Andrea Pickens - [Lessons in Love 03] (7 page)

"Unpredictable," she murmured.

"I quite abhor sea trips," piped up the gentleman's wife. "On is so apt to take ill. Once you have traveled as much as I have, you will realize that the best thing in general is to quickly put any unpleasant occurrences behind you and look only to the future."

Octavia forced a smile. "Very sage advice, ma'am. I shall do my best to heed it."

The conversation turned to talk of Tsar Alexander's growing rift with Napoleon, and what the odds were that the French army would march on Russia. Putting aside all thoughts of a certain individual, Octavia joined in the lively discussion, resolved not to allow any such lapse of girlish nonsense happen again.

* * *

Alex turned and watched the flappable Mr. Heron lead Octavia away from the docks towards the cluster of carriages waiting along the Nevsky Prospect. The faint taste of her was still on his lips, a honeyed tang that ebbed to bittersweet as it struck him that it was most unlikely he would ever tease her with such outrageous attentions again.

His mouth quirked in a slight smile, recalling her shocked expression. It was hard to resist stirring up the sparks in those flashing eyes, perhaps because she laid into him with such spirit, unintimadated in the least by standing up for herself. No biddable young milk and water miss was she! He could well imagine how her strong opinions and quick tongue had landed her in trouble. Most men could not abide being challenged—especially by a female.

He, on the other hand, found it intriguing. Their snatches of conversation had hinted at a mind of sharp intelligence and unconventional ideas. There had also been a hint of something else. Beneath the icy mien of disapproval had flared, if only for an instant, a passion that surprised him. She had responded that night in his cabin to his thorough kiss. He hadn't been so far in his cups not to feel the heat course through her as she responded to his embrace. She might speak as if all men could go to the Devil, but her body betrayed her.

A most interesting body it was, too. The dowdy gowns, cut high enough to choke a cleric, could not disguise the long legs and willowy curves, while the prim hairstyle did not fully tame a mass of glorious curls the color of wild heather honey. Did she really believe that nonsense she spouted about having little to attract the opposite sex? If so, it was the rare time where he might judge her opinion to be utter fustian. It was a shame there was no further chance to explore the many facets of Miss Hadley—somehow, he felt he would not be disappointed in any respect.

A farmer knocked into Alex's leg as he tried to maneuver a barrow loaded with sack of grain over the rough cobblestones. With a few choice words in Russian, he motioned for the young Englishman to step aside. Alex complied, but his reply brought a spasm of surprise to the man's bearded face. His hand came up to tug at his forelock.

"I'm sorry, sir, " he mumbled. "I didn't expect you to speak our language."

"Just enough to know when I have been insulted," replied Alex with a faint smile.

A quirk of humor pulled at the farmer's lips before his face regained its stoic mien. "You are far from home?" He paused to cross himself in the Orthodox fashion. "No amount of rubles could tempt me to leave my motherland."

"Every man has his price." Alex then gave a small shrug. "I wonder, can you tell a stranger where one might I find...."

In a matter of minutes, he had managed to learn where he might purchase the sort of clothing he needed, as well as where a gentleman of limited means might procure reasonable lodging. Things were going along as well as he could have hoped for, yet he couldn't help but feel a bit emptier than usual as he turned to embark in earnest on the task of finding his young relative.

By that evening he had exchanged the clothing he had brought from London for an equally modest assortment of Russian essentials that befitted a genteel but impecunious tutor. He sighed as he regarded the streak of dirt on the rough planks of his tiny garret room. The dingy sheets and threadbare blanket looked suspect as well, and he was sure he would be scratching in earnest by morning. Tossing the secondhand satchel on the floor, he sat on the rickety bedstead and uncorked the bottle that was hidden in the pocket of his heavy coat.

Good Lord, now that he was here, the enormity of what he had undertaken caused an icy knot to form in his stomach. Did he really expect to travel over such a vast strange country, alone and without any help to fall back on, and manage to locate a twelve-year-old child he had never set eyes on? And if he did accomplish such a daunting journey, what made him think he would be able to convince whoever was looking after the lad—or the lad himself—to let the young count quit his home in the company of an utter stranger?

Alex took a long swallow of the clear, fiery liquid. His Uncle Ivor must have been mad to think such a plan could work! As the vodka sought to burn through the tangle of doubt inside, he was sorely tempted to fling his plans to the devil and board the next ship for home.

What had possessed him to take on this challenge?
He was bound to fail, and fail miserably, just as he had at any meaningful thing in his life. His jaw tightened as he eyed what was left of his drink. His brother was dead, his family despised him and he had spent nearly all of his adult life engaged in turning cards, bedding other men's wives and seeing how many bottles of claret and brandy he could pour down his throat.

Oh yes, a fine hero he made.

He quickly swallowed the last of the spirits. Not bothering to remove the thick boots he had just purchased, he fell back on the thin mattress and closed his eyes, the empty bottle falling to the floor with a loud thump.

It was only the clatter of cart wheels and loud shouts of the drivers that finally caused Alex's lids to pry open. A faint ray of light from the narrow window fell across his face, causing him to wince in discomfort. The iron frame creaked as he shifted slightly.

He felt like hell.

As his hand ran along the stubble on his jaw he had no doubt that the cracked glass above the shabby chest of drawers would show that he looked no better. It took some force of will to untangle his legs from the threadbare cover and swing them to the floor. The glint of glass on the rough pine caught his bleary eye.

No wonder he felt like the devil. Although, he added to himself, usually it took more than one bottle to have this sort of effect. The Russian stuff must be stronger than French brandy or Jamaican rum, judging by the cottony feel in his throat and the abominable ache in his head.

Alex wished his valet was here. Squid always knew just the right concoction for getting him on his feet. He missed his man's sunny chatter as well, which never failed to lighten his depressed mood on mornings such as these. His stomach gave a lurch, as much from the realization that of late, most every morning began this way as from the pangs of hunger. He couldn't remember the last time he had bothered to eat. With a grimace, he raked his fingers through his tangled locks and sought his razor.

A short while later, he stumbled down the narrow stairs, bag flung over his shoulder, and headed back down toward the Neva. At a small shop close to the river he joined a crowd of laborers in purchasing a steaming cup of tea and a wedge of rye bread spread with a thick plum preserves. The heavily sugared brew caused a pucker of his lips, but made some inroads in settling the gnawing feeling inside him. Hunching over in the wooden chair he began to nibble at a corner of the thick slice as he contemplated his next move. Though the grimy window a sea of masts was visible above the peaked roofs. It should be no difficult matter to find the next merchant ship bound for London.

The sweet jam nearly stuck in his throat. What did it matter that he was slinking back, tail between his legs, without even trying to accomplish what he had set out to do? Surely nobody really expected anything else form him.

He took another swallow of tea.

The trouble was, what did he expect from himself?

Bolting down the rest of the bread, he took up his belongings and shouldered his way out of the crowded room. He paused for a moment, watching a straggle of drunken sailors and thickset laborers make their way toward the fog misting up the water's edge. But instead of following them, his steps headed in the other direction, past the narrow canals and pastel buildings shimmering in the pale northern light.

Near the outskirts of the city, after numerous inquiries, he found the inn he was looking for. Cursing himself for a fool, he tossed his bag into the dark interior of a coach reeking of stale onions and cabbage. With one glance over his shoulder, he climbed inside.

* * *

The cool, appraising stare would have been even more unnerving had the not the eyes been those of a twelve-year-old. Still, Octavia couldn't help but shift uncomfortably as she stood before the narrow desk.

The young girl laid down her pen and smoothed the sheet of paper on the polished wood. "Are you the latest one?" she inquired.

Octavia nodded. "I am Miss Hadley. And you are Emma?"

The girl's nose wrinkled slightly in disgust. "Who else would I be?" she said, just loud enough for Octavia to hear. "I hope you will display more intelligence than that if I am to be forced to listen to you for hours on end." The tone made no attempt to hide what she thought of governesses in general and the newest one in particular.

Octavia chose to ignore the deliberate rudeness. "May I sit down?"

Emma shrugged her thin shoulders.

Pulling up the only other chair in the attic chamber that had been turned into a makeshift schoolroom, Octavia sat opposite her new charge and cleared her throat. "Do I look to be so easily intimidated," she asked lightly.

There was no reply as the girl picked up her pen and began to trace elaborate doodles in the margins of her writing.

She tried another tack. "As you say, Emma, we are going to be in each other's company for a good part of the day, so I would hope that we might try to be friends."

"Why bother?" shot back the girl. "You won't be around any longer than the rest."

"What makes you say that?"

Emma didn't look up from her paper. "The others hated being in such a strange, place, with such different habits and speech. They said it was land fit only for heathens or madmen. All they wanted was to go back to their homes and families. You will, too."

Octavia made a wry face. "Well, since I have neither, I rather doubt it."

The scratching of the pen stopped. "Everyone has a family. They have to take you, whether they want to or not."

"Not me, I'm afraid. I've already been given the boot by the only relatives I know of. Not that it matters—I wouldn't go back there for all the tea in China."

Emma fidgeted in her chair. "What did you do?" she finally asked, not able to hide her curiosity.

"Ah, let us say that I... well, I had a disagreement with my cousin's husband. A serious one."

The girl thought on that for several moments. "I act disagreeably, but they've nowhere to send me. I guess they aren't allowed to simply turn me out," she said in a small voice.

A glimmer of understanding came to Octavia's eye. "Aren't you happy with your aunt and uncle?"

"They aren't really my aunt and uncle, just distant relatives," she answered quickly. "And they don't want me here. I know they don't."

Octavia made no attempt to foist any hollow platitudes about unconditional familial love on the child. "I know how you feel."

Emma eyed her warily, surprised to be spoken to on such equal terms. "You do?"

"It's not very pleasant." She picked up one of the thick leatherbound volumes that lay on the desk. "Do you enjoy Mrs. Radcliffe's writings?"

The girl's lower lip jutted out in defiance. "My last governess forbid met to touch such books. She said a well-bred young lady does not read such scandalous rubbish."

"What a prosy bore," remarked Octavia. "No wonder you headed straight for the bookshelves."

Emma stared at her in disbelief.

"Have you discovered Miss Austen's works as well? I should think you might enjoy them even more than these gothic tales. The heroines have infinitely more pluck and common sense, not always expecting some clod of a male to sort things out."

"I... I don't think Uncle Albert has any of them on his shelves."

Picturing the stiff bearing and colorless features of both Mr. Renfrew and his wife, Octavia could well imagine that was true. "No matter. I believe I have a copy of
Pride and Prejudice
in my trunk. But for now, perhaps you will acquaint me with what sort of subjects you have been studying?"

There was only a brief hesitation before Emma reached for the pile of notebooks on one side of the desk. "In history, I have been learning about the reign of Elizabeth...."

* * *

The conversation was nearly as bland as the overcooked joint of meat. Octavia took a small swallow of wine and tried to think of yet another innocuous remark to make about the state of the weather or the color of the draperies. An earlier try at discussing current events had been squelched by a disapproving glance from the head of the table.

"That is not a subject you ladies should trouble yourselves with," announced Mr. Renfrew. "Rest assured the proper people are dealing with such important matters. The complex issues would merely serve or confuse or upset you. Don't you agree, Mrs. Renfrew?"