Love At Last

by Barbara Cartland

  Peter said not a word as he grimly added his name below Ivan’s.

  A signal was given and the first cannon fired its shot. There was to be a twenty-one gun salute to the peace.

  Peter, however, was not prepared to wait for the full cannonade. Grabbing Natasha by the arm, he marched her out of the Salon as the Voskian Chief Minister bowed deeply to Ivan.

  “Your Royal Highness,” he muttered. “We do wish for happier days ahead.”

  The whole delegation then followed Peter out of the chamber.

  Ivan flung himself back on his throne.

  “I hope that I never have to witness again a more ill-tempered display of bad manners,” he growled.

  “It was not well done,” Baron Rasumov agreed.

  At least the signing was now over with no need to entertain the Voskian delegation further.

  The rest of the day was free and Ivan wondered if he could organise a hunting party.

  There were tales that an ermine fox had been seen – an escapee from Russia perhaps and a hot chase through the snow would blow away the unfortunate atmosphere his cousin had left behind.

  “May I now remind Your Highness that a Council Meeting has been arranged?” Baron Rasumov said sternly.

  How did the man read his mind?

  Ivan sighed deeply.

  Council Meetings always meant a tedious recital of facts and arguments that demanded unattractive answers.

  Ivan led the way out of the Salon.

  On his way to the room he always used for Council Meetings he passed through the great Entrance Hall.

  There he saw Natasha deep in conversation with a servant.

  Ivan stopped dead in astonishment. It was Yuri, his valet, who was talking with Natasha.

  As though sent a silent signal, Natasha looked up and approached Ivan.

  “Ivan,” she said, “I could not leave without saying goodbye to Yuri. He was our go-between and my friend.”

  Yuri gave his master a weak smile.

  “I have even introduced him to Prince Peter,” she added provocatively.

  Ivan refused to respond as she held out her hand.

  “I hope we can part friends?”

  Her mobile face broke into the smile he had always found captivating.

  “You will always have a special place in my heart.”

  Almost without realising what he was doing, Ivan bowed over her hand, his lips hovering above the soft skin.

  “Farewell, for we shall not meet again,” he declared stiffly.

  “No?” Her lips smiled provocatively. “Perhaps it is as well.”

  She turned to the valet.

  “My cloak, Yuri.”

  Her tone was peremptory, but the valet held out a sable garment and gently arranged it round her shoulders, his expression deferential.

  Ivan turned on his heel.

  He would not watch Natasha leave his Palace for the last time.

  *

  The room Ivan used was really too small for the Ministers and Officers that made up the Council, but he had discovered that the more uncomfortable his advisers the shorter the meeting.

  Ivan sat himself behind the desk and fiddled with papers and pencils as his Council filed in.

  The little incident with Natasha had unsettled him. He had almost forgotten how very attractive she was.

  “Right now, Baron,” Ivan proposed as the last man entered. “Do you have an agenda?”

  This was another of his tactics. Being presented with the items the meeting was to discuss enabled some to be dismissed at once and prevented unscheduled matters from prolonging the deliberations.

  The Baron surprised him.

  “Your Royal Highness, there is only one item on the agenda for today’s meeting.”

  Field Marshal Gagarin, the Army’s most senior Officer, rose to his feet.

  “Prince Ivan, before we take matters any further, I wish to congratulate you on the successful conclusion to the late war.”

  Ivan bowed his head in acknowledgement.

  “Thank you, Field Marshal, but the congratulations belong not to me, but to the Army, the leadership you have given and the skill of your Officers. I know of no braver men. I am proud to have fought alongside you.”

  There was a murmur of assent from the Ministers, but the Field Marshal had not yet finished.

  “Prince Ivan, today we signed the Treaty ending the war, but you saw how Prince Peter, your cousin, conducted himself. It will not be too long before he launches further attempts on your sovereignty – we must be prepared!”

  Another murmur of agreement.

  “We need more new weapons,” the Field Marshal continued. “More men need to be trained, we – ”

  “What does the Chancellor of the Exchequer say to these requirements?”

  Ivan looked at his Chancellor and he knew already what the answer would be.

  “The Treasury cannot afford to buy new weapons,” the Chancellor answered. “Rusitania’s financial state is exceedingly poor. There is no money to spend on building up the Army.”

  “If you do not, Voskia will attack us again,” warned the Field Marshal.

  “Not I think for some time,” Ivan answered slowly. “If our situation is bad, how much worse must be theirs?”

  The Baron rose.

  “Now is the time to consider the item on today’s agenda, Your Royal Highness.”

  Only one item was highly unusual. Ivan sat back and wondered what was coming.

  The Baron fingered his chin, a sign that he was marshalling his arguments.

  “As Your Royal Highness well knows, the Council was reluctant for you to take part in the recent conflict.”

  “You were afraid I would be killed,” Ivan gave the Baron a disarming grin. “I proved your fears groundless.”

  He stretched his arms high above his head. It was a gesture of independence.

  “You were wounded several times,” continued the Baron. “We had to consider the consequences should your confidence be misplaced.”

  “Be careful, that is almost treason,” murmured Ivan with another of his disarming grins.

  “And we came to the conclusion,” added the Baron as smoothly as if there had been no interruption, “that there is no suitable heir to your throne.”

  For once Ivan was silenced.

  “The recent death of the Duke of Omnium and his heir in an unfortunate accident has meant that the next in line to the throne of Rusitania is – ”

  He paused dramatically.

  “I know,” came in Ivan. “The next in line is Cousin Peter, Prince of Voskia.”

  “We were prevented in the new Peace Treaty from disinheriting him completely, although we tried our best,” the Baron continued imperturbably, “but we consider it is now time that Your Royal Highness marries and produces an heir. Preferably more than one.”

  It was an eminently sensible suggestion and Ivan wondered why he had not foreseen it coming.

  Another of his Ministers rose.

  “And if you could find a wife who is rich, it would help the country recover – more swiftly,” he added jerkily. “Money matters more than Royal blood!”

  There was a general murmur of agreement.

  Ivan felt outraged at the way matters were being handled, but the motives behind the suggestion were very obviously in the country’s best interest.

  He rose and stood at the window, his back to the Council and looked down at a busy area of the town.

  It was mid-morning and normally he could expect to see considerable activity. Instead, the shops were almost deserted. Partly, of course, the cold weather was to blame.

  But only partly.

  The economy of Rusitania was undoubtedly in a poor state.

  Ivan thrust his hands deep into the pockets of his breeches. Why had not he realised just how bad matters were?

  He swung round and faced his Council.

  “I appreciate the love you have for our country and my welfare,” he began slowly. “
And the thought you have given to the succession. I need to consider the situation before I can decide on the best course of action. Let us meet again tomorrow morning.”

  The Council assented and filed out of the room.

  Ivan watched them go and for a moment wondered if he should send a message to his friends that he wished to go hunting.

  No, he decided, this was not a time to lose himself into energetic activity, so instead he walked slowly to his music room.

  Ivan had inherited a love of music from his mother. Princess Irina had been a talented pianist. At first Ivan had learned the piano then he had persuaded his mother to let him take up the violin as well.

  Soon he found that all frustrations with life could vanish as he lost himself in bringing a composer’s vision to life. It seemed his very soul vibrated with the music. Time and place vanished as he was transported to another world.

  There had been a time when he wanted to become a concert violinist, but of course his position made such an ambition ridiculous. Now he just played for his own and his friends’ entertainment

  The music room was at the back of the Palace.

  It overlooked the gardens and in the summer the flowers provided a succession of glorious colours, each one melting perfectly into another. It had been created by Princess Irina.

  Ivan’s parents had often visited England and the Princess enjoyed studying the gardens.

  “The English are certainly the greatest gardeners in the world,” she had often said.

  Ivan ignored his violin and gazed out at the garden.

  Snow covered the ground and lay like frosted icing on the trees and he stood absorbed by the entrancing white wonderland.

  Suddenly it seemed that two small children played there, throwing snowballs and laughing.

  Behind them stood a shadowy figure he knew was their mother and his wife.

  He turned and picked up his beloved Stradivarius violin, a present from his mother, and tuned the instrument.

  Soon he became absorbed in a Beethoven Sonata. Normally, whatever his mood, the music would enable him to leave worries and frustrations behind.

  Today the magic failed.

  Ivan laid down his instrument and threw himself into a chair.

  He knew that the Baron was right.

  He was now twenty-eight and it was time he was married.

  For the sake of Rusitania, he needed an heir.

  For the sake of Rusitania, he needed to change his rackety ways.

  The recent war had shown him that life could be cut brutally short at any time. The dreadful sights, the carnage war caused, had changed him for ever. He had enjoyed his youth, but now it was time he turned his attention to his country.

  Before the war he had indeed lived selfishly and had allowed his Council to run the country.

  They were worthy men but advanced in years. It was time for younger men to seek new ways of reforming the economy and attract foreign funds into Rusitania.

  It was time for him to take charge as his father had.

  His Council had said he should choose a wife with money. It was true that the country needed investment and his Army was desperate for new weapons.

  But he could not imagine himself being happy with someone whose only merit was her bank balance.

  So what did he need to look for?

  Ivan stretched out his long legs and thought about his ideal wife.

  She would be a girl of good breeding obviously and someone who could take her place at his side. Someone who would understand the protocol of the Palace, but also she needed to be able to meet his people and understand their concerns.

  Above all, Ivan decided, she had to be beautiful. Ever since his late teens he had been surrounded by pretty women. He could not see himself marrying someone plain, no matter how well bred or rich she was.

  It would, he decided, be best to choose a young girl.

  Natasha had been spoilt by her husband and he had always given her everything she desired. So she had come to expect every man who fell in love with her to do what she wanted – buy whatever took her fancy.

  A young girl would hopefully not expect her every whim to be catered for. She would want to please him and be flattered that one of Europe’s most eligible bachelors had chosen her to be his wife.

  Ivan imagined a sweet and docile seventeen or eighteen year old, a girl with silken blonde hair, an elegant nose, bright blue eyes and a pink and white complexion.

  She would fall in love with him at first sight – and she would make him laugh. Most importantly, he would fall in love with her and they would be as happy as his mother and father had been.

  Entranced with the scenario he had created, Ivan turned his attention to consider where he could find this perfect little wife.

  Ivan had travelled widely in Europe. Everywhere he had gone, he had found girls to amuse him. He thought about what each country had to offer in the way of pretty young maidens.

  French girls were the wittiest and the most stylish. France these days was of course a Republic, but it was home to many aristocratic families. Some were even rich. Any of them, he was sure, would appreciate an alliance with a member of a Royal house.

  English girls were certainly not so amusing or so sophisticated, but they were even lovelier than the French. England, too, had a large number of ancient families, many of whom were well endowed – and they also appreciated a Royal title.

  German girls were strong and capable. He had met some that were very lovely and some had style. A few had made him laugh. Still if he could not find what he wanted in either France or England, then he would visit Germany.

  The search for the right bride would naturally be serious, but Ivan’s spirits rose as he realised that it could also be entertaining.

  He rose impetuously and moved to his sitting room and the attractive Chippendale secretaire where he wrote his letters.

  Soon he had a small pile of envelopes addressed to various aristocratic friends in France and England.

  Plus one to Her Majesty Queen Victoria.

  He could not visit England without first presenting himself at Court. And there were matters to be discussed with the President of France as well.

  Ivan drew another piece of his crested writing paper towards him and then hesitated. He needed to consult the Baron, as he could not remember the name of the current President of France!

  However, that was enough work for today.

  It was time for luncheon.

  Afterwards he would sally forth to a fencing club and enjoy a bout with one or other of his many friends.

  The letter to the President of France could wait until tomorrow.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Ivan paused for a second on the top step of the Paris mansion he had just left and pulled on his gloves.

  It was after midnight and bitterly cold. There was, however, no snow.

  He tilted the angle of his top hat, grasped the silver handle of his elegant walking stick and walked jauntily out into the street.

  He had just passed a most enjoyable few hours with a French aristocrat, a widow of mature years who used her beauty and considerable bedroom skills to enable her to remain in her late husband’s family home.

  A hansom cab pulled up beside him.

  For a moment Ivan almost climbed in and then he changed his mind and sent it on its way.

  He decided to walk back to his hotel. Although the night was bitter, an almost full moon sailed through clear skies.

  As he started out through the quiet Paris streets, his mind went back to what Hortense, the beautiful widow, had said to him not half an hour ago.

  “Chéri, you are not at all yourself tonight,” she had pouted and then smiled at him. “Can you not tell me what is on your mind? For I know it is not I.”

  “Hortense, my sweetest, how could it be anything else? Have I not satisfied you tonight?”

  He had given her a passionate kiss, so passionate that eventually she had muttered with a throaty l
augh,

  “Now that is better! Now I feel you are with me body and soul.”

  Ivan, however, knew that she had been right.

  It had not been a disappointment when she had told him she was to travel to Italy to stay for a few weeks with ‘an old friend’.

  Maybe his time in Paris was rapidly drawing to a close.

  Since arriving in France, Ivan had had an enjoyable stay. He had met some charming girls, some very wealthy. And he knew with a cynicism that deepened each year that none of them would refuse him anything.

  It did not take long for them all to bore him.

  As Ivan considered his options, he became aware that someone, no, it was two people, were following him.

  He darted down a side street and, sure enough, the footsteps followed.

  He started walking faster.

  Immediately he realised that he had made a mistake in turning off the main thoroughfare as these narrow alleys were a perfect place for an attack.

  Could he outrun his pursuers in this maze of rat runs he now found himself in?

  He had to try, but Ivan was hampered by his heavy overcoat.

  Behind he could hear footsteps coming nearer –

  Making a sudden decision, Ivan stopped and turned, twisting at the silver top of his elegant walking stick and releasing the devastatingly sharp sword inside.

  His back against a tenement building, its windows broken and its door hanging off its hinges, he stood there, slightly crouching, the sword held threateningly in front of him, his other arm wrapped in his heavy overcoat.

  The two men who had been following him faltered. They were heavily built, their faces more or less concealed with mufflers.

  Each carried a heavy bludgeon.

  Ivan was relieved to see that neither seemed to have a pistol. Bludgeons he might be able to deal with, a bullet was altogether another matter.

  “Come on,” he called out in French. “Try me!”

  The two attackers moved uneasily, looking out for a way to launch their blows without being cut by his sword.

  Suddenly they both ran at him together, wielding their bludgeons.

  Lightly balanced on his feet, Ivan deflected one blow with his coat-wrapped arm, while he unerringly ran his sword through the other villain’s upper arm.

  With an unexpectedly shrill scream, the bludgeon was dropped as the attacker tried to staunch the flow of his blood.