Splendor (22 page)

come a stupidly besotted lackwit like half of the ladies in society who pined after him.

Now she sat at the counter, rather glumly, bathed in warm summer sunshine. All of the shutters were wide open, as were the windows. On the countertop in front of her was a beautifully bound volume containing Burke's most brilliant works—identical to the one she had sent to her grandmother. Thomas had not needed to remind her of the old lady's birthday.

The doorbell tinkled. Carolyn started but it was only George. Her father entered the shop, perspiring, removing his hat and mopping his brow. "It's going to be a hot summer," he announced.

Carolyn managed what she hoped was a cheerful smile. She did not reply.

"What are you doing?" he asked, removing his jacket and loosening his stock. He walked over to the counter to peer down at one of Burke's essays. "Ahh, wonderful reading. But you've already read most of Burke's work, haven't you, dear?"

Carolyn nodded. "I sent my grandmother this for her birthday."

George was still. "I see. Well, that explains your unhappy face."

Carolyn closed the thick book and ran her hand across the leather cover, which was engraved with scalloped borders and lettering in gold "It would be nice if once, just once, she acknowledged a gift from me."

"She's too old to change her ways."

"Perhaps I should say, it would be nice if just once she acknowledged me." Carolyn looked up. "She must have hated my mother."

"She loved Margaret. Everyone did. No one was more sincere or more kindhearted. Old Owsley despised me. And still does." He was grim.

Carolyn had heard all of this before. She knew the entire story. But today it was depressing. Today was her grand-

mother's actual birthday. "It is just not fair," she heard herself whisper.

"Carolyn, you are not a child. Life is rarely fair. Why are you dwelling on all of this now?'' George asked suddenly. "We do not need her. We never have." He became silent.

Carolyn could imagine he was thinking of the past, of all those times when there had been bills to pay and mouths to feed but not the wherewithal to do so. She was also silent.

"Let's talk about something else. Today they hanged a Luddite, Carolyn. They hanged a man for the crime of rioting when he had just cause."

"I know," she said somberly. But she was not in the mood to discuss the very harsh laws against workers associating much less protesting or destroying property. Sver-ayov's image came to mind. She wondered how many serfs were tied to his estates. Hundreds if not thousands. Her mood became even gloomier.

"Are you going to see Anthony Davison again?" George smiled at her. "He is a nice young man. And a good catch."

Carolyn shrugged. "He is just a friend. Papa, and I am not the kind of woman to catch a husband—as you of all people should know."

"I was merely using a figure of speech," George said lightly, "and trying to cheer you up. Actually, he would be very lucky if he could catch you."

"We are from different worlds," Carolyn pointed out, thinking more about Sverayov now than Anthony, "and I hardly think the son of a peer would condescend to marry a bookseller's daughter."

George sighed. "Carolyn, you cannot change your grandmother's feelings. I know how much her exclusion has cost you."

"I just do not understand and I never have!" Carolyn exclaimed in frustration. "She is my grandmother. We are the same blood. Next fall I will be nineteen. She may be

dead. And we will have never spoken. I almost feel as if she is blaming me for my mother's choice. Or does she despise me because I am a reminder of that choice?"

"I am certain that both explanations are correct." George suddenly put his arm around her and hugged her briefly. "You cannot make anyone think or do what they do not wish to think or do for themselves. That is life, Carolyn."

With that, he smiled and went up the stairs.

Carolyn watched him until he had disappeared from view. She knew her father was right, and there was no point in thinking about her grandmother until next year, when she was faced with another birthday. Her pulse began to race. She reached beneath the counter and removed a sheaf of handsome ivory stationery. She picked up a quill and dated the top of the page, "July 13, 1812."

And she was not penning a column for Copperville. ' 'My dear Sverayov," she wrote, her hands shaking, "several days have elapsed since we met at the Sheffields'. Tomorrow is the event of the season, one of the last, the Roundtree Stakes at Newmarket. If you wish to join me, I shall be in box 102." She hesitated and added, "I do hope we meet again." And she signed the brief note "Charles Brighton."

Carolyn closed her eyes. Since she could not forget about him, she would play her charade one more time. She prayed he would join her—and wondered what their next encounter would bring.

Alexi entered the library, narrowing his eyes. "Why are you sitting there in the gloom?"

Nicholas looked up. It was growing late and twilight shadows had filtered into the room, but he had not thought to light any lamps. ' 'I am thinking. What does it seem that I am doing?"

Alexi smiled and struck a match, lighting the lamp on Nicholas's desk. "Brooding, perhaps?"

Nicholas smiled. "I am doing that, too."

"Care to tell me what is on your mind? Other than your

daughter and the oh-so-unique Miss Browne?"

Nicholas eyed him as Alexi sprawled in a chair. "Do you now read minds Hke a gypsy fortune-teller?"

"Not at all. I saw the way you looked at her last night."

"Really?" He hoped his tone sounded far cooler than he himself felt.

"I think you have been struck by Cupid's arrow, big brother." Alexi grinned widely.

"You are quite mad—as mad as our dear departed father was."

Alexi's smile faded.

"I am sorry," Nicholas said, instantly contrite. Rumor had held for too many years to count that Ivan Sverayov was not Alexi's father. And that did seem likely, as the brothers' mother, both beautiful and despotic, had had numerous lovers, both during and after her marriage.

Alexi shrugged. "No harm," he said, his teeth flashing. His smile did not reach his eyes, and Nicholas knew he had opened up an old wound, and inwardly, he cursed himself. "Actually, I have been contemplating hiring a companion for Katya."

Alexi was surprised. "Katya has a governess."

"Taichili is hardly kind or caring. And when Marie-Elena is sent to Tver, in the very near future, Katya will need someone about her, someone kind and caring, witty and instructive. Someone who will be intelligent, resourceful, and unquestionably loyal to my daughter. In fact, as I shall rejoin my conmiand, this person shall in effect be my daughter's supervisor—a substitute parent, or a guardian, if you will."

Alexi blinked. And then his gaze narrowed. "I take it you have someone in mind for the role?" He began to smile. "Dare I guess the identity of this superlative woman? It is a she, is it not?"

"I see that you have already surmised that I intend to approach Carolyn Browne regarding the position." His pulse raced, competing with his myriad, spinning thoughts.

Alexi chortled and produced an envelope from an interior

pocket. "And speaking of the original lady herself, this just arrived. Apparently it is from Charles Brighton." And he started to laugh.

Nicholas took one look at his smug, know-it-all face and all of his previous sympathy vanished. He broke the wax seal and read.

"Well?" Alexi asked, laughter lingering in his tone. "What does he want? Or should I say sheT'

"He—that is, Carolyn—has invited me to the races tomorrow at three." His jaw flexed. And his heart beat a bit faster than it had.

"And? Will you go?"

"How could I resist—much less refuse?" And Nicholas began to smile. "I think the time has come to unmask Charles Brighton, wouldn't you agree?"

<4^ Sixteen ^

CAROLYN fidgeted, barely able to watch the horses racing across the turf on the course below the bandstands. Almost as one, the field took the first hurdle, a high hedge jump. The only other fans present in her box were strangers to her. And the races had started forty minutes ago; she was vastly disappointed. Sverayov was not going to appear.

She should be relieved. Maybe Sverayov knew that she was really Charles Brighton, anyway, even though he had not given a sign or a clue of his suspicions if that were the case.

But she was not relieved. Her spirits were vastly low, and it was not like her. She was thinking about how she had to shake off her infatuation, for it was not serving any purpose in her life, and where could her passion lead anyway? He was married, and even though he had an understanding with his wife, Carolyn knew she was not capable of having an affair with him. And even if he had been a bachelor, he was a foreigner and a prince—he was not for her. And then Carolyn realized the direction which her thoughts had taken, and she was appalled with herself.

Shaken, she watched the field from the fourth race take a brick wall. He said, from behind her, "I have bet a hundred pounds on Topper to win."

Carolyn whirled. Sverayov stood in the aisle, his gaze narrowed, amber eyes gleaming, impeccably clad in a dark

blue tailcoat and pale beige trousers. Flushing she stood. "Sverayov. I am pleased to see you." She bowed, reaching for her spectacles as they slipped down the bridge of her nose.

He entered the box. "Your invitation was a pleasant surprise, young Charles." He smiled benignly at her.

Carolyn stared at him, searching his eyes for a hint of what he was really thinking. He must certainly know that Brighton was Copperville, but his smile was friendly, nothing more. Her color, unfortunately, increased. "Is Topper in the next race?"

He handed her a program. "He's handicapped at seven to one."

Carolyn glanced at the program, having no real interest in it. She had only decided to attend the races in the hopes of luring him there. All gentlemen, it seemed, liked horse racing. She wondered if she should confess.

"You seem disturbed." Sverayov raised his looking glasses and studied the racing field. "Number six is down at the last water jump."

Carolyn glanced up and saw another Thoroughbred go down because of the first fallen steed. She winced. But the rest of the field was thundering toward them into the flat homestretch. "Are you a racing fan?"

He smiled at her. And his gaze slipped from her face to her cravat, and down her waistcoat. "Of course. I have racing stables in Tver. That is one of my country homes. I have one of the best studs on the Continent, and in all of Russia."

"What is it like? Tver?" She had, she hoped, avoided his question.

He started, holding her gaze. "Tver itself is rather provincial. It is somewhat like a smaller version of St. Petersburg." He smiled briefly. "Although at one time hundreds of years ago it was a very unruly state and one of Moscow's chief rivals." His smile widened. "It has been ravaged throughout its history, including by the Mongol Tartars, and was destroyed by a fire in 1763. However, it is quiet and

picturesque. The city is situated on the Volga, one of our largest rivers, and it is a land of contrasts—winding rivers and flower-filled meadows, pine forests and ice-cold lakes. At night the sky is so clear that it seems one can see every single star—and there are hundreds of thousands. It is a good place to be able to hear oneself think."

Carolyn studied his handsome face as he turned his gaze back to the track. A dozen horses were lining up for the start of the fifth race. "I should like to see such a place sometime," she heard herself say.

His head swiveled. "Perhaps, one day, you will." His gaze connected with hers.

Shivers swept up and down Carolyn's spine, and for one moment, she had the oddest premonition that she would visit Tver, and far sooner than seemed possible. But she shrugged the notion aside as mere fantasy.

But he said, '*When I intend to be at Tver, I shall send you an invitation, Charles."

She started. Had he pronounced her alias with the faintest touch of mockery? But his gaze was steady on hers.

"Why are you disturbed today, Charles?" he asked suddenly—softly. His tone had become too sensual for comfort.

She tensed. "I thought perhaps ... that I had offended you and you might not accept my invitation."

He was amused. "And how did you offend me, my young friend?"

She swallowed. And tugged at her collar, which was too tight. "I'm not sure. Have I offended your sensibilities in any way?" she asked carefully.

He sent her a sidelong glance, which made Carolyn begin to shake, and handed her his looking glasses. "They're off." The field thundered past them, toward the first jump.

Carolyn wet her lips, raised the glasses, but could not concentrate. In truth, she no longer wanted to play this charade. She wanted to be with him as Carolyn. "Where is Topper?" she asked.

"He is about fifth from last."

They watched the field in silence as horse after horse took the first hedge and galloped around the first turn. Another hedge followed. Topper remained in the cluster of horses to the rear of the galloping pack.

"He will make his move after the brick wall," Sverayov said very calmly. For one instant, his gaze found and held hers, his eyes bright, but also languid. Carolyn was tense. She could not look away. He had the most sensual manner about him, and she wondered if he regarded all women in the same way, with smoky golden eyes. Maybe she was imagining the sensuality in his gaze. But if she was not, why did he not just come out with it and accuse her of treachery?

The brick wall was ahead. Topper had inched ahead of the lagging horses now. Horse after horse cleared the fence, landing and stretching out. "Go," Sverayov said very firmly.

Carolyn raised the glasses and saw Topper's jockey using his crop. The bay crept away from the lagging horses, now coming abreast of five horses racing in the middle of the field. All the horses easily cleared a box hedge. Topper was leading the middle of the field now.

Sverayov smiled at her.

Carolyn watched, growing amazed, as the bay drew abreast of the two horses just behind the leader, which was a gray. The four racers took the final water jump almost as one. And then Topper was alongside the gray, nose for nose with him.