Splendor (53 page)

herself, she was certain of that. He had to have come to town on a mission for his country. Davison wanted her to find out if a certain mmor was tnje: were the Russians concluding a secret alliance with Prussia, one that would join both nations in an aggressive war against Napoleon? When the peer had told her that, Carolyn had looked at him as if he had lost his mind. How, she had asked, did he expect her to find that out?

He had been explicit. He expected her to resume her love affair with Nicholas in order to gain the information—and he was giving her exactly one week in which to produce details of the alliance if there was one. And, he had already heard that Nicholas's next stop might be Breslau. If that were the case, he wanted Carolyn to go there with him— and relay further reports back to him.

Carolyn could not let her father hang. But the very idea of spying on Nicholas, of using and betraying him, was violently repulsive to her. She closed her eyes. How was she going to do what must be done?

"Carolyn?" George entered the room. His tone was bleak. "There is someone downstairs who wishes to speak with you."

Carolyn did not look at him. She loved him so much. What if she failed to find out anything? And she did not trust Davison. What if he had her father hanged anyway? "Whoever it is, tell him to go away."

"It is your grandmother, and she is adamant. She said she has come all the way to town just to see you."

Carolyn sat up, brushing her hair out of her eyes. It was far too long for her taste now, for she had not cut it in months, having no use for her old disguise anymore. "Just hand her that letter I wrote earlier in the evening." Old Lady Stafford was the very last person she wished to see.

"You have been crying. Carolyn, I am so sorry," George said heavily.

Carolyn bit her lip to keep it from collapsing. She could not speak.

George sat down beside her. "Do you hate me?" he asked tremulously.

Carolyn shook her head, very close to tears. "I could never hate you. I just wish ..." She trailed off.

"Carolyn, I love you so. You are all that I have, with Margaret gone. I was at a loss. You know I have no head for figures, and we have no income—we hardly sell any books!" he cried.

Carolyn gripped his hand. "I know. I guess I closed my eyes and pretended not to realize that there was no way this shop paid our rent."

"I did it for you. To keep you in a proper home, to keep you well fed," George said desperately. "Please, please, forgive me."

Carolyn embraced her father. "How could I not forgive you? I love you. Papa. If only there had been another way!" she cried.

"Don't you know how many times I have wished that, myself?" George said heavily. "And now, dear, dear God, I have involved you in my deceptions. I am so afraid—for us both!"

"You will not hang," Carolyn said fiercely. "I promise you that. We shall both be fine." But her pulse raced hard enough to make her feel faint. Nicholas. She must use and betray Nicholas, when she loved him so much.

"I do not want you playing games with Sverayov—I do not want you using yourself in order to help me," George cried, gripping her shoulders.

Carolyn stepped back from him, about to tell him that she had no choice, when she saw Lady Stafford standing in her doorway, leaning on a walking stick. Carolyn's heart sank.

The old lady marched forward. "I have sent you four invitations to Midlands, three of which you have refused," she declared, her gaze sharp. ' 'I decided, after posting the fourth, that I should come to invite you myself—or at least to learn the real reason for your refusal."

Carolyn felt hopeful—Edith had not understood or even

heard what they had been discussing. "You are in my bedchamber," she pointed out, a rebuke.

"I know where I am," the elderly woman snapped. "What games do you intend to play with that handsome Russian prince? And why has he returned to Lx)ndon? Is he chasing after you? Are the two of you carrying on?''

Carolyn felt her cheeks mming red. While George moaned and sat down hard on her bed, hanging his head, she said, "You have been listening to a very private conversation. Lady Stafford."

The old lady came closer, using the gold-headed cane to emphasize her each and every step. "Yes, I have. And I am concerned. Has someone died? You are both extremely distraught. And you," she said to Carolyn, "have been cry-ing.

"I'm ill," Carolyn said, becoming angry.

"When are you coming to Midlands?" the old lady returned.

"I am not. I am busy," Carolyn snapped.

"Busy doing what? Playing games with the prince?"

Carolyn flushed. "I am writing a novel."

The old lady stared. "What kind of novel?"

"A romantic one," Carolyn said, quite tense.

"Balderdash! And this from the brilliant Copperville? What's happened to you, girl?"

Carolyn was frozen. Even George glanced up in shock.

The old lady came forward and sat down on the bed beside her son-in-law. Carolyn blinked at the incongruous sight.

"I know," Edith said with a slight smirk. "I have enjoyed Copperville immensely. He is truly clever and amusing, my dear girl. But I decided something about him was not quite right when he blasted you and me just before you took off for Russia. I was, really, quite piqued by that column and I marched right over to the Chronicle's offices and demanded to know who had dared attack me and my granddaughter. Your editor was quite reluctant to divulge that information—until I mentioned your name." Suddenly

Edith laughed. "He was so shocked, Carolyn, to find out that you were the one in that column and that you were my long-lost granddaughter."

Carolyn could only stare. "I suppose I shall have words withTaft."

"Hmm. Copperville has not written a thing since you have come back. Instead, you are writing romantic tripe. What is wrong? Did the prince break your heart?" She peered closely at Carolyn, who remained standing. "You look brokenhearted, my dear."

Carolyn folded her arms tightly beneath her breasts. "If I am brokenhearted, it is not your affair."

The old lady planted her cane loudly on the floor and stood. "I want to help," she said without aspersion. "How can I if I do not know what is ailing the two of you?"

Carolyn gazed at her as her grandmother gazed back. She had no intention of trusting her now, none, yet it would be so comforting to have someone strong to turn to and share her burden with. But bygones were not bygones. Carolyn had never forgotten the past. And she said, "Don't you think it's a bit late to be offering to help us now?"

Edith tensed. "And what do you mean by that?" she asked very quietly—as if she knew exactly what was coming.

Carolyn dropped her hands, advanced a pace. "You turned me and my mother away on a freezing, snowy day. We were desperate! Because you did not help us then, we lost our home and our store. And my mother died shortly after. But was it from pneumonia?"

Edith had turned white.

"How could you turn us away?" Carolyn cried. "How?"

"Maybe," Edith said hoarsely, "I was a stubborn, stupid, proud, and lonely fool."

Carolyn turned her back on her, marching toward the door, intending to leave the room.

"Maybe," Edith called after her, "I wish to make amends now for such a terrible mistake."

Carolyn faltered. And then she flung herself through the doorway and into the corridor outside.

<^ Thirty-four ^

THIS time, Nicholas was staying at the St. James Hotel, where he had taken an entire upper floor, the space required for him, his staff, his daughter, and her new governess, an impoverished and widowed Russian noblewoman. He had rented the rooms for a fortnight. He intended to conclude his business within that amount of time, before he left for Breslau.

His business, which was Carolyn.

Nicholas sat at the delicate Louis Seize desk in the luxuriously appointed sitting room attached to the master bedchamber, a quill in hand. How did a man express himself in such a situation? Did one begin a letter like this with an apology? Should he begin with a confession of feelings? He had never missed anyone or anything the way he had missed Carolyn these past two and a half months. Or should he start with a declaration of love—and intentions? But he was afraid. It had been one matter for Carolyn to declare their love too precious to be denied on that terrifying night in Moscow with the city aflame and French soldiers lurking everywhere. But her heart had been broken, that day when Marie-Elena returned from the dead. As had his.

Marie-Elena was dead. The greatest scars of all had been the ones left on Marie-Elena's mind, not those upon her body. She had gone into seclusion, retiring to the countryside, not to Tver, of course, but to a small dacha in an

isolated area near the Barents Sea. One night, a month after she had appeared in St. Petersburg, in the midst of a blizzard, she had wandered outside in her nightgown. Her body had been found four days later.

Had it been suicide? Or had she become completely deranged? Nicholas laid his quill down. He stared across the blue and gold room without seeing a single piece of furniture, a single painting, a single bust. Nicholas decided that it did not matter. What mattered was that he could not bear to live without Carolyn Browne. And surely she felt the same way.

But he thought of young Davison, and all that she had thus far suffered, and he was uneasy.

A soft knock sounded on the door and his valet entered the room. "Excellency, you have a caller. The Dowager Viscountess of Stafford."

Nicholas stood, reaching for a silver-knobbed cane. His pulse had accelerated. "Show her in," he said.

Lady Stafford walked past his valet, using a walking stick. Nicholas recalled that she had not needed a cane the last time he had seen her; nevertheless, she looked well for her age—which he estimated to be at least seventy-five. "Good day. Excellency," she said.

He approached her, limping, and bowed. ' 'Lady Stafford. It is a pleasure to see you again. Please, do sit down."

"Thank you," She took an imposing chair—the grandest in the room. Thronelike, it dwarfed her. Nicholas sat on a small bergere, hiding his amusement at her choice. She said, "I am sorry to see that you are injured. Your Excellency. Is it from battle?"

"One might call you impertinent. Lady Stafford," Nicholas said, but he was not offended.

"At my age, I say what I wish to say. I do not have time to beat around the bush," she declared.

"Yes. It is a wound from the war. I am afraid I shall limp for the rest of my life," Nicholas said flatly, without any bitterness. "I consider myself lucky to be alive."

"I am very sorry that you have a slight infirmity. Ex-

cellency, but I must admit, the limp is rather becoming on a man like yourself."

Nicholas laughed.

Edith Owsley's smile faded and she leaned forward. "Carolyn Browne is in trouble. Excellency."

Nicholas's brief bout of good humor vanished. He stiffened. "What kind of trouble?"

"I do not know. She has not forgiven me for the past, and has no intention of confiding in me now, although I think it is severe. I think her foolish, incompetent father has gotten into something dangerous. Excellency. But what could that be?" Edith Owsley blinked at him as if she were a very innocent-minded creature, indeed.

"I do not know," Nicholas said, but he was grim and dismayed. What had George Browne gotten himself into now? Damn the man!

"And Carolyn is being called upon to compromise herself—or so I believe."

He was motionless. But his mind raced. Carolyn had many talents; he could see how someone like Davison might wish for her to hone those talents and use them to his advantage. And right now, the stakes were so very high. Napoleon had abandoned his own army in order to flee back to Paris, where he now remained. The French troops had been chased across Russia, harried not just by Kutuzov, but by Cossacks and partisans, suffering because of the early snows, the lack of food and ammunition, horses and supplies, until a mere ragtag remnant of La Grande Armee had finally managed to recross the Neimen and fall back on safe Prussian territory. The tides of war had changed. Finally, Napoleon's defeat had become a possibility.

Nicholas would never allow Carolyn to enter the murky world of espionage. Not now, not ever. He wanted her safe, he wanted her out of it. Damn her father, he thought savagely.

"Excellency, are you unwell? You have lost some of that stunning coloring you possess," Edith Owsley remarked, her glance shrewd.

He smiled at her. "I am fine. Lady Stafford, and thank you for your concern. More importantly, thank you for alerting me to the fact that Carolyn is in some danger."

Edith smiled. "So it is Carolyn, eh? And how does your wife fit into the scheme of things?"

Slowly, he stood, leaning on the cane, towering over the small old lady. "Lady Stafford, your granddaughter saved the life of my own daughter in Moscow, on the eve of Napoleon's invasion. She also saved my life, and that of my cousin. She is the bravest woman I have ever known, and given those circumstances, I do not think we need to stand on ceremony." He paused. "And my wife is dead."

"I am sorry. Your Excellency." Edith Owsley's cane thumped on the rug as she stood up. "One day you must tell me that story. I should be fascinated to hear it. And of course, I have never stood on ceremony myself." She was smiling.

"And I shall." He inclined his head.

At the door she paused. "When will you call on her. Excellency?"

He chuckled. He could surmise when another person was thinking almost exactly as he was. Lady Stafford, he decided, was a useful and enchanting ally. "Within the hour," he said.

Satisfied, she left the room, her cane thumping down the hall.

"Carolyn. He's here."

Carolyn froze. Ostensibly she was helping her father in the bookshop. She had taken down an entire shelf of books in order to dust. But her mind was thoroughly preoccupied with what she must soon do. It seemed that she could hear the pendulum clock in the comer of the store ticking off every single second. Her heart was filled with dread.