He’s a military officer, a leader of men. We can send him to St Petersburg with the arms when the time is right to raise and rally the troops.’
Ah. A man to play the martyr. Amesbury could get his mind around that. Baklanov could be transformed into a scapegoat if anything went wrong. They knew from experience just how much might go wrong. The Union of Salvation, of which Grigoriev was a devout member, had been forced underground after the failed military revolt in 1821. They could not afford to fail again, but neither could they afford not to try again. Now, the Union plotted in secret and in safety, abroad in England and elsewhere. It was a sign of how great the discontent was that Tsar Alexander’s own military was willing to consider revolutionary action. Not that Amesbury was particularly interested in the principles of the revolt, only the profit. Selling arms to the upstart revolutionaries emerging throughout Europe after Napoleon’s demise had become lucrative in the extreme. Grigoriev’s revolution could be the most lucrative of them all.
Grigoriev continued to proselytise from the windows. ‘The military will respect the Prince and he has knowledge of courtly manoeuvres. He can handle the politics.’
‘In theory,’ Amesbury drawled. ‘That has yet to be proven.’ He liked the idea of a scapegoat if the revolt failed. He didn’t like the potential, however, of Grigoriev liking this Prince more than him. He rather liked being the ambassador’s right-hand man. This arms deal was a sure pipeline to profit.
‘He is perfect.’ General Vasilev, the third member of their select group, gave his moustache a thoughtful stroking from the chair opposite him. ‘Have you thought of that, Alexei? When things are too good to be true, they probably are. Perhaps he’s been sent to smoke us out.’ Vasilev could always be counted to speak like a true Russian. In this case, Amesbury was quick to second him. It wouldn’t do for Grigoriev to go trusting the Prince too much.
The ambassador fixed the General with a stern stare. ‘If it was a trap, he’d have come forward sooner and made himself known. He can’t entrap anyone from a distance.’ Grigoriev grimaced. ‘Besides, if we want to move forward, I don’t think we have the luxury of doubt. We need someone to go to Russia with the arms...’ he paused here with a dark look for each of them ‘...unless one of you two is willing to do it?’ The last was said with an obvious dash of challenge. Neither he nor Vasilev wanted to take that risk.
Amesbury would rather talk about the Prince than his own reticence to accompany the arms to Russia. ‘Consider this for a moment,’ Amesbury drawled. ‘If Baklanov didn’t want to be noticed, it means he’s hiding something. That could be useful.’ He liked sowing doubt. Grigoriev and he both assessed people through their usefulness, but where they diverged was in motives. Grigoriev used people to promote his principles. He, on the other hand, used people strictly for personal gain. His motives were selfish whereas Grigoriev’s could, at times, be sacrificial. He’d prefer Grigoriev not discover he operated by a different code far more practical than the ambassador’s idealism. He would allow Grigoriev to include Baklanov in their plans, as long as it didn’t usurp his position until he could secure a more permanent station by the ambassador’s side, one such as marriage. He’d had his eye on Klara Grigorieva for quite some time now. He didn’t want new-come Princes destroying those plans.
He could feel the hint of a contemplative smile twitch at his lips at the thought of Klara Grigorieva; firm breasted and feisty. She would be an asset on his arm. Every man in any room would want to look at her. He’d turn her out in the finest of gowns, bedeck her in the most expensive of jewels. Thanks to her father, he had the money to do that and more. In public, he’d celebrate her beauty, and his triumph in winning a woman other men had failed to claim. Behind closed doors, he’d enjoy taming that long, slim-legged spitfire. He hadn’t had a woman that wild in ages and Klara was the best kind of wild, the kind that would fight when cornered. He shifted slightly in his chair, crossing a leg over a knee to subdue the effects raised by such images.
He loved a good fight, especially the sort that ended up with his belt lashing out victory against round, white buttocks. He would let her run, let her fight, let her think there was the possibility of escape until she ran the length of her tether. But she would never be able to ultimately resist him. Her father had ensured that just as assuredly as her father had ensured his wealth the moment Grigoriev had invited him into this little coven of Russian rebels. Grigoriev would need his protection before this venture was through and for Klara’s sake he’d give it, but, oh, how he’d make her pay for it; decadently, sinfully, naked and on her knees. Oh, yes, Alexei Grigoriev was too useful of an ally to lose to an exiled prince. But first, it seemed one more hurdle remained—ferreting out Nikolay Baklanov’s secrets. If the Prince had secrets, it meant he could be blackmailed into compliance. If they knew what those secrets were. Everyone had their price. There were only so many reasons a prince of wealth and status fled his country.
There were only so many reasons an ambassador asked an expatriate prince to dinner, but Nikolay was uncertain which one had prompted Alexei Grigoriev’s invitation. He did, however, recognise an ambush when he saw one.
This one was dressed in an expensive gown of dark blue silk that gathered enticingly beneath firm breasts and sparkled with discreet diamonds in the brunette depths of her hair. Klara was to be the distraction, the forward action upfront in the hopes that he’d leave himself open to attack from behind. It was not a bad idea. The sight of her formally dressed was a stunning contrast after seeing her in breeches and a riding habit. Tonight she rivalled, even surpassed, the beauties of Kuban. ‘This is classic military strategy,’ he said in low tones to Klara as she circulated the room with him making introductions.
‘I beg your pardon?’ She moved them smoothly from the rotund, greying General Vasilev, who was in attendance with his wife and pretty daughter, to a group of young officers standing by the Italian marble fireplace.
‘Are you familiar with Hannibal’s ambush at the Trebia River?’ Nikolay murmured, liking the sensation of having her to himself in a room full of people. She was still bristly from their encounter in the park, having not quite forgiven him for the kiss. Or perhaps it was herself she hadn’t forgiven. She’d liked it well enough, had participated in it fully. Perhaps she didn’t like knowing he’d been the one to break it off.
She gave a husky laugh as if she, too, was flirting with him. ‘I know who Hannibal is, but alas, I am not a student of military tactics like yourself.’
They stopped between the two conversational groups and Nikolay took advantage of the privacy, his mouth close to her ear. ‘Hannibal openly engaged the Roman corps and, while they were distracted, they were ambushed from behind by the rest of Hannibal’s army.’ He spoke the words as if they were endearments. As close as their heads were, the words might have been just that to the onlooker—the opening manoeuvres of a sensual game.
A coy smile crossed Klara’s mouth, ‘Am I the “distraction” in your theory?’ Her fingers discreetly played with the diamond pendant that hung just above her breasts, highlighting her décolletage and drawing his eyes downwards. ‘How am I doing?’
‘No gentleman can safely answer that,’ Nikolay murmured. He was in no hurry to distance himself from her. He was enjoying this far too much and they were attracting attention from the Duke of Amesbury, whom he’d met upon arrival, the only Englishman present. That interaction had been cool, the politeness glacial. ‘If I say you’re doing expertly, I’ve implied you have loose morals. If I say you’re doing poorly, I’ve implied you have no charms.’ He chuckled softly, aware that the low rumble of his voice and the nearness of his body had the pulse at the base of her throat racing steadily. ‘Either way, I end up slapped.’
‘Do
