At Her Service

by Susan Johnson

  While she ate with a healthy appetite generated by hours of sex with Gazi, the governor held forth on Menshikov’s various missteps and errors in the battle for Eupatoria, arguing point by tedious point how he would have made a better, more decisive and ultimately more successful commander if the military had but listened to his advice.

  “Such a shame the general staff is so insular,” Aurore commiserated when he briefly ceased his harangue to take a sip of wine. “Anyone knows, a man such as yourself who has lived in the area would have the necessary background so crucial to battle planning.”

  “Here, here,” one of the retired generals barked, drained his wine glass and snapped his fingers for a refill. “Have to know the terrain, damned right!”

  “Did I not mention exactly that to Menshikov and his staff on more than one occasion; did they take notice?” The governor snorted. “You saw what happened—defeat in every sense of the word.”

  “Stupid asses—the lot of them,” the other old general muttered with a sympathetic nod for the governor.

  “Are you concerned for Simferopol now that the Allies have won the day in Eupatoria?” Aurore asked, her voice tremulous by design, hoping to unearth some pertinent information. “Might they march on the city?”

  “No, no. There is nothing to fear, my dear,” the count said with an indulgent smile. “The Turks will not move from the garrison. Omar Pasha is content to rest on his laurels.” He leaned forward slightly and lowered his voice. “We have well-placed spies inside. Our information is completely accurate.”

  “Vicious fighters, those Turks,” the elderly general on Aurore’s left grumbled. “Fought them twice and bloody tough they were.”

  “With a top-rate cavalry too,” his companion grunted. “Still have the saber cuts to prove it.”

  Tossing a dismissive glance at the elderly men who had turned to each other and were reminiscing about their prowess in the Turkish wars, the governor offered Aurore a kindly smile. “You must not worry, my dear. We are quite safe here.”

  “You don’t know how reassuring it is to hear you say so, Your Excellency. One worries, naturally, that the Allies might march northward.”

  “The roads are impassable,” he noted brusquely. “Even if they wished to invade our town, they couldn’t transport their artillery. We are out of harm’s way. Furthermore, it’s just a matter of time until Menshikov is removed. Our security will soon be in much more competent hands.” He leaned very close this time and whispered, “Only today I received a dispatch informing me that old Gorchakov is to be installed in Menshikov’s place.” He sat back again and smiled. “We’ll see how the Allies do against General Gorchakov who single-handedly broke Napoleon’s army.”

  He was referring to the winter campaign of 1812.

  Forty-some years ago.

  “Good God, how old is the man!” the guardsman exclaimed, having appeared bored with the conversation until the governor’s last comment. Like so many young officers, he felt far superior to the military relics from the past.

  “Experience will tell in the end, not some wet-behind-the-ears upstart,” the governor snapped, the man in the immaculate uniform patently untested in battle.

  The lieutenant flushed red and looked away.

  “You’re right, of course, Your Excellency,” Aurore murmured, affable and gracious, when in truth she agreed with the young subaltern’s assessment.

  Both the Russian and British command relied on generals who hadn’t been to war in more than two decades. Unlike France, Russia and England had refused to take advantage of the young commanders who had fought recent colonial campaigns. Instead, they used men long past their prime who were ignorant of the new techniques of warfare and—most telling—were physically unable to meet the daily demands of battlefield operations. Both Menshikov and Raglan had spent the winter in their snug farmhouses instead of waging war.

  “Was your message from the tsar or from the war office?” Aurore inquired, pressing for more information. “Not that I know anything about such important subjects,” she added with a sweet smile, “but you know how ladies like to gossip, and rumor has it that the tsar follows the campaign closely. They say he even occasionally takes a hand in strategy,” she finished with a look of wide-eyed innocence.

  “Just so, my dear,” Count Adlberg murmured. “He does indeed. My dispatch came directly from the tsar by the hand of his son, Alexander. I hold a very important post, as you well know. The royal family relies on me in significant ways.”

  That the count was as vain as his wife was well known. “Everyone is aware of that, Your Excellency,” Aurore noted with an ingratiating smile. “That the tsar depends on your good judgment is no surprise. He is intelligent enough to understand that you are here in the midst of the campaign. Who better to relay the true nature of the situation.”

  “Exactly.” Count Adlberg puffed out his chest so his medals glittered, Menshikov’s disinterest quite forgotten. “A Horse Guard is always a Horse Guard,” he pronounced, his cavalry mustache twitching as he shot a withering glance at the lieutenant who was from a less exalted regiment. “We are honor bound to do our duty to God and country, and we will!”

  The young officer was sulking, his gaze on his wineglass, the governor’s blunt insult to his corps falling on deaf ears.

  Offering the governor a warm smile to divert him from pressing the young officer with some male unpleasantness having to do with so-called principles of honor, Aurore said, admiration in her gaze, “We are all most fortunate to have men of your stature leading us to victory.”

  “And victory will come, my dear, never fear.” Leaning forward again, the count spoke in an undertone. “Today’s dispatch also stated that five more divisions are marching south. Those together with Gorchakov’s new command will assure us victory within the month. Everyone knows the English ranks are seriously depleted. The French still have a considerable force, but their emperor is a trial for General Pelissier. The fool wants to command by telegraph from Paris.” The count snorted. “Napoleon’s nephew is no general—mark my words.”

  Mark his words in more ways than one, Aurore thought, determined to see Adlberg’s recent dispatch for herself. Smiling prettily at the governor as he rattled on about how intimate his relationship was with the tsar, she wondered whether music would follow dinner. If not, the usual dancing would allow her the opportunity to slip away for a few minutes. Concentrating on the governor’s face, she gave every appearance of absorbed attention while she planned how best to accomplish her mission.

  At that point, she refused more wine—feigning a ladylike gentility. She would need all her wits about her to get to the dispatch undetected. With the task before her occupying her mind, she impatiently waited for the tedious dinner to end.

  At long last, dessert concluded, Helena rose to her feet, her diamonds sparkling on her ears and plump bosom. Smiling at her guests, she announced with her usual commanding air, “We have an epic performance for you tonight. Madame Vicoli, fresh from her recent triumph in Venice, will entertain us with her most successful role as Violetta in La Traviata.”

  The men inwardly groaned, as did a good number of the ladies who were either impatient for their whist game or the more pleasant game of dalliance.

  Aurore almost crowed with delight. With what might very well be a lengthy program, with what would at least be a noisy program, she would have an excellent opportunity to slip away—ostensibly to the ladies’ retiring room.

  She could even plead a headache if necessary.

  Taking advantage of the governor’s momentary inattention as another guest spoke to him, Aurore quickly rose to her feet and moved away from the table. She had no wish to be escorted into the music room by Adlberg; she particularly didn’t want to be seated at the front of the room near her host and hostess.

  Darley was unable to leave the dining room with equal ease. Claimed by Helena as her partner for the evening, he was obliged to conduct her into the music room, with good
grace if not his full attention. Like Aurore, he had other things on his mind.

  After seating the countess, Darley stood behind her chair, playing the gallant. A captive one. Turning to survey the assembly at one point, he caught Aurore’s eye and grimaced.

  She understood. He was being forced to play cicisbeo to Helena.

  Having deliberately seated herself near the back of the room, Aurore bided her time, waiting for the opportune moment when she could leave with the least notice. After Madame Vicoli took her first bows and embarked on her second solo, “Ah, fors e lui,” Aurore considered the time appropriate. Everyone was still nominally focused on the stout singer from Milan, boredom not having set in yet.

  Just as she was about to rise, she saw Gazi lean over and whisper into Helena’s ear. A moment later, he stood upright, turned and walked from the room.

  Swearing under her breath, Aurore considered her options. If she left now, she risked running into Gazi. Should that happen, she would likely have to abort her mission. On the other hand, if she left now and didn’t see Gazi, her absence was less apt to be noticed with everyone’s attention still on Madame Vicoli. Gripping the arms of her chair, she hesitated. Should she or shouldn’t she? Ultimately, time constraints determined her course of action. It was now or never. Coming to her feet, she smiled at those guests who had also chosen to sit at the back of the room and moved past them with a studied casualness.

  Once out in the hall, she allowed herself a small sigh of relief.

  Step one accomplished.

  Glancing up and down the empty corridor, she quickly moved toward the main staircase. Having visited the governor’s house often, she was familiar with the floor plan. That the ladies’ retiring room was on the same floor as the reception rooms was a slight problem, but she would claim ignorance should she be stopped by anyone of consequence as she made her way downstairs.

  Understanding time was of the essence, she cautioned herself to remain calm. Instead, as though defying rational thought, a cold chill gripped her senses and it took all her will to tamp down the rush of fear. That spies were summarily executed if captured was not helpful to recall. Concentrate, she silently urged herself. Concentrate on the task at hand.

  She was breathing hard—from both nerves and her speedy trek down the stairs and ground floor corridors—when she reached the count’s study. The room was distant from the main reception rooms, tucked away at the back of the house. Not exactly in close proximity to the music room. Which was both good and bad.

  Placing her hand on the door lever, she rehearsed her lie should someone be inside the study. She would give the appearance of being tipsy and say, So very sorry, I’m looking for the ladies’ retiring room.

  So then…

  Taking a deep breath, she pressed down on the door handle, heard the soft click of the latch give way and, pushing open the door, slipped inside the dimly lit chamber.

  “You!” she gasped.

  Gazi was standing at the desk. “Get out,” he said, his voice knife sharp.

  She shut the door instead and locked it.

  “Don’t be foolish,” he muttered, his face half in shadow with only the desk lamp lit. “Leave.”

  “If someone knocks we can be lovers looking for privacy.”

  “They won’t believe it.” From the moment she’d locked the door there had been no question in his mind what she was here for.

  “I’m surprised,” she said, moving toward him.

  “We both are,” he said drily. “But this isn’t a game.”

  “I’m aware of that. Was Helena as revealing as her husband? You needn’t answer. It appears she was. Who do you work for?”

  “I might ask the same of you.”

  “The French.”

  “The English.”

  “Are you English?”

  He hesitated a fraction of a second, having lived with his disguise for some time. “Yes,” he finally said. There was no longer any point in subterfuge.

  “That explains the mannerisms that didn’t quite fit a man called Gazi.”

  “How perceptive,” he muttered, his gaze flipping back to the documents he was reading. “Now, go. I’ll share this with you later.”

  “Why should I believe you?” She’d reached the desk although he gave no notice, his attention on the dispatches before him.

  “You have to know this is fucking dangerous,” he growled, turning over a page. “Let me take the risks.”

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “What difference does it make? Either you believe me or you don’t.”

  “Considering the circumstances, I’m not in a particularly trusting mood. You’re not who you said you were, you’re not a legitimate trader. Who knows, you may not even be English.”

  Darley looked up once more, gave her a disgusted look and said, “Fine. Stay. But don’t expect me to save your hide if something goes wrong.”

  “I can take care of myself.”

  “Sure you can. Here, help yourself.” He shoved some sheets of paper her way.

  Darley was reading the last page of the dispatch when he lifted his head. He quickly shut off the gas lamp. “Did you hear that?” His nostrils flared like a wolf on the scent, his face washed in silver moonlight.

  Aurore hadn’t heard a thing.

  “Now listen and don’t argue.” His voice was pitched low. “There’s someone outside the window—maybe more than one. I’m guessing we have guests outside in the corridor as well.” He was shoving the papers down the front of his tunic. “How good a shot are you?”

  Aurore’s heart was beating so loudly, she had to strain her ears to hear him. But her voice was steady when she said, “I’m good.”

  “Here.” He pulled a small revolver from his trouser pocket and handed it to her. “You have four shots. Use them wisely. I’m going to throw a chair through that window to give us a moment of surprise. Then I’m going through; you’re to follow on my heels. It’s only a foot or so to the ground, but don’t stumble. You understand?” he murmured, slipping a second larger handgun from under his tunic.

  She nodded, then said, “Yes,” because he wasn’t looking at her, his gaze was on the windows.

  “You know what will happen to us if we’re caught.”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.” He swung back. “Then you won’t be queasy about using your weapon.”

  “No.”

  Quickly checking the rounds in his revolver, he tucked it in his belt and lifted the desk chair. “On the count of three—the chair, me behind it, you behind me. With luck we’ll only have some house guards to deal with. With real luck the rest of the party is unaware of our activities. But those footsteps in the corridor could mean I’m wrong. The door’s locked though”—his smile flashed—“thanks to you. We won’t have to immediately deal with that threat. Ready? Here we go—one, two, three.”

  The crash of breaking glass was followed by a series of gunshots. From the garden outside, through the locked door. From Darley’s Lefaucheux Francotte revolver as he leaped through the smashed window, gun blazing.

  A man screamed, the sound echoing in the still, black night.

  Two more quick rounds from Darley’s pistol and a second anguished cry.

  “Are you there?” he grunted, shoving his hand backward as he ran.

  Aurore caught his hand.

  His fingers closed on hers, and an instant later she was swung off her feet and swept up into his arms. A hard-as-nails Hercules to her rescue.

  As Darley raced through the silent garden, the sounds of pursuit were left behind.

  “We’re lucky that was a good solid door,” he muttered.

  While Aurore wasn’t precisely in shock, having experienced violence directed at her for the first time left her breathless. Or perhaps leaping through the window and keeping up with Gazi was the cause.

  He glanced down. “Are you all right?”

  She forced air into her lungs. “Fine,” she whispered.<
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  He laughed as if this was some lark. As if he regularly fought his way out of deadly ambushes. “You’ll be even better soon, my fearless little lioness,” he said, still smiling, scarcely breathing hard. “We’re almost there.”

  She thought about asking where there was but couldn’t quite put words in order with her nerves still quivering and her heart beating like a drum.

  After leaping over a low stone wall bordering the garden, Darley tossed her through the open door of his waiting carriage. “Go!” he ordered, slamming the door shut and leaping up beside Cafer.

  In seconds, the horses were galloping full-out, the black coach careening down the narrow lane toward town. Braced to remain upright in the luxurious interior, bobbing like a cork in the sea with the continuous crack of the whip urging on the team, Aurore understood now why they’d taken Gazi’s—or whatever his name’s—carriage and driver tonight. She also understood why the carriage was not where they’d left it.

  She should have known something was in the air when Gazi had had a change of heart and insisted they go to dinner while she had changed her mind as well and was coaxing him to stay in bed.

  She should have known when he’d said, “Be a dear and come along with me. I’ll see that you are suitably rewarded when we get back home.” His smile had been deliciously wicked. “Whatever you want, as long as you want,” he’d whispered against her ear.

  How could she have refused that?

  He had known as much.

  She was grateful at least that the self-styled Gazi had been cautious enough to plan for all the eventualities. Not that she didn’t doubt he would have preferred their activities had gone unnoticed.

  But now that their conspicuous departure exposed them to unaccountable dangers, her first order of business was to find Etienne and warn him. Their pursuers would soon be in full cry.