‘You remembered!’ Varvakis exclaimed in ensuing silence. He turned to Ruslan excitedly. ‘The Princess and her lady-in-waiting used to play the most exquisite duets for the family. The Princess was an accomplished pianist.’
‘Is that so?’ Ruslan strode to the piano and sat beside her on the bench, his thigh pressed to hers as he rifled through the sheet music until he found what he was looking for. ‘Shall we try this one?’ In response, she played a few stanzas of the opening, a slow love ballad.
Ruslan picked up his part with skill, his long fingers moving easily over the keys. He was an apt musician. Of course. By now, she shouldn’t be surprised. He did everything with an air of mastery. Then he began to sing, a strong, pure tenor that filled the drawing room and elevated the simple ballad to something more complex, more ethereal.
‘“As I walk’d thro’ the meadows, To take the fresh air, The flowers were blooming and gay; I heard a fair damsel so sweetly a-singing. Her cheeks like the blossom in May.”’
The magic of the music connected them, reminding her of what could exist between them when their guards were down.
‘“Then I took this fair maid by the lilywhite hand; On the green mossy bank we sat down; and I placed a kiss on her sweet rosy lips, while the small birds were singing around.”’
Dasha felt a blush on her cheeks at the mention of a kiss. She stole a sideways glance at Ruslan as he sang, looking for a crack in his stoic façade. She caught sight of the faintest of grins as he managed the line. She played the final notes, letting them fade away reluctantly.
‘You’re very good,’ Dasha complimented.
‘As are you.’ Ruslan held her gaze as he removed himself from the bench with a small bow. ‘I think we’ll call our lessons complete for the day. Nikolay and Klara have invited us for the evening, if you’re willing?’
Was she willing? Dasha nearly leapt at the chance to leave the house. Except for walks in the garden across the street, she had not been out since her arrival. As large as Ruslan’s home was, the walls were starting to close in. It was her fault. As soon as she decided how to be introduced, she could go out. ‘Just give me a moment to freshen up.’ She smiled and nearly skipped out of the room before anyone could change their mind.
Ruslan’s smile faded as the door shut behind Dasha. ‘She remembered? On purpose, or does the body simply recall that which comes naturally to it?’ He turned to look at Varvakis, wanting to see the man’s facial expression.
Varvakis shrugged. ‘Does it matter? It’s further proof that she will remember again. It will all come back. We surrounded her with something familiar, just as your doctor suggested.’
‘And further proof that she is indeed the Princess?’ Ruslan tried out Stepan’s scepticism.
Varvakis looked stunned. ‘You think I would attempt to pass off an imposter? That affronts my honour greatly, Your Highness.’
Ruslan inclined his head in apology. Behind the intensity of Varvakis’s response there could be no doubt the man spoke the truth. He’d been right on that account, at least, a small victory over Stepan’s cynicism. ‘It is a question that must be asked, under the circumstances,’ Ruslan explained in his defence. ‘I would be less than my reputation suggests if I did not question it.’
Varvakis let out a long sigh. ‘Yes, of course, Your Highness. No insult taken.’
Ruslan settled into a chair, crossing a leg over one knee, changing directions. ‘May we speak of the factions, Captain? Who leads them?’ Now that Dasha’s education was underway, he could focus on the task of strategising. Who would Dasha need to persuade when she returned?
Varvakis looked more at ease with this aspect of the discussion. ‘Ivan Serebrov for the Loyalists, Kolya Nemtsev, an officer, for the Moderates.’ Ruslan nodded. He was not surprised. Serebrov was an older man, a long-time advisor to the Tsar. Kolya Nemtsev was likely a former member of the Union of Salvation, a man perhaps like himself who had turned away at the idea of change through violence.
‘And the Rebels?’ Ruslan asked.
Varvakis grimaced. ‘Count Anatoly Ryabkin, a man who perhaps means well, but whose hot temper will eventually lead the Rebels too far afield. He’s a man to start revolutions, but not to finish them.’
Varvakis might have said more, but Ruslan did not hear him. His mind was stuck on the very name. Ryabkin. The man had betrayed his father. Well, not quite betrayed him. But he’d had the power to protect him and Ryabkin had not. He’d stood aside instead of speaking up.
‘Do you know the Count?’ Varvakis ventured into the silence.
‘Yes,’ Ruslan answered tightly. ‘I think your assessment is quite right.’ His mind was working at top speed, wondering what Ryabkin thought to gain by leading the Rebels, by putting himself at the front of an acknowledged effort to overturn a monarchy and commit regicide. It was a dangerous stance to take, very unlike Ryabkin who always chose to hedge his bets. Was he that sure of the revolt’s success? Or just that sure of himself? He could see plainly what Ryabkin wanted—power, control. Ryabkin didn’t want a new day for Kuban as much as he wanted to be King himself. He would promise anyone anything to get it.
Varvakis exchanged a look with him that said,
This is why you must help me with her, why she must go back. We cannot leave the country in the hands of a man like Ryabkin.
Ruslan rose and excused himself, his mind a whir of thought. There was much to think about now. Dasha Tukhachevskenova not only stood between peace and civil war, she stood between the throne and Ryabkin. He needed time to think. He needed to prompt Dasha to action. If Ryabkin were involved, she no longer had the luxury of slipping into anonymity.
* * *
Ruslan handed Dasha down from his carriage, giving her time to survey the wrought-iron archway leading to the well-lit alley that made up Nikolay’s large mews and the path to the riding house on the right side. The mews and alley were clean and well kept, but there was nothing overly luxurious about them. The stalls were not particularly large like a royal stable and the horses were rather ordinary in their stalls. No flashy Arabians or exotic breeds poked their heads over the stall doors. But all the horses were well taken care of and healthy, that much was evident from the shine of their coats and the cleanliness of their living conditions.
Dasha was content to let him lead her through the mews, her free hand reaching up to stroke the occasional nose that came out to meet her. ‘They’re lovely. Look! A yearling.’ The dapple-grey foal drew her attention and she stopped to rub its face. ‘He’s adorable.’
Ruslan smiled and fished in his pocket for a piece of apple. Whenever he came to visit, he always remembered treats. He handed her the apple. ‘This is Polar. He’s ten months old. Nikolay rescued him from a kill pen earlier this year.’ Polar butted Ruslan, looking for more treats. Ruslan scrubbed at the horse’s face, ruffling his mane. ‘Now, he has an adopted family.’ He gestured to the next two stalls. ‘This mare next door is his “mother”, and the stallion on the other side of her is his “father”.’ Ruslan drew her down the line, telling the story. ‘The stallion was defending him when Nikolay and Klara found him.’
Dasha stopped at the mare’s stall, taking in the leggy thoroughbred. ‘Is she a jumper?’
‘A steeplechaser. Klara rides her.’ Ruslan paused, remembering how Nikolay had told him the mare had chased Klara down and begged to be taken home. ‘The two are devoted to each other in a special way.’
‘Yes,’ Dasha said softly, stroking the mare’s muzzle. ‘I had a horse once I was particularly devoted to.’
‘Did you?’ Ruslan asked casually, wanting to prompt, but not wanting to ruin the moment. If the memories were coming, he wanted them to come organically. He certainly didn’t want to scare them away by pressuring her.
She looked at him, her eyes revealing how startled she was by the revelation, and then a shadow fell. ‘I don’t know h
is name.’ She looked down. ‘I thought for a moment...’ Yes, for a moment there’d been a breakthrough.
Ruslan smiled and took her hand. ‘Don’t worry. It will come. Already today has provided two new pieces: you like horses and you play the piano.’
‘You’re putting me back together like Humpty Dumpty.’
‘Better than Humpty Dumpty,’ he encouraged, wanting to banish the disappointment in her eyes. She expected so much of herself, this strong, proud young woman. They passed by the rest of the stalls, finding Nikolay and Klara in the cosy tack room, down on their knees beside a basket, eyes only for each other.
Nikolay rose hastily, brushing at the dirt on his trouser knees. ‘I’m sorry, we didn’t hear you arrive.’ He gestured to the basket, full of squirming black and white English springer spaniel puppies and grinned unabashedly. ‘We were distracted.’
Ruslan laughed, looking from Nikolay to Klara and thinking the distraction was due to more than the puppies. They’d walked in on something or nearly so. ‘I can see that. Where did these sweet angels come from?’
Nikolay’s eyes twinkled. ‘Well, Klara’s to blame. A farmer in Richmond didn’t know what to do with them.’
‘Oh! They’re so sweet.’ Dasha interrupted the tale about the Richmond farmer, sinking to her knees beside Klara and scooping up the smallest, who was struggling to climb over his brothers and sisters. She looked up at Ruslan and he forgot about solving the mystery of Klara and Nikolay. ‘I don’t know this breed. What is it?’ How interesting that she’d picked the one in most need when she could have chosen one of the puppies frolicking closest to her.
‘Springer spaniels. They’re gun dogs for hunting. A very intelligent breed,’ Klara supplied when Ruslan said nothing, too lost in his own thoughts. ‘My father keeps a kennel of them at his country estate, which is where most of these will go if we don’t find them homes.’
‘We could have left them in Richmond then at your father’s, instead of dragging them all the way into town just to drag them back,’ Nikolay huffed, pretending to be put upon, but anyone could see he was infatuated with his wife and with the puppies.
‘They’re far too adorable to leave,’ Dasha protested, hugging hers close. The little pup licked at her face until she laughed, an utterly captivating sound. The sight of Dasha with the puppy was a mesmerising one. Sitting on the floor playing with the puppy, she was neither princess nor problem; she was merely Dasha. The cares she wore so often on her face and in her eyes were gone; all of her attention, all of her enjoyment, was fixed in the moment. Ruslan wanted that moment to go on, for her sake. The puppies had done what he could not—lift her burdens. Any choice he gave her came with burdens of their own.
Ruslan bent down to join them, letting one of the pups play tug with a towel scrap. ‘This is a fine way to spend the evening, Nikolay,’ he teased.
‘Puppies are the very best way to spend any evening.’ Dasha laughed. She smiled at Ruslan, utterly unselfconscious as the words spilled out. ‘There were puppies in the royal stables on occasion, but we were never allowed to have animals in the palace.’
Ruslan’s smile froze. He tried to keep his eyes merry, not wanting to call attention to her words but it was too late. Her eyes settled on his. He saw again the spark of astonished recognition followed by the bleakness of despair when nothing more was forthcoming. ‘You should have one, then,’ Ruslan offered to cover the moment. She’d told the truth. He recalled that Grigori and Vasili had complained about not being able to have pets.
‘Yes!’ Klara echoed. ‘You should take one. There’s nothing like a puppy to make one feel at home.’
Dasha hesitated and looked to him. ‘I don’t know, everything in the house is new, and Prince Pisarev has only just moved in.’
‘Prince Pisarev?’ Nikolay burst out laughing. ‘Surely he’s not making you call him that?’
‘Ruslan will do just fine, as I’ve mentioned before, as will a puppy.’ Ruslan smiled at her. ‘You’re welcome to bring one home.’ Surely his detachment could withstand one small puppy.
Dasha rose, holding her puppy close, her face alight with the becoming colour of excitement. ‘Then I will take this likely lad when we go.’
Klara stood and looped an arm through Dasha’s, calling for a stable boy to take the dogs. ‘We’ll discuss names over supper.’ Klara looked happy in that particular way women did... Hmm. Ruslan wondered. It was possible. She and Nikolay had been married nearly six months now. Plenty of time for a strapping Cossack like Nikolay to get his nursery started. Well, he’d keep his thoughts to himself until it was time to celebrate.
* * *
Supper was a lively, intimate affair. Klara and Nikolay were easy people to talk with and Ruslan was thankful for their affability. He didn’t need to carry the conversation. He could sit back and watch, and think. He’d not seen Dasha like this; so relaxed and animated. Perhaps that was the very reason he’d brought her here. Maybe he’d wanted to see her out of the rarefied context of ‘princess in hiding’. Maybe he’d wanted to see just the woman.
Ruslan drank from his wine glass and gestured for some more. Seeing her this way was doing nothing for his armour other than wreaking havoc on it. This woman was irresistible and, by extension, tonight was irresistible. Ruslan caught Nikolay’s eye, his friend’s message clear. There could be more evenings like this if she were not the Princess. Did Dasha see it? Did he want her to see it? Was this the reality he’d wanted portrayed as he gave her a taste of émigré life? The answer was yes and no, and it was complicated. Did he want her to stay in London even if it meant abandoning Kuban to the likes of Ryabkin?
* * *
After dinner, Nikolay and Klara walked them through the neighbourhood, a lantern in hand. The streets were still busy with a mixed crowd coming and going; some were labourers coming home or seeking evening meals. Others were the more genteel clerks and tutors and governesses who might aspire to a more elevated evening out as someone’s companion or guest—a moment in the sun of their former lives. This was more in line with what Ruslan had wanted to show Dasha—the cost of her freedom, yet he might have shown her enough to make that cost worth it. Would she be tempted? Could he afford that temptation? To save her from the maw of Kuban much would be sacrificed.
At the end of the walk, Klara put the puppy into Dasha’s arms. ‘I hope you will come again. Bring the puppy to visit. Have we decided on name?’
‘Maximus.’ Dasha held the puppy to her, looking entirely far too enticing for Ruslan’s tastes. He had to yet endure the carriage ride home with the enchanting Dasha in enclosed proximity.
Ruslan offered her a hand and helped her, Maximus and all, into the carriage. ‘Thank you for an enjoyable evening, Nikolay.’
Nikolay nodded, his eyes serious. ‘Have a safe ride home, Old Man. I don’t envy you.’
‘Neither do I,’ Ruslan sighed and shut the door behind him.
He’d barely taken his seat when Dasha fixed him with her green gaze. ‘Thank you for the puppy.’ She paused, waiting until the carriage was under way, holding the puppy close. ‘Does this mean I passed your latest lesson?’ Damn her, for seeing too much.
Chapter Eight
‘Does this have to be a lesson? Couldn’t it just be an evening out to meet friends?’ Ruslan sat back against the squabs, watching her with the puppy. It was easy for him to believe his own fabrication when she looked like this: hair loose, a puppy in her arms, a soft smile on her lips. As long as he didn’t look at her eyes. They were sharp, reminders that this wasn’t only an evening out. Reminders, too, that what had been only a test for her had now become a test for him—what had this evening truly been about? Had his detachment slipped yet another notch, another sacrifice to showing her both sides of her choices?
Could he afford for the evening to be personal? It was what she’d want if she indeed was launching a game within a game whe
re she only pretended she didn’t know who she was. After tonight, though, he was less inclined to believe that. Her surprise at her memories had been real enough as had been her disappointment when there wasn’t more.
‘You wanted to show me what life was like outside the protection of my title.’ Dasha was not long on subtlety. Did it even cross her mind she might be wrong?
‘Not everyone would enjoy being accused of the plots in your head.’
Dasha shrugged and looked down at Maximus squirming in her arms. ‘That doesn’t make me wrong.’ Then she relented. ‘In all fairness to you, the evening was illuminating. You planned carefully.’ Then she sighed. ‘Why does everything have to come with a cost?’
Oh, if she knew! She wasn’t the only one paying. Ruslan smiled his commiseration, knowing she didn’t expect more of an answer. He was gratified to note that the evening had achieved its purpose. She’d caught the nuances of visiting Soho, and the implications of starting over. ‘I would help you, of course,’ Ruslan added. ‘You wouldn’t be expected to do it all on your own.’ Would she choose to stay despite the difficulties? Part of him cheered that. He could keep her near. But his conscience balked. Could he allow it? If she chose to stay of her own volition, should he tell her about Ryabkin in order to change her mind?
‘I cannot rely on your largesse for ever.’ Again came the cynicism she’d demonstrated at the park, the fear of owing.
‘Some things are free, Dasha.’
‘Like puppies?’ Dasha laughed a little, her eyes slanting towards him, coy in their stare. If this were a ballroom, he’d take that stare as flirtation.
Maximus squirmed fiercely and Ruslan moved on to the seat beside her to assist with the puppy, but it was a bad idea no matter how helpfully it began. At the merest touch of his leg against hers the air about them crackled, an unspoken reminder of what passed as friendship between them and what could still pass as friendship once more. No decision had been made. Yet. But it soon would be. He’d forced her hand tonight, but it had not made her any less resistible. He had hoped it would.
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