Ruslan looked down at his glass. Good news indeed, but not the news he was hoping for. He let the conversation continue around him, his attention perking at the only question that mattered now.
‘When do we go back? Surely we should set a date on the calendar and begin planning.’ This was from Stepan, who slid him a sideways look. ‘It will take some work to return her. She can’t go slinking back into Kuban.’
No, she’d have to go looking like a queen, with a show of pride, a show of force, all the things he’d worked so tirelessly to secure for her. They would suddenly be needed. And she would be exposed in ways she was not exposed here. Here, he could always be beside her. He could see Dasha in his mind, her head held high at the front of a column as she rode into Kuban, regal and proud, and an easy target. One shot would end it all. She’d been lucky in London. She might not be so lucky in Kuban. Unless he was there to protect her, to make the subtle arrangements he’d made here to keep her safe each time she went out.
You could go with her.
It certainly wasn’t the first time he’d thought about it. He’d been thinking about it since she’d first come through his door. But now, he was being forced to contemplate that choice concretely. It was no longer a hypothetical argument to have with himself in the middle of the night.
Stepan rose from the table. ‘Ruslan, might I have a word in private? Gentlemen, please continue the conversation, help yourself to more samogon.’
‘You don’t seem pleased.’ Stepan directed him to an empty corner where they were well away from the table.
‘Why should I be? The further this plan goes, the more danger the Princess is exposed to,’ Ruslan snapped. ‘We’ve been lucky so far, but the danger increases exponentially the closer we physically get to Kuban. Every step away from London reduces our chances of keeping her safe.’ All the barriers, the mountain ranges, the rivers, the seas, would slowly be stripped away, making it easier for anyone to get to her.
Stepan scoffed. ‘Then design a secure route for her. You’re an expert at that. Use our route. It proved safe enough.’ He paused. ‘You used to be better at hiding your emotions. This is not about her safety, not entirely.’ Ruslan said nothing.
Stepan swore. ‘Damn it, Ruslan. Not you, too? Don’t think I don’t know the signs. I’ve been through this with Illarion and Nikolay. You are falling for her.’ Stepan pushed a hand through his hair in frustration. ‘I thought you’d at least show some sense. You can’t have her. She’s the Princess, for crying out loud. She’s going home to lead her country.’ What Stepan meant was that she would have to eventually make a dynastic marriage. She could hardly marry a prince who’d chosen exile.
‘I’m not falling for her,’ Ruslan denied. But he was falling for something—for the fantasy of her, for the fantasy of the life they might have had in London among his friends, comfortable and safe from palace intrigue and assassins in the night, for nights spent with her in his arms, for carriage rides that ended in stolen kisses and walks in the park. For long talks and sharing ideas, debating those ideas when the need arose. They would not agree on everything.
‘The plan was always to send her back once she decided to accept her responsibilities,’ Stepan reminded him, making Ruslan feel like a child petitioning to keep a stray he’d taken in and was now reluctant to give up. ‘She belongs in Kuban, you know. I’ve been watching her. She will make a magnificent queen.’ Ruslan had to agree. She would. If they could get her there alive. Stepan clapped him on the shoulder, taking his silence for assent, for doing ‘the right thing’. ‘This doesn’t mean I don’t know how hard this is for you, Ruslan.’ Something in his demeanour suggested he did indeed know and understand. It made Ruslan wonder what Stepan had given up.
They returned to the table and took their seats. ‘We can be ready to leave in two weeks.’ Ruslan cleared his throat. Whatever his fantasies, it was time to set them aside and forcefully reassert his objectivity. ‘We need time to formally alert the parties that will travel with us. Canning has arranged for a small but impressive coterie of officers and cavalry to accompany us as protection, but also as fact-finders. They will want to study the geographic situation for future knowledge.’ Meaning the port access and the water routes for trade. Ruslan nodded towards Grigoriev. ‘Also, I think you and the Duke of Redruth will need to organise your corps of diplomats who are interested in establishing relations with Kuban.’ Diplomats would bring aides, perhaps even families. Moving diplomats and soldiers would be like travelling with a small army. Ruslan’s mind was already clicking with the hundreds of details involved in mobilising a large group. There would be supplies to arrange, inns to arrange, security to arrange.
This entourage would be too large to be hidden. They would be easily tracked if anyone was interested in their movements. And they’d be slow. There might be safety in numbers, but there was no speed. It would take the entourage six weeks under optimal conditions. In reality, it would probably take seven or eight. One should never count on autumn weather being optimal.
‘Two weeks?’ Grigoriev tactfully complained. ‘That is not much time. We need a month at least to pack and assemble.’
Ruslan faced the ambassador patiently. He was used to such complaints. It was always the same. He’d managed such outings in Kuban for the Tsar—the removal of the family to the summer palace, the return to town for winter—before he’d turned his hand to more covert manoeuvrings. ‘I appreciate the comment. A month would be ideal. Unfortunately, we don’t have a month. It’s the first of October already. If we leave by the fifteenth, I am hopeful we can make Kuban by the end of November.’
It was, in fact, necessary. If they did not, the snows in the mountain passes would prevent them from travel until spring. If they were too late, they would have to turn back, spend the winter holed up somewhere in Germany. It was not a proposition Ruslan liked. A lot could happen in the span of a winter. Palace intrigues could increase apace with the confinement of people indoors during those months. Could the Moderates hold Kuban until spring if they didn’t make it through? It would be far better to have Dasha in place, to have the winter to establish her court. And in the winter, the borders would be safe, Kuban’s isolation complete.
Grigoriev nodded his understanding and rose. ‘Then, if that is the case, I will see to my end of things immediately.’ He bowed to Ruslan. ‘Your Highness, does this mean you will be accompanying us?’
Ruslan felt Stepan’s gaze on him, steely and defiant, daring him to go against his preferences. He had no time to consider Stepan’s feelings now. But Stepan should not be surprised. They’d talked of this before. Stepan had been warned. ‘Yes, Your Excellency, it does.’ He smiled with forced cheer—something he was going to have to get used to doing in the difficult days to come. ‘I can hardly make arrangements and then not see them through to the end. I will see us all safely to Kuban.’ It was happening again, the same way it had happened in Kuban, when he hadn’t really thought he was leaving. He was leaving again. He’d not awakened this morning with those intentions. Just a few hours ago he’d been imagining Dasha in his drawing room with his Wedgwood.
‘Shall I tell the Princess?’ Varvakis asked eagerly.
Ruslan shook his head. ‘No. I will tell her tonight.’ He was not sure how Dasha would take the news. In theory, she knew to expect it, as had he. He knew empirically from his own reaction that expecting the news didn’t make a difference. These last hours had been hard on him. He could imagine how difficult the news, welcome or not, would be on Dasha.
Outside, Stepan was not willing to let the decision stand now that they were alone. ‘You are going back there for her, admit it!’ Stepan grabbed his arm, forcing him to stop and face his friend and all the agony Stepan’s expression wore.
‘You are welcome to come. I could use a good arm like yours, and a good mind,’ Ruslan offered. He didn’t truly think Stepan would accept and Stepan didn’t.
‘I will not go back there.’ Whatever evil Stepan had left behind still haunted him. But Stepan never said anything on the matter. He wasn’t like Nikolay or Illarion in that regard. Those two wore their opinions on their sleeves along with their hearts. Ruslan let him be, although he had suspicions Stepan’s source of torture had followed him here.
They walked towards the town house in silence, one more question hanging between them unasked until they reached the steps. ‘Will you come back?’ Stepan enquired quietly, his hand on Ruslan’s arm.
Ruslan chuckled. What could he say? ‘Let me leave first, my friend.’
‘I see.’ The grim tic in Stepan’s cheek tensed and jumped at his jaw.
Ruslan relented. ‘I don’t know. I think it will depend on how things go.’ With the country. With Dasha. He looked up at the whitewashed heights of his new town house, imagining Dasha inside. Was she still with the ladies or had they gone? Maybe she was playing with Maximus? ‘Perhaps you could tell Nikolay for me? I want him to hear it from us first.’ Ruslan paused. ‘Step, don’t ask him to come. He will feel badly but he can’t come. We can’t allow it. I wouldn’t want him to leave Klara just now.’
Stepan’s eyebrow arched in comprehension of his meaning. ‘Really? She’s expecting?’
‘I think so.’ He was seldom wrong about these things. A sense of loss stabbed at him. He wouldn’t be here to see Nikolay’s child born. Even if he returned, it wouldn’t be for another year at best. And if he came back, it would mean there’d been certain...failures. Yet to not return came with sacrifices, too. ‘This decision tears at my heart, Stepan,’ he said softly and began to climb the steps.
It was quiet inside. Good. He wanted to be alone with her when he told her and he didn’t want to wait. Now that it was decided, he wanted the revelation over. Ruslan found his way to the drawing room. She was there, her back to him, and he took a moment to savour the sight of her, the peace of her before everything changed.
She turned, perhaps sensing his presence. She looked happy to see him. She came towards him, holding an empty teacup. ‘The servants missed one. Someone hid it beneath the sofa.’ She had a wide smile on her lips and looked fetching in her lavender-blue gown. He wanted to remember her like this with her eyes dancing. ‘Everyone is excited for the Kubanian Tea. I think Lady Bradford-Piles had it all planned before she left.’ Dasha laughed. ‘Lady Bradford-Piles says...’ She halted mid-sentence, catching his expression. ‘What is it? How was your meeting with Stepan? Not bad news, I hope?’ The spark banked in her eyes, her face paling.
Ruslan tried out his new, forced smile. ‘The Moderates have gained control of the country. Kuban is ready for its Queen. You are going home, Dasha.’
The teacup slipped out of her hand and crashed to the floor, smashing, like his fantasy, into a thousand irreparable pieces.
Chapter Twelve
She was going home. Dasha stood there staring, inept and speechless while her mind raced in a million directions—what did she do first? Pick up the ruined china? The cup seemed inconsequential in light of his news. Should she ask the questions rocketing through her mind? There were hundreds of them. No matter what direction her thoughts went, they only circled back to one: she did not want this. It was too soon. It would always be too soon.
Doubts swamped her. How foolish she was to have chosen this path. The hopes that had fed her decision to be the Princess had not come to pass. She had not remembered who she was in time. She’d always thought she’d go home to Kuban in full possession of her memories. She’d not thought the summons would come so soon. She’d thought she’d have the winter. Spring seemed far away. Surely by spring all would be put to rights. Maybe that was still a possibility. She found her voice at last. ‘When?’
‘In two weeks. We cannot delay longer if we wish to make Kuban before the snow closes it off.’ She was aware of Ruslan’s scrutiny. He was studying her, trying to assess her reaction. ‘You are not pleased?’
She should be pleased. A queen should be hungry for her throne, desirous for her country. Like Captain Varvakis, she should be chafing to return. At the moment, though, all she could think of was what she’d be leaving behind, including this man who chased away her nightmares. How would she be brave without him? She’d been all too aware of how much she’d relied on him these many weeks, even though he’d tried to mitigate that sense of reliance, providing for her without her asking. ‘It is something of a shock. I thought there would be more time.’ So much more time.
She watched a wall go up behind his eyes. Was he disappointed in her? He must be. This was what he wanted, what he’d taken her in for, what Varvakis had brought her here for—so that she would be safe when her country needed her. For him, her return would mean so much more than a journey. He’d chosen exile, perhaps waiting for a time like this when his beliefs and values were mirrored in the policies of his country. He probably felt like celebrating. And he couldn’t. Because of her. How like Ruslan to set aside his personal feelings for another’s emotions. Dasha managed a smile. ‘It’s good news, indeed.’
‘And yet it leaves you pale and shaking.’ Ruslan put his arm about her and guided her to the sofa. ‘What is it, Dasha? Are you having second thoughts?’
That was an understatement. She was having second thoughts, third thoughts. Her feet weren’t just cold, they were freezing. Could she really lead a country? Would that country accept her? Was she even who she claimed to be? If she wasn’t, what happened then? How could she do this all alone without Ruslan?
‘I was just getting used to things here.’ She was complaining after all he’d done for her to make this return possible. Without his entrée, she could never have hoped to capture the support of society. She sat straighter and tried to sound queenly. ‘Perhaps we should not rush. It might be worthwhile to spend the winter here so that we could go fully prepared.’
‘Do not worry, we will go fully prepared. Even now, Grigoriev and the others are gathering their retinues,’ Ruslan reassured her.
‘We?’ Something leapt inside her. She barely dared to give voice to it. ‘Are you coming, too?’
‘Yes, of course.’ Ruslan’s voice was steady, his gaze intent. But it was her advisor who spoke the reassurances, her friend was tucked carefully away. As soon as he’d imparted the news, Ruslan had donned his mantle of neutrality and gathered it securely about himself. He was far calmer than she. But he’d had the benefit of a few hours to adjust to the news, to think about what it meant. Perhaps in a few hours she’d feel the same.
‘Of course?’ She didn’t see any ‘of course’ about it. ‘But you have this house, you’ve just moved in. Your friends are here.’ His life was here.
Ruslan gestured to the space around him. ‘A house is just a thing, Dasha. It can be replaced. I’ve done it before. My friends understand.’
‘Even Stepan?’ Dasha gave a wry smile. Stepan had been wary of this venture from the first, fearing this exact outcome.
‘He will, eventually,’ Ruslan answered with a wry smile of his own, sharing in the dry humour between them. The intimacy of a shared joke sent a private warmth through her, his neutrality was breached for a short moment. Whoever went with them—General Vasiliev, or the ambassador, Grigoriev—didn’t matter. She and Ruslan were in this, together.
* * *
Although it didn’t seem very ‘together’ five days in. He was gone before she rose in the mornings and returned in the evenings long enough to escort her to an event, his hand always at her back, his eyes always alert. He said little beyond making the general enquiries about her days. They discussed the details of the departure, but nothing more. He was, in short, a very proper advisor.
The absence of her advisor-friend brought a certain clarity. She wanted the fantasy. Not just to indulge in, but to somehow make it real, a barricade against the truth; that she was going home. The merest touch of his hand was a remin
der of the potential that burned between them and a reminder of all that was being held in check because of their circumstances. And yet if it hadn’t been for those circumstances, she would never have met him.
Dasha gave her hair a final pat. He would be waiting for her downstairs, even now, for one more event, this one a musicale, featuring an Italian soprano who had lingered in London at the request of a certain lord. Ruslan had warned her ahead of time the soprano was not very good, but it was another chance to see and be seen by those who supported her return to Kuban. Dasha drew a breath and straightened her shoulders. She knew what was expected of her tonight. She would smile and laugh and say things that were witty at times, serious at others.
Everything she said, everything she did, how she treated the men who supported her, was taken as proof of her ability to succeed. It was weary work, the latter especially. The men had to be handled carefully. She had to respect their opinions and yet she could not be seen as their puppet. This was perhaps another reason for Ruslan’s absence in recent days. She knew the papers delighted in naming him as her consort due to his constant attendance on her and often the speculation about what that attendance entailed was not kind. There were only so many reasons a man attached himself to a high-ranking woman, all of them unimaginative: money, power, status.
Those items were intensified when one was a princess, soon-to-be queen. She was very aware that if she were successful in her claim, she could give him back all that he’d lost when he left and more. She was aware, too, that Ruslan was cognisant of that as well. Indeed, he was quite sensitive to it, always careful to make sure she understood he did not make his choices based on those supposed gains. And yet, that awareness persisted beneath the surface of what passed as their relationship.
He was at the bottom of the stairs, ready and waiting. ‘I am sorry I’m late,’ she said as she descended, silvery-grey skirts in one hand.
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