Andrea Pickens - [Lessons in Love 03] (19 page)

His brows drew together.

"Now kindly remove your hand from my elbow and try not to make an unseemly spectacle in front of innocent eyes."

His arm fell away and he took up the bottle." Come along, Nicholas, let us find our beds. Good night, Miss Hadley and Miss Renfrew." After a moment he added, "Sweet dreams."

Hardly, thought Octavia sourly.

* * *

Gregori Bechusky, head steward to Vladimir Illyich Rabatov, regarded the deserted cottage with a snarl of frustration and stalked back to copse of trees. The young count's uncle had entrusted him with tracking down the boy, and given the fat purse that was promised for completion of the job, his mood took an evil swing on finding his quarry had somehow slipped through his fingers. Mounting his horse, he threaded his way through the needled boughs to rejoin the three other men hidden in the forest.

"They've left. Let us split up and make inquiries." He tossed several gold Imperials to each of his cohorts. "Someone must have seen or heard something that will be of use to us. And be quick about it. We'll meet back at the tavern in several hours."

The others spurred off, while the steward sat for a moment in deep thought. It had been a fortuitous break, to overhear the idle comment about the young count's nurse having recently retired to her old village. His instincts had told him the boy would be here, so the ensuing disappointment at finding the place empty was only the more galling. But he hadn't been wrong. A careful inspection of the old woman's dwelling had revealed traces of the boy's presence, so a starting point now been established. A trail, however well disguised, would lead from it. And he did not doubt for an instant that he would be able to uncover it.

His confidence was soon proved justified by the nugget of information one of his men pried out of the old woman's nephew. A sled had been purchased only two days ago, along with two shambling nags. Bechusky gave a grim smile as he drained his flagon of kvass. His task was going to be that much easier with the young count on the run rather than holed up at Polyananovosk.

As his fingers drummed on the rough pine, he considered where his quarry might be headed. The advance of the French army made Moscow, or points west, an unlikely choice. Routes south, too, were fraught with danger. East or north seemed more likely. It should not be difficult to pick up the trail.

Only nagging question remained unanswered. He had determined that the old nurse had left with Riasanov, heading back in the direction of the Scherbatov estate. So who was with the boy? The description of the tall, broad-shouldered driver of the young count's vehicle matched up with none of the household servants his spies had reported were still loyal to the boy's family.

After a few more minutes, Bechusky slid his chair back and slapped a coin onto the table, signaling to the others it was time to be on their way. As he checked the pistol tucked inside the folds of his coat, he decided it was not worth worrying about the stranger. After all, it hardly mattered who the fellow was—he was not going to be alive much longer.

* * *

Alex woke with an aching head and a wooly mouth, an all too familiar condition that left him longing for Squid's sympathetic ministrations, and the soothing draughts the resourceful valet could always be counted on to deliver to his bedside. There was, however, no magic elixir waiting to wash away the sour taste of the previous night. He winced as he shifted under the ragged blanket, not only from the stab of pain at his temples but on recalling his behavior.

Lord, he had acted badly.

No, he had acted worse than badly.

Damnation!
How was it that a prim, sharp-tongued governess had him in such a pelter? He had barely been able to touch his dinner, so disquieted had he been by her unexpected actions. He was well aware of her intellect, her pluck and even her prickly pride. It was her quiet kindness and compassion that had thrown him into such a state of confusion. Why, she had made it quite clear that she didn't even like him, and yet, she had noticed his stumbling steps, and it had mattered to her that he had been cold and tired. Just as during that first night aboard the ship she had somehow sensed his desperate need not to be abandoned and hadn't walked away, though it was what he richly deserved. He couldn't remember the last person who had ever bothered to see in him aught but the studied nonchalance of a hardened libertine.

He swallowed hard. There had been care in her voice, gentleness in her fingers as they removed his boots. And when her ungloved hand had grazed his cheek while unwinding the scarf from his neck, its touch had sparked embers inside him he had thought long since burned out. If truth be told, the heat frightened him more than he cared to admit. He had grown so used to the cold, the thought of rekindling any flame was too threatening. Fire crackled, danced, licked and roared. It was something one couldn't control. Badly singed so long ago, he had vowed he would never let it happen again.

But despite all such resolve, he found himself being drawn to the odd figure of Miss Hadley like a moth to a candle. The attraction was thoroughly puzzling. Over the past ten years, he had fallen into bed with any number of willing ladies, always careful to let them touch nothing of him but the lithe planes of his flesh. Why was it now that he appeared in danger of letting a rather prim, outspoken female get beneath his skin? A low groan caught in his throat. He wasn't sure he wanted to face the answer and so he had done his best to push her away. To keep his own fears at bay he had deliberately sought to give her a disgust of him.

Well, he had certainly succeeded in doing that.
In spades.

He rolled onto his side, causing the empty vodka bottle to fall to the floor.

"Cousin Alex?" ventured a small voice. "Are you... awake?"

A wave of guilt washed over him. Good Lord, he had nearly forgotten about Nicholas!

"Yes, lad." He propped himself up on one elbow and ran a hand through his tangled hair. It was still quite dark outside, but by the faint stirrings below in the taproom, he figured it must be morning.

"Are you going to want to stay in bed all day?" asked Nicholas, the light from the single candle illuminating his pinched face.

"Why would you think that?"

There was a long pause. "Mr. Bolotnikov, my old tutor, kept spirits hidden in his desk. Whenever he claimed he was too ill to rise for my lessons, I could be sure of finding an empty bottle stashed somewhere in the schoolroom. It started to happen often enough that Mama found him out. She was very angry and sent him off." His eyes strayed to the floor. "She said it was a... a bad habit."

"She was right."

"Then why do you do it?"

Alex would never have imagined that a twelve-year-old was capable of making him blush, yet the simple question left him feeling more exposed than if he'd be caught running stark naked down Rotten Row.

He turned his head to find the boy was looking at him expectantly, which only served to increase his discomfiture. Indeed, he had to fight down the urge to throw the covers up over his head and, like the unfortunate tutor, claim he was too indisposed to face the day. Instead, he forced himself to a sitting position and cleared his throat—but the words remained stuck there. Answers were proving elusive this morning.

"We had best hurry in dressing," he finally mumbled. "It would not do to keep Miss Hadley and Miss Renfew waiting too long."

To his relief, that managed to deflect the boy's attention to another touchy subject. Nicholas's lower lip slowly jutted out. "I don't want to travel with them any longer. I hate girls. They are silly and helpless, and do nothing but whine and carry on in the most annoying manner."

"I should be careful about voicing such an opinion within earshot of Miss Hadley," replied Alex dryly. "And as for taking them along, I'm afraid we have no choice—I've already explained that as gentlemen, we simply cannot abandon them. Besides, Miss Renfrew has already proved herself to be a most brave and resourceful companion."

Nicholas shot him a look of disbelief. "Ha! Miss Hadley told me how it was you who saved them from a band of ruffians."

"Did she also tell you how it was she who was holding three of them at bay with a pistol when I arrived?"

The boy's eyes grew wide.

"Or how Miss Renfrew took up a bottle and flung it at the leader, just as he was about to stick his knife in my ribs? With quite credible aim I might add."

"She did?" he said in a faint voice.

Alex nodded. "She doesn't appear to be making a whine or a squeak about being abandoned in a strange country by a selfish relative, with nary a soul to turn to, if not for the kindness of Miss Hadley, since both her parents are deceased."

Nicholas was silent for several moments. Then, without further argument, he pushed back his covers and began to pull on his jacket.

* * *

"I hate boys. They are brainless and loud, and do nothing but think of stupid pranks to annoy those who are around them." Emma pulled the blanket up to her chin, a black expression on her scrunched features. "Can't we hire some other coach to take us to St. Petersburg?"

"We have tried that, without a great deal of success," reminded Octavia. "And even if we wished to try such a risky thing again, I doubt we could find a vehicle or driver willing to undertake such a journey. No, I fear we have no choice but to continue on with Mr. Sheffield."

"Well, at least he is not in the least odious."

Ha! thought Octavia, running a brush through her hair with a bit more force than necessary. However she left her private feelings on that score unsaid as she searched for some means to lessen the girl's pique. Suddenly, an idea occurred.

"Emma, perhaps you would have a little more charity for the poor lad if you knew the real story." She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "I am sure Mr. Alex would agree that you are old enough to trust with the secret."

Emma waited with bated breath.

"Did you know that Nicholas has recently lost both his parents?"

The girl bit her lip and shook her head.

"That is not the worst of it. His wicked uncle covets his title and fortune, and is determined, so it seems, to see that some 'accident' befalls Nicholas. So Mr. Sheffield has been engaged by the boy's English relatives to bring him safely to London."

Emma's eyes took on a decided shine. "Why, this is even more exciting than one of Mrs. Radcliffe's novels."

Octavia repressed a smile. "I think it would be less than honorable if we were to abandon the two of them. There is a real chance that Nicholas may be in danger during this journey. And knowing men and the stupid things they wont to do, he and Mr. Sheffield are bound to need our help along the way."

The girl was out of bed and dressed before Octavia had stuck the last hairpin into the prim bun at the back of her neck.

They descended the stairs before the men. Octavia wheedled the promise of a decent breakfast out of the proprietor, then took him aside by the elbow for a huddled conference. After a moment, he bobbed his head, a mercenary smile revealing a set of crooked yellow teeth, and moved off, leaving her to take a seat with a rather satisfied expression on her face.

It was not long before Alex appeared, trailed by Nicholas. Awkward greetings were exchanged, then the arrival of the tea and a platter of cold meats and bread made further words unnecessary. Alex took up his glass and walked to the window where he stood gazing out at the pale morning light, smudged grey with the threat of storm. As he passed her, Octavia did not fail to note the haggard hollows of his cheeks or the dark circles under his eyes. Her lips thinned, but whether in concern or in censure even she wasn't sure.

Truly, he was the most exasperating person she had ever encountered—cool and courageous one moment, obnoxious and odious the next. He had wit and intelligence, which he took pains to hide behind a mask of bored indifference. Which was the true Mr. Sheffield? She thought for a moment, deciding the answer was much more complex than she had first imagined. Why, for a fleeting instant, she had the oddest notion—perhaps he wasn't sure either.

Oh, it was clear he wished the world to think him a cynical rake, caring for naught but his own pleasures. But she had heard the pain in his voice that night on the ship, a cry of longing no amount of spirits could slur. She had no notion of what lay behind such feelings, but what she did know was that he was not as hardened as he pretended. Even his blatant attempts at seduction were softened by the look she had detected in his eyes. Rather than a calculating coldness, there was something more akin to regret.

Octavia swallowed the last of her tea. Whether he was an unprincipled rogue or a stalwart champion, he was who they were all depending on to get them safely to St. Petersburg. And judging by his current appearance, they had better get moving.

Chapter 10