When the carriage came to a stop and Gazi opened the door, she said exactly that in a frantic, blurted-out exclamation of consternation and fear.
“Don’t worry. My men will find your brother,” Darley said, much too calmly she resentfully thought as he lifted her out of the carriage and set her on her feet. “Come,” he said, brusque and peremptory now. “You have to change into riding clothes. Adlberg’s troops will be here shortly.”
“I can’t just leave Etienne behind!” she cried, racing after Darley as he turned and strode toward the house. Stumbling over her shredded skirt and petticoats, she quickly grabbed up fistfuls of silk fabric ripped by the jagged glass from the smashed window and rushed to follow his swift unremitting pace.
“He won’t be left behind. I have a number of informants in town. They’ll find him and take him to safety.” He shot her a hard look over his shoulder. “Don’t argue with me.”
“Take him to safety where?” Accelerating, she tried to keep up with him as he entered the house.
“To Eupatoria. He’ll be safe in the garrison. Omar Pasha is a friend of mine.”
“I don’t even know your name!” she shouted. He was halfway up the stairs and moving fast.
“Darley,” he shouted back. “You can ask me anything you want once we’re in the saddle! My staff will see that your servants are safely away. Cafer is sending men to track down your brother as we speak. Now fucking hurry. I’m not in the mood to be hung tonight!”
Chapter 17
An hour later, they stopped to rest their horses in a ravine carved deep into the treeless steppe. Cafer and Sahin led their mounts to a bubbling rivulet that had been pooled up long ago for just such a purpose.
There had been no opportunity to talk as they’d ridden hard to outdistance pursuit. Seizing the moment now, Aurore peppered Darley with questions. She wanted to know who he was, what his plans were, how she would be impacted by them.
He answered her with reluctant yesses and noes. When those weren’t possible, he chose opaque, ambiguous responses. He was civil but evasive.
“I’m not asking you to hand over your soul,” she finally said, her voice fretful, exasperated, pugnacious challenge in her scowl. “I would just appreciate a general idea of who you are and where we’re going.”
He wanted to say, You know me already, but understood that a man’s knowing and a woman’s weren’t the same. She was not likely to accept his male interpretation. “My name is Hugh D’Abernon, Marquis of Darley,” he said. “I’m English as I already mentioned. I’ve been living in the mountains of Circassia for almost five years. Before that I lived all over.”
“All over? What does that mean? And where in the mountains? I know the mountain tribes.”
Not so well that she’d known for certain he wasn’t Tatar, he thought. But he answered as politely as possible, even as he realized that she was about to become a bloody lot of trouble for the immediate future. “I’ve lived in North Africa, Istanbul, Sicily”—he paused, going back through his history—“San Francisco during the first months of the gold fever. From there, India”—he paused again. “Not so long in India. Too hot,” he said, clearly not meaning it, meaning something else. “After that I crossed over the Caucasus and settled in Circassia.”
“Don’t forget Italy,” she said with stiletto-like finesse.
Bitch, he thought. “Yes, and Italy,” he said, reining in his temper. “As for where we’re going, we have to leave the Crimea. At least until the war is over.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Outraged and resentful, she glared at him. “I’m not leaving the Crimea. How can you even suggest it? This is my home!”
Her reaction was predictable. Which was precisely why he hadn’t wanted to have this discussion. He knew she’d be quarrelsome and difficult. “Our exile may be only temporary,” he explained, striving for a degree of patience he was far from feeling with a mutinous female on his hands and forty miles of Russian territory yet to cross before they reached safety. “And admit, if you return home, even if your estate currently lies within Allied lines, Russian agents could reach you. The Third Section—the secret police—is relentless as you well know.”
“I could tell them that I had been coerced by you—forced to accompany you to dinner in order to dupe the Adlbergs,” she argued. “I could make it clear that my life would have been forfeit had I not submitted to you. Surely if I explained that I had been compelled to do your bidding, I would be believed. I’ve lived here my entire life. My father was born here. Why wouldn’t I be considered trustworthy?”
“Probably because your brother enlisted in the French army. You have to admit, that rather flagrant transgression sends up a warning flag or two.”
“I could explain that he was young and misguided.”
“Perhaps a compassionate judge might believe you,” he said, with forced courtesy, glancing at his men, gauging their readiness, wanting this useless conversation over. “Or maybe a judge would be willing to negotiate some kind of—ah—settlement, shall we say, with you,” he added, softly sardonic. “But you wouldn’t go free. Not with Russia losing this war.”
“So, that’s it? Don’t argue with me,” she snapped, glowering at him, her voice hot with affront. “I’m right, you’re wrong. Just do as you’re TOLD?”
Oh fuck. “I would rather you thought of my solution as mutually beneficial,” he said in a carefully controlled tone of voice.
“Easy for you to say,” she churlishly retorted. “You’re not leaving a prosperous estate behind.”
“I will personally see to it that Raglan understands your property requires security.” He was mentally counting to ten.
“Don’t bother,” she shot back. “Our French forces are much superior to yours. General Pelissier will see that my property is kept safe.”
Feeling victory within his grasp, he resisted the impulse to smile. At least she was no longer refusing to leave the Crimea. With luck—who knew—by the time they reached Balaclava, she might be reconciled to the inevitable. As he saw it, her choices were severely limited—not that he intended to be so brutally frank with her. But if she stayed, she would be tracked down and hung. Both of them would be if caught.
With Russia’s recent disastrous defeat at Eupatoria—the battle lost in only three brief hours—the government needed scapegoats. Rather than take the blame, the incompetent Russian command would willingly sacrifice someone like Aurore.
What better excuse than that a spy had delivered the Allies their victories?
What better excuse for the gross mismanagement by the Russian general staff?
“Tell me where my brother is or I’m not going anywhere,” she muttered, willful and mulish, not yet ready to cede complete victory to Darley. “Is Etienne safe? Has he been taken from Simferopol? I have a right to know that at least, damn you!”
She was working herself into a frenzy. “Cafer,” Darley called out softly, motioning him over.
Leaving the horses with Sahin, Cafer strolled toward them with the rolling gait of a lifelong horseman.
“Miss Clement was inquiring about her brother,” Darley said, a note of warning in his voice as Cafer approached.
“The youth should be halfway to Eupatoria by now.” Cafer smiled faintly, understanding that his friend had his hands full from the look of Miss Clement’s scowl. “I believe he’s riding his favorite horse. That high-spirited black with white markings.”
“Thank you.” Aurore smiled at Cafer. “Thank you very much. I’m very relieved.” Darley received neither thanks nor a smile.
“Are we about ready?” Darley briskly inquired, meeting Cafer’s gaze with a significant look.
Cafer understood that look—long-suffering, asking for mercy. “Anytime,” he said, knowing Darley always made it a point to give wide berth to contentious women. “The horses are ready.”
“Then we’ll ride for another hour before stopping again,” Darley noted, his voice crisp.
Either Da
rley had reason to stop or he was doing it for the lady. Their Karabagh mounts were bred to run for days without rest. Cafer dipped his head in acknowledgment, the silver ornaments on his hat glittering with the movement. “Are you thinking Bahcesaray?”
Darley nodded. “At Alexios’s.”
Question answered, Cafer turned and went to bring up the horses.
A few moments later, Darley offered his hand to Aurore, then lifted her up onto her saddle.
Having chosen boy’s clothing for their escape—part of her contingency wardrobe kept at the hotel in Sevastopol and transferred to Simferopol—she rode astride. Taking time to double-check her cinch and stirrups, Darley slid his fingers over the smooth leather straps with a practiced touch.
Such a courteous man, she thought, when she would have preferred not thinking of him with kindness. When she would have preferred continuing to stoke her anger. But he suddenly touched her thigh, a gentle brushing stroke, and her body—immune to umbrage or resentments—automatically quickened.
“You can rest at Alexios’s,” he said. “We’ll stay long enough to have tea.”
He was adjusting his schedule for her, she knew. He didn’t drink tea and she doubted he needed rest. “I’d appreciate that,” she said, as a pleasurable warmth spread through her senses. And when he smiled up at her, she couldn’t resist smiling back.
That she had favored him with a smile shouldn’t have meant so much. This was not the time to yield to tender sentiment. They were still at risk. Bahcesaray had spies everywhere. Not to mention the countryside was swarming with deserters riding in brigand troops, living by rape and plunder. And deserters had nothing to lose, their lives already forfeit.
Regardless all the hazards and perils facing them, Darley nevertheless experienced a gratifying sense of happiness as he swung back into the saddle.
For the next hour, they pounded east under the light of the moon, avoiding roads and villages, riding cross-country to save time and evade notice, alert to any sign of life on the vast, open steppe.
As they entered the outskirts of the old capital city of Bahcesaray, a church bell somewhere tolled the hour of two. Traveling through the narrow streets, on watch for any individuals out in the wee hours of the night, they traveled for some time before reaching Alexios’s neighborhood. The horses lifted their heads and picked up their pace, the smell of a familiar stable in the air.
A few minutes later, they rode past the two guards at Alexios’s gate and brought their mounts to rest in a large courtyard. A number of grooms and servants immediately appeared to offer their assistance, followed shortly by their host knotting the tie on his crimson silk dressing gown. “Come in, come in,” Alexios exclaimed, greeting them warmly. “I will have tea brought up.” He knew better than to ask why they had arrived in the dead of night.
After introducing Aurore, Darley added, “We won’t stay long. But if you could see that a telegram is sent, I would be grateful.”
Aurore pinned Darley with her gaze. “A telegram?”
“I’ll send one for you as well.”
Not knowing their host, she didn’t question Darley further. “Thank you,” she simply said.
“Is all well then?” Pallas pleasantly inquired, meeting Darley’s gaze.
“As well as can be expected,” Darley said, his brows lifting expressively, “with the country at war.”
“Ah, yes, the continuing machinations of governmental forces,” Alexios murmured, knowing he’d have an explanation from Darley later. “Come now”—he waved them toward his mansion. “Have some refreshments while I see that your messages are sent.”
Cafer and Sahin opted for the servants’ hall, familiar with both the establishment and most of the inhabitants since the banker was a close friend of Darley’s.
Pallas, in turn, escorted Aurore and Darley upstairs to a large room overlooking a moonlit garden. Servants had preceded them. The room was lit by two magnificent chandeliers, the candlelight warm and welcoming. Exquisite carpets lay haphazardly on the floor, one atop the other in luxurious, colorful excess. Silk-covered divans in brilliant colors lined the walls. Antique sculpture, so prevalent in a region populated for two millennium, adorned the room, while the walls were embellished with ancient frescoes depicting frolicking gods and goddesses.
“If you’d like to freshen up first, Miss Clement,” Pallas murmured, beckoning a servant forward.
Grateful to have an opportunity to wash away the dirt of the road, Aurore willingly followed the servant. She was tired, her life was in disarray, her future unknown. To wash her face and hands and have a cup of hot tea was sufficient at the moment. She didn’t want to think of anything beyond those basic needs.
In Aurore’s absence Darley quickly explained their situation to Alexios while his host escorted him to a small office. Shown to a large desk set in the center of the room, Darley sat down and swiftly encrypted a message, detailing Governor Adlberg’s dispatch. He readied one message for Raglan and another for Pelissier. Although Pelissier would have to have his telegram translated by Cattley’s staff since Darley was unfamiliar with the French code.
Once finished, Darley handed the two sheets of paper to Pallas, who, in turn, handed them to his waiting native factotum.
“I own the telegraph office,” the banker said with a slight smile as his steward exited the room. “Not officially, of course. The French ostensibly do. But who will guard their lines if not for me. Rest assured, your messages will go through. My men patrol the entire telegraph line east of Varna.” He rose from his lounging pose in a beautifully carved armchair. “Now, let us join your lovely lady friend, who by the way is a pleasure to behold in her leather breeches. And I expect you’d like something stronger than tea.”
Darley debated explaining the state of his and Aurore’s friendship, but transient as it was, decided against any disclosure. “If we didn’t have two more hours to ride,” he said, instead, “I’d say give me the whole bottle.”
“With the exception of deserters, the Allies control the country from here to the coast. I’ll send some of my men with you as well. So have your bottle if you wish.”
Darley grimaced as he came to his feet. “I’d better not. I don’t want to risk losing my temper.”
Alexios grinned. “I rather thought I detected a bit of trouble in paradise.” He and Darley had done their share of carousing together. “The lady looked slightly disgruntled.” With Darley, there were always women and, from time to time, the inevitable difficulties as well.
Darley shrugged and moved toward the door. “We’re arguing about leaving the Crimea. Aurore doesn’t want to leave; I don’t blame her. This is her home.”
“But we don’t want her to hang,” Pallas pointed out softly.
“You tell her that,” Darley muttered. “I’ve tried.”
“She runs their estate, according to her brother.” Pallas bowed Darley through the door before him. “And now I find out that she’s a competent secret agent as well.” He kept pace with Darley as they moved down the hall. “Miss Clement is a woman of parts, my friend. You can’t expect her to be docile.”
“At this particular time, I prefer she was,” Darley grumbled. “In her current mood, I don’t relish being in close quarters with her on my yacht.”
“Are you sailing home?”
“Yes. My work here is over for the moment. As is Aurore’s. So before the assassins get us, I thought I’d escort her to Paris on my way to England. With luck, her brother might be in residence when we arrive. He left for Eupatoria while we rode east.” Darley smiled. “Or at least such are my plans. To convince her is another matter.”
“You don’t think she’ll eventually understand?”
Darley shrugged. “She would prefer returning to her estate. She would also like to ignore the fact that the Third Section will come and exact their revenge on her.”
“As they surely will,” Alexios agreed.
“Now, if only she will see the light,” Darley d
rawled.
Alexios smiled. “You have an interesting conundrum on your hands, my friend. You who rail against the boredom of overly obliging women have found your match in this lovely lady. Perhaps you should simply sit back and enjoy the fireworks.”
“You have a point. She is damned interesting.”
“I presume you are not speaking of her conversational skills,” Pallas murmured.
Darley grinned. “No. But she is well read.”
“Then make sure you bring along plenty of books for your journey home,” Pallas suggested drolly. “For those times when you’re too tired to fuck.”
“I have not yet reached that stage,” Darley replied, considering their sea voyage with slightly more optimism.
“Lucky man,” Pallas quipped.
“Perhaps.” Darley still wasn’t convinced, but he had to admit, there were definitely compensations.
As the men approached the door to the salon, Pallas’s factotum came racing toward them down the hall, frantically waving a sheet of paper.
Pallas touched Darley’s arm. “Wait. Kosmas is not easily excited.”
“The tsar is dead!” Kosmas gasped. “I waited for—a reply—as you instructed,” he panted, stopping before them. He handed the telegram to Pallas. “The French speak openly of his death.”
Lips pursed, Pallas digested the shocking news before handing the telegram to Darley.
“Nicholas died March 2,” Darley murmured. He looked up. “The information arrived in France and England via Berlin the very day he died.”
“Yet seven days later, no one here has heard the news.” Pallas shrugged. “No wonder Russia is losing this war. Thank you, Kosmas. I won’t need you again tonight.” He glanced at Darley. “Will I?”
“No, we’re leaving soon. Thank you, Kosmas,” Darley added, smiling at the factotum before turning back to Pallas. “Nicholas’s death should help bring the war to an end.”
“One can only hope,” Pallas noted, waving Darley before him into the salon.
The two men found Aurore seated on a pink silk divan, a teacup in hand. She’d loosened her hair from the pigtail she’d worn for riding, her golden tresses pale against the blackness of her jacket.
At Her Service Page 14
