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Authors: May Burnett

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Chapter 17

 

While he was kept waiting upon the czar and the minister for war, Lucian cultivated his contacts among the Russian army and nobility. He needed to gauge the various factions’ relative influence and evaluate their morale and chances against Napoleon, the military genius of their generation.

As expected, he found strong crosscurrents, only thinly covered by the joint urgency of defending the country. The minister of war, Barclay de Tolly, enjoyed Alexander’s confidence and sounded able enough, but he was widely resented for being a foreigner. No wonder; in England, such an appointment would be unthinkable, as it implied that none of the native-born generals were good enough. Many Russian officers Lucian met considered it a personal insult, an unacceptable slight on their ability and dedication.

The meeting with General Karatis had gone well enough. Lucian had handed over his information, and there had been distinct interest in the general’s eyes when Lucian had detailed the weapons that might be supplied if their governments came to a satisfactory agreement. He had also done some preliminary work on high officials of the Foreign Ministry, at balls and dinner parties. Barring some last-minute hitch when he got the czar’s ear, they were ready to receive another ambassador from the Crown. Lucian had immediately sent an interim report so that the Foreign Office could start sounding out qualified candidates without delay.

While he had not completely wasted his time, the hours were hanging heavily on his hands, and he cursed Alexander for being absent at this crucial time. Of course, it was arrogant to expect that the ruler of a gigantic country should be available for his convenience, but Lucian could not help wishing that the whole business was wrapped up, as it might have been under better conditions, and he on his way to England before winter made the journey more miserable, if not impossible. The Baltic Sea, smooth and relatively safe in warmer seasons, had been known to freeze all over in some years.

That evening he had dined with Major Kendorov and a group of guard officers, drawn from the highest aristocracy. About half of them went on to a ball given by Countess Antonovskaya, an old but spry lady of hospitable tastes, which she often indulged in her huge, opulent town house. She smiled at Lucian as he kissed her hand in greeting.

“Ah, still in Russia,
mon ami
? When we don’t even have diplomatic relations with your country?” Though married to a Russian for decades, the countess herself had been born in Poland, and her French still bore the faint trace of a German accent.

She probably knew all about his mission, but Lucian smiled noncommittally. “That has nothing to say to the matter, dear Marion. You know me, I am welcome anywhere as a citizen of the world.”

“Good luck, Lucian.” She gave him a wink before turning to the next guest.

It would be churlish not to dance at a ball, so he approached a cluster of elegant ladies and gentlemen. One of the latter was an acquaintance and introduced him. Presently, he found himself leading Baroness von Traisen into the dance. Her husband, he gathered, was connected to the Austrian Embassy.

They flirted a little, but both knew it would not lead to anything more. The baroness was in her early thirties by his guess, a tall brunette and a highly accomplished dancer.

When he led her back to her group, some others had joined it, and new introductions became necessary. Kendorov had drifted off, probably to the card tables. He was a passionate gamester and, with rare exceptions, very lucky.

The prettiest lady among the new arrivals smiled at Lucian with enticing dimples in both cheeks. Mme Riljatskaya could not be older than twenty-five, but had been introduced as a widow. Well, that happened all too often in wartime. Since she was out of mourning, her bereavement must lie at least a year back, and if Lucian was any judge, she had already begun to look about her for a replacement, or at least someone to amuse her.

As Lucian led her towards a quadrille, she touched him on the calf, as if accidentally, and looked up at him from under her long, dark lashes. Signals he understood perfectly well from so many years of practice. They took their places without speaking.

While he performed the various turns and movements called out by the master of ceremonies, Lucian studied the young widow. Normally, she would have greatly appealed to him, and he would already be planning to make her his mistress for the rest of his stay in St. Petersburg. She had delicious curves, both above and below a slim waist. The thick, mahogany hair was gleaming with health, and her features were almost classical, though the teeth were not perfectly regular. Her dark brown eyes were warm and lively.

In the throes of passion, what did it matter if one of her front teeth slightly crowded another? She was a highly attractive woman who wanted him. Why was he so uncharacteristically reluctant to take advantage of what she offered? It had been months since he had last assuaged his desires. Every expert agreed it was unhealthy not to relieve manly passions for that long.

Yet somehow, in the teeth of so many years of casual debauchery, it felt subtly wrong. True, he had never been a married man before, but most of his bed partners had been bored or adventurous wives.

No need to decide at the moment. He finished the dance, chatted with the widow, and accompanied her to the magnificent buffet. Having dined already, he did not partake himself, but put together a selection of exquisite titbits for his companion. She was not overly talkative, another attractive trait. His wandering gaze lingered on those red lips, subtly coloured, if he was not mistaken. Amanda’s lips were not quite as dark as these, but they had no need of artifice.

Was there no time when he could forget the girl? He had not pretended that he planned to be faithful—a nearly unknown concept—she could not expect it, especially under the circumstances, when he had never yet enjoyed her own youthful body, and never might if she said no or died in childbed. He had provided Amanda with a name that the world assumed to be honourable, security and comfort. He owed her nothing more.

He met the widow’s eyes; her lips curved in a slightly ironic smile. Dammit, he could not allow himself to be emasculated by a mere memory. His hesitation might be the first sign of old age, and if so, he owed it to himself to combat it by vigorous action. While he still could.

“Your eyes are lovely, Madame,” he said. In a low voice he added, “It makes a man wonder if everything he cannot see is equally perfect—but pardon me if I am too forward in my admiration.”

She played with the pearls above her lovely bosom. Her smile turned languorous. “I am not easily offended, Lord Rackington, and I have heard of your—um—prowess, from some of my best friends.”

“I see. I hope I can live up to their descriptions.”

“Oh, I have no doubt of that at all.” She let her gaze roam over his body with open approval. “I have come with friends tonight, whom I cannot abandon, but perhaps you would like to come for supper tomorrow? Just a small intimate occasion?”

He did not pretend to misunderstand. “It would be my great pleasure, Madame.” With a widow, he would not even need to be overly discreet—no husband for whom any illusion needed to be maintained. And though she would not know that he was married, since he had not mentioned the fact to anyone here in Russia, her forward behaviour indicated she was looking for dalliance only.

“In that case, call me Julia.
Madame
sounds so formal.”

He kissed her hand lingeringly. “Julia, then. I appreciate your permission. My own name is Lucian.”

She gave him another look that made him think of silken sheets and featherbeds, but then returned to practicality, citing her address and the time when she would expect him. By the time all was arranged, another gentleman came to fetch her for a promised dance.

Julia.
It was a pretty name, appropriate for a mistress. He’d known several Julias and had fond memories of one, a Flemish courtesan . . . It was not wrong, dammit. He needed release and was used to regular, pleasant exercise with pretty women. It was what he had always done, would always do as long as he was able. Lucian did not owe anyone explanations, and if Amanda thought less of him for his actions, then only because she was brought up by an ignorant, narrow-minded bigot like Ellen. The kind of woman who would throw her own daughter out of the house for one incident in which she had been the helpless victim.

Amanda would soon adapt to their ways and would likely enjoy many pleasant affairs herself in later life. If the idea sickened him, that was just a momentary aberration. Only the most gauche and selfish husbands imposed stricter rules on their wives than they followed themselves.

Yet Lucian still felt uneasy. Was it because, at that moment, Amanda had not yet accepted that such was the way of the world? In her current state, she was still blinkered by unrealistic hopes of love and fidelity and other sentimental nonsense propagated by magazines and novelists, to lull the nation’s women into complacent acceptance of their situation. It often amused him to observe how ladies of all stations preferred to close their eyes to the reality right in front of them, just because it was the easiest path. Of course, when it led them to deny even crimes like those of Ellen’s vile brother, their wilful blindness had its deplorable side.

Poor Amanda.

He would not be able to fully enjoy what Julia was offering, though he had no doubt that he’d be able to please and satisfy her. His member had never failed him, and his stamina was nearly as strong as it had been in his early twenties when he had performed legendary feats of endurance still whispered about amongst the London matrons. Since then, he had greatly improved his knowledge of the female body. It was a point of pride not to let any partner leave him unsatisfied.

So what if he’d be thinking of Amanda when he pounded into Julia? His wife was not there, would never know anything about it. He was not depriving her of anything she wanted or prized herself.

But
you
will know
, an inner voice whispered. It could not be his conscience, could it? He sometimes heard it when a sharp piece of business practice or some underhanded political trick was proposed, but in matters of sexual dalliance, it had never yet interfered with his pleasures.

A short ceremony, a signature, and suddenly he was supposed to be deprived of his usual pleasures and pastimes? It made no sense.

“You look abstracted,” the voice of Major Kendorov tore Lucian out of his brown study. “A ball is hardly the best place for rumination. We are going on to Mercier’s; are you coming with us?”

Mercier’s was a well-known gambling establishment, frequented by officers and rich aristocrats. Why not? He might pick up interesting information from the patrons. Moreover, having to concentrate on his cards would put a stop to the ridiculous doubts that were suddenly besetting Lucian.

Chapter 18

 

As Lucian had expected, the talk at Mercier’s was mostly of the impending war. He overheard some remarks that almost made him pity the minister of war. He would not want to command soldiers who despised and resented him like that. Fortunately, being a civilian he would never find himself in that position. There was some indication that the czar might return soon, which gave him hope of progress at last.

Many of these proud, expensive young men would die when the French attack came, and they knew it even if none spoke of it openly. The way they drank and gambled and boasted of their whoring sounded forced, almost desperate in some cases, as though they were trying to cram as much living as they could into those last months. Major Kendorov was one of the exceptions, always calm and collected, which might explain why he was winning yet again.

Lucian and the major were playing
vingt-et-un
with four other officers, Kendorov holding the bank. The stakes were high enough to force Lucian to concentrate. He drank only sparingly from the excellent French vintage they had ordered, determined to keep his head clear.

One of the other players was quaffing the wine recklessly as he lost round after round. Lucian was wondering how to hint that it might be wiser to cut his losses and go sleep off his bout of ill luck. But such unsolicited advice could easily lead to a duel with such a young hothead. If the fool was determined to lose his entire patrimony to Kendorov, it was none of Lucian’s business.

Finally, Kendorov indicated, as tactfully as possible, that he had accepted enough IOUs from young Pjotr Ivanovich. Ivanovich only blinked owlishly and, fortunately, did not take offense.

“What are you willing to bet against those?” He drew a set of ruby earrings from his pocket. The stones were cut like small dangling pineapples and shone in the candlelight with inner fire. Though only a jeweller would be able to gauge their true worth, Lucian could see at a glance that they were of superior quality.

“Five hundred,” Kendorov said. “They are pretty, but do you really want to lose them on top of everything else? With a streak like that, it is wise to stop until the luck turns.”

“It is about to turn; I can feel it,” Pjotr Ivanovich insisted, placing the earrings in the middle of the table. “These will bring me luck. Deal, Kendorov; I want to gain some of my money back.”

With a look at the others, to see if they agreed to the proposal, Kendorov dealt. As was to have been expected, he won yet again. Ivanovich stared at his cards incredulously when Kendorov picked up the wagered jewels. “I could have sworn . . .”

“It clearly is not your lucky night,” Lucian said. “Fortuna’s ways are unaccountable; she does not allow us to guess her intentions.”

Ivanovich grasped at a bottle of vodka and drank directly from it, two, three deep droughts as they all watched him uneasily. When he fell over and began to snore, they looked at each other ruefully.

“He’ll have the devil of a headache tomorrow,” Kendorov said. “Mercier’s has some chambers for such cases.” He called a waiter over and presently, four hefty servants carried the unconscious officer towards the back of the establishment. Kendorov good-naturedly paid for the night and a lavish breakfast. Lucian doubted that Pjotr Ivanovich would be in any shape to enjoy the latter.

As they watched their drunken fellow player carried away, Kendorov drew the earrings out of his pocket and scrutinized them with a small frown. “I only accepted them so as not to insult him. I have no earthly use for such trinkets.”

“I know a pretty lady who might like them,” Lucian said. They would look good on Amanda’s ears. “I can buy them off you for the value you estimated.”

“No, no, present them to her with my compliments.” Kendorov held the earrings out to him.

Lucian shook his head. “I cannot accept them as a gift.” That was the last thing he needed, to be thought amenable to bribes. There all those officers around them, who might spread the tale.

“Why don’t you play one last game for the earrings? Or simply cut cards for them, with Rackington offering five hundred if he loses?” another player suggested.

Since they were tired enough to go home, they agreed to cut cards, and for once, Kendorov’s luck deserted him; he drew a ten while Lucian’s card was the Queen of Hearts.

“How appropriate,” Kendorov said, smiling. He handed the rubies over, and Lucian slipped them into his pocket. “Julia will love them, I dare say. Rubies will set off her dark hair.”

Lucian did not correct his assumption, natural enough after his flirtation at Countess Antonovskaya’s ball. That Kendorov called the widow by her given name gave him pause—was he among her lovers? Was the lady so free with her favours? In any case, the rubies were not for her, but he would keep that fact to himself. Lucian felt inexplicably reluctant to talk of Amanda with his Russian acquaintances. His relationship with his wife was private, not for discussion or speculation by strangers.

Would she like the ruby earrings?

He’d better find some other gift for Julia in the meantime. Either to bring with him, or as consolation if he wanted to call the whole thing off and send his regrets to her.

Was he really contemplating such a step, for no good reason at all? Amanda would never know of it, never appreciate the sacrifice. It made no sense at all.

He had better sleep on the matter. One often saw more clearly in the bright light of morning.

 

***

 

Lucian awoke with nothing worse than a slight dryness of mouth, glad he had not overindulged like poor Pjotr Ivanovich, who might be wishing he was dead just then. After washing and dressing he inspected the rubies and confirmed his first impression that they were exceptionally fine and pure stones, perfectly matched, a worthy gift for his countess. He carefully locked them up in his dispatch case with his credentials and other important papers, then put the case back into the double bottom of his heavy trunk and secured it with the cunningly hidden steel bars. The battered trunk, specially constructed by a clockmaker, had accompanied him on previous missions. It was too big and heavy to steal unnoticed. To camouflage the extra weight he always left it half filled with books, which also helped to while away the more tedious parts of his journeys.

Lucian lingered over a hearty breakfast, trying to come to terms with the strong intuition that he should avoid Julia, and all others, until he had settled the nature of his marriage with Amanda. If she wanted to make it a true marriage, without affairs of any kind, he was willing to agree, as unlikely and irrational as it might seem. Somehow his obdurate heart had softened towards her. He wished to spare her pain and disappointment, even if she was far away. He did not want to lie to her either, and telling her he’d had affairs while travelling would hardly be an auspicious beginning for their future relationship. Unlike a woman from his own class, Amanda was sure to ask. It would be preferable if he could look into her eyes when he answered.

From what she already knew of him, she would expect the worst, but he need not live up to his bad reputation. Lucian had begun to corrupt Amanda, he realised, because to live any other way than what he’d learned from his own parents and friends seemed too difficult, too much work. Yet when he felt such doubt and hesitation over a simple, consensual affair with a widow, it might be easier to just do what his heart suggested, and refrain altogether. His manhood would survive a period of celibacy. Though physicians proclaimed it to be unhealthy, some men, like Catholic priests, managed to live to old age without indulging . . . Or did they? Presumably, a few might actually honour their vows, so it
could
be done.

If Amanda preferred not to try, or found him too old—he winced at the thought—or in some other way objectionable, all bets were off. He’d feel free to sleep with anyone, as before, and demonstrate to her exactly what she was spurning. But she had not seemed completely reluctant when they had parted. It would be foolish to give up before they had tried to make something of the impulsive match.

Amanda might die in childbed, of course. In which case it would still be better for his suddenly active conscience if he had not been whoring around while she lay dying. He might feel guilty for a long time if that happened.

With a twinge of regret, but no hesitation, he penned a short note to Julia—Mme Riljatskaya, he’d better remember to call her, even in his thoughts. Due to unforeseen circumstances, he had to deny himself the pleasure of their dinner and any similar occasion, to his profound regret, etc., etc. It was hardly the first such note he had written, though normally they came at the end rather than the beginning of an affair.

Lucian was not proud of letting the pretty widow down like that, but better to disappoint a stranger who only wanted to enjoy what she’d called his
prowess
, than the innocent girl who had been entrusted to his care.

He sent the message to Julia’s address with a huge arrangement of flowers, before meeting Kendorov and a representative of the czar’s staff for luncheon. It looked as though the hints at the czar’s imminent return were correct; at last he might be able to get on with his mission! The threat of the French attack should work in his favour; the Russians would be eager to have the weapons delivered in time and less inclined to balk at the quid-pro-quo, which consisted in a guarantee to look the other way regarding possible overseas acquisitions. Lucian harboured private doubts if his country could successfully manage all the areas it coveted, after having lost the American colonies. The war in Europe made it hard to hold on to all existing possessions, but his government was thinking ahead to Napoleon’s eventual defeat, and their ambition knew no bounds. Time would show if his doubts were justified.

It really was not the best time for mounting a new mistress, when he might soon be able to depart homewards. Normally he’d have found someone suitable within the first few days of his stay and not waited for an explicit invitation such as Julia had issued. Looking back, he had been reforming his ways before his mind had fully caught up with the unprecedented development. It might behove him to cultivate greater self-awareness in future.

But right now, he had to focus on politics and business; the rest could wait until later. How soon would he be able to see the czar?

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