Page 3 of The Storybook Hero (Intrepid Heroines #2)

Three

“ M iss Hadley?”

Octavia looked around the crowded wharf, trying to spot whoever had called her name. All around her was a crush of people and cultures, the long beards and embroidered robes of the Russians boyars mixing in with the felt boots and smocks of the country serfs and the European dress of the foreigners. The air swirled with all manner of exotic smells, the less pleasant ones sweetened with the scent of pitch from the piles of spruce logs destined for spars for the British navy. And the crowded walkways were jumbled with sacks of grain, bales of tanned hides, and mountains of thick pelts of fox and sable.

“Miss Hadley! Over here.” A young man with a long, thin face raised a gangly arm and waved once again with a bird-like twitter. “I am Mr. Heron. I’ve been sent by the minister to collect you and your things. Several other members of our Mission, due to arrive later this morning on the ship from Stockholm, will be travelling to Moscow with us.”

Octavia managed to keep a straight face. The poor man. He probably suffered no end of teasing without her also cracking a smile at the joke the Fates had played upon him. She returned his wave as he squeezed through a group of burly sailors and stepped with exaggerated care over a crate of live chickens.

“Have your belongings been brought off yet?” he inquired, brushing his hand across his high forehead. Despite the chill air, there was a sheen of perspiration on his pale skin and a nervous twitch to his left cheek.

Octavia pointed to the lone, battered trunk at her feet that held all her worldly possessions.

“Excellent.” He breathed a sigh of relief. “I’ll send a porter for it right away. Would you mind terribly if I left you alone for just a short time while I fetch the bag of dispatches from London?” He pointed to the sleek Royal Navy corvette that had just dropped anchor in the harbor. Already a gig was being swung out from its davits, with a crew ready to row ashore.

“Of course. I shall be fine,” she answered.

He bobbed his head in thanks and rushed off, the movement of his long legs conjuring up the unfortunate image of a large bird picking his way through a boggy marsh.

The cacophony of languages was astounding. She could pick out some Russian, along with a smattering of German and English. The rest she could only begin to guess at. Was the improbably tall blond gentleman with hulking shoulders babbling in Swedish? Perhaps the two merchants haggling over several bolts of silk were screaming at each other in Polish. Or?—

Someone jostled her elbow. “Not abandoned already, I trust?”

Octavia turned around at the sound of the familiar voice and glared. “Must you always be intruding on my peace?”

Alex’s brow came up in amusement. “Peace? Forgive me. Slowtop that I am, I hadn’t realized how conducive this atmosphere is to peaceful contemplation.”

She allowed a reluctant smile. “I was caught up in just watching everything. I didn’t mean to snap at you, Mr. Leigh. And no, I have not been abandoned. The gentleman from the Mission had to collect the diplomatic bag from London and will return shortly.”

“Fascinating, is it not?”

“Oh yes!” She didn’t try to hide her enthusiasm. “I have always wanted to travel.”

He eyed her thoughtfully. “Most lone females would be quaking in terror at being in a foreign country, with no family, no friends. Or falling into a swoon.”

“I can’t afford to quake. I must work for my living,” she replied. “Swooning is out, too. I forgot to pack my vinaigrette.”

His blue eyes danced with laughter.

“What about you? Is someone being sent to escort you to your new home?”

“No. They didn’t know quite when to expect me. I shall just have to get there on my own.”

Her brow furrowed. “Do you speak Russian?”

“Oh, a word or two.”

“I fear you will need more than a word or two, Mr. Leigh. It is a very large and very wild country. Perhaps it would be best to hire someone who knows the customs to travel with you.”

“Hardly an option on my salary,” he answered dryly. “Don’t give it a thought. I shall manage.”

“Well, you must promise that you will be careful.” Octavia bit her lip as she watched a team of stevedores unloading a cargo of sugar beets from a small coastal schooner. The man might be rather encroaching and prone to drink to excess, but he did have a certain keen wit and roguish charm. And beneath the veneer of self-assurance was a hint of vulnerability that softened the sharp edges. She didn’t like to think of him ending up frozen in some icy snowbank. “Perhaps I could inquire as to whether you might travel with us for a way.” Even as she spoke, she couldn’t quite believe she was offering such a thing.

His eyes took on an even richer glow of humor. “I know you are extremely loath to part with my company, Miss Hadley. But much as I appreciate the offer, I assure you I will be fine on my own.” To forestall any further discussion on the subject, he turned and pointed at the magnificent building that stretched out seemingly forever along the banks of the Neva River. “That is the Winter Palace,” he informed her. “It was built by the famous architect Rastrelli for the Empress Elizabeth and is said to have 1,100 rooms.” Another gesture. “And that building there is the Admiralty, created by Hadrian Zakharov. The church looming up in the distance is St. Isaac’s Cathedral….” For the next several minutes, he continued to regal her with a knowledgeable commentary on the sights that surrounded them.

“I had no idea you were quite so conversant with Russian history,” she said after a moment. “Where did you learn so much about the country?”

He shrugged. “I picked up bits here and there.”

So, he was as good at avoiding questions as she was.

Another group of laborers approached, hard at work trying to maneuver an overloaded farm cart to the edge of the dock. The foreman began to yell in an agitated voice at several of the men, only to earn an equally heated retort. Octavia choked back a laugh, causing Alex to cock a brow in question.

“That fellow just gave a rather colorful description of the other man’s genealogy,” she explained.

“You speak Russian?”

She nodded. “A smattering. My father had quite a scholarly bent. There were just the two of us as my mother passed away when I was quite small, so I’m afraid I received a rather unorthodox education for a female.” After a fraction of a pause, she sighed and added, “It’s a shame I’m not a man so that I might be able to put to use what I have learned.”

“I don’t think it’s a shame at all,” he murmured. “That you are not a man, I mean.”

She gave a tug at her cloak. “Mr. Leigh, you may stop with your frivolous flirtations. At my stage in life, I’m quite immune to such flummery. Besides, you are much more interesting to be around when you choose to use your brain rather than other parts of your anatomy.”

He threw back his head and laughed. “Ah, so I have finally discovered the way to your good graces—unfortunately a trifle too late. However,” he added in an exaggerated whisper, “I’m devastated to find that my charms have no effect on your lovely person.”

“Really, sir, you are most ridiculous. I am well aware that I am hardly a paragon of female beauty. I am too tall. My hair is too mousy and my figure is….” She stopped in some embarrassment.

“Yes?” he encouraged.

To her dismay, Octavia felt her face turning a warm shade of red. “… And I am too old to be considered anything but an antidote.”

“Miss Hadley!” came a shrill cry from across the cobbled way.

“Ah, there is Mr. Heron now,” she said quickly, relieved to be able to change the subject.

Alex eyed the thin figure, head bobbing nervously in all directions as he surveyed the bustle around him. “Tell me you are jesting.”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Poor fellow. Well I hope you fly along to Moscow with no trouble.” He thrust out his hand. “Shall we cry friends then, and take our leave from each other with no hard feelings over the past?”

Octavia smiled and accepted it. “Indeed, Mr. Leigh, let us part as friends. I wish you good luck in your new position.”

Instead of releasing her hand, he pulled her close and pressed a firm kiss on her surprised lips.

“Mr. Leigh!” she sputtered, when he allowed her to step back.

“For luck.” He grinned and winked, then disappeared among a group of sailors tramping back towards their ship.

Hell’s bells. Octavia shifted on the worn leather seat. She had quite enough on her mind without being troubled by thoughts of the maddening Mr. Leigh. Why was it that she couldn’t seem to banish the picture of those mocking blue eyes and sensuous smile? She was acting like a flighty schoolroom miss, mooning over some handsome face as if anything could come of it. He was nothing but a scoundrel and a rake. A charming one, but Octavia imagined that sort of man had to be, else he wouldn’t be successful at seduction—or whatever it was that scoundrels and rakes did.

She stared out of the window of the lumbering coach as it wound its way through a thick forest of towering spruce and fir. A flock of ravens landed in one of the trees up ahead and filled the air with a raucous cawing. She shivered slightly and pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders. The sound, like the dark, unfamiliar landscape, was slightly forbidding and caused her to wonder just what lay ahead for her.

Well, whatever the Fates had in store, it did not include a penniless tutor given to scandalous behavior, no matter that his stolen kisses aroused in her a certain … curiosity. No doubt he tossed out his smiles and winks as easily as a boy skipped stones across the water, and with the same careless nonchalance, unmindful of what the ripples might disturb. It was all too likely that he had left a string of broken-hearted maids and governesses in his wake.

She, on the other hand, was much too sensible to give such a man a second thought.

“Miss Hadley?” Mr. Heron coughed hesitantly. “Is something not to your liking? You are not too chilly, or in need of a stop to stretch your legs?”

Octavia started. “Why no, I am quite comfortable, thank you. Why do you ask?”

He swallowed hard. “Well, you seemed to be, er, frowning.”

“Was I?” She made a concerted effort to lighten her expression. “Forgive me. I fear I was letting my thoughts stray back to the voyage from London.”

“A rough passage?” inquired one of the arrivals from Stockholm, a portly gentleman attached to the office of the Secretary.

“Unpredictable,” she murmured.

“I quite abhor sea trips,” piped up the gentleman’s wife. “One 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 coaches 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.

He 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, unintimidated in the least by standing up for herself. Clearly she was no biddable young milk and water miss! Alex 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. Snatches of their 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. That first storm-tossed night, he hadn’t been so drunk as to not feel the heat course through her as she responded to the kiss in his cabin. 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 that he wouldn’t be disappointed in any respect.

A farmer knocked into him as he tried to maneuver a barrow loaded with a sack of grain over the rough cobblestones. With a few choice words in Russian, he motioned for Alex to step aside.

He complied, but his reply brought a spasm of surprise to the farmer’s bearded face. Looking contrite, the fellow tugged at his forelock. “I’m sorry, sir. 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 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, reflected Alex. And 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 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 carpetbag on the floor, he sat on the rickety bedstead and uncorked the bottle that he pulled from the pocket of his heavy coat.

Bloody hell. Now that he was actually 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 on which to fall back—and manage to locate a twelve-year-old child he had never set eyes on?

Another silent oath reverberated in his head. And if he did accomplish such a daunting journey, what made him think that 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 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 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 early the next morning. 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 Alex ran a hand along the stubble on his jaw, he had no doubt that the cracked looking glass above the 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 that 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 River. At a small shop close to the water’s edge he joined a crowd of laborers in purchasing a steaming cup of tea and a wedge of rye bread spread with plum preserves. The heavily sugared brew caused his lips to pucker, but the steaming brew 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 bread as he contemplated his next move. Though the grimy window a sea of masts was visible above the peaked roofs. It shouldn’t be difficult to find a merchant ship heading back to London.

For an instant, a bit of crust nearly stuck in his throat, but he forced himself to swallow. What did it matter that he was slinking back, tail between his legs, without even making a try to accomplish his mission? Nobody really expected him to do otherwise.

He took another gulp of his tea.

The trouble was, what did he expect from himself?

Bolting down the rest of the bread, Alex took up his bag and shouldered his way out of the crowded room. He paused for a moment, watching a straggle of drunken sailors and burly laborers make their way through the fog toward the dockyards. But instead of following them, he turned abruptly and 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, Alex 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. after a tiny hesitation, he climbed inside.

The cool, appraising stare would have been even more unnerving had not the eyes been those of a twelve-year-old. Still, Octavia couldn’t help but shift uncomfortably as she stood in front of 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 which 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 hermits or madmen. All they wanted was to go back to their homes and families.” A pause. “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 have. 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.

“Let us say just 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 that 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 leather-bound 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 as well? I should think you might enjoy her book even more than these gothic tales. The heroines have infinitely more pluck and common sense, and are 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 Sense and Sensibility 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,” Mr. Renfrew had announced. “Rest assured the proper people are dealing with such important matters. The complex issues would merely serve to confuse or upset you. Don’t you agree, Mrs. Renfrew?”

His wife nodded a vigorous assent.

Hah! thought Octavia. As if men haven’t been making a dreadful hash of things for the past decade and more. But she let the matter drop without argument. Given the circumstances, she really couldn’t afford any slip of the tongue. She needed this job. And so she forced a smile and pushed at the unappetizing morsels on her plate.

It was with great relief that she watched the stout housekeeper bustle in to clear the table and serve the pudding. Surely the interminable meal could not last a good deal longer. There was at least some solace in knowing it was not an ordeal that would have to be endured nightly. The lady of the house had already informed her that after being honored with an invitation to dine at their table this evening, her first in the household, she would be expected to take her meals with the rest of the help.

Mrs. Renfrew had ended her lecture with a tight smile. That was how a proper English house was run, so it wouldn’t do to relax the rules, she explained. Didn’t Miss Hadley agree that order and discipline was what made life run smoothly?

Octavia found herself gripping her wineglass with nearly enough force to snap the stem. It was not hard to imagine what sort of life it was for an orphaned child in this sort of surroundings?—

“So, Miss Hadley, you have met your charge. What think you of your ability to keep the young person under control?” Mr. Renfrew smoothed a hand over his severely cropped silver hair. “Be assured that you need not fear being thought too strict. The child has an unfortunate tendency toward willfulness which must be dealt with. We do not wish to spoil her.”

Octavia bit back the urge to tell him that her trunk of whips and chains seemed to have gone astray during the voyage from England. “Oh, I daresay I shall be up to the challenge,” she answered, striving to keep her tone neutral.

Husband and wife exchanged relieved looks. “Well then, we will leave you to your duties, Miss Hadley. If there is anything you require, you may inform Mrs. Renfrew.” He turned his attention to the thin slice of apple tart set before him, finishing it off in dead silence. Then his chair scraped back, signaling an end to the meal “I have a number of matters to attend to in my study,” he said brusquely, not bothering to see whether either of the two ladies were done.

His wife abandoned the last bite on her plate and rose hastily to her feet. “I must see to several things as well.”

Octavia stood up, her hand tightening on the back of the uncomfortable straight back chair to keep a grip on her rising temper. “Thank you for your kind hospitality,” she murmured, hoping that the note of sarcasm was not too evident.

Mr. Renfrew inclined his head a fraction. “Think nothing of it,” he said magnanimously. “After all, it was our duty to make you feel welcome.”

Welcome indeed!

“Good evening, Miss, er, Hadley,” said Mrs. Renfrew as she made to follow her husband from the room. “You look to be a capable young woman. I do trust you will be able to handle the child without needing a great deal of guidance in the matter.”

Octavia didn’t trust her voice enough to respond with anything more than a murmur that could be taken for an assent. It wasn’t until she was climbing the narrow stairs to her own cheerless quarters next to the schoolroom that she dared unclench her jaw. Two colder fish she couldn’t imagine. Perhaps their cruelty was unintentional, but the thought of an orphaned little girl having to endure such guardians kindled a hot anger inside her.

Knowing full well what it was liked to be unloved and unwanted, she vowed that, as long as she was around, the child would have a friend.