‘Of course I saved you. You have been my friend since childhood,’ Stepan said sincerely. ‘I would save you again if I could. But you don’t want to be saved. You are running headlong into trouble with this woman, as if Helena’s dagger in your side wasn’t caution enough.’ Stepan paused. ‘And you are thinking about joining them.’
‘Yes.’ He would not lie to Stepan. ‘Grigoriev sees the need for change as do I.’
‘You do not have to be that change,’ Stepan argued. ‘Let someone else lead that fight. Perhaps there is a way to foment change from here. You know what will happen to you if you go back to Russia and are caught.’
‘Stepan, when I left Kuban I never meant to leave my principles behind. I’m lost without them, I’m lost without a cause to fight for,’ Nikolay tried to explain.
‘It’s not that I don’t understand. It’s that I worry.’ Stepan sighed. ‘You are all leaving me. Illarion will go next. He can hardly wait for the Season to begin. Already, his evenings are filled with English nonsense.’
‘You will always be our adahop, Stepan. You always have been. Even in Kuban you were our leader,’ Nikolay consoled. Usually it was Stepan who did the consoling. Nikolay picked up the invitation. ‘If I don’t go, I look like a coward,’ Nikolay said simply. There was no question of refusing the invitation. ‘If I don’t go to them, they might very well come to me. I don’t want to bring them here.’ He rose from the table. He didn’t want this to become an argument with Stepan.
Stepan gripped his arm as he passed. ‘Just be honest about your reasons. Going because you mean to protect us is one thing. Going because you mean to risk an affaire is another. One reason I can accept. The other, I cannot. I don’t want to patch you up again. Please, Nikolay, I don’t want to be right about this.’
* * *
Was Stepan right? Nikolay called to the valet and began issuing instructions. The effort of packing focused his thoughts, boiling them down to one: was Klara a part of this? Was he thinking of joining Grigoriev because of her? Was he going the house party because of her? Or would he be going anyway because his conscience demanded it? If she was a part of it, if befriending him was part of reeling him in, then he’d been betrayed once more. He’d been right not to trust her last night, not to give her the real pleasure she’d come wanting. Last night had been hands and mouths, an imitation of true consummation, a consummation that could have bound him to her in more permanent ways.
It also meant that what he’d experienced with her had been an illusion, which called in to question everything she’d told him, shown him. He didn’t want the Klara Grigorieva he knew to be a lie. That was a woman he could fall for, if he could separate that woman from her father’s politics. There was no question she was her father’s pawn. The real question was whether she had realised it and wittingly capitulated. On the other hand, if the woman he’d seen last night, the woman who had risked herself to warn him, was the real Klara, he could not let her be manipulated by her father or Amesbury. That woman would need him and he had yet to leave a damsel in distress. Stepan was not entirely wrong. He was going for Klara, to determine once and for all if he could trust her. He would put both himself and her to the ultimate test.
‘Is there anything particular I should pack beyond the usual?’ the valet asked.
Nikolay glanced at the emptying wardrobe. Only his military gear remained. ‘Pack my uniform and my sabres.’ Then he added, ‘And my lance.’ The lance was a Cossack’s specialty.
‘And your cavalry pistols?’
‘Why not? Throw them in as well.’ Politics and passion when they involved a prince made for a volatile ménage à trois indeed.
* * *
It was hard to imagine anything bad could happen in Richmond, so bucolic was the setting, Nikolay thought as he approached the long drive leading to Grigoriev’s country estate. The day had turned out to be fine weather for a ride; the air was crisp with winter but the sky was blue overhead, he was warm and Cossack was in fine spirits. He’d sent his trunk and the valet down the Thames to meet them.
The house came into view, red bricked and majestic, the front lawns acres of green. He knew, without seeing, that the back lawns would terrace down to the river where a ferry could dock—the benefits of having married a rich Englishwoman. Grigoriev had been lucky in that regard. Such an alliance allowed him wealth and a foot in both camps. Such alliances were not unheard of in Kuban where a prince might be ‘encouraged’ to marry the daughter of a Turkish border pasha in order to keep the peace where military strength could not. Perhaps that rationale explained why Grigoriev was intent on Klara marrying an Englishman, to keep his options open.
A groom met Nikolay at the top of the drive to take his horse. Nikolay took a moment to survey the house with its white columns framing the wide front door and the fan window overhead. Windows everywhere, really. Beautiful long windows with white shutters flanked each wing of the house.
At the door, a footman escorted him across the blue-veined marbled hall to the drawing room where guests were gathered for an arrival tea, done in the best Russian fashion, silver samovar and all. Grigoriev himself crossed the room to greet him, not with a handshake but with a customary Russian embrace and three kisses, two on the right cheek and one on the left, signifying great affection. ‘You rode the entire way!’ Grigoriev exclaimed. ‘We must get you some tea.’
Grigoriev led him to the table where the food was laid out: plates of small, silly English sandwiches and silver bowls of caviar were amid the delicacies of Russian sweets. Nikolay’s mouth watered at the sight of them. Perhaps his eyes did, too. There were slices of medovik, a layered honey cake, and the traditional round Russian tea cakes made of shortbread and rolled in confectioner’s sugar. There were thin blinis swaddling berries in their delicate crêpe-like folds.
‘Eto ideal’no,’ Nikolay murmured appreciatively, taking a cup of strong, black tea from a lace-aproned maid.
‘Come, there are people I want you to meet.’ Grigoriev had him by the elbow, guiding him about the room. ‘You will know the General already, of course.’ He nodded to Vasilev and kept moving. ‘We are eager to know you better since our dinner party.’ Nikolay kept half an ear tuned to Grigoriev’s talk. He knew the path Grigoriev’s rhetoric travelled. He was safe enough for now. His eyes were busy. There was only one person Nikolay was interested in seeing and he found her by the long windows looking out over the terraced lawns.
Klara was silhouetted between the heavy, impressive floor-length portières, dressed in a deep indigo afternoon gown, her hair pulled back into a proper twist at the nape of her neck. Everything about her was sleek and smooth, immaculate and elegant, a pristine juxtaposition to the woman who had slipped her gown from her shoulders and stood naked before him in the mews. Immaculate Klara was not alone. Amesbury stood with her.
Grigoriev caught his gaze and directed their path towards the windows as if Nikolay and Amesbury were not polite antagonists at best. ‘I’m sure you’ll want to renew acquaintances with the Duke and say hello to Klara, too.’ If Grigoriev knew what had transpired between he and Klara, the man covered it beautifully.
Amesbury was not so diplomatic. The Duke gave a small bow at their approach, his eyes cold. ‘Baklanov, it is good to see you again.’ Nikolay hardly spared the man a glance. His gaze was on Klara, watching surprise and disapproval flare in her green eyes.
Grigoriev stepped in with a hand at Nikolay’s shoulder to redirect the conversation. Nikolay had the fleeting impression he didn’t want Amesbury saying too much just yet. ‘Our festivities this weekend include a martial riding display. The General has some of his captains with him. I do hope you’ll consider taking part.’
‘Gladly.’ Nikolay nodded. ‘Will you be joining us in the display, Your Grace?’
‘I’m a pistol man, myself,’ the Duke offered with feigned modesty, but the challenge was unmistakable.
Nikolay grinned. ‘I find guns to be impersonal weapons. One doesn’t have to think too much about whom one is mowing down with a pistol, not like a blade. Blades are a real man’s weapon.’ He felt Klara’s slipper press down on his boot in warning. She didn’t like him antagonising the Duke.
Klara cleared her throat. ‘We are so pleased you could join us this weekend, Prince Baklanov. Have you had a chance to taste the medovik? We had it made especially for you. The General’s wife has a lovely recipe.’ He jumped at the chance to steal Klara away from the Duke.
‘No, perhaps you could show me?’ He offered Klara his arm, while casting Amesbury a look of veiled victory.
‘Go on, Klara.’ The Duke smiled tightly, unable to challenge him publicly without appearing boorish. ‘I have things to discuss with your father. It would only bore you.’
Klara scolded him the moment they were out of earshot. ‘I told you not to come.’
‘All the more reason. I wondered later if that was what you intended; to ensure my attendance by warning me off?’ At the tea table he helped himself to a slice of the layered cake. He held her gaze; his latent cynicism had put her on alert.
‘You don’t trust me, even now after the kill pens, after going into Soho with you? Would I have risked so much without a personal reason? You still think this is about my father’s game.’ There was naked hurt in those words. His accusation had cut her and he regretted it. How did he tell her that he wanted to believe her, wanted to believe in her trust? He simply couldn’t. That belief was too expensive. Her green eyes mirrored her disappointment in him. When had he ever disappointed a woman? When had a woman ever wanted more from him than he could give? He could give pleasure, he could give flirtation and intrigue, a merry game of pursuit, but not trust. Trust was too close to love.
Her hand closed secretly over his, out of sight where no one could see. ‘For a moment, when I saw you walk into the drawing room, all magnificence in your greatcoat, your hair blown by the wind, I thought you might have come for me. Just for me.’ The disappointment was still in her eyes. ‘I see now such hope was for the impossible.’ She glanced past his shoulder. ‘My father is coming to take you away to meet other guests.’ She let go of his hand. ‘Be careful. This is a dangerous party.’
Oh, she did not play fair! Was she dissembling now for the sake of deepening the game or was this genuine concern? It was damned inconvenient that he simply couldn’t tell. What if she was sincere? What if she had risen above the game? Did that change anything? Nikolay let her father lead him about the room. He bowed here, nodded there, smiled when appropriate, murmured a few necessary words, but his mind wasn’t on the conversation. It was on her, as was his gaze when he could spare it.
The Duke had reclaimed his spot at her side. By force or had she allowed it? Wanted it? If faced with a choice between him and the Duke, who would she choose? Why did he care? Perhaps believing the worst of her was easiest. It meant he had an excuse not to engage any emotions. Believing the worst was the safe road. Believing she had genuine feelings for him was more complicated. That meant he had to answer for his feelings as well and, to be honest, he did have them.
He’d felt a rather strong surge of competition just now upon seeing her in the window bay with Amesbury. He wanted her with him, not Amesbury. Couple that with the stab of fear at the kill pens when he’d realised she was gone from his side, the panic at seeing her in the stallion’s pen, the intense rush of desire when they were alone together, the feel of her in his arms as they danced at Mikhail’s bistro. All of it suggested Stepan was right. He was falling for her. The realisation nearly stopped him in his tracks. He couldn’t remember the last thing Grigoriev had said. It was quite the revelation to have in the midst of a drawing room where his thoughts should have been focused on his own survival. Perhaps Klara hadn’t been wrong. Maybe he had come for her, after all.
* * *
By dinner, it was clear Klara had told the truth about the invitation. He was indeed being wooed overtly for the revolution. In classic diplomatic fashion, Grigoriev was trying to sweeten the pot in hopes of not needing to sour it. His methods were quite effective in spite of being obvious. The Maslenitsa house party was designed to conjure up the best of Russian folk culture. The tea, the cakes, had all been delicious, followed by a beautifully executed traditional Russian dinner.
It was more than delicious, Nikolay thought as he fingered his glass of medovhuka after dinner. Around him, the men switched to Russian. The ladies had left and taken the English with them apparently, a signal that it was time to get down to business. He let the words flow over him along with nostalgia. To hear the words, to taste the food, to let the sweet honey-mead liquor linger on his tongue, was to recall potent images of home. No, not home any longer, but a land denied to him except for glimpses like these.
‘We have business partners who are willing to sell us arms,’ General Vasilev was saying with a nod towards Amesbury. ‘His Grace’s connections have proven true. We will be able to give our troops the latest in weapons, weapons they didn’t have the last time.’ Nikolay’s attention sharpened. Weapons were a serious step that bridged the gap from dinner table talk to reality.
The Duke began to speak. ‘Cabot Roan has been able to assemble a very generous coterie of ammunition and gun manufacturers who can provide us arms at an affordable rate.’ So that was the Duke’s role in all of this. His Grace was acquainted with an arms dealer, and not just any arms dealer, but one who’d been tried for treason a year ago and been let off. How ‘enterprising’ of Amesbury. It made Nikolay wonder just how Roan had got off, and if it had anything to do with Amesbury’s deep pockets and deeper connections. The commission on this arrangement must be hefty indeed if Amesbury was willing to bend the straight path of justice.
‘We may not need the arms,’ came another opinion from one of the young captains Nikolay had met previously. ‘If Constantine is named the heir, there will be a peaceful transition of power. The military is pledged to him and his ideas already.’ Nikolay slid a glance towards the Duke to see how Amesbury was taking the idea of no arms. Not well if the frown on his face was an indication, but the General was willing to argue on his behalf.
‘But if not—’ Vasilev’s bulky form leaned forward to make the case ‘—we must be prepared to strike hard and fast. Constantine’s ascendancy is not ironclad.’
‘When, though?’ another guest challenged. ‘Must we wait that long?’
‘That’s the question, isn’t it?’ It was Grigoriev’s turn to speak. The ambassador eyed the table, looking at each man in turn. ‘If we wait for the natural course of events to run itself out, we may be waiting for years. I say we strike now. We have weapons, we have the support of the military. We have a leader in Constantine who can take the throne of Russia and propel us into the nineteenth century of the west. He can be this century’s Peter the Great.’ This was far bolder than the careful talk at the previous dinner and Nikolay knew where it was leading.
Grigoriev lowered his voice, drawing the men in as he outlined his plan. ‘We can force a transition with a palace coup. It wouldn’t be the first time, and there’s enough dissatisfaction with Tsar Alexander to whip up the dissent in our favour.’ He paused, letting his proposal sink in. Nikolay felt Grigoriev’s gaze land on him. ‘We need a man in place that could rally the troops at a moment’s notice. A military man, a man who can lead others, who understands the military and how it works, but also a man who knows court life. A man like yourself, Baklanov.’ It didn’t get any more point-blank than that. This was what Klara had warned him of. They didn’t just want him to join them. They wanted him to lead their revolution—to be the face of it on the ground. ‘Think it over, Baklanov. It’s not a decision to be made lightly.’ Grigoriev smiled easily, but Nikolay was not fooled.
Every sense was on high alert now. All the doubt came roaring back. Did Klara know the stakes were this high? Had Grig
oriev used her to reel him in for this purpose? Had she wittingly accepted her father’s dictate and merely done what she was told? Was even her scene at the tea table this afternoon expertly designed to draw him close? Was Grigoriev betting he’d join for the revolution for the sake of pleasing Klara? It wasn’t beyond the scope of imagining. What a man wouldn’t do for war, he might do for love.
Chapter Sixteen
Oh, what a woman might do for love, for trust, to prove herself to the man she wanted! Klara’s hand hesitated a moment before she knocked. The hallway was dark and quiet around her, midnight having sounded half an hour ago on the big clock in the hall. The house was officially asleep. No one would ever know she was standing outside a man’s bedroom in her nightgown. Yet what she was doing took real courage, known or not. It was a decision she’d have to live with for the rest of her life. It had to be tonight, before her father got his claws into Nikolay any further, before Nikolay could confuse her offering with stratagem. Before she could be accused of whoring herself to gain his compliance. As if she could do such a thing, give her body indiscriminately to any man for whom she might have a use. What she meant to do tonight was no idle whim. Once given, this gift could not be taken back. No unwed girl of fine birth could consider this action lightly. She wanted Nikolay to be the one, no matter how this turned out in the end. It was the single thing she was sure of. Perhaps it was different for men. A woman carried her lovers with her. They were not shed like a snake’s skin. She gathered her resolve.
She drew a breath and knocked. She waited. She tried the handle and slipped inside. The room was dark, the only light coming from the fire, but it was enough to discern the tall figure in the chair. ‘You’re still up. Why didn’t you answer when I knocked?’ She moved towards him, taking the chair across from him.
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