Splendor (4 page)

"I imagine he shall."

"Your daughter sold Hamilton to me, er, yesterday," Davison fumbled.

"Ah, yes. And you were just passing by and decided to make another purchase—for your sister?" George asked. He had dimples in both cheeks. He appeared amused.

"Exactly," Anthony said.

"Shall I tally those for you?" Carolyn asked.

"Please, er, do," Anthony said, following her to the money drawer.

When the transaction was completed, Carolyn carefully wrapped all the items in a single bundle and tied it with a pink ribbon. She saw her customer to the door and cheerfully bade him farewell. When he was gone, a very brief moment of silence reigned inside of Browne's Books.

"I see you have won another heart," George remarked.

"Oh, Papa, please!" Carolyn scoffed. "He was buying a gift for his sister."

"I do not think he has a sister, my dear," George said gently.

She looked at him. "Papa, you are thinking the wrong thing—again."

"Am I? And how many times has he been here to purchase books while I was gone?"

She shrugged. "I don't know. I haven't kept count. Perhaps five or six times—this past week."

George laughed loudly. "Case won, my dear. Case won. You could never be a barrister."

Carolyn sat down on the step stool. "As if any woman would even be allowed to try," she said somewhat dejectedly.

"Well, that might one day change, if there are more women in the world like you," George said affectionately. "Since when have the rules decided by my own gender ever stopped you from accomplishing your ends?"

Father and daughter shared a look. "How well you know me," she said.

"And how is Charles Copperville?" George asked.

"Very well." Carolyn grinned. She became serious. "Now tell me, what news from the Continent?"

"La Grande Armee has taken Vilna, apparently without a single shot being fired," George said as lightly as if they were discussing the weather.

"What happened?" Carolyn asked, wide-eyed.

"It seems that the Russians abandoned the city," George said, patting her back. ' 'Tsar Alexander truly does not be-

long in the field at the head of his troops. How deluded he is."

"You'd think he would have learned his lesson at Aus-terlitz, not to mention Eylau and Friedland," Carolyn said briskly. "He is hardly a soldier. What do you think will happen next. Papa?"

"I do not know," George said. "What news at home?"

"The usual. There have been more riots in the north— the Luddites. Wheat prices just keep rising, Papa. Everyone is hungry and afraid."

"Do you justify the destruction of private property by unruly mobs?" George asked mildly.

"Of course not. But I sympathize with those who are ill-fed and underpaid with families to house and feed."

George smiled fondly at her.

Carolyn straightened. "The regent had an outrageous fete last night. I suspect that six months from now we shall learn it cost ten thousand pounds. The Bourbons were there. He invited everyone at nine, but did not arrive himself until half past the hour. It was so crowded in the ballroom that half a dozen ladies fainted and had to be carried outside." Carolyn smiled wickedly. "Apparently quite a few young bucks were very helpful, not just in carrying the unconscious ladies out but in restoring their health by loosening their clothes."

George tsked.

Carolyn's chin had been on her hand, now she dropped it. ' 'The Russian prince was there. The one who is a special envoy from the tsar. Sverayov. What do you think about him^apa?"

"I really haven't given him much thought. They say he was an excellent commander on the battlefield. He comes from a wealthy, prominent family. He has one brother, I believe, younger than he. And that is really all that I know about him, other than that he is here to conclude an alliance between our countries."

"His morals are despicable."

George blinked at her. "Do you know the man?"

She flushed slightly. "Papa, he is jaded! He has been in town a mere fortnight and has been Hnked to half a dozen very prominent ladies—every one of whom, I might add, is married."

"And is his behavior any different from that of our own rakes?"

"The behavior of Damelly and Shadow and their kind is as immoral," Carolyn said flatly. "I spare no one."

"I have a feeling your quill has found a new target," George said seriously. "Be careful, my dear. If you play with fire, you may get burned."

Carolyn stood, anticipation washing over her in a rush, and it was thrilling. "Are you suggesting I set my sights elsewhere? Lower, perhaps?"

"The prince is, by all accounts, a seasoned veteran of many wars. I do believe I have heard that he is extremely clever—and extremely heartless. He might prove dangerous, my dear."

Carolyn tossed her head. "He is interested in one thing, Papa, and it is not negotiating with Castlereagh! I suspect— no, I am certain!—he is another one of the tsar's incompetent cronies. He is probably here because he requested a leave from the field—perhaps he is even a coward! I would not be surprised. Surely, for him, this mission is all a gay pleasure trip. I mean, would you rather be in the midst of booming cannons or a gala at Carleton House?" Carolyn took a breath. "I am certain we will never sign a treaty with Russia now. And why should we? Just because they need us? Has everyone forgotten Tilsit?"

"Apparently you have not forgotten, my dear," George muttered. "Since when have you become so passionate about the subject of our relations with the Russians?"

Carolyn flushed. "If I thought we could trust him, I would not be so passionately opposed." She was already heading toward the back of the store, where the stairs leading to their private apartments were.

George regarded her thoughtfully. "My dear, do you not mean, if you thought you could trust themT'

She paused, one hand on the smooth, old wooden banister. Her color was high. "Of course that is what I meant."

George stared at the narrow staircase after she was gone. "I wonder," he mused aloud, "what has been going on while I was gone?"

Upstairs, she sat at her small, sturdy desk, a quill in hand. She was drawing frantically. A few deft strokes gave way to a cartoon in which two young men were rushing away with two unconscious women draped dramatically in their arms. Meanwhile two other ladies lolled on the ground, attended by two young bucks with far more lascivious expressions on their faces than their counterparts. One of the ladies was being divested of her gloves and had already had her shoes and stockings removed. Her skirts were draped above her knees, revealing ample calves and ankles. The last young lady was having her entire gown unbuttoned down the back, and her breasts appeared in dire jeopardy of being exposed at any moment.

Carolyn blew on the cartoon to dry it, then quickly scribbled a few lines of dialogue beneath. "I say," the last buck was saying. "Jolly good time. Old Prinny should be late more often!"

Carolyn smiled and shoved the cartoon aside. Her masquerade last night had already paid off well, indeed. Then her smile faded. Her brow furrowed and an unfocused golden image came to mind. She had never seen the prince, but she had heard all about him ever since he had arrived in town. Who hadn't? He had already won and broken dozens of female hearts in London and the country. They said he was as cold as ice until it suited him to be otherwise, and that when hot, he was dazzling enough to melt anyone. Apparently even the regent was fawning over him now. Perhaps the only one not yet endeared to him was Lord Castlereagh—thank God.

Carolyn had heard that he was tall, golden, handsome. She was sure the reports of his physical charms were highly exaggerated. It was always that way. For rumor held that

four women had actually swooned merely upon being introduced to him. Carolyn scoffed at the idea.

But she could not caricaturize him because she had never seen him herself—and that was going to have to be rectified immediately. She smiled to herself.

She dipped her quill in the inkwell, dated the top of the page, and titled it "A Royal Sham."

Of the fifteen hundred illustrious guests invited to attend Prinny's latest extravaganza —one boasting no less than sixty-five thousand candles, one hundred and fifty supper tables, fifteen hundred chairs for fifteen hundred guests, and a staff of three thousand two hundred and eighty-three—one very illustrious foreigner provided a shining example of superior morality to all those present and all those not present but waiting so eagerly for this column. If the walls of Carleton House could talk! (Fortunately others can!)

This particular prince was not French. Prince S

arrived with his own entourage in a huge black coach with silver, red, and gold arms. 'He never goes anywhere without his French valet, and ajtroop of armed, mounted Cossacks. Although the festivities continued

until dawn, S chose to leave at the unheard-of

hour of one o'clock. And what could entice such an esteemed guest to quit the premises at such an extraordinary hour if not for the very lovely charms of

a certain Lady C e? Of course. Lord C e,

who was also present at Carleton House, was otherwise preoccupied with his port and cigars. Lord C e would undoubtedly pretend to be preoccupied with his port and cigars even if he were not, not daring otherwise. Just another uneventful evening? I doubt the prince thinks so. No one, I am told, not even the prince, expected a certain princess to appear that evening, whom, apparently, had last been seen

in St. P . She, of course, had her own personal

escort. Apparently the very beautiful princess has put

on an extreme amount of weight lately. I wonder what she is expecting? Needless to say, that did not stop

Lord C^ e from his preoccupation with port and

cigars.

Carolyn was breathless as she paused over her column. Her pulse raced, and an unfocused golden image filled up her mind. She could almost envision his face—high-cheekboned, Slavic, rough. Her father's warnings abruptly returned to her, but she shoved them aside. Society carried on as if hundreds of thousands of soldiers of all nationalities were not being slaughtered on the Continent, as if British prisoners of war were not being starved to death in French prisons, as if the dislocations here at home caused by the war were all a fairy tale! Farmers, miners, weavers, were losing everything, the poorhouses were full. God! No one seemed to care about the tremendous suffering everywhere. Carolyn could not understand it.

And she was glad that her mother had loved George enough to turn her back on such a self-absorbed society. Her father might have been common and poor, but he had ideals. Margaret had fallen in love with the man, not a title and a fortune.

Carolyn stood abruptly and walked over to the small bureau beside her bed. She picked up the miniature portrait of her mother, completed when she was just an infant. How beautiful Margaret had been, and how kind—her sensitivity was written all over her features, expressed in her green eyes.

She had died" when Carolyn was five. Shortly after their return from that awful visit to Lady Stafford at Midlands. Carolyn could still remember being tucked into bed by her mother, whom she had adored. She could still see her soft smile, feel her mouth as it touched her cheek in a kiss. She could still hear her soft "I love you," words she uttered every night And Carolyn had replied in kind. "I love you, too. Mama." Margaret had blown out the candle she was

carrying. And when Carolyn had awoken the next morning, her mother had been dead.

Carolyn turned abruptly away from the portrait. She never thought about that morning, not ever. Even now, thirteen years later, it had the power to twist up her insides and form tears in her eyes. She supposed that when you truly loved someone, you never recovered from their loss.

She had died from pneumonia. They had said it was an advanced case, and that she had probably not been well for some time.

She wiped her eyes again, shoving aside the image of her stricken, bereft father, and returned to her desk. Prince Nicholas Sverayov certainly deserved her barbs. He was as bad, if not worse, than the rakes and dandies and hypocrites of her own country. If he intended to carry on openly with one woman after another, with his pregnant wife present, while on official state business, in London society, he was as much a target for her quill as anyone else. It was not personal. It was a question of principle. But Carolyn truly felt sorry for the Princess Sverayov. How could she bear being wed to such a man?

Carolyn had decided long ago that she would never wed, not unless she met a man of high principle like her father, and shared an extraordinary kind of love.

She dipped the quill one last time and signed the column "Charles Copperville" with a flourish.

rt^ Three ^

HE knew it was a dream. He always knew, yet that did not make it seem any less real. And the first sign of the dream was the heavy sickness inside of him, a strong and over-whehning premonition of disaster, and the snow. There was so much snow. Outside the world was white, a blur, visi-bihty reduced to nothingness.

And he knew that something terrible was going to happen if he did not wake up.

But he did not wake up, for he could not. Instead, as he stood by the window at his dacha in Tver, unmoving, staring out into the blizzard, a fire roaring at his side, he heard her voice, sharp and angry at first, then plaintive, and finally, tearful and afraid*

*'Excellency." A man had spoken.

But Nicholas already knew that. And the intrusion was so outlandish he should be shocked, but he \yas not shocked, for He had expected it, and he turned. A young groom stood there in the doorway, tall and strapping, a determined light in his eyes. His wife stood a few feet behind him, her face as pale as moonlight, her black eyes wet with tears. "Niki," she began. "Don't listen, it is not true."

The truth. He sensed it, had sensed for some time, but did not want to know, not now, not ever. He tried to tell the groom, Piotr, to leave. But his mouth would not open

to form the words, and no such command came. And he desperately wished to see Katya. Needed to hold her, as if in holding her he would not lose her.