by Sandra Heath
Fleur’s cheeks were scarlet. “It’s not solely my fault that we live a lie here amid Athan’s conscience and loyalty.”
“Shh!” Mrs. Tudor looked around in alarm. “Guard your tongue, Fleur, for such things shouldn’t even be thought, let alone said aloud!”
“Well, it’s the truth,” Fleur answered, but dropped her voice to a much more discreet level. “No matter what Athan and everyone else around here think to the contrary, you were never married to the general, and I certainly am not his daughter! Why, my name isn’t even Fleur!”
“All of which makes your wanton behavior in London even more impossible to understand! We have much to hide, Fleur, all of it now guaranteed to destroy your chance of becoming Lady Griffin.”
“But nothing will be discovered, Mama.” Fleur gave the glimmer of a smile.
“I pray you’re right,” her mother breathed with infinite feeling.
“And before you think of another sermon, let me remind you again that you were the one who went sobbing to Athan, claiming to be the general’s widow and begging to be taken care of. Apart from all that, even you must admit that I’d have been an idiot to discourage a Russian prince.”
“My instinct was to avoid him at all costs,” her mother replied. She’d thought there was something sly and unpleasant about Prince Paul Dalmatsky. He’d been too knowingly tactile, too steeped in vice, too filled with guile. He was like a sated cat, prepared to wait for as long as necessary in order to catch a particular mouse.
Fleur privately agreed. She’d been attracted to the prince by word of his amazing wealth, his palace in St. Petersburg, and his estates across Russia, but it hadn’t passed her notice that his glance, wandering and lascivious, had more frequently followed the nearest handsome young man rather than the female of the species. Still, handsome young men could not give him heirs; for that he needed a princess, and for a time she had commended herself for the role, but he had seemed to find her only interesting to talk to, nothing more.
“Which cannot be said to apply to the other gentleman with whom you were far too forthcoming in London,” Mrs. Tudor declared.
“I will not have you speak ill of him.”
“I thought you had more sense than to fall prey to such an obvious fortune hunter.”
Fleur’s chin rose haughtily. “Well, that is where you are wrong about him, Mama dear, for he has money of his own.”
“If you believe that, then you will believe anything,” Mrs. Tudor replied.
“Just as you believed the general when he said he’d marry you?” Fleur retorted.
“He would have married me had he not fallen suddenly so ill.”
“No, he wouldn’t, for he was a sly old dog who knew that you’d continue to warm his bed if you thought he’d make an honest woman of you. And he made sure of your diligence in that respect by pretending he still had all his wealth. So he was a sly impoverished old dog!”
Mrs. Tudor looked away. “I know what you say is true, Fleur, but hope that my shining example will serve to show you what a gem you have in Lord Griffin.”
“A gem? Yes, that’s true, but he doesn’t shine, I’m excited by risks, and stolen kisses are so much more rewarding than those that are allowed. I ceased to be innocent a number of years ago now, and my lovers have been many and varied. I need lovers, and I always will.”
Mrs. Tudor was shocked. “I knew you were wanton, Fleur, but not that you were quite so promiscuous.”
“I thrive on carnal pleasure, Mama dear, just as you once did. I may not be the general’s daughter, but I’m certainly yours.”
“I was never as abandoned as you.”
“Only because opportunity didn’t pass your way.”
Her mother shook her head. “No, even if it had, I would have been too cautious to do as you do. Such wild irresponsibility is dangerous, Fleur, and invites calamity. Please promise to give it all up, and be the woman Lord Griffin believes you to be.”
“He will continue to believe in me, Mama, for I am too clever to be found out. Besides, it is not as if he and I are in love, or that we will ever be passionate in bed. He is still in his dead wife’s thrall, and I find him handsome but dull. Say what you will of Freddie; at least he knows how to pleasure me. Oh, how he knows.” Fleur’s green eyes shone, and there was a glow on her cheeks as she remembered.
“Presumably Freddie is the name of the wretched fortune hunter?” her mother ventured.
“He isn’t the fortune hunter, Mama dear, I am,” Fleur pointed out.
Mrs. Tudor shook her head. “Believe me, my dear, bitter experience tells me that he is penniless. I learned a very harsh lesson with the general, and am far wiser now. Your precious Freddie is interested in you simply and solely because you’ve led him to believe you are an heiress. Take that away, and you won’t see hide or hair of him again.”
Fleur shrugged. “Maybe, but in the meantime ...”
Her mother seized her arm. “Promise that your foolishness with him began and ended in London, and that you have been the very soul of chastity since returning here.”
Fleur gave a slight laugh. “If it makes you feel better, I promise I’ve been all that is virginal.”
“Which means you haven’t! Oh, Fleur, Fleur, you will be the cause of your own downfall.”
“And yours too. That’s what’s really worrying you, isn’t it?” Fleur gazed at her in the candlelight. “Well, you can stop worrying, because I will become Lady Griffin as soon as the wanderer returns from Russia, and all will then be well. That is, unless ...”
“Unless what?” Mrs. Tudor held her breath in dread.
“Come with me now, and I’ll show you.” Fleur continued up the staircase. Mrs. Tudor gazed unhappily after her, then followed. On reaching the next floor, they proceeded along the gallery, where portraits of Athan’s ancestors watched them pass. Suits of armor glinted in the candlelight, and the night wind droned dismally around the line of windows overlooking the castle courtyard.
At last they reached the arched double doors of Athan’s rooms. Mrs. Tudor looked anxiously back along the dark gallery, then gasped. “There’s someone there!” she breathed fearfully.
“Where?” Fleur raised the candelabra and looked intently, but saw nothing.
“I—I thought I saw something....”
Fleur was irritated. “There’s no one, Mama! Do be sensible; we’re safe from discovery. Now then, let’s go in, for I need to see something again, and I need you to see it too.”
Pushing the door open, Fleur virtually bundled her mother inside. The apartments were sumptuously furnished, the paneled walls hung with tapestries, the Tudor furniture beautifully carved and provided with embroidered upholstery, but Fleur hardly looked at anything, for she was intent upon the wall above the carved stone fireplace and mantel.
There, glowing softly and almost seductively in the light from the candles, was a portrait that was so much the image of Ellie Rutherford that Fleur could hardly believe, it.
Mrs. Tudor followed her daughter’s gaze. “What is it, my dear?”
“Do you know whose likeness this is?”
“Yes, of course I do. It’s Caroline, Lady Griffin, and very improper she is too. Why, her modesty is saved by little more than a shawl! But then, she proved herself to be no better than she should be.”
Fleur drew a long breath. “Be that as it may, would it surprise you to learn that it could also be a portrait of John Bailey’s niece?”
“Bailey the china maker?”
Fleur felt a spurt of annoyance. “Yes, of course Bailey the china maker! For heaven’s sake, Mama, how many Baileys are there in Nantgarth?”
“Don’t raise your voice, dear,” her mother replied, glancing over her shoulder again.
“Did you hear what I said?” Fleur asked exasperatedly. “The woman in this painting is the very twin of Bailey’s niece.”
Mrs. Tudor looked unwillingly at the canvas. “I fail to see why you are so concerned.”
/> “Really? Then you are too complacent by far, and it’s no wonder the general ran rings around you. Look at the painting! A woman who is the living image of this portrait now resides at Nantgarth House, and what’s more, I believe she plans to usurp me. She knows who she looks like, and means to use the knowledge to her own personal advantage.”
“Oh, come now, Fleur ...” her mother began.
Fleur stamped her foot. “She does, I tell you!”
“But he intends to marry you, my dear,” her mother said soothingly.
“I hope you’re right, Mama, because I am very uneasy.” Fleur studied the painted face that was so eerily like Ellie.
Mrs. Tudor shuddered. “Then we must make absolutely certain that Mr. Bailey’s niece does not achieve her aim. For the moment, however, it’s cold here, my dear. Shall we return to the drawing room?”
Chapter Twelve
In Russia, Epiphany was a very important occasion in the church calendar, and by eleven o’clock in the morning most of the population of snow-covered St. Petersburg had gathered along the banks of the frozen River Neva, by the baroque splendor of the Winter Palace. Bells rang and seagulls screamed, disturbed by the great congregation that spilled onto the thick ice.
The Neva was just over forty miles long from its birth in Lake Ladoga to its mouth in the Gulf of Finland. It had no tidal ebb and flow, and by the Winter Palace was divided into two by the long spit of Vasilievsky Island, the largest of forty-two islands that formed the delta upon which the beautiful Russian capital was built. In every direction there were handsome waterfronts, with fine wharves and docks, mansions with gardens and trees, and government buildings, of which even the most minor seemed grand enough for royalty.
Vehicles of all sorts cluttered the river, from open four-wheeled droshkies and covered sledges called kibitkas, to troikas, carriages fixed on square sledges that resembled tabletops, and rough carts known as telegas. Ladies and gentlemen stood on the boxes of their carriages in order to see, but the peasants tried to get really close, and had to be driven back by the troops.
Bright sunshine glanced on the surrounding snow, and incense drifted as choirs dressed in scarlet sang hymns. There was an air of deep devotion and reverence, except in the palace, from the windows of which the privileged gazed down in more worldly comfort.
In the middle of the river stood an open pavilion surmounted by a golden cross and embellished with icons. It marked and protected the hole that for the past two hours or more had been cut painstakingly through the ice. The pavilion was carpeted with scarlet cloth, as was the processional causeway that had been built out from the embankment steps in front of the palace. Soon the primate of St. Petersburg would immerse a crucifix through the hole into the water and thus bestow a blessing upon it.
Earlier a glittering procession, headed by bishops and archimandrites dressed in cloth-of-gold, had proceeded out of the Winter Palace. The Imperial Family followed, and on nearing the pavilion, found that the clergy had formed an avenue for the twenty-seven-year-old czar and his czarina to pass.
Alexander was tall and golden blond, with noble features, a dimpled chin, and gentle blue eyes. Clad in the splendid uniform of a Cossack hetman, he now stood beneath the pavilion. Crimson orders and a number of glittering stars adorned his breast; he was bareheaded and without a cloak, but gave no sign of being so exposed to the intense cold. His tall, beautiful czarina stood just behind him in state robes, her fair curls hidden beneath the traditional Russian headdress known as a kokoshnik.
Athan was among the huge gathering. He’d lost weight since Ellie had seen him. There were dark shadows beneath his gray eyes. He was thoroughly enveloped in heavy coats, scarves, and shawls, and had wisely discarded his London top hat for furry Russian headwear that ensured his ears were kept warm. It had been necessary to slip out of the elegant house on English Quay behind the back of his watchful sister, Louise, who had appointed herself his nurse, and had been keeping a very close eye on him, as had her British husband, the fur merchant, Charles Brasier. Neither of them considered Athan to be well enough to go walking in the Russian winter, but the patient was bored and restless.
His only diversion in recent weeks had been a meeting with the czar at the Winter Palace. The fame of the Griffin stud had reached royal ears, and Alexander was impressed enough to want a colt and a mare for the Imperial Stables, which stood beside the Moika Canal in St. Petersburg. With this in mind, he’d summoned Athan to the Winter Palace, sending his own private carriage, and had granted a lengthy audience to discuss the matter.
An orchestra had played throughout the meeting, and there was much of the slightly deaf czar’s rather garbled French that Athan found hard to understand. However, they’d still managed to get on well enough for Alexander to desire him to accompany the horses to St. Petersburg in the summer, so they could speak again.
Since that momentous day Athan’s restlessness had become intolerable. He was so tired of sitting by fires at English Quay, drinking possets, and being read to from dull volumes, that today he’d sneaked out like a felon to observe this famous Epiphany ceremony.
At last the hole through the ice was complete, and after many prayers, the primate dipped the golden crucifix three times into the hole; then, with uplifted hands he blessed the water three times. Artillery fired salutes from the Peter and Paul Fortress on the northern riverbank, where the four-hundred-foot spire of the cathedral of the same name rose like a golden needle from within the military ramparts.
Not long afterward the procession began to move slowly back along the causeway toward the palace, and then the people swarmed forward like ants. Children were dipped into the river, which was now considered holy, while others scrambled to draw the water, in the belief that it would remain consecrated for years and retain the power to cure the sick.
Athan adjusted his fur hat and pushed some of his wayward black hair away from his forehead. Even wrapped up as he was, his feet no longer seemed to belong to the rest of him, and in spite of thick sheepskin gloves, his fingers were so cold they ached painfully.
Never again would he complain about Welsh rain! What he could do with right now was a huge fried breakfast as cooked by the sainted Mrs. Lewis. It was a pity she had upset Fleur and her mother to such an extent that he’d been left with little choice but to let her go. Still, his loss was John Bailey’s undoubted gain.
He pressed his lips together and, feeling very homesick for Wales, shuffled his cold feet. Damn Russia and its vile winters. He couldn’t stay here until spring, which was what Louise and Charles wanted. He had to get home and attend to the important business of selecting and preparing the colt and mare for the czar. He also had to get home and begin preparations to marry Fleur. His lips twisted thoughtfully, for there was also the Unicorn Bank and the accusations laid against it by the mysterious Ellie.
Mysterious indeed, for according to the last letter he’d received from his agent, she had declined to divulge where she would go after the sale of Rutherford Park. Well, she was entitled to do as she pleased, of course, but her disappearance would make the inquiries he’d promised to conduct at the bank all the more difficult.
It would also make it all the more difficult to see her again. This last thought slid in almost slyly, as indeed it might, for he had no business yearning for Ellie Rutherford when Fleur was the one he’d asked to marry him. He gazed at the scene on the frozen river, but all he saw was Ellie’s face.
He lingered a little longer, but was becoming so cold now that he decided it was time to make his way back to English Quay, which lay downstream on the same side of the river as the Winter Palace. His route would take him past the Admiralty and Palace Square, where the impressive prancing Bronze Horseman statue of Peter the Great faced the river, then past the Senate building before he would eventually come in sight of English Quay.
He walked carefully, having no desire to slip and add bruises or a broken bone to his health woes, but as the noise of the crowds began to
be lost in the jangle of the bells, he became aware of a six-horse, sledge-mounted carriage about fifty yards behind him. Trotting alongside it were half a dozen Dalmatian carriage dogs, such as might be seen with the finest equipages in fashionable Hyde Park. He walked on, and suddenly the dogs milled around him, tails wagging as the carriage drew to a halt alongside him.
The Tatar coachman clambered down from the box and opened the door to reveal two aristocratic Russian men seated side by side. The older of the two was supple and slender for his age and had something of the courtesan about his eyes. The younger was an arrogant officer in the Imperial Guard, with pampered, sulky looks that suggested too much privilege and too little intellect to cope with it. Athan might have wondered about them, had he not felt certain that the young man would commit murder rather than be another man’s bedfellow.
The older man addressed Athan in French. “Lord Griffin? I trust you do not mean to walk all the way to English Quay so soon after your recent illness? After all, apart from your interview with the czar, this is your first venture outside since becoming so unwell.”
Athan had no idea who the man was, or indeed how he knew so much. “You have the advantage over me, sir, for we have not been introduced,” he replied, also in French.
The first man gave a faintly sardonic smile. “I am Prince Paul Dalmatsky, and this is my nephew, Prince Valentin Andreyev.”
Valentin inclined his head.
Athan had never heard of Valentin before, but knew Paul was the owner of the house in which his sister and brother-in-law resided on English Quay. “I am honored to meet you, sirs,” he murmured, sketching a bow worthy of St. James’s Palace, but when he straightened he looked Paul directly in the eyes. “I’m curious that you should know who I am, sir, after all, wrapped up like this, I’m hardly recognizable.”
Paul ignored the question. “My carriage is at your disposal, Lord Griffin. Please allow me to convey you the rest of the way to English Quay.”
Athan did not want to accept the offer, for by now he was convinced that this uncle and nephew had been watching him outside the Winter Palace.
