Splendor (9 page)

Nicholas paused on the third-floor landing of the town house, straining to hear. It was late afternoon. The nursery was on this floor, as was the schoolroom where Katya took her daily lessons with her Italian tutor, Raffaldi. Her governess had her room here, as did Leeza, but Nicholas knew for a fact that Leeza slept on a pallet in Katya's bedchamber, no matter which residence they might currently occupy.

He strained to hear and heard nothing. Disappointment claimed him. No childish giggles or laughter or soft, happy singing, not even animated reading or the strains of the harpsichord or pianoforte which Katya played so well. He sighed and walked forward.

The schoolroom was not empty. The door was open, and Nicholas saw Katya bent over a book on the table, carefully reading. Raffaldi sat at the same table, a notebook open before him, and he was correcting Katya's work, Nicholas saw. The governess, Taichili, a woman whom Nicholas found entirely lacking in warmth and compassion but whom Marie-Elena insisted was dedicated to her charge.

was not present. Nicholas knocked on the door. "May I interrupt?''

Raffaldi stood while Katya straightened. "Excellency," the dark Italian said. He beamed. "I shall have you know that your daughter had only one misspelling in this entire essay!''

"That is wonderful," Nicholas said, his eyes on Katya, his heart heavy. "And what was the subject of the essay?"

"Katya, tell your father what you have written about," Raffaldi said pleasantly.

"My essay was about the Empress Catherine."

"An important topic," Nicholas said. "And what did you say about her?"

"She was a great ruler because she sought to make Russia better," Katya said seriously. "She made Russia bigger and she taught everyone to be responsible toward their serfs," Katya said. "She wanted government to come from 'Nature and Reason.' "

"I am very impressed," Nicholas said truthfully.

"Thank you. Father," she said, lowering her eyes. Was she flushing ever so slightly? With pleasure, he hoped?

"Do you wish to read it?" Raffaldi was enthusiastic.

"Yes, but later. May I speak privately with my daughter, signore?" It was not a request.

The Italian quickly left the room.

Nicholas came forward. Katya sat absolutely still, regarding him. He pulled out another child's chair and sat down opposite her, feeUng terribly oversized and terribly awkward, as well. In fact, if he dared to face his innermost thoughts, he felt overwhelmed. "Did you like your gift?" he asked.

Katya nodded, eyes large, mouth pursed. "Thank you. Father."

He wished she woiild leap up and hug him with abandon. "Would you like to show it to me?" he asked. He glanced around the schoolroom, but saw no sign of an animal.

She nodded. "Madame Taichili said I must keep him in my room."

"You may go and fetch him," Nicholas said. "It is a boy?"

Katya nodded, and quickly left the schoolroom. A moment later she returned, a ball of white fur and blue eyes in her arms. Her expression very serious, she paused in front of Nicholas and held the kitten out. ' 'Do you want to hold him?"

"No, thank you," Nicholas said, but he stroked the kitten between the ears. It was purring.

Katya kept her eyes glued on Nicholas's face.

"Does he have a name?"

"Yes. Alexander."

Nicholas almost laughed. "You have named him after the tsar?"

"No. After Alexi."

Nicholas wanted to hug her. "My brother must be flattered," he said, trying not to laugh.

"He said I should get Alexander's brother and name him Nicholas," Katya returned evenly.

"I think one kitten is enough," Nicholas said. "Do you want to talk about what happened this morning, Katya?"

She stroked the kitten, her eyes downcast. She did not reply.

' 'I spoke with the doctors just a few moments ago. Your mother is out of danger. She will live."

Katya remained silent. The kitten's purring filled the void between them.

"But she is weak," Nicholas said, oddly desperate now. "Can you wait until tomorrow to visit her?"

When Katya did not reply, he repeated the question. "Yes," she mumbled in the kitten's ftir.

"Do you want me to take you to see her now?" he asked, against his better judgment.

She looked up, her nearly black eyes meeting his. "I will wait as you have asked me to do. Father," she said.

He nodded, standing. It was always this way, his words and feelings coming up against a solid wall. "I am glad

you like Alexander, Katya." He bit back a frown as Taichili sailed into the room.

"Excellency," she said briskly. "Katya, it is time for your pianoforte lessons."

Katya's face fell. Immediately it became impassive. Had Nicholas not been so attuned to the child, or such a keen observer, he might not have noticed her disappointment. The kitten remained in her arms.

"And please, put the cat back where it belongs," Taichili said, arms folded beneath her narrow chest.

"Perhaps you should do as Madame Taichili says," Nicholas suggested. "You can play with Alexander after your lessons."

"Yes, Father." They both watched Katya exit the room, hugging the Persian kitten to her chest.

Nicholas faced the dark-haired governess. "She is more despondent than usual?"

"I do not think so," Taichili said. "Katya is a serious child, and there is no harm in that."

"Has she spoken at all about her mother?"

"No. She has not referred to the princess even once."

Nicholas hesitated. "Allow her a special dessert tonight. Tell the cook to make her favorite."

"You will spoil her by coddling her. Excellency."

Nicholas said tersely, "That is my right," and he left the room.

He strode downstairs to the second floor, grim. Katya's governess had no sensitivity because any fool could see that Katya was more remote and self-contained than usual since her mother had almost died.

His wife's door was closed. Nicholas did not bother to knock. He crossed the sitting room, ignoring two maids who blanched, and strode into the bedroom. It was brightly lit, a fire blazing m the hearth. He wasn't sure what he expected, but Marie-Elena was sitting up in the four-poster bed, leaning against several huge pillows, clad in an exquisite dressing gown of beige lace. She was extraordinarily pale herself, huge circles beneath her eyes. A tray of food.

most of it uneaten, was on the table beside the bed. A flute of champagne was also on the tray, half full. Someone had sent her dozens of roses and they were everywhere, on the bedside table, on the bureau, and the windowsill—cloying and annoying. Vorontsky remained in Russia, or so Nicholas thought, so clearly they were from another lover.

"Hello, Niki," Marie-Elena said, her tone low and weak. "Join me for some champagne?"

His fists were clenched. He had done his best to block out the events of that morning all day. "I am glad that you have survived your ordeal," he said tersely. "But it is too early for champagne."

She was regarding him searchingly. "Please, do not be angry at me, Niki. I am so weak. But I am so glad to be alive." Tears spilled down her cheeks. She was the only woman he had ever seen who remained beautiful while crying.

' 'Perhaps you should not be drinking champagne if you are so ill," he said flatly.

She smiled tremulously at him. "You seem very angry. Niki, I was dying. I did not know what I was saying!" She tried to sit up straighter and failed. Because he was not heartless, he went to her and placed several pillows behind her back and helped her to sit more fully upright. "Thank you," she whispered, reaching for his hand. But he shifted so she could not touch him.

He folded his arms across his chest. ' 'The roses. Are they from Sasha?"

Her eyes widened. She was already pale, but the last vestiges of color seemed to drain from her face.

"Well?" he demanded unpleasantly.

"They are from an admirer—an anonymous admirer," she said huskily. "The card is over there."

He walked to the bureau and flipped over the small white parchment card, which read, "To a True Beauty, Your Devoted Servant." He tossed it aside and faced her. Very, very softly, he said, "You have gone too far."

"I don't know what you are talking about!" she cried.

He came forward and towered over her and the b^d. "When you are well, you shall be escorted to Tver, under an armed guard, where you shall stay—indefinitely.'*

Her eyes widened. Her nostrils flared. "You cannot imprison me against my will!"

"As I have said, you have gone too far. And Katya remains here with me," he added.

"It's not true!"

"What is not true, Marie-Elena?"

She stared back at him, her breasts heaving. "What you are thinking."

"I don't think you know what I am thinking." He turned to go.

She cried out. "Niki! You are angry—but what have I done? Please! You cannot send me away!"

His striding did not cease. He reached for the door.

"Alexander will not allow it!"

He froze, then slowly turned. "The tsar is my friend, too," he said succinctly. "And even he would not approve of all that you have done."

She stiffened in obvious fear. "You would not tell him that—rot—about Katya?"

"I would prefer not to," he said flatly.

She stared. He could see her shrewd mind spinning. "You would never do it. You love her too much. You would never shame her publicly that way. Never."

She was right, but Alexander could be trusted to keep such a secret, and Nicholas merely smiled.

"If..." She struggled to speak. "Perhaps I will tell Katya, Niki. Perhaps I will tell her everything—and you will lose her forever—I shall see to it!"

' 'Do you really wish to do battle against me?'' he asked.

Tears spilled down her face now, copiously. She collapsed against the pillows, and Nicholas walked out.

Nicholas found Alexi in the library, pouring two vodkas. He accepted one. He remained very disturbed over his wife's behavior—and her threats. He was equally distressed

over his own behavior, but there had been no choice. She had gone too far in seducing Sasha; it was a blow he could not accept.

And he felt sick inside. But Sasha had always been incredibly weak when it came to women, especially beautiful, seductive women like his wife. Still, that was no excuse. In time, though, he supposed that this latest crisis would pass. Eventually Marie-Elena would be allowed to return home, a bit wiser, he hoped, and a bit more circumspect, while he and Sasha would never be close friends again. Unfortunately, he ached with the loss.

He sipped the vodka, his thoughts veering unexpectedly to one curly-haired Carolyn Browne—he had learned her name from a neighbor—and he found himself smiling ever so slightly. Did she truly think to outwit him in whatever game she was playing? And he was, suddenly, sorry she was playing games—he had enough intrigues to deal with at home. She also did not seem at all like the type to play games—either in espionage or anything else—and he was an exceedmgly good judge of character.

He glanced at his brother. "Our morning spy is a woman," he remarked. "A woman and an amateur."

Alexi, poised to settle into a plush golden chintz chair, started. Then his teeth gleamed as he plopped down and stretched out his long, booted legs. "Then you have little to worry about."

Nicholas perched on the edge of the leather-inlaid desk, also stretching out his legs, as long or longer than his brother's, contemplating the enigma of Carolyn Browne. ' 'To prowl about my house—and get caught doing so. Why didn't she wait to seduce me at a^te? And she did not even think to look over her shoulder once when I followed her from this house." He could not help his thoughts, which rushed off now into a fantasy scenario of her seducing him. He had to smile at the idea, because it would be very amusing, for she was clearly no femme fatale—yet it was also, oddly, arousing.

"Poor lamb," Alexi said with exaggerated concern. "Is she attractive, I hope?"

Nicholas eyed him. "If you like hacked-off blond curls, a tender age, and a skinny frame, why, then I suppose she is passable." He was certain that she did not know the first thing about seduction. Any fool could see that. Somehow, his judgment left him relieved, and he thought about Marie-Elena, an expert courtesan. And what woman read Abelard at the age of eleven? It was astounding.

"I prefer redheads," Alexi aimounced. "With big breasts."

Nicholas looked at him. Alexi's mistress was as fair as this Carolyn Browne, and rather petite.

"As a matter of principle," Alexi amended.

"I wonder why the British would send such an innocent lamb after me," Nicholas mused aloud. "I wonder if her father is also involved in these intrigues. He is a bookseller. Perhaps I shall have them both watched."

Alex crossed his ankles. ' 'If the female spy wants state secrets that would affect our position in the talks, she will soon try to bed you. I hope you are prepared for the occasion?" Alexi was openly trying not to snicker.

"Perhaps I shall be the one to seduce state secrets from her." The concept was exceedingly tempting.

"This should be quite amusing," Alexi mused.

"Indeed." Nicholas set his drink aside. He was looking forward to their next encounter. If she were in disguise, perhaps he would strip her of her mask then. If not, perhaps he would seduce her. In any case, he realized that it had been a long time since he had so anticipated being with a woman.

Poor Carolyn Browne. She did not stand a chance.

<^ Seven ^

CAROLYN had decided to forgo the goatee. Should it slip she would be unmasked immediately—and undoubtedly Sverayov would recognize her the instant he saw her if her disguise were not more elaborate.

She had darkened her face and hands, and had managed to get her hands on a reddish gentleman's wig. She wore horn-rimmed spectacles, and she had exchanged her simple tan coat for an evening coat in dark blue velvet. Carolyn was quite certain that even her own father would not recognize her now.

Her heart was beating madly. She had just stepped down from a hansom amidst dozens of coaches discharging the Sheffields' guests. Her plan was very simple. She would attach herself to a large group and enter the huge mansion, with them.