, unidentifiable pieces.”
Elizaveta groaned, apparently resigned to the inevitable, and Anya quashed a pang of guilt for destroying something so undeniably lovely. Still, a piece of broken jewelry was the least of their worries. With a silent apology to the artist who’d made such a beautiful thing, she brought the hammer down with a sickening crunch.
The gold setting crumpled and a couple of pea-sized diamonds skittered across the wooden table. Elizaveta made a dive for the nearest one before it shot onto the floor. Anya hit the metal a few more times to loosen the rest of the gems, trying not to wince at the destruction, and scooped the diamonds into a small pile in front of her.
“Now bread.”
Elizaveta groaned again in protest. “We’ve already sewn jewels into our skirts. And your cloak. We don’t need to swallow them too.”
“You’ve seen what it’s like out there. People are getting desperate. We must take precautions.” Anya reached for the baguette on the table, ripped out a piece of the soft center, and pushed one of the smaller diamonds into the lump of bread.
Elizaveta watched her with grim fascination. “But how will we retrieve them?”
“By sifting through the contents of our bedpans, I suppose.” Anya smiled at her horrified grimace.
Elizaveta drew herself up, her expression stern. “You are a princess of Russia! Second cousin to the Tsar. Tenth in line to the throne! You shouldn’t be poking around in—”
“Shit?” Anya supplied with a snort.
“Language!”
Anya chuckled. “Is not befitting a princess. I know.” She sobered as the grim reality of their situation reasserted itself. “But there are worse things than sifting through bedpans.”
Elizaveta reached over and gave her arm a sympathetic squeeze. “Well, when you put it like that—”
“Exactly.” Anya tossed the bread ball to the back of her throat, took a mouthful of water from a nearby teacup, and swallowed.
A week ago she’d never have considered destroying the family heirlooms.
A week ago Dmitri hadn’t been dead.
Her brother had come to Paris following Napoleon’s abdication last year, attached to the Russian envoy, Carl Osipovich Pozzo di Borgo. When Bonaparte had been exiled to the island of Elba, Dmitri had deemed it safe for Anya to join him in the French capital for some shopping and sightseeing and she’d jumped at the chance.
Paris was everything she’d dreamed it would be; thrilling, fashionable, exotic. They’d visited galleries and museums, attended salons and balls. The past few months had been a giddy whirl of picnics by the Seine and trips to the modiste.
Napoleon’s audacious escape from his island prison had smashed that pleasant idyll. Dmitri had been away, assisting at the Congress in Vienna, and Anya had been naively certain that Bonaparte would be stopped long before he reached Paris. When Marshal Ney defected, and turned a large part of the ‘Royalist’ French army over to his former commander, it had come as a nasty shock.
Then the troops stationed outside the city walls had surrendered, and King Louis had abandoned the city. Elizaveta had urged Anya to do the same, but Anya hadn’t wanted to leave for St. Petersburg without Dmitri. His last letter, dated ten days ago, had said he was accompanying di Borgo to Belgium to liaise with the British commander, Wellington.
And then they’d heard news of the battle, near the Belgian town of Waterloo. The allied British and Prussian troops had defeated Napoleon, but at a terrible human cost.
Anya told herself there was no need to worry about Dmitri. He was a diplomat, not a soldier. He wouldn’t have been anywhere near the battlefield. He was just too busy to write, that was all. She considered traveling to Brussels herself, but there wasn’t a carriage to be had—almost every wheeled conveyance was being used by panicked citizens to leave the capital. And how could she hope to find him in all the confusion? No, she would stay in Paris and wait for him to come to her.
Anya stared down at the glittering stones on the table. She barely recalled the visit from General di Borgo. All she remembered was the blood leeching from her face when he’d told her of Dmitri’s death. The sick dread that had clutched her heart, Elizaveta’s arms around her as her grief escaped in noisy, gasping sobs.
Now, two days later, her tears had dried. A hollow, aching sadness remained.
She’d told Elizaveta they would return to St. Petersburg, but in truth it held little appeal. What was left for her there? A series of beautiful, empty palaces filled with the ghosts of happier times. Her parents had died five years ago, both carried off by the same fever. Now that Dmitri was gone, her closest male relative was some distant cousin in Moscow, who’d hound her to marry the first fortune-hunting fool who came her way.
Her father had refused plenty of suitors over the years. Men like the scheming Vasili Petrov, who hadn’t wanted her, merely the cachet that marriage to a Russian princess would bring. Anya was adamant that her union—like that of her own parents—would be based on mutual respect and appreciation, and not financial inducement. She’d seen far too many unhappy arranged marriages at court to consider settling for one herself.
After her father’s death, Dmitri had done the refusing. Now he was gone, too.
Pain and grief balled inside her but Anya pushed them away. She had to be practical, for Elizaveta’s sake. She pinched off another piece of bread, inserted another diamond, and swallowed it down.
Concealing a selection of gemstones inside their clothes was an expedient thing to do, considering the volatile situation outside. It was a long way from Paris to St. Petersburg. Two women alone would be an easy target for thieves. If Anya’s baggage was stolen they’d have the jewels sewn into the hem of her cloak. And if her cloak was stolen, too—well, then the diamonds she’d just swallowed would be a last resort.
With bleak humor she wondered how long it would take for the gems to work their way through her body. A few days, probably. Her former tutors would be horrified to know she’d been called on to make such an obscene calculation.
Elizaveta finished stitching a small pearl choker into the lining of a walking dress and picked up the mangled baguette. “That’s quite enough. You’ll make yourself sick if you have any more.” She scooped the remaining loose jewels into a reticule and folded the newly-weighted garments over her arm. “I’ll go make us some tea.”
Tea, in Elizaveta’s opinion, was the answer to everything.
After she left, Anya sat listening to the heartbreakingly normal sounds of the street outside. Carts rattled, birds sang. Tradesmen haggled. How could the world carry on as if nothing had happened? How was it possible to feel so alone amongst hundreds of thousands of people? The ache in her chest intensified. Thank God for Elizaveta. Without her dear friend, she’d be truly alone in this world.
Footsteps echoed on the stairs, too heavy to be Elizaveta returning with a tea tray. Anya frowned. Another visit from general Di Borgo? She stood and started for the door, but it opened after only the briefest of knocks. Her skirts swirled around her ankles as she came to an abrupt stop.
“Count Petrov! This is . . . unexpected.”
It definitely wasn’t ‘a pleasure.’
In Russia they said; In a foreign country you’re glad to see even the crow from your own land. But that wasn’t true. She wasn’t glad to see Vasili Petrov, at all. If she’d had her wish, she’d never have set eyes on him again.
Back in St. Petersburg they called him handsome, with his pale blond hair and cool blue eyes, but Anya had known him since childhood. He was sly and vindictive, always jockeying for position. A preening peacock who bragged about his female conquests and his luck at the gaming tables with equal pride. She narrowed her eyes. He was neat as a pin, pure military perfection in his powder-blue uniform edged with gold braid. Unlike General di Borgo, whose head had still been bandaged beneath his battered hat, Vasili didn’t look as if he’d been anywhere near a battlefield.
“Have you just arrived?” she asked. “Were you at the battle in Belgium?”
Vasili removed his pristine white gloves, tugging at the tip of each finger before folding them carefully in his palm. “Alas, no. We arrived a few hours after the French retreat. It was all over by then.”
A wave of indignant fury welled up inside her. Why should a bastard like Vasili be spared, and good, brave men like Dmitri die?
Vasili slapped his gloves against his thigh and his pale gaze roved over her as if he were inspecting her for flaws. “I heard about the death of your brother. You have my condolences, Princess.”
His stiff, emotionless tone was an insult. How dare he? Dmitri was a hero who’d died serving his country, whereas Vasili—
He took a step toward her and Anya swallowed a gasp of astonishment as he dropped to one knee and caught her hand in his. She tried to pull away, but he had a firm grip on her fingers.
“Princess Anastasia—Anya—” he murmured. “With Dmitri gone, you need a protector. A husband. Please, do me the honor of—”
Anya shook her head in horrified disbelief. “Don’t be ridiculous! I’m going back to St. Petersburg. On my own. I don’t need anyone’s protection.”
Vasili’s fingers tightened painfully on her knuckles. “No, Princess. You’re going to marry me.”
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