by Sandra Heath
Agnetha went to the door, turning to give Alison another look of jealous loathing, and as she went out, Alison went relievedly to lock the door behind her. To her dismay there wasn’t a key. Remembering Billy’s advice about securing the door, she dragged the armchair from its place by the fire and wedged the back under the door handle. Then she stepped back, feeling safe at last.
Turning, she went to the windows, drawing the curtains aside to look out. As she did so, she realized that they weren’t windows, but glazed French doors that gave on to one of the wooden balconies she’d noticed from the alley. Pulling the doors open, she stepped outside into the brittle night air. The balcony was flanked on either side by those of the adjoining rooms, both of which were in darkness. The alley below was empty. Pools of light fell across it from the tap-room windows, and similar lights were still illuminated in other hostelries farther toward the quay, but there weren’t any people around now. Stockholm seemed to have almost settled down for the night, but already the first faint gray of dawn was beginning to creep over the sky to the east. There was something strange about such brief nights.
Drawing back inside, she closed the French doors again, but they wouldn’t close properly, and then she noticed a little wedge of folded paper that had fallen to the floor when she had opened them. The catch was broken and the wedge of paper was to keep them as closed as possible. With a sigh she put the paper in the place that seemed the most effective, then she drew the curtains across again.
Her valise had been left on the bed, and she went to look in it, to see what she had managed to pack in the few panic-stricken moments she had had before fleeing the ship. She took out a rose dimity gown with long sleeves and a demure lace-filled neckline, a black-and-white-checked wool gown with full wrist-length sleeves, and a fringed white shawl. There was also a brush and comb, some pins, her bottle of lavender water, a length of white satin ribbon, and a straw bonnet adorned with artificial forget-me-nots. She hadn’t thought of gloves, stockings, her reticule, a pelisse, or her spencer, just those few things and that wretched, wretched gothic book! Why, oh, why, had the book come to hand instead of her reticule, which contained a pair of scissors, a needle and thread, a vial of scent, a handkerchief, a pencil and little notebook, and the emerald ring her father had sent to her on her sixteenth birthday. Her breath caught in dismay, for the ring would now lie forever at the bottom of Stockholm harbor.
Blinking back sudden tears, she set aside the dimity gown and the shawl, meaning to change into them instead of remaining in her nightgown, which made her feel so ill-at-ease and vulnerable. As she had known on the rowing boat, she wouldn’t be able to sleep again tonight, not after all that had happened, and so she meant to dress, pin up her hair neatly, and try to read the book that had managed to take foolish precedence over other much more important items.
There was a washstand in a corner, with a cracked mirror and a large bowl and jug of cold water. She hadn’t noticed it before because it had been behind her when first she had glanced around the room. As she stepped out of her cloak and nightgown, she went quickly to pour some water and give her face and hands a quick wash. She shivered, moving over to the fireplace to dry herself, and then she quickly put on the rose dimity, struggling with its interminable row of hooks and eyes, which required contortions to do up properly.
Laying the cloak on the floor near the fire so that it would keep warm and aired, she repacked the valise, after first dabbing some of the lavender water behind her ears, and then took her hairbrush, comb, and pins to the washstand to see what she could achieve with her hair, which was willful and difficult at the best of times.
She stared at her reflection in the mirror. What would Miss Wright say if she could see her now? And what would Pamela say – Pamela, who never had a shining dark curl out of place and whose clothes were always the immaculate height of perfect fashion? If Pamela had had to flee from a burning ship in the middle of the night, she would never emerge from the experience looking anything but flawless. Pamela was always faultless, always the epitome of poise and beauty, and on the day she married handsome Lord Buckingham, she would be a breathtakingly lovely bride.
With a sigh, Alison began to draw the hairbursh through her tangled hair, but as she did so, she was sure she heard a stealthy sound at the door. She turned quickly and was in time to see the door handle turning slowly. Her heart almost stopped with alarm, for as the handle then turned the other way, she knew that someone was trying to get in.
She pressed fearfully back against the washstand, the hairbrush almost slipping from her suddenly cold fingers. Her mouth ran dry and she could hear her heart beating fearfully as she stared at the door, praying that the chair would prevent it from opening.
For what seemed an age the would-be intruder kept trying the handle, but then it stopped moving. Alison’s lips trembled, and her gray eyes remained large and frightened as she watched and waited for something that would tell her that whoever it was had gone away. The moments ticked by, and she went to the door, leaning past the chair to press her ear to the wood. The passage outside seemed deserted, for the only sound she heard was the distant clatter of the tap room and a burst of laughter from the Russian officers on the gallery.
Slowly she backed away from the door, going to sit weakly on the edge of the bed and dropping the hairbrush on the coverlet beside her. She pressed her trembling hands to her cheeks, trying to quell the torrent of fear that still coursed through her. What might have happened if she hadn’t followed Billy’s advice? What fate might she now be enduring at the intruder’s hands? A sob rose in her throat. Bath seemed a million miles away, as did everything else that she knew and loved, and she wished desperately that she had stood up to Miss Wright on the whole matter of this horrid, horrid journey.
She struggled to collect herself, but as she did so, a sudden breath of breeze outside dislodged the French doors. They blew open, the curtains billowing, as if someone was standing behind them. A terrified squeak escaped Alison’s lips, and she leapt up from the bed, staring at the curtains, but then she realized it was just the draft. At the same time she heard someone speaking in the alley below. It was an Englishman with a refined, well-spoken voice, and he was uttering a far-from-refined English oath, albeit in an amiable tone.
‘The devil take you for a damned Swedish rogue and horse thief.’
‘But it’s true, my lord, I swear it upon my life,’ replied another man, a Swedish gentleman by the sound of it. ‘The horse got up and deliberately pushed the fellow into the river with its nose. I saw it with my own eyes, and I happen to know that that villain has never raised a crop to a horse again.’
The Englishman laughed, and it was such a comforting and reassuring sound that Alison hurried out on to the balcony.
The two men had paused outside the inn and were clearly visible in the light from the tap-room windows. The Swedish gentleman was dressed in a brown tight-fitting coat and beige breeches, with an extravagant brown-and-cream-spotted neckcloth blossoming at his throat. A matching handkerchief protruded from his hip pocket, and he stood in a rather foppish pose, flicking another handkerchief over a sleeve that appeared to be immaculate. He was of medium height and was passably good-looking, with a tall top hat tipped rakishly back on his froth of light-brown Apollo curls. He was about twenty-one years old and obviously thought himself very much the thing, but when set beside the stylishness and devilish good looks of his English companion, he was practically insignificant.
The Englishman looked as if he might just have strolled down a Mayfair pavement instead of a medieval alley in Stockholm, and his clothes were all that one would expect of Bond Street’s superlative tailors. A long charcoal greatcoat with an astrakhan collar rested nonchalantly around the shoulders of his burgundy coat, and he wore a silver brocade waistcoat and a gray silk neckcloth that was plentiful without being as excessive as that worn by his companion. His skin-tight cream breeches vanished into shining black top boots, and he carried a pair
of gray kid gloves in his left hand. A signet ring graced one of his fingers, a golden seal dangled from his fob, and a pearl pin nestled tastefully in the discreet folds of the neckcloth. He was the personification of masculine style and elegance, and when he removed his top hat to run his fingers through his thick coal-black hair, Alison found herself gazing down at the most devastatingly handsome man she’d ever seen.
He was in his late twenties or early thirties, and his face was fine-boned and even-featured, with a complexion that was tanned from many hours spent in the open air. He had a rugged cleft in his chin, and his firm lips looked as if they would be quick to smile. His eyes were dark-lashed and of a particularly vivid blue, a fact that she could see in the light from the tap room. He wore his rather wayward black hair a little longer than might have been expected, for in London at the moment it was the fashion for gentlemen to have their hair cut very short indeed.
Alison stared down at him. She felt as if she’d suddenly awakened from a long sleep, because for the first time in her life she was conscious of an almost irresistible feeling of attraction. She was like a moth to a flame, longing to be burned. And she didn’t even know who he was.
3
Unaware of the silent scrutiny to which they were being subjected from the balcony overhead, the two men continued their conversation. It concerned thoroughbred horses, a subject on which both appeared to be very knowledgeable indeed.
The Swedish gentleman was proud of a brood mare the Englishman had just purchased from his father, and he didn’t hesitate to sing the animal’s praises. ‘You will not regret purchasing the mare, my lord, for I promise you that the foal she carries is bred for stamina.’
‘I know that now, since your father was at last persuaded to let me see the stud books,’ replied the Englishman somewhat dryly. ‘What dark secret is he trying to keep hidden? He’s like a miser with his hoard.’
His Swedish friend laughed. ‘He is a shrewd man, my lord, and keeps his own counsel. When he chose to show you the stud books, he paid you a great compliment.’
‘As I paid him when I chose to buy the mare,’ came the frank reply.
‘That is very true. So, after a lack of success in France, Belgium, Holland, and Denmark, your expedition so far has only resulted in this one purchase. I trust that you are more fortunate in St Petersburg, although I understand that there are only one or two significant animals in the imperial stables.’
‘There is one chestnut colt that is of great interest to me, since it’s descended from the red Barbary stallion the czar’s great-grandfather acquired in Syria. I have the promise of an audience with his imperial majesty, and I trust I will be able to, er, persuade him that the colt would be a shining example of Russian stud management if allowed to run on English turf.’
‘If anyone can persuade him, you can, my lord,’ replied the Swedish gentleman, but then he shook his head doubtfully. ‘I am told that Czar Alexander is an indifferent horseman, and is therefore not likely to show a great deal of interest. He is much more concerned these days with the many whims of his mistress, the Countess Irina.’
‘So I understand,’ murmured the Englishman.
‘Well, my lord, perhaps we should adjourn to the quay, for the Pavlovsk may have arrived by now.’
‘And she may not. No, my friend. When she arrives, my luggage will be duly taken on board and placed in the cabin reserved for me, but I mean to spend the rest of the night in a comfortable bed in a comfortable inn. This inn, to be precise.’ He indicated the Dog and Flute.
The Swedish gentleman pursed his lips. ‘Where it just so happens that you might encounter the czar’s envoy, Prince Naryshky?’
‘The possibility had occurred to me, yes,’ the Englishman replied.
His friend glanced around and then dropped his voice considerably, so much so that Alison had to strain to hear. ‘My lord, you would be wise to avoid him at all costs, for he is dangerous, scheming, capricious, high-handed, and always acts in his own interests. There is no one more treacherous and devious than he, and it is said that the devil would be the one requiring the long spoon were any supping to be done with this particular Russian princeling.’
Alison’s eyes widened with surprise that anyone could speak so indiscreetly and unflatteringly about a man like the prince, especially in a place as public as an alley in the middle of Stockholm. If she could hear, who else might be doing just the same?
The Englishman had also lowered his voice. ‘Naryshky can hardly be described as a princeling, my friend, for he is now one of the most influential men in St Petersburg.’
‘Only because his sister, the Countess Irina, graces the czar’s bed. If it were not for that fact, Naryshky would simply be another strutting aristocrat in the famous Preobrazensky Regiment. He owes his grand rank to her, and he wouldn’t stand nearly so high in Czar Alexander’s favor were it not for her constant importuning. Naryshky owes nothing to his own talents, of that you may be sure. Oh, he thinks he’s set to be a great man, and his vanity is such that he even made a bid for the hand of the czar’s sister, the Grand-Duchess Helen, but not even Alexander is besotted enough to bestow such grandeur upon his mistress’s swaggering brother.’
‘You speak as if you know a great deal about him.’
‘Everyone in Stockholm knows Naryshky, my lord, for whenever he has come here, his activities have made him much despised. He is without conscience and without morals, and our authorities never raise a protest because King Gustavus Adolphus wishes to court the new czar, and the new czar is disposed to show great favor to Naryshky. Take my advice, my lord, stay somewhere else tonight, somewhere well away from Nikolai Ivanovich Naryshky, who is no admirer of the British.’
‘My mind is made up, I fear.’
The Swedish gentleman shrugged regretfully. ‘As you wish, my friend. So, now we must bid each other farewell.’
‘Perhaps not farewell, for I would consider it a great honor and pleasure if you and your father were to visit me in England. I can promise you a very hospitable welcome, one of the best studs in the country, and some excellent days’ racing.’
‘Your invitation will be accepted with alacrity, my lord. I wish you bon voyage.’
The two men shook hands and then the Swedish gentleman walked quickly away in the direction of the quay. The Englishman watched him for a moment and then turned to look at the brightly lit tap-room windows. His blue eyes were thoughtful, then he tapped his top hat on his head and went swiftly up the steps into the inn.
Alison lingered on the balcony. The Englishman’s name hadn’t been mentioned at all, beyond the fact that he’d been addressed as ‘my lord,’ and so she had no idea who he was, but she was bound to find out, either at breakfast in the morning or certainly on board the Pavlovsk. She wondered if he was married. Surely he must be, for how could such a man have eluded the wiles of some determined woman? Someone as good-looking and undoubtedly charming as he must constantly receive flattering attention from the opposite sex. She gazed down at the spot where he had been, thinking that it was very doubtful indeed that such a man would so much as glance at a green girl straight out of a Bath academy for young ladies.
She shivered a little, suddenly realizing that she’d been standing out in the bitter cold for quite some time in only her gown and shawl. The gray of dawn had now illuminated the eastern sky much more, and soon Stockholm would be bathed in that pale silver light that was neither day nor night. She didn’t like these short nights, for they didn’t invite a deep restorative slumber, but rather filled one with an odd sort of restlessness. What she would do in St Petersburg she didn’t know, for she’d been told that from the end of June until the beginning of July there was hardly any night at all, just half an hour of strangely subdued light between sunset and sunrise. It had sounded novel when she heard of it in England, but now that she had begun to experience the ever-shortening hours of darkness this far north, she didn’t like it at all.
With a last glance down into th
e alley where she had seen the handsome English lord, she turned and went back into her room. She closed the French doors as firmly as she could, using the wedge of paper, and then she drew the curtains. Still feeling uncomfortably cold, she hurried to the fire, holding out her hands to the warmth of the flames. Gradually she felt better and so went to finish brushing and pinning her hair, achieving a reasonably creditable knot at the back of her head. It had always been Miss Wright’s policy to teach her young ladies how to attend to their own toilette, for the headmistress warned that there might come a time when a maid wasn’t to hand, and a lady’s hair must always be perfect. Most of the pupils had resented such lessons, for the daughters of earls and dukes would never be without the services of a maid, but now Alison was glad of the lessons, for her maid had left her in order to be married and she wouldn’t have another until she reached St Petersburg.
Before going to sit on the bed with her book, she tested the armchair’s firmness under the door handle. It didn’t move at all, and she was satisfied that it would serve its purpose until it was time for her to go down to breakfast. Drawing her shawl more warmly around her shoulders, she propped the pillows against the back of the bed and then made herself comfortable, pulling the coverlet lightly over her knees. With a sigh she opened the book, wishing again that it was now at the bottom of the harbor instead of her precious reticule.
A serving girl hurried past the door to the next room, and Alison heard the unmistakable sound of the fire being prepared. Could it mean that the Englishman was to occupy the room? She looked up from the book, and as she did so, she was sure she heard the door of the other adjoining room open and close very softly indeed. Her eyes flew toward the other wall, but she heard nothing more; then the serving girl hurried away again, her light footsteps diminishing along the corridor.