Royal Renegade

by Alicia Rasley

  She willed the vertigo away by concentrating on the centerpieces, huge crystal bowls filled with rare tropical fish swimming in blue-tinted water. But still she was dizzied. Around her shimmered so much glass, the fishbowls and the chandeliers and the mirrors and the crystal glasses placed so carefully on the white tablecloths. It all seemed so fragile, as if a word could shatter the whole display, and the brittle people in their shimmering clothes would shatter into sharp fragments on the marble floor.

  Careful to avoid her echoing image in the endless mirrors, she settled gratefully into the honored position to the prince's right and surveyed the room. At least the seating was fortuitous, as her predators were all a remove away. Cumberland headed up the next table, and Wellesley, casting her an admonishing glance, sat down near the royal duke. He was directly behind her, close enough perhaps to hear her conversation but not in a position to do anything about it. Lady Sherbourne was guided fuming to a spot practically into the kitchens, Tatiana observed wickedly. And Buntin had been borne off by the royal historian, who was quizzing her on the genealogy of Russian royalty before the Romanovs. She would be too dazzled by the unusual attention to pay any mind to her charge.

  Tatiana's equilibrium remained precariously balanced even as Major Devlyn took his seat across from her near the other end of the table. The regent liked to have a man in uniform at each table, where he might be as decorative as the centerpiece. Stealing a quick glance, she saw that Michael's sangfroid had been partly restored, although he responded with barest civility to the overtures of an elderly countess next to him. But when he felt Tatiana watching him, his angry gray eyes met hers, and in that moment she realized how much they had to conceal, and how impossible concealment might be.

  In her confusion she only stared blankly when a square-jawed man of forty or so bowed and took the seat next to her. But he took charge, as she sensed he was accustomed to doing. "Allan Fabares, at your service, Your Highness. Eighteenth Duke of Fallenwood. As the senior duke present, let me welcome you to our fair shores."

  The regent added genially, "Fallenwood is one of our oldest dukedoms, cousin. Created by—one of the Plantagenets, wasn't it, Fallenwood?"

  The duke fixed his host with a look that suggested Prinny should be better informed the next time they met. "Richard the Lionheart himself. That is why, Your Highness, our crest features a rampant lion, after the great warrior-king."

  As he prosed on about the first duke's exploits in the great crusades, Tatiana recalled what Lady Sherbourne had told her that Fallenwood possessed a family tree nearly as spreading as his midriff.

  Then, from across the table, a whisper with the slight lisping accent of the French aristocracy cut through the duke's recitation like a blade. "Your Highness, I had so hoped to be seated near to you. But I never thought such a privilege to be granted to a poor exile as well as an English squire—your pardon, sir—an English duke." The Count d'Annaud, a cousin to the Pretender to the French throne, leaned forward to increase the intimacy of his insult. "I always get them confused, these English farmers."

  "Farmers, is it?" Fallenwood's shoulders hunched around his bull-like neck. "Well, at least we English farmers have some use. No one's ever found any reason for the existence of you poor exiles." Fallenwood snorted, his scornful gesture taking in the other man's burgundy velvet evening dress, the rare Mechlin lace that spilled at his throat and wrist, the fortune in diamonds studding his waistcoat. "Yes, you look poor, don't you, d'Annaud?"

  The count's narrow face tightened around his flared nostrils, and he drew up straight in true affront. "Are you challenging my word, duke?" he hissed, his thin face twisted and his elegant fingers closing on the stem of his wine glass.

  Suddenly the battle was joined, with Tatiana in the very middle of the fray. She couldn't help but be glad of the diversion, for the diners' attention was now riveted to the antagonists sparring right in front of the Prince Regent. No one paid the slightest heed that Major Devlyn did not take his eyes off the princess during the entire altercation.

  Fallenwood possessed a blunt sort of courage that contrasted well with the count's prickly choler. "That's right, d'Annaud, dash that wine in my face. The princess will admire that display of Gallic temperament. Though I'd think revolution and twenty years of war have been enough to convince us all how delicate are the sensibilities of you Frenchies. Go ahead," he goaded, his eyes gleaming in anticipation. "Challenge me in the presence of the regent who welcomed you when no one else would have you. Show us how you scorn the country that shelters you, now that you've been thrown out of your own.

  As the count deliberately set down his wine glass, the spectators sighed in disappointment. But they rallied as he removed his white glove finger by finger. Would he slap the glove in the smug duke's face, right in front of Prinny, right next to the princess? Unfortunately, the regent cut short the engagement, declaring as he half-rose in his chair, "You forget yourself, count."

  The formidable Lady Hertford stepped into the breach, spiriting the challenging glove away under the table and murmuring soothing sorts of things into the count's ear. Eventually the count subsided, glancing resentfully across the table, muttering an apology to Tatiana and the Prince Regent.

  Fallenwood sat back, arms folded, his square chin lifted victoriously. But Lady Hertford shot a warning look at him. "Tell the count you were only jesting, Fallenwood," she ordered, just like a mother might to a recalcitrant child.

  Fallenwood shrugged. All right. I regard this all as a joke, count. Especially you."

  Lady Hertford cut off the count's inarticulate cry with a single steely word, then glared at the unrepentant duke. "Remember where you are, gentlemen, and whom you are with, and what your purpose is. The princess is not pleased with your childish displays, are you, Your Highness?"

  Hurriedly Tatiana shook her head, earning a benevolent smile from the regent's mistress. Relieved, the prince sagged back into his chair, beckoning to a footman for a restorative brandy. The count kept his sullen eyes fixed on Fallenwood, daring another insult, refusing to look away even when the first courses were delivered on solid gold plates.

  But the duke only grinned and addressed the princess in a hearty voice. "I am something of a student of genealogy, Your Highness. Tell me, would you, how close is your connection to Peter the Great."

  Tatiana sighed inwardly, for the tangled lines of her royal breeding fascinated everyone but herself. But then she saw Lady Hertford's brow furrow at the sight of Michael, straight and proud in his uniform, gazing unwaveringly at the princess. The prince's mistress was no fool, and powerful besides

  "My connection is closer than the present tsar's, at any rate!" Tatiana declared. As she expected, this outrageous claim caught all of Lady Hertford's attention. "In fact, we true Romanovs don't believe Alexander is descended from Peter at all."

  A choking noise behind her told Tatiana that the sharp-eared Lord Wellesley, at least, knew what she meant. But for the benefit of the less informed listeners, she added artlessly, "Catherine the Great—Alexander's grandmother—wasn't known for fidelity, you know. In fact, her husband, Tsar Peter III, never admitted paternity of her son. Oh, don't you know that? It's common knowledge in Petersburg."

  The Prince Regent's mind worked so slowly that Tatiana could predict its every step. So she was ready with an answer when he said, "Then Alexander is a bastard?"

  "Oh, no, Alexander is legitimate enough." As the prince shrugged his disappointment, she went on sweetly, "It's his father who was a bastard. But we Russians don't make much of the lapse of the Romanov bloodline. After all, Catherine the Great was just a German princess before she ousted her husband and became Empress of All the Russias. And she, at least, really is Alexander's ancestor."

  "But Peter the Great is not?" Fallenwood prompted. "He is your ancestor, however?"

  "Well, yes, on both sides," Tatiana said modestly. She speared a piece of melon with her fork, marveling at the extravagance of fresh fruit in December. The Wi
nter Palace never offered such luxuries, even in summer. She risked a glance at Michael, wondering if he liked melon, and found him studying his untouched fruit, his hard mouth relaxed just a bit as he listened to her scandalous speech.

  An impatient movement from Fallenwood recalled her. "Oh, yes. Both sides. Mother was the great-granddaughter of Peter the Great's half sister. And my father, of course, was in the direct line. His paternal grandmother was Peter's daughter."

  "His daughter?" Fallenwood's lips moved in silent calculation. "Then—then why wasn't he in the succession?"

  Tatiana sighed dramatically, raising her gold fork like a baton. "Great-grandmother Katerina, I fear, was born on the wrong side of the blanket. Peter acknowledged her, of course, and created her a duchess. But a true blood connection outside wedlock is not as cherished as a bastard born within wedlock."

  She had lost Fallenwood, she thought with small dismay. He leaned back a bit, as if an indiscretion four generations old was enough to make her suspect. "He only made her a duchess?" he asked, shrugging one bulky shoulder.

  Insulted on behalf of her ancestress, Tatiana shot back sweetly, "Oh, Your Grace, you mustn't think that `duke' and 'duchess' are trivial titles in Russia, though they might be in England." This earned her an outraged snort from Fallenwood, a soft "touche" from the count, and one of those lovely reluctant smiles from Michael. "Daughters of the tsar are always named grand duchesses. It's only those of us farther down the line who are termed princess. Russia is so promiscuous—I mean, generous—with that title. I imagine if I were to count it up, I would be princess three or four times over. At any rate, Katerina eventually traded in duchess for the title of queen, which served her well enough."

  "Queen?" Fallenwood said in a strangled voice, his finger going to ease the restriction of his neckcloth. "You mean your great-grandfather was a king?"

  Now that he was duly impressed, Tatiana regarded the duke benevolently. But regally, she made him wait for her reply as she dipped her soup spoon into her shrimp bisque and let the liquid dribble back into the bowl. "My grandfather also. They were Kings of Saraya Kalin. Oh, don't bother to look for it on a map, for it doesn't exist anymore." She sighed gustily for her lost homeland, which she had never seen and seldom missed. "It was a poor sort of kingdom, anyway, only forty thousand subjects, not enough to support a king. Royal families are so expensive—" A glance at the regent suggested she might do best to avoid any further explication of the expense of maintaining royalty. "So Grandfather sold the kingdom to Catherine the Great."

  "You can sell a kingdom?" Far from taking offense, Prinny turned toward her, his eyes lighting up in anticipation of a new solution to his debt crisis.

  "It was either that or be taken by force. Catherine was so ruthless. She was set to invade, although the queen was her own first cousin. So King Denis sold out for a little cash and an apartment in the Winter Palace and a place on the Council of Advisors." She touched her emerald necklace possessively. We got to keep the crown jewels, but that was all."

  "So by blood right, you are—" Fallenwood's voice became hushed. "Queen of Saraya Kalin."

  Tatiana couldn't keep from laughing aloud at the absurdity of it. "Oh, famous! Well, I suppose I am, for my father had no siblings. And we did not follow Salic Law, so daughters could inherit. But a paltry prize it would be—the place doesn't exist anymore. It's been entirely absorbed into Russia. And I know I should make a lamentable queen." She paused to straighten her tiara, tilted to one side of the knot of red curls. "You see, crowns always trumble right off my head!"

  She stole a glance at Michael, sure that he would laugh also. But he was finally looking away from her, his jaw set, and painfully she realized that the thought of Queen Tatiana did not amuse him. It was just another reminder of the difference in their stations

  But the count had a full measure of Bourbon superiority and felt not the slightest intimidated. "And you are a first cousin, aren't you, of our poor Queen Marie Antoinette?"

  "Twice removed," she answered distractedly, wishing Michael had been sitting at another table so he wouldn't have heard her silly recital. But it made no difference, after all. Better to acknowledge now that they had no future together, that their dreams were only that—dreams. Reality was all this talk of bloodlines and kings and tsars and alliances formed through family relationship. Reality was Napoleon and his relentless ambition. Reality was this genial prince and his plans for her and his ungenial brother.

  Her breath caught in her throat and then closed it off entirely. Her eyes stung, but she couldn't let the tears fall. So she squared her shoulders and managed a glittering smile as she turned to Fallenwood.

  The duke halted in the middle of a sentence, his mouth open. Finally he was able to finish his boast. "And the Fabares, of course, are descendents of William the Conqueror."

  Weary of all this pride in lineage which had brought so much grief to the world, Tatiana replied with an air of faint disappointment, "Oh, that was very long ago, wasn't it?"

  While the duke sat stunned at this dismissal of his exalted breeding and the count laughed behind his napkin, Tatiana turned to the prince and his favorite subject. "Oh, cousin, I have so admired all your artworks. Such a rich display! It must have been hard to assemble such a collection during wartime!"

  The regent expanded under her attention, granting that Napoleon's rapacity had depleted the available store of art treasures. "But I have sources, you know," he declared, tapping his finger wisely on the side of his nose.

  His words struck a chord of memory. "I know a sm- an art dealer who is dedicated to the same great mission."

  "What mission is that?" the prince asked, bewildered, for he hadn't ever seen himself as a missionary of any sort.

  Tatiana's mind went blank. How had Captain Dryden justified his criminal activities? Michael was rubbing his jaw, knowing what she was about, refusing to prompt her. "Ah, he—he—he is saving the cultural heritage of Europe from the barbarity of the French!" she finished triumphantly.

  A gasp from across the table made her add hastily, "I mean from Bonaparte, who is Corsican, of course, not French in the least. But he specializes in saving the glories of the ancient world."

  “He does?" The prince waved away the footman who had come to remove their salmon in green sauce. "Do you think he could find me a small statue of Diana the Huntress for my Game Room? No, tell me his name, why don't you, and I'll ask him myself."

  "John Dryden." Tatiana did not flinch when she heard the strangled cry behind her, or even when a pair of footmen ran over to pound on poor Lord Wellesley's back.

  And the regent took no notice of the imminent choking death of his foreign secretary. "Dryden, John Dryden. Now where have I heard that name before?"

  "Dryden was an English poet," Tatiana interposed helpfully.

  "A poet and an art dealer? What an intriguing man!"

  Only Tatiana, perhaps, heard Michael's smothered laugh, but warmth crept into her. She could still make him laugh, at least, as no one else could ever do.

  "You must give me this Dryden's direction. I am longing to meet him." The prince took her hand and squeezed it, smiling at her fondly and calling her his dear little cousin until she could hardly bear it.

  Once she had amused Michael, half-choked Wellesley, pleased the prince, and secured a royal commission for Captain Dryden, all in one fell swoop, Tatiana found the rest of the dinner anticlimactic. Remove followed remove, crown of lamb followed pheasant under glass, fresh asparagus followed sweet new peas. Tatiana touched none of it, except to stick her fork in each dish and swirl it around in a pretense of appetite. Finally the sweets were brought round, and then Lady Hertford rose and suggested that the ladies leave the gentlemen to their cigars.

  Tatiana cast one last glance at Michael, but that was enough. He was watching the slow transit of her circlet of sleeve as it slipped off her shoulder again. When he looked up, she saw the naked longing in his eyes. But then he tilted his head to the left in an
unmistakable suggestion. She trailed after the prince's mistress on legs weakened by her guilty anticipation.

  Those legs were strong enough, however, when she made the usual excuse and quitted the Blue Velvet Room. Slipping past impassive footmen, sweeping through the doors they opened, she found her way through endless corridors to a hall on the south side of the Circular Dining Room.

  She had stopped breathless, leaning against a large statue of an archer when she heard "Tatiana." Michael came to her, impeccable, unreachable in his blue uniform. But his eyes were dark with emotion restrained. They had not been alone for nearly a week, and she found she could not speak. She could not even muster up her usual cheerful chatter about the events of her life; she only stood there, trembling a bit from her run, waiting for him to speak.

  Michael slowly stripped off his white glove, then, with his bare hand, tugged her sleeve back up to its proper place on her shoulder. "That's been driving me mad all evening. Ridiculous excuse for a sleeve." His fingertips lingered for a moment on her gold-tinted shoulder, the roughness sending a signal of fire through her, leaving only ashes and heat in its trail.

  Distracted, her eyes on that gold medal, she observed, "I've never seen you in uniform before. You look very military."

  "That's rather the point, isn't it?" His mouth quirked up in a rueful smile. "You have been flirting with social ruin, haven't you? And yet, despite your efforts, you are a roaring success."

  "Are you surprised?"

  "Only dismayed. If you ruined yourself—" He reached out to test the archer's marble bow, frowning as he ran his fingers along the frail length of string. "You never told me your lineage was tainted by illegitimacy."