The Princess and the Rogue (Bow Street Bachelors #3) - Kate Bateman Page 0,36

the service of those less fortunate than himself.

But still, professional satisfaction wasn’t the same as personal satisfaction. He’d witnessed the changes in his two friends, Alex and Ben, since they’d both married. There was a steady contentment about them both now, a sense of having found a true purpose in life. They lived to make their wives happy.

Was that what he was lacking? The reason for his strange dissatisfaction, despite his wealth and outward success? A partner with whom to share it? Seb shook his head. He lacked nothing, except physical release. He was just frustrated, that was all. As soon as the mysterious “Miss Brown” came to her senses—and into his bed—that frustration would be dealt with in the most pleasurable way.

Chapter 15.

Wolff entered her suite without knocking. Anya glanced up from the desk and then swiftly back down, determined to pretend the incendiary encounter on the balcony the previous night had never happened.

It was easier said than done. The knowledge was a humming awareness between them, tugging like an invisible thread. She cleared her throat and willed the heat in her face to subside.

“I’ve been through all these letters. There’s no mention of Petrov or anyone named the Cossack.”

She’d found a mention of her brother, though, a single casual reference in a list of those near Wellington at Waterloo, and her heart had felt like a stone, heavy in her chest.

Wolff shrugged, the movement emphasizing the muscled breadth of his chest beneath his shirt. “It was a long shot, anyway. I have a better plan.” He leaned one shoulder casually against the doorframe. “I’ve been looking at the club’s members’ list and very few of your countrymen are on it. I want to lure them here so I can watch and listen to them.”

“I thought the plan was for me to avoid my countrymen? Can’t you observe them at a ton party?”

“I want a relaxed setting. A man behaves very differently in a gaming club among his friends than he does at a public ball where ladies are present.”

“There were ladies on the gaming floor last night.”

“There were women. None of them were ladies.”

Ah. He meant demimondaines, mistresses. Actresses and whores.

“You won’t be in any danger,” he said. “You’ll stay here, out of sight. Can you suggest some ways to attract them?”

“Perhaps you’re not providing the entertainment they want.”

His lips thinned at the suggestion that his beloved Tricorn was anything less than perfect, and Anya suppressed a smile. He really was arrogantly conceited when it came to his business. When it came to most things, actually.

“And what is that?” he said testily. “We have cards, dice, roulette. The best French chef in London. An incomparable wine cellar.”

“You can get those anywhere.” Anya paused, enjoying the way he seemed to be hanging on her every word. “If you really want to attract Russians, you need vodka.”

His disgusted expression almost made her laugh out loud. “What’s wrong with brandy and port?”

“Nothing, but Russians prefer vodka. Believe me, nothing gets a Russian drunk enough to spill his secrets like vodka.”

He frowned, apparently considering this revelation. “All right, I’ll try it. It can be a novelty. Something that sets the Tricorn apart from clubs like Crockford’s and Brooks’s.”

“You could host a whole Russian evening,” Anya suggested, warming to the idea. “Have your chef make all kinds of Russian foods in honor of the delegation. That will bring them in for a taste of their homeland.”

A frown marred his perfect forehead. “There may be a slight problem with that. Monsieur Lagrasse is not only the best French chef in London, he’s also the most temperamental. There’s a strong chance he’ll refuse to cook such foreign monstrosities.”

“Let me talk to him.”

With a shrug and a sigh that indicated she was wasting her time, Wolff led her down the curving main staircase and to the top of the steps leading down to the kitchens. The clatter of pans and a stream of French curses echoed up from below.

“I warn you, he won’t thank us for invading his kitchens. He’s a despot worse than Bonaparte. This is his own personal fiefdom.”

Anya sent him a droll glance. “I’m sure we’ll get along famously.”

“Can you cook?”

“Not at all. My housemate Elizaveta is the one who saves us from eating bread and jam every night.”

Wolff shook his head. “This is going to be a disaster.”

They reached the bottom of the stairs and entered a large, airy kitchen. The room was set half-belowground—the high windows revealed a set of steps