The Princess and the Rogue (Bow Street Bachelors #3) - Kate Bateman Page 0,38

them with smoked salmon, sour cream, and caviar. Or with honey.”

Lagrasse nodded. “Very well. But pancakes are not very complicated.”

“That is true. You could try medovik. It’s a layered honey cake which takes a great deal of skill. There are hundreds of regional variations. You must make layer upon layer of honeyed pastry and alternate it with sweetened cream or custard, then cover the outside of the cake with pastry crumbs. It is incredibly labor intensive. The tsarina, Elizabeth Alexeievna, gobbles it up whenever it’s served.”

Lagrasse’s eyes widened. “You’ve dined at the emperor’s court?”

Anya bit her lip as she realized her slip. “Oh, well, I went there a few times, certainly. With my mistress, Princess Denisova. I would go down to the kitchens and sample the leftovers.”

The chef nodded, apparently satisfied by her explanation. “Very well. You may bring me recipes.”

“Thank you, Monsieur Lagrasse. I know you will rise to the occasion.”

Anya turned on her heel and swept back up the stairs, confident Wolff would follow.

“That,” he said, when they’d reached the safety of the hallway, “was masterful.”

The undisguised awe in his tone made her preen a little.

“I have medals from my military campaigns, Miss Brown. I have faced Bonaparte’s canons and cavalry. But even I would hesitate to suggest to a Frenchman that he bake a Russian cake.”

Anya sent him a triumphant grin. “You speak French?”

“Well enough to know that you’re wasted as a secretary. You should be a diplomat. I’ve never seen such soothing of ruffled feathers. When you mentioned Ude, I thought he was going to stab you with a bread knife, but you played him like a fiddle.”

“We have a saying in Russia: ‘you catch more flies with honey than vinegar.’”

Wolff smiled. “Or in this case, with honey cake. Where are you going to find the recipes? Can you write them down for him?”

“Oh. I don’t know any by heart. Perhaps I could go—”

“You’re not going anywhere,” he countered, reading her mind with infuriating ease. “If you need anything, I’ll send someone to get it.”

Anya gave a huff of frustration. She’d hoped to be allowed out to a bookshop or library, at least. “Very well. Send someone to look for a book of recipes at Hatchards, or in one of the antiquarian book sellers on Publisher’s Row. It can be in Russian. Or French. I can always translate.”

Wolff stopped walking and turned, so she stopped too.

“You are a woman of many hidden talents, Miss Brown,” he said with a smile. “And those desserts sound delicious.” His gaze dipped to her mouth, and he let out a low chuckle that made her stomach flutter. “I am longing for a taste.”

Chapter 16.

Wolff left the house shortly after their visit to the kitchen. Anya heard the slam of the door with a slight twinge of resentment, but she was saved from boredom by the arrival of a package and letter from the dowager duchess.

Oxfordshire is deadly dull without you, my dear. You will be relieved to know that John Coachman is none the worse for our adventure on Hounslow Heath. I’m sure Sebastien is guarding you well; do try to restrain the urge to strangle him, despite what I’m sure will be endless provocation. His methods may be unorthodox, but I have complete faith in his abilities, as does my good friend Sir Nathaniel Conant at Bow Street. I imagine you’re feeling quite cooped up; I’ve sent you our little project to keep you amused.

Anya opened the illustrated book of fairy tales that had accompanied the letter and began to read.

Three hours later, she’d been swept away to a world of beautiful women, brave princes, dark woods, and wondrous animals. She’d read of Baba Yaga the witch and Vasilisa the Beautiful. Of the Tsarevna Frog, and Tsarevich Ivan, the Firebird and the Grey Wolf. Of Father Frost—Ded Moroz—and the Snow Princess Snegurochka.

Perhaps she was sensitive about the subject, but she noticed that many of the tales featured people hiding their true nature. Princes hiding as frogs. People cursed into golden birds or fearsome bears. She quashed a guilty twinge. She was hiding her own identity for a perfectly good reason: self-preservation.

There were lots of wolves in the tales too. One helped Ivan catch the firebird, but more often than not, the creature’s role was ambiguous at best. They could be noble and fearless—or pitiless and sly. Of course, wolves featured in the stories of many other countries. The English book Tess had been reading told of Red Riding Hood’s