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 of living quietly. When had he ever lived quietly? Did he even know how? How ironic that the one thing he’d hoped to avoid in his new life was the one thing that had found him, the one thing that stirred him—if one didn’t count Klara Grigorieva. She stirred him in an entirely different, but no less dangerous, way.
Klara’s hand was still tingling when the door shut behind the last guest, which was quite possibly what the prince intended, the arrogant man. She’d like to forget him and his seductive effect. She’d like to think he affected her no differently than any other man, but she was not in the habit of lying to herself. Her reaction to Nikolay Baklanov was going to complicate things.
‘The Prince handled himself well this evening. Can he be of use to us?’ Her father issued his question to the two remaining guests—his most intimate advisors, Amesbury and Vasilev. He stood in the doorway to the drawing room, inviting them to join him in consultation. ‘Shall we talk it over?’ She would join the men as a matter of course to work through impressions. This was the custom ever since she’d turned eighteen and had been presented to society. In this manner, her father had subtly coached her in the ways of a diplomat: how to understand people, how to read between the lines of their conversation. Such an education had only been given to her because it served a purpose. She was not the sole beneficiary of the privilege. Her father gained the advantage of his astute daughter’s insights. He understood full well how unguarded men could be in the presence of a pretty young woman, especially when they assumed she was harmless to them, a female expected to be vacuous because she was beautiful.
Her father poured each of them a small glass of viche pitia. He toasted them, ‘Another insightful evening.’
Insightful for Nikolay as well. Klara hazarded a surreptitious glance at Amesbury as she sipped. Nikolay had correctly guessed that Amesbury coveted her. She was acutely aware the Duke wanted to possess her the way a man wanted to possess a fine carriage and excellent horses. The Duke caught her gaze, his eyes hard over his glass, a cold smile hovering on his lips, cold enough to send a shiver down her spine.
Her father was speaking to Vasilev. ‘What do you make of Baklanov?’
‘He understood you were vetting him tonight,’ Vasilev said thoughtfully. ‘He was very careful with his words. He’s not sure what you want him for.’
‘He does now. Can he be a revolutionary?’ her father queried. ‘We dropped enough breadcrumbs for
