Dazzle The Complete Unabridged Trilogy (28 page)

She couldn't help laughing. 'I don't know whether you are
incorrigible, or merely persistent.'

And then the perfect ball was marred.

'Vaslav Danilov!' a loud, sharp voice cracked whiplike from
behind them above the strains of Johann Strauss. 'Your . . .
Highness!'

Still waltzing, the Prince turned his head in the direction of
the voice, his face puzzled at the menacing tone. Senda turned
also. They waltzed in place.

The man in evening dress was short and pudgy, and his
corpulent face was red and quivered with rage.

The Prince's eyebrows lifted. 'Do I know you, monsieur?'

'You damn well know my wife!' the man yelled in so loud a
rage that the dancers around them stopped in mid-step and the orchestra's music slowly faded. A hushed and pregnant
silence suddenly hung over the ballroom.

'I am afraid this charming lady is not your wife,' Vaslav
Danilov said with amused restraint, but his features had hard
ened. 'Now, if you will be so good as to—'

'Don't humour me!' the man screamed, his dark eyes flash
ing fire. 'Of course
that's
not my wife.
My
wife's at home!
Pregnant with
your
child!'

The Prince was silent while he collected his thoughts. 'Mon
sieur,
if
your
wife is indeed pregnant, and you decide to lay
the blame at my doorstep, this is neither the time nor the place
to discuss it. Now, if you will excuse me—'

'Bastard!'

'Begging your pardon, monsieur . . .' the Prince said
quietly through clenched teeth, his temper simmering.

'Don't pretend innocence, you sanctimonious bastard!'

'I think you had best leave at once,' the Prince suggested coldly, fighting to keep control of himself. He signalled to his
private guards, but they froze the instant the man reached for
a revolver and held it outstretched in both hands, the barrel
pointed at the Prince.

Simultaneously, a gasp rippled through the guests surround
ing them.

Senda gripped Vaslav's arm, but he slowly pushed her aside,
out of harm's way. 'I suggest you put that thing down before something happens which you might regret,' he told the man
with steely calm.

'Regret!' the allegedly cuckolded husband screeched in a
blind rage.
'You're
the one who should regret what he's done!'
The revolver clicked malevolently as he cocked it.

Shivers of terror ran up and down Senda's spine. She uttered
a silent prayer, knowing a miracle was called for.

Apparently undaunted by the danger, Vaslav took a step
forward, his hand outstretched, palm up. 'Give it to me,' he
said softly.

'No!' the pudgy man's eyes ran rivulets of tears. 'Don't come
any closer!'

'Give it here.' The Prince took another step forward.
'Nothing will happen to you.'

'Get back?
the gunman wept. The gun wavered, and just as
the man pulled the trigger, a Hussar standing near Senda
lunged for the gunman, deflecting his aim as he wrestled him
to the floor. The shot rang out like a clap of thunder. A woman
screamed, and overhead, a chandelier shook and tinkled; then
several crystals, brittle wax stalactites, and pink roses rained
down around them with a clatter. A bright bubble of ruby blood welled up on the Prince's forehead and trickled down
his cheek. It was a moment before Senda realized the scream
had come from her.

'It is nothing. I have only been grazed,' the Prince said
mildly, reaching for a handkerchief and dabbing his wound.
Senda watched, still paralyzed, as the gunman was dragged
off, weeping noisily.

No one dared move. In the silence, one could have heard a pin drop. Perhaps it was her imagination, but it seemed to Senda that the moment the gun had gone off, the candles in
the chandeliers had flickered and dimmed, the cut pink roses
had drooped and rotted, and the fairy-tale world had been
fouled by the stench of jealousy and violence.

Wordlessly she ran toward Schmarya, while the Princess
raced to her husband's side. Schmarya enfolded Senda in his warm, comforting arms. Her eyes filled with tears. 'I want to
go back upstairs,' she whispered bleakly.

He nodded, leading her by the arm toward the Ambassador's Staircase. She climbed the steps blankly, as though
hypnotized. Below, the interrupted waltzing began again.

'It's funny, isn't it?' Schmarya said softly as he led her back
through the succession of enormous rooms, 'I can think of a
dozen revolutionaries who would have given their eyeteeth to
have a crack at the Prince. And with every good reason under
the sun. Now, someone tries to kill the son of a bitch, but for
the wrong reason. A woman.' He shook his head in disbelief and laughed mournfully. 'It seems our Prince has made one
too many beds for him to safely lie in.'

Chapter 10

Senda spent most of the following two days in the Leather
Room of the Danilov Palace, where she was comfortably
curled up in a leather armchair. The name of the room derived
from the burnished brown and gold tooled French leather
covering the walls, as well as the similarly clad bindings of the
volumes lined neatly on the shelves and stacked with military
preciseness on the gleaming tables all around. A tole lamp
cast a warm circular glow of light from the table next to her.
Its gleaming surface was cluttered with the piles of hardbound
plays she had selected to read, the ubiquitous steaming silver
samovar, a plate of petits fours, and glass cups set in sterling
holders with sterling handles. There were used cups left over
from her last visitor.

Eight times that day, she had had surprise visitors dropping
by for tea.

She forced herself to concentrate on the open book in her
lap. It seemed unbelievable that after having to share a single precious, tattered copy of a play with the entire cast, here she
was, ensconced like a queen, lap robe and cakes on hand, with
every available published play bound in tooled leather and
printed on the thickest, most expensive rag paper.

Would the luxuries never end? she wondered from time to
time. She was so grateful that they had been invited to remain
at the palace. They had been informed by Count Kokovtsov
that the ever-generous Danilovs were certain the troupe would
be receiving invitations for work elsewhere in St. Petersburg
and were welcome here until plans were worked out.

Thoughtfully she flipped a page, forcing herself to forget her visitors for a moment and focus all her attention on the
lines. Silently she mouthed a few to herself and nodded. Of
all the plays she had been thumbing through, Chekhov's
The Cherry Orchard
impressed her the most. It was definitely the best bet by far. She was glad her first visitor had specifically
asked for
The Cherry Orchard
to be performed at the party
soon to be given at the Yussoupov Palace. Princess Yussoupov
was the niece of the Czar, young, but not to be taken lightly.
And she had dropped in unnannounced, as casually as she
would have gone shopping, to ask Senda if she would agree to
perform it.

Senda had never felt so dizzy from excitement in all her life.
Princess Yussoupov! A real-life princess had come to
her,
hoping to hire the troupe for a performance at her palace.

She was euphoric with joy.

But even more surprising was what followed: a steady suc
cession of visits from the Shuvalov, Sheremetev, and Stro
ganov palaces had kept her busy all morning and half the
afternoon over tea in the Leather Room while discussing the possibilities of performances in their various palaces during the following weeks. Incredibly, during that one afternoon it
would have been possible to actually do the impossible—book
the entire season.

With every new offer, her eyes had glowed as she tried to
conceal the triumphant excitement building within her. They
had done it.
She
had done it. They were the rage. This
unknown theatre troupe which had trudged hungrily from province to province was suddenly the talk of the capital of all
the Russias. She couldn't wait to tell Schmarya and the others,
but for the moment she kept the secret to herself, cherishing
it until she could spring it on them.

Distracted by a mysterious thumping, she glanced down at
her feet. Tamara had been playing quietly since Inge, the
nurse, had brought her in, but now she was disgustedly shaking
the stuffed pink bear she'd dragged in with her.

Smiling, Senda placed the open book flat on her lap and
regarded her daughter with fond pride. She shook her head in
disbelief. It was hard to imagine Tamara was over two years
old.

She was delicate but large, with white-gold hair and inquisi
tive solemn eyes. Her features and character were developing
at an amazing rate. The loveable if somewhat irascible child
had inherited Senda's beauty and Schmarya's temperament.
Those pale green eyes, almost almond-shaped, were like her
own, but she had definitely inherited Schmarya's boundless
energy, curiosity, and cunning. She fought constantly to gain
everyone's attention, lurching with determination after any
adults within her sharp eyesight, tugging at their legs for the
attention she so desperately sought, and assuming a heart-
breaking expression if it was not instantly forthcoming. Atten
tion had always been showered upon her, if not by Senda or
Schmarya, then by the doting members of the troupe. Tamara
had been unofficially adopted by them all.