Lord Buckingham’s Bride (16 page)

Her uncle's carriage was waiting outside, ready to go to the Hermitage. The doors of the grand salon opened behind her, and she straightened, turning to see that Francis had come in. He wore a chestnut-colored coat and close-fitting cream corduroy breeches, and rich golden tassels swung at the front of his Hessian boots. His
waistcoat
was dark green, and its topmost buttons had been left undone to show off the crisp frills on the front of his shirt. An emerald pin reposed in the folds of his starched neckcloth and he carried his top hat and kid gloves, which he placed on a table before coming toward her.

‘Francis …' she began.

‘Yes?'

‘You were right about the danger we might pose to my aunt's family.'

His eyes were incredibly blue as they met hers. ‘I didn't for a single moment believe otherwise, Alison. What has happened that you suddenly accept that I was right?' he asked.

‘I was coming down here when Aunt Natalia returned to the house. She was upset and had been crying, but when I asked her if anything was wrong, she denied it. Then she asked me if I really did love you, and if, apart from acquiring a horse from the imperial stables, your
sole purpose here was to marry me.'

‘Did she, indeed?' he murmured.

‘The prince had been speaking to her.'

‘Did she say so?'

‘She didn't deny it in the end, for I guessed it when she said that if her father suffered because of us, then she would never forgive me.'

‘She was that much to the point?'

‘Yes.' Alison turned to look out the window. ‘I wish it was all over, Francis.'

‘You aren't alone in that. I'm sorry that I've had to force so much upon you, Alison, but I really haven't had much choice in the matter.'

‘I know.'

‘Do you?' There was a dry coolness in his voice, almost a taunt.

‘Yes, I do know. You're justified in being angry with me for all that I said, for I realize how stupid, insulting, and downright childish I was to speak like that.'

‘There certainly was a good deal of Miss Wright's academy about you,' he replied, his tone offering no hint of a softening toward her.

She lowered her eyes to the street outside and the trees and lamps silhouetted against the Neva. ‘I wonder if even a woman of the world would carry all this off with aplomb,' she murmured.

‘Alison …' he began.

Her gaze had become fixed upon something outside. ‘Look,' she said softly, ‘down there close to the steps to the water. Do you see him?'

Francis stepped forward, following her pointing finger. A burly Russian was standing there, apparently waiting for someone. He was of medium height and was very thickset, with a short wiry beard and a bull neck. He wore a pale-blue caftan tied at the waist with a leather belt, and his baggy trousers were tucked into heavy boots. There was a brown fur hat on his head and his gloves were gauntlets that covered his forearms.

Francis studied him for a moment and then looked at her. ‘What about him? I see nothing remarkable.'

‘He's watching the house.'

‘Watching the house? Oh, Alison …' Francis breathed out slowly. ‘The man is simply waiting for someone, he hasn't looked this way
once. I think that you're allowing last night's events to cloud your judgment.'

‘Even green schoolgirls have intuition, sir,' she replied. ‘He's watching this house, and that carriage farther up the street is his.'

‘Carriage?' He looked from the window again and saw the vehicle drawn up at the curb, facing toward St Isaac's Square and the pontoon bridge. Its blinds were down, and by the way the horses stood, they had been waiting for some time.

Alison was still studying the man. ‘He's there to replace the man who came into the garden last night, I'm sure of it. I know that he doesn't appear to be watching the house, but every so often his glance comes this way. There, he's seen us watching. As she spoke, the man turned and walked away in the direction of the carriage. He climbed quickly into it and it drove away.

Francis bent to use the telescope, following the vehicle until it vanished in the bustle of St Isaac's Square. Then he straightened, looking apologetically at her. ‘You were right. Naryshky's concern with us is far too keen for comfort now that we know what he's really been up to. I wish to God I knew exactly what was in his mind.'

‘Francis, you must do all you can to see the czar.'

‘I know. I'll leave my name again when we go to the Hermitage, but if nothing happens, I really don't know how to approach him. Protocol is everything here in St Petersburg. I vow it's worse than in London, if such be possible.' He ran his fingers through his hair.

Alison found the gesture oddly affecting, for it made him appear boyish and almost vulnerable.

The salon doors opened again and her uncle entered, looking very splendid in a damson coat embroidered with black, and white silk pantaloons. ‘Ah, so I'm not the first to be ready,' he said, glancing around. ‘Where's Natalia?'

Alison went quickly to him. ‘Oh, Uncle Thomas, I'm afraid she's a little indisposed with a headache. She begs to be excused.'

‘A headache? Oh, dear. Is she all right? I mean, should we send for a doctor?'

‘She was quite adamant that she would feel better after resting for a while,' Alison said, avoiding Francis' eyes.

‘Very well. It's just the three of us, then. Come along, there's no
point in delaying. The carriage is waiting outside.' He ushered them both from the room.

As they went down the entrance hall, where Mackay was waiting with their outdoor garments, there was a sudden loud knocking at the front door. The butler put down Alison's cloak and hastened to see who was there.

A messenger in the czar's scarlet livery was standing outside, and he handed the butler a sealed note before hastening away again.

Alison's heart surged with hope. Surely it must be a summons to an imperial audience.

Mackay closed the door and returned to give the note to Francis. ‘For you, my lord, from the Winter Palace.'

Francis broke the seal and read quickly. It was written in French, and was very brief. ‘Lord Buckingham's presence in St Petersburg is not welcome. He will not be received, and is requested to leave Russia within the week.'

Disbelief swept over Francis; he read it again, but there was no mistaking the blunt message. Without a word he handed the note to Alison.

She scanned the two short sentences and then looked at him in dismay. ‘Oh, no, it can't be!'

Mr Clearwell was much concerned. ‘What is it? What's happened?'

Francis met his eyes. ‘I'm not to be granted an audience with the czar, sir. In fact, I'm ordered to leave St Petersburg within the week.'

Mr Clearwell stared at him. ‘Surely not.'

‘I fear so.'

‘But … Is there no explanation, no reason given?'

‘None.'

The older man's eyes were shrewd. ‘And you have no idea why this has happened?'

Francis hesitated and then looked frankly at him. ‘I have no wish to involve you, sir.'

For a long moment Alison's uncle remained silent, and then he nodded. ‘Nor will I probe deeper, sir, for I have suspected since yesterday that there was more to all this than you've been saying. Is the czar's refusal to receive you a great blow?'

‘Catastrophic.' Francis glanced at Alison. Neither of them said it
aloud, but both knew in their hearts that Nikolai's hand was behind this latest development. His suspicions had lingered, after all, and he had taken the one precaution that had been feared from the outset: he had seen to it that Lord Buckingham did not have the chance of speaking to the czar.

I
t was almost dark again, and another mist had arisen from the Neva. Alison sat in her nightgown by the fire in her room, gazing into the glowing logs. The house was quiet, for everyone had retired for the night.

The visit to the Hermitage had been abandoned, and Francis had gone alone to the Winter Palace to try to plead his case, but he had been turned away the moment he gave his name. He had had no option then but to go to the British embassy to report what had happened. He was closeted alone for some time with Lord St Helens and Charles Gainsborough, who were already somewhat disturbed because the ambassador himself had that very morning received a sharp rebuff from the Winter Palace, and the French ambassador had been cordially welcomed there. It seemed that Nikolai and the Countess Irina were beginning to triumph where the czar was concerned and that the French cause was advancing while the British were in forced retreat.

They had deliberated throughout the afternoon on what to do next, for the all-important documents must still somehow be placed in Alexander's hands, but no solution inspired their gloomy talks. Francis had left the embassy with the documents still in his possession, for it wasn't felt wise to keep them at the embassy when the unknown French agent was still at large. Impasse appeared to have been reached, and already the hours were ticking away toward Francis's unwilling departure from St Petersburg.

Dinner at the Clearwell residence that evening had been an
uncomfortable
affair, for Natalia had been very strained and quiet. She had
offered the excuse that she was still suffering the tortures of a bad headache, but Alison and Francis knew better, for signs of the strain she was under increased perceptibly when she learned of the
unexpected
snub from the Winter Palace. She obviously concluded, as they had before her, that Prince Nikolai was somehow responsible.

Mr Clearwell said very little, but was plainly aware of all the undercurrents. He didn't attempt to bring any of it out into the open, however, and when at the end of the meal his wife declared that she would return to her room, he wasn't long in announcing his own wish to retire.

Alison and Francis remained in the grand salon for a while. His manner toward her was no longer quite as cold, and they sat together almost amicably as they tried to think of a way out of the seemingly impossible situation. But an answer evaded them, and soon they too retired to their rooms for the night.

Now Alison sat in the chair by the fire, the flames reflecting in her eyes as she mulled the difficulty over and over in her mind. She wished desperately that she could solve everything, but there didn't appear to be a solution. Her feeling of frustration turned to anger, and it was directed at Alexander for acting at Nikolai's scheming
instigation
. The czar didn't deserve to be saved from the French; he deserved to suffer the consequences of trusting Nikolai, but to let French plans proceed without challenge meant danger for the rest of Europe – and for Britain in particular.

Her thoughts returned to the opera house and the intimate embrace she had unwittingly come upon when she had taken the wrong passageway. She could see Alexander and Irina now, their faces warm with love as they had kissed and caressed. Alison sighed
heavily
. It was quite impossible to believe that Irina was party to her brother's treachery, for a woman as deeply in love as she would surely never put her lover so much at risk.

A woman as deeply in love as she … Alison sat up slowly, her loose hair spilling over her shoulders as the germ of an incredible idea suddenly formed in her head. Who adored Alexander with all her heart? Who could always gain access to him? The Countess Irina von Strelitz.

Alison got up from the chair, her mind racing. Could it be that the
countess was the solution to the problem? Was she the one to place the documents in the czar's hands? Irina loved her brother, but would she put him before Alexander? Would she? Alison's pulse had begun to quicken. Oh, it was a preposterous thought, for how could they possibly take the chance that the countess would put lover before family? But what if she would? What if those words she had
whispered
when she thought herself alone were the absolute truth and she did love the czar with all her heart?

Pausing by the window, Alison gazed out into the gathering gloom of the misty twilight. Soon it would be dark, and the short northern night would engulf St Petersburg. Already the Neva was obscured by the vapor that rose from its chilly waters, and the lamps along the embankment of English Quay were faint orbs of light on the very edge of visibility. She could see a carriage drawn up at the curb, and a too familiar shadowy figure standing near it. The house was still under observation.

But Nikolai's spy from Stockholm and the Pavlovsk was of no interest to her at the moment, for her thoughts were still upon the Countess Irina. When she had watched the countess from behind the curtain in the anteroom at the opera house, she had known she was observing a woman who was completely in love. Her intuition had told her so then, and it told her again now. Irina would never put Nikolai before Alexander, and should be approached, even though she despised the British.

The thought swirled in Alison's head, so strong and clear that it almost urged her to act. But she must consider it from every angle. What if she was wrong about Irina? What if she told Nikolai? Alison stared out at the mist. She was sure she was right about Irina, and what other answer had presented itself? Was it really as preposterous as all that? Hadn't she, Alison Clearwell, been prepared to do a great deal for Francis? Why, then shouldn't Irina von Strelitz be equally prepared to do a great deal for her imperial lover and lord?

On impulse, Alison turned from the window, pausing only to pick up her pink woolen robe and put it on before hurrying from the room. In the passage outside she encountered Katya, who was coming to see if she required anything more before retiring finally to her bed.

Alison halted. ‘No, thank you, Katya,' she said in French, ‘that will be all.'

‘Yes, Miss Clearwell.' Katya bobbed a curtsy and turned to go, but then Alison had second thoughts.

‘No, wait a moment, Katya.'

‘Miss Clearwell?'

‘Please wait in my room, for I may require you, after all.'

‘Yes, Miss Clearwell.' Curtsying again, the maid did as she was asked, and Alison hurried on toward Francis's room at the rear of the house, facing toward Horseguards Boulevard.

She knocked hesitantly at the door, but there was no sound from within. She knocked again, but still the room remained silent, and so she tentatively pushed the door open and peeped inside.

Candlelight swayed over the gray-and-blue bedchamber, and a fire glowed red in the white marble hearth. Francis had fallen asleep in the armchair by the fire, his lashes dark and still. A glass of cognac stood on the little table by his right hand, and he was still fully dressed.

She went softly into the room, intending to awaken him, but as she reached the chair, she saw that the glass of cognac was not the only thing on the table beside him, for a leather wallet lay there as well. She knew without telling that the wallet contained the secret
documents
. It was a measure of how tired Francis was that he had fallen asleep without hiding the vital papers away again.

Alison stood by the chair, gazing down at him as he slept. She longed to bend down and kiss him on the lips, and her heart ached to feel his arms around her. She didn't want to wake him up, especially when he would most probably think her scheme too outrageous and dangerous for words, but she had to tell him what she had thought of. She reached down toward him, meaning to shake his shoulder, but then her hand halted. She suddenly found herself thinking of the opera house again and the moment she had returned to the box and observed Irina looking at Francis. There had been no mistaking the malevolence in her gaze, the absolute hatred. It hadn't been directed toward anyone else in Count Vorontzov's box, just at Francis.

Alison straightened again, a confusion of thoughts milling around in her head. Irina despised Francis, for what reason could only be guessed, and so perhaps he was the last person who should approach
her. Perhaps, just perhaps, this was a matter that should be conducted woman to woman. Alison's gaze moved to the little table and the wallet, lying there just waiting to be taken. Her pulse, already swift, now quickened almost unbearably. Should she do it? Should she act upon her intuition? What if she was wrong? What if she delivered the documents into the hands of the enemy? Her heart pounded like a hammer in her throat. She wasn't wrong! Irina was the answer! Snatching up the wallet, she hurried toward the door.

Behind her, Francis stirred a little in his sleep. A single word escaped his lips, a name, Pamela. It was a word that finally and
irrevocably
said everything to Alison. There were tears in her eyes as she closed the door softly behind her. By the fire, Francis slept on, unaware that she had even been there.

Alison hurried back to her own room, where Katya was waiting. The maid looked at her in surprise on seeing the flush on her cheeks and the nervousness that pervaded her.

‘Miss Clearwell?'

‘Katya, do you know how to get to the Countess Irina von Strelitz's residence on Krestovsky Island?'

The maid stared at her. ‘Why, yes, everyone in St Petersburg knows her house, but—'

‘I want you to take me there.'

‘Now?'

‘Yes.'

‘But, Miss Clearwell, it's dark outside and so very late!'

‘I must see the countess without delay, Katya. If you will not take me, perhaps you can tell me how to get there. Do I take a boat?'

Katya hesitated and then gave a small smile. ‘I will take you, Miss Clearwell. There are always boatmen waiting before the Admiralty,'

As Alison dressed in a long-sleeved gray velvet gown, she was afraid that at any moment Francis would awaken and realize that the wallet was gone. Katya combed and pinned her hair as quickly as possible, and shortly afterward both maid and mistress were tiptoeing down through the silent house in warm cloaks, the hoods raised over their heads.

They left through the gardens, which were in darkness now, silently opening and closing the wrought-iron gate in the wall. It
wasn't until they stepped outside that Alison suddenly remembered the man watching and waiting by the carriage. She remembered as she saw the shadowy silhouette of the vehicle opposite, and without explaining, she swiftly caught Katya's hand and hurried her on. She glanced back over her shoulder and was just able to see the man's
startled
reaction. She heard his brief order and the clatter of hooves as the carriage began to follow.

The mist eddied around as she and Katya reached the corner of St Isaac's Square, and she almost made the maid lose her footing by catching her cloak suddenly and drawing her back into the shadows of a doorway. They pressed back against the cold marble columns, listening as the carriage approached. Katya's eyes were wide and frightened, for she didn't under-stand what it was all about, but she knew enough to remain absolutely silent as the silhouette of the
vehicle
emerged from English Quay, reining in as the coachman tried to listen for the sound of their fleeing footsteps.

In the carriage Sergei was cursing beneath his breath. He had been thinking about Nikolai's decision to replace him with Bragin during the day. If the overseer captured her, then the estate at Novgorod would go to his nephew; if he Sergei, succeeded, then his IOUs would be returned. The thought of Bragin winning had distracted him, and he had allowed his concentration to lapse for a moment. He lowered the window glass and leaned out.

‘Well?' he snapped.

The coachman leaned back to speak to him. ‘They've gone, sir. I can't hear them at all. I think they must have gone into one of the houses.'

A thousand and one bitter curses trembled on Sergei's lips, then he realized that if the Englishwoman had left, then sooner or later she would have to return. All he had to do was wait and seize her as she tried to reenter the gate. ‘Go back,' he said to the coachman, ‘go back to where we were, but a little farther down the street this time, to be out of sight in the mist. I'll wait near the gate, and the moment I call, you are to bring the carriage, is that clear?'

‘Yes, sir.'

Sergei raised the window glass again, sitting back as the carriage turned slowly to make its way back toward the Clearwell residence.

In the doorway, Alison and Katya hadn't been able to quite hear what had been said, and as the carriage drove away once more, they emerged from the shadows. ‘Did you understand anything they said, Katya?' Alison asked.

‘No, Miss Clearwell, they weren't speaking loudly enough.'

They hurried on past the square and the pontoon bridge and on toward the magnificent fire-damaged façade of the Admiralty, which was in the process of being rebuilt. Steps led down to the water, and a number of small boats were moored at the jetties. The boatmen were standing in groups, talking in low voices, and they fell silent as the two women descended the steps.

Katya spoke to one of them, and he nodded immediately,
beckoning
them toward a slender rowing boat of some age. He handed them both into the little craft, steadying it as best he could because it rocked alarmingly from side to side, and then he cast off and stepped in himself, taking up the oars to push the boat away from the jetty. As they slid away on the shining dark water, the lights of the
embankment
disappeared in the mist, then the jetty was lost from sight as well, and they were out on the Neva.

The boatman rowed strongly, not seeming to need landmarks to guide him. He was a burly man, wearing a coarse gray linen shirt beneath one of the ubiquitous blue caftans that so many of the Russian men favored. Bearded and rough, he rowed with a strength that was almost fearsome, making the boat skim across the water.