LITMIR.BIZ

      Not too long after that, he had reached the Pack’s lair in St. James by a circuitous route that involved a stop at his club, where he was plied with strong spirits. He was feeling rather the worse for his indulgence and headed straight for the massive staircase leading up from the door, wanting nothing but the security and peace of his own chambers to sleep it off.

      A soft hand on his arm forestalled him, and a gentle voice murmured an inquiry in Russian.

      “Natalya,” he sighed. “I am going to bed.”

      The young wife of their housemaster spoke in English, since he had. “I wanted only to give you a message, Semyon.”

      He looked down at the shining crown of braids interlaced with ribbons upon her head—inside this house, Natalya favored traditional Russian dress in all its colorful glory. Outside of it, her braids and bright embroidered tunics were hidden under hats and coachman’s coats in winter.

      “Yes?”

      “A man came to the door inquiring after you in the middle of the evening. You were at the Congreves’ ball—”

      “You did not tell anyone where I had gone, I hope,” he said severely. The Pack lived under rules of strict secrecy as to their whereabouts.

      “Of course not, Semyon,” she said with some heat. “Do you take me for stupid?”

      Semyon shook his head, reminding himself of her rare courage and cleverness in defending the Pack. “No. Forgive me, Natalya. I am tired and have had too much to drink—” He broke off, realizing he had given her a reason to brew her bitter-tasting herbal remedy for such self-induced ailments.

      He hated the stuff, and usually spat it out when she wasn’t looking. Tonight, though, it seemed to him that she was done with her household tasks and perhaps eager to talk to someone. That he would do but he did hate being cosseted.

      “Very well, Natalya,” he said, not wanting to be rude to her. Her face broke into a wide, glowing smile and she dashed in to the kitchen to put the kettle on the hob.

      He followed into her realm. The room was a mix of Russian coziness—it boasted an enormous tile stove upon the top of which a boy slept at night, though he was not there now—and up-to-date English conveniences, marvels of kitchen engineering. The hearth was carefully banked with ashes, but she stirred up the high pile of embers and tossed a few pieces of cut wood upon them. Flames blazed up quickly under the kettle’s dented bottom.

      She had just finished baking, evidently, and several dark loaves were cooling on a rack. Natalya peered in to the kettle, added a little more water to it, and took pinches of dried herbs from jars in a rack and put them in a teapot. She ground peppercorns in a little mill into its open top and last of all added little twisty dried things from an earthenware jug stoppered with a cork.

      Semyon had no idea what the dried things were. Natalya’s potions were best drunk with eyes closed and nose held. But they did work.

      When the kettle sang, she poured the boiling water into the teapot and sniffed appreciatively. Semyon hid a grimace. “Let that steep,” she said.

      They chatted agreeably enough about who had been at the ball, finally coming around again to the forgotten subject of the man who had called when he was out.

      “Did he leave a card, Natalya?” Semyon asked.

      She shook her head, preoccupied with pouring out the medicinal brew into a large mug.

      “Then what did he say?”

      “Not much. Only that he hoped you would be in tomorrow. So that was the message.”

      “Nothing in writing, eh?”

      “No. I gathered that he wanted to talk to you privately.”

      Semyon shrugged, unconcerned. “If he comes back, then I will, I suppose. I hope he is harmless.” He yawned hugely, suddenly revealing the hidden fangs that were the mark of the Pack men as his curling tongue touched the top of his mouth.

      Natalya pretended to be shocked. “Don’t scare me like that, Semyon.”

      He smiled lazily. The effects of the liquor were beginning to wear off. “Sorry. Your dear husband Ivan is here to protect you, is he not?”

      “Ivan is sound asleep. Can you not hear him snore?” She gestured vaguely in the direction of the bedroom allocated to the housemaster and his wife.

      “No, and that is a good thing.”

      She laughed and pushed the disgusting-smelling mug to him. “Must I?” he groaned.

      “Yes.” She put her hands on her very womanly hips and looked at him squarely. “While I watch.”

      His lips quirked, thinking of how much he had enjoyed watching someone else under very different circumstances. Should he tell Natalya of the sleeping maidservant? He could embellish the story to amuse her—of course, he would leave out the salacious fantasy he’d indulged in. But he would make the most of his impression that Angelica Harrow was too well bred to be a housemaid and also that her eyes held a hidden sadness. A beautiful heroine with both those qualities sounded like the beginning of a fairy tale, and his recounting of their brief meeting would appeal to Natalya, who was sentimental when she was not fierce.

      He began the story of Angelica, hoping to distract her, then took a sip, scowling. He wanted to gag. Miraculously, the brew stayed down.

      “All of it,” Natalya said.

      “The potion or the story?”

      “First drink that,” she scolded him.

      Semyon sighed and lifted the mug, holding his nose as he tossed the steaming contents into his mouth, swallowing it all in one go like a trencherman at an inn. He gasped when he set the mug on the table, wiping away the tears streaming from his eyes.

      “Very good,” she said, evidently pleased with him. “That’s over with.”

      “I think you have poisoned me,” he said weakly. “Send roses to my funeral, if you please.”

      “What color would you like?”

      “Ah—red.”

      “Indeed not. Red roses are for lovers. No, a ghostly white spray of lilies would do for you, I should think.”

      “It is the middle of winter.” He coughed against the sour tide rising in his throat. “Hothouse blooms are too costly. No, bury me plain, if you please.” His idle jests did not quite take his mind off the red rose Angelica had been holding in her sleep. Natalya’s innocent remark made him wonder again who had given it to her and why.

      Natalya went to the loaves she’d baked and tore off a chunk. “Eat this,” she said. “It will take the

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