“Vixen.” His tone was bordering on affectionate.
So much so that she looked up from wiping her hands.
“We were well matched, darling,” he drawled, one dark brow lifted.
How smoothly he reverted to type, she thought. How tempting he looked, lounging in her bed, brute male with his scars and provocative virility. “Truly a night to remember,” she said in the same sardonic tone as she moved toward a chest of drawers. Selecting serviceable undergarments for travel, she began to dress.
They spoke of mundane matters as she put on her clothes—the weather, the distance to Simferopol, the state of the roads—and they’d smile at each other from time to time, but neither made a move to do more.
Darley didn’t trust himself and he knew her time was limited.
Aurore almost said a dozen times, Will you be in Simferopol anytime soon? But she curbed her impulse. A man like Gazi regarded trysts like theirs in purely physical terms. It would have embarrassed them both had she asked.
Darley helped with the hooks on the back of her gown when she asked, although he found it difficult to resist undressing her instead.
But they were both adults.
Once all the hooks were fastened, he casually said, “There you go now,” and lay back down.
It took considerable effort to let her go.
Aurore concealed her shaking hands as she moved away. Crossing to the armoire, she quickly pulled out her sable coat and slipped it on. After surveying herself in the cheval glass, she picked up her gloves and turned to Darley with a polite smile. “Good-bye now,” she said, her voice composed by sheer will. “I wish you pleasant travels.”
“And I you as well—along with good health for your brother.” Politesse echoed in every bland syllable.
“Thank you.” She hesitated for a fraction of a second, then turned and walked from the bedroom.
Darley heard the outside door open and close a few moments later.
And only then did he dare leave the bed.
After taking care of his swollen cock, he set about washing and dressing. He wasn’t exactly late yet, but later than he had planned. Once he was fully attired, however, he sat down and watched the gilded clock, wanting to give Aurore sufficient time to exit the hotel before leaving the suite.
He didn’t wish any scandal accruing to her on his account.
Arriving downstairs a full fifteen minutes later, Darley walked through the bustling lobby and out the door of the hotel. Standing on the pavement, he inhaled the cool morning air and ran through his schedule for the day.
It was not yet seven.
He would first write his report for Raglan.
“Did you have an entertaining night?”
The familiar voice came from behind and Darley turned with a smile. “Don’t I always,” he replied. “How was your evening, Hausmann?”
“Not as interesting as yours, I expect. How long have you and Miss Clement been friends?”
“Meaning?” A hint of challenge reverberated in the marquis’s voice.
“I am discreet, my friend. About many things as you well know,” the middle-aged man murmured. “I happened to be in the lobby last night when you walked in carrying your inamorata—quite oblivious, I might add, of prying eyes.”
“On the contrary, I looked and saw no one. You must have been well hidden.”
“Perhaps.” The German smiled. “More likely your attentions were otherwise engaged.”
“Apparently. Now, if your catechism is over, I’ll bid you good morning. I have a busy day.” He would not give Hausmann the satisfaction of knowing he was annoyed. The old roue would only press him.
“Have you heard,” Hausmann said, lowering his voice, “there is talk of attacking Eupatoria.”
Darley nodded, gratified to change the subject. “Wrangel is already there with his Russian cavalry,” he said, speaking as softly. “Raglan knows, not that it will do much good. Our commander-in-chief couldn’t contrive a battle plan if he had a gun to his head.”
“Canrobert isn’t much better. The French have a bureaucrat when they need a commander.”
“If only you and I were in charge,” Darley noted drily.
“It couldn’t be any worse, believe me. The incompetence at headquarters makes our work of little use. By the way, why is Miss Clement on her way so early in the morning?”
Darley debated answering but decided a casual reply would better serve Aurore than taking issue with the question. Hausmann would only want more detail if he suspected Darley was keeping something from him. “Thanks to Miss Clement’s intervention with Osten-Sacken,” Darley said, “her brother is being sent to Simferopol. He has taken a turn for the worse and she is naturally hoping he will recover once he is free of the putrid hospital air.”
Was something about to occur in Simferopol? Some change of plans in the war he was unaware of? “Aurore is a most dutiful sister.” Hausmann watched Darley’s face for some possible clue.
“Indeed. Etienne is very fortunate.”
Nothing, not a flicker of mendacity or evasion. The Englishman must not know of Aurore’s undertakings for the French. “I see my man bringing up my horse.” Hausmann nodded, his schedule requiring an early morning ride to Balaclava where an informant was waiting to be paid. “Stay alive, my friend.”
“I intend to. You as well.”
“Should you see Miss Clement again, give her my regards.”
“I doubt we’ll meet again,” Darley replied with a shrug. “We go in different directions.”
But as Darley walked to his apartment in the warehouse district near the docks, he found himself thinking that he would not be averse to a renewal of their friendship. In fact, he would be willing to ride a considerable distance to see Aurore again. An unlikely occurrence, however, with the state of the war. The Russian attack on Eupatoria was imminent and since Raglan would need some eyes and ears on the ground, no doubt he and his men would be riding west by nightfall.
Chapter 13
An official of middling rank in the Third Section watched from a doorway across the street as Darley and Hausmann took leave of each other and went their separate ways.
The tsar’s secret police kept records on non-Russians with what could only be characterized as a German efficiency. The movements of foreigners in the Russian empire came under scrutiny from a vast army of informers, some voluntary, others working for the secret police out of fear. And Captain Nikolay Nikolaevitch Kubitovitch was certain that both Hausmann and Gazi Maksoud were not what they seemed. Hausmann was no more a scholar researching Crimean history than Kubitovitch was the Pope in Rome. Nor was Maksoud the simple trader he professed to be.
Perhaps it was time to bring both men in for questioning.
A spy’s confession—and the secret police always obtained a confession—would be sure to win him laurels from his superiors.
An hour later, Kubitovitch was cooling his heels in Osten-Sacken’s anteroom. His temper rose as he watched several officers go in and out of the general’s office while he was ignored. Did Osten-Sacken not realize the consequence that an affiliation with the Third Section entailed? He could have the general charged with treason if he chose. It was simple enough; any informant would willingly attest to some fabrication about the general to save his own skin. In Kubitovitch’s world, with truth elastic or fictitious, anything was possible.
He would apprise the general in no uncertain terms of his power to make men disappear. It was one of the gratifying components of his job—the authority to intimidate. A capital resource to a man as unprepossessing as Kubitovitch. Of medium height and weight, with the bland countenance inherited from his peasant ancestors, he was nondescript save for his fierce competitiveness and ability to survive. Both attributes had lifted him from his parents’ hovel into the meritocracy of the Russian educational system where he had caught the notice of the secret police in Odessa.
Men who came from nothing had nothing to lose.
&nbs
p; A prime asset in espionage.
Osten-Sacken on the other hand detested the Third Section. He saw it as a disreputable blot on the nation. As a military man, he preferred engaging his adversaries honorably—in the open, man to man. Furthermore, as a nobleman, he subscribed to certain principles of justice and fair play.
As a result, Kubitovitch was left waiting.
When at last he was ushered into the general’s office, Osten-Sacken’s antipathy showed. “State your business quickly,” he muttered, continuing to write as he spoke. He glanced up briefly, his gaze cool, dismissive. “Have I seen you before?”
Six times. But Kubitovitch kept the anger from his voice as he said, “Yes, Your Excellency. We have spoken before.” The general did not offer him a chair. Kubitovitch mentally recorded the slur.
“Your employers would do well to stay out of my business,” the general bluntly declared. “I have a war to run. There are no anarchists here, I assure you.” The Third Section harshly repressed any form of political dissent. While Osten-Sacken’s family had faithfully served the tsar for centuries, he abhorred the kind of wholesale repression practiced by the Third Section. He disliked the greasy little men who victimized and persecuted the innocent and guilty alike for what they might say or think—for reading the wrong book or newspaper.
Kubitovitch knew better than most that there were anarchists everywhere, but he chose not to argue. He said instead, “I wish to discuss two possible spies with you.”
“Only two? This place is teeming with spies. Why are you bothering me with your nonsense?”
“One was at your dinner last night.”
Osten-Sacken set down his pen with a sigh, leaned back in his chair and directed an exasperated look at his unwanted caller. “Since you seem to be intent on telling me who it was, do so with dispatch and be on your way. For all I know, there could have been ten spies at dinner with me last night. You don’t actually think it matters a jot when the only way the Allies can win this war is by throwing their men at our ramparts until they’re all dead or we are. There is nothing subtle about a siege.”
“Nevertheless, Excellency,” Kibitovitch returned doggedly, “my superiors are trusting me to protect the government from those who would do it harm.”
“Yes, yes…very well—the name if you please.”
“Gazi Maksoud.”
Osten-Sacken threw back his head and laughed until tears came to his eyes, his guffaws trailing off into chuckles that only slowly subsided. “My good man,” the general finally said, deliberately enunciating each word as if he were addressing some mental incompetent, “Gazi is first and foremost a cunt-hound, and a very accomplished one I might add. If he’s doing any spying it’s up some woman’s skirts. I suggest you direct your attentions elsewhere.”
“And what of Hausmann?”
Why did these little men always look as though they’d crawled out from some dung heap? Although to Kubitovitch’s credit, everyone looked small to Osten-Sacken who was larger than most. Viking blood in the Baltic region still ran true. “Hausmann is harmless,” the general declared.
“So you don’t deny he’s a spy?”
“I repeat. He’s harmless. He is given the information we wish the Germans to have. Now, if you’ve finished, my schedule is demanding.”
“I’m having the two men brought in for questioning.”
The general’s jaw tightened. Was the man completely witless? Had he not just made it plain that he had vetted both Gazi and Hausmann? “I suggest you alter your plans,” Osten-Sacken said coldly.
Kubitovitch drew himself up to his unimpressive height, squared his jaw, tamped down the impulse to clear his throat under Osten-Sacken’s chill gaze and said into a room that had become ominously silent, “My orders come from St. Petersburg, Excellency. They are quite precise. I doubt you would care to lock swords with my superiors.” He rallied behind the matchless power of the Third Section. “I assure you,” he added ominously, “the consequences would not be to your liking.”
The malicious little man was trying to threaten him. Osten-Sacken found his audacity astonishing. “You realize, I presume, that I command an army of fifty thousand men. If that, however, has escaped your notice, let me point out to you that the Grand Duke—your employer,” Osten-Sacken added with silken emphasis, “is a personal friend of mine. As a matter of fact, he stood best man at my wedding. If either Gazi or Hausmann is brought in for questioning I will see that you spend the remainder of what will no doubt be a very short life at hard labor in Siberia. Is that clear?” The tsar’s brother held the courtesy title of Commander of the Third Section and while he took no part in day-to-day affairs, Osten-Sacken would have no compunction asking him for a favor.
Kubitovitch could feel the heat of anger rise to his face. This nobleman, however, could have him sent into exile without inconveniencing himself in the least. “Perfectly clear, Excellency,” the police agent replied. Another black mark against the general was added to Kubitovitch’s ledger.
Osten-Sacken went back to his writing.
Summarily dismissed as though he were no more than a servant, Kubitovitch tamped down his fury and walked from the room.
Osten-Sacken gave no further thought to the secret police agent. His kind were wearisomely prevalent—like mold. At the moment, the general’s concerns were centered on the powder magazine near the Mamelon that had sustained a direct hit last night. A quarter of their munitions would have to be speedily replaced. Looking up, he shouted for his ADC.
Temporarily checkmated, convulsed with rage, Captain Kubitovitch stalked from the headquarters building, a new enemy added to his lengthening list of adversaries. He was a patient man, though; how else had he climbed from the abysmal depths of his peasant birth to his present position? All in good time—he would have his revenge.
At the same hour, several miles away, Darley was seated across from Lord Raglan and his intelligence chief, Charles Cattley. The men were discussing Darley’s recent report, or rather Raglan was listening while his operatives talked.
“Russian supplies and troops keep coming in unencumbered,” Darley said. “Unless the road can be closed between Sevastopol and the interior, the city can hold out indefinitely.” Why the Allied forces hadn’t cut the supply route in the last five months was beyond comprehension. The Russians could and were increasing their forces and replacing losses with impunity.
Raglan, recently chastised for his handling of the war by Queen Victoria’s new Prime Minister Palmerston and the secretary for war, Lord Panmure, was paying more attention to the intelligence reports of late. Unlike Wellington who had had a hands-on approach to intelligence, interrogating prisoners himself, reading several foreign newspapers a day, even accompanying irregular scouts on patrols, Raglan rarely left his cozy farmhouse. Plodding and conventional, too old to have taken on the role of commander, he relied exclusively on Cattley’s reports.
Not that Cattley wasn’t familiar with the area, having been born and raised nearby at Kerch where he had served as British consul before the war. But he wasn’t an aristocrat, nor did he hold military rank, both obstacles only recently overcome by the British command. With the general staff in the Crimea having so seriously bungled the operation in the early months, they were now forced to accept a more inclusive view apropos advisors. Family connections or quarterings mattered less; experience and knowledge were acknowledged as meaningful assets. With the new protocols in place, Cattley had become one of Raglan’s inner circle. Young Cattley and his local coterie provided accurate information on enemy forces and tracked the movements of Russian forces. Darley and his men aided in those missions as well.
For the past half hour Cattley and Darley had been detailing the extent of Russian preparations outside Eupatoria. Since both men had agents in the field, they knew that Menshikov’s concentration of troops near the town meant an imminent attack.
“From what I’ve heard, all should be in readiness for an assault by mid-month,” Darley no
ted. “Menshikov has over twenty battalions of infantry in place as we speak.”
“Both the marquis and I have heard that Wrangel has been ousted as cavalry commander in favor of Khrulev,” Cattley said. “Wrangel disagreed with Menshikov’s plan to attack. He’s right of course. It’s too late for a successful assault with the town fully garrisoned. But Menshikov’s hand has been forced; St. Petersberg is becoming disenchanted with him.”
“At risk of losing his command, under pressure from the tsar, Menshikov is finally acting. Had he attacked sooner rather than sitting with his army at Balbec all winter, he might have taken the town. Omar Pasha’s troops only landed a week ago,” Darley pointed out, uncertain whether Raglan was still awake with his eyes half-shut. “His delay will cost him dearly,” he went on, hoping for the best. “The conditions around Eupatoria are appalling with the spring thaws—deep mud has rendered the roads nearly impassable. Menshikov won’t be able to bring up his artillery.”
“Omar Pasha, on the other hand, has thirty-four guns inside the town, while our ships lying offshore also will be able to lay down fire.” Cattley turned to Darley, his sideways glance indicating their slumbering companion. “Can you get a message through to our garrison?”
Darley nodded. “Of course.”
“One of my informants tells me that the Russian attack from the west will be only a diversion. Such information would be useful to Omar Pasha.”
“Consider it done.”
Rising quietly, the two men left the English commander in chief asleep in his chair and walked outside to continue their conversation.
Soon, Darley and his men were riding cross-country to bring Cattley’s message to the garrison at Eupatoria. At the same time, Aurore and her party were slowly traveling toward Simferopol. She’d seen that her report of both Ibrahim’s surveys and her information gleaned at Osten-Sacken’s had been relayed to the French command by one of her Tatar servants. She’d also promised to forward any useful information she might discover while in Simferopol. A further message had been sent to her staff at home, informing them of her coming absence.
At Her Service Page 9