Prince of Hearts (2 page)

She was marrying Charlie, honeymooning in the Sahara, and living a normal, respectable life, free of murder investigations, late-night tickertexts, and hellhounds.

She was going to write more, have children, and perhaps plant a garden. In a seaside cottage, like the little one in the Outer Hebrides she’d lived in with her parents, where Romanov would never venture – and far away from the temptations of the East End gambling circuit, her personal forbidden fruit.

She was going to have to give her two weeks’ notice
now
, before they reached Calais. She was not going to wait until he returned from his trip. She sucked in a steadying breath and released it, preparing to deliver her news, though for some reason the words stuck in her throat.

She couldn’t fathom why, when she’d dreamed of this moment for five years.

"You may have your usual chambers at the Mayfair townhouse," Romanov continued before she could work up enough momentum to speak.

She stifled a sigh of annoyance. When he and Fyodor went on his mysterious trips, he always required her to stay at his London residence whenever he left behind the hellhounds. He seemed to think she was the only one on his retainer who could halfway control them.

"You're not taking the he – I mean, Ilya and Ikaterina, with you?"

"No. Fyodor is coming with me. The pups are staying."

Pups. She always thought this the oddest word to be coming from Romanov's elegant lips. An odd and inappropriate label for two of the most gigantic, ill-behaved mongrels she had ever encountered. But he never called those beasts of his anything else.

"Is that an inconvenience, Finch?" he asked in that teasing manner of his he employed when he sensed her rebellion.

She leaned back in her seat, pushing her spectacles back into place with the end of her pen, and glared at her employer. He lounged on the seat across from her, looking quite comfortable as always, stroking Ikaterina's muzzle with one hand, his intent gaze settled in her direction.

And as always, he looked fantastic. Broad-shouldered and thin-waisted, built like an athlete, not a head doctor. And dressed like a Russian tsar. Beneath his cloak, he wore a stylish chocolate velvet jacket cut tight at the waist and belling out in a bizarre, un-English manner, buff-colored trousers that seemed to fit his over-long, well-muscled legs like a second skin, and tall, foreign-looking riding boots.

She, on the other hand, was quite uncomfortable, crammed against her case on the one side, and crushed by Ilya's weight on the other, afraid to move lest the beast growl at her again. And she had a giant ink stain on the bodice of her mud-colored gown, which the Professor could plainly see.

She’d almost call the stain an improvement, since the gown, serviceable though it may be, was perhaps the ugliest gown ever to exist in the world. But the stain was directly over one of her … well, unmentionable parts. It was embarrassing to say the least. She would have tugged her jacket over the stain, but Ilya was sitting on it, and she didn’t want to risk the hellhound’s wrath.

The sides of the Professor’s devilish lips twisted up at the ends as he surveyed her, as if knowing precisely how uncomfortable she was and how inconvenient he was being.

"You don't have
plans
, do you, Finch? Some elaborate holiday planned in the next fortnight?"

She narrowed her eyes slightly. She was vexed, but determined not to show it. She didn't care to be reminded how little of a life she had outside his orbit. But that was all about to change.

As soon as she worked up the nerve to break her news to him.

"Why the sudden trip?" she inquired, ignoring his question, postponing her resignation.

His slight smile faded, and his yellow-amber eyes went dull. It was unusual for him to display even a glimmer of real emotion. Yet, ever since he’d received the mysterious tickertext late last night, which was the catalyst for their abrupt departure from Paris, he’d been acting quite peculiar.

She’d assumed it was from Scotland Yard, calling him home to consult on a new case, but that couldn’t be it, since he wasn’t returning with her.

“It’s personal business,” he answered.

She pursed her lips, but said nothing, fighting back her rising curiosity. When it came to Romanov's “personal business”, he never revealed anything. And never took her with him.

Weary, annoyed, she took off her spectacles and pinched the bridge of her nose.

"Have I given you a headache, Finch?"

"Of course not," she lied.

His lips quirked again. "Good. Because I need you in top form. No one else can manage the pups like you."

She suppressed a snort. The “pups” managed her, not the other way around. How he'd gotten it into his head that the hellhounds obeyed her, much less liked her, was a mystery.

"Sir, I have something to tell you …”

"I want you to meet with the publishers as well, Finch," he continued, ignoring her.

She looked up at him, startled. "Me, sir?"

"I trust you to argue my case, should it come to that. Unless you feel the meeting is beyond your range."

Was he deliberately trying to provoke her? She'd been an independent woman since she was twelve years old. If she seemed like a wilting violet to him, it was only because she kept a firm leash on her tongue around him – most of the time, at least.

Besides, she had publishers of her own that she managed quite well, thank you very much, though this was her own secret.

"I think I shall survive," she said stiffly.

"Good. I wish you to manage as much of my affairs as you can in my absence.” He reached into his vest pocket and withdrew a handwritten letter. He handed it to her. She had to grit her teeth and pinch her wrist to keep from rolling her eyes when she saw the letter's recipient.

Luciana Luclair. The mistress.

"Give this to her personally. As well as any trinket you think appropriate.” He waved his hand in a vague gesture, as if to say it was of no concern to him.

"Appropriate as in, a token of farewell," she said flatly.

"Precisely." He betrayed not a glimmer of regard or remorse for breaking with – or, more precisely, having
her
break with – his mistress. Not that The Luclair, as Aline secretly called her, deserved the courtesy, horrible harridan!

She was relieved, actually, that she would not be subject to any more of the opera singer’s theatrical outbursts at Romanov's office. Somehow Romanov always managed to be "away" when The Luclair came hunting him.

At least he’d taken the time to hand-write a letter, even if he was making her do the dirty work. He had broken things off by tickertext with his last mistress. Low, even for him. The Professor seduced and discarded women with a cold-bloodedness that left Aline feeling chilled.

If not for witnessing first-hand his love for his so-called pups, and the closeness he shared with Fyodor, Aline could almost believe Professor Romanov had no heart.

She studied his wolf eyes and sensuous lips critically. She knew him too well to be taken in by his good looks, as other women were. Thank God she had more sense than to ever become Romanov's mistress.

She snapped her attention back to her notes, feeling the blush steal over her cheeks.

As if that were even a possibility! As if she would even consider...! And as if he would ever...! She didn’t find him attractive in the least, no, not in the least! He was demanding, impatient, and interacted with lesser mortals – that is, everyone but himself – as if they were scientific specimens under his microscope.

Of course, he was without a doubt quite brilliant and could afford to behave however he wanted. She read his impenetrable work for a living. But he was also insufferable; she’d gleaned that within a few seconds of being in his company five years ago. Brilliant, insufferable, and…

Well, it would be foolish to try and deny it. He was truly, devilishly handsome. He had an unaffectedly aristocratic mien, an animal-like grace. He was like some prince – or villain –
definitely
a villain – out of a fairy tale, with austere features, aquiline nose, and those strange yellow eyes. There was a compelling, exotic slant at the corners of those eyes, and his skin was a rich, burnished, very un-English olive.

And his
hair
.

Thick, curling and black with just a dusting of gray at the temples. Even she had to concede he had magnificent hair, but she’d die before she admitted it. He was used to women swooning over his exotic good looks, but she would never give him the satisfaction. He was too insufferable, and she was too sensible to behave like some ninny simply because the Professor happened to be easy on the eyes.

And, besides, she was getting married to Charlie Netherfield, who was as dependable, steady and accommodating as the Professor was arrogant and demanding.

And if he wasn’t as handsome as Romanov, he was quite acceptably attractive.

"What are you thinking, Finch?" Romanov inquired, his bored eyes now lighting with interest as he observed her red face.

"You don't want to know,” she murmured.

His eyes narrowed, as if he wasn't sure about that.

She squirmed under his scrutiny and once again attempted to break her news about resigning and Charlie. She was grudgingly willing to give him these final two weeks of hellhounds and mistresses. After that, she was out the door.

“Professor, I’ve something to tell you, and it’s rather urgent …”

He held up his hand, cutting her off, and extracted his pocket watch from his waistcoat. At the same time, as if on cue, the steam train began to slow down. He gave Ikaterina one last caress, then stood up, pocketing his watch, and straightening his already immaculate clothes.

“Your news will have to wait, Finch. My transport has arrived.” He signaled to Fyodor, who also stood, grabbing up two cases and exiting the cabin.

Flummoxed, Aline glanced out the window. They were in the middle of the countryside, not a station in sight. A herd of cattle grazed in the distance, but something suddenly startled them, sending their bulky forms scattering away from the train.

She could see a few passengers hanging out the window staring up into the sky at something she could not see. But she could certainly hear its unique sonic hum, and see its shadow, a giant oblong shape cutting across the rolling green hills above the train.

A dirigible.

She turned back to the Professor, dumbstruck.

“By transport, you mean the illegal dirigible hovering above us?” she asked as calmly as she could.

He quirked his brow. “
Slightly
illegal, Finch. A wonderful way to travel. I was tempted to take you with me on this particular excursion, since you had made it this far, but I know how sensitive your stomach is, even on the airship across the channel. A dirigible is not so tame a conveyance.”

Her stomach churned just at the thought. She’d felt as if she might die when she’d crossed the channel a week ago, losing, it seemed, every breakfast, lunch and dinner she’d ever eaten over the edge of the airship while the Professor held back her hair.

It was not something she looked forward to repeating.

A dirigible, a smaller, swifter, and less stable derivative of the airship, with its giant propellers and wings – and tendency to crash – would doubtless be a thousand times worse. Besides, most governments had outlawed dirigibles since the end of the Crimean War.

Doing a bit of light gambling in illegal venues of a Friday night was one thing, but traveling by what amounted to a pirate ship was quite another.

She was not surprised Romanov was meeting the dirigible in the middle of nowhere, as they were entirely unwelcome in cities. What did surprise her was how he’d maneuvered the train into stopping here. It must have cost a fortune in bribes, at the very least.

Then again, Romanov was mysteriously, obnoxiously, wealthy.

“But Professor!”

“No time, Finch. My flight awaits,” he said on his way out the door.

Aline gave the hellhounds a warning look to stay and followed Romanov out the door, shutting it behind her. She scurried after her employer as he made his way to the end of the car. He shoved open the outer door and began to ascend the small, wrought iron spiral staircase that led to the roof.

Aline swallowed hard as she glanced up into the belly of the beast hovering precariously above them. What looked to be an actual pirate, complete with a red kerchief and Welding leg, stood on the deck of the ship, unfurling a retractable ladder, but that was all she could discern in the chaos. The wind from the dirigible’s propellers was so fierce her hair threatened to come loose from its pins, and she had to hold her spectacles in place lest they blow off her face.

This is ridiculous
, she thought to herself, her temper finally snapping completely.

Determined to have her say at last, she started to follow the Professor up the staircase, calling after him. He stopped at the top, and with his black cloak and hair swirling about in the wind, turned to look down at her, a smile on his face and a spark in his wolf-like eyes.

He looked slightly demonic and entirely too handsome, and her heart stuttered a little at his elemental beauty and … well, her secret jealousy. Despite whatever serious business was awaiting him, he was embarking on an adventure.

Without her. As always. The insufferable man.

“Are you sure you will be able to handle the crossing on your own, Finch?” he bellowed at her over the hum of the dirigible’s engines.

Aline highly doubted it, considering her weak stomach and the fact she would have no company but two troublesome hellhounds, but she refused to show her panic. She’d die before she admitted a weakness to this too-perfect male.

“No, but I must tell you something…”

She choked on her words as the propellers blew a hunk of her hair directly into her mouth. She attempted to swipe it away, but in the process, her spectacles went flying. She barely managed to catch them before they fell onto the tracks.

He cupped his ear. “What was that, Finch?”

“I’m giving you two weeks!” She shouted up at him.