Golden Paradise (33 page)

"The engagement could be broken once the war is over," Stefan mildly inquired, "but not now? Why?" Some pertinent reason existed, but in the few hours remaining to him before his return to Kars, there wasn't sufficient time to uncover the truth. One certainty was blatantly obvious, though. Money wasn't going to buy his way out.

"My concern is for my sweet Nadejda, of course," Vladimir replied, blandly. "In the midst of war, there's such a dearth of eligible parties," he said, his smile one of exaggerated sincerity. "She would repine."

"You surprise me, Taneiev," Stefan drawled softly. "I didn't suspect you harbored feelings."

Vladimir looked pained for a theatrical pause. "Nadejda's my dearest treasure," he said with exactitude.

"I'm sure she is," Stefan sardonically replied as he rose to leave, aware now of the enormous settlements exacted in the marriage contracts.

"One thing more, my dear boy, before you go.
I'd like you to apologize to Nadejda for the insult you did her at the Gagarins' last evening. She was in attendance at the ball." He spoke with great casualness as though he were asking for the merest favor.

Stefan stood in shocked arrest for a brief moment. Apologize? To the daughter of the man who was threatening him with annihilation? "And if I decline?" he said after a small silence.

"I'd strongly consider," Vladimir said, his gaze devoid of emotion, "dropping a first small hint to the Tsar—a mention that his cavalry commander's name came up during the interrogation of a suspect in the Sesta case this afternoon. An initial slight wedge, as it were." His smile was chill. "I could convey this new detail at a diplomatic soiree tonight where Alexander is scheduled to appear. The rumor could turn out to be a mistake by noon tomorrow should you decide to continue your engagement to my daughter." He looked at Stefan across the expanse of his polished desktop. "Will you," he gently inquired, the way the axman at a beheading might question whether one cared to be blindfolded or not, "be seeing our illustrious Emperor before you return?"

Stefan's flying trip to Saint Petersburg had been purely personal and he'd intended only a brief courtesy call on the Tsar.

"I haven't decided," he ambiguously replied, disinclined to supply Vladimir with any information.

"Well," Vladimir briskly said, confident in his victory, "you decide, my boy, although with all your, er, experience with women, surely a simple apology shouldn't be too demanding." When he raised his eyes from contemplation of his manicured nails, his glance was indifferent.

He had little concern for the Tsar or the course of the war, it seemed, if he could so casually contemplate imparting such malevolent lies. Nor did he seem to have any regard for his daughter's sensibilities, either. For
she
, too, would be touched, however innocently, by Stefan's disgrace. Prince Taneiev's motives were purely selfish, Stefan realized, observing the cool disinterest in Vladimir's eyes. He could consider distressing the Tsar without a qualm.

Checked, Stefan had no recourse, as Vladimir already knew. But his reply came with great difficulty. "Very well," Stefan said.

Vladimir almost looked disappointed, as though the lesser of his humiliations had been chosen, Stefan thought, as though he would have preferred humbling Stefan before the Tsar. A dispassionate impulse surfaced in Stefan's mind, drifting into his consciousness with the placidity of ripples on a pond. How satisfying it would be to put a bullet through Vladimir's chill smile. The cream silk draperies behind his desk would be ruined, Stefan decided with a curious detachment, and on that pleasant thought a small smile curved his mouth upward.

"You find something amusing, Prince Bariatinsky?" Vladimir's voice was smooth as silk.

"Perhaps later I may," Stefan replied.

"Perhaps later we may all find this association amusing."

"I certainly hope so." Stefan glanced at the wall clock. "Now if you'll excuse me. My time is limited."

"Nadejda is expecting you. You'll bring me your decision by noon tomorrow?"

"I'll send a message."

Prince Taneiev didn't reply, but he nodded and the interview was over.

As Stefan followed the footman down the corridor, he debated whether he could call Vladimir's bluff. Should he simply turn around and leave? He could feel the heat of his anger rising, for the thought of the coming act of submission was unnerving and unpalatable.

But he needed time.
Time to figure out what to do; time to somehow escape this trap that was closing around him.
And for the first time he realized that anything that affected him now would affect Lise, also. His gorge rose at the thought of Taneiev with his talons into Lisaveta. If a few words of pretense to Nadejda would gain him one evening of reprieve, he decided his pride could stand it. Perhaps by tomorrow he would have worked out what to do, although his brain seemed strangely reluctant now.

But it would be the briefest apology in the history of man.

Nadejda was alone in the Grecian drawing room when the servant showed Stefan in. If looks could have killed, her father could have begun counting his settlement money immediately.

She was standing as though she
were
expecting him, and he decided Vladimir was unquestionably confident. He waited for the servant to close the door before he spoke, and without moving from the vicinity of the entrance, he said, "I've come to apologize. I didn't realize you were at Gagarin's last night." There. It wasn't precisely an apology but a general statement. He took brief pleasure in his evasion.

"Obviously."
Her single word was sharp as a knife thrust, her lavender eyes so devoid of warmth his hair rose briefly on the back of his neck. Dressed in a white lace tea gown adorned with red silk roses, she reminded him of blood on a corpse and gave every indication of the same uncompromising coldness. "And in future, I'm sure my father warned you, I will not tolerate such behavior!"

His spine went rigid.

"Nor will I allow that native dress in my presence," she disdainfully added.

Stefan wore the loose trousers and belted shirt of his mother's people, his favored form of dress out of uniform, and far from being the shabby attire Nadejda's tone implied, his garments were luxurious. His black silk blouse was China silk embroidered in gold thread, and his trousers were of wool so fine each yard could be pulled through a woman's ring. The goats that supplied the raw material for the fabric were only found in one small section of the Himalayas and were so fragile they couldn't be sheared; the hair from their coats had to be gathered from the odd residue left on the brambles and bushes of their habitat. And his red kid boots were dyed with precious scarlet madder by his bootmaker in Tabriz.

He could feel the blood begin to throb in his temple; he'd never been spoken to in that tone of voice. He controlled the Tsar's cavalry; he was the wealthiest man in the Trans-Caucasus, perhaps in Russia. "I dress as I please," he said in a low growl. He didn't want to say more; he wished to leave before his temper gave way, and there was no need to speak further with Nadejda.

He'd observed the obligation Vladimir required and he was turning to leave when Nadejda said, "I'm not finished with you yet."

Her father had assured her that afternoon when he'd come home that he would find a means to restrain any further embarrassing incidents by Prince Bariatinsky. He had further assured her that while she must suffer the fiction of their engagement in public, in private she need not. In a vastly simplistic and highly edited fashion he'd explained that Prince Bariatinsky was valuable to their family until the war was over, although, he'd added, he couldn't go into any of the particulars due to the secrecy required in wartime. The visit to Brabant's had further reconciled her to her required role. She was wearing a new and very expensive ruby necklace.

"I expect you to conduct yourself," she said, advancing toward him with revenge in her heart for the scene at the Gagarins', "without any further scandal. Should I hear even the merest breath of misconduct, Papa will have your bars and your command. And I will personally take great pleasure in your disgrace."

Nadejda had been too long assured the world was hers. She had no sense of proportion.

Stefan's uncommon prudence disappeared in an explosive rage. He couldn't go through with this farce if they hanged him tomorrow for high treason. Vladimir
be
damned! He'd stand up to his threats the way he should have from the beginning. His fleeting display of caution gave way to Stefan's more familiar headstrong boldness. "Consider this engagement over," he tersely said, each word a blunt hammer blow, "as of this moment." And he drew a deep breath to steady a killing instinct.

"You can't," Nadejda raged, her pale skin mottled, her lavender eyes narrowed with spleen.

"I can do anything I please,
mademoiselle."
Stefan was absolutely still, his hands rigid at his sides in an effort to curtail his rash impulse to strike out. "And it pleases me," he softly added, "to terminate this very large mistake."

"Papa will not allow it!" Each of Nadejda's words rang with authority.

Stefan had heard that already in a variety of nuances, but she seemed so very sure he asked, "Why?" in a quiet, menacing voice. She had spoken as though she knew Taneiev's reasons; perhaps she might offer a better reason than the one her father had given.

Nadejda knew immediately she'd misstepped when Stefan's brows came together and his voice softened in query, when his dark eyes seemed to be scrutinizing her with a new attention. "He…Papa wouldn't want me to be embarrassed. Once the war is over,
I'll
break the engagement."

"Yours and your Papa's timetable is intriguing." Stefan's drawl was low and silken, his mind racing, contemplating the circumstances contributing to this obstinate delay.

"There are no men now," she said, the way a child would say, "The candy store is closed."

That remark at least had the ring of sincerity. Stefan wished he had the time to get to the bottom of this matter, but he didn't.

At least he'd had the courage to end this damnable engagement. He felt a great sense of relief, a tidal wave of deliverance.

"You might like to congratulate me," he said with a grin, thinking how simple it had been after all to cut away the impediment of his engagement. "I'm to be married tonight." He was suddenly well-disposed to the world at large, including Nadejda, who was no more than a silly young woman now— detached from his life with a few simple words.

"Papa will kill you," she said in a neutral voice contrasting starkly with her statement, "if you shame our family so."

"He can try," Stefan quietly replied, "but he may not succeed. And you might want to give him that warning." Stefan's eyes narrowed slightly although his smile was still in place. "My bodyguard," he
added,
his tone soft as velvet, "reverts at time to some of their barbaric Kurdish customs. Tell your father it takes a man eight hours to die—forgive me,
mademoiselle,
for my bluntness—with his entrails on the ground."

Nadejda's face was white as her dress when he left the room. Immune to the perils of his future, as though a decision of the spirit had been made distinct from rational deliberation, he thought only of his freedom, of his escape from Nadejda, and he wondered with a curious speculation whether his father's life would have been different if he'd fought against his disgrace. He had thought at first he could deal with Vladimir's demands, submit enough to buy the time he needed, say yes, when he didn't mean it, apologize to Nadejda for something he didn't feel. But his nature wouldn't allow it, and he was wildly exhilarated now, striding down the hallway, his sensations reminiscent of the excitement he felt in battle.

It was the same—when there was no longer time for apprehension or indecision or any of the debilitating hesitation that marked the cognitive man. The irrepressible energy carried you, drove you, brought victory as if by magic, and Stefan felt at that moment the same triumph. He had succeeded at last in putting the past to rest. What had happened to his father would no longer be his burden. In a way totally unplanned and tumultuous, he'd severed that impediment to his life. As he sailed down the bank of steps to the street in two leaping bounds, the driver glanced at his partner beside him on the carriage seat and said, "Things must have gone well."

"Even better than that from the looks of it.''

"Home, Excellency?" the groom holding the door open for Stefan inquired as Stefan reached the blue-lacquered carriage.

"No, to the Winter Palace."

The liveried servant came to attention.
"Very good, Excellency."
His voice was crisp when he repeated the order to the driver.

The Prince was going to see the Tsar.

T
he Tsar's equerry had only said, "I'll do what I can."

Stefan paced the small room, knowing he'd faced the entire Turkish army with less trepidation than he was currently feeling. He'd stop to gaze out the windows on the vista of the Neva for a moment, or try sitting on the numerous chairs lining the walls of the chamber, only to find
himself
pacing again a few moments later. Alexander could be unpredictable and with good reason.