Dazzle The Complete Unabridged Trilogy (14 page)

The Prince stopped walking. 'And did you?'

The Count's thin lips curled into a smile of satisfaction. 'I
have discovered two things that are decidedly of interest. First,
a loaded pistol. An unimportant-enough item, considering the
actors are itinerants constantly on the road. But I asked
myself: Why a pistol? Why not a rifle? That in itself strikes me
as rather suspicious. The answer, of course, is that a pistol is far more easily concealed than a rifle. But the second item—
or items I should say— it is they which truly worry me.' Count
Kokovtsov paused dramatically for effect.

'Well, out with it, man!'

Count Kokovtsov's twisted lips widened into a compressed
smile. 'What do you say to ten sticks of dynamite?'

'What!'
Prince Vaslav took a deep breath.

'You heard correctly. Ten sticks of dynamite.' Count
Kokovtsov shook his head lugubriously and rubbed his elongated hands together. 'I am afraid my worst fears have been borne out. This acting troupe, which you so generously—and
unsuspectingly—invited into your home, seems to be a cover
for other, far more sinister activities.'

'Mordka Vyauheslavich, sometimes even you manage to
surprise me,' the Prince said calmly. 'You constantly see anar
chists and assassins lurking behind every bush.'

'Perhaps,' Mordka Vyauheslavich Kokovtsov conceded acidly, 'but if you kept more in touch with what is going on
around you, maybe you would do likewise. You would find it
wise to do so, instead of chasing after every actress you see.'

'That is enough!' the Prince snapped. His eyes blazed men
acingly. 'I have turned a blind eye on you and your stableboys
and footmen long enough!'

'Touché.' The Count sighed and made a fluttery gesture
with his hands. 'Far be it from me to cast stones in that department. However, I strongly suggest that you toss this particular
troupe out of the house. Immediately.'

The Prince considered this in silence. Neither a fool nor an
alarmist, he had to concede that his cousin was for once right
on all counts. Obviously there was at least one terrorist among
the theatre troupe. This could only cause him terrible
trouble—at the very least, a sense of agitation and forebod
ing—until the troupe was gone. But then his mind's eye
conjured up those magical, glittering emerald eyes of the lady
of the camellias. She was a young goddess if there ever was
one, and surely with enough surveillance and caution . . .

His mind made up, a tight smile crossed his lips.
'Noooo . . . 'he said slowly, 'the entire troupe will stay.'

'And the dynamite?' Count Kokovtsov hissed. 'Surely we're
not to condone—'

'Do as I say, Mordka,' the Prince cut in wearily. 'I know
what I am doing.'

'I certainly hope so, because whatever misfortune descends
on us as a result of this is upon your head alone,' his cousin
replied grimly. 'I am washing my hands of this entire affair.'

'No, you are not. In fact, your stealth will come in very
handy. I want every member of the troupe kept under constant
surveillance and the pistol and dynamite watched around the
clock. It is up to you to make certain they are not touched.
Have whoever tries to get to them arrested. If you must, requi
sition extra policemen and guards. Meanwhile, we will let the troupe perform at the soiree tomorrow as if nothing is out of
the ordinary. The day after, they will be gone anyway.'

'But . . . but half of St. Petersburg society will be here
tomorrow!' the Count sputtered. 'Perhaps even the Czar and
Czarina!'

'Then it is your responsibility to see that nothing tragic
happens. You are capable of doing that, I presume?'

The Count's eyes flashed fire, then died to dull embers. He
nodded unhappily.

'Good. It is settled then. Now, do as you've been told.
Meanwhile, I have other things to occupy myself with.
Oh . . .' The Prince reached into his pocket and handed the
jewellery case to the Count. 'Return this to Fabergé.'

Then he walked off.

Behind him, Mordka Kokovtsov threw up his hands in a
gesture of defeat. He could only wonder what his cousin was up to now. Little did he know what wild idea had blossomed
in the Prince's mind.

How simple it would be! Vaslav Danilov thought as a footman threw open a pair of gilded double doors which led into yet another massive hallway. He would get his emerald-eyed
goddess even sooner than he had expected.

Chapter 5

As that dark, icy winter afternoon melted into an even icier
evening, and finally into a brittle arctic night, a light snow
began to fall, powdering St. Petersburg and muffling its city
sounds. The crystalline snowflakes sparkled in the avenues
and streets, on the thousands of windowsills and mullioned
panes, and in the lamplit parks as though an especially munifi
cent god had sprinkled giant handfuls of diamonds over the
earth. The baroque and Renaissance-style palaces skirting the
ice-sheathed Neva were a vision out of a Pushkin fairy tale,
with both electric and candle lights glittering through the haze
of flakes.

The entire three blocks of the Winter Palace was floodlit
from without and glowed richly from within. The Czar and
Czarina were staying in, retiring after their evening prayers,
a late dinner, and an hour at which the Czarina worked on
needlepoint with her daughters in their private apartment and
the Czar helped his young haemophiliac son, Alexis, complete a picture puzzle that had been purchased at the English Shop
on Nevski Avenue.

In the Danilov Palace, which was second in size and splen
dour only to the Winter Palace, the lights glowed brightly.
Three hundred retainers worked furiously but silently around
the clock to prepare for Princess Irina's fiftieth birthday cele
bration the following day. The lights glowed in all windows of the palace save those of two private apartments and rooms in
the servants' quarters above the garages and stables.

'
Thank you.' Senda smiled at the young footman who had
escorted her from the private theatre past squads of servants
dusting, polishing, and arranging massive bouquets of hot-
house flowers in giant vases and urns. She closed the door
softly behind her. After the endless trek through gargantuan,
glittering hallways and towering reception rooms, the small
room under the eaves, which connected with Schmarya's,
seemed especially tiny and utilitarian. The thick plaster walls were cracked and the plain furnishings looked scarred and
uncomfortable. She couldn't help but feel a twinge of regret and resentment. She had hoped for lodgings far more luxur
ious, for the palace was grand beyond her wildest imaginings.
Except for the servants' quarters.

She tightened her lips and suppressed her pique. She knew
her resentment was without foundation. She should count her
blessings. After all, they had a roof over their heads, food was
bountiful, if plain, and there was an abundance of firewood.

Briskly she rubbed her arms with her hands. She glanced
about the room. Only a solitary lamp was burning, throwing
dark shadows up the grey walls. The fire in the grate had
almost burned itself out. The room was chill. At first she
thought Schmarya was asleep but now she saw that the bed
was still made, the covers drawn so tautly across the thin mat
tress that a kopeck tossed onto it would have bounced off.

Then she noticed him at the narrow window, half-hidden
behind the thick double curtains which served to cut down on
the insidious, stealthy drafts which wormed their way through
every crack and crevice. He was standing motionless, gazing
out into the night. He didn't turn to greet her. Perhaps he had
not heard her come in.

She moved to the right, paused, and peered down into the
crib the housekeeper had arranged to move in from the nur
sery. The ornate gilded carving and satin coverlets seemed
incongruous in the room, but Senda smiled placidly as she
pulled the blanket closer around the angelic little face. Tamara
was sound asleep, one tiny thumb stuck in her mouth. Senda,
remembering Grandmother Goldie's admonition that thumb-
sucking made a child's teeth grow in crooked, bent over and disengaged the thumb from the child's lips, but gently, so she
wouldn't awaken her. Tamara needed a good night's sleep.
At least until the day after tomorrow she would be warm and
cosy. Senda was grateful for that. Tamara had had to suffer
more than her share of discomfort and cold since birth.

Convinced that her daughter was comfortable, Senda
picked up a poker, jabbed at the dying embers in the grate,
and added another birch log to the fire. The dry wood crackled
and quickly caught fire. Satisfied by the amount of heat radiat
ing forth, she moved toward the window and stood behind
Schmarya. He had still not turned around. He had surely
heard her by now.

Tenderly she encircled his powerful chest with her arms and
placed the side of her head against the warmth of his back. He
stood there tense and unmoving.

She frowned, but forced a lightness to her voice. 'I think
I've got all the lines memorized.' she said.

Still he did not respond.

After a moment she stepped back and began to knead the
knots out of his shoulders. 'You're very tense.'

'What else would you expect?' he asked, his voice filled with
a quiet bitterness.

She drew away in surprise. 'What's wrong, Schmarya?' she
asked in a low voice so as not to awaken the child. 'Aren't you
glad I'm finished for the day? Now we have the rest of the
night to ourselves.'

'I've barely seen you all day.'

'I had to go over the lines until I memorized them all. You
knew that.'