Sins of a Ruthless Rogue

“I received a parcel containing a book of William Blake’s poetry. At first, I thought it was some sort of cruel jest. But then I put the

pieces together. Your sudden appearance—a distant cousin I’d never heard him mention. His missing body. The nonsensical

reason you gave for him being on the bridge that night. He’d sent me the book to let me know he was alive. So where is he?”

Clayton shrugged. “It’s not for me to say.”

“Why not? You were the one behind it, were you not? You were the one who came to me with the news.”

“I played the part I was assigned.”

“Played? Played? Is this a”—her voice cracked—“a game? It may have been to Sergey. It may be to you. But it is not for me.” Her lip

trembled. “Where is he? Can you at least give me that?”

“For a cost.”

Olivia had thought his icy reserve stemmed from his plans for her and her father. In fact, the thought had been rather comforting. It

meant the boy she’d known was still in there somewhere, just hidden from her.

But perhaps he wasn’t.

And yet, a memory surfaced of Clayton taking a scolding from her father over some small error. He’d stood just as proud and

uncaring as he did now. She hadn’t thought a word her father had said meant anything to him until she’d sneaked out to meet him

later and he’d held her tight until his shuddered breaths had calmed.

If that sensitivity was still there somewhere, he’d hidden it so deeply that she doubted even he knew where it was.

She had to help him find it. When was the last time Clayton had been truly happy? She might not be able to give him happiness any

longer, but at least she could remind him to want it.

The princess collapsed on a settee, her eyes pinched shut. “You dare . . . Yes. I see that you do. What do you need?”

“A place to stay. Clothing. An audience with the emperor.”

Princess Katya stood, smoothing her long vest. “Tell the servants what you need. I’ll see what I can do about the emperor.” She

seemed to remember Olivia’s presence. “He’s a beast. Don’t ever doubt it.”

She strode from the room, her shoulders straight and her chin lifted at a proud tilt.

Clayton paced to the window. “I don’t need you to speak in my behalf. I make no apologies for my actions.”

“I’ve noticed.” She didn’t like not seeing his face, so she moved next to him.

“It will do you no good to appear sympathetic to me.” He spoke so matter-of-factly. As if he expected her to change her opinion

simply because he’d said so.

“You’re right. From now on I’ll shriek obscenities at you when we are around others.”

His gaze was fixed on some distant point on the horizon. “It might be safer for you if you did.”

“Why do you care if I’m safe?”

She thought for a moment that he might admit to some sort of concern. Some emotion.

Instead, he stepped away. “I already saved you once. I have no desire to do so again.”

A brisk, gray-haired housekeeper arrived to lead Olivia and Clayton to their rooms.

“The princess say one room?” she asked in heavily accented English as they mounted the stairs.

“Two.” Olivia and Clayton both spoke at once, so emphatically that the housekeeper’s eyes widened. Olivia couldn’t help looking at

Clayton, and heaven help her if the tension around his lips hadn’t relaxed a touch.

The housekeeper opened a door revealing a pale blue room with intricate plaster moldings and frothy white lace. She darted a

glance from Olivia’s muddy boots to the carpet. “The footman bring bath?”

Nothing had ever sounded so divine. “Yes.”

“Your friend has room through there.” She pointed to an adjoining door. “Bath for you, too?”

Clayton nodded and the housekeeper left.

“Are we safe here?” she asked, when Clayton didn’t immediately go to his room.

“As close as I can come.” Weariness pierced his response so completely that she glanced up at him. But his face was as

impassive as always.

“That isn’t precisely reassuring.”

Clayton bowed. “Knock when you’re finished. I’ll dress your wrists.”

After an hour spent scrubbing layers of grime from her skin, Olivia shrugged into an incredible banyan—sapphire silk adorned with

a silver Chinese dragon swirling across the lower half—that had been supplied by one of the maids.

If she closed her eyes, she could almost believe she was home. Not that she’d owned silk for many years, but the smooth slide of

the fabric over her skin felt like sanctuary.

Someone knocked on the door. Perhaps that was the maid bringing her clothing?

She crept to the door, trying to convince herself that she wasn’t showing that much leg, and opened it.

Princess Katya sailed in. “So you aren’t his mistress.”

Olivia blinked at the bluntness. “No.”

Princess Katya cleared her throat. “Then I fear I must apologize for my poor manners earlier.”

“No—”

The princess shook her head. “No. It was definitely a scene. And the only thing worse than participating in a scene is being forced to

witness one between two other people.” There was genuine regret in the woman’s eyes. “I can promise that despite what you saw, I’

m neither insane nor . . . dramatic.” The word was pronounced with distinct distaste. “In fact, most people would call me completely

unflappable.”

“I’m sorry about your husband.”

“So am I.” She picked up a crystal perfume bottle, then set it back on the table. “And I suppose I owe the baron an apology, too, if he

did save my husband’s life. But I cannot bring myself to offer that yet. He deserves to stew first. Not that I suppose my words had any

effect on him.”

“He isn’t as cold as he appears.”

The princess sighed. “I thought that once, too. Now I have no idea.” Her expression lightened. “I realize my introduction earlier was

incomplete. I am Princess Katherine Rosemore Petrovna.”

The princess held out her hand for a handshake, and Olivia immediately revised her opinion of the woman. There was nothing so

refreshing as a lady who was willing to give a brisk handshake. And the name sounded familiar for some—

“A Lady Pedestrian’s Guide to Traversing Siberia! You wrote that? The book?”

For the year after Clayton had died, she’d been worthless. Both overwhelmed with the sudden responsibility of caring for her ill

father and dealing with her grief at Clayton’s death. She’d spent every day with a new doctor who promised a cure for her father.

She’d arranged for her father to go to springs, visited experts, forced medications down his throat.

All to help the man who’d just killed the boy she loved.

After the vicar had given up counseling her with verses from the Bible, he’d given her a copy of the princess’s book. He’d probably

hoped to inspire her to do something more than bemoan her fate.

He couldn’t have expected her to devour the book. To realize she didn’t just have to accept what happened to her. She could make