Seduced by a Spy Read Free

Stockholm embassy, it was easy enough to crack jokes. But at the time, it had been no laughing matter.
    Taking up the prince’s Cossack dagger, Orlov spun its point upon the leather blotter. “However, you might have given me—and Lord Lynsley—fair warning that the mission was a joint venture. As it was, the wrong man nearly ended up with his throat cut.”
    “Bah.” Yussapov brushed off the retort with a cavalier wave. “All’s well that ends well. Is that not how your famous Bard put it?”
    “As I am half Russian, I am wont to look at things from a more melancholy perspective,” he replied dryly. “It is easy for you to laugh from the comfort of your armchair and lap robes, but the whole affair came dangerously close to disaster on account of not knowing who was friend and who was foe. If we are allies with the British, should we not try to work together a bit more closely?”
    “We are uneasy allies, Alexandr. The Tsar is not quite certain he can trust the Mad King and his ministers.”
    “Still, it is cork-brained not to share intelligence with Whitehall.” Light winked off the razored steel. “While we circle each other with daggers drawn, Napoleon’s agents steal a march on us.”
    “You have a point.” The prince stroked at his beard. “I shall raise the issue with His Imperial Highness.”
    Orlov felt marginally better for having voiced his opinion. Yet his mood remained surprisingly discontented given the superb quality of the aged port and Turkish cheroots. Leaning back, he propped a booted foot on the desk and blew out a ring of smoke, hoping to rid himself of his black humor as well. It hung for an instant in the air, a perfect oval in harmony with itself, before disappearing in a sinuous swirl of ghostly vapor.
    Ashes to ashes…
What strange musings had come over him? His Slavic penchant for brooding introspection was usually balanced by the more devil-may-care spirit of his English heritage. His mother, a lively Yorkshire beauty, had proved a perfect foil for his Muscovite father’s proclivity for solitary sulks.
    Orlov drew in another mouthful of the pungent tobacco smoke. He was aware that many would say he had inherited the worst traits of both parents. His cynical outlook on life and acerbic wit offended most people. Deliberately, he conceded. He was the first to admit that he was an unprincipled scamp, a rapscallion rogue. A man possessing a finely honed sense of honor would have difficulty doing the things he was called on to do. Lies, thievery, seduction—and yes, even murder. His conscience, if ever he had had one, was certainly long dead to remorse and recrimination.
    “Another drink?” Yussapov was eyeing him strangely from beneath his shaggy silver brows. “You appear—how do the English say it?—red-deviled tonight.”
    “
Blue
-deviled, Yuri.” Forcing a sardonic smile, Orlov held out his glass. “Stick to Russian if you wish to employ subtle sarcasm. It loses something in the translation.”
    “
Moi
? Sarcastic?” Assuming an air of injured innocence, the prince toyed with the fobs on his watch chain. “I am merely concerned for you,
tvaritsch
. As a friend, I fear that of late we are asking too much of you.”
    Orlov nearly choked on a laugh. “I am greatly touched by your tender sentiment,” he replied after swallowing the port. “Not that I am fooled in the least by what motivates it. I take it you have another job?”
    A flicker of hesitation, and what seemed to be a flash of warmth. But Orlov quickly dismissed it as a quirk of the candlelight. Or a figment of his own overheated imagination. For when Yussapov spoke, it was with his usual ruthless candor. “As a matter of fact, yes. This one will not require your celebrated charm with women.”
    “You are skating on dangerous ice, Yuri,” he growled. “That particular joke is wearing thin.”
    “You
are
in an odd mood.” The prince folded his hands on the desk. “But I shall take heed of the warning