that he wanted to talk to you privately.”
Semyon shrugged, unconcerned. “If he comes back, then I will, I suppose. I hope he is harmless.” He yawned hugely, suddenly revealing the hidden fangs that were the mark of the Pack men as his curling tongue touched the top of his mouth.
Natalya pretended to be shocked. “Don’t scare me like that, Semyon.”
He smiled lazily. The effects of the liquor were beginning to wear off. “Sorry. Your dear husband Ivan is here to protect you, is he not?”
“Ivan is sound asleep. Can you not hear him snore?” She gestured vaguely in the direction of the bedroom allocated to the housemaster and his wife.
“No, and that is a good thing.”
She laughed and pushed the disgusting-smelling mug to him. “Must I?” he groaned.
“Yes.” She put her hands on her very womanly hips and looked at him squarely. “While I watch.”
His lips quirked, thinking of how much he had enjoyed watching someone else under very different circumstances. Should he tell Natalya of the sleeping maidservant? He could embellish the story to amuse her—of course, he would leave out the salacious fantasy he’d indulged in. But he would make the most of his impression that Angelica Harrow was too well bred to be a housemaid and also that her eyes held a hidden sadness. A beautiful heroine with both those qualities sounded like the beginning of a fairy tale, and his recounting of their brief meeting would appeal to Natalya, who was sentimental when she was not fierce.
He began the story of Angelica, hoping to distract her, then took a sip, scowling. He wanted to gag. Miraculously, the brew stayed down.
“All of it,” Natalya said.
“The potion or the story?”
“First drink that,” she scolded him.
Semyon sighed and lifted the mug, holding his nose as he tossed the steaming contents into his mouth, swallowing it all in one go like a trencherman at an inn. He gasped when he set the mug on the table, wiping away the tears streaming from his eyes.
“Very good,” she said, evidently pleased with him. “That’s over with.”
“I think you have poisoned me,” he said weakly. “Send roses to my funeral, if you please.”
“What color would you like?”
“Ah—red.”
“Indeed not. Red roses are for lovers. No, a ghostly white spray of lilies would do for you, I should think.”
“It is the middle of winter.” He coughed against the sour tide rising in his throat. “Hothouse blooms are too costly. No, bury me plain, if you please.” His idle jests did not quite take his mind off the red rose Angelica had been holding in her sleep. Natalya’s innocent remark made him wonder again who had given it to her and why.
Natalya went to the loaves she’d baked and tore off a chunk. “Eat this,” she said. “It will take the bad taste away.”
He sank his teeth into it, relishing its warmth and dark, earthy flavor, an echo of the faraway homeland he barely knew. Ivan’s wife was truly a treasure. He dusted the few crumbs from his hands, smiling at her again.
“Now,” she said, settling herself on a stool. “You did not tell me enough about the ball.”
“It seems to me that I have run through the entire guest list and made unkind comments about nearly all of them. What else would you like to know?”
“What the women wore, from first to last.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Natalya glared at him. “The night is cold, so begin with their cloaks and furs and hats, and then go on to”—she dropped her voice to a sensual whisper—“what lay beneath.”
“Oh, I see,” he laughed. “Well, a gaggle of lady’s maids divested the female guests of everything they wore on top before they went into the ballroom, and then a footman took it all away. The gowns were certainly very pretty, although I cannot remember specific details, Natalya.”
“Then who was the prettiest woman there?” she asked eagerly. “I am sure you remember that.”
He nodded, making her wait for it. “Her name was Angelica Harrow and she was not exactly at the ball.”
“No? Then where was she?” She looked at him narrowly. “You are a master of seduction from what I know and not to be trusted.”
“The footman brought her the cloaks and wraps to put away and guard until their owners would want them again.”
“She was a maid?”
“I think she wanted to give that impression,” Semyon said carefully. “But to my ear and eye, she was not bred to the task.”
Natalya looked sad and sympathetic. “Alas. A ruined beauty, forced to slave for a pittance.”
Her melodramatic turn of phrase made him smile a little. “I have no idea.”
She tore off a chunk of bread for herself and chewed it absently. “And did you engage her in conversation?”
“I merely handed her my coat. But yes, we exchanged a few words.”
Natalya nodded, thinking it over. “I thought you seemed different somehow when you came home.”
“I was drunk.”
She waved a hand. “Not that. Something else—you seemed to be elsewhere, as if you were thinking of something or someone lovely. Not the sots at your club, certainly.”
He acknowledged her remarkable intuition with a nod. “Well done, Natalya. Angelica was on my mind from that moment on tonight. I hope to find out more about her.”
“And when you do, will you tell me everything?” she asked eagerly.
“If I think it is fit for your pretty ears, yes, most likely I will.”
“I am a married woman now,” she said indignantly. “You can tell me anything. You and I are the youngest among everyone in this gloomy house, so you must. Who else am I to talk to? Not old Levshin—his nose is always buried in his ledgers. And Antosha is forever scribbling. I believe he is writing a history of the Pack.”
“For many reasons, it will never be published,” Semyon said.
“In any case, only those two are around much, so you have to talk to me when I need to be amused.”
“I will do my best,” he laughed.
Natalya nodded, pulling off another chunk of fresh bread and adding jam to this one, as if she needed to be fortified for the next installment of gossip. “If this Angelica took your coat from you, she also gave it back,” she said slyly. “So you spoke to her twice.”
“Ah—not at our second meeting.”
