Authors: Susan Johnson
Seized by Love (34 page)
“I will forswear one day at a time, I promise you that.”
With a mischievous glance Alisa murmured, “And I, my Prince, can go my own road too, then? It’s the sophisticated fashion. We will both discreetly look away on occasion.”
Nikki threw back his head and laughed.
“You damned impertinent minx. You still don’t know your place. Will you never learn submission and duty? Remember, I know how to guard my own. My God, woman.” He grinned. “I suppose we shall bicker and scrap incessantly and be at each other’s throats from morning to night.”
“I suppose so, my Prince,” Alisa replied, flashing a teasing look up through heavy lashes, “but it
does
keep your melancholy at bay, and I
do so
enjoy the making up.”
An elegant chapel was constructed at Mon Plaisir, and when Alisa questioned the enterprise, Nikki sheepishly explained that he had promised to erect the church if God spared her life during Sasha’s birth.
“Good Lord, who will use it except the servants?” she asked, incredulous, but a tiny glow of pleasure was lit somewhere within her heart at the sentiment.
True. It wouldn’t be used often except by the servants. But occasionally, he knew, he would enter the holy sanctuary alone, and alone give thanks that the woman he adored was still with him—in marriage and in love.
The Prince did indeed fill his nursery, not by force, as he had once threatened, but rather with the full acquiescence
of his affectionate wife, who assured him that all births were not as difficult as Sasha’s. A nursery wing was added by necessity after their third child was born, and Prince Kuzan was often known to remark that he quite heartily approved of the concept of filial piety, and was doing his damnedest to satisfy his father’s desire for heirs.
Nikki also admired the old Persian saying: Three things are most pleasing in the eyes of God: to conceive a child, to plant a tree, and to write a book. Someday, he said, he would consider moving on to subjects two and three.
Nikki appeared in town infrequently, and on those sporadic occasions he was usually accompanied by his family. During these visits he proudly displayed his beautiful and growing children, and the pink marble palace resounded with their noise and activities. His clubs would see him rarely, and to other women he was to all practical purposes lost forever. They would repine and cast soft sighs after the tall, handsome Prince, but he very happily ignored them and found his satisfaction and contentment in the company of his beautiful wife and enchanting children.
As their firstborn son Sasha grew to manhood, the boy showed a marked affinity to embrace the same dissipated life once enjoyed by his father.
“Sometimes I think you positively encourage Sasha’s debauchery, condoning any hellish scheme he concocts, overlooking the most blatant escapades,” Alisa would occasionally remark testily to the Prince.
“Now, dear, let the boy have his head.”
“Yes, that was always your maxim, you lecher, and look what happens. You know,” she said darkly, “when I discovered
the younger children’s governess in bed with Sasha, he was scarce fourteen.”
“I know, dear,” Nikki soothed placatingly, “but that didn’t happen again. Sasha, no doubt, took your motherly advice to heart.”
After that indiscretion, Nikki had taken his reckless son aside and warned him about too blatantly offending his mama. “I’ll spare you my advice which I conceive you will in no part accept at this youthful stage, and only recommend, for the sake of my domestic tranquility, my boy, that perhaps the summerhouse on the point by the lake would be more discreet.”
And so the boy went on, but that’s another story.
1
. The remark concerning the Elector of Saxony was, needless to say, not meant literally, for Prince N. Kuzan had some way to go on that score. Augustus the Strong, Elector of Saxony, was aptly named, since he had the distinction of siring 354 illegitimate children.
2
. The art of tracking wild animals by their footprints was brought to perfection in Russia by a certain tracker known by the name of Lukash—Big Luke—whose methods were quickly adopted by others, so that presently all professional trackers came to be known as Lukash, plural Lukashee. The original Lukash was in the employment of Polovtseff.
3
. Owing to the frequent severe attacks of asthma to which Alexander II was subject, he rather dreaded going to bed at all, and when he was suffering from this chronic complaint, he would remain at work at his desk all night, keeping himself stimulated, although this is denied by the people in his immediate entourage, by occasional sips of champagne; Clicquot being his favorite brand. A shower-bath in the morning would suffice to freshen him up.
4
. Alexander II became enamored of Princess Catherine Dolgorouky and made her leave the Smolny Institute (a fashionable finishing school for patrician young ladies) at the age of sixteen, before she had completed her studies. She went to live with her eldest brother, Prince Michael Dolgorouky, to whom Alexander II presented a very beautiful house on the Quai des Anglais. The ground floor was occupied by Princess Catherine, who had her own domestics and carriages.
5
. The Amber Room is encrusted with exceptionally fine amber. Originally the room was arranged by the architect Schlueter for the Prussian King Frederick I. Peter the Great admired the room on one of his journeys and Frederick agreed to exchange it for fifty Russian soldiers over 6′7″ for a special guard troop.
6
. Prince Mikhail Kuzan fell in love with the young Gypsy. The traditions of the tribe are strict. If a girl has a love affair, even if it be with a Prince, she must set up an establishment. The ceremony of marriage is not complicated. There is no need of priest or registrar. Any man who takes a Tzigane must obtain the consent of the chief of the tribe and declare that he intends to live with her maritally; further, he must pay a ransom to the chorus, for he deprives it of an artist bringing in a good profit. Prince Mikhail, after a whirlwind courtship of five days, submitted to all the demands of the Tzigane regulations and paid the high ransom, for every rate is doubled for Princes, especially love ransoms.
7
. Cora Pearl, the daughter of a humble London music master, in spite of her coarse features and vulgar tongue, and due to her lovely body, rose to the rarefied heights of the highest paid courtesans in the Empire of Napoleon III. (Sums such as 5,000 francs, which was equivalent to 200 English pounds or about 1,000 American dollars, were not unheard of for twelve hours of her company.) Prince Gortchakoff described Cora Pearl as “the acme of sensual delights.” A journalist of the day wrote of her “almost superhuman knowledge of the art of love” while M. Kracauer, in his biography of Offenbach, says, “she was able to keep in the front rank, because of her inordinate talent for voluptuous eccentricities.”
8
. Sterlet was the famous luxury brought to Petersburg from the Volga, and the Black and Caspian Seas. Even in winter they were transported alive and shown swimming to the guests as they passed through the hall at a dinner party; and when they are ready for the fish (the third course in Russia) they are cooked. In winter they cost from ten to fifteen dollars apiece (c. 1850), which makes a dinner an expensive affair, as every guest has a fish.
9
. This is not an original thought, as you can see, but I find this charming sentiment appealing for its universality, both encompassing and traversing the ages. The original quote from Harriette Wilson’s
Memoirs
follows: (Harriette Wilson, by the way, was one of the high-class courtesans of early Regency England)—Lord Ebrington to H. Wilson c. 1810:
Nothing can be so gratifying and delightful to my feelings, as the idea of having inspired a fine woman with a strong irresistible desire to make me her lover, whenever the desire is not a general one. I remember having once made the acquaintance of a woman who was greatly to my taste, and who, as I almost fancied, was disposed to favour me in return. After much difficulty I obtained her consent to indulge me with a private meeting and she agreed to come into my chariot, in which I took her up at the end of a retired lane at the back of her father’s house. She was a young widow. We were scarcely seated, when her very natural frank and flattering exclamation of “Oh how very happy I am, to find myself at last here alone with you,” produced such a pleasant effect on me that I have never forgotten it
.
10
. Although it was not difficult to obtain a divorce in Russia, witnesses were needed to attest on oath and in the presence of the priest that either husband or wife was unfaithful. This was very easy as far as gentlemen were concerned for all of them were unfaithful, but it was different in regard to ladies.
An example of the Emperor’s favors:
Prince Bariatinsky did not succeed in obtaining his divorce because his wife, Lydia, had been prudent enough to remain faithful. But for highly placed nobles, in moments of insuperable difficulty, there was always recourse to the Emperor.
On the cover of the file case presented to him, the Emperor, without examining or caring what the documents contained, wrote as a favor to the Prince, the words “Please accelerate.”
Two days later a gentleman asked Lydia Bariatinsky whether she had noticed her husband with his wife at the theater.
“What wife?” the Princess asked.
“The wife your ex-husband Prince Bariatinsky has married,” he answered.
“How can that be since I won’t give him a divorce?” The next morning Lydia Bariatinsky learned that her husband had obtained his divorce in 48 hours, thanks to the Emperor’s words, Please accelerate, and that the Prince was already married again.
11
. When Alexander II sent for his son Vladimir and informed him that a Princess of Mecklenburg-Schwerin had fallen in love with him and that he, the Emperor, wished his son to marry and settle down, the handsomest of Alexander II’s sons is reported to have remarked, “Poor girl!” Upon which the Emperor indignantly inquired what he meant by that exclamation and received this reply, “What sort of a husband shall I make, Sire? I am drunk every night, and cure the headache of the next morning by getting drunk again.”
Look for Susan Johnson’s thrilling
historical romance, A TOUCH OF SIN available
from Bantam Books
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When father and son walked through the opened door of Langelier’s apartment, they discovered he’d been murdered by someone more disgruntled than they. Langelier’s beautiful mistress was standing naked on his bed while his still warm body lay in a spreading pool of blood.
“A man with an ax did that—just five minutes ago,” she calmly said, brushing aside a honey-colored curl from her forehead. “And I can’t move with all that blood,” she added, apparently less concerned with her nudity or her lover’s demise than wetting her feet. “Would you lift me down?”
Pasha was more than willing; she was utterly gorgeous.
“Thank you,” she softly said, her lush violet eyes lifted to his and he set her down in the adjacent room. “I don’t know what I’m going to do,” she murmured with a small sigh.
No thought was required, no hesitation or reflection. “Perhaps I could help,” Pasha pleasantly said.
“I’d be ever so grateful.” Intent on escaping Langelier’s
apartment with all speed, Beatrix Grosvenor smiled up at the young man regarding her with interest.
“It might be advantageous to leave before the authorities arrive,” Duras suggested, returning from a swift survey of the apartment.
“Would you like my coat?” Pasha inquired, overtly polite, as if there was a sudden chill in the air.
“I’ll dress quickly.” She held up her hand, fingers spread. “Five minutes.” And turning away, she disappeared into Langelier’s dressing room.
Pulling out her small portmanteau, she quickly found the key to the armoire in Langelier’s coat pocket, pulled out her few garments and stuffed them into her valise. After slipping into a gray silk traveling gown, she swiftly searched the bureau drawers for any money Langelier might have secreted, although she wasn’t unduly optimistic about finding much. Langelier had been losing heavily at cards. Softly swearing under her breath, she rummaged through another drawer without success and decided the young man who had gazed at her so attentively might be her only source for passage money back to England.
She silently cursed Langelier’s treachery and her own naivete that had allowed him to take advantage of her. Lesson learned, she hotly reflected, jerking open another drawer. She’d never be so gullible again. Several drawers later, her face sweat-sheened, her heart pumping as though she’d run ten miles, she’d discovered Langelier’s entire cache. Five hundred francs. She almost broke into tears. It was nowhere near enough to see her home.
Could she ask these strangers for a loan? she briefly wondered, but as quickly decided against exposing her vulnerability. After her experience with Langelier, who had virtually kept her prisoner, she viewed all Parisian males with suspicion. Drawing in a steadying breath, she straightened the folds of her skirt as if it mattered how one looked when one was alone and destitute, then smiled faintly at her automatic
responses. Although actually, she thought with pragmatic resolve, under these circumstances, perhaps it
did
matter how she looked.
A quick glance in the mirror assured her she was presentable. She bit her lips to brighten their color, practiced an artful, ingratiating smile, debated briefly the options available her—the merits of truth or fiction. And then setting her smile in place, she picked up her portmanteau and pushed open the dressing-room door.
“Let me help you with that,” Pasha said, reaching for her valise, wondering for a moment if Langelier had taken up with an out-of-work governess, her gray silk gown so demode no self-respecting courtesan would be seen in it.
“We’ll use the back staircase,” Duras said, indicating the direction with a nod of his head. “No need to call attention to ourselves.”
“Langelier had any number of enemies,” Beatrix offered. “He slept with a loaded pistol under his pillow so the list of suspects will be long.”
“He owed several people money,” Pasha added. “Some of them unsavory.”
“The man who killed him tonight had the look of a thug.”
“You’re fortunate he didn’t harm you.”
“His orders didn’t include a woman, he said after he’d split Langelier’s skull with his ax. I was extremely grateful.”
And I as well
, Pasha selfishly thought.
“I’m surprised Langelier lived as long as he did,” Duras declared, holding the door to the stairway open, his statement matter-of-fact. After years of fighting France’s wars, he was familiar with the sight of death. “Give the lady your hand on these stairs,” he said to his son. “I’ll see that nothing incriminating is left in the apartment and be right down.”
Their carriage was luxurious, Beatrix noted when they reached the curb, the driver immaculate in bottle-green livery. They were obviously men of means. Now if she could
manage to acquire a very minute portion of that wealth, she could buy passage to Calais and then home.
After handing her into the carriage, Pasha tossed her valise to the driver and then leaned in through the open door. “I’m sending the carriage around the corner,” he explained, “so it’s less conspicuous. Will you be all right alone for a few minutes?”
“Yes, of course,” Beatrix replied, her thoughts already racing before he’d closed the door. Might there be money somewhere in the carriage? Could she be fortunate after months of misfortune? The moment the carriage began moving, she started searching the interior.
Pasha found her thus when he returned, on her knees, opening one of the compartments under the seat. “Could I help?” he pleasantly inquired, not overly surprised by the lady’s behavior. Any mistress of Langelier would be duplicitous.
“I was looking for a wrap against the evening’s chill,” Beatrix dissembled.
“Allow me,” Pasha offered, shrugging out of his coat and handing it to her.
Reseating herself as gracefully as possible under the awkward circumstances, Beatrix settled the silk-lined coat over her shoulders and a moment later, felt the added warmth of his body as he seated himself beside her. She had no room to move within the narrow confines of the carriage. His muscular thigh rested against hers, his silk-shirted arm pressed into hers, his masculinity overwhelming; he was a very large man. And when his father—the resemblance was clear—took his seat opposite them, the dimensions of the interior seemed to shrink further, the sense of male power intense.
“I hope Dilly isn’t too upset.” Pasha spoke to his father cryptically as the carriage began to move.
“I’ll talk to Berri about having some of her work published. A diversion as it were.”
“She likes Berri.”
“And he’s more suitable than …” Duras’s mouth
turned down in a transient grimace. “Although that’s no longer our concern. Are you going—”
“To my apartment. Mansel knows.”
The driver had already been given orders and as the men spoke to each other in undertones Beatrix surveyed the streets they traversed, careful to take note of her surroundings. If she were successful in securing her passage money, she might have to leave precipitously and she needed to know her whereabouts.
After crossing the Seine near Notre Dame, they traveled west along the left bank for only a short distance before coming to a gated terrace overlooking the river.
Pasha had his hand on the door latch before the carriage had completely come to rest. “You should be safe from inquiries here,” he cordially said to Beatrix, opening the door. Jumping down, he turned to offer her his hand and after a polite
au revoir
to his father, he helped her descend from the carriage.
The driver carried Beatrix’s valise up the flagstone path to the front entrance and placed it near the door. The scent of lilac perfumed the air as Pasha escorted her through the informal garden fronting the river. How wonderful they smelled, he wanted to say, but more serious matters distracted her from such trivial pronouncements. Alert to every possibility, she was waiting to see what opportunities might arise.
Pasha on the other hand was considering only what pleasant diversions this lush beauty would offer him tonight. Since she was obviously making her own way in the world, he was more than willing to reward her for entertaining him instead of Langelier for a day or two.
Her reserve intrigued him; she’d barely spoken since they left Langelier’s apartment. He was equally intrigued by her modest appearance; her voluptuous form was disguised by the plainness of her gown. But he knew what lay hidden beneath the tailored gray silk and he was looking forward to seeing that glorious body unveiled.
As they approached the entrance, a servant opened the door and candlelight spilled out into the spring night.
A gracious host, Pasha turned to her. “Would you like something to eat?”
Yes, ten courses and champagne, Beatrix thought; the derelict state of Langelier’s pantry had offered scant sustenance. But she didn’t intend to stay long enough to eat so she said instead, “No thank you. I recently dined.”
“We won’t be requiring anything, Hippolyte,” Pasha said to the servant. “Take the lady’s valise to my apartments.”
The servant complied without expression. Apparently this young man had brought women to his home before, Beatrix decided, surveying the splendid entrance hall.
“Do you like Richelieu’s taste?”
She turned to find Pasha watching her, a half-smile on his lips. “It’s very grand.”
“It should be. He spent a fortune.”
“And with good results. Do I detect Vianne’s hand in the stuccoes?”
“Very astute.” He surveyed her with curiosity. How many courtesans knew of Vianne’s work? “Where did Langelier find you?” he mildly asked.
“At a barrister’s office.”
His brow’s rose. “Doing what?”
“Conducting business.”
His smile appeared. “Ah.”
She didn’t bother to disabuse him of his interpretation; the less he knew of her the better. More important, anyone living in this magnificent home surely had money lying about. Now to find it—and quickly. “Could I refresh myself somewhere?” she politely inquired, “and change into something more comfortable?”
“Certainly. Hippolyte took your valise to my suite. Make yourself at home and I’ll see to a bottle or two of champagne.”
“How kind of you,” she graciously replied as though they were discussing the possibility of meeting for tea.
The conversation turned on details of interest in the interior decor as they ascended a long flight of marble stairs and traversed a lengthy hall carpeted in Aubusson and draped in Gobelins. At the end of the corridor, she was escorted into a suite of rooms opulent enough for a prince of the blood. “My dressing room is right through that door,” Pasha noted, gesturing toward an inlaid door across the huge room. “Take your time.”
“Thank you so much …” She hesitated, not knowing his name.
“Pasha Duras,” he offered with a bow.
Even in her short sojourn in Paris, she’d heard the name. He was a very wealthy young man from a prominent family. Although these surroundings certainly gave one a clue as well.
“Does mademoiselle have a name?” he gently prompted.
Her gaze didn’t meet his for a moment and then she said, “Simone Croy.”
She spoke French with a faint English accent; she was no more Simone Croy then he was king of the gypsies. But he smiled and said, “I’m very pleased to meet you, my dear Simone.”
He watched her with a kind of distracted attention as she moved toward his dressing room, his gaze taking in her graceful form, his mind questioning the oddities in her behavior. She had a refined air about her that set her apart from the ladies of the demimonde, although he couldn’t quite decide what it was that gave him pause. Her slight accent of course, but it was more than that. Her natural restraint perhaps, not generally a quality in the ladies of her class. Or maybe it was her brief pause before lying to him about her name. Most courtesans were more sophisticated in the art of deception.
Was she new at her trade?
And genuinely shy?
He asked himself that same question a short time later when she’d not yet emerged from the dressing room. He wouldn’t have expected shyness in Langelier’s mistress. Nor was she shy, he discovered brief moments later when he opened his dressing room door to find the chamber empty. A swift survey of the room revealed the lady’s true occupation.
The small money box he kept for petty cash in his bureau was empty on a chair. And the pretty, self-styled Simone had disappeared along with her portmanteau.
She wouldn’t know the second-floor corridors as well as he, he calmly thought, striding back through his sitting room, nor would she find the latch on the front gate a simple device to operate. A remnant of Richelieu’s penchant for mechanical contrivances, he’d kept it as a conversation piece. The back entrance was relatively inaccessible so he needn’t worry about her finding that. But he ran down the corridor, took the stairs in leaping bounds and exited the house through the library doors, well-shielded by shrubbery. His view of the front gate brought a faint smile to his lips.
Moments later, he softly said, “That’s a tricky latch.”
She twirled around at the sound of his voice and stood rigid against the twined metal, her hands clenched at her sides. “It’s not what you think.”
“You’re a clever little baggage,” Pasha drawled. “Did Langelier teach you that ploy?”
“I despised him.”
Pasha’s brows rose faintly. “Now I’m wondering if you killed him … but you were too pristine in all that blood. Perhaps you
had
him killed.”
“I most certainly did not.”
Her vehemence was well done, he thought. She was an accomplished little actress. “And I’m supposed to believe you?” he lazily inquired.
“It’s the truth.” Each word was clipped.
“As is the ten thousand francs you stole from me.” His temper showed for a moment.
She had the grace or more likely the intelligence to look remorseful. “I can explain.”
“Why don’t you explain to me inside,” he said, a quiet restraint in his voice.
“No.”
His dark eyes widened briefly. “What makes you think you have a choice?”
“I’ll scream for help,” she replied, a small defiance in her posture and stance.
“And should someone come,” he softly said, “I’ll tell them that you just stole ten thousand francs from me.”
