The Tsarina's Legacy

by Jennifer Laam

  Low laughter filled the room, this time genuine.

  Grisha needed to appear as though he didn’t care—only the laughter had grown so loud he feared Catherine might hear. He felt sure she’d taken to her neighboring study, quill in hand, scribbling her correspondence, one ear inclined to the door for signs of unrest.

  But he had no intention of being driven away by Zubov’s hollow attempts at wit. The stench of urine cut through the lavender oil in his handkerchief and Grisha stuffed the linen in his pocket.

  “And here I thought I was early for our appointment. We were meant to discuss plans for the construction of a mosque in Moscow. I didn’t realize you’d planned court entertainment first.”

  “Yes, yes.” Zubov drew to full attention, straightening the ruffles above his ridiculous velvet frock coat. The monkey dug his fingers deep into Zubov’s shoulders so as not to fall when his master moved. “But a mosque in the very heart of our land? Wouldn’t a church make more sense? We’re still a Christian people, are we not?”

  Grisha needed to tread carefully. Rumors had reached his ear, even in the faraway southern lands where he had spent the last several months, tales of Zubov’s youthful beauty and hold on the empress’s affections. He saw it for himself now: Zubov’s fine features, broad shoulders, and brilliant eyes, so different from the lumpiness that had spoiled Grisha’s own looks as the years passed.

  “The empress has taken care to preserve cordial relations with her subjects of the Islamic faith,” he said. “I am particularly pleased with this design. It is modeled after a mosque in the old fortress of Ochakov.”

  “And yet you ran the heathen into the ground in that godforsaken place.”

  Grisha’s hands, slick with perspiration, worked in and out of fists. He had assumed his audience with Zubov merely a formality to make Catherine feel she had taken care with her favorite’s pride. He had expected this boy to fuss a bit but ultimately put his stamp of approval on the project, as all of Catherine’s other favorites would have done, to curry favor. “The empress’s Muslim subjects worship one God, as do we.”

  “But we have more pressing problems now, what with England rattling a sword in our direction and trying to drive us out of the Black Sea. Your prize, Prince. Should we not ready our forces to teach the dolts a lesson?”

  Catherine isn’t foolish enough to make needless war, you pretentious twit. “A gesture of goodwill seems all the more appropriate, then,” Grisha said. “Surely we don’t want the English seducing our old Muslim adversaries with pretty words and promises of petty glory.”

  Zubov unleashed a dramatic sigh. “Fine. Catherine said I should listen to your plea, so I suppose I don’t have a choice in the matter. She has a soft spot for old friends. It’s one of her many charms.” He flapped his hands again, ruffles flopping at his wrists, displacing the monkey. The creature landed awkwardly on the floor but scrambled to his feet quickly. “All the rest of you, go!” Zubov barked. “The prince and I require privacy.”

  The courtiers shuffled past Grisha to get to the door. Grisha straightened his aching back and sucked in the loose folds of his stomach as best he could manage, ignoring the curious stares as the men strode past. Most of them bowed respectfully in his direction, while others gave him a wide berth, as though fearing contamination.

  He didn’t move until the last of them, the elderly brigadier, shut the heavy door behind him. Only then did Grisha approach Zubov, the scroll with the plans for the mosque still safely tucked against his side. “The plan is visionary in scope. I think it will please the empress.”

  “Doubtful.” Zubov rose to his feet. “I sometimes fear for Catherine’s emotional state. The poor dear has grown so flustered. The last thing she needs is your petty distractions.”

  Grisha wanted to grab Zubov by the throat and knock his front teeth out. But Catherine wouldn’t care to see her current favorite enter the boudoir with his pretty face maimed. Instead he forced his features into a serene expression, preparing to play to the boy’s ego. “I would not have troubled you with a whim, Platon Alexandrovich.”

  “I still fail to understand the point of a mosque. You are a conquering hero, Prince. We were at war with these people. You did what needed to be done.”

  A voice in his head screamed, fueled by the intense adrenaline of battle, the war cry to Allah as the enemy soldiers rushed toward his men, no matter how futile their efforts. Grisha’s voice rose, banishing the bloodthirsty battle cries from his memory. “I am here at the empress’s behest. She trusts your opinion on this matter.”

  “Then I suppose I should at least see this foolishness.” He extended his hand. “May I?”

  Silently, Grisha handed over the scroll.

  Zubov clicked his teeth and unrolled the thin goatskin parchment. He scrunched his black eyebrows together but scarcely looked at the design. Instead, he scrutinized the paper, fingering it and frowning. “What is this? Papyrus? Are you planning to construct pyramids?”

  Grisha had commissioned an elderly Tatar to choose the architect himself. “I consulted with a cleric familiar with the needs of the people of this faith.”

  “A Mohammedan! Oh, that’s rich.”

  Grisha struggled to keep his voice even. “Who else would design a mosque?”

  “I understand your whims were given free rein in the imperial treasury in the past, but you’ve been away too long. Besides, I believe our Tatar friends may already have a mosque or two in our Russian heartland. Catherine will no longer countenance such extravagant waste. I don’t care what you’ve gotten past her before.”

  Melancholy played tricks with his mind. In an instant, Grisha saw Zubov no longer as a silly boy speaking out of place, but as a powerful man who held the empress in his hand.

  “Besides, if you’re so in love with these people, why not look to the khans for inspiration?” Zubov assumed a grand academic tone that tore at Grisha’s already fractured patience. “They would show far less interest in construction and far more cunning in yielding tribute from their vanquished foes.”

  “The empress is no khan,” Grisha said, “but you would do well to show her deference.”

  Zubov stepped toward Grisha, lips curving downward and a hint of menace darkening his gaze. As though sensing his master’s sudden shift in mood, the monkey emitted high-pitched chatter and covered his eyes with spindly fingers.

  “I only meant,” Grisha added in a louder voice, so any courtiers with an ear to the door could hear, “the empress should decide such matters for herself. I should like to hear her opinion. I came to you only as a courtesy.”

  “A courtesy?” Zubov laughed, handing the scroll back to Grisha before sitting back down on the chaise longue. He crossed one long leg over the other and pushed the jam closer to his monkey. The creature dipped his pink tongue into the jar. “You flatter yourself, Prince.”

  Grisha rerolled the delicate parchment. “Perhaps there is a better time to broach this subject?”

  Zubov flashed his white teeth in a youthful smile. His name meant “tooth” after all. Grisha found it irritatingly fitting. “I’ll let you in on a secret. I don’t care one way or another. Let the poor devils fall on their knees to a golden calf for all I care. But your presumption vexes me. You’ve been away from St. Petersburg nearly two years. Much has changed while you’ve been in your new Russia. And you return only to strut into my salon with this scheme at the very time our motherland faces serious new threats.”

  “I meant no disrespect, Platon Alexandrovich.”

  “Catherine thought it best I start to make the fiscal decisions. I intend to prove my worth, not throw precious treasure to the wind on your latest fancy. You had Catherine’s ear for a long time. I know this must be difficult to hear, but the time for every man to shine comes and goes. It is only now a matter of bowing out with grace.”

  Despair began to seep through the fragile cracks in Grisha’s ego. He wanted nothing more than to retire to bed and bury himself under blankets, takin
g comfort in hot chocolate, liqueur, and perhaps a warm female body. Better yet, he could call for his horse and force a gallop to Nevsky Monastery. He could grow a long beard and retreat from the world altogether.

  Except where would that leave Catherine?

  “I have never been asked to leave the empress’s side. That is the fate of her young favorites. Her temporary companions.”

  “Temporary?” Zubov made a mockery of a frown. The monkey crouched at Zubov’s foot, nibbling at the toe of his master’s boot. “I suppose my position might be temporary. But then again the empress gave me dominion over you.”

  “I truly doubt that was her intention,” Grisha said. “She means for us to work together.”

  “Why work at all, Prince? At your age most men have fathered many children and look to the darlings for comfort. It must be difficult, having no progeny of your own. Perhaps it explains your meddling.”

  “I have been called to the empress’s side,” Grisha told him, gut twisting. “I won’t abandon her now.”

  “I can assure you Catherine’s interests are in more than capable hands,” Zubov said. “I suggest you find some age-appropriate hobbies. Return to one of the palaces the empress gifted you with. Live your dotage in peace. Give your one good eye a rest.” Zubov’s gaze shot to Grisha’s crotch. “I’m sure your prick could use a rest as well. Godspeed, Prince.”

  * * *

  The little valet waited in the gilded corridor outside of Zubov’s apartments, struggling to situate himself in a scarlet-cushioned armchair, Grisha’s greatcoat slung over one arm. He tapped his new boots against the parquet floor and stared longingly out the massive windows facing the frozen Neva River.

  “The boats won’t come until April,” Grisha told him, “when the ice finally breaks.”

  At the sound of Grisha’s voice, the boy sprang to attention, landing unsteadily in the unfamiliar boots. Grisha’s regular valet had grown worn with age. So he’d left the old man at home with his feet elevated and toasting before a fire. In his place, he’d decided to take this boy around with him during the duration of his stay in St. Petersburg. Though he was but thirteen, Anton seemed willing to please.

  Anton draped the greatcoat around Grisha’s shoulders. “How did you fare, Your Highness? Did the meeting proceed as you hoped?”

  The soft sable lining enveloped Grisha in warmth, yet darkness clung to the edges of his mind. “As you predicted, the place reeked.”

  Anton snorted. “The monkey is in charge then. Just as I heard. Did Platon Alexandrovich approve of the mosque? Did you encounter any trouble?”

  Grisha had taught Anton to ask such questions. He enjoyed discussing political affairs with a nimble, if untrained, mind. Grisha wondered if he might bring Anton with him to a state dinner. Catherine would no doubt think it charming he’d taken a ward. After all, as Zubov had been so quick to point out, Grisha had no children of his own, at least that he knew of.

  This evening, however, Grisha desired only solitude and quiet. Even the echo of their boots squeaking on the floor tested his nerves. “I would rather not speak of it,” he said shortly.

  “I am sorry.” Anton had been born a serf and still exuded meekness, as though at any moment his fortunes might reverse and he’d be back tilling a field with the rest of his family.

  “No, I am sorry. My head and stomach are in knots.”

  Grisha gnawed on his red and aching thumbnail. The other favorites he could tolerate. They had known what was expected of them and left quietly when asked, happy with their generous pensions and arranged marriages to comely ladies-in-waiting.

  Zubov was different, more like him. Ambitious. Except not like him. Grisha had been many things when he was Zubov’s age, but never closed-minded. Catherine was ten years older than Grisha. Even so, to him she would always be that young and vibrant woman who claimed a throne. How could such a woman feel attracted to a shallow boy? He supposed the weight of years on this earth had finally caught up with Catherine, and so Zubov might take advantage and shame her reputation.

  “Platon Alexandrovich does not wish to fund the mosque,” Grisha said. “I fear he has more sway over the empress than her previous favorites. He seems ready to take on England and Prussia single-handedly. And he believes he speaks for the empress. Someone needs to set affairs back in their proper order.”

  “I wonder…” Anton’s eyes gleamed for a moment and Grisha caught a hint of an impish smile. Just as quickly the meekness returned and he bowed his head.

  “You wonder?” Grisha didn’t want to put too much pressure on his new valet, but he needed all the information he could acquire. “Now is not the time to play the bashful servant.”

  “They say Platon Alexandrovich is quite handsome,” Anton said. “Is this true?”

  Must he point out the obvious? As though Grisha could not figure out well enough the source of Zubov’s hold on Catherine. “It is true.” Grisha loosened the scarf around his throat, itching to rid himself of the confinement of the waistcoat but unwilling to walk through the palace half-clothed. The time when he could get away with such folly had passed. “He is like a statue of a Grecian god come to life.”

  “And he has captured the empress’s heart,” Anton said.

  “Not her heart,” Grisha said, with more conviction than he felt. “But certainly her attention.”

  Anton threw a surreptitious glance over his shoulder, already wary of palace spies. Grisha steered him farther down the corridor, well out of earshot of Zubov and his fawning admirers.

  “Some question the timing of Platon Alexandrovich’s first appearance in court,” Anton confided.

  “What strikes them as odd?”

  “It was too perfect,” Anton said. “At least that’s what I hear people say. The empress’s heart was newly broken and she was in need of distraction.”

  “They say this when they think no one is listening?”

  Anton flashed another small smile. “Exactly.”

  “Do they say anything else?”

  “I have thought of something.”

  “Indulge me.”

  “Platon Alexandrovich’s sponsor at court was Count Nikolai Saltykov.”

  Grisha chewed his throbbing thumbnail. “You’ve heard of our disagreements then?”

  “And of his closeness with the heir, Grand Duke Paul.”

  So Zubov wasn’t Catherine’s plaything alone. He was a marionette, with that fool Saltykov and sniveling Paul pulling the strings. After all these years, enemies still gathered to remove Catherine from the throne. If Catherine found out her favorite had been thrust before her by another man, rather than coming to her of his own volition, it would crush her. The dark thoughts in Grisha’s mind began to lose force, swept away by the storm rising in his chest.

  “Is there anything you can do?” Anton asked.

  Catherine had never been disposed to ask for help. But when Grisha offered his opinions, she always listened, even if she didn’t always follow his lead.

  Grisha had made her happy once. A grand passion had ignited. Surely the spark of such a passion remained, even after so many years.

  At once the world seemed lighter beneath his feet. Grisha’s eyes narrowed. Zubov was nothing more than a silly court jester, a bug to be squashed. Platon Alexandrovich may have cast a temporary spell on Catherine, but he had not counted on Grisha’s return.

  Grisha started off again down the corridor, beckoning Anton to follow. Soon enough Catherine would want him back in the south, to continue to negotiate the latest peace terms with the Turks. If he were to save her from Zubov, time was of the essence. “You’ve been practicing your letters? You make a reasonable facsimile of my writing?”

  “I do, Your Highness.” Anton scrambled in his pockets for the small slate Grisha had advised he carry with him. “You wish me to take dictation?”

  “While the words are still fresh in my mind.”

  Grisha quickened his pace, drawing strength from newfound purpose. Anton read
ied his stubby pencil and nodded.

  “‘Your Most Gracious Imperial Majesty,’” Grisha began. “‘As I look once again toward the Neva, I am reminded of your beauty so many years ago when you first took our holy throne, that glorious white night when we first met. I fell in rapture then, and I now feel compelled to speak of the rapture I yet experience in your presence.’”

  He had returned to the capital, to the center of power. He would convince Catherine she didn’t need Zubov. The only person the empress had ever needed was him.

  Two

  FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

  ROMANOV HEIRESS TO SEEK HONORARY TITLE

  ST. PETERSBURG, RUSSIA

  Dmitry Potemkin, spokesman for the Russian Monarchist Society, is proud to reveal the name of the Society’s official imperial claimant: Dr. Veronica Herrera. The Society now hopes to validate Dr. Herrera’s startling claim to be a direct descendant of the last Romanovs, Nicholas and Alexandra.

  LOS ANGELES INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT

  PRESENT DAY

  “You have items to check?” The ticket agent’s sultry Russian accent caressed her words. “There is small charge.”

  Veronica Herrera tried to summon an answer but only managed a shrug. Her gaze drifted to one of the flat television screens on the far side of the wide terminal. Local newscasters with glossy hair chuckled over a bear cub who had wandered into a backyard pool up near Tahoe.

  “Perhaps I do not say well?” A lock of platinum-blond hair fell into the ticket agent’s pretty and oh-so-patient face. She tucked it behind a white cap that matched her trim uniform and the stylish dark orange scarf tied around her smooth neck.

  “No, no. I mean, yes, I understand.” Veronica shifted her heavy new winter coat from one arm to the other. “I don’t have anything to check.”

  The woman nodded at Veronica’s modest carry-on bag. “You are brave girl. Big trip for little luggage. I think you are free spirit.” She tapped her keyboard and the computer spit out a boarding pass. “Gate eight. Board in ninety minutes. Enjoy stay in Russia.” The ticket agent’s perfectly manicured hand motioned for her to accept the pass and move aside.