Compromised By The Prince’s Touch
Nikolay held her gaze, considering the truth of her statement. Was it possible? Or was it merely an attempt to disarm him? There was too much unknown to draw a solid conclusion. Did Grigoriev know what he’d done to warrant exile? Did St Petersburg care that a prince from a newly created ‘kingdom’ of the empire had essentially deserted? Kuban had only been firmly Russian for three generations of princes. Without knowing the answers to those questions, he could draw no definitive conclusion that this was a trap.
He let his mind pick up the thread of Klara’s insinuation that her father wanted to test him for his own purposes. What might those purposes be? Treason? Rebellion? Matrimony possibly, given that there was matchmaking underway for the General’s daughter based on the glances being tossed across the table. He had already contemplated compliance and treason. Why not contemplate matrimony, too?
Nikolay considered Klara; the heat of her kiss, the sharpness of her wit. Had she been trying to tempt him for nothing more than marriage? It seemed a small thing compared to entrapment for treason. Alexei Grigoriev wasn’t the first ambitious ambassador looking to connect his daughter with a royal family of the empire. If Grigoriev thought there was a chance he would return to Kuban and take up his responsibilities in the military, it would be advantageous to have Klara in a position that could advance his own career. Such arrangements were made all the time in Kuban. Marriage was a political concern, romance was a personal one that was often expected to occur outside of that marriage.
It stood to reason Grigoriev would be interested in Kuban. It was an area of growing political concern. As an officer, Nikolay understood how important Kuban would be in the next several decades. The Ottomans were weakening. Their empire would fall and Russia would want its piece of the spoils, as would England. The Crimean Peninsula stood, metaphorically speaking, between England and Russia in the west, the Khyber Pass of Afghanistan stood between them in the east, Russia’s gateway into British India. The time for war was not yet, but it was coming. Nikolay could feel it in his warrior’s soul. There would be a time, when the country he loved would square off against the country he’d run to. It would be a time for choosing, a time for testing loyalties.
Perhaps Grigoriev knew it, too. Grigoriev wanted to be ready. But the ambassador would have to find another way into Kuban. Nikolay was not a marrying man. He allowed his gaze to slide surreptitiously over Klara’s fine profile. Not even a woman as beautiful as Klara Grigorieva was going to change that. He firmly believed a career military man like himself; a man who courted danger, had no business with a wife or children. It was hardly fair when the odds were they’d be widowed and fatherless a portion of their lives.
There was the selfish factor, too; he wanted to live and, to do that, he didn’t need the distraction of worry over what happened to him when he was leading raids and defending border forts along the river. The fastest way to be killed on a battlefield was to be distracted. The biggest distraction of all was the fear of having one’s family used against one as leverage. Dimitri Petrovich was proof of that. What he’d endured for years for the sake of his father and sister was lesson enough that love—true love—was hardly worth the sacrifice.
Nikolay wiped his mouth with his napkin and sat back to let the footman take his plate. Klara smiled at him, something challenging and hot in her eyes. Oh, no, marriage was definitely not for him. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t beyond a little flirtation.
Across the table, one of the young protégés expounded to the group at large about the current situation. ‘The military will support Constantine as successor when the time comes.’ Somewhere between contemplating treason and matrimony, the conversation had moved on without him. He had to catch up.
‘When will that be?’ the Count put in. ‘Tsar Alexander is healthy enough. Are we to twiddle our thumbs and wait until he dies? He’s only in his forties. If he’s like his grandmother, he’ll live for eons. Russia cannot take two more decades of his “religious fervour”.’
‘Here, here.’ General Vasilev, brilliant in a decorated scarlet uniform, raised his glass. ‘Russia needs innovation if it’s to catch up with the rest of Europe. If there’s anything good to say about Napoleon, it is this: our boys went out into the world, looked around and saw their country lacking. Too long have we been a land of farmers and feudal princes.’ He aimed a sharp look at Nikolay. ‘Your presence excluded, Your Highness. I do not mean any offence.’ He inclined his head, but his eyes never left Nikolay’s. The man was waiting for him to declare himself. This was the ambush.
‘None taken.’ Nikolay met his gaze with a nod of his own, never believing for a moment those two words would be enough, but hoping he might be lucky.
Amesbury smiled, a cat anticipating cream. A wise man would know the grin was not benign. ‘Does that mean you side with General Vasilev in regards to Russia’s lag in the world?’
Nikolay felt Klara stiffen beside him, evidence that this was the trap that had been laid for him. A test of his loyalties confirmed. Nikolay met Amesbury’s remark, confidently. ‘I believe a man should be able to voice his opinion freely without fear of repercussion. The General is free to say what he will in my presence.’ Even if that speech included plotting rebellion, for surely that’s what lurked beneath the surface of this talk about successors and progress. How interesting. Even more interesting was the hint that they wanted him to join them. Why else would they speak of such things in front of him? To be sure, it was all very oblique, but it was there.
At the other end of the table, Alexei’s eyebrows, dark like his daughter’s, rose in approval. ‘That is a very generous attitude, Your Highness. One that would be revolutionary in its own right in certain conservative circles.’
‘We’re in England, where it’s hardly a remarkable courtesy,’ Nikolay replied broadly and then decided some table-turning might not come amiss. He raised his glass to Grigoriev. ‘My compliments, Your Excellency. What a wonderful night it has been to share a meal with countrymen like myself, men a long way from home. Zazdarovje!’ There was a rousing chorus of Zazdarovje and the clinking of glasses but Nikolay was sure his message had not been missed by the ambassador or by anyone else at the table.
They could ruminate all they liked on his reference to being so far from ‘home’. They could also speculate on his awareness that he knew they plotted, safe on English shores. It was hardly a unique idea. Russia was always plotting, but that made it no less dangerous. ‘Just so we’re clear, gentlemen, I have no desire to engage in politics. I intend to live here quietly.’ Looks were exchanged, topics were changed. His remark altered the tone of the evening. By the time cheeses were set in front of him to end the meal, politics had disappeared entirely from the table. Even when Klara rose and indicated the ladies should follow her to the salon and the brandy decanters came out, politics made no reappearance, which shortened the evening, by a good two hours.
The men did not linger over brandy, and the ‘musical’ portion of the evening was blessedly brief. Why linger when it was time to go? He’d been here long enough to know what he needed to do, and that was disengage. There was nothing here for him but danger and trouble. He had not left Kuban to be dragged back into the mess of politics, sexual or otherwise. It didn’t matter what form the politics took, it was still danger and he had no time for it, no room for it in this new life he was trying to carve out. It was a shame that Miss Grigorieva would be a casualty of that decision, but there was no other choice for it. Better to make that choice now before he might become otherwise invested or had his judgement clouded by less reliable issues than logic.
* * *
‘You are something of a killjoy,’ Klara murmured as she walked him to the hall, the party breaking up shortly before midnight. ‘Go out often, do you?’
Nikolay laughed. ‘No, not to functions like this.’
She arched a brow. ‘I can see why. Are you sure you’re not a politician disguised as an officer?’
‘I leave the politics to my friends, Stepan and Ruslan, when I can. But I’ve yet to meet a military man who doesn’t have the wit to handle both on occasion.’ The butler helped him with his greatcoat. Coat settled, Nikolay took Klara’s hand and bent to it, lips grazing knuckles. ‘Do svidaniya, Miss Grigorieva. Thank you for such an...enlightening...evening.’ Revolution was afoot in Belgravia and while his logical mind knew he should run from it, his heart was already protesting his declaration of living quietly. When had he ever lived quietly? Did he even know how? How ironic that the one thing he’d hoped to avoid in his new life was the one thing that had found him, the one thing that stirred him—if one didn’t count Klara Grigorieva. She stirred him in an entirely different, but no less dangerous, way.
Chapter Five
Klara’s hand was still tingling when the door shut behind the last guest, which was quite possibly what the prince intended, the arrogant man. She’d like to forget him and his seductive effect. She’d like to think he affected her no differently than any other man, but she was not in the habit of lying to herself. Her reaction to Nikolay Baklanov was going to complicate things.
‘The Prince handled himself well this evening. Can he be of use to us?’ Her father issued his question to the two remaining guests—his most intimate advisors, Amesbury and Vasilev. He stood in the doorway to the drawing room, inviting them to join him in consultation. ‘Shall we talk it over?’ She would join the men as a matter of course to work through impressions. This was the custom ever since she’d turned eighteen and had been presented to society. In this manner, her father had subtly coached her in the ways of a diplomat: how to understand people, how to read between the lines of their conversation. Such an education had only been given to her because it served a purpose. She was not the sole beneficiary of the privilege. Her father gained the advantage of his astute daughter’s insights. He understood full well how unguarded men could be in the presence of a pretty young woman, especially when they assumed she was harmless to them, a female expected to be vacuous because she was beautiful.
Her father poured each of them a small glass of viche pitia. He toasted them, ‘Another insightful evening.’
Insightful for Nikolay as well. Klara hazarded a surreptitious glance at Amesbury as she sipped. Nikolay had correctly guessed that Amesbury coveted her. She was acutely aware the Duke wanted to possess her the way a man wanted to possess a fine carriage and excellent horses. The Duke caught her gaze, his eyes hard over his glass, a cold smile hovering on his lips, cold enough to send a shiver down her spine.
Her father was speaking to Vasilev. ‘What do you make of Baklanov?’
‘He understood you were vetting him tonight,’ Vasilev said thoughtfully. ‘He was very careful with his words. He’s not sure what you want him for.’
‘He does now. Can he be a revolutionary?’ her father queried. ‘We dropped enough breadcrumbs for a smart man to follow. Will he? Klara, I defer to you on this.’
It was an honour to be addressed thusly in front of the General and the Duke, a sign of her father’s esteem for her. But it was an honour that made her uncomfortable and yet she could not refuse. The words had brought Amesbury’s intent gaze her direction, his pale blue eyes narrowed in speculation as he drawled, ‘Yes, Klara, you know him best, it seems. You’ve spent more time with him than any of us.’ His words carried a subtle accusatory edge to them.
She locked eyes with Amesbury. She was not afraid of him and his veiled accusation that spending time with Nikolay had been somehow inappropriate. He might intimidate others with his power and his wealth, but not her. She had those things, too. Any thought of demurring faded. She couldn’t afford to. It would mean she was soft, that perhaps she harboured a burgeoning attraction to the Kubanian Prince. Amesbury had noticed their tête-à-tête in the drawing room before dinner. To confirm that impression would be disastrous. It would raise the Duke’s hackles, which would not please her father, and it would prove she was indeed as vacuous as any other female whose head was turned by a handsome face. There was a certain mordancy that the best protection she could give Nikolay was through betrayal.
‘As soon as he knows it’s not a trap, he will follow your breadcrumbs and decide if he can afford to join you,’ she said. It was a small betrayal of Nikolay to be sure, based on her intuition only. But she knew her intuition spoke the truth; the hesitation he’d shown in the park, the ferocity when he’d told her he could not go back to his country, proved her correct. Reticence was a reflex often ascribed to a man who had something to hide, a man who was wary of a trap that would seek to expose what he protected.
Her father and the General nodded. Amesbury sneered. ‘Since you are playing the fortune-teller, perhaps you can tell us if your Prince will join us? Since you know him so well.’
‘My prince? He is hardly that,’ Klara snapped, her hand clenching around the little stem of her viche pitia glass. It was a struggle to keep her tone neutral. Amesbury was jealous. He had no reason to be. Nikolay Baklanov might flirt with a woman, but he was not the sort of man who allowed himself to belong to one. She did not think Nikolay’s flirtation, as delightful, as sensual as it was, was an exclusive commodity. ‘If you are asking about his willingness to join the Union of Salvation, I cannot say. You saw tonight that he is no newcomer to court intrigue. He will not readily reveal his secrets to anyone.’
Her father split a swift glance between the two of them and intervened. He speared Amesbury with a quelling look. ‘There is no need to fight amongst ourselves. Klara was doing the job we assigned her. We must convince the Prince of the rightness of our cause and the importance of him taking a role in it. We need him to take the arms to St Petersburg and to help rally the troops when the time comes. He’s a man others will follow.’ He turned his diplomatic censure on Klara. ‘However, we all risk much by taking him in too soon. We must be sure of him. The group depends on the quality of its associates. One weak link and we go from being patriots to traitors. The line is very thin. Our next step is to discover what has brought Prince Baklanov to England and talk then.’
The glasses were empty and her father made no move to refill them, a polite signal that it was time to leave. General Vasilev rose and made his farewells, but Amesbury lingered, his thin, aristocratic mouth—proof of generations of impeccable English breeding—tight. ‘Walk me to the door, Klara, I’d like a word.’
Klara obliged, for how could she refuse? On the surface, everyone would assume the Duke wanted a moment to apologise for his rudeness, that he would explain it away as a sign of his concern for her. But those assumptions would be false. The Duke apologised to no one and for nothing. Although he was similar to her father in many regards, his inability to apologise was not one of them.
The Duke was a big man with a bearing that neared military in stature. Even though she was tall, Klara had to fight the feeling of ‘smallness’ in his presence, for she did indeed feel small with him, unlike with Nikolay who was his equal in height. Some might call the Duke handsome with his strong facial bones and the grooves etched on either side of his mouth, reinforcing the sternness, the hardness of him. She called him cold, an iceberg personified, complete with glacial blue eyes. She walked beside him in silence, waiting for him to speak.
‘I did not want to say anything in front of the others,’ Amesbury began, ‘However, since I have much at stake in this venture, and perhaps...’ he paused here, attempting a modest demeanour that failed to convince ‘...a certain burgeoning relationship of a personal nature with you, I have the right to ask. How have you come by your information, Klara?’
‘What are you suggesting?’ She removed her hand from his arm and stood apart from him, erasing any façade of a polite couple. She had to stop those presumptions right here. If he presumed they had the foundations of a relationship, who knew what else he would presume? His arrogance would promote all nature of assumption beginning with the idea that a woman couldn’t possibly find him resistible.
‘I’m suggesting that you would have had to work hard to get that information. A man like Baklanov, who likely has much to protect, would not give up information easily. We saw that tonight. How is it that you’ve been privy to such insight? He is not immune to your charms. That was made clear tonight as well. I saw the two of you with your heads together.’
Klara did not flinch at his accusation. She crossed her arms. ‘You call yourself a gentleman and yet you dare to accuse me of seducing the Prince. That’s what you’re implying, isn’t it? That I’ve inappropriately enticed him? The Prince has acted far more the gentleman than you.’
He strode towards her and gripped her arm, his voice a menacing growl. ‘The Prince, a gentleman? Is that what you call him? He had his damn mouth at your ear with all the presumption of a lover.’ His grip hurt, hard enough to bruise. ‘Forgive me my conclusions. You have never allowed me such liberties.’
But he was taking them anyway. The tenacity of his grip of her arm was more than a little frightening. It took all her cool élan not to let him see it. He had never laid hands on her in such a fashion before and this glimpse of possessive violence made her uneasy. What made him think he could do so now? It was a disturbing insight into what relationship with such a man might be like and Klara was determined to put a stop to it.
‘Take your hands off me. The Prince and I rode in the park and we talked.’ All true, but slightly incomplete. There was that kiss, that glorious kiss with an erotic roughness behind it that was far different than the harshness the Duke was exhibiting here in the hall. She would combat the Duke’s physical boldness with a boldness of her own. ‘Jealousy does not become you, nor do you have any claim to such envy.’
‘Perhaps not yet. However, it cannot have escaped your notice that I aspire to have such a claim.’ He removed his hand and stepped back with a curt nod, his words causing an uneasiness in her stomach that rivalled the violence of his touch. ‘I’ll say goodnight, then, Klara.’ There had been no ‘forgive me’ or ‘I beg your pardon’. Simply ‘goodnight.’ Asking for forgiveness would imply he’d done something wrong, an impossibility to Amesbury’s arrogant mind.
She breathed easier when the door was shut behind him. She’d never liked Amesbury. But until recently, she’d never disliked him either. She’d merely found him blandly neutral, a shuttered, arrogant man who held himself aloof from others by nature of his birth. Now, she’d had a glimpse behind those shutters and it had been quite frightening. Klara wrapped her arms about herself. He’d laid angry hands on her in her own home. Perhaps she was reading far too much into it. Men were by nature competitive creatures and Nikolay had provoked him, perhaps she had provoked him. She’d known the Duke watched her. She hadn’t been unaware of how she and Nikolay would have appeared to an outsider. Maybe she had even encouraged it. If one didn’t poke the sleeping dog, it wouldn’t bite you. Recklessness had its consequences, after all. But such reasoning didn’t dispel the shiver that took her when she thought of Amesbury’s hands on her. Nikolay wasn’t the only one with secrets.
It came to her that perhaps her father had a secret, too. The Duke presumed a relationship between them that she felt certain she’d given him no cause to believe in. Had her father? Amid his treaties and plans of revolution, had he alluded to the potential of her hand in exchange for...something? She rapidly sorted through what she knew. Her father had increased the Duke’s wealth. What was he getting in exchange? Was she somehow part of that? She’d always known her father would seek an English marriage for her. She’d been groomed for it. But to the Duke? She hoped not.
Her father strolled into the hall. ‘Have they all gone then?’ he asked. ‘Quite the night. You did well. Baklanov was taken with you, as he should be.’ Her father smiled. ‘My daughter is beautiful.’ Then his gaze turned serious. ‘Can you do it? Can you mine Baklanov’s secrets?’ He was asking her to betray Nikolay to a larger extent.
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