by Sandra Heath
Taking a deep breath, she went back into the room, where he was waiting to escort her down to breakfast. His expert glance swept approvingly over her neat figure and the shining curls piled up so prettily on top of her head.
‘You look very lovely, Alison.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Shall we go down, then?’
She nodded, but as he offered her his arm, he paused again.
‘It will soon be over now, for we can leave for the Pavlovsk directly after breakfast, but we mustn’t let the fact that Naryshky and his companions have left affect our conduct. He is staying here, and he might return before the Pavlovsk leaves. It wouldn’t do for him to be told that we haven’t been behaving like sweethearts.’
She searched his face, wanting to ask so many questions, but then she decided against it. ‘I’m quite prepared to carry on as we agreed last night.’
The gallery was deserted as they approached it, but the tap room was crowded and the babble of conversation and laughter carried clearly long before they reached the top of the staircase. They paused, looking down for a moment. Sunlight shone diagonally in through the windows, and the fire crackled in the hearth. The tables were crowded and the air was heavy with the smell of coffee, toasted bread, smoked fish, and other foods that Alison didn’t know.
She expected Francis to proceed on down the staircase, but instead, he suddenly put a hand over hers, turning her to face him. He drew her a little closer, tilting her face so that her lips were only inches away from his, and then he gazed into her startled eyes, for all the world like an adoring lover, but it wasn’t of love that he spoke.
‘Alison, Naryshky himself may not be here, but I fear that one of his cronies is, and from his furtive manner I rather fear that he’s observing us.’
Her eyes widened. ‘Observing us?’
‘Don’t make it obvious, but if you glance at the table nearest the door into the alley, you’ll see a man with a newspaper he appears to be engrossed in. Do you see him?’
Her eyes slid in the direction he mentioned, and she saw a slight, uniformed figure. ‘Yes, I see him.’
‘Well, he was eating his breakfast when we reached the gallery, but the moment he saw us he picked up the newspaper and now he’s watching us in the mirror on the wall. Do you see?’
She nodded.
‘I think we should give him something to watch, don’t you?’
‘I don’t understand—’
‘Kiss me, Alison.’
She stared at him. ‘Here? In front of everyone?’
‘Yes.’ His blue eyes were compelling. ‘Do as I say, Alison,’ he said softly.
For a moment she couldn’t respond, but then he bent his head to kiss her on the lips, and she found herself putting her arms around him to return the kiss. She was conscious of the astonished silence that immediately settled over the tap room below as everyone looked up toward the tender but surprisingly public scene taking place at the top of the staircase.
A fleeting sliver of conscience over Pamela pricked Alison, but then was gone as she was swept into the sheer pleasure of kissing him. She shouldn’t feel like this; she had no right to respond to him, but she couldn’t help herself. She tried to tell herself that no one, least of all Pamela, would ever find out, and that in the future she would be able to forget the emotions this man had so effortlessly aroused within her.
He drew back slightly, his blue eyes surprised. ‘You appear to be entering into the spirit of things,’ he murmured, smiling.
Her cheeks became pink. ‘I thought you wished us to be convincing,’ she replied quickly, glancing down at the sea of upturned faces in the tap room.
‘Well, I fancy that on that score we’ve succeeded most admirably,’ he said lightly, taking her hand and pulling it over his sleeve again.
As they proceeded on down, a hum of conversation broke out again. Those who had been present the previous night when Alison had first arrived were astonished, to say the least, to have seen a transformation such as that which had taken place now.
Behind his newspaper, Sergei Mikhailovich Golitsin drew a long, thoughtful breath. There hadn’t been any sign of traditional British reserve in that kiss, and if Nikolai was suspicious about the two lovers, he, Sergei, didn’t for a moment believe anything untoward was about to be discovered concerning them.
His appreciative glance lingered secretly on Alison as she sat down on the chair Francis drew out for her. She was very beautiful indeed and possessed that deceptive air of innocence that a man like Nikolai was bound to find tantalizing. In spite of the kiss that had just taken place in front of everyone, it was still impossible to believe that she had just come from her lover’s bed. She looked so pure and virginal, but with a hidden fire, as if she was just waiting to burn with passion.
Sergei smiled wryly, for a very sumptuous bed awaited her in the Naryshky Palace, and a very different lover from the handsome Englishman into whose eyes she was now smiling so warmly.
6
It was with great relief that shortly afterward Alison and Francis left the Dog and Flute to walk down to the waterfront and the Pavlovsk. The two-masted Russian brigantine was moored close to the palace; indeed, she lay in full view of the rows of symmetrical windows that faced serenely across the harbor. Named after one of the summer residences of the czars, she was a busy vessel that only stayed in port long enough to discharge one cargo and take on the next. She had arrived from St Petersburg with linen goods and she would return again with a hold full of wool, mostly from Britain, and the last of her cargo was cluttering the quayside as Alison and Francis approached. They passed the other vessels moored alongside the quay, an Icelandic whaler, a barque from Dublin, a Finnish ketch, and finally an immense Dutch East Indiaman that was so wide and tall that it almost dwarfed the Pavlovsk.
Captain Merryvale happened to be paying a call upon his friend, the master of the brigantine, and like the guests at the Dog and Flute, he too observed the astonishing change that appeared to have overtaken Alison. As she stepped on board with Francis, with whom she appeared to have become reprehensibly intimate in a very short space of time, Captain Merryvale was quite dumbfounded. Could this really be the shy, retiring little English rose who had hidden away in her cabin for most of the time on the Duchess of Albemarle? He was conscious of a deep sense of disappointment that he’d apparently been so wrong, for he would have staked his reputation upon her being the sweet young innocent she appeared to be. Evidently appearances were deceptive, for there was nothing shy or retiring about the way she leaned on the arm of her handsome escort. The captain was even more astonished when he learned that Francis was a gentleman of such rank as Lord Buckingham.
Alison was only too conscious of Captain Merryvale’s disapproval, and she was a little upset. She therefore insisted that Francis be shown to his cabin first, and when she had arranged to see him on deck afterward and he had been led away by the Pavlovsk’s Russian captain, she turned to Captain Merryvale.
‘Captain, I wish to thank you again for all you’ve done for me. I’m very grateful that you’ve shown such concern.’
‘It was my duty, Miss Clearwell.’
His tone was short, and she felt the color entering her cheeks. ‘I trust you do not misjudge me, Captain, for there are certain somewhat extenuating circumstances that account for my conduct.’
‘It’s hardly my business, Miss Clearwell.’
‘But your opinion matters to me, sir, and I do not wish to go down in your estimation. I don’t wish to behave as I now do, nor does Lord Buckingham, but we do have excellent and pressing reasons, I promise you. Please restore me in your good books.’
He searched her face for a moment and then softened. ‘How could I refuse such a plea, Miss Clearwell? Of course you’re restored in my good books.’
‘Thank you.’ She smiled. ‘Do you still intend to go on to St Petersburg?’
‘On the Duchess of Clarence? Yes, I do, but she will not arrive here for a da
y or so yet.’
‘Perhaps we’ll see each other there?’
‘Chance might make our paths cross, Miss Clearwell, but since you are destined for the exclusive grandeur of English Quay, which is on St Petersburg’s fashionable South Side, and I will be in the commercial area on Vassily Island, across the Neva to the north, I cannot imagine that we will meet again.’
‘Then perhaps we should say goodbye now, sir.’ She extended her hand. ‘I wish you better fortune in the future, Captain Merryvale.’
‘Goodbye, Miss Clearwell, I trust that whatever the, er, extenuating circumstances are, they are successfully resolved.’ Touching his hat, he left her just as the Russian master returned to conduct her to her cabin.
The captain of the Pavlovsk was a fierce-looking, redheaded martinet with the bushiest eyebrows she had ever seen. He ruled his ship with a rod of iron, brooked no insolence or disobedience, and thought nothing of inflicting severe punishment upon wrongdoers. He spoke only the most rudimentary English, and so communicated with her by beckoning and saying ‘Da. Da.’
She followed him toward the stern and the doorway in the poop that led down to the cabins on the deck below. There were six cabins in all for passengers, and each one boasted a large airy window that looked out from the stern toward the bulky Dutch East Indiaman moored a little farther along the quay. She wondered which one was occupied by Francis; it was impossible to tell because the other doors were closed.
As the Russian left her, she looked around the cabin that was to be hers for the next five days. It seemed that one cabin was very much like another, for this one was exactly the same as the cabin on the Duchess of Albemarle. There was a narrow bed, a table, a chair, and a wooden chest, all fixed firmly to the floor to prevent them from moving in heavy seas, and on the wall there were several hooks and a gimbal-mounted candle-stick to provide light at night and when the window was boarded over in stormy weather.
She unpacked her valise, which a member of the crew had taken the moment she went on board. She hung her few items of clothing on the hooks and placed her hairbrush and other things on the table. She paused when she took out her book, for she could only reflect with astonishment the startling sequence of events that had resulted from her spur-of-the-moment decision to invent a tale of runaway lovers for Prince Nikolai’s benefit. Still, it was nearly over now, and the moment the Pavlovsk set sail, she and Francis would behave much more correctly and properly toward each other.
With a deep breath she placed the book on the bed, and then she retied the ribbons of her straw bonnet before going up on the busy deck again, expecting to find Francis waiting for her. But there was no sign of him yet. She must have passed his cabin door when he was still inside, for her cabin was at the very end of the narrow passage.
She adjusted her hood, for the sea breeze was very cold, and then she wandered slowly toward the bow, where there was far less activity. She gazed around at the panoramic view of Stockholm, its harbor, and the surrounding pine-clad hills. The sunlight shone on the water, and she looked toward the point where the previous day an ill-fated Duchess of Albemarle had dropped anchor. Now she lay beneath those sun-dappled waves, resting forever on the bed of the sea.
Alison’s gaze moved on to all the other vessels using the habor. A forest of masts and rigging swayed gently on the tide, and the flags of many countries fluttered from masts and sterns. A fishing fleet was coming in, accompanied by a screaming flock of excited gulls whose cries echoed earsplittingly all around.
Resting her hands on the bow rail, Alison looked past the Pavlovsk’s plain bowsprit toward the next vessel along the quay, a sleek private schooner of considerable elegance and size. She was large enough to require a crew of at least twenty men and boys, and she had a wealth of gleaming brasswork and polished wood. Her slender white hull was picked out in gold and her sails were crimson. She was facing the Pavlovsk, and Alison gazed at her figurehead, which was a likeness of a very beautiful young woman with a cloud of titian curls that spilled down over her naked shoulders. The schooner’s name was emblazoned on her prow in bright golden letters; she was called the Irina.
Alison stared at the name, realization beginning to stir within her, and at that moment Francis came up behind her and read her thoughts exactly.
‘Yes, Alison, she’s Naryshky’s vessel, named after his sister, of whom the figurehead is said to be an accurate likeness.’ He stood at the bow rail next to her, looking admiringly at the schooner. ‘The Irina is the one thing I envy the prince, for I would dearly like to possess such a craft.’
‘I thought you liked horses, not ships,’ she replied, smiling a little.
‘The summer sailing races off the Isle of Wight interest me a great deal, and I fancy that Naryshky’s schooner would see off most competition,’ he said. He glanced at her. ‘Alison, I fear I have something rather disagreeable to tell you.’
‘Disagreeable?’ She turned quickly to meet his blue eyes.
‘Do you remember the fellow at the inn, the one who was surreptitiously watching us from behind his newspaper?’
‘Yes. Why?’
‘I was afraid that his interest in us was a little too pointed, for it suggested that he’d been set to watch us, and now I’m sure of it. He’s here on the Pavlovsk, and he has a cabin for the voyage.’
She stared at him, a finger of unease moving slowly down her spine. ‘It may simply be coincidence—’ she began.
‘Yes, it could, for he may simply be going home on furlough, but I don’t think that’s the case.’
She drew back very slowly, her gray eyes wide. ‘What are you saying?’ she asked, the disquiet deepening within her.
He put a hand quickly over hers. ‘Alison, it could simply be that Naryshky’s interest in you is great enough for him to want to learn all he can about you.’
‘Or? Francis, what else might it be?’
‘All we have to do is persist with our pretense, convince his spy that we’re genuine, and all will be well,’ he replied, ignoring her question.
She searched his face. ‘That’s all? It’s been hard enough pretending for only this short time, but to do it for five days more is simply too much.’
‘It’s very important,’ he said quietly.
‘What’s very important?’ she demanded. ‘You’ve been very careful to avoid answering any of my questions, but it’s still patently obvious that you’re hiding something. Well, it may amuse you to keep me in the dark, but it doesn’t amuse me in the slightest.’ Her disquiet was suddenly replaced by a tremble of emotion that was very akin to panic. For all her bravado at the inn, and her storytelling and acting, she was naive and unused to the ways of the world. Too much had happened to her in too short a time, and all of a sudden she didn’t feel up to carrying on. She wanted to go home, to Pamela, where it was safe and comfortable.
Tears suddenly filled her eyes and she pulled her hand away from his. ‘I can’t go on with any of this, I really can’t,’ she whispered. ‘I want to go home to England.’
For a moment he didn’t say or do anything, but then he removed his top hat and ran his fingers through his hair. ‘And how do you propose to return? All by yourself without a chaperone? Surely your adventures thus far have taught you the foolishness of that!’
‘My experiences with a chaperone were hardly elevating.’
‘Perhaps not, but if you insist upon going back to England, you’ll be placing me in a quite impossible position. I feel responsible for you, Alison.’
‘I’m not a child.’
‘No, as I recall your own words last night, you’re inexperienced and fresh out of school.’
‘I can’t help that, any more than I can help being frightened by something I don’t understand. Can you imagine how it feels to know that someone is keeping a secret from you, and to also know that that someone expects you to behave as if all is well?’
‘Alison, there’s nothing to be alarmed about and there’s certainly no reason for you to be
told anything.’
She held his gaze. ‘So, at least you now admit that there is something.’
He nodded. ‘Yes, I admit it.’
‘And you still expect me to go through with five more days of pretending without the benefit of knowing what it’s all about?’
He drew a long breath and said nothing.
She shook her head. ‘It’s not good enough, Francis. If you want me to continue to St Petersburg, then you have to tell me exactly what all this is about.’
‘Alison …’
‘I can be very stubborn and determined when I choose to be.’
Irritation shone in his eyes and then he looked away for a moment. ‘Very well, you leave me no choice but to explain, but before I do so, I want you to give me your word that you’ll never divulge any of it to anyone at any time in the future.’
‘If that is your wish, then of course …’
‘It’s a very strict wish, Alison, and I’m thinking particularly of your close friendship with Pamela. I love her very much, but I’m aware of her faults, one of which is her great capacity for chitter-chatter. I don’t want my activities, present or future, compromised by an idle, unguarded comment in the wrong ear. Do I still have your word?’
She nodded. ‘Yes.’
He paused for a moment, glancing up at the palace windows. ‘Alison, my visit to Europe was originally planned in all innocence, but as you’ve now guessed, its purpose is now no longer greatly concerned with the acquisition of horses. I’m a government agent, and I have to place some very secret and sensitive documents in the czar’s hands.’
She stared at him. ‘A government agent?’ she repeated.
‘Yes. I was drummed into service just before I left England. A dinner invitation from Lord Hobart, the Secretary of State for War and the Colonies, turned out to be something more than a social nicety, for I found myself being quietly enlisted over the mulligatawny and fully instructed by the time the fruit and liqueurs were on the table. It seems that these documents are very vital indeed and that the usual diplomatic channels cannot be trusted at the moment. The documents prove that not only are the French perfidious in their present overtures to the czar, but also that someone in Russian high places is a traitor working for Bonaparte.