‘You’ve been generous.’ She was hesitant to accept too much. No one did anything without getting paid and her debt to Ruslan was mounting. ‘I have no money and no promise of money in the future to repay you with.’ Especially if she decided to fade into anonymity. He must be very certain of her indeed.
Ruslan narrowed his gaze. ‘Do not insult me, Dasha. I am not doing this for money. This is a matter of honour.’
‘Do not insult me,’ Dasha cut in. ‘A man is not the only person with a sense of honour. A woman has pride, too, and there are other forms of payment besides money.’
Sexual, political, promises of power.
Ruslan’s jaw tightened, his mouth set in a grim line, but he did not dismiss her concern. ‘I do not think you are the sort of woman who can be bought for a few dresses and pretty baubles. I would hope you’d believe I wasn’t the sort of man who would think so little of you.’ He opened the gate with a curt nod and motioned for her to pass through. No, she didn’t think that of him, yet how else was she to explain the grand kindnesses he’d shown to her?
He gave her a small smile. ‘I know, you can’t help it. It’s a consequence of court, of royalty, always thinking of motives. Take it as a good sign, though. You are thinking like a princess.’ It was ruefully said. ‘It is how a prince thinks, too, always wondering why people have done something for you, what they might want. What do they expect you to give them?’ His hand was at her back, ushering her across the street, and she was reminded once more of the commonalities between them, or at least the commonalities that should be between them, assuming she was who the Captain claimed she was. What would Ruslan say to her doubts? She felt a pang of guilt. He was investing in the woman he thought she was, not just with his money, but with his reputation and credibility when he represented her to others. Was it right to mislead him? To not make him privy to her doubts? Would he take her doubts seriously or pawn them off as Varvakis had done?
Once inside the house, Ruslan bid her farewell. ‘I will not be home for dinner. I have instructed Cook to prepare whatever you wish, and my staff has been apprised that you should make free with my home. Please, Dasha, entertain yourself. There is a pianoforte in the conservatory, books in the library, as you know...’ He paused here and smiled at the mention of the library. ‘I hope you will not be bored.’
How could she possibly be bored? She had too much to think about, a kiss and a handsome prince not the least of those things. And she had a decision to make. But she would miss him. Perhaps he knew his absence was for the best. Perhaps he’d even planned it, to give her space in which to think without being unduly influenced by his presence.
* * *
Dasha dressed slowly for dinner, savouring the luxury of sliding into a clean gown, one of the ready-mades Madame Delphine had left. Even though she dined alone, it felt good to wear well-made clothes and to take time with her appearance. This particular gown was an eggplant silk. Except for the aquamarine, she’d chosen subdued colours out of respect for mourning her family, but she hadn’t chosen all black with an eye towards the other reality—that if she wasn’t the Princess she needn’t wear it at all. Everything, it seemed, hinged on that decision, even something as trivial as her wardrobe. Did she embrace being the Princess or did she create a new identity?
Dasha studied her reflection in the mirror while the maid put up her hair. Who did this face with its serious green eyes belong to? Was it enough to assume that because she thought like a princess she was the Princess? Why was it so hard for her to accept Captain Varvakis’s rescue story? Why did the idea of being the Princess sit so awkwardly on her shoulders?
The maid put in a final pin and offered her the small jewel case. ‘Might I suggest the jet earrings?’ Ruslan had not only thought of everything, he’d found everything. Where he had found these exquisite earrings was beyond her. Dasha fastened them, appreciating their subdued elegance. They were appropriate for this half-mourning she’d fashioned for herself, for a family she couldn’t remember but would honour anyway. Maybe some day she’d remember them and be able truly to mourn them.
She could throw it all off and begin again if she chose. But how would she do that? Beyond the theoretical guilt she might feel, there were practical issues. How would she support herself? How would she live? Where would she live? Would she become another face in this Soho district Ruslan talked about? Ruslan would certainly give her an allowance to start out on should she ask and she had no doubt he’d see to the arrangements, but what then?
She could not lean on him, could not live off his largesse for ever, which begged the next question. Could she choose to live in restrained circumstances? A woman with a name that had no history except that which she acquired? She would be a fraud of sorts the rest of her days. Silk dresses and maids proffering jewels would be a thing of the past. It might be worth it, though. There was a certain appeal in anonymity. In time, she could become the wife of another émigré, perhaps a nice man who taught music or dancing to wealthy gentlemen’s daughters. They would live in shabby gentility and no one would ever importune them for favours. She would never need to worry about being used or manipulated. She might make real friends.
But she would never know the truth of her identity. Or if she did, she’d never be able to acknowledge it, not even to her husband. However, the chances of that seemed slim. Ruslan’s doctor had said the more familiarity she surrounded herself with, the better her chances of recovering her memories. Her ‘familiarity’ was a thousand miles away. The best chance for her to know who she was lay in going back. The best chance for peace lay in going back; the best chance to help her country lay in going back. The reasons were mounting, tipping the scale against the one niggling ‘what if’ that remained.
What if she wasn’t who Varvakis thought she was? Was it enough doubt to risk the fate of a nation?
It would be so much easier if she could simply believe the Captain.
* * *
‘You believe the Captain. You’re going to help them,’ Stepan said with characteristic boldness and no small hint of accusation as they sat over early evening drinks at White’s. The table between them was cluttered with bottles in varying degrees of emptiness. It was always drinks, plural, with Stepan. A little vodka, a little samogon, a little whisky on occasion. Stepan thought Englishmen were too boring, too predictable with their predilection for a constant brandy.
Ruslan sat back in his chair. The emptiness of the bottles was making them both bold. ‘Is there a reason I shouldn’t? Perhaps it’s my patriotic duty. A soldier travels across a continent and an angry sea with the only surviving member of the ruling family, shows up on my doorstep and asks for help in the name of a peaceful transition, a transition you and I were exiled for, if I might remind you. That seems like a good reason to help.’
Stepan took a long swallow from his glass. ‘For a man who considers all angles, you’re taking a lot on face value, including the most basic question: Is Varvakis telling the truth? It’s rather convenient for him and for the Moderates to be in possession of such a valuable commodity as Dasha Tukhachevskenova and have her remember nothing, not even who she is. That doesn’t even begin to explore the profit in being able to produce this valuable commodity at the right time. Need I point out how this will position Varvakis and his friends for the future? Right behind the throne?’
Something clenched inside Ruslan. He didn’t like Stepan discussing Dasha as a commodity, yet that’s what she was, what she had to be if he were to keep his detachment. Objectivity was crucial to an organiser, especially one who specialised in organising escapes. Risk analysis, he liked to call it. Without it, bad decisions were made. Dasha was merely another cargo to transport from one destination to another. ‘Are you suggesting she’s not who she says she is?’ Ruslan swirled his drink, not wanting to admit Stepan might have a point. He’d been so worried about next steps he hadn’t really thought to look behind and what
had led to all of this.
‘She doesn’t know who she is. Anything is possible. She only knows what Varvakis has told her.’ Stepan slid him a strong look. ‘I suppose the only way to truly know is to dig up the grave and count the bodies.’
Ruslan narrowed his eyes against the grisly image. ‘You’re being crass now. She’s said nothing about doubting Varvakis or her own identity.’
Stepan arched his brows. ‘Why would she? She stands to be a princess, a queen.’
‘Not everyone wants to rule and to make such a claim is dangerous both here and in Kuban.’ He’d explained that to Dasha just this afternoon, right before he’d kissed her. If she were as power-hungry as Stepan wanted to argue, she would not be hesitating in her decision.
‘Is there a chance she won’t go back?’ Stepan cut in. He leaned forward, his voice dropping against the chance of being overheard. One never knew in a place like White’s. ‘Can you imagine the look on Varvakis’s face if she chooses to stay?’ He chuckled at the irony of it, then sobered. ‘He will try to influence her. He has the most to gain from her return. He could go from loyal but somewhat lowly palace guard to a trusted advisor behind the throne. He’d be nothing short of a national hero,’ Stepan posited, contemplating his glass. ‘Do you think he fancies her? Do you think he styles himself as the future royal consort to the Queen?’
‘He’s a good soldier, a patriot to the bone. Nikolay vouches for him,’ Ruslan began, not liking Stepan’s idea. Wasn’t this exactly what he’d warned Dasha about a few hours ago?
Stepan laughed harshly. ‘He’s a man, Ruslan, who has charged himself with the protection of an attractive young woman who just happens to be a royal princess—should he be telling the truth. He’s spent weeks on the road with her alone in an environment of heightened sensitivity. You tell me what sort of fantasies he puts himself to sleep with every night.’
‘You didn’t use to be so cynical.’ Ruslan poured another glass of samogon. He didn’t like thinking of Varvakis having designs on Dasha with the taste of her lips still warm on his. That kiss might have been a mistake. Perhaps it had taught her the lesson he intended, but at a price. It had cost him a piece of his detachment. He’d been more swept up in that moment than he’d shown her; his response afterwards more perfunctory than it might otherwise have been if he’d not been so overwhelmed. He had kissed Dasha with his entire body, but Dasha had kissed him with her soul. ‘London has changed you, Stepan.’ Although he wasn’t sure it was London alone. When men changed, there was usually a woman behind it, for better or worse.
‘Kuban changed me long before London had its claws into me.’ Stepan shook his head.
Ruslan took the opening tentatively, feeling his way with care. There was another issue yet to address tied up with Dasha’s appearance. ‘Would you ever go back?’
‘Would you?’ Stepan’s question was incredulous.
‘Possibly.’ It had occupied a large part of his thoughts in the last twenty-four hours. He couldn’t think of Dasha without thinking of the opportunity. He waited for the explosion. Stepan would object, naturally.
‘You would go back to the place that would have executed Nikolay for treason, attempted to imprison Illarion on false charges of slander, saw your own family disgraced, your father forced to take his own life...’ Stepan’s voice trailed off, recognising he’d said too much. They never talked about Ruslan’s father. It was implicitly understood as a taboo subject.
‘Yes, dammit, I would, so that such ridiculous, meaningless crimes could not happen again.’ Ruslan calmed himself and continued. ‘I could pave the way for the rest of you to return if you chose. It will be a time of change, a time to do good. Being part of that is not unappealing.’ Ruslan laid out his argument, in the wake of Stepan’s disbelief. ‘It’s what I’ve been groomed for, schooled for. I was meant to be a leader.’ Kuban would need him in ways England never would, in ways his friends no longer did now that they were settled. He could do them one last service by making it possible for them to go home if they ever wanted. As for his own need, he was a man who needed to be useful. He was of little use in London and growing less useful by the day. Until now. Dasha needed him. His country needed him.
‘Do you have a plan, then?’ Stepan stroked the stem of a glass, his nonchalance belying his distaste of the decision.
‘I need to speak with certain political figures. Illarion’s father-in-law can arrange it for me.’ The Duke of Redruth was politically active with several connections in all branches of government including the Foreign Office. ‘If the Princess goes back, she won’t go back alone. The situation in Kuban is ripe for British intervention. If Britain can be made to understand that, British support can be used to secure a peaceful transition out of revolution.’ It was a fair trade, Ruslan thought. British support and a peaceful transfer of power in exchange for an amicable sharing of water rights in the Crimea. It would be a tasty carrot to dangle, if he could pull it off. Britain and Russia were going to have to discuss the Crimea soon, it might as well be under a flag of peace.
‘That’s very ambitious,’ Stepan commented wryly. ‘Does she know you wish to erase the blot on the House of Pisarev?’ He heard Stepan’s censure that Varvakis wasn’t the only ‘good’ man with an agenda. Stepan drummed his fingers on the table top. ‘She might be disappointed to learn you are not so neutral as you appear. I saw her watching you at dinner. You have become her anchor, someone she seeks to rely on. Perhaps she sees you as a neutral foil against Varvakis.’ Stepan paused and held his gaze. ‘Maybe she sees you as something more. What have you promised her? What has she promised you?’ Kisses. Ruslan couldn’t get past the kisses, the feel of her against him, the urgent welcome of her mouth, her bold response. That kiss had followed him all evening, objectivity notwithstanding. ‘Between you and Varvakis, I don’t think the Princess stands a chance of staying.’
‘The Princess can hold her own. She’s headstrong and she knows her mind if not her memories. I am striving to be as neutral as possible.’ And he’d seen the cynicism in Dasha’s eyes today, her hesitance in accepting the dresses. There were things a woman especially might want more than a crown: honest friendships, a life that was not a constant balance of power, a constant negotiation of concessions and favours. He had also felt it in the press of her body, in the hunger of her mouth. She had wanted that kiss, that connection with another human being without the strings that went with it. She’d mentioned as much. How badly did she want it?
Some of Stepan’s cynicism was wearing off on him. It occurred to Ruslan that perhaps she did know who she was and that there might be a game within a game. Was she deliberately seeking to be the fish let off the hook so that it could swim away and be lost in the stream of time? Was she seeking oblivion and using him to get it? A man besotted with the promise of kisses would deny a woman nothing and he’d already given his word. Who had taught whom a lesson in the park today? Dasha had shown herself to be canny enough for such a game if she chose. He pushed his glass forward. ‘You’d better pour me another one.’
Stepan gave him a cryptic look. ‘Yes, I think I’d better.’
This was the part of the game Ruslan liked least—the part where he could do nothing but wait until his opponent made their next move. Everything now hinged on Dasha’s decision: to be or not to be the Princess. He needed to reconcile himself to patience.
Chapter Seven
It was difficult, Dasha discovered in the days that followed, to reconcile the man who’d kissed her in the garden with the man who spent his afternoons pacing before her, delivering relentless lectures on the House of Tukhachevsken by the hour. If she’d been looking for any softness in him, any excuse to read more into the kiss than what he claimed, she could not find it. This was a man who put duty first above all things.
‘The current Tsar, Peter, your father, married Maria Alexandernova in 1795. He had three sons: Peter, his namesake, in 1
797, Vasili in 1799, and Grigori in 1801 before your birth in 1804. He took the throne in December 1805, incorporating the coronation with early Christmas festivities. There was a comet that autumn, the Pons Comet, and many felt it foretold your father’s reign. Your mother kept a comet pin in her jewel box to commemorate the astronomical occasion. Your grandfather became ill shortly after the comet passed, proving the predictions of your father’s imminient reign true. Your grandfather died in November.’
She should be more focused on the lecture, but her attention today was captivated by the way the window light of an early September afternoon turned the thick waves of his hair auburn and then wheat by turn. It was difficult to think of comets and pins and dead ancestors when there was Ruslan to think about. The way he smelled, like cloves and patchouli; the way his voice sounded when it was low at her ear like it had been in the park, his words for her alone; the way he’d felt when his lips were on hers, his body pressed to her own. Neither could she forget the way she felt: safe, protected, cared for, never mind that he claimed none of those things were intended by his sensual instruction.
‘Are you listening, Your Highness?’ Ruslan’s tone was imperious, cutting through her daydreams.
‘No, not really,’ Dasha admitted, rising from the sofa she’d perched on for hours. ‘It’s been a long afternoon full of maps and family trees and policies.’ She stood and stretched, eyeing the long, elegant pianoforte painted in an ice-blue with gold trim done in the baroque style. ‘I think some music is in order.’ She strode to the instrument and sat down, running her fingers experimentally over the keys before breaking into a fast-paced polka. This was more like it. She played another song after that, and another one, her fingers flying, her head thrown back. She could play for ever...
She caught sight of the Captain and Ruslan, and came to a crash of discordant keys as her hands came down hard. They were both staring. Varvakis had risen from his seat, a stunned expression on his face.
Awakened by the Prince's Passion Page 6