Splendor (7 page)

"And then?"

"1 will send her to Tver for the winter. And the spring— aiid next summer."

"A good idea." Alexi stood. "I know that Katya loves her, but she is dangerous. I personally believe she chose Vorontsky on purpose—knowing that if you found out you would be hurt."

"Do I appear hurt?" he asked coldly. "I am angry. She can choose her lovers at will—but not-from amongst my friends and family."

"She wants to hurt you, Niki. I can see it in her eyes. Send her to Siberia. Tver is too close to Moscow. And just leave her there until she is old and gray."

"Alexi, I appreciate your concern, but you are not a father. Katya worships her mother. I prefer not to hurt Katya by punishing Marie-Elena—who is really no more than a selfish, willful child herself."

"Thank God the tsar has not arranged a marriage for me," Alexi exclaimed, moving to the sideboard and refilling his glass. "If I ever take that step, I want to know that

divorce is an option without my being hanged by the balls in Siberia, no less."

"Thank you. I needed that," Nicholas said. But he had never considered a divorce, and why should he? On a personal level his marriage was no different from those of most of the couples he knew, while politically, it was beneficial to everyone, including himself. And unlike other men, Nicholas was not worried about a legitimate male heir. Ka-tya was his heir. He sighed. "She miscarried the child the night before last—and almost died herself."

Alexi stiffened. ' 'Christ. Now I am sorry for running on at the mouth."

"Do not be sorry. You have always despised her, and if I were you, I probably would, too." Nicholas slanted a look at him. "She lost a tremendous amount of blood, but it seems she will live." He hesitated. "Thank God." And he was not thinking of Marie-Elena and Sasha, but of Katya.

"Too bad," Alexi growled.

Nicholas paced. "Alexi, I am worried about Katya."

Alexi stared. He came over and placed his hand on his brother's back. "I am sorry. I was not thinking clearly. Poor Katya. She must be distraught. Where is she? I wish to see her."

"She is upstairs with Leeza." Nicholas hesitated. He wondered how much his brother really knew. Alexi had to have heard the rumors, five years ago, when Nicholas had launched a huge investigation into Marie-Elena's life, past and present, uncovering every possible stone. But Nicholas was an extremely private man, and while he had then needed, desperately, a confidant, he had not told his brother or anyone about the possibility that his daughter was not his. Even now, he could not bring himself to share the truth with anyone.

Nicholas turned and strode across the library to one of the open windows, his face grim. "Do you think Katya is a happy child?'' he asked without turning.

Behind him, Alexi started. "She is a very quiet child," he finally said. "I don't know, Niki."

Nicholas turned. "I don't think she is happy, but I do not know why. I try to come home as much as possible, and I am certainly more fatherly than most men I know who ignore their children—especially their daughters—entirely. And Marie-Elena is not atypical. Every woman I know is like her—more interested in galas and diamonds and lovers than in their own children. Is it possible that I am overly concerned?"

"I don't know. I am not a father. At least you really love your daughter," Alexi said.

"What does that mean?" His tone was sharp.

Alexi actually flushed. "I don't know what I meant. I am going upstairs. How about drinks later—and a little prowling about town?" He grinned, pausing at the door.

"Perhaps," Nicholas said. At that moment, he had not the slightest interest in either carousing or women, by God. And what had Alexi meant? Was he implying that Marie-Elena really did not care about her own daughter? Nicholas refused to believe it. He continued to stare outside. His gaze was searching.

"Well, enjoy the landscaping," Alexi said with a teasing tone. "Until later, big brother."

"Actually, there is a spy lurking about," Nicholas said as casually as if discussing the weather.

Alexi froze, his eyes widened. "Are you in jest?"

Nicholas turned. "A young lad. He's been snooping around for some time now. I am debating whether to end this farce now, or later. I am not in the mood for these kinds of games, not after the night and morning I have just had." He was in the mood, actually, to wring the spy's skinny neck and choke the information out of him which he wished to have. However, he was too experienced and astute to do that. He supposed he would now have to play cat and mouse himself.

Nicholas turned away from the window. "I think I shall fetch the morning journal and take some breakfast before I toy with the spy."

Alexi smiled. "You do that. I am visiting my niece." He swiftly exited the room.

Nicholas followed, more slowly. As he left the library, Jacques instantly materialized. "My lord, your breakfast is ready," the slender Frenchman said. But then, he could almost read Nicholas's mind. "I have laid out your fresh clothes. Do you wish to bathe before carrying on with your morning since it is already rather late?" He coughed slightly. '.'You have a luncheon with Lord Stuart Davison, Excellency."

Nicholas had not forgotten; Davison was a member of the foreign ministry and worked closely with Castlereagh. He had already met the man and while he appeared to be sympathetic to the possibility of an alliance between their two countries, Nicholas suspected there was far more to the man than met the eye. "I will bathe, but briefly," he said. "Jacques, after I have gone, I have an errand for you. I want you to purchase a kitten."

Jacques smiled. "For Princess Katrina?"

"Yes. Find her something she will adore—with a good temperament. I wish to present her with the gift this evening."

"As you conmiand, Excellency."

Nicholas strode into the breakfast room, a small chamber with several large windows, papered in a bright floral print fabric he found far too feminine and frivolous for his personal taste. But then, he did not particularly like the town house, either. It was a far cry from the many magnificent homes he had in Russia, including the ancestral palace in St. Petersburg, a fantastical new palace he had just finished building in Moscow, and Tver, his country home, a sprawling stone mansion built hundreds of years ago and added onto numerous times.

Nicholas took his place and allowed himself to be served. AU of his staff had come with him from his homeland. He would not trust a British chef not to poison him if the price were right. Europe was a continent at war, with ever-changing alliances, and agents operated in all of the major

cities. Nicholas dug into a plate of broiled sirloin and pickled red cabbage, dismissing those thoughts while reaching for the Morning Chronicle. And instantly he became aware of eyes upon his back.

He stiffened, annoyed—he could not even enjoy his meal. The spy was undoubtedly outside the window that was just behind him. How tempted he was to end this moment of subterfuge.

Determined to ignore the spy, Nicholas skimmed several pages pf the newspaper. Then he saw his name, and froze.

He slammed down his knife and fork, eyes wide, stared at the title atop the column, three words engraved on his mind—"A Royal Sham."

"What the hell?" he said, and then he read the article— every single blasted word.

He saw red.

Charles Copperville. The man was naive and romantic and far too idealistic, but Nicholas was a liberal himself, and he had, until now, agreed with some of his views. He had even enjoyed some of Copperville's columns, especially the one in which he had blasted two very well-thought-of lords for their wrangling in Parliament— presenting both men as they truly were—as vain, egotistical fools. But recently, goddamn it, he had been blasting Nicholas. And that was an entirely different matter.

And an entirely unacceptable matter.

Nicholas wondered if he knew the man. If Copperville were an alias—and the man himself was an old enemy of his.

Nicholas was shaking with anger. Copperville had made him appear to be a depraved, jaded, amoral rake—while Marie-Elena had been portrayed as some kind of holy victim. ''Chort voz'mi!" Nicholas rolled up the papfer and threw it at the wall. He was standing.

And when he turned, he came face-to-face with a young man with a scraggly goatee and a bicome hat set on a head of blond hair at an untidy angle. Only a simple windowpane of glass separated the two men.

For one instant, Nicholas was shocked. But not half as shocked as the young spy, whose eyes were bulging in a face gone frightfully white.

And then he smiled, savagely. To hell with cat and mouse. He had had enough.

The spy ducked frantically, disappearing from sight.

Cursing, Nicholas lunged forward. He was suddenly, savagely, determined.

^ Five ^

NICHOLAS shoved the window open. The spy was running pell-mell across the small garden. Nicholas put one foot over the sill and bent his body in half, trying to get outside. He cursed, following the spy with his eyes. He could not fit through the damnable window, he was too large, too tall.

He remained crunched up now, his gaze narrowing. Surely what he was thinking was impossible—was it not?

Nicholas jerked himself back into the breakfast room, rushed through the house. He exited through a back door and ran hard around the side of the house until the front sidewalk was in view. Sure enough, his quarry was across the street, still running away. His hands found his hips. He was not a fool.

The little spy, inept that he was, was no he. He was a she.

He began to smile. How very amusing, indeed.

And then he began to button up his jacket. An instant later he was also crossing the street—and flagging down a hansom.

Carolyn dashed inside the bookshop. She instantly saw that her father was with a customer, and she regretted her haste. George looked up and his eyes went wide. Carolyn had already recognized the customer; he was an elderly gentleman fond of Gothic novels. She sucked down her breath

and gave both men her back, pretending to browse one of the stacks. With a shaking hand she pulled down Troilus and Criseyde by Chaucer.

What a close call!

She had yet to recover from having been face-to-face with Sverayov, a mere pane of glass separating them. His expression of fury remained engraved upon her mind. She had not a doubt that if she had not reacted immediately by fleeing, he would have broken that window and done bodily damage to her.

Carolyn was wet with sweat. She had walked a dozen blocks until she'd found a hansom to take her home. And she was still trembling.

And to make matters worse, had Sverayov caught her, he'd have been within his rights to press charges against her for trespassing. Carolyn had never precipitated such a disaster before. But never before had she tried to spy on one of her subjects in such an intimate fashion.

The bell over the front door tinkled. Carolyn turned, and trying to appear disinterested, she watched Mr. Ames leave the store. When the door was closed solidly, she faced her father, her eyes lighting up. "You will not believe what has happened!"

George came over to her. "Your goatee is askew."

Carolyn reached for her scraggly beard, and realized a part of it was hanging off. She flushed. No wonder people had been giving her odd looks.

"Perhaps you should use more glue next time," George said fondly. His eyes twinkled.

Carolyn sighed and yanked off the small beard, shoving it into the pocket of her tan coat. "His wife almost died last night."

"Whose wife?" George asked, reaching for her bicome. He adjusted that, too.

"Sverayov's," Carolyn said impatiently. She was still stunned over what she had learned. And she could imagine the scene two evenings before—the prince arriving home, disheveled from his love affair, only to find his wife at

death's door. Had he felt any remorse? How could he live with himself? And she had lost the child. Their child. He had not appeared to be grieving. He had been calmly dining as if nothing at all had happened. What kind of unfeeling man was he? She shuddered. His bronzed face loomed in her mind. She couldn't help wishing he were scarred or pockmarked or something.

"Is that where you were?" George frowned. "Carolyn, I don't want you pursuing the Russian. Leave him alone."

Carolyn stiffened, immediately confused. Her father's tone had been unusually sharp. And although George was her father and she was only eighteen, he had always treated her as an independent thinker—as an adult. He had never ordered her around, not even when she was a child. He had always given her choices and allowed her to make up her own mind. Yet now his words had sounded suspiciously like a command. ' 'Why should I leave him alone? He embodies all that I stand against. Immoral extravagance, self-absorption, self-indulgence, and the tyranny of the few over the vast majority. For goodness' sake. Papa, Russia is a country of serfs.''

George sighed. "And is that Sverayov's fault?"

"He is an accomplice," Carolyn said firmly. "And I can not respect a man who comes to this country during a time of war, on official state business, and then behaves as a carefree cad, as if nothing were wrong in the world! He should be setting an example for us, and for his own people, don't you agree? Instead he is carousing all night while his wife lies on her deathbed."

"Not everyone is as high-minded as you," George said with a smile. "I see I am going to lose this debate. I am afraid to ask how you found out about his wife. In any case, I hope you are not going to write about the princess in your column."

Carolyn sighed. "Of course not. That would be too low a blow, although I do hope that man is ashamed of himself." She started toward the stairs, her spirits quite high. "Although I doubt he has even thought twice about his

behavior. ... I am going upstairs to change clothes." "Good idea. I have to go out for a few hours." Carolyn nodded, flying up the stairs to her bedchamber. She hung up her hat and quickly stripped out of her clothing, hanging everything up carefully on wall hooks. She slipped on a chemise, pantalets, and a pale blue gown with a sash that tied just below her breasts. She pulled the ribbon out of her hair and quickly ran a brush through her blond curls—not that that could tame them. She could not get Sverayov out of her mind. She started to smile. Truthfully, she had had a very good morning, indeed.