A Lady Unrivaled

by Roseanna M. White

  Hopefully the Guimet’s storage rooms were considerably smaller, because there was no way her knee would hold out so long. She would be forced to ask for a respite, which would remind Andrei of her condition, which would in turn prompt him to ask how much longer she would be away from the ballet . . . and that was not something she wanted to discuss. He liked her because she was on display, because being her patron sparked envy in his friends.

  But the public’s memory was so short. Another month or two, and no one would remember Kira Belova. How she could leap farther than the other girls, how she could hold a pose without her muscles shaking like theirs did, how she could make the audience weep with her perfectly controlled movements. The posters with her face upon them would come down and be tossed out with the rest of the garbage.

  The streets of Paris moved by her window—all the boutiques and cafés and delicatessens that had become so familiar. She watched the café owners set up the tables and chairs outside their buildings, just so, while their dogs lazed about underneath them, no doubt eager for the patrons who would toss them a crumb now and then with a deep Gallic laugh. Shopkeepers swept their entryways with ancient twig brooms, pausing to shout now and then to acquaintances who would rush over to exchange kisses upon their cheeks. She had thought it strange, at first, how this bustling city managed to capture bits of village life.

  Andrei prattled on about this comte and that duke, the Russian prince he had dined with last night, the trip he was planning to Monte Carlo in a few weeks. She made all the appropriate responses, exclaiming over how she had enjoyed Monaco when the ballet was there for a season three years ago, when she’d just been getting her career off the ground—but her focus was on the young mothers with their wicker baskets full of fresh produce, on the old men sitting at tables, sipping their coffee and enjoying a cigarette along with their newspaper. Everywhere, people old and young bustled about with baguettes tucked under their arms.

  Finally, they turned onto Place d’Iéna and parked in front of the museum. Above the buildings she could see the Eiffel Tower stretching skyward, gleaming silver in the morning light. Kira waited for Andrei to help her out, smiled up at him from beneath her lashes, leaned just enough upon him as she got out to make him think himself necessary, but not so much that he was reminded of her ever-aching knee. It would likely be swollen again after this outing, but with any luck she would have time to ring for some ice before whatever event he had planned for the evening.

  He led her through the double doors, ornate with carvings, and through the busiest room in the gallery, pausing here or there when the other patrons glanced their way. Kira knew her role well. How to tilt her head to showcase the diamonds gleaming in her ears, the musical laugh she should loose—quietly—whenever he whispered something in her ear.

  Life with Andrei was as much a ballet as when she danced upon the stage. Just as choreographed, just as polished.

  Sometimes, in the dark of night, she wished for a lively tambourine and a room full of rhythmic clapping to dance to.

  “This way, ma chérie.” He led her through an arched doorway with a hand upon her back. Sunlight angled in through a narrow window into a small closet of a room with a desk and shelves covered with books and papers. Organized, no doubt—the French were always organized—but with a system only the owner of the piles and books could understand. An older gentleman looked up from his chair behind the cluttered desk, smiling.

  “Monsieur Varennikov, bonjour! You are right on time. And Mademoiselle Belova.” The man—Guimet himself?—held out a hand for hers and, when she’d placed her fingers into his palm, leaned over to kiss her knuckles. No doubt now that they had been introduced, their farewell would be marked with kisses upon her cheeks. When he straightened and met her gaze, it was with sparkling eyes. “I saw you in L’Après-midi d’un faune. You were . . . enchanting.”

  “Merci, monsieur. You are too kind.” She tried not to think of what her father would have thought of that particular ballet. It had caused a sensation, to be sure. And had earned her many, many adoring fans eager to take on Andrei’s role.

  She reclaimed her hand and tucked it against Andrei’s arm with her other. Silks and jewels weren’t all he gave her—he also lent her his protection from would-be suitors. Not that this elderly gentleman before her was a threat.

  The man shook himself and motioned back toward the hallway. “Come, come. I will show you downstairs and tell you about anything you wish. I think several of these pieces would be an excellent addition to your collection, monsieur.”

  Stairs? Kira kept her smile in place, but she also readied her stage mask. The one that allowed her to dance on toes that were bloodied and occasionally broken—it could surely cover the relatively easy pain of her knee. It had nothing on what her feet had suffered.

  Why, then, had it been so debilitating? She could have danced through the pain. She could have, if only it hadn’t become so weak.

  Between Andrei and the railing, though, she made it down the stairs and into the dank, cool basement without any mishaps. The two men chatted for a few minutes, lamps were lit, explanations of several pieces given. Then Andrei asked if he could wander around on his own, and the older man left them with a flurry of niceties—and no doubt franc signs dancing before his eyes.

  Andrei waited until he had gone, leaned over to press a quick kiss to Kira’s lips, and then tugged her toward the section where relics from India were apparently stored. “This way, ma chérie. It is a statue I want you to see.”

  Her brows knit. “But did he not say they were primarily religious artifacts? Andrei, since when do you have any interest in such things? Do you really mean to buy any of this?”

  “Perhaps to appease him. But that is not what I wish to show you. Here.” He stopped her before a shelf, shuffled a few boxes around, and finally pulled forward a rough stone figure, recognizable even in the light of a single lamp. “What do you think?”

  She blinked at the animal, trying to determine what about it had caught his interest. The material was crude. The craftsmanship was crude. The very stance of the small-scale beast was crude. Since she had no insight, she widened the eyes she turned on him and went for endearing. “I can tell you it is a tiger, mon amour. Beyond that, I am afraid I need you to explain it to me.”

  Rather than grow exasperated with her, he chuckled. “You are exactly right, Kira. It is a tiger, crafted thousands of years ago, its origins unknown but thought to be somewhere in Bengal. But it is rare, because though the tiger god has a name—Dakshin Ray—they rarely carve statues of him, given that the beast itself roams the jungles. He is a god more feared than loved. He is a god who destroys villages and feasts upon them.”

  A shudder stole up her spine. Perhaps she did see what he saw in it, then. “You have other statues of tigers—what strikes you about this one?”

  “What it lacks, ma chérie. What it lacks.” He turned the carving so that she looked into the beast’s face rather than its side. “What do you not see?”

  Usually such questions made fear take hold of her stomach, or impatience well up. This time, the answer was obvious—staring quite literally back at her with empty sockets. “It has no eyes, but holes for them. Not like most statues. More like . . . like it had separate eyes that have come out. Stones, perhaps.”

  “Not just stones, Kira. Jewels.” He stepped behind her, his hands resting on her hips, and lowered his head to her level, putting his mouth at her ear. “Diamonds.”

  “Diamonds? In such a simple piece?”

  “Simple, yes. Crude, to be sure. But it has a certain primal power, n’est pas?”

  It did, at that, and was decidedly unnerving as it stared at her with its missing eyes. “Da.”

  “Now imagine it with red eyes staring you down.”

  “Red?” She turned her face a few inches so she could see his profile. “How?”

  “Red diamonds.” His thumb stroked over her hip bone, though it seemed more absent than s
uggestive, given how his attention remained riveted on the statue. “The rarest gemstone in the world, and there are two of them, a matching pair.”

  Another shiver overtook her—this time more because of the man who stared at it so intently than the statue. “What happened to them?”

  “They were stolen—no one knows when. They have popped up from time to time in India, only to disappear again after men have murdered over them. Often enough to keep the legend alive, but no one has heard anything about them for twenty years.”

  Her throat went tight. If no one had heard anything, then he wouldn’t be bringing up the story. “Except . . . you?”

  He breathed a laugh and moved to her side again. “You know me well, ma chérie. I have made it no secret to all the major jewel traders that I am interested in any rare gems they come across. Two years ago, an Englishman made contact. He said he had two red diamonds, twin stones. He called them the Fire Eyes.”

  “Fire Eyes.” Perhaps it was the damp, the chill that made her shiver for a third time.

  “I have done my research. That is what the natives called the jewels that belonged in this statue.” He tapped the tiger on the head and then pushed it back into place. “Not that the man claiming to have them knew anything about the statue. And not that it matters—I won’t have such a crude tiger in my house.”

  But the jewels . . . the jewels he would want. “Did you buy them?”

  “I offered to.” He repositioned a box in front of Dakshin Ray and straightened his shoulders. He was broad, powerfully built, and though nearing forty, still strong as an ox. Evidence, she had heard it whispered, of his common, country origins.

  Origins he was forever trying to outpace.

  Kira shuffled backward a step. “Did he not accept your offer?”

  “He did. And accepted a deposit on the gems—but failed to deliver them.”

  A corner of Kira’s mouth pulled up. “More the fool him. And where is he buried?”

  But Andrei didn’t smile. “In Yorkshire, England, but not of my doing. He was killed before he could get me the jewels. But I will have them, Kira. And once I do, Prince Vitaly will no longer be able to deny my worth. He will let me marry his daughter. Nyet, he will beg me to marry his daughter, when I promise to put the Fire Eyes around her neck.”

  There were many moments when she didn’t enjoy being Andrei’s mistress, but these—when he had that fevered glint in his eye as he spoke of the princess he wanted to marry—these she hated. “I am certain you have sent men in after them—”

  “They have found nothing, and I do not wish to harass the man’s widow outright. I am not a monster, Kira.”

  “Of course not.” Her smile didn’t waver. Even if all those whispers about scarred women and dead men did steal into her mind. “What, then?”

  He stilled, pivoted. Stared at her much as he just had the statue—as a means to an end. “She is in Paris right now. With her brother. They do not know who I am, of course, certainly not that I am here—all dealings have been through one of my agents. But I have kept a close watch on them. And they are here, Kira. Here.”

  Instinct told her to back up another step. But he was watching, so instead she slid forward until she could rest her hands on his chest and tilt her head up to look at him. “Will you approach them? Ask them about the jewels?”

  “Nyet.” Though his mannerisms were calm, the Russian word told her his passions were high. Dangerously high, given that he continued in them instead of switching back to French. “They already contacted my agent. Asking, yet again, for more time. I need to know what is going on, milaya. I need someone inside their house when they go back to England.”

  “A spy.” She trailed a finger down the lapel of his jacket. “If anyone can find such a person, it is you.”

  “I have already found her.” He reached into his inner pocket and withdrew a . . . ladies magazine? She recognized the article it was open to, having read it just yesterday. But he flipped it over to the advertisements and handed it to her.

  He had circled one. “This is the widow you speak of? Who is looking for a lady’s maid?”

  “Da.” He said no more.

  She read the notice once, twice, but it was just like every other such request. The only thing of note was that interviews were being held today. “So you have sent someone to secure the position?”

  “Not yet. But Sophie Lareau has an appointment in two hours. Just enough time for you to go back to your flat and change into something more suitable for such an interview . . . Sophie.”

  “Quoi?” After slapping the magazine back to his chest, she stepped away. “Non! I will not! I will not be a servant to some English lady. I will not be a spy for—”

  He caught her by the wrist and held her still. “Have you anything better to do just now, mon amour?” No threats flashing in his eyes, no heavy hand. He didn’t need them. He had men to do such work for him.

  But she shook. Not from fear but from fury. All she’d given up to avoid the life of a servant, all she’d worked for, and he wanted her to demean herself, to bow and kowtow and clean up the slops of another. “I’ll be back on the stage in a few weeks. I have a career, Andrei, and I cannot drop it all to go chasing after diamonds that you intend to give to your spoiled little princess so she’ll finally agree to be your wife!”

  Now his eyes flashed, and he dragged her against him. Still not hard. His grip wasn’t painful, but it was somehow all the more insistent for its gentleness. “I have spoken to your physicians, Kira. You will never dance again.”

  “Nyet! What do they know? It has only been a few weeks. They are wrong. They are all wrong! I will strengthen it. I will defy the odds. I will—”

  “You will do exactly as I say, and you will continue to live the life you love so well—just off the stage.” He released her, set her away from him, and ducked his head a bit to meet her eyes straight on. “Do you hear me? Do this for me, milaya, and I will put the house into your name. I will set up an account for you, just for you. You will never want again.”

  She could only stare at him and wish away the tears that burned. How could he say that she would never dance again? How could anyone say such a thing to her? It was her life, her whole life, everything she had ever yearned for. “It cannot be as bad as they say. I will prove them wrong. I will.”

  His smile looked almost paternal as he tweaked her chin. “Perhaps you shall—you have the Russian spirit, after all. But if not, you will not suffer, ma chérie. You will live well, answer to no one but yourself. You can have your babushka come and stay with you if you want.” He leaned forward, feathered a kiss over her temple.

  She turned her face away. Was this how he broke things off? Gently, generously? Asking a favor of her? “She would hate Paris. She would hate anything but home.”

  “You could afford to visit her there, then.” He kissed her cheek, settled his hand at her waist. “I can trust no one as I trust you, Kira. But you—how could they see you and not hire you on the spot? Who could better navigate that strange world than a girl who has proven herself capable of flourishing no matter where she ends up? You are my best hope, Kira Belova. My only hope.”

  She kept her face averted. “You speak of washing your hands of me in one breath and of your admiration for me in the next?”

  “You think I want to part ways with you, just because your career is over?” His breath tickled her ear. “Milaya, you underestimate my affection for you. But you have made it clear you will not be involved with a married man, n’est pas? And Princess Alyona will soon be my wife. Our affaire de coeur is bound to end soon, by your decision, not mine.”

  She felt as rigid as that stone tiger—and just as fragile. That was her future, ready to topple and shatter. All her dreams, all she had slaved for, had sacrificed for, had compromised for . . . gone. Like smoke, blown away with the first stiff breeze.

  No one would remember Kira Belova in another year. And she certainly had no way of making a living w
ithout the ballet . . . other than this. Doing a man’s bidding in exchange for a roof and clothes. Fine ones for now—she still had face and figure and that remnant of fame.

  But her skin would wrinkle, her belly would sag, dark curls would go grey. Then what?

  A house of her own, money of her own . . . It was an offer she couldn’t pass up. Which Andrei, of course, knew. With a sigh, she rested her forehead on his shoulder. “A servant?” Babushka remembered too well being a serf, bound to the whim of a master. All of Kira’s life Babushka had whispered that the greatest gift of their family wasn’t their artistic flair, wasn’t the strong health that kept so many of them alive. . . . It was their freedom to use health and talent as they willed.

  “Only for a month or two, ma belle. Then it is back to Paris, back to your house. You put the diamonds in my hand, and I put the world in yours.”

  She closed her eyes and imagined, for a moment, that she could hear the carefree laughter of her brothers, the booming voice of her father, the gentle admonition of Babushka, saying always the same thing. “Do what you should, rebenok.”

  But there was no should in life, not in hers. There was only must. “So be it.”

  Four

  The day was mild enough that Ella left her wrap inside, content with the warmth her morning dress’s sleeves provided. She tilted her head up to receive the spring sunshine, blithely ignoring all the memories of her mother chiding her about freckles. Some things were worth the sacrifice of a little vanity, and these first warm days certainly merited a dusting of freckles across her nose.

  Birds chirped, a gardener hummed, and Ella followed the sounds of deep belly laughs to the flower garden at the rear of the castle, where she spotted little Lord Abingdon, tiny heir to the Duke of Stafford, running a bit unsteadily from his mother. Something sparkled in the fist he waved in the air.

  Diamonds, likely. And after her midnight study session, Ella was fairly certain she could have examined them and identified their grade. Not that she dared mention her newfound knowledge to anyone at Ralin Castle.