Splendor (3 page)

Nicholas suspected that someone inside of the government was working very hard to sabotage the talks. He had the strongest sixth sense about it. But he had yet to identify that man—or woman.

But his wife was pregnant, shockingly so. And the Brit-

ish were so boringly, damnably, conventional. Marie-Elena might hinder his mission far more than she might aid it. He shrugged on his jacket, adorned with a dozen rows of gold buttons and golden epaulets, rather violently.

"Nicholas? Is something wrong?" Lady Carradine moved to the side of the four-poster bed, her legs over the edge.

"I have to go. It is late." That was the truth. But it was the price paid for these kinds of encounters.

"You cannot leave now!" she exclaimed.

"It is unfortunate," he agreed, a mild lie, "but I can, and will." He reached for his ceremonial sword.

"You have been distracted all evening," she said evenly. But there was the slightest trace of hurt in her eyes.

"I am sorry." To make her feel better, he added, "I have grave matters on my mind."

She stood. "When will I. . ." She hesitated. "Now that your wife has arrived, will I see you again?"

He hated messes and scenes. He did not see the point of seeing Lady Carradine again. "I do not think so."

She nodded, pursing her mouth. Then abruptly she rose, moved to him, and put her arms around him. ' 'Let me take care of you," she whispered. "One last time."

"It's not necessary," he said, taking her hands in his and removing them from his hips.

"Then promise me that we shall see each other again." Her brown eyes searched his face. "Or have I displeased you in some way?"

"You have not displeased me, Marcia. And I am sorry to have disappointed you. But we made one another no promises."

She sank back down on the bed, watching him stride to the door. "Then it is true. What they say—what I have heard. That you are inhuman when it comes to women— unfeeling. Incapable of love."

He paused. "If you are asking me if I am a romantic, then the answ^er is no," he said calmly. "I am not a poet, Marcia."

"Have you ever loved a woman, Nicholas?" she asked, her eyes glistening. "Have you ever even tried?"

The question was absurd. "What does love have to do with the few nights we shared? Did I ever speak of love? We are two adults. We have enjoyed one another's company. That is all there is to it."

"No." She smoothed her gown, as if intent on ironing out the wrinkles with her palms. "You made me no promises, but you are very compelling, Nicholas, when you wish to be. I knew I was going to fall for you—^just as I knew I was going to get hurt." She blinked several times. "I have fallen in love with you."

He refrained from sighing. "I am sorry."

"Sorry," she echoed. She glanced up. "Is it because of her? Your wife? Do you love her? She is so terribly beautiful. And who was that man she was with?"

He stared. He had no intention of telling her the truth, that no, he did not love his wife and he never had, and that her escort was, probably, her latest lover. ' That was a very personal question^ Marcia," he said coolly.

"Do you go to her now?" Lady Carradine cried.

Nicholas bowed. "Do not disturb yourself on my account. I shall see myself out."

She rushed forward. "I apologize."

He shrugged, turned and walked across the dark room, his boots making no sound on the thick Persian rug. He unlocked the door and slipped through it. The corridor outside was lit by several wall sconces, and he walked unhurriedly downstairs, frowned upon by grim Carradine ancestors. He was feeling more than grim himself. The evening felt like a disaster, yet he hardly had cause to label it as such. And he was not a man given to premonitions.

A bleary-eyed servant snapped to attention in the foyer downstairs and let him out the front door. Nicholas's coach, black lacquer with gilt trim and a completely gilded roof, emblazoned with the Sverayov coat of arms in silver, red, and gold, was around the block, since he had no wish to blatantly advertise his presence at the Carradine residence.

But as he strode down the sidewalk, a thin, dapper form materialized from beneath a street lamp, rushing forward. Nicholas recognized his valet immediately, a Frenchman by birth, and stiffened in surprise. "Jacques!"

"My lord." The slender, mustachioed servant reached him, out of breath. "Thank God you 'ave come. I 'ave been waiting over 'alf an hour—uncertain of whether to interrupt you or not."

And Nicholas knew it was an emergency. Every fiber of his being tensed. His first thought was that it was too late— Napoleon had marched on either St. Petersburg or Moscow. "What is it?" His strides lengthened.

They hurried side by side around the comer, toward the waiting coach with its four footmen, six horses, and two drivers. "It is the princess. She 'as begun to deliver the child. Two hours ago, to be exact."

Nicholas stumbled and froze. "She cannot be due for at least four more months!"

"Yes. It was four, exactiy." Jacques's brown eyes were somber. "The physician says the child is already dead— and your wife may die as well this night."

Nicholas could not move.

' 'Excellency, let me get you a drink. I have vodka in the carriage," Jacques said, holding his arm as if steadying him.

Nicholas looked at him. Jacques had to suspect the truth. "I am sorry the child is dead. But it was not mine." And there was no doubt—for he had not slept with Marie-Elena in five years.

Jacques nodded. "Ow/. I thought as much, my lord."

But Nicholas did not hear him. For all her failings, and there were many, Marie-Elena might die. And she was Ka-tya's mother—and Katya was at the house. Oh, God. Nicholas came to life. "Let's go," he said.

<4^ Two ^

"BROWNE'S Books—Old and New, Rare Manuscripts a Specialty" was nestled amongst a series of shops in a small, pleasant alley with a dead end two blocks over from Bond Street. It was a sunny spring morning, not yet nine o'clock. The air was unusually blue, marred only by a high passing cloud or two, and a bird was singing from the shop's second-story window box. Windowsills up and down the street sported gay summer flowers; the stout lady whose husband owned the bakery was sweeping in front of their store. Carolyn waved at her and then smiled up at the bird, which had stopped singing as she stepped outside.

"Good morning, sparrow," she said cheerfully. "It is a wonderful day, is it not?"

The bird hopped about the box far above her head then froze, peering down at her expectantly.

Carolyn slipped her hand into the pocket of the apron covering the somewhat faded navy blue striped skirts of her simple gown and tossed a handful of stale bread at the base of the tree. "Enjoy your breakfast," she said.

She turned and unlatched the shutters to reveal the large window of her father's store. Two beautiful maps were on display there, one centuries old, one brand-new. Then she stepped back inside, inhaling deeply.

She loved the somewhat musty smell of the bookstore, a smell of leather bindings and old paper, just as she loved

the smell of the early morning. Now sunlight filtered into the dimly illuminated two-story shop, which was lined wall-to-wall with books. The shop was Carolyn's home. She had been bom in the bedroom above it.

But today she missed her father. He had been gone for almost two weeks now, and she expected him back at any moment. He was delivering a rare medieval manuscript to a client in Copenhagen. She wished he could entrust the task to a courier, but she knew the value of rare tomes, and understood why he could not and would not do so. George Browne was all the family she had. Her mother had died when she was six, and Carolyn did not count her mother's relatives as family, because they had disowned Margaret Owsley Browne many years ago, just as they had ignored the fact of Carolyn's existence, too, ever since she was bom. The Dowager Viscountess of Stafford had one other grandchild, Margaret having had an older sister, but she had never forgiven her eldest for mnning off with a commoner. Their love, apparently, did not matter.

When George was out of the country, Carolyn was always somewhat lonely—her father and her books were her best friends. She had never had friends her own age. She had yet to meet a woman who had read David Hume or Adam Smith or who could discuss Plato intelligently. Carolyn read everything she could get her hands on, whether it was a tract on the origins of mankind by Lx)rd Monboddo or a popular poem by Walter Scott. And she had undoubtedly become a bluestocking because of her father. George had told her, many times, that Margaret had loved to read.

As Carolyn crossed the bookshop, she smiled at the thought of their many fervent discussions, not only on the subject of books, both old and new, instmctional and fictional, but on politics, philosophy, science, and even unfashionable topics such as astronomy. Then Carolyn wondered what he would think of the Russian envoy recently come to London.

But there was so much to do today, so Carolyn made sure she had plenty of coin in the cash drawer in order to

make change for any customers she might have. Of course, sales were very slow, and it was possible they might not have a single one. Carolyn knew that a part of the economy's problems were caused by the war on the Continent. She sighed, picking up a duster, thinking about how lucky they were to still be in business, but before she could approach a single book, the bell over the front door tinkled as it opened. She turned with a smile. A well-clad young gentleman stood in the doorway. He smiled at her, his blue eyes intent.

**Good morning. Lord Anthony," Carolyn said, forgetting to set the duster down.

He came forward. "What a beautiful day, Miss Browne." His gaze roamed over her face.

"Do not tell me you have already read the tract on metaphysics by Sir William Hamilton which I gave you?" She thought that it was impossible. She had only sold it to him yesterday.

His smile was engaging. He was a very attractive young man of medium height and build with boyish good looks. He wore fine, expensive clothing. Earlier in the week he had let it slip that he was the youngest son of an earl. Carolyn had learned that his father, Stuart Davison, was a ranking member of the foreign ministry, working closely with Castlereagh. "Actually, I have not. But I was passing by, and thought I might pick up a gift for my sister. You see, she likes to read."

"Oh! Well, does she prefer novels or poems? Or could I interest her in something philosophical?"

He stepped closer. Since he had entered the store, his blue gaze had not moved from her face. "I think you should choose," he said. "Anything you think a young woman about your age would enjoy."

"Well, most young ladies come here for novels, my lord. I personally am rereading a tract by Jeremy Bentham, a very enlightened thinker, I should say. Of course, I do admit to occasionally enjoying a poem. Has she read Childe

Harold's Pilgrimage by Lord Byron? It was but published a few months ago."

"I do not know," he said. "Miss Browne. May I say something?"

But Carolyn had turned away to fetch Byron's latest work which all of society was atwitter about. In the process, she pulled a novel for Anthony Davison to also inspect. "Of course," she said over her shoulder. Her platinum-blond hair was cut short, just above her shoulders, where it was a riot of waves and curls.

"You are very lovely this morning," the young man said.

Carolyn was climbing up on a step stool—and now she almost fell off it. She shifted so she could look at him, somewhat amazed. Was he serious? Her dress was old, faded, and entirely out of fashion. She had cut her hair herself—and continued to do so every two months. She was far too tall for a woman, and unfashionably slim. In fact, her long legs often caused her a bit of awkwardness. But he was regarding her with very serious eyes, unsmiling now.

"You have incredible green eyes," he said, low. And then he blushed.

"That is a very kind thing to say," she finally said with a quick smile. He was just being kind, and gallant, she decided. She pulled her favorite pamphlet by Bentham from the stacks for good measure. "Here, if you don't mind."

He took the pile, not even looking at them. "Let me help you down, so you do not fall."

Carolyn protested. "This stool is my second home," she said, arriving with a small jump on the floor. "Now, I do reconmiend Byron. I personally thought it quite vain, but it is good reading anyway." She smiled at him.

"If you recommend it, I shall buy it," Davison said.

"Don't you want to look at it?" she asked. "Peruse a few pages?"

"I will take everything," he declared.

Her green eyes widened. They were neither as dark as

emeralds nor as pale and muddy as moss. Carolyn thought them an enigmatic shade of green, neither here nor there.

Davison followed her to the counter. As she was writing up the sale, the bell again tinkled over the front door. "Right with you," she called, not looking up.

"Is that my welcome home?" George Browne asked

Carolyn turned, saw her father, and beamed. "Papa! You are back—and all in one piece, too! How very wonderful!" She rushed past her customer and gave him a huge hug. Father and daughter smiled at one another. "Did all go well?" she asked.

"Very. But I see that I am interrupting," George said, setting his single valise down.

Anthony Davison was flushed now. "I am pleased to meet you, sir. You must be Mr. Browne, the proprietor."

"Yes, I am, both the proprietor and Carolyn's father." But his tone was mild. George came forward and shook the young man's hand, his gaze twinkling. "I see you enjoy popular fiction?" he said.

Anthony started, glanced down at the two books and pamphlet in his hands. One novel was titled Lx)ve Lost, Love Won. "Oh, no! These are for my, er, sister," he said somewhat lamely.

George looked as if he were swallowing laughter. "I see." He glanced fondly at his daughter. "The greatest good for the greatest number?" he mused, referring to Ben-tham.

Carolyn blushed now. "I could not resist. Actually, Lord Anthony is reading Hamilton," she said brightly. "But maybe he will glance at Bentham next."