by Sandra Heath
Outside, the sunlight sparkled on the Neva, and the vista of St Petersburg stretched gloriously all around. Beyond the pontoon bridge, where the Neva was at its widest before parting into two channels, she could see the forbidding ramparts of the Peter-Paul Fortress, and the slender golden spire of the cathedral that nestled within its walls. Behind the fortress was Peterburg Island, and beyond that, invisible in the sunny spring haze, was Krestovsky Island, where the Countess Irina resided.
In the foreground, Nikolai’s schooner still lay at her midriver mooring, and as Alison looked, she saw the prince himself standing on the deck. She turned to the telescope, directing it toward the vessel and bending to look through. Suddenly she was looking straight at Nikolai, his figure caught in a circular frame, for all the world like a miniature. She could see the golden shoulder knots and braiding, the crimson cuffs of his black tunic, and the light-blue cordon of St Andrew across his shoulder. She could even see the miniature of Alexander at his throat, a miniature on a miniature. There was nothing on his head, so that the light sea breeze ruffled through his blond hair, and he was standing with his hands on the deck rail, gazing pensively down at the rippling waters of the Neva.
As she looked, he straightened, his glance moving directly toward her. He seemed so very close through the telescope that she drew back with a gasp, for his eyes had seemed to meet hers, but then she realized that he couldn’t see her properly, any more than she had been able to see him properly before looking through the telescope.
She bent to look again, but he was walking along the deck now, toward the doorway that led to the stateroom at the stern of the vessel. As he vanished from view, Alison continued to look through the telescope, training it on the busy pontoon bridge and then upon the quays of Vassily Island opposite. She was searching for the Pavlovsk, but there was no sign of the brigantine. Then she remembered Captain Merryvale’s words. ‘The Pavlovsk is due in tonight, and she will leave again on tomorrow’s midday tide for St Petersburg, for she stays for only one tide.’ The brigantine was already on her way back to Stockholm.
Alison studied the busy wharves and then paused as the telescope came to rest upon a strangely familiar vessel, a British merchantman that hadn’t been there the day before. It was the Duchess of Albemarle. Alison stared through the telescope as if at a ghost, but then suddenly realized that it wasn’t the sunken vessel that she was looking at, but her sister ship, the Duchess of Clarence. Evidently Captain Merryvale hadn’t had very long to wait in Stockholm, after all. She wondered if he had definitely sailed with the new vessel, and even as she wondered she saw him standing on the quay with several of the ship’s officers. He was smiling and nodding, but he looked heavyhearted, as well he still might be after losing his ship in such a way. To have had her founder in a raging storm was probably acceptable, but to lose her because of a fire in the calm sheltered waters of Stockholm harbor was such an unnecessary and pointless accident.
Her uncle’s carriage was waiting outside, ready to go to the Hermitage. The doors of the grand salon opened behind her, and she straightened, turning to see that Francis had come in. He wore a chestnut-colored coat and close-fitting cream corduroy breeches, and rich golden tassels swung at the front of his Hessian boots. His waistcoat was dark green, and its topmost buttons had been left undone to show off the crisp frills on the front of his shirt. An emerald pin reposed in the folds of his starched neckcloth and he carried his top hat and kid gloves, which he placed on a table before coming toward her.
‘Francis …’ she began.
‘Yes?’
‘You were right about the danger we might pose to my aunt’s family.’
His eyes were incredibly blue as they met hers. ‘I didn’t for a single moment believe otherwise, Alison. What has happened that you suddenly accept that I was right?’ he asked.
‘I was coming down here when Aunt Natalia returned to the house. She was upset and had been crying, but when I asked her if anything was wrong, she denied it. Then she asked me if I really did love you, and if, apart from acquiring a horse from the imperial stables, your sole purpose here was to marry me.’
‘Did she, indeed?’ he murmured.
‘The prince had been speaking to her.’
‘Did she say so?’
‘She didn’t deny it in the end, for I guessed it when she said that if her father suffered because of us, then she would never forgive me.’
‘She was that much to the point?’
‘Yes.’ Alison turned to look out the window. ‘I wish it was all over, Francis.’
‘You aren’t alone in that. I’m sorry that I’ve had to force so much upon you, Alison, but I really haven’t had much choice in the matter.’
‘I know.’
‘Do you?’ There was a dry coolness in his voice, almost a taunt.
‘Yes, I do know. You’re justified in being angry with me for all that I said, for I realize how stupid, insulting, and downright childish I was to speak like that.’
‘There certainly was a good deal of Miss Wright’s academy about you,’ he replied, his tone offering no hint of a softening toward her.
She lowered her eyes to the street outside and the trees and lamps silhouetted against the Neva. ‘I wonder if even a woman of the world would carry all this off with aplomb,’ she murmured.
‘Alison …’ he began.
Her gaze had become fixed upon something outside. ‘Look,’ she said softly, ‘down there close to the steps to the water. Do you see him?’
Francis stepped forward, following her pointing finger. A burly Russian was standing there, apparently waiting for someone. He was of medium height and was very thickset, with a short wiry beard and a bull neck. He wore a pale-blue caftan tied at the waist with a leather belt, and his baggy trousers were tucked into heavy boots. There was a brown fur hat on his head and his gloves were gauntlets that covered his forearms.
Francis studied him for a moment and then looked at her. ‘What about him? I see nothing remarkable.’
‘He’s watching the house.’
‘Watching the house? Oh, Alison …’ Francis breathed out slowly. ‘The man is simply waiting for someone, he hasn’t looked this way once. I think that you’re allowing last night’s events to cloud your judgment.’
‘Even green schoolgirls have intuition, sir,’ she replied. ‘He’s watching this house, and that carriage farther up the street is his.’
‘Carriage?’ He looked from the window again and saw the vehicle drawn up at the curb, facing toward St Isaac’s Square and the pontoon bridge. Its blinds were down, and by the way the horses stood, they had been waiting for some time.
Alison was still studying the man. ‘He’s there to replace the man who came into the garden last night, I’m sure of it. I know that he doesn’t appear to be watching the house, but every so often his glance comes this way. There, he’s seen us watching. As she spoke, the man turned and walked away in the direction of the carriage. He climbed quickly into it and it drove away.
Francis bent to use the telescope, following the vehicle until it vanished in the bustle of St Isaac’s Square. Then he straightened, looking apologetically at her. ‘You were right. Naryshky’s concern with us is far too keen for comfort now that we know what he’s really been up to. I wish to God I knew exactly what was in his mind.’
‘Francis, you must do all you can to see the czar.’
‘I know. I’ll leave my name again when we go to the Hermitage, but if nothing happens, I really don’t know how to approach him. Protocol is everything here in St Petersburg. I vow it’s worse than in London, if such be possible.’ He ran his fingers through his hair.
Alison found the gesture oddly affecting, for it made him appear boyish and almost vulnerable.
The salon doors opened again and her uncle entered, looking very splendid in a damson coat embroidered with black, and white silk pantaloons. ‘Ah, so I’m not the first to be ready,’ he said, glancing around. ‘Where’s Natalia?’
Alison went quickly to him. ‘Oh, Uncle Thomas, I’m afraid she’s a little indisposed with a headache. She begs to be excused.’
‘A headache? Oh, dear. Is she all right? I mean, should we send for a doctor?’
‘She was quite adamant that she would feel better after resting for a while,’ Alison said, avoiding Francis’ eyes.
‘Very well. It’s just the three of us, then. Come along, there’s no point in delaying. The carriage is waiting outside.’ He ushered them both from the room.
As they went down the entrance hall, where Mackay was waiting with their outdoor garments, there was a sudden loud knocking at the front door. The butler put down Alison’s cloak and hastened to see who was there.
A messenger in the czar’s scarlet livery was standing outside, and he handed the butler a sealed note before hastening away again.
Alison’s heart surged with hope. Surely it must be a summons to an imperial audience.
Mackay closed the door and returned to give the note to Francis. ‘For you, my lord, from the Winter Palace.’
Francis broke the seal and read quickly. It was written in French, and was very brief. ‘Lord Buckingham’s presence in St Petersburg is not welcome. He will not be received, and is requested to leave Russia within the week.’
Disbelief swept over Francis; he read it again, but there was no mistaking the blunt message. Without a word he handed the note to Alison.
She scanned the two short sentences and then looked at him in dismay. ‘Oh, no, it can’t be!’
Mr Clearwell was much concerned. ‘What is it? What’s happened?’
Francis met his eyes. ‘I’m not to be granted an audience with the czar, sir. In fact, I’m ordered to leave St Petersburg within the week.’
Mr Clearwell stared at him. ‘Surely not.’
‘I fear so.’
‘But … Is there no explanation, no reason given?’
‘None.’
The older man’s eyes were shrewd. ‘And you have no idea why this has happened?’
Francis hesitated and then looked frankly at him. ‘I have no wish to involve you, sir.’
For a long moment Alison’s uncle remained silent, and then he nodded. ‘Nor will I probe deeper, sir, for I have suspected since yesterday that there was more to all this than you’ve been saying. Is the czar’s refusal to receive you a great blow?’
‘Catastrophic.’ Francis glanced at Alison. Neither of them said it aloud, but both knew in their hearts that Nikolai’s hand was behind this latest development. His suspicions had lingered, after all, and he had taken the one precaution that had been feared from the outset: he had seen to it that Lord Buckingham did not have the chance of speaking to the czar.
16
It was almost dark again, and another mist had arisen from the Neva. Alison sat in her nightgown by the fire in her room, gazing into the glowing logs. The house was quiet, for everyone had retired for the night.
The visit to the Hermitage had been abandoned, and Francis had gone alone to the Winter Palace to try to plead his case, but he had been turned away the moment he gave his name. He had had no option then but to go to the British embassy to report what had happened. He was closeted alone for some time with Lord St Helens and Charles Gainsborough, who were already somewhat disturbed because the ambassador himself had that very morning received a sharp rebuff from the Winter Palace, and the French ambassador had been cordially welcomed there. It seemed that Nikolai and the Countess Irina were beginning to triumph where the czar was concerned and that the French cause was advancing while the British were in forced retreat.
They had deliberated throughout the afternoon on what to do next, for the all-important documents must still somehow be placed in Alexander’s hands, but no solution inspired their gloomy talks. Francis had left the embassy with the documents still in his possession, for it wasn’t felt wise to keep them at the embassy when the unknown French agent was still at large. Impasse appeared to have been reached, and already the hours were ticking away toward Francis’s unwilling departure from St Petersburg.
Dinner at the Clearwell residence that evening had been an uncomfortable affair, for Natalia had been very strained and quiet. She had offered the excuse that she was still suffering the tortures of a bad headache, but Alison and Francis knew better, for signs of the strain she was under increased perceptibly when she learned of the unexpected snub from the Winter Palace. She obviously concluded, as they had before her, that Prince Nikolai was somehow responsible.
Mr Clearwell said very little, but was plainly aware of all the undercurrents. He didn’t attempt to bring any of it out into the open, however, and when at the end of the meal his wife declared that she would return to her room, he wasn’t long in announcing his own wish to retire.
Alison and Francis remained in the grand salon for a while. His manner toward her was no longer quite as cold, and they sat together almost amicably as they tried to think of a way out of the seemingly impossible situation. But an answer evaded them, and soon they too retired to their rooms for the night.
Now Alison sat in the chair by the fire, the flames reflecting in her eyes as she mulled the difficulty over and over in her mind. She wished desperately that she could solve everything, but there didn’t appear to be a solution. Her feeling of frustration turned to anger, and it was directed at Alexander for acting at Nikolai’s scheming instigation. The czar didn’t deserve to be saved from the French; he deserved to suffer the consequences of trusting Nikolai, but to let French plans proceed without challenge meant danger for the rest of Europe – and for Britain in particular.
Her thoughts returned to the opera house and the intimate embrace she had unwittingly come upon when she had taken the wrong passageway. She could see Alexander and Irina now, their faces warm with love as they had kissed and caressed. Alison sighed heavily. It was quite impossible to believe that Irina was party to her brother’s treachery, for a woman as deeply in love as she would surely never put her lover so much at risk.
A woman as deeply in love as she … Alison sat up slowly, her loose hair spilling over her shoulders as the germ of an incredible idea suddenly formed in her head. Who adored Alexander with all her heart? Who could always gain access to him? The Countess Irina von Strelitz.
Alison got up from the chair, her mind racing. Could it be that the countess was the solution to the problem? Was she the one to place the documents in the czar’s hands? Irina loved her brother, but would she put him before Alexander? Would she? Alison’s pulse had begun to quicken. Oh, it was a preposterous thought, for how could they possibly take the chance that the countess would put lover before family? But what if she would? What if those words she had whispered when she thought herself alone were the absolute truth and she did love the czar with all her heart?
Pausing by the window, Alison gazed out into the gathering gloom of the misty twilight. Soon it would be dark, and the short northern night would engulf St Petersburg. Already the Neva was obscured by the vapor that rose from its chilly waters, and the lamps along the embankment of English Quay were faint orbs of light on the very edge of visibility. She could see a carriage drawn up at the curb, and a too familiar shadowy figure standing near it. The house was still under observation.
But Nikolai’s spy from Stockholm and the Pavlovsk was of no interest to her at the moment, for her thoughts were still upon the Countess Irina. When she had watched the countess from behind the curtain in the anteroom at the opera house, she had known she was observing a woman who was completely in love. Her intuition had told her so then, and it told her again now. Irina would never put Nikolai before Alexander, and should be approached, even though she despised the British.
The thought swirled in Alison’s head, so strong and clear that it almost urged her to act. But she must consider it from every angle. What if she was wrong about Irina? What if she told Nikolai? Alison stared out at the mist. She was sure she was right about Irina, and what other answer had pre
sented itself? Was it really as preposterous as all that? Hadn’t she, Alison Clearwell, been prepared to do a great deal for Francis? Why, then shouldn’t Irina von Strelitz be equally prepared to do a great deal for her imperial lover and lord?
On impulse, Alison turned from the window, pausing only to pick up her pink woolen robe and put it on before hurrying from the room. In the passage outside she encountered Katya, who was coming to see if she required anything more before retiring finally to her bed.
Alison halted. ‘No, thank you, Katya,’ she said in French, ‘that will be all.’
‘Yes, Miss Clearwell.’ Katya bobbed a curtsy and turned to go, but then Alison had second thoughts.
‘No, wait a moment, Katya.’
‘Miss Clearwell?’
‘Please wait in my room, for I may require you, after all.’
‘Yes, Miss Clearwell.’ Curtsying again, the maid did as she was asked, and Alison hurried on toward Francis’s room at the rear of the house, facing toward Horseguards Boulevard.
She knocked hesitantly at the door, but there was no sound from within. She knocked again, but still the room remained silent, and so she tentatively pushed the door open and peeped inside.
Candlelight swayed over the gray-and-blue bedchamber, and a fire glowed red in the white marble hearth. Francis had fallen asleep in the armchair by the fire, his lashes dark and still. A glass of cognac stood on the little table by his right hand, and he was still fully dressed.
She went softly into the room, intending to awaken him, but as she reached the chair, she saw that the glass of cognac was not the only thing on the table beside him, for a leather wallet lay there as well. She knew without telling that the wallet contained the secret documents. It was a measure of how tired Francis was that he had fallen asleep without hiding the vital papers away again.
Alison stood by the chair, gazing down at him as he slept. She longed to bend down and kiss him on the lips, and her heart ached to feel his arms around her. She didn’t want to wake him up, especially when he would most probably think her scheme too outrageous and dangerous for words, but she had to tell him what she had thought of. She reached down toward him, meaning to shake his shoulder, but then her hand halted. She suddenly found herself thinking of the opera house again and the moment she had returned to the box and observed Irina looking at Francis. There had been no mistaking the malevolence in her gaze, the absolute hatred. It hadn’t been directed toward anyone else in Count Vorontzov’s box, just at Francis.