He opened a door into a suite of rooms that contained a desk and chair and a pair of comfortable-looking armchairs grouped in front of an unlit fire. He gestured to an inner doorway. “Bedroom’s through there.”
Anya was so tired, she barely managed to nod. She had no energy to fight. The warmth of the house seemed to be leeching the strength out of her. She wanted to crawl into bed and sleep for a week.
He stepped back from the door. “If you need anything, I’ll be in the rooms next door. We’ll talk in the morning. I shall expect you in my study at ten o’clock. Good night.”
Anya frowned as she heard the key turn in the lock, then snorted in amusement. He clearly trusted her as little as she trusted him. No matter. For now, she rather appreciated the extra security. Where did he think she would go, anyway? She couldn’t risk endangering Elizaveta by returning to Covent Garden.
She made quick work of stripping off her damp gown; she’d learned to undress herself without Elizaveta’s assistance months ago. Shivering a little, she tugged the pins from her hair and slipped between the welcoming sheets on the large four-poster bed.
It galled her that she needed to accept Wolff’s protection. She didn’t like to be beholden to anyone, but it would only be for a short time. She would hide here for a week or two until Vasili returned to Russia, and then she’d return to her normal life.
Would Wolff expect payment for his hospitality? Anya frowned into the darkness. She could sell one of her few remaining diamonds if absolutely necessary. But as he’d said at the brothel, he already had plenty of money. He didn’t need more.
Would he exact payment for his protection in some other form? A curl of something that wasn’t exactly fear twisted in her stomach. The way he’d looked at her, as if he wanted to gobble her up, made her shiver. His opinion of her was ridiculously low. He thought she was a whore, a woman who would stoop to swindling an old woman. And yet, back at the brothel, he’d made no secret of the fact that he desired her.
No doubt she would discover his terms in the morning.
Chapter 12.
Anya awoke to an unfamiliar room. The previous occupant—Benedict, Wolff had called him—had left no personal belongings. Only a faint tang of some masculine scent remained. She donned the dirty lavender-grey dress with a grimace of distaste and for one wistful moment, allowed herself to remember what it had been like to go shopping in Paris, able to buy whatever she wanted without considering the cost.
She’d had dresses in every shade of the rainbow and for every possible occasion, from velvet pelisses to sheer-as-a-whisper evening gowns designed to bring a man to his knees. She’d rarely worn a single dress more than once, let alone for six months straight.
She shook her head. She’d been a spoiled child, with no concept of hard work nor the value of money. Now, she knew the cost of a loaf of bread to the nearest penny.
Her new bedroom was certainly more luxurious than her sparse lodgings in Covent Garden. She’d had to sell one of her precious diamonds to pay for six months’ rent upfront, and although the rooms had been furnished, the pieces were practical rather than attractive.
The giant footman, Mickey, brought a tray of breakfast and a reminder that “his lordship” would see her in his study at ten. She sent him a sunny smile and watched his thick neck flush in embarrassment. Clearly the man was less confident with women than his master.
She found Wolff downstairs, seated behind an imposing leather-topped desk in a book-lined library. Her heartrate increased in anticipation of a confrontation, and she tried not to notice how the charcoal grey of his jacket and the white of his shirt were the perfect foils for his tanned skin and dark eyes.
He did not stand when she entered the room, as a gentleman would for someone he considered a lady, and Anya smiled inwardly at the subtle snub. He waved her to the seat opposite him, and she braced herself for an interrogation.
“Miss Brown—”
“Ivanov.”
He narrowed his eyes. “I don’t believe your name is Ivanov any more than it is Brown. I don’t know why you feel the need for continued secrecy, but you’ll tell me eventually. Until then, I’m going to call you Miss Brown because it’s easier to say.”
He raised his