At Her Service

by Susan Johnson

  Leather became her, Darley reflected, but then what didn’t? She would have been equally enticing in sackcloth or—nothing at all, he luridly thought. Curtailing his carnal impulses—this was hardly a practical time—he said, “We have unexpected news.” At the sudden panic in her eyes, he quickly added, “It’s of a political nature, not about your brother. Tsar Nicholas died last week.” He bowed faintly. “We are obliged to your countrymen for the information—the news was relayed by French telegraph.”

  “You may thank the French for their greater troop strength as well.” In Darley’s absence, Aurore had continued to augment her laundry list of his shortcomings and misdemeanors. “Or you’d be losing this war.”

  A muscle twitched along his jaw. “Agreed.”

  The look passing between Darley and Miss Clement was definitely acrimonious, Alexios decided. “Vodka?” he blandly inquired, glancing at Darley. “Or would you prefer brandy?”

  “Brandy. Bring the bottle,” Darley muttered, dropping down on a vividly patterned divan a room’s width from Aurore. His temper barely in check, he thought it prudent to keep his distance.

  Pallas left to find a servant, and a heavy silence fell.

  Lengthened. Poisonously.

  “How’s your tea?” Darley asked at last, clipped and indifferent.

  “Excellent.” Aurore offered him a frozen smile. “Are we staying long?”

  “Perhaps.” Lounging back against the pillows, he put up his booted feet and leisurely crossed his ankles. Making it plain who was in charge of their schedule. Taking pleasure in her scowl.

  “Is pursuit no longer an issue?” An icy voice to go with her frozen smile.

  “Not much of an issue.”

  “Meaning?”

  “We’ll take some of Alexios’s troopers with us when we leave. And this is more or less Allied territory now.”

  “Thank you for the information.” Malice in every word.

  “You’re welcome,” he replied with equal spite, unsure why he felt the need to win this fight. Just knowing he did.

  As it happened, they stayed longer than Darley had planned.

  The brandy was to blame. It helped blur the sharp edges of his anger, or he felt as though it did. Or perhaps it no longer mattered when they left since Raglan and Pelissier were in possession of the pertinent facts. Not to mention, they’d be safe against pursuit with Alexios’s troopers guarding them.

  Why not drink when he was in a drinking mood?

  As the brandy bottle was emptied, the men discussed the war, the state of readiness of the opposing armies, the ineffectiveness of the siege. They both knew to a farthing the quality of the officers in charge, the good ones, the bad ones, the ones like Cardigan who only played at war until it was no longer amusing. Contriving some flimsy excuse about his health, Cardigan had already sailed home on his private yacht with the comforts of a French chef and cases of champagne to ease his journey.

  The two men compared notes on the rising number of cholera cases, a fact of life with the winter cold dissipating and the water supplies contaminated. They bet large sums on when the war would be over, whether typhus and cholera would ultimately prevail or the huge new artillery guns pounding Sevastopol would eventually win the day.

  Darley bet on August for an end to the gore.

  Pallas was of the mind that the Russians would fight to the last man. He put his wager on December.

  Their examination of the war came to an end once the bottle was empty.

  Darley slowly rose from the sofa, not unsteadily, but with the exactitude of a man who had had considerable drink. He bowed to his host. “We thank you for your splendid hospitality. It’s time to bid you and the Crimea adieu. We have become personas non grata.”

  “I understand.” Pallas smiled. “It was inevitable was it not in your trade?”

  Darley’s white teeth flashed in a grin. “I suppose.”

  Turning to Aurore who had immediately stood when Darley had, the Greek banker bowed. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Miss Clement. Give my regards to your brother.”

  “Thank you. I shall.”

  Her smile was quite dazzling, Pallas decided. He expected Darley would soon find a way to assuage her anger. Leading his guests downstairs, he escorted them outside to the courtyard where their mounts waited. “I wish you good journey,” he said. “You should be safe with my troopers.”

  Their leave-taking was exquisitely polite. The tension between Darley and Aurore went unmentioned, all the requisite courtesies performed with a cultivated civility. Darley helped Aurore into her saddle, she thanked him, Darley mounted, thanked his host and wheeled his mighty Karabagh with perhaps only slightly more force than necessary.

  His charger was well trained and generally treated with affection; Aristo forgave his master’s display of temper. And once out in the country, Darley bent low over the massive, golden neck, patted the silky coat and whispered an apology in his horse’s ear. Then he murmured something more.

  Aristo blew down his nose and pricked his ears; a second later he dug in his heels in a great surge of power, responding to Darley’s quiet words. His hindquarters sank away as he prepared to spring into his stride, and in a great bound he leaped forward. He was galloping full out in seconds.

  The Karabagh were a competitive breed, so the other horses took up the charge and followed of their own accord.

  How pleasant it was to forgot all else with a racing horse beneath you running wild and strong, Aurore thought, in the mood for speed. With the wind in her face, the grassy steppe rushing up toward her between her horse’s ears, powerful frame and limbs moving under her with the rhythm and force of a freight train, the contentious world blissfully disappeared.

  They galloped for miles hell-bent for leather over the moonlit steppes, Darley remaining well in the lead. Everyone rode superbly. This was a country of horsemen, their mounts all hard and lean and trained to the inch. They raced through light fog banks in the valleys, flew full tilt over the moonlit high ground, rode through fields of spring flowers and waves of grass, inhaled the sweet scents washing up over them in fragrant clouds.

  Until—at last, Darley closed his fingers around the reins, squeezed lightly, slowly fed out the leathers again, and Aristo slowed to a canter.

  And so they traveled the remainder of the night, rocking softly in their padded saddles, dozing at times—leisurely advancing on Balaclava.

  His temper dispelled, Darley no longer felt the need to ride like a man possessed.

  They were well within Allied lines as well.

  And reaching their destination only meant a renewal of the struggle between Aurore and himself.

  Chapter 18

  When they reached Raglan’s farmhouse on a hill above Balaclava, it was almost dawn, a faint golden glow streaking the horizon.

  “This shouldn’t take long,” Darley said, dismounting, Aurore and the men remaining in the saddle. “Raglan’s still abed, I expect, but Cattley will be up.” Raglan’s intelligence chief occupied a room in the farmhouse to expedite the transmission of critical information. “We’ll ride over to French headquarters after this.”

  True to his word, he returned shortly, his report to Cattley quickly done.

  “Your brother reached Eupatoria safely,” he mentioned as he remounted. “A messenger recently arrived with that and other news.” What he didn’t say was that Etienne was aboard ship bound for Marseille. He wasn’t yet ready for the argument about who was going where, when and with whom. “Now, we’re off to see Pelissier, right?” His tone was bland as was his query. He wanted her aboard his yacht before any contentious issues came up.

  Aurore’s report to Pelissier took considerable time.

  Seated on a makeshift bench constructed from packing crates that had been set beside what had once been a garden fountain—now bereft of Neptune’s head—Darley checked his watch again.

  “Maybe she went out the back,” Cafer murmured, lounging in his saddle, rolling himsel
f another cigarette.

  “I’d like to think not, but—”

  “I’ll check.” Slipping his unlit cigarette in his shirt cuff, Cafer nudged his mount with the merest touch of his heels and rode away.

  He was back five minutes later, a satisfied smile on his face. “No back door—or rather, it’s nailed shut. So much for French trust.”

  Darley smiled tightly. “A sensible people.”

  “Like your darling?” Cafer teased.

  “She’s not my darling.” Darley grimaced. “As for her being sensible, I have no such illusions.”

  “Tie her up and carry her aboard.”

  “It might come to that.” He wasn’t joking.

  When Aurore reappeared nearly an hour later she had a sullen look on her face. Unconsciously bracing himself, Darley came to his feet. The next few hours could prove difficult.

  “The general agrees with you,” Aurore said, her nose curled in distaste, her chin lifted defiantly. “I hope you’re happy.”

  Understanding that she didn’t appreciate having been overruled by both Pelissier and him, Darley carefully refrained from saying he was. “It’s only a temporary retreat,” he said, in an effort to mollify.

  “Pelissier said as much,” she replied with a sniff of displeasure.

  As would any reasonable man. “You should pack a few things,” he suggested, following her to her horse. “Will your staff stay or go do you think?” He wanted to talk about mundane things in order to avoid the more divisive issues. “Should I send Alexios’s men home or would you like them to stay?”

  “Send them home.” She turned on him as she reached her horse. “And you needn’t speak to me as though I were a child. I won’t embarrass you and make a scene.” She was tired, tired of fighting the black and white certainties.

  She wouldn’t have liked him to say thank you, so he didn’t. But he thought it. “Here,” he said instead, cupping his hands. “Let me help you up.”

  As she stepped into his cupped palms, he threw her up on her horse.

  She sat a horse with ease, she rode well, she was an accomplished woman in any number of ways. He couldn’t expect her to be a pattern card for submission, now could he? “I’ll let Alexios’s men know our plans and see Cafer and Sahin off, then I’ll follow you.”

  With the briefest of nods she turned her horse toward home. Pelissier had promised her the war would be over by the end of the summer. She hoped he was right. She hoped even more that she could return to her vineyards and when she did everything would be as it once was.

  But she wasn’t delusional.

  There were always winners and losers in conflicts like this.

  Countries’ borders were often redrawn after a war.

  Even local authorities might covet valuable property such as hers once she left. The taint of Etienne’s defection would be a reasonable enough excuse to confiscate the land. She sighed. If crying helped she’d cry an ocean of tears.

  Not likely that however.

  Squaring her shoulders, she faced the sobering truth.

  Leave she must.

  And after that—who knew?

  She could only hope for the best.

  The Third Section’s agent in Sevastopol had been wakened with very important news from Simferopol. Gazi Maksoud and Miss Clement had been exposed as spies.

  In his nightshirt and slippers, Kubitovitch snapped at the breathless rider who had ridden forty miles in less than four hours. “Are they captured?” He could practically taste his triumph as he marched the pair into Osten-Sacken’s office.

  The messenger visibly quailed.

  “Well?” A voice cold as the grave.

  “They escaped, sir.”

  The captain swore. “Wait outside,” he ordered curtly, then turned and walked to a desk in the corner of the small apartment.

  As the door closed on the messenger, Kubitovitch smoothed out a map and studied it for a moment, lips pursed, one finger tapping the desktop. One made one’s own decisions this far from Petersburg and while he didn’t precisely have carte blanche in his operations, if he could capture these two, it was worth the risk of taking responsibility into his own hands.

  His superiors had been exceptionally free with operational funds since the war had taken a turn for the worse. They were willing to pay any price for victory. He would send a message to his informants; they were to notify him immediately if either Gazi or Miss Clement were sighted. After walking to the door, he pulled it open and beckoned the messenger in.

  “Tell Shuvkin I need him now.” He gave directions to his adjunct’s lodgings. “Then come back for further orders.”

  Kubitovitch shut the door, then poured himself a fine brandy. He had aspirations beyond his present rank. Once he had been gazetted captain, he had availed himself of a fashionable tailor, given up vodka for the more fashionable brandy, and had on occasion now been known to peruse etiquette books. There would come a time when people like Osten-Sacken would rue the day they’d crossed him. The Grand Duke might hold the title of commander of the Third Section, but affairs could be handled outside protocols if one was careful.

  Taking a sip of the aged brandy, he rolled the liquid around on his tongue, savoring the subtleties of the grape for a brief moment. Then he set about putting his orders for the coming pursuit in writing.

  The two culprits would be leaving the Crimea.

  The only question was where they would go to ground.

  With the exception of the vineyard, Aurore was pleased to note that nothing had changed at her estate in the weeks she had been away. The house was the same, her staff as warm and familiar, the vineyards beginning to leaf out in the warmth of spring. After gathering everyone in the large drawing room, she explained what had occurred in her absence, editing her account in order not to either implicate or alarm her staff unnecessarily. She offered them all the choice of staying or being paid a generous stipend and returning to their home villages.

  “The outcome of the war is still uncertain. Nor can I promise our vineyards will continue to be secure. Although, I have every faith they will,” she finished with slightly more hope than confidence.

  Her steward and housekeeper were determined to stay and she thanked them for their loyalty and courage.

  “The men are all armed, miss,” her steward, Kalgay, said. “And word has it Sevastopol will fall before long. Peotr was there the other day and the bombardment of the town is emptying entire neighborhoods.”

  Her staff, from housemaids to field workers, all agreed to stay.

  She hadn’t realized it mattered so much; she’d thought she could deal with their decision whatever it might be. But she found her eyes welling with tears, and swallowing hard, she said, “I thank you all. Papa, Maman and Etienne would thank you as well if they were here. Rest assured, I shall return just as soon as the war is over.” And in that moment she realized she would pay whatever price she must to come back home.

  Darley had overtaken Aurore before she reached home and now watching Aurore speak to her staff, he was touched with a sense of nostalgia. How many years had it been since he’d been home? How many years had it been since he’d felt as though he had a home? While he’d visited his family from time to time, he’d not spent more than a fortnight in England in years.

  As Aurore hugged every one of her servants good-bye, he felt a sudden pang of loneliness. He once had a home and family. He once had a wife and son.

  So long ago now…

  Case-hardened against useless regret, he quickly repressed his mournful thoughts and focused instead on the here and now—more pertinently on their time constraints. He glanced at the clock. Dare he say he’d like to sail with the tide?

  “Do you need any help with anything?” he said instead.

  Aurore turned around. She knew what he meant. “I suppose we should leave.”

  “I would like to catch the tide if possible.”

  He had said his yacht was in the harbor at Balaclava. “How much
time do I have?”

  “Three hours.”

  It would take them forty minutes to cover the distance. “I’ll be ready soon,” she said.

  “If you don’t need me, I’ll go outside and wait.”

  “Please do. I won’t be long.”

  Moving through the enfilade of elegant rooms, he reached the entrance hall and walked outside. Sitting down on the steps, he leaned back on his elbows and gazed out to sea. Catherine the Great had offered her foreign businessmen some of the most valuable coastal property in the Crimea. Aurore’s estate bordered the sea for miles, her house built on the crest of a rise that fell away to spectacular cliffs and sandy beaches below. The house was a French chateau design, constructed from local white limestone, the parkland surrounding it lush with vegetation, flower beds and the occasional palm tree.

  The climate was generally temperate except for those few winter months when the winds brought the arctic air down from the north. Unfortunately, last winter had been even more brutal than usual.

  A shame Raglan and his staff had been relying on English travel reports from misleading sources when they’d planned the campaign. That mistake had proved fatal for thousands of troops. No one had thought to order warm clothing for the soldiers or proper tents or fodder for the horses.

  The Duke of Newcastle, secretary of war at the time, had assured the dissenters, including Charles Cattley who had lived his entire life in Kerch, that according to Dr. Lee, winter in the Crimea was entirely open to the warm breezes that blow across the southern sea. It enjoys consequently an exceedingly mild climate. Refusing to listen to Cattley who had argued that the Crimean winter was bleak and cold, Newcastle instead promised to send a copy of Dr. Lee’s account to General Raglan.

  If Newcastle hadn’t been titled and wealthy, he would have been hung from the nearest tree for the many thousand lives that had been needlessly sacrificed to his stupidity. Parliament had since voted for a Commission of Enquiry to review the mismanagement of the war, but no one of consequence would ever likely be punished.