The Tsarina's Legacy (3 page)

Grisha rerolled the delicate parchment. “Perhaps there is a better time to broach this subject?”

Zubov flashed his white teeth in a youthful smile. His name meant “tooth” after all. Grisha found it irritatingly fitting. “I'll let you in on a secret. I don't care one way or another. Let the poor devils fall on their knees to a golden calf for all I care. But your presumption vexes me. You've been away from St. Petersburg nearly two years. Much has changed while you've been in your new Russia. And you return only to strut into my salon with this scheme at the very time our motherland faces serious new threats.”

“I meant no disrespect, Platon Alexandrovich.”

“Catherine thought it best I start to make the fiscal decisions. I intend to prove my worth, not throw precious treasure to the wind on your latest fancy. You had Catherine's ear for a long time. I know this must be difficult to hear, but the time for every man to shine comes and goes. It is only now a matter of bowing out with grace.”

Despair began to seep through the fragile cracks in Grisha's ego. He wanted nothing more than to retire to bed and bury himself under blankets, taking comfort in hot chocolate, liqueur, and perhaps a warm female body. Better yet, he could call for his horse and force a gallop to Nevsky Monastery. He could grow a long beard and retreat from the world altogether.

Except where would that leave Catherine?

“I have never been asked to leave the empress's side. That is the fate of her young favorites. Her temporary companions.”

“Temporary?” Zubov made a mockery of a frown. The monkey crouched at Zubov's foot, nibbling at the toe of his master's boot. “I suppose my position might be temporary. But then again the empress gave me dominion over you.”

“I truly doubt that was her intention,” Grisha said. “She means for us to work together.”

“Why work at all, Prince? At your age most men have fathered many children and look to the darlings for comfort. It must be difficult, having no progeny of your own. Perhaps it explains your meddling.”

“I have been called to the empress's side,” Grisha told him, gut twisting. “I won't abandon her now.”

“I can assure you Catherine's interests are in more than capable hands,” Zubov said. “I suggest you find some age-appropriate hobbies. Return to one of the palaces the empress gifted you with. Live your dotage in peace. Give your one good eye a rest.” Zubov's gaze shot to Grisha's crotch. “I'm sure your prick could use a rest as well. Godspeed, Prince.”

*   *   *

The little valet waited in the gilded corridor outside of Zubov's apartments, struggling to situate himself in a scarlet-cushioned armchair, Grisha's greatcoat slung over one arm. He tapped his new boots against the parquet floor and stared longingly out the massive windows facing the frozen Neva River.

“The boats won't come until April,” Grisha told him, “when the ice finally breaks.”

At the sound of Grisha's voice, the boy sprang to attention, landing unsteadily in the unfamiliar boots. Grisha's regular valet had grown worn with age. So he'd left the old man at home with his feet elevated and toasting before a fire. In his place, he'd decided to take this boy around with him during the duration of his stay in St. Petersburg. Though he was but thirteen, Anton seemed willing to please.

Anton draped the greatcoat around Grisha's shoulders. “How did you fare, Your Highness? Did the meeting proceed as you hoped?”

The soft sable lining enveloped Grisha in warmth, yet darkness clung to the edges of his mind. “As you predicted, the place reeked.”

Anton snorted. “The monkey is in charge then. Just as I heard. Did Platon Alexandrovich approve of the mosque? Did you encounter any trouble?”

Grisha had taught Anton to ask such questions. He enjoyed discussing political affairs with a nimble, if untrained, mind. Grisha wondered if he might bring Anton with him to a state dinner. Catherine would no doubt think it charming he'd taken a ward. After all, as Zubov had been so quick to point out, Grisha had no children of his own, at least that he knew of.

This evening, however, Grisha desired only solitude and quiet. Even the echo of their boots squeaking on the floor tested his nerves. “I would rather not speak of it,” he said shortly.

“I am sorry.” Anton had been born a serf and still exuded meekness, as though at any moment his fortunes might reverse and he'd be back tilling a field with the rest of his family.

“No, I am sorry. My head and stomach are in knots.”

Grisha gnawed on his red and aching thumbnail. The other favorites he could tolerate. They had known what was expected of them and left quietly when asked, happy with their generous pensions and arranged marriages to comely ladies-in-waiting.

Zubov was different, more like him. Ambitious. Except not like him. Grisha had been many things when he was Zubov's age, but never closed-minded. Catherine was ten years older than Grisha. Even so, to him she would always be that young and vibrant woman who claimed a throne. How could such a woman feel attracted to a shallow boy? He supposed the weight of years on this earth had finally caught up with Catherine, and so Zubov might take advantage and shame her reputation.

“Platon Alexandrovich does not wish to fund the mosque,” Grisha said. “I fear he has more sway over the empress than her previous favorites. He seems ready to take on England and Prussia single-handedly. And he believes he speaks for the empress. Someone needs to set affairs back in their proper order.”

“I wonder…” Anton's eyes gleamed for a moment and Grisha caught a hint of an impish smile. Just as quickly the meekness returned and he bowed his head.

“You wonder?” Grisha didn't want to put too much pressure on his new valet, but he needed all the information he could acquire. “Now is not the time to play the bashful servant.”

“They say Platon Alexandrovich is quite handsome,” Anton said. “Is this true?”

Must he point out the obvious? As though Grisha could not figure out well enough the source of Zubov's hold on Catherine. “It is true.” Grisha loosened the scarf around his throat, itching to rid himself of the confinement of the waistcoat but unwilling to walk through the palace half-clothed. The time when he could get away with such folly had passed. “He is like a statue of a Grecian god come to life.”

“And he has captured the empress's heart,” Anton said.

“Not her heart,” Grisha said, with more conviction than he felt. “But certainly her attention.”

Anton threw a surreptitious glance over his shoulder, already wary of palace spies. Grisha steered him farther down the corridor, well out of earshot of Zubov and his fawning admirers.

“Some question the timing of Platon Alexandrovich's first appearance in court,” Anton confided.

“What strikes them as odd?”

“It was too perfect,” Anton said. “At least that's what I hear people say. The empress's heart was newly broken and she was in need of distraction.”

“They say this when they think no one is listening?”

Anton flashed another small smile. “Exactly.”

“Do they say anything else?”

“I have thought of something.”

“Indulge me.”

“Platon Alexandrovich's sponsor at court was Count Nikolai Saltykov.”

Grisha chewed his throbbing thumbnail. “You've heard of our disagreements then?”

“And of his closeness with the heir, Grand Duke Paul.”

So Zubov wasn't Catherine's plaything alone. He was a marionette, with that fool Saltykov and sniveling Paul pulling the strings. After all these years, enemies still gathered to remove Catherine from the throne. If Catherine found out her favorite had been thrust before her by another man, rather than coming to her of his own volition, it would crush her. The dark thoughts in Grisha's mind began to lose force, swept away by the storm rising in his chest.

“Is there anything you can do?” Anton asked.

Catherine had never been disposed to ask for help. But when Grisha offered his opinions, she always listened, even if she didn't always follow his lead.

Grisha had made her happy once. A grand passion had ignited. Surely the spark of such a passion remained, even after so many years.

At once the world seemed lighter beneath his feet. Grisha's eyes narrowed. Zubov was nothing more than a silly court jester, a bug to be squashed. Platon Alexandrovich may have cast a temporary spell on Catherine, but he had not counted on Grisha's return.

Grisha started off again down the corridor, beckoning Anton to follow. Soon enough Catherine would want him back in the south, to continue to negotiate the latest peace terms with the Turks. If he were to save her from Zubov, time was of the essence. “You've been practicing your letters? You make a reasonable facsimile of my writing?”

“I do, Your Highness.” Anton scrambled in his pockets for the small slate Grisha had advised he carry with him. “You wish me to take dictation?”

“While the words are still fresh in my mind.”

Grisha quickened his pace, drawing strength from newfound purpose. Anton readied his stubby pencil and nodded.

“‘Your Most Gracious Imperial Majesty,'” Grisha began. “‘As I look once again toward the Neva, I am reminded of your beauty so many years ago when you first took our holy throne, that glorious white night when we first met. I fell in rapture then, and I now feel compelled to speak of the rapture I yet experience in your presence.'”

He had returned to the capital, to the center of power. He would convince Catherine she didn't need Zubov. The only person the empress had ever needed was him.

Two

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

ROMANOV HEIRESS TO SEEK HONORARY TITLE
ST. PETERSBURG, RUSSIA

Dmitry Potemkin, spokesman for the Russian Monarchist Society, is proud to reveal the name of the Society's official imperial claimant: Dr. Veronica Herrera. The Society now hopes to validate Dr. Herrera's startling claim to be a direct descendant of the last Romanovs, Nicholas and Alexandra.

 

LOS ANGELES INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT
PRESENT DAY

“You have items to check?” The ticket agent's sultry Russian accent caressed her words. “There is small charge.”

Veronica Herrera tried to summon an answer but only managed a shrug. Her gaze drifted to one of the flat television screens on the far side of the wide terminal. Local newscasters with glossy hair chuckled over a bear cub who had wandered into a backyard pool up near Tahoe.

“Perhaps I do not say well?” A lock of platinum-blond hair fell into the ticket agent's pretty and oh-so-patient face. She tucked it behind a white cap that matched her trim uniform and the stylish dark orange scarf tied around her smooth neck.

“No, no. I mean, yes, I understand.” Veronica shifted her heavy new winter coat from one arm to the other. “I don't have anything to check.”

The woman nodded at Veronica's modest carry-on bag. “You are brave girl. Big trip for little luggage. I think you are free spirit.” She tapped her keyboard and the computer spit out a boarding pass. “Gate eight. Board in ninety minutes. Enjoy stay in Russia.” The ticket agent's perfectly manicured hand motioned for her to accept the pass and move aside.

But Veronica couldn't move.

The travelers queued in line behind her began to grumble at the delay. Veronica wanted to take the boarding pass and move like any normal human being, but her heart was pounding. Honestly, what had she been thinking? Everyone would see nothing more than a failed academic with a connection to the Romanovs that was dubious at best. Aside from a few aging monarchists, who cared about her family's story anyway? She should exchange her ticket and go to Costa Rica or the Bahamas. She had always thought it would be romantic to run away. It wasn't too late.

On-screen, the bear cub frolicked in the pool, lapping water with its giant paws and grimacing. The newscasters laughed some more.

The ticket agent maintained her veneer of professional serenity. “Safe travels.” She tried once more to hand Veronica her boarding pass.

To Veronica's left, a little girl with curly brown hair ran toward her family, holding a Ziploc bag full of frosted pink and white animal crackers. She tripped over her father's guitar case, dropped the cookies, and began to whimper. Veronica bent down to retrieve the crumpled plastic bag and handed it to the girl, who gave her a shy smile. A happy child. A happy family. Veronica returned the smile, but her stomach tightened. At times, her own lack of family made her feel as though she was somehow less important than everyone else. And entirely alone.

When Veronica righted herself, the ticket agent still faced her with a patient smile, but her forehead had creased. She was watching the television now. The newscasters' faces had grown somber. The image changed. Flurries of white swirled around the Church of the Savior on Spilled Blood in St. Petersburg and its bubble onion domes of turquoise, gold, and green, some swirling, others in a checkered diamond pattern, all topped by ornate Orthodox crosses.

Veronica's hands felt cold, despite the sunshine streaming through the windows warming the terminal. She knew what images were soon to follow.

The camera zoomed in on a young man standing before one of the church's arches, looking pretty, if slight, with tousled black hair and a scarf strewn carelessly around his neck. He wore a red T-shirt with a dark shadow of a wolf emblazoned on the front. Nikolai “Reb” Volkov had taken on the nickname of “Lone Wolf” since “
volk
” meant “wolf” in Russian. Huddling deeper into his light jacket, he turned to wave his arms at the scene behind him, features animated.

The footage had been taken seven months earlier, when Reb staged an impromptu art exhibit in front of the iconic church. No announcements. No permission granted. The camera followed Reb as he bounced from easel to easel placed along an iron railing overlooking a narrow Petersburg canal. Each of the paintings captured Reb's signature style: an elegantly familiar landmark paired with garish caricatures of contemporary Russians.