Splendor (39 page)

Carolyn gasped, imagining that all of the color was leaving her face.

"Well, that was a reaction if I ever saw one! What hap-

pened? I thought you were his daughter's companion. Why didn't you go back to Russia with them?"

Carolyn stared, having no intention of explaining one single thing to her feisty, witchlike grandmother. But how had she guessed the truth? How? "Why would I go to Russia?" she asked carefully. "That would be absurd."

"Really? Many Europeans have flocked to St. Petersburg over the years," a man drawled casually from the doorway.

Carolyn cried out, for the accent was impossible not to recognize, slightly coarse, Slavic, and so very exotic.

Alexi sauntered forward, dripping water off the brim of his hat and down his broad, mantle-cloaked shoulders. Disappointment immobilized Carolyn. For one stunning instant, she had thought it was Nicholas.

"You seem dismayed," Alexi said with a smile. "But then, I am only six feet three, and my hair is black, not blond." He grinned.

Carolyn hugged herself, her heart pounding, knowing that her grandmother was staring closely at her. ' 'This is a surprise," she managed almost inaudibly.

"Yes, I think, for a moment, you thought you were seeing a ghost." He laughed.

"What are you doing here?" Carolyn asked—when she wanted to run to him, grab him, shake him, and demand to know if Nicholas was all right.

"I am here on business, of course. It seems I am forever ordered back and forth between various governments." He removed his hat. "I am dripping all over your floor." He faced Edith Owsley. "Good day, madame." He bowed.

"You are the brother," Edith said flatly.

"Yes. I take it you were discussing Niki?" He shot an amused glance at Carolyn, who flushed.

"She is brooding. I imagine she yearns to go to Russia, to be with her charge." The old lady was also amused. "Has he packed that miserable wife of his off to wherever it is that you royalty send the misbegotten?"

Alexi grinned. "Unfortunately, he has not packed the princess off to Siberia—my choice for an extended exile, I

might add. But he has sent her to the country, which she truly hates. I imagine in time he might be persuaded to send her farther east, perhaps as far east as the Kamchatka Peninsula."

"How is Katya?" Carolyn interrupted, having gotten the definite feeling that the Kamchatka Peninsula was so far east it was probably in the Pacific Ocean.

Alexi reached inside the pocket of his coat. "Actually, the reason I am here is to deliver this." He held out a sealed letter.

Carolyn's heart turned over and she met his eyes.

His smile was gone. Their gazes held. "No," he said softly, "it is from Katya."

For one more moment she continued to stare at Alexi, waiting for him to hand her another letter, dear God, or even a note, from Nicholas. But he did not. And she realized that no such personal missive was coming.

Tears shamelessly filling her eyes, Carolyn accepted the child's letter and held it to her breast. She was going to lose control, break down and weep. Had he already dismissed her from his mind? From whatever small place she had managed to claim in his heart? Had he even forgotten her very existence? If not, why would he not have sent her a letter, too?

Her grandmother interrupted her thoughts. "Sometimes life is full of surprises, and that is what makes it worth living." She smiled at Carolyn, who remained paralyzed with grief. "If you decide to travel, Carolyn, do come and say good-bye." She saluted Alexi. "An interesting development, I would say. Oh, by the by. Shall you win or lose the war?"

"Win, madame. We shall win. For no Russian will ever lay down his arms while there is a single foreign soldier on Russian soil. In this, peasant and peer, serf and clergyman, are united."

"Hmm. Perhaps your tsar should stop leading his armies in retreat, then," the old lady had the nerve to say. "Eventually he must stand firm. Good day, Your Highness."

Alexi bowed as the old lady swept past him as if she were the royal personage present.

Carolyn's temples were throbbing. She slowly met Al-exi's gaze. "I am being terribly rude," she finally said. "You. are wet and cold, probably hungry, too. Come inside. There's a fire in the kitchen, and I can feed you supper if you will."

"I thought you would never ask," he said, following her through the store and into the kitchen.

As Carolyn lit the stove, her hands trembled and she was swept forcefully into the not so distant past. How painful it was. But it was not so long ago that she and Nicholas had actually been together in the kitchen almost like this, after the Davison ball. Oh, God. Had it been a dream? "I only have port," she said, pouring him a glass of the aged wine. She handed it to him. "Is he all right?"

He no longer smiled. "He is fine."

"Where is he?" she asked, not even trying to hide her concern.

"Smolensk."

So the rumors were true. "That is where the First Army is?"

He nodded. "And Bagration's army, too. The Second."

She wet her lips. "Will there be fighting?"

"I can only hazard a guess," he said carefully.

"Please," Carolyn whispered.

"Yes," Alexi said. "Yes, I believe that this time, there will be a battle. Napoleon has pressed too far east. There is no way the high command can allow him to continue. Noway."

Carolyn sat down abruptly, her heart sinking.

Alexi did not linger, but he promised he would call on her again in the morning. Apparently he intended to conclude his business that night, if he could, and his intention was to leave the following day.

Carolyn was torn when he left. He was her last solid link to Nicholas, or that was how it seemed, but she was also

desperate to read Katya's letter. The moment he was gone, she bolted the door, and ran back into the kitchen where she had left the letter and her grandmother's Bible. The latter she ignored. With a pounding heart, she tore the seal and removed a single page of parchment.

Dear Miss Browne,

When my uncle told me he was returning to London, I asked him if he would forward a letter to you. He agreed, of course. I wish you were here.

Father is back with the army, and soon there is going to be a huge war, or so everyone says. I know they try to hide it from me, but all the servants talk of little else. It is so strange. The house is dark and quiet. But so is the city. It used to be so gay, with pretty ladies in the streets, gentlemen on their hacks, and servants rushing to and fro. But not now. We have gone out every day to ride in the park, but even that is empty. Because of the war, I think, everyone is afraid and sad and chooses to stay home. At night, there are no lights. I did not understand, but Taichili told me the war has cost so much money that candles and oil are dear. Even for us. We have never worried about candles and oil or anything else before.

Mother isn 't here. Father sent her away. He sent her to Tver. I wanted to go with her, but he explained to me that my mother needs some time alone in the country. I wish I could go to Tver. I love it there. I used to love St. Petersburg even more, but not now. Not when it is so quiet and dark, not when everyone talks in whispers, even here in the house. I hope Father changes his mind and lets my mother come home. I know the truth. And I miss her.

Miss Browne. I wish you had come home with us. I think you would like St. - Petersburg. Not the way it is now, but the way it was before Napoleon invaded our land. I miss our talks, and I keep remembering our single outing. The accident was horrid, but the

museum was so much fun. Taichili doesn't let me study astronomy or philosophy anymore,

I must say good-bye. I have embroidery to finish. I hope you are well. And just to let you know, Alexander misses you, too. I can tell. Your Friend, Katrina Elenovna Sverayov.

Carolyn put the letter down, laid her head on her arms, and wept. She wept the way she had not done since her mother had died. It was hard to even understand why she was crying. At first, she thought it was for Katya, who was alone, lonely, sad, and afraid. But she realized she also wept for herself. Because she was hopelessly in love with an unattainable man—one who did not, she was sure, return the least of her feelings.

And when Carolyn finally stopped crying, it was only to fall asleep there at the kitchen table, her head on her arms. And she dreamed of gilded palaces, sable rugs, a red snarling wolf, and muskets firing. And blood. There was so much blood.

Carolyn awoke, and the first thing she thought about was blood. For a moment she did not move, lying in her bed, remembering horrible dreams. And then two thoughts flashed through her mind. Alexi might leave today, and her father had returned home last night. Or had his waking her up gently, and telling her to go up to bed, been a dream, too? Carolyn jumped up, splashed water on her face from the washstand, and threw on a robe. She flew across the hall, found his bedroom door open, and sure enough, his bed was mussed—he had come home. She rushed down the stairs, almost falling in her haste. He was making notes at the counter. "Papa!"

He looked up and smiled. Carolyn flew toward him to embrace him. But the simple hug became much more; George held her very hard and for far longer than usual. Instantly Carolyn sensed that something was wrong. She broke the embrace and peered up at his face.

"Papa. What has happened?"

He forced a smile. "I am merely very glad to see you, my dear. I have missed you."

He was not telling her something. He seemed distraught. She smiled at him. "I missed you, too. Did your trip go well? All manuscripts delivered safe and sound?"

He looked away. "Yes." Then he smiled at her. "So you are not still employed by the Russian."

"Papa, he went back to Russia. I am sure you heard about the treaty that was concluded July twelfth. He left with his family just a few days later."

George smiled, clearly relieved. ' 'That was for the best. Of course I know the treaty was signed. This is where you belong, dear, here in the bookshop with me."

Carolyn hesitated, eyes downcast, pulse thudding. He would rant and rave if he knew what she was thinking of doing. No. If he knew what she intended to do. She had not a doubt.

"How is young Davison, by the way?" George asked.

Carolyn sighed. "I suppose that he is fine."

"Have you seen him since the ball?"

' 'He came by the store several times, but ... I was not feeling well." Poor Anthony. Carolyn had pleaded illness but the truth was that she had been too heartbroken to accept any of his invitations, of which there had been many.

"And how is Copperville?" George asked.

Carolyn glanced away. "Copperville has had a mental block. He has turned in only one column since the Sheffield affair—and Taft rejected it."

George stared. "Carolyn, is something wrong?"

She no longer attempted to lie. She hugged her cotton wrapper tighter to her body. "I received a letter from Katya last night. She is frightened and alone in a country that is at war. Her mother has been sent to the country, her father is with his troops, and she is in the care of a grim, bespectacled monster named Taichili. She is sad. Not only did she write so directly, it was obvious by the tone of her letter."

"I am very sorry for her," George said far too brusquely.

"But Sverayov's daughter is not your concern. It is his concern—and his wife's.''

Carolyn regarded him with dismay. As she did so, someone banged on thi front door. George looked up. "It is only eight o'clock. Whoever would come by at this hour?" He started forward to open the door, then halted in mid-stride. "Dear, go upstairs and dress."

But Carolyn already knew who their caller was, without having to look, and she turned, and through a crack in the shade, saw a part of what could only be Alexi's tall, arrogant form. "It is Sverayov's brother," she said, hurrying for the stairs. "I will be right down. Do not let him leave, Papa!"

She heard George opening the door as she reached the landing and raced into her bedroom. Never had she donned underclothes and a dress more swiftly. To hide the fact that she was too agitated, and in too much of a rush, to fasten up the back of the dress, she threw a shawl over her shoulders, and, in her stocking feet, she raced back downstairs.

The two men were quietly discussing Salamanca. They both ceased conversing and turned to regard her. Carolyn smiled nervously. "Good morning," she said to Alexi.

He returned her smile with one of his own, one that lit up his topaz eyes, eyes that were almost exactly like Nicholas's. He bowed, the gesture grand. "Good morning. Miss Browne."

"Did you have a restful night?" she asked, although she was dying to get to the point she wished to make—and desperately wishing that her father would leave them alone for a moment or two.

"Hardly." His grin flashed, reckless and suggestive. "And I am departing for St. Petersburg this mofning."

Her heart did ^stop. Oh, God. He was going to St. Petersburg. Oh, God. Carolyn crossed the fingers of both her hands and hid them in the folds of her skirt. She could not speak-

"Well," George said. "Then we both wish you bon voyage."

Alexi inclined his head, and now, regarding Carolyn, his gaze had become eerily intense—and too reminiscent of the way his brother had so often looked at her. "Did you have a chance to read Katya's letter?" he asked.

Her cheeks were hot, burning. "Yes." Her tone was a croak, worse than a frog's. She cleared her throat.

"Do you have a reply that you wish me to take back?" he asked.

Carolyn shook her head.

"Shall I wait for you to pen a response?"

She wet her lips. Then she darted a glance at her father. "Papa, I am stepping outside with His Excellency. I wish to discuss something with him."

George stared, jaw tight. "What could you possibly wish to speak to him about?"

Carolyn took Alexi's arm. She did not answer her father, but began steering him from the store.

"Carolyn!" George cried.

Carolyn ignored him, her pulse roaring in her ears, her steps fast now, and she swung open the front door. Outside, the air was wet and fresh, and raindrops sparkled with the dew on the flowers in the windowsill boxes. Carolyn inhaled as the door swung shut behind them. The stone pavement was cold beneath her stocking feet, and she hopped a bit on her toes.