“He cannot be with her constantly. Return to the hotel and finish your task when Miss Karkoff is alone. Do not return without those letters.”
The servant cleared his throat. “As to that…”
“What is it now, Yuri?”
“Knowing how much you were wanting them letters I waited a bit and then attempted to sneak into the hotel.”
“How very enterprising of you.”
The servant flushed at Charles’s mocking tone. “I overheard the staff talking.”
“And why would I be interested in the gossip of servants?”
“Because they were saying that they seen the Russian widow slipping out the kitchens with a bag in her hand. They were thinking she was attempting to avoid paying her bill.”
Charles stilled, a red mist beginning to form behind his eyes. “What did you say?”
Yuri licked his dry lips. “She left the hotel.”
“Her servants?”
“Gone.”
“And you did not consider the notion of telling me this pertinent piece of information until this moment?” Charles softly demanded.
Not entirely stupid, Yuri surged to his feet, perhaps reading his own death etched onto Charles’s face.
“She cannot have gone far. I will—”
“No, I think not.” Before the lumbering servant could react, Charles had his dagger pulled from his pocket and thrust into the man’s heart. “You have failed me for the last time, Yuri.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Prussia
STEFAN HAD NEVER CONSIDERED himself particularly conceited.
Certainly his ducal position had ensured that very
few ever dared to question his commands. And his temperament, while not turbulent, was resolute.
Still, it was not until he endured endless days of chasing Leonida through France and deep into Prussia that he became aware that he had never before had his will so annoyingly thwarted.
And he damn well did not like it.
The woman should be at Meadowland—warming his bed, gracing his table, cozily tucked in the library as he read to her from his favorite books. Not risking her neck on some foolish scheme for Countess Karkoff.
Halting at a small village just north of Leipzig, Stefan crawled out of his carriage, pacing the stable yard with short, restless steps as he waited for Boris to return from his questioning of the staff at the nearby posting inn.
He had discovered early in their journey that the presence of the Duke of Huntley made most servants either too tongue-tied to speak or encouraged them to make any claim in an effort to please him. And then there was always the fear that King Fredrick would hear rumors of a prominent Englishman traveling through his territory and issue the sort of invitation that Stefan would find difficult to ignore.
It was far less complicated to allow Boris to approach the natives.
Absently studying the ruins of a castle on a nearby bluff, Stefan attempted to ignore the speculative glances from the passing villagers. He could hardly blame them for their curiosity. It was not often such a sleepy town saw an elegant carriage pulled by two matching black stallions or a gentleman so richly attired in a cinnamon jacket with a cream waistcoat and black pantaloons that were tucked into gleaming Hessians.
At last, Stefan heard the heavy sound of Boris’s approaching footsteps and, turning, he stabbed the servant with an impatient glance.
“Well?”