laughed. ‘You make it sound as if spending more of your money is a favour. I assure you, I’ve spent plenty.’ Especially if she decided to fade away. A penniless émigrée would not have a finer wardrobe than she already had, if that was what she chose. Ruslan stopped them before the gate and covered her hand with his where it lay on her sleeve, his gaze serious. ‘Money is no object. Think of spending it as a favour to me, to see you gowned as you ought to be.’ As a princess ought to be. Was he so sure she’d choose that path even after that kiss? Although after his disclosures, that option seemed more likely than it had this morning. In fact, it hardly seemed that she had options at all.
‘You’ve been generous.’ She was hesitant to accept too much. No one did anything without getting paid and her debt to Ruslan was mounting. ‘I have no money and no promise of money in the future to repay you with.’ Especially if she decided to fade into anonymity. He must be very certain of her indeed.
Ruslan narrowed his gaze. ‘Do not insult me, Dasha. I am not doing this for money. This is a matter of honour.’
‘Do not insult me,’ Dasha cut in. ‘A man is not the only person with a sense of honour. A woman has pride, too, and there are other forms of payment besides money.’
Sexual, political, promises of power.
Ruslan’s jaw tightened, his mouth set in a grim line, but he did not dismiss her concern. ‘I do not think you are the sort of woman who can be bought for a few dresses and pretty baubles. I would hope you’d believe I wasn’t the sort of man who would think so little of you.’ He opened the gate with a curt nod and motioned for her to pass through. No, she didn’t think that of him, yet how else was she to explain the grand kindnesses he’d shown to her?
He gave her a small smile. ‘I know, you can’t help it. It’s a consequence of court, of royalty, always thinking of motives. Take it as a good sign, though. You are thinking like a princess.’ It was ruefully said. ‘It is how a prince thinks, too, always wondering why people have done something for you, what they might want. What do they expect you to give them?’ His hand was at her back, ushering her across the street, and she was reminded once more of the commonalities between them, or at least the commonalities that should be between them, assuming she was who the Captain claimed she was. What would Ruslan say to her doubts? She felt a pang of guilt. He was investing in the woman he thought she was, not just with his money, but with his reputation and credibility when he represented her to others. Was it right to mislead him? To not make him privy to her doubts? Would he take her doubts seriously or pawn them off as Varvakis had done?
Once inside the house, Ruslan bid her farewell. ‘I will not be home for dinner. I have instructed Cook to prepare whatever you wish, and my staff has been apprised that you should make free with my home. Please, Dasha, entertain yourself. There is a pianoforte in the conservatory, books in the library, as you know...’ He paused here and smiled at the mention of the library. ‘I hope you will not be bored.’
How could she possibly be bored? She had too much to think about, a kiss and a handsome prince not the least of those things. And she had a decision to make. But she would miss him. Perhaps he knew his absence was for the best. Perhaps he’d even planned it, to give her space in which to think without being unduly influenced by his presence.
* * *
Dasha dressed slowly for dinner, savouring the luxury of sliding into a clean gown, one of the ready-mades Madame Delphine had left. Even though she dined alone, it felt good to wear well-made clothes and to take time with her appearance. This particular gown was an eggplant silk. Except for the aquamarine, she’d chosen subdued colours out of respect for mourning her family, but she hadn’t chosen all black with an eye towards the other reality—that if she wasn’t the Princess she needn’t wear it at all. Everything, it seemed, hinged on that decision, even something as trivial as her wardrobe. Did she embrace being the Princess or did she create a new identity?
Dasha studied her reflection in the mirror while the maid put up her hair. Who did this face with its serious green eyes belong to? Was it enough to assume that because she thought like a princess she was the Princess? Why was it so hard for her to accept Captain Varvakis’s rescue story? Why did the idea of being the Princess sit so awkwardly on her shoulders?
The maid put in a final pin and offered her the small jewel case. ‘Might I suggest the jet earrings?’ Ruslan had not only thought of everything, he’d found everything. Where he had found these exquisite earrings was beyond her. Dasha fastened them, appreciating their subdued elegance. They were appropriate for this half-mourning she’d fashioned for herself, for a family she couldn’t remember but would honour anyway. Maybe some day she’d remember them and be able truly to mourn them.
She could throw it all off and begin again if she chose. But how would she do that? Beyond the theoretical guilt she might feel, there were practical issues. How would she support herself? How would she live? Where would she live? Would she become another face in this Soho district Ruslan talked about? Ruslan would certainly give her an allowance to start out on should she ask and she had no doubt he’d see to the arrangements, but what then?
She could not lean on him, could not live off his largesse for ever, which begged the next question. Could she choose to live in restrained circumstances? A woman with a name that had no history except that which she acquired? She would be a fraud of sorts the rest of her days. Silk dresses and maids proffering jewels would be a thing of the past. It might be worth it, though. There was a certain appeal in anonymity. In time, she could become the wife of another émigré, perhaps a nice man who taught music or dancing to wealthy gentlemen’s daughters. They would live in shabby gentility and no one would ever importune them for favours. She would never need to worry about being used or manipulated. She might make real friends.
But she would never know the truth of her identity. Or if she did, she’d never be able to acknowledge it, not even to her husband. However, the chances of that seemed slim. Ruslan’s doctor had said the more familiarity she surrounded herself with, the better her chances of recovering her memories. Her ‘familiarity’ was a thousand miles away. The best chance for her to know who she was lay in going back. The best chance for peace lay in going back; the best chance to help her country lay in going back. The reasons were mounting, tipping the scale against the one niggling ‘what if’ that remained.
What if she wasn’t who Varvakis thought she was? Was it enough doubt to risk the fate of a nation?
It would be so much easier if she could simply believe the Captain.
* * *
‘You believe the Captain. You’re going to help them,’ Stepan said with characteristic boldness and no small hint of accusation as they sat over early evening drinks at White’s. The table between them was cluttered with bottles in varying degrees of emptiness. It was always drinks, plural, with Stepan. A little vodka, a little samogon, a little whisky on occasion. Stepan thought Englishmen were too boring, too predictable with their predilection for a constant brandy.
Ruslan sat back in his chair. The emptiness of the bottles was making them both bold. ‘Is there a reason I shouldn’t? Perhaps it’s my patriotic duty. A soldier travels across a continent and an angry sea with the only surviving member of the ruling family, shows up on my doorstep and asks for help in the name of a peaceful transition, a transition you and I were exiled for, if I might remind you. That seems like a good reason to help.’
Stepan took a long swallow from his glass. ‘For a man who considers all angles, you’re taking a lot on face value, including the most basic question: Is Varvakis telling the truth? It’s rather convenient for
