Compromised By The Prince’s Touch. Bronwyn Scott
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to warrant exile? Did St Petersburg care that a prince from a newly created ‘kingdom’ of the empire had essentially deserted? Kuban had only been firmly Russian for three generations of princes. Without knowing the answers to those questions, he could draw no definitive conclusion that this was a trap.
He let his mind pick up the thread of Klara’s insinuation that her father wanted to test him for his own purposes. What might those purposes be? Treason? Rebellion? Matrimony possibly, given that there was matchmaking underway for the General’s daughter based on the glances being tossed across the table. He had already contemplated compliance and treason. Why not contemplate matrimony, too?
Nikolay considered Klara; the heat of her kiss, the sharpness of her wit. Had she been trying to tempt him for nothing more than marriage? It seemed a small thing compared to entrapment for treason. Alexei Grigoriev wasn’t the first ambitious ambassador looking to connect his daughter with a royal family of the empire. If Grigoriev thought there was a chance he would return to Kuban and take up his responsibilities in the military, it would be advantageous to have Klara in a position that could advance his own career. Such arrangements were made all the time in Kuban. Marriage was a political concern, romance was a personal one that was often expected to occur outside of that marriage.
It stood to reason Grigoriev would be interested in Kuban. It was an area of growing political concern. As an officer, Nikolay understood how important Kuban would be in the next several decades. The Ottomans were weakening. Their empire would fall and Russia would want its piece of the spoils, as would England. The Crimean Peninsula stood, metaphorically speaking, between England and Russia in the west, the Khyber Pass of Afghanistan stood between them in the east, Russia’s gateway into British India. The time for war was not yet, but it was coming. Nikolay could feel it in his warrior’s soul. There would be a time, when the country he loved would square off against the country he’d run to. It would be a time for choosing, a time for testing loyalties.
Perhaps Grigoriev knew it, too. Grigoriev wanted to be ready. But the ambassador would have to find another way into Kuban. Nikolay was not a marrying man. He allowed his gaze to slide surreptitiously over Klara’s fine profile. Not even a woman as beautiful as Klara Grigorieva was going to change that. He firmly believed a career military man like himself; a man who courted danger, had no business with a wife or children. It was hardly fair when the odds were they’d be widowed and fatherless a portion of their lives.
There was the selfish factor, too; he wanted to live and, to do that, he didn’t need the distraction of worry over what happened to him when he was leading raids and defending border forts along the river. The fastest way to be killed on a battlefield was to be distracted. The biggest distraction of all was the fear of having one’s family used against one as leverage. Dimitri Petrovich was proof of that. What he’d endured for years for the sake of his father and sister was lesson enough that love—true love—was hardly worth the sacrifice.
Nikolay wiped his mouth with his napkin and sat back to let the footman take his plate. Klara smiled at him, something challenging and hot in her eyes. Oh, no, marriage was definitely not for him. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t beyond a little flirtation.
Across the table, one of the young protégés expounded to the group at large about the current situation. ‘The military will support Constantine as successor when the time comes.’ Somewhere between contemplating treason and matrimony, the conversation had moved on without him. He had to catch up.
‘When will that be?’ the Count put in. ‘Tsar Alexander is healthy enough. Are we to twiddle our thumbs and wait until he dies? He’s only in his forties. If he’s like his grandmother, he’ll live for eons. Russia cannot take two more decades of his “religious fervour”.’
‘Here, here.’ General Vasilev, brilliant in a decorated scarlet uniform, raised his glass. ‘Russia needs innovation if it’s to catch up with the rest of Europe. If there’s anything good to say about Napoleon, it is this: our boys went out into the world, looked around and saw their country lacking. Too long have we been a land of farmers and feudal princes.’ He aimed a sharp look at Nikolay. ‘Your presence excluded, Your Highness. I do not mean any offence.’ He inclined his head, but his eyes never left Nikolay’s. The man was waiting for him to declare himself. This was the ambush.
‘None taken.’ Nikolay met his gaze with a nod of his own, never believing for a moment those two words would be enough, but hoping he might be lucky.
Amesbury smiled, a cat anticipating cream. A wise man would know the grin was not benign. ‘Does that mean you side with General Vasilev in regards to Russia’s lag in the world?’
Nikolay felt Klara stiffen beside him, evidence that this was the trap that had been laid for him. A test of his loyalties confirmed. Nikolay met Amesbury’s remark, confidently. ‘I believe a man should be able to voice his opinion freely without fear of repercussion. The General is free to say what he will in my presence.’ Even if that speech included plotting rebellion, for surely that’s what lurked beneath the surface of this talk about successors and progress. How interesting. Even more interesting was the hint that they wanted him to join them. Why else would they speak of such things in front of him? To be sure, it was all very oblique, but it was there.
At the other end of the table, Alexei’s eyebrows, dark like his daughter’s, rose in approval. ‘That is a very generous attitude, Your Highness. One that would be revolutionary in its own right in certain conservative circles.’
‘We’re in England, where it’s hardly a remarkable courtesy,’ Nikolay replied broadly and then decided some table-turning might not come amiss. He raised his glass to Grigoriev. ‘My compliments, Your Excellency. What a wonderful night it has been to share a meal with countrymen like myself, men a long way from home. Zazdarovje!’ There was a rousing chorus of Zazdarovje and the clinking of glasses but Nikolay was sure his message had not been missed by the ambassador or by anyone else at the table.
They could ruminate all they liked on his reference to being so far from ‘home’. They could also speculate on his awareness that he knew they plotted, safe on English shores. It was hardly a unique idea. Russia was always plotting, but that made it no less dangerous. ‘Just so we’re clear, gentlemen, I have no desire to engage in politics. I intend to live here quietly.’ Looks were exchanged, topics were changed. His remark altered the tone of the evening. By the time cheeses were set in front of him to end the meal, politics had disappeared entirely from the table. Even when Klara rose and indicated the ladies should follow her to the salon and the brandy decanters came out, politics made no reappearance, which shortened the evening, by a good two hours.
The men did not linger over brandy, and the ‘musical’ portion of the evening was blessedly brief. Why linger when it was time to go? He’d been here long enough to know what he needed to do, and that was disengage. There was nothing here for him but danger and trouble. He had not left Kuban to be dragged back into the mess of politics, sexual or otherwise. It didn’t matter what form the politics took, it was still danger and he had no time for it, no room for it in this new life he was trying to carve out. It was a shame that Miss Grigorieva would be a casualty of that decision, but there was no other choice for it. Better to make that choice now before he might become otherwise invested or had his judgement clouded by less reliable issues than logic.
* * *
‘You are something of a killjoy,’ Klara murmured as she walked him to the hall, the party breaking up shortly before midnight. ‘Go out often, do you?’
Nikolay laughed. ‘No, not to functions like this.’
She arched a brow. ‘I can see why. Are you sure you’re not a politician disguised as an officer?’
‘I leave the politics to my friends, Stepan and Ruslan, when I can. But I’ve yet to meet a military man who doesn’t have the wit to handle both on occasion.’ The butler helped him with his greatcoat. Coat settled, Nikolay took Klara’s hand and bent to it, lips grazing knuckles. ‘Do svidaniya, Miss Grigorieva. Thank you for such an...enlightening...evening.’ Revolution was afoot in Belgravia and while his logical mind knew he should run from it, his heart was already protesting his declaration