streets along the river, especially at night. The Thames waterfront was a maze that often trapped the unwary, with stairs and docks and landing places that took a lifetime to learn. Born in Stepney, Tom had proved to be their man and he was trustworthy.
“Coming about,” the man in the boat said in a low voice. He gave a final hard pull on the oars to propel himself to the narrow dock at the foot of the stairs, then kept one in the water to turn the boat around with.
Kyril handed the lantern on the stairs to Tom and, surefooted despite the slime on the stairs, went down to the boat. The other man drew both oar handles through the oarlocks and trapped them under a planked seat, keeping the wide, wet blades up in the air. They dripped into the river, gleaming in the isolated light of the lantern attached to the bow. He threw a line in a loop around a half-rotted piling, securing the boat to it.
“Neatly done,” the coachman said softly. “If that bad wood holds.”
“It will hold long enough.” Kyril clambered down into the rowboat. “I will be gone for some time,” he said over his shoulder to Tom, trying to stay on his feet. “Return the carriage to the mews and—” He swore under his breath when an unseen swell rocked the boat.
Lukian Taruskin leaned to the opposite side to steady it.
“See to the horses, Tom, and yourself—it was a long while to wait in bad weather and then the gallop—damnation!” The boat tipped to the other side.
“Sit down, cousin.” Lukian spoke in Russian. “The tide is turning and we must be off. Tom has not failed you yet.”
Kyril finally sat down.
Tom tipped his hat to his master once he was safely down and slapped the reins over the horses’ backs, turning them and the carriage in the opposite direction from which they had come.
The darkness swallowed the sound of their pounding hooves just as Kyril reached up to extinguish the little flame in the lantern. “Thank you for fetching me. We will not need this now.”
“No,” said Lukian, “perhaps we did not need it at all. But I wanted to be sure you would see me and I was prepared to wait. I saw the storm blow in over your part of London some hours ago.”
“The rain was very heavy.”
“I am glad we are not in the thick of it.”
“So am I.”
Lukian set to in earnest, pulling rapidly on the oars to get them well away from the treacherous bank.
After a little while he spoke again. “How did you get through the streets? London is ankle-deep in muck when it rains hard. I was surprised to see you at the dock.” His efforts took the boat straight through the strong current of the placid-looking Thames. Like Kyril, he was a powerful man.
“Micklethwaite made good time.”
Lukian’s breathing was deep and regular. He seemed to be enjoying the vigorous exercise.
“And where were you before this, Kyril?” he asked with amusement. “You smell of flowers.”
“Do I?”
Lukian snorted. “Let me guess. You were not picking violets in a churchyard. Who is she?”
“That is for me to know and you to find out.”
His cousin rowed on, thinking it over. “Hmm. Of the ladies of your acquaintance, there is only one who likes that particular perfume. I met her once. You dragged me to a soirée at her house when I was the worse for drink.”
“Are you speaking of—”
“Yes, her,” Lukian said impatiently. “The woman you hold in such high esteem. I don’t think she liked me. You know exactly who I am talking about.”
Kyril did, but something in his cousin’s tone struck him as odd. Lukian’s bad temper was nothing new, but his snappishness was. He was a lone wolf by nature, prone to dark moods which he usually managed to keep to himself. It was impossible to see his expression clearly now that the lantern had been put out.
“I doubt she remembers you,” Kyril said at last.
Lukian shrugged, which interrupted the rhythm of his rowing. The oars bounced on the water and splashed. “Good. What was her name again?”
“Vivienne Sheridan.”
“Yes, of course. She must have rubbed herself against you very thoroughly, Kyril.”
“Do not be so rude. She did not rub, as you put it. We embraced.”
“Aha. How romantic. Do you love her?”
There was a thin, razor-sharp edge to that unexpected question. Why on earth did his cousin even care? Kyril cleared his throat. “She is very beautiful.”
“So she is.”
“And highly intelligent.”
Lukian snorted. “A paragon of womanly perfection, I suppose. Worthy of a pedestal.”
“Yes, Lukian. But not at all like a statue. She is extremely sensual,” Kyril added. “So much so that I very nearly forgot my meeting with you.”
Lukian’s eyes gleamed in the darkness. “Then I will count myself lucky. I suppose she refused you?”
“She did not.”
“Then why are you here?”
“It seemed best not to send one of my brothers in my place.”
Lukian laughed. “You are lying, Kyril. Though Semyon and Marko are good men. But they lack your experience at skulking around.”
“That is because they are still cubs.”
“Tall ones.”
“But cubs.”
“Have it your way, cousin.” Lukian returned his attention to his rowing, lost in thoughts that Kyril could not read.
Kyril let the matter drop, thinking of Vivienne instead. How ardently she had pressed against him, how much she had seemed to want him—why had she said no?
It had worked out for the best, of course. If Lukian had come to the north bank of the Thames, following the beacon that a confederate had set out before Kyril’s arrival, and not found him there, he would have been angry indeed. Given Lukian’s current mood, they would have come to blows over it.
Kyril sighed. Family was family, but his relatives were sometimes too fond of fighting. But there was nothing he could do about that. For reasons of security, the members of the Pack of St. James had to stick together and he had not found it easy to make friends among the English in any case.
If truth be known, his feelings for Vivienne were a combustible mixture of raging lust and the first, worshipful stirrings of tender love—a love that was likely to consume him if he was not careful.
She
