There was still no sensation of the stalker. Nikolay started to walk. If he didn’t keep moving, he’d become maudlin. There were other properties to revisit and consider yet again. It was far better, he knew, to look forward to the future than behind to the past. Wasn’t that the reason he’d crossed words too many times with the Tsar in Kuban? Hadn’t he argued that looking back was Kuban’s problem, Russia’s problem? And here he was, walking the streets of one of the world’s most modern cities, doing exactly that. What did he have to be maudlin about? It was true, he could never go home again, but he had money in the bank and a future he could direct entirely.
* * *
‘What do we know of his daily behaviours? Is he ready to commit?’ Alexei Grigoriev leaned back in his desk chair, facing Amesbury, waiting for the morning report. It had been so easy to talk Grigoriev into having one of the General’s men follow Baklanov. Amesbury had argued it was to check the Prince’s associations when, in reality, Amesbury had rather personal motives. The sooner Baklanov could be eliminated one way or another the better.
‘I think he spoke true when he said he had no interest in politics,’ Amesbury offered. The fastest way to eliminate Baklanov would be for Grigoriev to lose interest in him. ‘Here’s what we know and it all supports that conclusion.’ Amesbury pushed a sheet of paper forward to Grigoriev and Vasilev, and gave them a moment to study it. ‘His schedule is very regimented. It’s almost as if he has tried to recreate a military-style routine for himself. He walks the city early in the mornings.’ He nodded towards the General. ‘Your men have seen him leave his townhouse regularly at the same time and return at the same time before going to Fozard’s.’ There were morning walks before reporting to the riding school, days filled with giving lessons, afternoon drinks with Baklanov’s Russian friends at White’s, evenings spent in typical gentlemanly pursuits: clubs, gaming, an occasional musical evening. Nothing extraordinary, nothing that indicated he had political interests. Grigoriev would soon tire of Baklanov at this rate and that suited the Duke just fine.
Grigoriev shrugged, unconcerned. ‘Maybe he’s not interested today. But every man’s mind can be changed. The tougher part is knowing what will change it and the most opportune time to strike. To know the answers to those questions, one has to know the man in question. Klara is working on that.’
Amesbury shifted and leaned forward. ‘About that. I’m not sure that’s wise. Baklanov is a hot-blooded Cossack and he may not be careful with her honour. Baklanov is a prince, but there is some roughness to him, his nature is unrefined.’
Vasilev nodded in considered agreement. ‘There may be some merit in what Amesbury says. Your daughter’s virtue may not be safe with him. He went to Soho today. He goes to Soho often. It is not a gentleman’s destination.’
Amesbury grimaced. Vasilev was not helping his cause. While the General’s revelation might convince Grigoriev to take Klara off the scent, mentioning the bohemian West End would intrigue Grigoriev and keep him interested in Baklanov. Revolutions came from the bottom up as much as they came from the top down, perhaps even more so in the world outside Russia. Russia, it seemed, was backwards in all ways, even with revolutions that started with high-placed army officers and court nobles. Soho these days teemed with disgruntled Russians, not all of them useless peasants. Military men had fled after the failed 1821 uprising. Those who had not been captured had sought refuge wherever they could find it. London had taken some of them in. Those were the men Grigoriev would want to harness, men who might be compelled to try again when the time came. Men the Prince, it seemed, was acquainted with. If Baklanov could deliver those men, he might be very useful. Which was quite useless to Amesbury.
Vasilev went on. ‘My man says Baklanov spoke in Russian to two men at a salop stall shortly before half past six. The interaction was congenial but short. We didn’t hear what was said.’
‘It’s a start, General,’ Grigoriev commended him. ‘We will win the Prince over, just wait.’ Hardly the endorsement Amesbury was looking for. Time to try another angle. If he couldn’t remove Baklanov from the equation, perhaps he could put Klara beyond Baklanov’s reach.
‘Again, I must beg you to take Klara out of this. She is spending a considerable amount of time with him.’ Amesbury paced his words with delicate hesitation. ‘It is not seemly for a girl about to become a duchess.’ He let the import sink in and managed to feign manly modesty. ‘I have long wanted to ask for her. I dare not wait any longer, Your Excellency. With things as they are, I think it is time to make my offer official.’
Grigoriev beamed with fatherly pride, as Amesbury knew he would. He was quite a catch. Matchmaking mamas angled for him year after year. He could have married the daughter of a duke or a marquess. That he’d chosen the daughter of a foreign ambassador, whose only tie to England was a dead wife who’d been the daughter of an earl, was certainly a feather in Grigoriev’s cap, a tribute to Klara’s beauty and upbringing. She had succeeded where so many had failed.
He knew, too, that with an alliance sealed through the permanence of matrimony, Grigoriev would count on him for protection if the revolt failed. It was a good trade for them both. Grigoriev would have protection from treasonous charges if need be. In exchange, he would have Klara and an ambassador in his pocket.
Grigoriev rose and offered him his hand. ‘I would be honoured. You may speak with her once we’ve settled the paperwork.’
Chapter Eleven
The errand boy slipped the paper into Nikolay’s hand at the end of Klara’s lesson. Nikolay ran his hand over the thin, ragged scrap. He already knew the message he’d find inside; a horse was in trouble. This was how the cries for help came, scrawled on torn pieces of whatever was handy. He watched Klara take Zvezda flawlessly over a double oxer at the end of practice. Apparently the vodka hadn’t affected her as badly as he’d anticipated. He’d been impressed when she’d shown up on time. Even more impressed when she’d swung up on Zvezda without wincing.
‘Try the jump again, Klara, from the left this time. Zvezda needs to be stronger from that direction. Then we’ll call it a day.’ She had ridden beautifully, but he was glad the lesson was over. They were back to instructor and pupil again on the outside. But there had been a frisson of tension underlying their interaction, the memory of last night too fresh to ignore, and they were trying too hard to pretend last night had not happened. Nikolay saw her over the jump before opening the note.
His jaw tightened as he read. He’d been expecting this; a friend of Peter Crenshaw’s had landed in River Tick, everything had been taken, even the prized bay thoroughbred who’d been the cause of Crenshaw’s friend’s demise. Unfortunately, the bay had not found its way to Tattersall’s, but to a less savoury auction in Smithfield by the abattoirs. A butcher would pay good money for prime horseflesh. The kill pen sales were tomorrow. The plea was always the same. Please, go and save the horse. It wasn’t the first time, or even the second, such messages had found him. He was acquiring quite the reputation with the ‘horse underground’, as he called it. It was how he’d ‘acquired’ his Cleveland Bay mare. He’d seen the horse Peter’s friend referenced in the note, a magnificent creature. There was no question of not going. He would take Stepan.
‘Not bad news, I hope?’ Klara walked Zvezda beside him as he folded the scrap up and put it in his pocket. There was an edge to her voice, her face paler than usual. Maybe the vodka had taken a toll after all. Maybe she was expecting some news to be delivered? It had been a week since the dinner party. Did he dare hope the ambassador had simply let him go after his comments? Had she given her father reason to follow up? Had she told her father all she’d learned last night? The night was behind them. They were back to the game. He was back to second-guessing her and reading between the lines. His safety and that of his friends depended on it.
‘Nothing I didn’t expect,’ Nikolay replied, realising too late how cryptic that would sound
to her. Last night had been open and honest. They had simply talked. And danced. And kissed. And climaxed. They had not been concerned with hidden agendas. He liked that. It had been refreshing. In many ways it had been the kind of evening he’d come to England to find, a chance to live a straightforward life outside court and politics. But he was learning, too, that such a choice had its price. It left his life a little emptier, a little more rudderless. He’d served at court because he’d believed his country was worth fighting for. In the absence of that, what else would he find worth fighting for?
‘Unexpected news doesn’t mean it wasn’t bad news,’ Klara prompted. ‘It was bad, wasn’t it? I can see it in your eyes.’
He opted to relieve her worry. ‘It’s about a horse. A friend has asked me to attempt to acquire the animal when it goes to auction tomorrow.’ That was as neutral as an explanation could get.
Immediate concern washed over her face. ‘I’m sorry to hear it. I can’t imagine losing Zvezda.’ Klara shook down her hair and ran a hand through it. It was meant to be an efficient gesture, not a sensual one, but Nikolay’s mind was finding it hard to separate the two. His imagination wanted to swap out the dust of the arena for the candlelight of a boudoir, breeches for a white satin nightgown.
‘Will you be able to redeem the horse?’ she asked.
‘I hope so.’ That was the risk. The kill pens were always full and he had to find the thoroughbred first; one horse among hundreds. It was always a race against time.
‘I’ll come with you,’ Klara offered matter of factly. It wasn’t a question, but a statement. ‘Surely, two of us working together is better than one working alone.’ He knew she was thinking of how to manage the bidding. In her mind, this was a trip to the gentlemen’s world of Tattersall’s, while he was worried about searching the pens and finding the bay before the butchers did.
‘An auction is no place for a lady.’ Even if it had been Tattersall’s, she was not an appropriate guest.
She had a ready answer for everything. ‘I’ll go in disguise. I’ll wear my breeches.’ Nikolay gave her a dubious look. No one would believe she was a boy on close scrutiny. But he could sense she was going to prove intractable. Perhaps the truth would get her to rethink her offer.
Nikolay stopped and faced her squarely so she could see his face. ‘I don’t want you along. My business may be unpleasant.’ In fact, he was sure it would be. In this case, honesty was not the best policy. It only caused Klara to entrench.
She narrowed her gaze. ‘Where, exactly, are you going?’ A look of disbelief crossed her face. He could almost hear the words before she said them. ‘You’re not stealing him, are you?’
‘I hope not.’ But Nikolay would if it came to that.
The response silenced her. She said nothing more about the outing as they brushed Zvezda and settled her for the evening. He walked her out to her father’s waiting carriage. ‘Do svidaniya, Miss Grigorieva.’
She paused before getting in. ‘There’s something you don’t know about me. I am very good with a pistol. An American diplomat took me out shooting a few years ago. I was a natural.’
Nikolay inclined his head in acknowledgement. ‘I am sure you were.’ Klara was the type of person who was good at everything she tried, dancing and vodka included. Despite all the reasons he should keep her at arm’s length, it was hard not to like her, hard not to want her. Worst of all, hard not to trust her.
She gave him a tight smile. ‘Just as I am sure you will need a “second” tomorrow, someone to watch your back. How early are you going? What time shall I be here? Or shall I just come at dawn and wait you out?’
‘Is that a threat?’
‘I hope not,’ she replied wryly, borrowing his words. ‘I no more mean to threaten you than you mean to steal that horse tomorrow.’
So be it. Klara Grigorieva was a mule in breeches, stubborn as she was. Sometimes the best remedy for stubbornness was to let it have what it wanted and live with the consequences. It worked quite well on green recruits in the cavalry. They seldom questioned their superiors again. ‘I leave at half past four. That’s in the morning, not the afternoon.’ If she wanted to come, he would let her. She could sit in the carriage and wait once she realised what she’d got herself into.
* * *
Her stubbornness was being sorely tested and it was only five o’clock, a half-hour into the adventure. Klara had seen London at five in the morning, but only in sleepy glimpses out the windows of comfortable carriages on the way home from a ball. She’d never seen it on foot and that made all the difference—a cold, chilly, damp difference. In the last three days, she’d seen more of her city than she had in fifteen years. There was some irony in seeing it through the eyes of man who’d only been here six months.
Nikolay laughed when she told him. ‘I walk the city in the early mornings. Call it reconnaissance. I am very good at that. Are you cold?’
She and Nikolay had left the carriage four streets behind them. She was already freezing although she’d dressed warmly in attire she borrowed from a boy who worked at the house. It wasn’t just the weather that had her teeth chattering, but the excitement of the outing. No, not excitement, if she was honest. Anxiety would be more apt. She was nervous, although she wouldn’t admit that to Nikolay. He’d have her back in the carriage with Stepan. ‘Tell me again why we couldn’t bring the carriage this far?’ she muttered.
‘We don’t want to look too prosperous. We won’t get a good deal if people think we’re rich.’ Nikolay’s accent was heavier than usual this morning, his r’s rolling thickly, sounding more like d’s. The sound of him, the look of him, was the least English she’d seen him. Gone was the immaculate riding attire, the tailored breeches, the polished boots, replaced by scuffed workman’s boots, rough homespun garments and a frayed cuffed greatcoat that had seen generations of wear. His hair was loose about his shoulders. He looked rough and dangerous, like a man willing to fight, wanting to fight. Most of all, he looked as if he fit in.
Around them, the foggy streets of London teemed with working life. People emerged, wraithlike from the mists in equally ragged clothing, equally grim stares on their faces. Some passed them on their way to their own destinations, others fell into step with them, headed for the same place, wherever that was. Nikolay had not disclosed the location, but she had her guesses now. They’d gone north-west of central London, towards Smithfield. While this part of London and these people, had been known to her only in theory until this morning, she knew what went on here. Smithfield was London’s meat market. The great abattoirs were here. Her stomach tightened at the implication. The horse Nikolay wanted was destined for the slaughterhouse.
They stopped briefly at a vendor’s stall and Nikolay thrust a warm bowl in her hands. ‘Drink this, it will help chase away the chill. It’s salop.’ She had never heard of it, but it tasted delicious and hot and that was all that mattered. Klara began to wonder, not for the first time, how often he did this. The clothes, the accent, the confident knowledge of dark streets could come only from experience.
She sipped, grateful for the warmth, but she didn’t dare complain. He’d already tried once to convince her to stay in the carriage. He went over the horse’s description again. ‘The horse is a bay with a white star on his forehead and a white sock on his back right leg. He should look fairly healthy and well cared for.’
‘Why is he here, then?’
‘He was a mediocre racehorse and his owner went bankrupt.’ Nikolay’s gaze stayed on guard, watching everyone moving around them. She was acutely aware of the gold watch she carried in her pocket and the filigreed cross on a thin gold chain beneath her shirt, two items she put on daily without thought, even today. Either item would feed a family of four for several months in this end of London.
Nikolay drew a breath. He was going to try to dissuade her, but there was no way she wanted to be here without him near. ‘
It won’t be pleasant, Klara. Any horse not sold today before the bell will be slaughtered. Even some of the horses purchased don’t escape that fate. Butchers are there to buy the finest for their shops. Some of the horses are beyond saving. Others are here for reasons beyond their control: farmers losing their land, farmers who have moved to the city to work in factories and can’t afford to keep a horse with no field to plough, gentlemen who have overextended themselves.’ He shook his head. ‘Keep your face forward, keep your mind on your mission to save the bay, and remember, you can’t save them all, you can only do what you’ve been sent to do. If you can do that, you will have made a difference for at least one more horse.’ She could imagine him giving a similar speech to soldiers before battle, helping them prepare their minds, their consciences for what came next and then what came beyond that—living with the failures and the successes if they were lucky. It was an insightful glimpse into the officer he must have been. He was the sort of man other men followed.
There was a general surge ahead of them. ‘They’ve opened the gates. Let’s go,’ Nikolay whispered. ‘We have an hour to find him.’
Chapter Twelve
Klara smelled the kill pen before she saw it, the scent of fear and faeces, all preparation for the sight that met her eyes; horses of all shapes, sizes, colours and breeds crammed into holding pens. Nikolay shot her an encouraging look, lending her strength with his gaze. This was what he’d warned her against, but he was too much the soldier to say I told you so. Whether or not she should have come was irrelevant now. It was too late to turn back. And yet, for all of his strength and all of his stoicism as they pushed into grounds with the others, he was not unaffected. ‘Find the bay, Klara,’ he murmured, perhaps as much for himself as for her, a reminder of what they could do.
Compromised by the Prince's Touch Page 10
