But he was going to leave her here, to face her future alone. The war had been his life, that war that shaped his future and would inevitably shape hers. Hatred rose in her, for Bonaparte and Alexander and all those men who made war to fulfill some sense of destiny, only to destroy the destiny of so many others.
But she forced back that useless anger. The world was not being run for her convenience, something her life should have taught her long since. As she thought back on her life and his, self-pity succumbed to pity and finally to empathy. They were both of them true orphans, destined to be alone in life. She was isolated by the royal birth that made her a pawn in the play of two monarchs and doomed her to an empty future. He was alone by nature, having so carefully hoarded himself that no one could ever reach him—except Tatiana. She had reached him, touched that true Michael, she knew it. They might save each other, if only they could.
He was studying her again, only now his eyes were watchful. He was waiting for her to speak some fateful words, some rash declaration that would settle their fates once and for all. But she could only plead silently, Why can't we, and don't go. His eyes flared briefly with anger, and she looked away, tormented by the impossibility of it all. Suddenly she could bear it no longer; she had to break the spell.
"Have you seen my caricatures?" she asked brightly, shoving her sketch pad back into his hand. "I went to Astley's Circus and that night I had the most impressive dream that—no, don't laugh, Michael, Russians are very serious about their dreams. We are a most mystical race."
"Of course, forgive me for venturing to doubt that," Devlyn replied, and his eyes went silver with laughter. He seemed more peaceful suddenly, as if a decision had been reached. "Do go on, tell me about this impressive dream."
"Why, all the animals and all the people I have met here merged, you see—"
"I don't see, but it sounds most improper."
"That isn't what I mean! Here, see what I have drawn? In my dream, Lady Sherbourne appeared as a lion. And look!" She was very proud of this drawing, for the countess's fierce features were blended into the facial structure of a lion, and the elaborate coiffure had become the lion's ample mane.
"Very appropriate," Michael marveled, "except this seems to be a male lion, with that mane, and the countess, I have always assumed, is female. Not that I have any direct evidence for that."
"You are consumed with detail, Michael. I suppose that makes you a good staff officer, but it is not a trait that befits a patron of the arts. Now here is the Prince Regent, as the indolent sloth."
"Yes, having him hang upside down from his scepter is especially intriguing, not to say treasonous. I await your rendition of Cumberland."
They had been sitting close together, their knees touching, their shoulders in tangent, as they looked over her work. But Devlyn's casual mention of the royal duke forced a distance between them. "I—I haven't drawn him. It didn't seem precisely right, somehow. Since—"
"Yes." Devlyn carefully turned back the pages of the sketchpad, closed it, and handed it back to her. You are quite talented at caricature. I haven't seen anything as lively or amusing in the windows at Printers' Alley. If you weren't a princess, you could make a handsome living at this."
She longed to recapture the laughing mood they had shared for a moment, but it was gone, and with it their precarious intimacy. He rose, and she reached up to take his hand. "Michael," she whispered in anguish, gazing unseeing through a haze of pain, "I wish—"
"Your Highness!"
At the scandalized out-of-breath cry, Tatiana let her hand drop back into her lap. Buntin had started calling her that when they reached London, as if suddenly she was aware of the new value of Tatiana's royal birth. "You must go."
Devlyn, towering over her, leaned down to touch her. His calloused hand was oddly gentle on her cheek. "Trust me, Tatiana."
He left the way he came, scrambling up the wall like a boy and springing lithely over the top. He was gone when Buntin came stumbling into the arbor, a cloak hastily pulled over her shoulders, a hand on her frail chest. "Your Highness, how could you? The countess saw you from the upstairs window! She will ring such a peal over you!"
"I don't care," Tatiana said, rising from her seat and staring at the wall as if she could will him back. "I'm so tired of being proper."
"But you haven't been proper at all. And today—meeting the viscount in the garden—the countess—"
The countess waited rigidly at the French doors of the gallery, her face awful with outrage. Medea herself could not have appeared so coldly furious, Tatiana thought, envisioning another creature. "In the drawing room. Now."
Tatiana merely tilted up her chin and returned the chill gaze, until the countess added grudgingly, "If you please, Your Highness."
In the drawing room the princess sat in the middle of the red silk love seat, her hands folded in her lap. Lady Sherbourne required proximity for the proper sort of intimidation, and so was forced to perch carefully on an adjacent bamboo chair designed for a much frailer oriental lady. They remained in hostile silence until the footman brought tea, then the countess, with false solicitousness, begged the princess to join her in a light snack. Tatiana warmed her hands around the wafer-thin porcelain cup, wondering if Michael had left his gloves where he had dropped them on the bench.
When they were alone again, with brutal suddenness, Lady Sherbourne unsheathed her claws. "Do you think you are some kitchen maid, meeting a man surreptitiously in my garden?"
Tatiana's head snapped up and her lethargy fell away at this insult. "Do you think you are my jailer, turning my friend away from seeing me? I think you forget yourself, my lady, or you forget who I am."
The countess's leonine head reared back, and the fragile chair squeaked alarmingly. "No, it is you who forget who you are! You are a Romanov, a princess of the blood royal! You aren't some ordinary girl to be swept off her feet by the attentions of some handsome soldier! Your nation has sent you on this essential mission. Like Major Devlyn, you are a soldier fighting Napoleon! And you cannot desert the cause!"
"I am not deserting the cause." Tatiana refused to be cowed by the countess's bullying tactics. Deliberately she leaned closer and plucked a ladyfinger from the tray of biscuits that still sat on the countess's lap. "I was merely meeting a friend, the man who saved my life. And when you instruct your butler to turn my friends away, you are insulting us both."
"Insulting you?" Impatiently, the countess set the biscuit tray on a lacquer table between their seats, then clasped her hands sincerely against her impressive bosom. "My dear, I am trying to save you! Don't you understand that your friendship will be misinterpreted?" She inclined her head to one side and regarded her charge sapiently. Or perhaps it won't be such a misinterpretation after all. Are you in love with Devlyn?"
"No," Tatiana said in a clear voice. Her hand trembled, sloshing tea out of the cup into her lap. Carefully she set the saucer and cup down on the table next to the biscuits.
"And is he in love with you?"
"No." She found Michael's handkerchief in her pocket and used it to dab at the tea stain on her beige wool skirt.
The countess's austere features softened a bit. "Of course he is. Enough to ruin his life? Perhaps. He's a young fool, despite his cool head."
"You needn't worry. He's going back to the war soon." Tatiana's voice faded as she recalled his last words to her. Trust me, he had said. What did he mean? Trust him not to die? Trust him to come back someday?
"Good for him. He's a patriot, you know. Oh, he's not one for the blazing speeches and calls of glory. But his love for Britain is heartfelt, isn't it? It must be, for he's fought for us since he was little more than a boy. He takes the long view, doesn't he? He must, if he works for Wellington! Bit by bit, they drive the French back. Bit by bit, they each do their part." The countess yanked impatiently at her mauve bombazine skirt, caught under her ample thighs and impeding her impressive gesturing. "And you must do your little part, too, for your coun
try and for his."
Tatiana shook her head blindly, for the countess's words were so persuasive, so compelling, so true. So hurtful. "How long have you been rehearsing this speech?"
The countess ignored this and pressed on, her hands making gentle waves in the air. "Devlyn could be promoted to colonel, I hear. Over several more senior officers. Oh, yes, Your Highness, I keep my ear to the ground. I keep track of our men in uniform. And I knew Devlyn's father, years ago. Nick Dane was a worthless wastrel, to be sure. He did have a way with the ladies, of course, but he never did a day's good for anyone. Devlyn is so much more of a man than his father ever was. And his worth is recognized. You know yourself how impressive he is in his quiet way. It's not just the uniform, although he is a handsome fellow—nearly as handsome as his father. But calm, intelligent—even brilliant. Wellington thinks so. At Horse Guards they say Wellington is grooming Devlyn for a top position—general before he is three-and-thirty. What do you think of that?"
Glancing down at the initial embroidered on the handkerchief, Tatiana answered softly, "I'm very proud."
"Well you should be. For he hasn't made a misstep yet, no, he's a careful one, the major. But now think, Your Highness. If he makes a mistake—he could be cashiered, at the very least. His career, his reputation, would be in ruins. Perhaps you both would be sent into exile." The countess shoved herself forward in her chair until her knees banged into Tatiana's. "Is that what you want for him? To be disgraced, like his father? If you truly care for him, can you cause him to go against his monarch, his oath, his honor?"
"I haven't asked that of him," Tatiana said brokenly, twisting the handkerchief in her hands. "There's nothing you have said I haven't told myself."
"Good girl. He has such a brilliant future. And instead of making him throw it all away, you could help him, you know."
To escape the countess's piercing gaze, Tatiana made a great show of choosing another biscuit from the tray beside her. But then she only crumbled the biscuit into her cold tea. "He doesn't want my help."
"Well, he doesn't have to know, does he? You would merely drop a word here, a word there. You will be a royal duchess, remember. Your influence, subtly applied, could ease his way. Of course, his merit would carry him. But all those brilliant men have their sponsors. And you could be Major Devlyn's sponsor, and even more."
Tatiana knew what the countess was suggesting, for she had been thinking the same ever since d'Annaud had said the words "cher ami." But she bit cruelly at her lip, for it was all so vulgar, as if all she wanted from Michael was passion.
"Once you produce an heir, you know, you will be free to live separately, to have your own friends, to have your own-"
"I understand." Tatiana raked her fingers across her aching temples. If only she had a home to run away to, like the little maid Betsy, a sanctuary, somewhere safe.
The countess regarded the girl's bent head with reluctant sympathy, finally reaching to smooth back a red curl. "I know it is very hard. But love calls for sacrifice, you know. You must try to be brave. Oh, Fallenwood will be arriving any moment. You remember, he arranged a special tour of the Tower of London for you. But if you would like to cancel, I shall tell him you are ill."
"No, no. I need diversion. I'll just go and change my dress." Tatiana tucked the handkerchief back in her pocket, then rose, straightened her shoulders and back as if gearing up for battle, and left the room.
***
Left behind, the countess called for quill, paper, and footman. She penned a hasty note to Wellesley, urging him to hasten about this business of getting the princess married to the prince. She paused, pen poised over the paper, while the vision of a gray-eyed wastrel named Nicholas Dane fleeted across her memory. She smiled faintly, then shook her head. Best not to mention Devlyn. Let him ruin his career himself, if he chose. She would not be to blame for it.
Chapter Seventeen
The huge black ravens that guarded the Tower wall called to each other with ugly shrieks. One swooped down from the wall and landed on the bare plot in the middle of the courtyard. "That's the Execution Ground," the guide intoned, pointing a long finger at the barren spot. He was a thin young man, impeccably dressed in unfashionable clothing, a student of history at Cambridge. "They executed the famous ones there. Henry the Eighth's wives, and the handsome Earl of Essex, and of course little Queen Jane."
"Queen Jane?" Tatiana echoed, her curiosity finally roused by a British monarch with that commoner name.
"Lady Jane Grey, he means," the Duke of Fallenwood interposed with a damping look at the guide. "We don't usually consider her one of our queens, for she didn't last and was not in the direct line."
The young guide looked aghast at his own daring, but he could not allow this to pass. "She was a Tudor, the great-granddaughter of Henry VII, which gave her a legitimate claim on the throne—though not a strong one, certainly." Turning to Tatiana he explained, "She was cousin to Edward and Mary and Elizabeth, Henry VIII's children. When young King Edward died, Mary promised to bring back Romanism and destroy the Anglican church. So Queen Janne was crowned as a Protestant monarch. But her reign lasted only nine days, until Mary and Elizabeth joined forces to have the throne returned to their family."
The princess's green eyes, huge and somber, lifted to the young guide and tempted him into breaking the rules. "Your Highness, this is not on the regular tour. But perhaps you would like to see what I have always considered a symbol of the sacrifices we make for love. With your permission?"
This last was directed at Fallenwood, and he was also not proof against the sad entreaty in the princess's eyes. "Lead on," he said with some resignation. "But do make it quick. We're expected back at Sherbourne House for tea."
The young guide led them past a row of decaying tenements—for the Tower Square had long been used for slum housing—to an immense masonry building with an entrance dug deep into the ground. Tatiana tugged up her blue merino skirts as she entered the cryptlike hall. The air was close and stifling despite the chill, and the darkness was undispelled by the torches along the wall. She shivered and took Buntin's arm. With an attempt at lightness, she remarked, "This is gloomier even than the Winter Palace's cellars, don't you think? It feels like a dungeon."
"That is, in fact, what it was," the guide put in, "a prison at any rate. This is Beauchamp Tower, named for Thomas Beauchamp, the Earl of Warwick, who was one of the first inmates here. Richard II invited him to dinner one evening, then arrested him as he ate his meal. A gross violation of hospitality, don't you think?" he added with an arch look at Tatiana. When Fallenwood glowered, the guide hastened on, "Warwick was clapped into irons and sent here, but lived long enough to be reprieved by the next king. Few of the inmates have been so fortunate." He stopped at the bottom of a steep stone stairwell to take a torch off the wall. Holding it up to illuminate the steps, he counseled, "Now do be careful here, Your Highness, the stairs are very narrow."
The treads were wide enough for only one climber at a time, and Tatiana knew Buntin would never be the pioneer. The princess took a deep breath as she considered the damp gray walls that seemed to close in as the steps advanced into the darkness. The royal prison—suddenly her sightseeing tour to the Tower was far from the diverting experience she had needed.
The guide cleared his throat politely, and not wanting to appear craven, Tatiana began her ascent. In her high-heeled half-boots, she picked her careful way up the furrowed stone steps, hearing Buntin's hesitant steps clatter behind her, and Fallenwood's grunting, and the guide's breathless recitation."We're climbing in the battlement turret now, which you can see from outside the Tower walls. Notice how thick the masonry is here. Escape was nearly impossible, as many inmates learned to their dismay."
The atmosphere was no less oppressive as they stepped out onto the deserted first floor. The guide held up his torch so they could survey the chill stone floor and the slits in the wall that passed for windows. Hanging heavy in the air was the miasma of dozens of li
ves and dreams destroyed in this royal prison. "This floor and the floor above it were used for imprisoning those suspected of plotting against the crown. Many of the prisoners made use of their time to carve their names into the wall. Come and see the most famous."
He paused at the door of an enormous square chamber, even now roughly and inadequately furnished with a wooden cot and a plank table of the Tudor era. The torch cast eerie shadows on the gray walls. "The five Dudley brothers were held here. You can see their crest carved in the wall there." Tatiana squeezed past him and went to trace the elaborate carving on the wall. A bear and a lion held between them a ragged staff, while the name of the carver, John Dudley, was inscribed just below. Around this was carved an intricate frame of flower garlands. In a low voice, she read the verse carved below:
Yow that these beasts do wel behold and se
May deme withe ease wherfore here made they be,
Withe borders eke wherin
4 brothers names who list to serche the ground.
"Not much of a speller, this John Dudley," Fallenwood said with a sniff, coming to join her before the wall. "And there must be something missing in that third line. Doesn't make sense."
"Ah, yes," their guide replied with satisfaction, for he had doubtlessly been waiting for just this opportunity. "Men have been puzzled for centuries over those missing words. I think, however, that I have deciphered John Dudley's intent."
Tatiana touched the empty space after that incomplete third line and asked softly, "What did he mean to say?"
The guide's meager chest expanded with pride at this attention, and from a royal princess, too. "I think he neglected to carve these words precisely because he hadn't much time, and they were the least important in the poem. I believe he meant the third line to read. `withe borders eke wherein there may be found."'
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