Dazzle The Complete Unabridged Trilogy (10 page)

Tatiana Ivanova was the reigning star of the St. Petersburg
theatre, and what she lacked in dramatic talent she more than
made up for in beauty and a fiery temperament, both
enhanced by her extravagant costumes. The last night he had
seen her, he had been a little forceful in their game-playing,
and had injured one of her nipples. Not that he'd meant to
actually hurt her. It had been an accident. But she had
screamed bloody murder and thrown him out, threatening to
tell everyone what a sadistic bastard he was.

Well, the tart would be appeased and her silence bought
with a bauble. Still, he had decided it would be prudent to find
himself a new mistress. Sooner or later, Tatiana was going to
be trouble. He was tired of her threats and tired of her.

The barouche-sleigh had not yet begun to move. Irritated,
first by the abrupt stop and now by the delay, the Prince
reached up to yank the tasselled bell-pull connected to the bell
behind the driver's seat. It was not necessary: a knock came
on the door.

He parted the curtain and peered out. It was one of his well-
bundled footmen, his nose exhaling a plume of white vapour, the gold buttons of his massive blue greatcoat raised in relief
with the Danilov coat of arms.

Prince Vaslav cursed under his breath and rolled the window down a crack. 'Now what is it?' he demanded angrily, at
once sorry he'd assumed that tone. It wasn't like him; he'd
been taught from an early age to treat servants, if not with a modicum of respect, then at least with politeness. He realized that his irritableness was a reflection of his own growing
annoyance with Tatiana.

'I'm sorry, your Highness. A wagon has overturned up
ahead and is blocking the street. Would you like for us to turn
around and try another route?'

'See how long the delay will be. And find out who they are
and if anyone has been injured.'

'Yes, your Highness.' The footman bowed low. Etiquette
required that he face his employer as he withdrew, so he took
a few steps backward, turning only when his polished boot
heels hit a high, frozen snowbank. Then he hurried forward
to the scene of the accident.

The Prince rolled his window all the way down and stuck
his head out into the icy dark. Looking beyond the impatient
horses of his own coach, he could see a small crowd gathered
in the illumination of a streetlamp. He could also see a portion
of the overturned wagon, its wheels still spinning in the air. Two horses had gone down along with it. One was getting
unsteadily to its feet, but the other, although someone had
already unhitched it, kept falling back down.

The footman hurried back. 'Well?' the Prince demanded,
turning his cold blue eyes on his servant.

'It will take a quarter of an hour, your Highness. Perhaps
longer.'

'Is anyone injured?'

'No, your Highness. There were no passengers. The people
were in the two forward wagons. The driver jumped off in
time. Apparently he was trying to avoid a motorcar which was
skidding.'

'I'm not surprised.' The Prince nodded gravely. 'And the
horses?'

'One seems to have no injuries, your Highness.'

'And the other?'

'Someone has gone off to fetch a gun.'

The Prince pursed his lips. He could not bear to think of a
horse in agony. He knew that pain frightened horses, and
finding someone with a gun to put it out of its misery might
take time. Meanwhile, the horse was suffering.

He reached under his seat for the Karelian birch gun case
in which he kept two loaded pistols. He always had them there
in case of trouble: these were troubled times, with marchers
and strikers taking to the streets in droves. Besides, there were
altogether too many reports of anarchists roving the shadows
of the city.

He checked a pistol, waited for a footman to open the door of the barouche, then passed him his heavy sable-lined coat.
The footman took it, unfolded the step, and helped him down.
Since the Prince did not hold out his arms, the footman took
it as a sign to merely drape the coat capelike over his Highness's
broad shoulders.

'Follow me,' the Prince ordered without looking at his ser
vant, making it plain that it was he who would lead the way.
He strode forward like a general, the pistol at his side, and his
servant hurried after him.

The small crowd gathered around the scene of the accident
took one look at Vaslav Danilov and fell silent. Here was a
personage of the uppermost crust, they could tell. Here was a
man who took command of a situation at once. He was striding
purposefully toward them, as though daring the treacherous
ice to cause him to slip and fall. Despite the seeming reckless
ness of his pace, his movements were calculated and precise.

The crowd drew back as one, respectfully putting more dis
tance between the Prince and themselves. He was a man who
commanded such respect, a man born to the power he exuded,
and a presence to be reckoned with. He was a big man, and
his towering height and wide shoulders gave an imposing
impression. His bare head was dark with medium-length thick
black hair combed backward and cut close about the ears. His beard was carefully trimmed, and his magnificent moustache
made two sweeping handlebar curves. His eyes and noble
brows were those of a grandee.

These autocratic hooded blue eyes now came to rest on
the unfortunate horse, and without a word he held out the
revolver, aimed it downward at the animal's head, and fired.

The horse immediately sagged and was then still.

Many people watching had shut their eyes at the gunshot,
but Prince Vaslav never flinched. Nor, he noticed, had one
young woman. Her ratty fur hat was pulled far down over her
forehead, and the lower half of her face was hidden behind a
thick woollen scarf so that she exuded an aura of challenge and
mystery much like a Muslim woman hiding her face behind a
veil. He knew the scarf was to shield her from the bitter cold:
she and the others had obviously been riding on one of the two open lead wagons, exposed to the cruelty of the bitter
elements. Her coat, despite its size, was too threadbare to offer any real warmth, and she shivered continuously. Yet
her dancing green eyes were uncomplaining. Something about
them was frank and startling, as though they were sizing him
up; the pink flush on the narrow exposed portion of her face,
he thought, was not a result of the cold. She held a well-
bundled child of two or three years in her arms.

He lowered the pistol and walked around the overturned wagon, inspecting it closely. He noticed that neither axle had
been broken and that the tarpaulin which had been tied down
over the cargo, and on which the wagon and its contents now
rested, was strong and had not come undone. He turned to
the quiet crowd and gestured at the wagon. 'Whose wagon is
this?'

There were some murmurs, which he gathered meant it
belonged not to an individual but to the small crowd.

'What is in it? Any breakables? One of you can explain for
the group.' His eyes swept the crowd. 'Which of you is your
spokesman?'

The Prince was astonished when a tall golden-haired young
man, sapphire-blue eyes gleaming with amused contempt,
stepped quickly forward. He held himself boldly erect, as though he considered himself the Prince's equal.

The Prince sized him up in surprise. Despite the ragged
appearance of his dirty clothes, he was quite the most extra
ordinarily handsome and self-assured young man he had ever
seen.

'I am the spokesman, your Highness,' the young man said
quietly.

The Prince nodded, choosing to ignore the mocking look in
the young man's eyes and the somehow disrespectful emphasis
on the words 'your Highness'. There was an indefinable air about the young man—he could not put his finger on it yet—
but he instinctively recognized him as arrogant and dangerous.
'What is in the wagon?'

The young man replied, 'Theatrical props and costumes,
your Highness. We have just arrived here this afternoon after
a tour of the provinces.'

'You are a theatre troupe, then?'

'Yes, Highness, and I am the business manager.'

'And you'll be performing here in St. Petersburg?'

The young man shrugged. 'If we can find a theatre to per
form in.'

The Prince looked thoughtful. Despite himself, he was
intrigued. 'What sort of plays do you perform?'

'Drawing-room comedies, satires, the usual repertoire.'

'Where did you last perform?'

'In the town of Sestrovetsk. We came directly from there.
The Princess Sviatopolk-Korsokoff herself came to see us and
congratulated us on the performance.'

The Prince did not register his surprise, but digested this information in silence. Anastasia Beletnova Sviatopolk-Kor
sokoff moved in his circle. She had just come to St. Petersburg from her country palace outside Sestrovetsk, and now that he
came to think of it, only two days ago when he and Irina
had spoken to her during intermission at the ballet, she had
mentioned something about a marvellous theatre troupe she
had recently seen.

'Chekhov. Do you perform him?'

'We have, your Highness, but . . .' The young man
shrugged. 'Chekhov is a master, and we
...
we are not that
experienced.'

'And for the Princess . . . what did you stage when she
came?'

'La Dame aux Camellias.'

The Prince looked surprised, then nodded approvingly. 'An
amusing piece, and quite popular.' And harmless froth, he
thought. 'I have seen it twice myself, and it is among my wife's
favourites. Who among you plays the ill-fated Marguerite?'