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 you get slapped often?’ Klara teased wickedly.
‘Worse. Sometimes I get called out.’ He nodded discreetly towards Amesbury. ‘Should I be worried? He’s been watching us.’
Klara hesitated only slightly, but it was enough to draw his notice before she dismissed his concern over Amesbury with an airy wave of her hand he didn’t quite believe. ‘We are in the middle of a drawing room surrounded by guests. He can hardly be jealous of that.’
‘Why would he be jealous at all?’ Nikolay prompted. ‘Does he have an interest in you, Klara?’ He found the possibility disappointing.
‘He has an interest in my father,’ Klara snapped too quickly. Ah, so there was some history in that direction. The Duke’s interest in Klara might not be formally acknowledged or reciprocated, but she was aware of him and how he thought of her. Nikolay shot a covert glance in the Duke’s direction. Amesbury would be a dangerous enemy. There was a coldness around the Duke’s eyes, even at a distance, that suggested one would not want to face him with pistols. Nikolay had seen that look before in the eyes of battle-hardened soldiers who didn’t know the meaning of mercy. Amesbury wouldn’t be the sort to delope.
The butler announced dinner and Klara tucked her arm through his, steering his thoughts away from Amesbury’s firearm skills. ‘You are to take me in this evening.’
‘Of course I am.’ Nikolay laughed, pleased but not surprised by the turn of events. ‘After all, kotyonok moya, you are the distraction.’
Nikolay surveyed the elegant setting of the ambassador’s dining room: the long, polished table set with heavy silver, multi-armed candelabra, an expensive, squat epergne filled with fruits that were hard to come by in winter and the equally rare Lomonosov porcelain made only in Russia with its distinctive cobalt and white pattern. The setting confirmed the tone. The evening was unmistakably Russian from the china place settings to the guests. The table could seat twenty-four, although tonight it had been arranged to seat an intimate twelve—Grigoriev’s inner circle and their wives.
Nikolay helped Klara into her chair at the foot of the table and took his on her right, letting his gaze drift over the guests, assessing. Grigoriev would ambush him here. He would call him out surrounded by witnesses. The opening salvo would come from one of them, not Grigoriev himself. That would be too obvious, and contain no element of surprise. Would it be General Vasilev, who he’d already met? The young Count visiting from St Petersburg with his friend who had eyes for the General’s pretty daughter? Perhaps the two men near his own age in uniform, protégés of the General, whom he’d not had the chance to meet officially?
It was a most intimate circle indeed, a circle that now surrounded him, a newcomer, and Alexei Grigoriev reigned over it all from one end of the table. Klara reigned from the other, dressed subtly but richly, diamonds twinkling at her ears, the blue silk of her gown nearly the shade of the dishes. There was no mistaking the Grigorievs lived handsomely in their Belgravia townhouse.
They feasted handsomely, too. Dinner began with oysters on the half-shell and caviar from the Caspian Sea, followed by a clear soup—a Russian standard—and then fish as the guests made small talk, all in English despite their ability to do otherwise. Perhaps out of deference for Klara and Amesbury? Or perhaps to illustrate another, more subtle point? By the time the roast and vegetables were on the table, however, talk had changed to sharper topics. The polite conversation of the early courses had gradually meandered into the political. The ambush was coming. They wouldn’t wait until the ladies left the table.
Nikolay ran through his options once more, reassessing why he’d been invited. To take his measure, of course, but as to what? He didn’t like where his conclusions led. An exiled prince might be angry enough to betray his country. Why would Grigoriev want to know that? To catch a traitor? Was this part of Kuban’s attempt to trap him and bring him home? The timing would be right. He’d been in England almost a year; long enough for news to travel north to St Petersburg and a correspondence to take place over a course of action. Was Stepan right? Was Grigoriev to be feared? Or was there something else at work? Did the ambassador have schemes of his own?
He leaned close to Klara, aware that Amesbury was watching him and fingering his butter knife. ‘Is this why you’ve brought me here? Your father wishes to test my political loyalties?’ The ambassador might know who he was, but he didn’t yet know what he was; Should he be classified as a patriot? A traitor? Or something in between, something more dangerous than either, a revolutionary—a man who loved Russia enough to want to change it.
Klara slanted him a look that would reduce a lesser man to an intellectual toddler. ‘Are you always so cynical? Perhaps it is the other way around. Perhaps tonight gives you a chance to test his.’
Nikolay held her gaze, considering the truth of her statement. Was it possible? Or was it merely an attempt to disarm him? There was too much unknown to draw a solid conclusion. Did Grigoriev know what he’d done 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
