The Secret Daughter of the Tsar

by Jennifer Laam

  “Donuts?”

  He set the bag on the nightstand and plopped down next to her, bouncing the bed. Veronica ran her hand along his jawline, played with the rough bristles. She leaned into Michael and kissed the side of his neck.

  He leaned on his elbow, head propped in one hand, the other lightly stroking her inner thigh. “So I have a question. Why now?”

  Veronica nudged her nose against his forearm. “Because it felt wonderful.”

  “That’s good to know.” Michael arched his eyebrows mischievously, a satyr out to chase a wood nymph. She didn’t think it would be so bad, the life of a wood nymph.

  “But in Los Angeles you made it clear you needed time and wanted to take things slowly,” he continued. “What made you change your mind?”

  This wasn’t exactly the pillow talk she’d expected. “You swept me off my feet.”

  “I think not. Remember, you lured me in here under false pretenses.” He ran his hand through her hair, which stuck out in all directions. “By the way, I like this look. Very punk.”

  “Just trying to recapture my lost youth,” she said.

  He tickled her right on the curve of her waist until she squealed with delight. “Let’s talk about this lost youth of yours,” he said.

  “Not much to tell, I’m afraid.” She traced the edges of the dark Celtic band encircling his upper arm. “What’s going on here? Are you an Irish prince as well?”

  “What went on there was college,” he said. “I thought it looked cool.”

  “You thought it looked cool.” She sighed. “I wish I wanted to look cool in college. All I thought about was graduate school. I didn’t party. I guess I’ve always preferred books to people. It sounds like you were wilder than me.”

  “My job was to keep wild people out,” Michael said. “I worked as a bouncer at a club in Chelsea. That’s how I paid for law school at NYU.”

  Veronica sat up. He may as well have said he was an astronaut. “Where did you work? Studio 54?”

  Michael made a face. “How old do you think I am?”

  “Sorry.” She couldn’t wipe the smile off her face. The Romanov heir working as a bouncer. The image appealed to her sense of irony. “Seriously, I’m impressed.”

  “It was Chelsea. Once I caught a guy urinating on the side of the building. He tried to take a swing at me. I told him I’d call the cops and he started to cry.”

  “I think you’re holding out. I bet it got rougher than that.”

  He gave her a crooked smile.

  “At least you enjoyed your youth,” she added. “I never knew my mom, but I think she would have been a good influence in that respect.”

  His expression changed abruptly, grew more serious. Suddenly, she wished she hadn’t mentioned her mother. “What do you mean?”

  Veronica looked at her cuticles. Maybe she had been waiting for the right person to tell. She wasn’t sure. “Abuela says my mom loved history and novels and art and all that. She always made books available to me while I was growing up. I guess it was her way of keeping me and my mother connected. But Abuela also says my mom refused to stay home and study every night. Abuela makes it sound like a character flaw. Did I tell you my mother went to Madrid for her junior year abroad?”

  Michael shook his head, focus still intense.

  “From what I can gather, it sounds like my mom had to beg Abuela to let her go. You can probably figure out the rest of that story.” Veronica stared at the white bumps of plaster on the ceiling above. Her hands felt clammy. “A literature professor knocked her up and nine months later I popped out. My mother dropped out of university.”

  Michael understood how to listen. He didn’t pat her hand. He made sure she was finished before he asked, “Did you ever try to find your father?”

  “It upset me too much. Why torture myself? I’d rather focus my energy on other people’s problems, historical problems, where I can remain objective.”

  “It makes more sense now. Why your grandmother is so protective of you. She’s worried you’ll repeat your mother’s mistake.”

  “I already made that mistake.” Veronica’s head throbbed. She rubbed her bare left ring finger. “I was pregnant. That’s why I was engaged. At least I’m pretty sure that’s why he finally asked me to marry him. I didn’t let myself think about it. Then I had a miscarriage.”

  Michael enveloped her in his arms. Still, his touch felt remote. She was stuck in the tiny bathroom of that shabby apartment in Redondo Beach, doubled over. The cramping pain wrapped around her middle as she stared at the dark brown blood clotted in the toilet. She’d curled into a fetal position, her cheek resting on the cold white tile. She’d felt empty inside, but it was more than the baby. Something else was gone. She didn’t know how to explain the sense of foreboding, like this was only the beginning.

  Her fiancé had knocked on the bathroom door. She couldn’t answer. He wasn’t the right person to tell. Maybe then she should have known it wouldn’t end well. He barged in anyway and saw for himself.

  “We carried on, but I made all the wedding plans,” Veronica said. “Whenever I asked his opinion about anything, he said he didn’t care. He didn’t talk to anyone, not my family, not his own family. The night before, an hour before the rehearsal, he called it off. I was drying my hair when the phone rang. I went back to the bathroom and sat on the toilet. I didn’t tell anyone for an hour.”

  She paused, the physical nature of the release taking her by surprise.

  “I thought you should know,” she said quietly.

  “God, Veronica.” Michael tightened his grip. “What’s wrong with this guy?”

  She caressed the back of his neck, just below the hairline where the skin felt softest. Now that the doors of her past had swung open, she felt compelled to look into his. “What about you? What happened with you and your ex?”

  He shrugged. “Apparently, I wasn’t a challenge anymore.”

  Veronica smoothed his hair back away from his face. “I don’t think so. She made that up to feel better. She just couldn’t handle you.”

  Michael snuggled his lips into her neck, every kiss an aftershock of pleasure. She wanted to stay in his arms, her legs intertwined with his, not facing reality. She wanted to believe every word he said.

  * * *

  By the time they emerged from the subway station, on an unassuming uptown side street, the bright morning sunshine had faded.

  The office of the Romanov Guardsmen was located in a residential building with exposed brick and zigzagging fire escapes. Flowerpots, murals, and air-conditioning units lined the windows of the residences on the upper floors. Veronica double-checked the address in her notebook.

  “I know. It’s not exactly the Winter Palace.” Michael regarded the building with a skeptical eye. “‘Keepers of the Russian Throne’ indeed. I wish you’d reconsider this. When they start saying terrible things about me—”

  “I’ll tell them they’re wrong.” She jabbed her finger in his chest, harder than she intended. “We’ve been through all of this. Why don’t you come in with me?”

  “Romanov wants to protect his claim. He won’t allow for other possibilities.”

  “I don’t get it. Yesterday, you were desperate to protect me.”

  Michael’s shoulders slumped. She was about to apologize when he reached into the front pocket of his coat, withdrew a small brown bag, and gave it to her. She opened it and saw a small canister.

  “Is this pepper spray?” she asked.

  “Mace. I picked it up this morning with the paper and donuts.”

  “I don’t want this. I don’t know what to do with Mace.”

  Michael reached for her purse and undid the clasp in front. “You press the button. Keep it in here. Just in case.”

  “This is ridiculous.”

  “Come on. It’ll make me feel better.”

  “Fine.” She dropped the canister into her purse.

  “I’ll wait for you right there.” He flipped hi
s thumb back to indicate a park across the street. “If you need anything, yell. I’ll keep an eye on the door. Remember, I used to do that for a living.” He kissed her cheek.

  Veronica watched him as he withdrew to the park. He settled on a bench with a clear view of the front door, her personal bodyguard whether she liked it or not. She straightened her back, turned, and pressed the buzzer on the intercom.

  A fuzzy voice crackled on the other side. “May I help you?”

  She leaned into the speaker. “This is Veronica Herrera. I made an appointment.”

  The buzzer screeched and she stepped into the building’s lobby. Crumbling crown moldings of fleur-de-lis graced the corners of the ceiling. A spiral staircase led to the second floor, as did a tiny elevator. The overhead lights flickered brightly for a minute or two, and then made a hissing sound and went dim. Veronica decided to take the stairs.

  The apartment wasn’t difficult to locate. The imperial double-headed eagle had been posted on the door. As she approached, a frail-looking older man stuck his head out to greet her. He had a round face and a neatly trimmed white beard, Santa Claus after Weight Watchers. Underneath thin-rimmed glasses the man’s eyes were a startling shade of light blue. The color of his suit jacket matched his eyes. “Dr. Herrera! What a pleasure. I’m Alexei Romanov.” He planted a quick peck on her fingertips and ushered her inside.

  Inside, the apartment looked like a special episode of Hoarders for slavophiles. Pendants of the four grand duchesses were suspended from rusted chains along the ceiling. A collection of Nicholas and Alexandra postage stamps hung on the wall, next to icons of the royal family dressed in robes, with halos of light emanating from their heads. She took in the strangely intoxicating scent of the decaying books stacked around the room.

  As Alexei Romanov helped her out of her coat, Veronica stared at a lavishly framed portrait of the royal family that dominated the back wall. She guessed the photograph had been taken around 1910. Nicholas and Alexandra sat with the heir, little Alexei, posed cross-legged, the four beautiful girls forming a semicircle around them. Veronica could never look at the grand duchesses without imagining the way they died, screaming, white dresses splattered with blood. She’d read of that night so often. Sometimes she felt she had been right there with the family. Even with the heat blasting, she shivered at the thought.

  “Isn’t it gorgeous?” Romanov hung her coat on a wobbly knob by the front door, underneath a Russian flag. “It’s a miracle the Bolsheviks didn’t take a bayonet to it during the Revolution. We purchased it for a song in the nineties.”

  Veronica turned her attention to Nicholas and Alexandra. Nicholas looked clear-eyed and untroubled, immune to the difficulties ahead. But the pressure of caring for her hemophiliac son had already taken a toll on Alexandra. Despite her elegant gown and strands of pearls, her features looked slack, her eyes haunted. She was thick around the waist, no longer the famous beauty of her youth. Even over the hundred-year gap, it saddened Veronica to see another woman so emotionally drained.

  Romanov made a clicking sound with his tongue. “Such a tragedy. Restoration is the least we can do for them.”

  “I suppose that’s one way of looking at it,” Veronica responded primly. “Of course, the best interests of the country should be the primary concern.”

  “The interests of the ruler and the country are one and the same,” Romanov replied easily.

  “A constitutional monarchy isn’t to your liking?”

  “I never said that. But as you know, Russians demand strong leaders. Please have a seat.”

  He moved a stack of books aside to clear a path to his desk, and gestured to an antique rosewood armchair with an embroidered cushion. When Veronica sat down, bits of hardened thread poked through her skirt and black tights and into her legs. She shifted on the cushion, wishing she’d worn jeans instead.

  “You share your name with the tsarevich, the heir to the throne,” she said.

  “My family deemed it appropriate.” Alexei Romanov straightened his tie and took a seat opposite her, behind a mahogany desk. For an instant, his bright eyes reminded her of the tsar in the photograph.

  Veronica withdrew a pen from her purse for notes. “And you have information about Alexandra that might be useful to me?”

  “Oh, yes. We’ll get to all of that soon enough. We were delighted to find an academic who favors restoration.”

  “Wait a second.” Veronica’s eyes widened. “Is that a joke?”

  Alexei Romanov shook his head, looking suddenly troubled.

  “First of all, I never said I supported restoration,” she said. “But let’s say I did. What would it matter? The public doesn’t care what academics say about anything. And even if they did, I’m not some BBC-ready, sonorous-voiced Oxford lad.”

  “You told us you’re writing a biography of the empress,” Romanov said. “We expect you will treat the empress with honor in your work. That’s rare.”

  “I try. But either way, I work at an unranked university. And they don’t even want me. If you’re looking for sanction from the academic community, look elsewhere.” Veronica took stock of the room once more. “You keep saying ‘we.’ Who is this ‘we’? I only see you. Where are the other Romanov Guardsmen?”

  “As the heir apparent I run the organization. But our membership just surpassed three hundred, all individuals of documented royal or noble descent living across the world. At least for now. With restoration, the Romanov Diaspora will soon end.”

  Veronica moved uncomfortably in her seat. “I heard you met with Vladimir Putin,” she said. “Did he endorse your claim?”

  Romanov held her gaze for a moment. She wondered if she had made a mistake to raise the topic. Then he let out a light smattering of a laugh. “Vlad is smarter than that. Endorsing a claimant would hardly be the most politic course of action. Still, he’s a fascinating man. For all his KGB bona fides, a traditional aristocrat through and through. Besides, who needs Vlad when I have this?” Romanov indicated a photograph on his desk. He looked twenty years younger and debonair in a white tuxedo. He stood next to the Queen of England in her signature pillbox hat.

  “You met the Queen of England,” Veronica said. “That’s fun, I suppose. But she meets many people. She met the Spice Girls.”

  “She stood for me when I entered the room. Do you know what that means?”

  Veronica was quiet for a moment. “The Queen of England only stands for other monarchs. That’s the protocol.”

  “Precisely.” Romanov grinned. She caught another glimpse of this man’s faint resemblance to Nicholas II, something about the line of his cheeks. “My grandfather and father would have disapproved. They hated the British for abandoning the tsar and the family to their murderers after the Revolution. But I felt it was important.”

  “It seems as though you’ve garnered at least implicit support for your title.”

  Romanov’s smile disappeared. “The Romanov Guardsmen stand ready to embrace sublime destiny: the restoration of the throne. But there’s still the matter of your friend, the False Mikhail.”

  “You don’t believe his genealogy is accurate?”

  “I have come to believe he is a false man,” Romanov said carefully.

  “He poses no threat, not if the Queen of England stands for you.”

  “You believe him, though, don’t you?”

  Veronica tried to laugh, but it came out more as a snort. “What does it matter? He has no interest in pursuing his claim.”

  “Is that what he said? I wouldn’t believe a word of his nonsense. Tell me, how much do you know about this gentleman?”

  “He’s an attorney…” Veronica heard her voice trail off.

  “Still helping the poor Russian émigrés open art galleries and espresso bars in West Hollywood, is he? Let me guess. Despite this professed disinterest in his claim, he accompanied you on this trip? No doubt he’s waiting somewhere outside?”

  Veronica’s pulse jumped. “How did you kn
ow that?”

  “We’ve tracked Mikhail’s actions for several years now. The community of Russian émigrés in Los Angeles is strong and many of them sympathize with our cause. Many more than you might think. They help when we require help.”

  Like the Russian man who had followed them into the Forbes Gallery. Veronica glanced at the door, calculating how quickly she could escape. “You had us followed here in New York as well?”

  “For your protection, Dr. Herrera, I assure you.”

  “Why do I need protection? I don’t need some creep following me.”

  “Creep? I’ll tell Grigori to tone down his affectations.”

  “You didn’t answer my question,” she said. “Why do you think I need protection?”

  Romanov swiveled in his chair to face the portrait of the royal family, looking up at the tsar as though for inspiration. “You said Mikhail shows no interest in his claim. Did he tell you about the time he spent here in college? When he was a young man he spent hours poring over our records.”

  A thin spike of panic pounded a nerve in Veronica’s head. Why hadn’t Michael mentioned this detail before? Still, she felt compelled to defend him. “Why are you trying to turn me against Michael? Why do you hate him?”

  “I don’t hate anyone.” Romanov sounded vaguely offended. “I don’t trust Mikhail. That much is true. I wish to support the true heir to the Russian throne. Not anyone can step in and fill that role. I can’t stake the reputation of this organization on a man who is perpetuating a wild hoax.”

  “Or you don’t want any rival claimants.”

  “Dr. Herrera, it is most important you understand my personal quest.” Romanov leaned forward, his fragile, blue-veined hands splayed on the table. “The Guardsmen want the closest living Romanov relative recognized as the rightful heir. It is the cause dearest to my heart. If Mikhail’s claim is true, I’ll relinquish my claim. Willingly.” Romanov began to fidget in his chair now. It made him look less sincere and more like an impatient schoolboy. “But there are many complications to his tall tale. First of all, there’s the matter of his convenient memory lapses. He’d mention something his mother or his grandmother said. When we asked for specifics like times and dates, he wouldn’t provide them. Why is he so secretive?”