by Sandra Heath
Slowly she went toward the other door, and through the narrow opening she saw two lovers wrapped in each other’s arms. The lovers were Czar Alexander and a beautiful titian-haired woman who could only be the Countess Irina von Strelitz.
Although she knew that she shouldn’t be watching such an intimate scene, Alison couldn’t help lingering where she was, for there was something completely captivating about the stolen embrace. Nickolai’s glorious sister was holding her imperial lover close, her muslin-clad body pressed adoringly against his. She wore a flimsy gown, low-cut and diaphanous, and it outlined her voluptuous figure to absolute perfection. There were diamonds in her lustrous hair, her eyes were closed as she returned Alexander’s kiss, and there was a flush on her skin that told of sweet desire.
Footsteps sounded in the passage, and Alison swiftly hid behind the velvet curtain against the wall. She was just in time, for one of the czar’s aides entered the anteroom, coughing discreetly to alert his master to his presence.
Alexander emerged from the inner room, nodded, and then waved the aide outside again. Irina came out of the other room as well, stretching out a loving hand to the czar, who drew it palm-uppermost to his lips. He gazed adoringly into her light-brown eyes, whispered something, and put his hand to her cheek, then he kissed her palm again and left her.
Irina remained where she was, her eyes closed again, as if trying to retain the moment for as long as possible. She raised the palm he had kissed to her own lips. ‘Je t’adore, Alexander,’ she whispered, ‘je t’adore avec tout mon coeur.’
Alison watched secretly from behind the curtain and knew that she was looking at a woman who loved the man whose mistress she was. There was no art or guile in Irina’s private moment, when she thought herself alone and unobserved. She loved Alexander with all her heart, so much so that she had to whisper it aloud, even though she was the only one there to hear.
Someone else approached the door, and Alison heard the remembered sound of spurs. It was a sound that took her back to the Dog and Flute in Stockholm and the terror that had beset her until Francis had rescued her.
Nikolai pushed the outer door open and smiled at his lovely sister. ‘Are you ready?’
‘Yes.’
‘Another stolen moment?’ He came toward her, halting only a foot or so away from Alison’s hiding place.
‘Would that I could always be with him,’ said Irina.
‘He’ll never set the czarina aside for you.’
‘I know.’
‘You won’t forget what you are to do concerning the Englishman, will you?’
Alison’s lips parted. The Englishman? Francis?
Irina smiled a little. ‘I won’t forget, Nikolai.’
He offered her his arm, and as she moved to accept it, he paused suddenly. ‘I didn’t know you’d taken to wearing lavender water.’
‘Lavender? I never wear it, Nikolai.’
‘I thought …’ He gave a slight laugh. ‘I could have sworn that I detected lavender.’
They left the room and Alison leaned her head weakly back against the wall, remaining in her hiding place. Of course he could smell lavender, for she was wearing it, and she had been so very close to him, had he but known it.
She was about to step out from behind the curtain when suddenly the door opened again. She froze, her heart thundering in her breast. In a mirror opposite she could see Nikolai standing in the doorway. He remained in the doorway for a long moment, a motionless, menacing silhouette, and then Irina called along the passage behind him.
‘Nikolai, please come on, for I wish to take my seat.’
‘I’m coming.’ With a final glance around the dark room, he turned and walked away again, leaving the door open so that the light from the passage lay in a bright shaft across the floor.
Alison’s heart was pounding so swiftly that she couldn’t have counted its beats. Her mouth was dry and she felt ice-cold in spite of the heat that permeated the entire building. She was too afraid to move, in case Nikolai returned again, and so she remained behind the curtain. The sound of the opera echoed from the auditorium, and then she heard a burst of applause and the music come to a halt for a moment. She knew that Nikolai and the Countess Irina would now be taking their seats, and hesitantly she emerged from her hiding place.
She went to the door, peeping out into the passage. It was deserted; there didn’t seem to be anyone in the vestibule at the far end. Gathering her skirts, she retraced her steps, not pausing in the vestibule but almost running down the correct passageway toward Count Vorontzov’s box.
Her thoughts were still on Prince Nikolai, and she glanced frequently over her shoulder, afraid that he would be behind her. She wasn’t paying attention to where she was going, and would have run right into Francis if he hadn’t caught her by the arms.
The cry of alarm died on her lips as she found herself staring into his angry blue eyes.
He shook her. ‘Where in God’s name have you been? I looked around and you weren’t there.’
‘I just needed a breath of air.’
‘Don’t just leave like that without telling anyone. If you need fresh air again, then I will escort you, is that clear?’
‘Perfectly.’
‘Then let us return to our places.’ He offered her his arm.
Slowly she took it, but it was like touching a stranger. She wanted his comfort and the feel of his arms around her, but there was no gentleness in him now where Alison Clearwell was concerned.
They returned to their places, Alison reluctantly taking the seat next to Mrs Fairfax-Gunn. The czar had resumed his seat, and Nikolai and the Countess Irina were in a box about halfway around the auditorium. Alexander’s attention wasn’t upon the stage, for his glance kept wandering to his beautiful mistress, who smiled each time she met his dreamy blue eyes.
Alison couldn’t help observing the exchanged smiles. There was no doubt in her mind that the czar and Nikolai’s sister were very much in love and that perhaps if one was slightly more committed than the other, that one was Irina. The glow that Alison had observed so closely permeated her still and made her so gloriously beautiful that she seemed to have been touched by magic.
So intent was Alison upon the two lovers that at first she didn’t realize that she too was under scrutiny. She noticed quite suddenly when her glance encountered Nikolai’s. His dark gaze had been upon her ever since she had taken her seat, and it didn’t waver now that he knew she had perceived his interest. He leaned a little closer to his sister, putting his hand briefly on her arm and whispering something.
Irina looked immediately toward Alison’s box. The softness in her light-brown eyes turned to a malevolent glitter as her gaze rested upon Francis, and her cold hatred was so intense that it was almost tangible.
Francis felt nothing, for his attention was upon the stage, but Alison was only too conscious of the malignity that was being so silently directed toward him.
14
The carriage had long since returned to English Quay with the party of operagoers, and the few dark hours of the St Petersburg night would soon be at an end, but the dawn would be postponed a little by the heavy mist that came up suddenly from the Neva. A cloak of gray enveloped the city, swirling silently around the many islands of the delta and drifting clammily past the magnificent buildings lining the waterfronts. Golden spires and cupolas rose eerily out of the gloom, and on English Quay itself the streetlamps were muted between the trees.
Across the water the wharves of Vassily Island were busy, invisible through the mist but still audible, and a trickle of carts and people continued to cross the pontoon bridge as those who had to work through the night went about their business.
Sergei Mikhailovich Golitsin’s stealthy greatcoated figure hastened along the river side of St Isaac’s Square, past the bridge, and then paused to look toward the statue of Peter the Great in the center of the square. The bronze horseman reared out of the swirling vapor, for all the world as if the l
ong-dead czar was alive once more. Sergei shivered, for he was a superstitious man and there were legends about the horseman coming to life and riding around the city under cover of darkness. Pulling his shako well forward on his head and thrusting his hands deep into his coat pockets, he hurried on toward English Quay. A sharp communication from Nikolai concerning his IOUs had reminded him of the pressing need to successfully conclude the matter of the Englishwoman’s abduction.
He didn’t know how to go about this most unwelcome and unwanted of tasks, especially if the lady concerned didn’t conveniently sally forth on her own. What if she only went out in company? It seemed to him that there was more likelihood of her walking alone in the grounds of the Clearwell house than there was of her going out unaccompanied, and so he felt that it might be profitable to examine the gardens. He had already perceived that the servants came and went frequently through the gate in the wall, which meant that there was a strong chance that the last one to use it might forget to lock it for the night. If that were so, then he would be able to enter the gardens and look them over carefully, just in case his only recourse was to snatch the lady from her uncle’s property.
With a heavy sigh he halted beneath the trees opposite the house, looking toward the wrought-iron gate in the wall. He could see the shadowy garden beyond, but then the mist obscured everything so that he couldn’t see as far as the coach house and stables backing on to Horseguards Boulevard. He was about to cross the street to the gate when he heard a carriage approaching from the direction of St Isaac’s Square, which was itself now invisible through the swirling vapor from the river. At last Sergei saw the lamps shining like two amber eyes as the vehicle made its way slowly toward him. Then, just as he could make it out clearly, it drew in to the curb outside the next mansion. Giggling and laughter emanated from behind its lowered blinds, for the gentlemen inside were enjoying the company of some rather flighty ladies, and no move was made to open the doors for the occupants to alight.
Sergei gazed irritatedly toward the stationary vehicle, for the coachman was facing in his direction, as was the small boy riding the rear pair of the team of four. They would see him if he crossed the street to test the gate, and so there was nothing for it but to remain where he was and hope that the carriage drove on shortly.
As Sergei was forced to wait beneath the trees outside, Alison was asleep in her bed. She hadn’t meant to sleep because she had wanted to eavesdrop upon Francis’s meeting with the British ambassador’s private secretary, but as soon as her head had touched the pillow, she had drifted off. Something awakened her now, however, and her eyes suddenly flew open. It was one of those strange moments, with no transition between sleep and alertness, and from her dreams she was immediately and clearly in the present.
She sat up, pushing her hair back from her face. A night-light cast a soft glow over the room, and the fire had burned low. The scent of hyacinths filled the air, and the clock on the mantelpiece whirred and then struck the half-hour. She couldn’t make out the time, and the curtains and shutters were closed, so that she had no idea whether it was light or dark outside.
Slipping from her bed, she hurried to the nearest window, drawing the curtains aside and then folding back the shutters. She found herself gazing out at a misty darkness where she could make out the shadows in the gardens, but beyond the wall she could only see as far as the lamps and trees lining the embankment. Of the Neva itself there was no sign, and the islands on the far side might not have existed at all. She couldn’t see the Irina, which had still been lying at anchor in the middle of the river when the carriage had returned from the opera house.
She was a little startled by the mist, for when they had come home, everything had been quite clear. She shivered slightly, her gaze drawn to the trees and lamps in the street, and suddenly she saw the motionless shape of a man in a greatcoat and military shako. He seemed to be looking toward the house, but then he pressed back behind a tree trunk as the sound of a carriage echoed through the mist. Coach lamps pierced the gloom as the vehicle came up to a smart speed, passing the house and driving on down English Quay. As the sound dwindled away again, the shadowy figure by the trees came stealthily out of hiding, slipping across the street to the wrought-iron gate in the garden wall.
Alison’s lips parted on a silent gasp as she watched him test the gate and then open it. He came swiftly inside, closing the gate behind him, and then he hurried away from her toward the summerhouse, vanishing inside it. In those few seconds she recognized him, for she had seen him often enough on board the Pavlovsk. She knew it was Nikolai’s spy. Her pulse quickened with dismay and for a moment she was uncertain what to do, but then a second figure moved into view in the garden below. It was Francis, and he had just left the house to make his way to the meeting in the coach house. He must be seen by the man in the summerhouse, for he walked quite openly along the gravel path leading toward the rear of the grounds, and as he passed out of sight among the mews buildings, the Russian moved surreptitiously out of hiding and began to follow.
There was no time to wonder what to do, for she knew that at all costs she had to prevent the Russian from overhearing what might be said in the coach house. Dashing into her dressing room, she hastily donned a cloak and her ankle boots, then she made her way down through the house and out into the gardens.
The chill night air made her breath catch, and she could feel the touch of the sea mist on her face as she hurried down the path. She caught a fleeting glimpse of a figure some way ahead of her, then it was gone, melting away into the bushes to the right of the path as her approach was detected. She hurried on, pushing the coach-house door open and stepping into the inky shadows beyond.
Everything was absolutely silent. She looked anxiously around but could discern nothing in the pitch dark. She called Francis’s name, and after a moment a lucifer flared into life and she saw him standing alone by the carriage that had earlier conveyed them to and from the opera house.
‘Alison? What in God’s name…?’
She ran toward him, and the lucifer went out, engulfing the coach house in darkness again. She spoke in an urgent whisper. ‘The man who was watching us on the Pavlovsk is outside right now. I saw him follow you, and I had to warn you.’
She turned toward the door, which she had left open, and, incredibly, the figure was standing there, framed against the misty night outside. The man obviously hadn’t realized that he could be seen, for he stood there quite deliberately, trying to hear what she was whispering.
Francis was nonplussed for a second, but then took a step toward the door. ‘Hey, you!’
The man whirled about and fled back along the path. Francis gave chase and Alison heard their footsteps dying away into the mist; then the gate closed loudly, the sound echoing through the night. After a moment she heard Francis returning and at last he came back into the coach house.
She went toward him. ‘Has he gone?’
‘Like a hare. What happened, Alison? How did you see him?’
‘I woke up, went to the window, and saw him standing under the trees in the street. He seemed to be looking toward the house; then he came into the garden and hid in the summerhouse. You walked along the path and he followed you. I came to warn you before he heard anything he shouldn’t.’ She glanced around the dark coach house. ‘Are you the first to arrive?’
‘Yes. Alison, do you think Naryshky’s spy knew about the meeting in here?’ he asked, wondering about the unknown spy at the embassy.
She looked quickly at him. ‘I don’t know. It’s possible, I suppose.’
Another voice spoke from the shadows behind them. ‘No, Miss Clearwell, it’s quite impossible, for we three are the only ones who know about this meeting.’ It was the young man from the opera house. He stepped closer, his figure visible in the pale-gray light from the open doorway, and he bowed as he introduced himself. ‘Charles Gainsborough, private secretary to Lord St Helens.’
Francis inclined his head. ‘And how c
an you be so certain, Mr Gainsborough?’
‘Because Lord St Helens instructed me to speak to you as quickly as possible, and I haven’t yet had the opportunity of telling him what I had arranged. I certainly haven’t informed anyone else, which means that we three can most certainly be the only ones who know. Unless, of course …’ He looked at them both.
Francis exhaled slowly. ‘Unless Miss Clearwell and I have told someone?’
‘Have you?’ asked the ambassador’s private secretary quietly.
Francis shook his head. ‘No, I haven’t.’
‘Nor have I,’ said Alison.
Mr Gainsborough’s glance rested quizzically upon her, and Francis smiled. ‘Sir, you may take Miss Clearwell’s word for it. If she says she hasn’t told anyone, then she hasn’t. We may trust her.’
The ambassador’s secret agent smiled ruefully. ‘Forgive me, Miss Clearwell, but you are something of an unknown quantity to me. However, I have heard that congratulations are in order for you and the earl.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ she replied.
He looked at Francis. ‘The fellow you’ve just chased away is named Golitsin, and our sources tell us that Naryshky holds a great number of his IOUs, which places him well and truly under the prince’s thumb. From what you said at the embassy earlier today, when you and I were alone and Miss Clearwell’s uncle was speaking to the ambassador, Naryshky’s interest in you both cannot be ignored.’
‘Well, it may still be simply and solely due to his keenness upon Miss Clearwell, but I doubt it. We made errors over which ship we were sailing on from Stockholm, we also slipped up a little about arrangements at the inn, and then he definitely set Golitsin to watch us on the Pavlovsk, and the fellow searched our cabins. On top of that there was the fact that Naryshky was waiting for us at Kronstadt … No, Mr Gainsborough, we may not ignore his interest, for that interest is rather intense.’