Sins of a Ruthless Rogue Page 3

  What had happened? It must have been a robbery. The entry was completely devoid of silver candlesticks and the other glittering things that used to adorn it. But the attackers had entered through the front door. If it had been thieves, why not wait until the middle of the night when they could have entered with stealth?

  He worked his way down the corridor, checking each room as he passed.

  But the entryway wasn’t the only area that had been stripped. The parlor and the study were perfectly untouched, but the rest of the rooms were almost completely bare. And odd things had been left behind. Brass candlesticks. Why would a thief have left behind the most easily sold items?

  He knew from his research that the mill had disintegrated due to neglect until its sudden revival two years ago. Was the house’s condition a result of that?

  The thought of Olivia selling off luxuries bit by bit should have pleased him. A sort of divine justice if he was fool enough to believe in any.

  But the thought didn’t please him.

  What had happened to her after his arrest was no concern of his. His business was with her father, not with Olivia. He hadn’t even bothered to look into her life when he’d researched the mill.

  He didn’t care.

  He opened the door to the library, and a woman screamed. Clayton’s hand tensed on his knife. But again, it wasn’t Olivia.

  An older maid huddled in the darkness in the far corner of the room, shielding her face with her arms.

  Sheathing his knife, Clayton kept his approach as smooth and calm as he could so he wouldn’t frighten her further. “Be quiet. I’m not going to hurt you. What happened here?”

  The maid quieted, although the whites of her eyes still gleamed in the thin shaft of light from the open door. “You’re not Russian. You’re not, are you?” Her voice was tiny and tight with fear.

  Clayton shook his head, his feet suddenly too slow. His thoughts muddled. Russian? What the devil was going on? “No, I’m not. Are they still here?”

  Her head jerked from side to side. “I think they all left. They took her and they left.”

  “Who did they take?” His voice must have been harsh because the maid shrank from him.

  “Miss Swift.”

  He’d taken two steps to the door when his training reasserted authority. He couldn’t go charging blindly. He didn’t know who’d taken Olivia or where to. “How long ago?”

  “I don’t know.” She rubbed her palms on her cheeks. “I was thinking I had to hurry and start the coals for the warming pans. I do it every night—I never thought—”

  “When do you normally fill the warming pans?”

  “At seven.”

  It was past eight now. She was definitely in shock, but he needed all the information he could get. He helped the maid sit. “Who were they?”

  She bit her lip. “I don’t know. I don’t—”

  Her gaze grew unfocused again and Clayton spoke before he lost her entirely to her terror. “Are you hurt?”

  Her hands flew to her throat. “No. Not me.” She pressed her knuckles against her mouth. “They took her. Might have had a coach. I think I heard one. Oh, you have to help her.”

  He’d passed a dozen carriages and carts on his way here. She could have been in any one of them. But Clayton knew he needed patience to get the information. “Tell me exactly what you saw and heard. Everything. Any little detail might help me find her.”

  The maid yanked her hands away from her mouth, planted them in her lap, and drew a stuttered breath. “I don’t know how much help I’ll be. But—I was cleaning out the hearth when I heard a commotion in the entry hall. I poked my head out to see what was amiss. Two fellows had knocked Mr. Burton on the head. Perry, he’s the footman, tried to stop them, and the black-haired man just pulled out a knife and stabbed him. Right in the chest.”

  She began to tremble, so Clayton rested his hand on her shoulder. “Can you describe them?”

  “One was tall and mean-looking, huge bushy beard. Like some sort of beast. The other was leaner, handsome, black hair. Very neat. Both of them looked foreign. They spoke in Russian.”

  “How do you know it was Russian?”

  For the first time a hint of spark returned to the maid, and she glared at him. “I’ve been serving this house and its guests since before the master got sick. He was always entertaining all sorts of foreign men of business. We had Russians many times. I know the difference.”

  “Did you recognize any of the words?”

  “Not the Russian ones, but they kept speaking about something in French. La Petot?”

  “La Petit?” He had to force the name out.

  “Yes! The dark one told the big one something about a La Petit.”

  “Then they took Miss Swift?”

  The maid nodded, her chin wobbling. “I think so. I was—I was hiding in here so I couldn’t see. But I heard her yelling.”

  If Olivia was yelling, that meant she’d left here alive.

  “Where was her father? The other servants?”

  The maid’s head tilted slightly, but then her face cleared. “Not here tonight, sir. But they should be home soon. Oh, they said one thing I did recognize. East End.”

  The docks. He strode over to the desk and scribbled a quick note on a sheet of paper. “Have this delivered to Ian Maddox at The Albany when the others get back.”

  He was out of the room running toward the front door before he heard her answer. If the kidnappers thought Olivia was La Petit, one of the most hated spies in all of Europe, then her life was in danger. When they found out she wasn’t La Petit, she was dead.

  He leaped onto his horse and galloped to where the driveway met the road. Why had they taken her? Olivia looked absolutely nothing like Madeline, the real La Petit.

  The only thing that connected the two women was him. The kidnappers must somehow have assumed she was Madeline because of his contact with her. But why the devil had they only wanted La Petit? They must have known where Clayton was as well. They must have been following him.

  Damned sloppy.

  And who could have taken her? The Trio had been to Russia only a handful of times and every time had involved Prazhdinyeh. But the violent group of revolutionaries had fallen apart with the death of their leader a few years ago.

  His hands clenched on the reins, stopping his mount. He slid down to examine the tracks at the end of the drive. It was too dark to see much, but the most recent wheel indentations cut toward London.

  Hell, it couldn’t be Prazhdinyeh. They no longer existed.

  But some of its members might. And all of them wanted La Petit dead. And she soon would be. Or at least Olivia in her place. After they tortured her for information.

  If he’d still been a praying man, he would have prayed to make it to the harbor before they sailed. Instead, he pushed his horse into a dead gallop.

  Clayton’s hand tightened on the man’s throat. “Come now, Archie. You know every ship that enters and leaves this port. Even the ones the harbormaster knows nothing of. I will ask again. Where was the ship headed?” Witnesses had seen two men matching the description of the Russians carry a sleeping woman aboard a ship minutes before it sailed. They must have planned the kidnapping to coincide perfectly with the tides.

  “We were even.” Archie coughed. “I don’t owe you anything. Not anymore.”

  Clayton pressed his thumb harder into the thief’s leathery windpipe. “Then I’ll owe you one.”

  Even though he was on the edge of oblivion, interest entered Archie’s eyes. “You . . . make . . . a deal? You never . . . make deals.”

  “And I won’t again. Three. Two—”

  “St. Petersburg. The ship was Russian. Worthless cargo. It was set to sail to St. Petersburg.”

  Clayton dropped the man, who slumped to the ground next to the boarded-up warehouse, gasping and rubbing his neck. “Don’t forget that you owe me—”

  “I don’t forget.” Not a single bloody thing. Ever. I
n his whole life. Not the way Archie’s throat had spasmed under his hand. Not the haunted agony in Olivia’s eyes when he’d announced his plans for the mill. “Where can I get a ship? Tonight?”

  Chapter Four

  For a moment, Olivia was certain she was blind. She knew her eyes were open. Her lids scraped over her dry eyes with each rapid blink. Yet the darkness remained black. Complete. Not only were her eyes dry, but so was her throat. She tried to reach for the cup of water she kept on her end table, but pain burned in her wrists and shoulders.

  She couldn’t move her arms. She tried to force them, but gasped as the movement seared like fire across her wrists. They were bound behind her. Her ankles were tied as well.

  This wasn’t her bedroom. She was on her side on some sort of lumpy mattress. How long had she been like this? Where was she?

  The door slammed open. “She is awake?” a voice asked.

  She flinched away from the intense light filling the doorway. After several seconds, her eyes adjusted, and she realized it was only a lantern.

  “She should drink something then?” another voice asked. It took her a few confused minutes to understand the words. Russian. The voices were speaking in Russian. And to think she’d given her governess endless grief for forcing her to learn it to impress her father’s investors.

  Two men entered the room. A thin one with dark hair held the lantern. He might have been handsome if not for the cruel twist of his lips. The other man was so massive he had to duck and hunch his shoulders to fit through the door.

  The mention of water intensified the dry, swollen ache in her mouth. She wanted to beg for it, but she kept her cracked lips closed. She didn’t know what these men wanted. She couldn’t afford to appear weak.

  “She doesn’t get water until she gives me answers,” Lantern Man said. “Now tell us the key.”

  She thought of a dozen keys in that instant. The keys to her home. To the mill. But they’d broken into her house, so those keys could be of no interest to them. The new steam equipment at the mill was expensive, but it would be impossible to move. “What key?” At least that’s what she tried to ask. The words were so raspy and choked, she didn’t know if the men understood. Her Russian accent had always been horrible. It had infuriated her father to no end.

  Lantern Man hung the light on a peg, reached over to a table behind him, and poured water into a clay cup. He must see that she’d need water if she was going to talk.

  She couldn’t stop her own lips from parting in anticipation of the cool liquid.

  Lantern Man tipped the cup and poured it onto the floor.

  The air whooshed out of her lungs.

  “Don’t lie, Petit. I know what you took from Vasin.”

  Why had he switched to French for the endearment?

  Nothing made sense, and she had to struggle to hold on to each thought.

  But she did know she hadn’t taken anything. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She hoped her words were correct in Russian. She’d never used it for anything more than chatting over tea. But surely, she could speak clearly enough to make them understand they had the wrong person. “I do not know Vasin.”

  Lantern Man lowered his face until it was inches from hers. With a start, she recognized him. The man who’d spoken to her at the festival. This had something to do with Clayton. The man’s breath smelled of alcohol and pipe smoke. “Your associate led us straight to you. His brief visit to your house. Your strange meetings with various government officials.”

  Her work with the Society? But that had nothing to do with Clayton.

  “Then we found these. In code, are they not?” He tossed a small stack of envelopes onto the bed next to her. They were tied with a green ribbon.

  Her love letters from Clayton. A bittersweet reminder she’d never been able to throw away.

  These men had been in her room. They’d searched through her things. And she hadn’t even known. Her skin felt like it had been smeared with mud.

  Lantern Man continued, “You can say what you want. Your actions have already proven your identity.”

  She closed her eyes. The drug they’d given her tempted her back into oblivion. This had to be a dream. None of it made any sense otherwise.

  A hand clenched in her hair and viciously shook her. “I know you are not asleep, Petit.”

  “The count didn’t tell us to hurt her, just get her.” The other man spoke, his words hesitant.

  “Shut up, Blin. You were not brought for your thoughts.”

  “But she says she doesn’t know.” Blin’s words were emphatic.

  She cried out as Lantern Man shook her again. She opened her eyes and tried to pull away, but that only made the pain worse.

  “She’s lying.” His face was nothing but shadows and menace.

  She had to try again. “I’m not who you think I am.”

  “And you just happen to speak Russian? No. You English learn Italian and French. You don’t dirty yourselves with Russian. And why did Campbell help you by buying up all your mill’s debts?”

  Help her? “He wants to destroy me.”

  But both men ignored her. Blin’s brows drew together under the heavy line of hair that hung across his forehead. “What if she’s not the spy, Nicolai?”

  A spy? That’s what those things somehow proved? But it still didn’t make sense.

  Nicolai dropped her head back on the bed. “Then she’s of no use and we kill her. Eventually.” He ran a finger down her cheek.

  Olivia would have spat at him if her mouth wasn’t so dry. She wanted to close her eyes again, but she refused to let Nicolai know how thoroughly he’d cowed her. She might not be able to fight him, but neither would she just give in.

  Blin stepped toward her, his beefy hands tugging on the ends of his beard. “The count will be angry if she’s hurt too much to talk.”

  “The count doesn’t frighten me. I’ve known him since university.”

  “Then you know he likes to be obeyed.”

  Olivia didn’t recognize the word Nicolai used as he backed away, but she assumed it was vulgar.

  “Then you take care of her. I’m not a nursemaid. But do not untie her. Remember what I told you.” Nicolai slammed out the door.

  Blin stood silently by the bed for a minute, then trundled over and poured her a glass of water. He reached for her, and she flinched, but then let him help sit her up enough to take a drink. His huge hand dwarfed the cup. “Nicolai says he thought you’d be prettier, but I think you’re very pretty.” She thought it was an apology of sorts, or at least an attempt at kindness.

  The water tasted like mold, but she drank every drop. Blin then pulled a crumbled piece of bread from his pocket and offered her a small chunk. The bread was hard and tasted worse than the water, but she ate all of it, too, bite by humiliating bite, unsure if she would get more. He then carried her to a foul-smelling chamber pot in the corner.

  Afterward, Blin lowered her back onto the bed. She knew her face was in flames, but it didn’t seem to bother her captor at all.

  Her heart rate finally began to slow, and for the first time, she noticed a certain motion in the room around her. She looked again at the planks that made up the room. There was a lap of water somewhere on the other side of the walls.

  Sweet heavens. Her moment of calm twisted into something sick and unrecognizable.

  She was on a ship.

  “How long was I . . . asleep?”

  She’d had drugs forced down her throat while Nicolai had pinched her nose shut until she’d had no choice but to swallow. But Blin seemed kind and she didn’t want to antagonize him. Also, she had no idea how to say unconscious in Russian.

  “Almost a full day.”

  Then there was little chance they were still in a harbor. “Where are we going?”

  The half-rotted pine chair creaked as he sat. “To the count.”

  There were far too many people in this conversation that she didn’t know. La Petit. Vasin.
The count. “Which count?”

  Blin folded his arms, revealing long scratches on the back of one of his hands. She’d given him those when he carried her away from her house. Olivia wasn’t sure if she felt proud or guilty. If she’d wounded Nicolai, she’d have felt no remorse whatsoever.

  “Nicolai said to tell you nothing. He said you were good at tricking things out of people.”

  Olivia cursed whoever this mystery woman was. If only she had some of her skills. But as it was, all Olivia could do was flounder. “But I’m going to meet the count anyway, so it doesn’t matter if you tell me.”

  Blin rocked slightly in his chair. “The count is my master.”

  “He hired you?”

  Blin frowned slightly. “I work his estate.”

  She’d forgotten that Russian landowners still owned their serfs. “Nicolai, too?”

  “No, he is his associate.”

  “Why are you taking me to him?”

  Blin scowled. “You stole papers.”

  “I didn’t steal anything!”

  He stood. “Nicolai said you’d say that. He said you’d lie.”

  “I’m not lying.” Blin was her best chance. She had to convince him. “I’m not a spy. You kidnapped the wrong woman.”

  He didn’t seem to like the word kidnap, so she pressed harder. He might have been only following orders but he needed to understand the full ramifications. Blin might not be the brightest of fellows, but he wasn’t a fool. She suspected he was more easily persuaded than anything else. She would have to turn that to her advantage.

  “You kidnapped me. You and Nicolai drugged me and threatened me. Those are crimes.”

  “I don’t have a choice.”

  “Perhaps not. But now you do. You could untie—”

  The door opened and Nicolai stalked back in. “Enough, Blin. Come.”

  “She said she isn’t a spy.”

  “Think.” Nicolai cuffed the big man on the back of the head. “If she’s not a spy, then why did she have all those coded messages from a spy?”

  Blin nodded slowly.

  “Come, Blin.”

  He followed Nicolai from the room—or rather, cabin.