Sins of a Ruthless Rogue

“Then how will you explain why the revolutionaries kidnapped me?”


He finally looked up from her wrists. “I’ll claim it was an attempt to lure me here.”

“That is what you think.”

He regarded her steadily, the lines of tension around his mouth deepening. And she thought for the first time that perhaps he did

have some doubts about her guilt after all.

“Then why lie at all?” she asked. “Why not tell them everything?”

“I won’t let anyone else connect La Petit with the code.” His eyes were intense, determined. Whoever this woman was, Clayton

cared for her deeply.

“But you’ll tell him of the threat?”

“The emperor will know the full extent of the danger to him and his family.”

She supposed that would have to be enough. “How well do you know the emperor?”

“I saved his life.”

Some of the tension uncoiled in her neck. Perhaps they wouldn’t need to break the code at all. Perhaps once they explained the

danger to the emperor, he’d cancel the fete, and her good deed would be done. “Then the soldiers are a formality?”

“Not precisely.”

Footsteps halted outside. Clayton disappeared into his room before her door opened.

Iryna rushed her through the rest of her toilette, finally slipping a gown of pale yellow silk over her head.

By the time Olivia reached the bottom of the stairs, Clayton was pounding a rifle-carrying soldier on the back and accepting a drink

from a silver flask offered by another soldier in a green uniform. “No, I swear by then General Mozvan had slipped a dozen of the

sausages into his pocket.”

She almost tripped down the remaining three stairs when he directed a warm, appreciative grin at her. She actually looked down.

Surely, neither the yellow dress nor the plain woolen pelisse was stunning enough to— He isn’t actually smiling at you, you ninny. It

was another act.

The soldiers straightened when they saw her. One of them, an officer, she guessed, based on the golden epaulettes on his

shoulders, bowed. An amazing feat considering his enormous gut. He spoke in heavily accented English. “Miss Swift, you’re as

beautiful as your betrothed claims. How are you enjoying St. Petersburg?”

Betrothed? She did trip down the last stair, but Clayton caught her before she landed on her face. She dug her elbow into him as

she regained her balance. “It’s positively surprising.”

“Indeed.” The officer kissed her hand. “You should have no fear of the czar’s approval.”

“I hope not.” She wouldn’t let him see how bewildered she was.

“The emperor is usually gracious about approving nuptials. And for a favored one such as the baron, I have no doubt at all. I cannot

think why they ordered so many of us to come. Perhaps he wanted to show you favor?”

“Most likely,” Clayton said.

The officer might have missed Clayton’s slight hesitance, but she didn’t. He’d saved the czar, hadn’t he?

After she secured a muff from the footman, they hurried outside to the sleigh. The groom arranged furs and heated bricks around

them, and then the horses jerked into motion, the runners scratching across the snow.

She could think of no reason the czar would be unhappy to see the man who’d saved his life, but the officer’s presence across from

them in the sleigh made it difficult for her to ask.

Difficult but not impossible.

She just needed to ask the right questions. “Darling, you must tell me the full story of how you saved the emperor. I’m afraid you’ve

been too modest.”

Clayton flashed her a quick glare, but as she’d hoped, the officer seconded her request.

Since Clayton had decided to play the affable nobleman, he had no choice but to comply. “My regiment was assigned to escort the

czar’s carriage through St. Petersburg. As we crossed the Palace Square, a revolutionary threw a bomb through the window of the

coach. I was simply the closest soldier to the door.”

The officer spoke. “He’s definitely too humble! What he has declined to say is that he grabbed the bomb with his bare hands, not

knowing when it would explode, and threw it into the river.”

Olivia sucked in a breath.

The officer grinned at her. “So you can see he is well-favored indeed.”

Clayton pulled the fur blanket tighter around the two of them. When she would have asked another question, his hand rested on her

leg, silencing her.

For the rest of the ride, Clayton chatted nonstop about the weather and fashion and his recent trip to England, where they’d

apparently met. But his hand remained on her knee. Four fingers on the inside of her thigh and his thumb on the outside. His hand

never tightened. Never loosened. But she could think of nothing else. Had he forgotten it was there? Or was he prepared to stop her

from speaking again?

The sleigh came to a halt in front of a vast palace. Unlike the palace she’d seen in London, this one wasn’t separated from the city

by gardens and gates. It dominated the center of it.

White classical columns topped with gold soared up the heavily ornate exterior, but as if one column simply wasn’t grand enough, a

second column was stacked on the first. Bronze statues stood watch along the edge of the roof, their identities shrouded by a thick

layer of snow.

The soldiers led them through the huge arched doors into a hall with a checkered floor of white and black marble. High above,

painted cherubs and Greek heroes cavorted on a ceiling illuminated by rows of elegantly arched windows. Two staircases rose up

in opposite directions only to meet again at a landing at the top.

And she was dressed in a borrowed yellow dress that gaped in the same manner as her stays.

The officer bowed smartly, then passed them off to a set of palace guards, these dressed in scarlet with black caps topped with

ostrich feathers.

“Your cloak, miss,” a soldier ordered.

She hugged it more tightly around her. “I’m a trifle chilled. Perhaps—”

Clayton leaned close. “It is considered a great insult to keep your coat. It implies you do not think your host keeps his house warm

enough.”

Lovely. She’d been in the palace for less than a minute and she’d already managed to insult one of the most powerful monarchs in

Europe. She gave up her cloak.

They passed through a series of apartments. Paintings by Rembrandt and Caravaggio hung on the walls as if they were nothing

more than a child’s watercolors.

Determined not to gawk, Olivia kept her eyes downward as she walked. But the floors themselves were intricate patterns of inlaid

woods. Some rooms possessed complex geometric patterns and others intricate florals made out of wood of a dozen different

shades.

As they passed into a large salon, the Cossack guards who’d been lounging there in their short jackets, loose trousers, and quilted

vests rose to their feet and lined up shoulder to shoulder.