Andrea Pickens - [Lessons in Love 03] by The Storybook Hero Read Free Book Online Page B

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