Читать онлайн книгу «From Governess To Countess» автора Marguerite Kaye

From Governess To Countess
Marguerite Kaye
The scandalous truth…She’s the Count’s new mistress!In this Matches Made in Scandal story Count Aleksei Derevenko hires governess Allison Galbraith for her skills as a herbalist, not as a mistress! But when rumours spread Allison is shocked by her wanton reaction to Aleksei. His inscrutable icy blue eyes promise white-hot nights of sin! She knows too well how fragile her reputation is, but will the price of their passion be worth paying?


The scandalous truth about the count’s new mistress!
A Matches Made in Scandal story
Count Aleksei Derevenko has hired governess Allison Galbraith for her skills as a herbalist, not a mistress! But when rumors spread, Allison is more shocked by her wanton reaction to Aleksei—inscrutable and impossibly handsome, his icy blue eyes promise white-hot nights of sin. She knows too well how fragile her reputation is, but will the price of their passion be worth paying?
“Readers will be seduced by the passionate natures of the protagonists, and the fast-paced, thrilling adventure.”
—RT Book Reviews on The Harlot and the Sheikh
“Fairytales do come true... There is plenty of action and adventure to captivate all readers.”
—RT Book Reviews on Sheikh’s Mail-Order Bride
Matches Made in Scandal miniseries
Book 1—From Governess to Countess
Book 2—From Courtesan to Convenient Wife—coming soon
MARGUERITE KAYE writes hot historical romances from her home in cold and usually rainy Scotland, featuring Regency rakes, Highlanders and sheikhs. She has published almost fifty books and novellas. When she’s not writing she enjoys walking, cycling—but only on the level—gardening—but only what she can eat—and cooking. She also likes to knit and occasionally drink martinis—though not at the same time. Find out more on her website: margueritekaye.com (http://www.margueritekaye.com).
Also by Marguerite Kaye
Scandal at the Midsummer BallScandal at the Christmas Ball
Comrades in Arms miniseries
The Soldier’s Dark SecretThe Soldier’s Rebel Lover
Hot Arabian Nights miniseries
The Widow and the Sheikh
Sheikh’s Mail-Order Bride
The Harlot and the Sheikh
Claiming His Desert Princess
Matches Made in Scandal miniseries
From Governess to Countess
And look out for the next book
From Courtesan to Convenient Wife Available April 2018
Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk).
From Governess to Countess
Marguerite Kaye


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ISBN: 978-1-474-07347-9
FROM GOVERNESS TO COUNTESS
© 2018 Marguerite Kaye
Published in Great Britain 2018
by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF
All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.
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www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
For my cousin Allison Rankin, who requested that her namesake be a feisty heroine with red hair. Be careful what you wish for!
This is also for Alison Lyndsay and Alison Lodge, heroines in their own right. A huge thank-you for your generosity and support, in terms of research and book recommendations, and most of all for your friendship.
Contents
Cover (#u6f26d54a-357c-5409-a45b-ef7f935f7653)
Back Cover Text (#u59f101f8-0b08-54a2-bfdf-2e2f042ad7b1)
About the Author (#uf3216893-d35a-5109-9c79-047e7a117dac)
Booklist (#u8603f4e0-1d1d-5fb6-a5b3-7b81786de2fc)
Title Page (#uf23efd30-0a24-56e4-874d-416236fff439)
Copyright (#u0c17f33d-5a4d-5836-9590-a50ae81f0299)
Dedication (#ud965ac01-4135-56da-911f-55fe9b852ea8)
Prologue (#u04652d18-1b87-5ebe-9122-a8830c072fe7)
Chapter One (#uc2bb9c45-8d07-5316-9537-79bdb2f6f230)
Chapter Two (#ua9c4c491-e4b5-589a-a7ce-f1ba73cb8e9c)
Chapter Three (#u525fade6-09ef-574f-9e96-46cedfc85192)
Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Historical Note (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Prologue (#u8389316a-1f91-5eb2-8398-0769950bc358)
Hampstead, near London—summer 1815
The village of Hampstead enjoyed an enviable location on the fringes of the capital. Though its popularity as a spa retreat had declined somewhat, the fresh, clean air and its proximity to London had encouraged a number of well-heeled new residents to settle there. Passing through fruit farms and dairies on her journey from the city, the woman known only by her enigmatic epithet The Procurer had enjoyed the rustic charm and tranquil atmosphere of her surroundings, a stark contrast to the hustle and bustle of London where she plied her clandestine trade. Reining in her greys, she brought her phaeton to a halt before summoning a small boy standing idly nearby. She handed him the reins and proffered a sixpence. ‘I am looking for a Miss Galbraith.’
The child’s eyes widened, though he accepted both the reins and the coin. ‘Me mam says she’s one as don’t want to be found,’ he answered in a hushed voice. ‘She don’t answer the door to no one.’
The Procurer’s face tightened at this tangible evidence of the woman’s fall from grace. If it was at all possible, she was determined to provide this most deserving of cases with the means to redeem herself. No one deserved to be vilified by the gutter press in the manner she had been. Provided, of course, Miss Galbraith was a satisfactory match for her client’s requirements. The Procurer approved of altruism but drew the line at charity. ‘Then it is as well that I am someone,’ she said crisply to the boy. ‘Rest assured, she will answer the door to me. Now, point me in the direction of her abode, and no more of your lip.’
The cottage was located at the end of a row on the far edge of the village. It had a sunny, south-facing garden, but it was sadly neglected and overgrown with weeds. Though the street appeared deserted, The Procurer had the distinct impression that behind the curtained windows of the other cottages, the occupants were watching intently. As she picked her way up the little path to the front door, the contented buzzing of bees collecting pollen from the thicket of wild roses filled the air.
The cottage looked for all the world as if it was uninhabited. The windows were tightly shuttered. The shape of the door knocker was outlined by the bleached paint, but the mechanism itself had been removed. The Procurer rapped sharply with her knuckles.
‘Please go away, I do not receive or welcome visitors,’ a voice from behind the door urged.
‘That is disappointing to hear, since I have travelled from London to discuss a matter of great import with you.’
‘Then I’m afraid you have had a wasted journey. Whoever you are, and whatever it is you want, I cannot help you.’
‘You mistake my purpose. It is I who have come to help you. But I cannot do that if I am to be left standing on your doorstep. Will you not invite me in and at least hear me out? I am acquainted with your recent history and understand your natural suspiciousness, Miss Galbraith, but I bear you no ill will, I assure you.’
There was no immediate response but The Procurer’s patience was rewarded about thirty seconds later when the door opened just enough for her to slip inside before it slammed shut again.
The woman who stared back at her in confusion bore a clear resemblance to her many newspaper caricatures, though her expression was wary, rather than evil. Her distinctive bright copper hair was tied in a simple chignon, not tumbling wantonly over her shoulders as it was customarily depicted in the press. Her chin was determined, but her mouth was soft and full. Of petite stature, she looked to The Procurer to be twenty-five or six, though she had, according to the gutter press, turned thirty. There were shadows under her big hazel eyes flecked with gold, her skin had the dull, lacklustre look of someone who had been hiding from plain view, skulking in the shadows. ‘Do not look so afraid, Miss Galbraith,’ she said, ‘I truly have come here to help you.’
‘I am sure you mean well, but you are mistaken. No one can help me.’
‘Not if you are determined to let Dr Anthony Merchmont and his medical cronies destroy not only your reputation as London’s pre-eminent herbalist, but your entire life.’
Allison Galbraith’s eyes flashed with anger at this barb. An encouraging sign, The Procurer decided.
‘As you have pointed out, my reputation is already in tatters.’
‘Very true,’ The Procurer conceded. ‘However, six months have elapsed,’ she continued briskly. ‘Time to embrace a new challenge. I can offer you rehabilitation.’
‘Impossible.’ Miss Galbraith’s voice was resigned. ‘Look, I have no idea who you are, but...’
‘I am known, rather fancifully in my opinion, as The Procurer. You may have heard mention of me.’
The revelation was met by a surprised widening of the eyes, a mouth curved into the faintest of smiles. ‘All of London has heard tell of The Procurer, though few have ever encountered you in the flesh. I was not aware you were a fellow Scot. I certainly did not expect—’ Miss Galbraith broke off, blushing. ‘You are so young and nothing like...’
‘The person my reputation would suggest? Then we have that much in common, do we not?’
A dejected little laugh greeted this remark. ‘We might, if I still had a reputation. Your position in society is quite unassailable, while I...’
‘You are a social pariah.’
A harsher laugh greeted this remark. ‘You certainly do not mince your words.’
‘In my business, straight talking is essential.’
‘Then I will reply in a similar vein, madam. I cannot for the life of me comprehend why you should wish to help me.’
‘I know what it is like, Miss Galbraith, to be a woman in a man’s world. To succeed as you did—and as I have—requires an uncommon level of determination and ambition. The sacrifices you have made, the hurdles you have overcome, would have defeated a lesser character.’
‘But not you?’
The remark was intended to be flattering, but provoked a different reaction. ‘I have succeeded on my own terms, but at considerable cost,’ The Procurer said, as much a reminder to herself as a boast. She would not permit herself to wonder whether the sacrifices had been worth it. ‘It is not simply a matter of character, Miss Galbraith. I am in control of my own destiny and answerable to no one, that is true, but it was not always so.’
‘In that sense we differ greatly, madam,’ Miss Galbraith replied wryly, ‘for even at the height of my success, I was beholden to society.’
‘And society chose to condemn you. Now you are choosing to abide by that judgement. Do you agree with it, Miss Galbraith? Or do you think you deserve a second chance?’
‘Is that what you are offering?’
‘I am offering you the opportunity to fashion a second chance for yourself. What you make of it is very much up to you.’
‘Why me?’
The Procurer smiled faintly. ‘We are kindred spirits in more ways than you can know. You are also, as you pointed out, a fellow countrywoman and we Scots must stick together.’
‘Forgive me, but since we are speaking plainly, you do not know me. I cannot believe your motives are entirely philanthropic.’
The Procurer nodded with satisfaction. ‘There, you see, we do understand one another. We are both, in our way, hard-headed businesswomen. As such, you will not be offended, I am sure, if I tell you that I have carried out extensive diligence on you to my satisfaction. I have a business proposition for you, Miss Galbraith, which will be mutually beneficial, as all the best contracts are. Now, shall we make ourselves more comfortable, and I will explain all.’
* * *
Allison spooned camomile leaves into the china teapot and set it down on the table beside the cups and saucers before taking her seat opposite her unexpected and uninvited guest.
‘You were exceedingly difficult to track down,’ The Procurer said, looking perfectly at home, ‘though I can understand your desire to avoid the unwelcome glare of publicity.’
‘Notoriety would be a more apt description. In another few months I will be old news, and the world will find a new scandal, another cause célèbre to salivate over.’
‘Is that what you are hoping for?’
Resentment flared as Allison met her visitor’s challenging look. What could this elegant, haughtily beautiful woman with her flawless complexion, her black-as-night hair and her tall willowy frame, clad in the kind of understated carriage dress that screamed affluence, truly know about shattered dreams, about ravening guilt, about endless, sleepless nights going over and over and over those vital hours and asking, What if? Could I have done something different? Should I have done something different? Would it have made any difference if I had?
‘If you mean, do I think I will be able to re-establish myself, then the answer is no.’
‘So what, precisely, are your aspirations? To avenge yourself on the man who has engineered your spectacular fall from grace, perhaps?’
Allison took her time pouring the tea. There was something about The Procurer’s clear, steady gaze, that made her feel as if the woman could read her innermost thoughts. Even those she didn’t choose to admit to herself. ‘I have no aspirations at all,’ she said, ‘save to be left in peace.’
If she expected compassion, she was destined to be disappointed. ‘If you really mean that,’ The Procurer answered, ‘then I am wasting my time.’
‘As I have already informed you.’
‘But you don’t mean it, do you?’ The Procurer took a sip of the fragrant tea. ‘You are angry, and with just cause, for you have been made a scapegoat, your livelihood stolen, your reputation left in tatters. You have been the subject of lurid headlines, both libellous and slanderous and, I hasten to add, patently false. That is punishment out of all proportion to your alleged crime, if indeed you are culpable?’
Allison’s hands curled into fists, but she could not stop the tears from welling. ‘I committed no crime,’ she said tightly. ‘But to speak in the plain terms you prefer, I will tell you that I cannot be certain I was entirely blameless.’
She was trembling now. The memory of that night, her role in the events that unfolded, however significant or not that role might have been, threatened to overwhelm her. She screwed her eyes shut, opening them only on feeling the fleeting, comforting touch of The Procurer’s hand on hers. ‘How can I not blame myself?’ Allison demanded wretchedly, for the first time, and to this complete stranger, allowing herself to utter the words. ‘I did not believe, did not question—until he did. And now I will never be certain that I was not culpable in some way.’
‘No, but you can ask yourself, Miss Galbraith, what are the odds? Have you ever before miscalculated so badly or made such a catastrophic mistake?’
‘Never! Nature has defeated me on occasion, but I have never precipitated such a tragic outcome.’
‘And yet you meekly accepted the verdict and the punishment as if you had.’
‘Yes, I did, and now it is far too late to contradict it, even if I wanted to.’ Allison thumped her fist on the table, making the teacups shake in their saucers. ‘The medical profession in our country...’
‘...is a cabal of exclusively male-vested interests, whether it be doctors, surgeons, or apothecaries. There are midwives, granted, but even the most skilled do not carry any real authority. You, on the other hand, had gained a real foothold in society as a gifted herbalist. You were a successful woman, Miss Galbraith, a real alternative to accepted medical practice and as such, a threat to the old guard, as the systematic defamation of your character has demonstrated.’
‘Yet no one, not a single one of my former patients, has spoken out in my defence.’
‘They too must accept the rules of society, the world they inhabit. Has it occurred to you, Miss Galbraith, that your refusal to practise once that tragic event became public confirmed your guilt?’
‘It certainly confirmed what I should never have lost sight of,’ Allison said bitterly. ‘I am an outsider. Despite all my efforts to conform to their standards, they had no hesitation in stabbing me in the back. I am not, and never will be one of them. They would have found another excuse to point the finger at me sooner or later.’
‘So you have chosen to surrender, to grant them their victory?’
Under The Procurer’s steady gaze, Allison bit back her instinctive denial, and contented herself with a shrug.
‘Guilty, innocent or plain negligent, you have spent the last six months in hiding, sitting on your hands,’ The Procurer continued. ‘It is not Anthony Merchmont who is preventing you treating patients, is it, Miss Galbraith? Do you not miss your vocation?’
‘More than I could ever have imagined,’ Allison replied instantly. ‘It means everything to me, to heal pain, to help...’ She stopped short, fighting for control. ‘Do you know the worst thing, madam? They destroyed more than my reputation, they destroyed my confidence.’
‘Doubting yourself is a perfectly natural consequence of what you have been through, but I speak from experience when I counsel you to overcome that fear, lest it destroy you.’ A shadow clouded The Procurer’s eyes, though it was quickly banished. ‘If I were to provide you with an opportunity to utilise your specialist knowledge and experience, would you grasp it?’
‘It is not possible,’ Allison said automatically, though she was already wondering if it was, for The Procurer’s calm, matter-of-fact logic had roused her crushed spirit to push aside its suffocating blanket of bitterness and regret.
‘My reputation, Miss Galbraith, has been forged by making the impossible possible. Whether you give me the opportunity to prove that to be well founded is entirely dependent on you.’
‘But I can’t. You said it yourself, I am a social pariah. No one in London...’
‘The position I require to be filled is not based in London.’
‘Oh.’ Oddly, it had not occurred to her to consider a change of location from the city in which she had worked so hard to establish herself. But it made sense, if she was considering emerging from her hibernation. And that was an apt word. She felt as if she had been sleeping, or living through a nightmare. Was it over? ‘Where, then?’ Allison asked.
The woman smiled very faintly in acknowledgement of this progress. ‘All in good time. You must understand, this is no ordinary contract of employment that I offer you.’
Extraordinary. Allison’s grandmother had always told her that was what she should aspire to be. Ordinary, Seanmhair always said, was for life’s passengers. Would her grandmother expect her to grasp at this straw? The answer was a resounding yes, but did she possess the courage to do so? The answer to that was suddenly both clear and unambiguous.
‘I flatter myself,’ Allison said, ‘that I have demonstrated myself capable of the extraordinary. As you pointed out, I have succeeded against the odds.’
‘I take it then, that you are willing to consider my proposal?’
It took Allison a few moments to recognise the fluttering in her belly. Not fear, but anticipation. She had not dared allow herself to hope, but suddenly here was hope, and—oh, good heavens—she wanted it so much.
‘Well?’ The Procurer raised one perfectly arched brow.
‘Yes.’ The relief was almost overwhelming. ‘Yes,’ Allison repeated more firmly. ‘Just tell me what it is you require me to do.’
But for several long agonising moments The Procurer said nothing, studying her closely through heavy-lidded eyes, as if she were a specimen in a laboratory. Allison held the woman’s gaze, clasping her hands tightly in her lap to stop herself squirming. The woman’s smile was slow to dawn, but when it came, it would be no exaggeration, Allison thought, to liken it to the sun coming out.
‘A very wise decision on your part and on mine too, I believe. You will do very well for the vacancy I have been asked to fulfil. Now, to business,’ The Procurer said briskly. ‘Before I disclose the nature of your appointment, I must apprise you of a few non-negotiable ground rules. I will guarantee you complete anonymity. My client has no right to know your personal history other than that which is pertinent to the assignment or which you choose yourself to divulge. In return, you will give him your complete loyalty. We will discuss your terms shortly, but you must know that you will be paid only upon successful completion of your assignment. Half-measures will not be tolerated. If you leave before the task is completed, you will return to England without remuneration.’
‘Return to England?’ Allison repeated, somewhat dazed. ‘You require me to travel abroad?’
‘All in good time. Do you understand me, Miss Galbraith? This conversation, the details which I am about to unveil, are given in complete confidence. Unless I can guarantee my discretion to my clients—’
‘I understand you very well, madam,’ Allison interrupted. ‘Discretion is—was—intrinsic to my calling too.’
‘Another trait we have in common, then. Do I have your word?’
Allison startled the pair of them with a peal of laughter. ‘Madam, you have ignited the flame of hope I thought was quite extinguished. You have my word of honour, and you can have it signed in blood if you wish it. Now please, tell me, where is it I am to go, and who is this mysterious client of yours?’
Chapter One (#u8389316a-1f91-5eb2-8398-0769950bc358)
St Petersburg—six weeks later
The voyage across the North Sea to the Baltic coast had been both speedy and surprisingly comfortable. Standing on the deck of the ship as they docked at the port on the delta of the Neva River, Allison wondered if The Procurer had, amongst other things, arranged for the winds to consistently blow in the most advantageous direction, and instructed the sun to welcome her arrival. It beamed down from the cobalt-blue sky, making the majestic buildings which fronted the river glitter as if studded with jewels.
Allison had been prepared, by several enthusiastic fellow travellers, for the grandeur of St Petersburg, but the city known as the Venice of the North by dint of having been constructed from thirty-three islands, was, in reality, infinitely more beautiful than she could have envisioned. She gazed around her, quite dazzled by grand frontages in pastel colours, huge pillars supporting imposing porticoes, golden domes soaring into the sky, and as the Neva River wended its way into the heart of the city, a vista of bridge after bridge spanning its banks.
A flotilla of small boats bobbed on the azure-blue waters. Stevedores called to each other in what she assumed was Russian, the words like no others she had ever heard, and Allison began to panic. The Procurer had assured her that French and English were the languages used by the aristocracy and their entourages with whom she would be mingling, but what if The Procurer was mistaken? What if this was an elaborate trap? What if The Procurer was in actual fact a procuress? What if she had been brought here under false pretences, to serve not as a...
‘Miss Galbraith?’ The man made a bow. Just in time, she noticed he wore a royal blue-and-gold livery, and spared herself the embarrassment of addressing him as her new employer.
‘I am come to escort you to the Derevenko Palace,’ the servant said, speaking just as The Procurer had promised, in perfect, if heavily accented, English. ‘I have a carriage waiting to take you there.’
Allison picked up her travelling herb chest by the brass handles, staggering under its weight, but waving the servant away when he made to take it from her. ‘No, I prefer to keep this with me, the contents are extremely precious. The rest of my baggage...’
‘All necessary arrangements have been made. The journey is a brief one. If you will follow me?’
She did as he bid, swaying a little as her feet adjusted to the solid ground beneath, coming to an abrupt, awed halt in front of the transport which awaited her. The carriage was duck-egg blue elaborately trimmed with gold, a coat of arms emblazoned on the doors. Another servant in the same livery sat on the boxed seat, holding the reins of two perfectly matched white horses. Inside, the plush squabs were the same royal-blue velvet as the groom’s livery, the floor covered in furs.
Peering through the large window as they trundled into motion, Allison observed that they turned immediately inland, following a road alongside a canal. The waters sparkled. The grand houses glittered. The sun shone. Everything looked so very perfect, so very beautiful, so very, very foreign and strange. A bridge spanned a small river not straight enough to be a canal, and the carriage followed the embankment for a short distance, passing ever more majestic mansions, before slowly drawing to a halt.
The groom opened the door and folded down the step. ‘Welcome to the Derevenko Palace, Miss Galbraith.’
It was indeed a palace. The edifice faced out over the river, on the other side of which was a vast expanse of open ground where what looked like a cathedral was under construction. Her first impression of the Derevenko Palace was that it reminded her of Somerset House on the Strand, neo-classical in style, three storeys high, with two wings stretching from the central portico, terminating in two smaller pedimented wings set at right angles, the shallow roof partially hidden by a carved balustrade. Above the central section, which was constructed almost like a square tower, a massive eagle-like stone bird was perched, gazing imperiously down its vicious curved beak at the shallow, sweeping staircase, and on Allison, who stood in trepidation on the bottom step. She shivered, thoroughly intimidated and battling the urge to turn tail and flee.
And where did she think she would go? Back on to the ship, back to the reclusive life she had been so delighted to leave behind?
Absolutely not! This was her second chance. She would not fail the woman who had presented her with it. More importantly, she would not fail herself. Not this time. Reluctantly handing her herb chest over to the groom, Allison straightened her shoulders, gathered up the folds of her travelling cloak and followed the manservant inside.
* * *
The interior made the façade of Derevenko Palace seem almost plain. A long strip of rich blue-and-gold carpet covered a floor of silver-and-pink stone laid in a herringbone pattern, which glittered under the glow of a magnificent chandelier. The carpet continued straight through a small entrance hall into another, bigger reception hall where two huge bronze lamps lit with a halo of candles flanked a sweep of enclosed stairs. Allison had a fleeting impression of immensely high and ornately corniced ceilings, before she was led up three flights of stairs to a half-landing, which then opened out into two stairways with elaborate bronze-gilt balustrades which in turn led to a massive atrium lit from above by light pouring through a central glass dome.
The servant paused in front of a set of double doors elaborately inlaid with ivory, mother of pearl and copper. He straightened his already perfectly straight jacket, and knocked softly before throwing the doors open. ‘Miss Galbraith, Your Illustrious Highness,’ he declared, waiting only until Allison edged her way into the room before exiting.
Your Illustrious Highness? Allison was expecting to meet a minor member of the aristocracy. She must surely be in the wrong room. Sinking into a low curtsy, she saw her own surprise reflected in the man’s demeanour. He had turned as the servant announced her, but took only one step towards her before coming to an abrupt halt. From her position, on legs still adjusting to being back on land, precariously close to toppling over, he looked ridiculously tall. Black leather boots, highly polished, stopped just above the knee, where a pair of dark-blue pantaloons clung to a pair of long, muscular legs. Which began to move towards her.
‘Surely there is some mistake?’ the imposing figure said. His voice had a low timbre, his English accent soft and pleasing to the ear.
‘I think there must be, your—your Illustrious Highness,’ Allison mumbled. She looked up, past the skirts of his coat, which was fastened with a row of polished silver buttons across an impressive span of chest. The coat was braided with scarlet. A pair of epaulettes adorned a pair of very broad shoulders. Not court dress, but a uniform. A military man.
‘Madam?’ The hand extended was tanned, and though the nails were clean and neatly trimmed, the skin was much scarred and calloused. ‘There really is no need to abase yourself as if I were royalty.’
His tone carried just a trace of amusement. He was not exactly an Adonis, there was nothing of the cupid in that mouth, which was too wide, the top lip too thin, the bottom too full. This man looked like a sculpture, with high Slavic cheekbones, a very determined chin, and an even more determined nose. Close-cropped dark-blond hair, darker brows. And his eyes. A deep Arctic blue, the blue of the Baltic Sea. Despite his extremely attractive exterior, there was something in those eyes that made Allison very certain she would not want to get on the wrong side of him. Whoever he was.
Belatedly, she realised she was still poised in her curtsy, and her knees were protesting. Rising shakily, refusing the extended hand, she tried to collect herself. ‘My name is Miss Allison Galbraith and I have travelled here from England at the request of Count Aleksei Derevenko to take up the appointment of governess.’
His brows shot up and he muttered something under his breath. Clearly flustered, he ran his hand through his hair, before shaking his head. ‘You are not what I was expecting. You do not look at all like a governess, and you most certainly don’t look like a herbalist.’
Allison, dressed in the most sombre of her consulting attire beneath her travelling cloak, bristled. ‘Ah, you were expecting a crone!’
‘A wizened one with a hairy chin,’ he said, with a smile that managed to be both apologetic and unrepentant.
‘I’m sorry to disappoint you on both counts,’ Allison replied, finding it surprisingly hard not to be charmed.
His smile broadened. ‘I find your appearance surprising, but far from disappointing. In my defence, I should tell you that I have very little experience on which to base my assumptions. I’ve never hired a governess until now and I’ve never before required a herbalist’s services. Forgive me, I am being remiss. I am Count Aleksei Derevenko,’ he said, making a brief bow. ‘How do you do, Miss Galbraith?’
Hers was not the only appearance to evoke surprise. This man did not look remotely like the father of three children in poor health and in need of English lessons. Portly, middle-aged, whiskered, red of face, bulbous of nose, is how she would have pictured such a man if she was in the habit of making sweeping assumptions. He would not have long, muscled legs that so perfectly filled those ridiculously tight breeches as to leave almost nothing to the imagination. He most certainly would not have the kind of mouth that made a woman’s thoughts turn to kissing. Or those eyes. Such a perfect, startling blue. Why couldn’t they have been watery or better still, bloodshot? And why, for heaven’s sake, was she thinking about him in such a manner in the first place?
‘I am not at all sure how I do, to be perfectly honest,’ Allison replied, inordinately flustered.
To her surprise, he laughed. ‘No more do I. It seems we have both confounded expectations. It is to be hoped that the person who brokered our temporary alliance knows her business. Let us sit and take some tea. We have a great deal to discuss.’
* * *
Aleksei ushered the Englishwoman to the far end of the reception room where the tea things had been set out on a low table, the samovar hissing steam from its perch on the woodchips. Solid silver, enamelled with white, blue and gold flowers, the delicate cups a matching pattern, the service was, like everything in this huge palace, designed to demonstrate the Derevenko dynasty’s wealth and lofty status. He had forgotten just how important appearances were, here in St Petersburg. No other European court—and on his travels, he’d been obliged to attend many—was as status conscious or such a hotbed of intrigue and ever-shifting alliances. No wonder that the woman now sitting opposite him on one of those ridiculously flimsy and uncomfortable little chairs had mistaken him for a prince, hearing that preposterous epithet. His Illustrious Highness, indeed.
She was clearly nervous, though she was trying not to show it, compulsively smoothing her gloves out on her lap. He still couldn’t quite believe that this was the woman The Procurer had promised him would be the answer to his urgent plea, that this was the woman whose arrival would signal the end of his agonising enforced spell of inactivity and allow him, finally, to begin his search to uncover the truth.
It struck him uncomfortably, as he looked at her, that the problem with this particular woman was not that she didn’t look like his preconceived notions of either a herbalist or a governess, but that she looked like his starved body’s idea of the perfect woman to take to his bed. Her hair was the colour of fire. No, that was too obvious. It was the cover of leaves on the turn, of glossy chestnuts, of the sky as the sun sank. She was not conventionally beautiful, there was nothing of the demure English rose, so universally admired, about her. She was something wilder, untamed. Her skin seemed to glow with vitality, her figure was not willowy but voluptuous. She had a mouth that made a man think of all the places he would like those lips to touch. And then there were her eyes—what colour were they? Brown? Gold? Both? Was it her heavy lids that made him think of tumbled sheets and morning sunshine dappling her delightfully naked rump?
Aleksei cursed under his breath. Since Napoleon’s escape from Elba, followed by Waterloo, and the formal mourning period he had just completed here in St Petersburg, he had been deprived of all female company, but this was most definitely not the time and place to be having such thoughts. Allison Galbraith was not here to satisfy his inconveniently awakening desires. He should be contemplating her suitability for the task, not her body. Though he could not deny that her body was one that he’d very much like to contemplate.
Would anyone believe her a credible replacement for Anna Orlova the previous, long-serving governess? A paragon, if the servants were to be believed, utterly reliable, and much loved by the children. Whether or not she returned that affection, Aleksei had no idea, since Anna Orlova had abandoned her charges and fled the Derevenko Palace long before he had had a chance to set eyes upon her.
He picked up the teapot which sat on top of the samovar, only to drop it with a muted curse as the heated silver handle scalded his palm. Covering the handle with the embroidered linen cloth designed for that very purpose, he saw that Miss Galbraith was staring at the urn with a puzzled look. ‘You are not familiar with the ceremonial Russian tea ritual?’ Happy to buy himself time to regather his thoughts, when she shook her head Aleksei concentrated on the performance. ‘This is the zavarka, the black tea, which we brew for at least fifteen minutes, unlike you English, who barely allow the leaves to kiss the hot water before you pour.’ Kiss? An unfortunate choice of verb. Touch, then? No, that was even worse!
He concentrated on pouring a small amount of zavarka into her cup, a larger, stronger amount into his own. The samovar hissed, reminding him that he had not completed the tea-making ceremony. ‘This is kipyatok,’ he said, ‘which is simply another word for boiling water. Would you like a slice of lemon, some sugar?’
‘Is that permitted?’
‘It is not traditional, but I have both available if you wish. Our tea is something of an acquired taste.’
‘I will take it as it is meant to be served. When in Russia, as they say.’ Miss Galbraith picked up her cup and took a tentative sip.
She did not quite spit it out, but her screwed-up little nose and her watering eyes told their own tale. Biting back a smile, Aleksei held out the sugar bowl.
Using the tongs, she dropped three cubes of sugar into the tiny cup. ‘I hope you don’t think I’m being impertinent, but may I enquire why your wife is not here to greet me? I assume it is from her that I will take my instructions?’
‘Her absence is easily explained. I’m not, and never have been married.’
‘Oh.’ Miss Galbraith coloured. ‘I see,’ she said, looking like someone who did not see at all.
‘The children are not mine,’ Aleksei explained, ‘they are my brother’s.’
She frowned. ‘Then may I ask why you are—why I am not having this discussion with your brother and his wife?’
‘Because they are both dead.’ Drinking his own, thick black tea, a soldier’s brew, from the ducal cup in one gulp, Aleksei registered the widening of her eyes, and realised belatedly how stark this statement sounded. ‘Michael and Elizaveta died in May this year, within a few days of each other.’
Which attempt at tempering the shock made things worse. Miss Galbraith blanched. ‘How awful. I am so terribly sorry.’
‘Yes.’ Aleksei curbed his impatience. It was awful, but he’d had almost four months to accustom himself to it. ‘However, the formal mourning period is now over.’ Did that sound callous? ‘My brother and I were not particularly close.’ Even worse? Best to just get on with the matter in hand. ‘It is the consequences of his death which concern me, Miss Galbraith, and that is the reason you are here.’
‘Consequences?’
Though he was relieved to be back on track, Aleksei found himself in a quandary. It was already clear that the distractingly luscious Miss Galbraith had been only partially briefed by The Procurer woman. Her reputation for complete discretion was well founded, thank the stars, which meant he had the luxury of not having to launch into a full exposition of what he euphemistically referred to as consequences to a complete stranger just off the boat. But precisely how much to tell her?
Aleksei decided to proceed with caution. ‘Michael bequeathed me the guardianship of his offspring in his will—I have no idea why, for he did not consult me on the matter. I am, as my brother knew perfectly well, as unsuitable a guardian for his children as it’s possible to imagine, and have no intentions of continuing in the post once I can secure a more suitable candidate. At which point, Miss Galbraith, your duties will come to an end.’
‘Oh. Then my appointment as governess—you envisage it being of very short duration?’
‘I sincerely hope so. What I mean,’ Aleksei continued, noting her slightly startled expression, ‘is that I hope my appointment will be of short duration. Four months ago, when I received word of Michael’s death, I was preparing to do battle with Napoleon’s army. Having done my duty by my country and my men at Waterloo, I was obliged to return immediately to St Petersburg to take up my new, unasked-for duties. As you have no doubt surmised, I did not take kindly to having been bounced from battle to babysitting without a moment to catch my breath.’
‘Though Napoleon’s defeat has made it unlikely that you’ll have to fight any battles any time soon, has it not? Now that Europe is at peace you can surely be more easily spared to devote yourself to your new duties.’
Aleksei blinked at this unexpected riposte. Miss Galbraith, it seemed, had recovered her composure, and inadvertently unsettled his by pointing out a truth which had not occurred to him and which he had absolutely no desire to contemplate. ‘I am a soldier, have always been a soldier, and have no wish to be anything other than a soldier. Peace has certainly granted me the freedom to fulfil the obligations my brother forced upon me, but that does not mean I wish to spend the rest of the foreseeable future acting in loco parentis.’
‘I see.’
She did not. She thought him callous. Aleksei bristled. He did not need to justify himself to her. ‘The children will be far better off in the care of a guardian who understands the workings of the court, and how best to raise them to take their place in it.’
‘To be perfectly frank, I know nothing of royal courts and their etiquettes. I hope you were not expecting...’
‘You need not concern yourself about that. Apart from anything else, the children are too young, though Catiche...’
‘Catiche? I’m sorry, but I know only that there are two girls and a boy, I have no idea of their names and ages.’
‘That, I am pleased to tell you, I can easily remedy,’ Aleksei said. ‘Catiche—that is Catherine—is thirteen. Elena is ten. Nikki, my brother’s heir, is four. You will make their acquaintance the day after tomorrow. When I had word that your ship had docked this morning, I packed them off to stay with friends for a couple of nights, to allow you time to settle into your new surroundings.’
‘Thank you, that was thoughtful. May I ask how the little ones have coped with the loss of their parents? They must have been devastated.’
‘They seem perfectly well to me,’ Aleksei replied, frowning, ‘though my time is so taken up with my brother’s man of business that I see very little of them which, assuming they are being raised as my brother and I were, is no change to the status quo. They have a nanny, a peasant woman as is the tradition, who has cared for them since they were in the nursery. If they were devastated by anything, it’s more likely to have been the loss of Madame Orlova, their governess of some years’ standing.’
‘Loss? Good gracious, don’t tell me that she too perished? Was there some sort outbreak in the palace, a plague of some sort?’
‘No, no—you misunderstand. Madame Orlova left her post somewhat abruptly the day before my brother died.’
Miss Galbraith said something under her breath in a language he did not recognise. ‘Those poor little mites. What appalling timing. What prompted her to leave?’
‘I have absolutely no idea and nor have I been able to discover a single person in the army of servants here who does. I’ve tried to locate her, but if she’s in St Petersburg then she’s very well hidden, and I’ve been unable to widen my search since I am loath to leave the children for any sustained period without proper supervision. Now you are here, I intend to make tracking her down a priority.’
‘You intend to reunite her with her charges?’
Aleksei hesitated, reluctant to blatantly lie. ‘I must establish why she left in such haste before deciding anything.’ That much was true enough.
‘I don’t know why it didn’t occur to me before, but while I was assured that both English and French are widely spoken in polite society here, I didn’t ask specifically about the children. Obviously I speak no Russian.’
‘There will be no need for you to do so. The children will have picked up Russian from their nanny as we all did, but they have been taking French and English lessons from Madame Orlova from a very young age, so you need not fear you will be unable to make yourself understood.’ Indeed, Aleksei thought, Catiche’s fluency was such as to render any English tutoring virtually redundant. No matter, by the time Miss Galbraith discovered this for herself, he’d have explained the true reason for her presence here.
Which he most decidedly did not wish to do just yet. It was time to conclude this most extraordinary conversation. Miss Galbraith had already demonstrated that she had a sharp mind. It would not be long before she asked him why the devil he had not found someone closer to home to perform what must seem to be a fairly straightforward task, and he wasn’t ready to answer that question just yet. Not until he’d made sure that St Petersburg society, that hotbed of scandal and intrigue, took Miss Galbraith, English governess, at face value and did not question her presence in the palace.
Aleksei had intended to introduce her at a soirée or a small party. There was, in the euphoric aftermath of victory at Waterloo, no shortage of social events to choose from. As it so happened, this very night a much grander affair was taking place. It would be a baptism of fire, but he was confident that she would emerge unscathed. It wasn’t only the guarantees he’d received from The Procurer—though they certainly helped. No, it was Miss Allison Galbraith herself. She was confident—once she had got the better of her quite understandable early nervousness. She was without question clever. And feisty, a woman whose fiery temperament matched her red hair. He reckoned she would fight her corner, so he’d better make sure they were in the same corner. And as for her other qualities? Irrelevant. Absolutely, completely, ravishingly irrelevant.
But also, without question, an absolutely completely, delightful bonus. A most unwelcome distraction from the task in hand undoubtedly, but from a personal point of view a very welcome one. For the first time since he had read that life-changing letter from Michael’s man of business, he felt his spirits lift. ‘If you have finished your tea, I will have a servant show you to your quarters. You have...’ Aleksei consulted his watch. ‘...three hours to prepare.’
She stared at him blankly. ‘To prepare for what?’
‘Your introduction to society,’ he informed her blithely. ‘I did not expect The Procurer to send me a sultry redhead, but your appearance could actually work in our favour. By tomorrow morning, all of St Petersburg will know that there is a new English governess at the Derevenko Palace.’
Chapter Two (#u8389316a-1f91-5eb2-8398-0769950bc358)
Four hours later, Allison found herself standing in the foyer of the Winter Palace, the official home of the Russian royal family. Her hand was resting lightly on the arm of a disturbingly attractive man she had met for the first time today. And she was wearing a dead woman’s ball gown. Not, the maid Natalya had hastened to assure her, that the Duchess Elizaveta had ever worn the garment, it was one of many gowns the Duchess had owned but never worn. All the same, were it not for the fact that she possessed only one evening gown, and that not at all suitable for a ball at a royal palace, Allison would have refused to have worn it. It felt both inappropriate and slightly macabre.
She had had no option, however, and though she selected the very plainest of those offered to her, the luxurious garment was outrageously glamorous and utterly unlike anything she would ever have chosen to purchase. White silk with an overdress of creamy net, the evening dress was embellished with tiny gold-thread flowers, a seed pearl at the centre of each. There was a demi-train, the puff sleeves and the surprisingly modest décolleté were trimmed with scalloped lace, and a narrow sash of gold ribbon was tied just under her bust, in the style made popular by the Empress Josephine. The layers of satin-and-lace petticoats made a faint rustling noise when she moved, like fronds swaying in the breeze. For long moments, staring at her reflection in the mirror earlier, Allison had been quite transported by the idea of gliding round a ballroom in such a very beautiful garment. Beautiful but absurdly complicated, mind you. She’d had to fight the urge to ask Natalya for donning instructions.
Hooking the last of what seemed to be about a hundred tiny buttons, the maid had brought Allison firmly down to earth. ‘This is a very simple gown in which to attend the Winter Palace, but since the Emperor will not be in attendance, then it will suffice. Do you have no other jewels, madam, other than one locket?’
A disapproving purse of the lips was the response to Allison’s shaking her head. She had looked similarly disapproving at the dullness of Allison’s wardrobe when she had unpacked her luggage. ‘Perhaps madam intends to shop in St Petersburg,’ she had said. And when Allison had answered that she doubted she’d have need to, Natalya had looked positively shocked. ‘With mourning over, the children will be expected to attend any number of functions,’ she had said. ‘Catiche is old enough to make her debut appearance at the children’s balls, and you will be expected to accompany her.’
Children’s dances, for heaven’s sake! What other duties would she be expected to carry out? But with this very adult ball looming, Allison had decided it was better not to know, and to concentrate on surmounting each social hurdle as it arose.
There was no doubt that this was a social hurdle where the bar had been set very high, she had thought as their carriage arrived at the vast edifice that was the Winter Palace. Light blazed from all four sides of the courtyard as their carriage passed through the imposing arched entranceway, light which became positively blinding as they entered the palace itself, where someone removed their cloaks, and they joined the throng waiting to ascend the most magnificent double staircase of marble and gold that Allison had ever seen.
Which was where she was now standing, her eyes drawn upwards, past the double row of arched windows, the pilasters and statues, the profusion of gold-leaf laurel and acanthus leaves, to the ceiling, where cherubim and seraphim peeped down at her from puffy white clouds in a celestial blue sky.
The crowd was moving very slowly. Allison clutched at Count Derevenko’s arm, willing herself not to succumb to nerves. She had travelled over a thousand miles to reach this cosmopolitan city armed with questions, questions which she had been unable to ask the woman who appointed her, in the rush to make her arrangements. Questions which should have been answered by the man standing beside her this afternoon. And they had, most of them. Save one question so fundamental she couldn’t believe it hadn’t occurred to her until today. But which she could no longer ignore. ‘Why did you send all the way to England for me?’
The Count frowned down at her, raising his eyebrows at her peremptory tone. ‘I don’t understand what you mean.’
She would have missed it, were she not studying him so carefully, that tiny flicker in his eyes which told her he understood perfectly. ‘There must be any number of females right here in St Petersburg qualified to fulfil my role.’
‘You underestimate yourself, Miss Galbraith. I require a governess who is also a skilled herbalist. That is an elusive combination.’
‘But surely not unique in a city the size of St Petersburg. Was the previous governess also a herbalist? I presume the children are sickly, or perhaps suffering from some inherited malaise?’
‘You presume because The Procurer wasn’t specific?’
Allison nodded, her brow furrowed. ‘Was I mistaken?’
‘Miss Galbraith, this is hardly the time or place for such a discussion.’
‘Which confirms that there is a discussion to be had.’
He acknowledged this hit with a small smile. ‘You have a sharp mind.’
‘Yes, I do, so don’t attempt to pull the wool over my eyes.’ She treated him to her best Take your medicine or else, young man face. It didn’t work on this particular patient. He laughed. His eyes crinkled when he laughed. She bit her lip, determined not to soften her stance. ‘Well?’
‘Not here. No, please spare me another of your schoolmistress glares.’
‘The glare of a herbalist who wishes her patient to take his pill, actually.’
‘Does it work?’
‘Almost every time. And I should warn you, Count Derevenko, I’m an expert at detecting procrastination.’
‘I’m not procrastinating.’ They shuffled up two more steps. The Count pulled her closer, placing his lips disconcertingly close to her ear. ‘The truth is,’ he whispered, ‘that I cannot trust anyone in St Petersburg. I need an outsider...someone I can be sure has no connections to the court.’
They mounted another step. ‘Well, I certainly fit the bill on that score, but...’
Two more steps. ‘This really is not the time. Look, I promise that I’ll explain everything in due course. Trust me.’
‘Trust has to operate in both directions.’
He smiled enigmatically. ‘You can have no idea of the amount of trust I am about to invest in you, but for now, let us concentrate on making a success of your introduction into polite society.’ Count Derevenko ushered her up the final two shallow steps. ‘Your audience awaits, Miss Galbraith.’
* * *
She had enjoyed their verbal sparring, even if the Count had once again avoided answering her questions, but as they approached the wide-open double doors at the entrance to the ballroom, Allison’s confidence faltered, her stomach became queasy with nerves. She had never had cause to attend any ball, let alone a royal ball, but she was damned if she would fail at this, the very first challenge. A deep breath, a straightening of her shoulders and her nausea subsided.
As they stepped across the threshold, she realised how large a gathering she was about to face, and just how awe-inspiring the setting. The formal staircase was but an amuse-bouche, a mere taster for the magnificence of this ballroom, so elongated that Allison struggled to see where it ended. Two tiers of windows, one tall and arched, one square, faced each other across the expanse of dance floor, with massive marble Corinthian pillars spaced between each set. The walls themselves were plain, but the ornate, gilded and corniced ceiling was reflected in the intricate pattern of the parquet flooring. Light flooded the chamber from innumerable glittering chandeliers, and from the branches of candles which stood at each window. Aside from a few flimsy-looking gilded chairs upon which no one sat, the room was empty of furnishings and filled to the rafters with milling people.
People who glittered with diamonds and jewels in many forms and incarnations—ornate tiaras, necklaces, opulent rings, bracelets and bangles, military and ceremonial orders and medals. It was no wonder, she thought, resisting the urge to touch her grandmother’s simple gold locket, that Natalya had been horrified at her lack of baubles. She need not have worried about being overdressed. The gown, which she had thought so fussy, was almost puritan compared to most here, encrusted as they were with pearls and embellished with gold thread. And the men! Most were garbed in magnificent dress uniforms, tassels and sashes, boots so polished they reflected the light. ‘Is the entire Russian army present?’
She spoke flippantly, but Count Derevenko’s smile tightened. ‘The real soldiers, the ones who did the fighting, would be lucky to be given bread at the kitchen door, if General Arakcheev has his way. That’s him over there.’ He nodded at a tall, gaunt man with heavy brows and even heavier gold epaulettes. ‘The Emperor’s second in command. They refer to him as the Vampire for his bloodlust, though in the field, we nicknamed him the Ape in Uniform. A man who punishes every slight, real or intended, with ever more inventive barbarity. Come, we may as well get the ordeal over with.’
* * *
‘Aleksei. Out of mourning at last, I see. And cementing our entente with the English with an alliance of your own, too. Or should that be dalliance?’
Allison repressed a shudder as a claw-like hand brushed hers, and a pair of soulless brown eyes under hooded lids glanced indifferently over her. The Vampire was aptly named. A man who would take pleasure in sucking the lifeblood from his enemies.
‘Miss Galbraith is the new governess,’ the Count answered haughtily, ‘here to help my wards perfect their English.’
‘And to give you French lessons, no doubt,’ General Arakcheev responded, making his double entendre clear with a lascivious look in Allison’s direction, noting her shocked countenance with a small, satisfied smile before returning his attention to the Count. ‘You will find many of your comrades are present tonight, anxious to celebrate the end of your emergence from mourning. It seems you were quite the hero at Waterloo. I grow weary of hearing your exploits recounted.’
‘Perhaps if you had deigned to make an appearance on the front line you would have spared yourself that tedium.’
‘Very droll. As you well know I had the honour of being asked to deputise for the Tsar here in St Petersburg. A more important task than killing a few Frenchmen, I’m sure you’ll agree. Our Emperor is anxious to bestow several medals on you in recognition of your contribution to our victory.’
‘It was an honour to serve my country,’ Aleksei replied. ‘That is reward enough.’
‘Any other man, I would disbelieve, but I think you actually mean it. I will inform him of your wishes. Besides, you will have no need of any token of his gratitude, will you, Aleksei? Not now that you have the choice of two such pretty little nieces to marry. There’s nothing like keeping it in the family, is there? Oh,’ Arakcheev said, feigning surprise when the Count took an impetuous step forward, ‘come now, if it’s good enough for the Romanovs it’s surely good enough for you? Now, if you will excuse me?’
With a smug smile, the general turned away, leaving Count Derevenko rooted to the spot. ‘People are staring,’ Allison said, tugging at his sleeve.
He cursed viciously in what she assumed must be Russian under his breath. One hand was clenched into a fist. The other dug painfully into her arm. ‘He deliberately set out to rile me.’
‘He succeeded,’ she told him tartly, drawing him aside to the shelter of a small alcove, ‘and you are ensuring that he and everyone else knows it.’
The Count cursed again. ‘If Arakcheev were not in our Emperor’s pocket, that man would long ago have been at the bottom of the Neva River.’
‘He took me for your mistress!’ Now that the encounter was over, Allison was furious. The slander was a horrible reminder of the scurrilous slurs that had been published in the London gutter press. ‘He assumed that I—that you and I—you must put him straight.’
‘And give him the satisfaction of knowing his barbs had hit home? The Count eyed her flushed countenance. ‘You must not take what he says to heart. Arakcheev is a man who thrives on insults, and as taunts go, that was pretty mild. This is St Petersburg. The fact that we are not having an affaire would raise more eyebrows.’
Allison mustered a smile. She had overreacted. It wasn’t as if it mattered what people thought of her here, far from home. ‘You make the city sound like a den of iniquity.’
‘You think I’m exaggerating? You see that woman over there?’ the Count said, with a sneer. ‘The famous—or should I say, infamous—Princess Katya Bagration. I thought she was settled in Paris. I am surprised to see her here.’
Princess Katya, surrounded by a swarm of officers, was very beautiful, with dusky curls, cupid lips and skin like milk. ‘Her gown is quite translucent,’ Allison whispered, for the Princess’s shapely legs could clearly be seen under the filmy gauze of her attire. ‘Under the light of these chandeliers—I wonder if she is aware...’
The Count snorted. ‘She is perfectly aware. In Vienna she is known as the Naked Angel or sometimes the White Pussycat.’
‘The White Pussycat?’
To Allison’s surprise, he looked abashed. ‘Something to do with her particular talents. Forgive me, I have been too long in the company of soldiers.’
‘Particular talents?’ As realisation dawned, Allison gazed over at the beauty in astonishment. ‘Do you mean she is a courtesan?’
‘Not of the type you mean. She demands secrets rather than gold in return for her favours, I am told. Pillow talk of the most dangerous sort,’ the Count clarified, his tone making his feelings very clear. ‘During the Congress, she had both our Emperor and Metternich in tow, amongst others.’
‘She was Tsar Alexander’s mistress? Yet she is received here in the Winter Palace?’
‘That is nothing.’ Taking a glass of champagne for each of them from a passing waiter, Count Derevenko proceeded to give her a sardonic résumé of who, in the ballroom, was involved in clandestine liaisons with whom. ‘As to our Emperor, I would need more than two hands to count the number of women here who have warmed his bed. His Highness is notorious for behaving as if he has more than two hands. If his mistresses were excluded from court on grounds of propriety, this ballroom would be empty. But it is the same in England, is it not? Save that the court there pretends to ignore your Prince George’s indiscretions, including, I am told, his flirtation with our Emperor’s favourite sister, Catherine. In the Court of St Petersburg, indiscretions are part of the fabric of life.’
‘I don’t move in such exalted circles,’ Allison said, feeling like a prude, ‘though my work has taken me to the heart of many high-born families. Is fidelity truly so outmoded?’
‘Once again, the Emperor leads by example. He and Madame Maria Naryshkhina over there have had several children, much to the chagrin of the Empress who remains childless.’
‘There are many women among the poor who would envy her barren state. Mother Nature is often over-generous to those who can least afford it.’
‘But that state of affairs is something which a herbalist could easily remedy, is it not?’
Allison stiffened. ‘What you are implying is not, and has never been a service I provide. Though there are some who do, and some very desperate women who turn to them. I do not judge.’
‘Despite what you think, no more do I. I may be a mere man, but I am aware, Miss Galbraith, that it is women who are forced to bear, most unfairly, the consequences of our masculine desires—whether they want to or not.’
‘Then you are a very singular man to have considered the problem at all,’ Allison replied, mollified. ‘I confess, there have been occasions when I have advised—not after the fact, but before—there are ways to prevent—but really! I do not know how we came to be discussing such an intimate topic.’
‘It is my fault for drawing your attention to Madame Maria Naryshkhina. My apologies.’
She was forced to smile. ‘You seem to be very well informed considering that you have not lived in St Petersburg for some years.’
‘The Romanovs are related to every other royal family in Europe. One does not have to reside in St Petersburg to remain au fait with their machinations,’ the Count replied, not bothering to hide his contempt for the Imperial family. ‘And my brother kept me informed with the latest court gossip in his occasional letters. Actually, if one were looking for a rare example of a faithful and devoted husband and father, Michael was your man.’
‘You were not—not overly fond of your older brother?’
The Count shrugged, a habit he exhibited, when he did not care to answer, but after a few moments staring down at his champagne flute, he surprised her. ‘Of course I cared for him, as one naturally cares for one’s family—he was my only sibling, after all. But we were never close, had little in common and as adults spent very little time in one another’s company. Which is why I find it so utterly confounding that he nominated me—’ He broke off, draining his champagne in one draught. ‘But it is done now, no point in lamenting over what cannot be changed. Come, it is time for the great and the good of St Petersburg to meet the new Derevenko governess.’
The Count set his empty champagne glass down on a window ledge. Allison, surprised to find her own flute also empty, followed suit. ‘I will never remember all these names and faces.’
‘It doesn’t matter, the objective is to ensure that they know yours.’ He covered her hand with his, angling his back to the room to obscure her from view. ‘You need not be so nervous, you are performing admirably.’
His smile was meant to be reassuring, she told herself, as was the clasp of his fingers. They were both wearing gloves, but her skin was tingling in response to his touch all the same. And his smile—no, it wasn’t at all reassuring, it was—she wished he wouldn’t smile like that, because she couldn’t resist smiling back, and if her smile was anything like his, he’d get the wrong idea entirely. ‘Thank you.’
She smiled. He inhaled sharply. Their eyes locked. ‘Under different circumstances,’ the Count said, ‘I would have been delighted if Arakcheev’s assumptions had foundation.’
There was no mistaking his meaning. No mistaking the unexpected, delightful frisson of her response. An inappropriate response which needed to be quelled. ‘You cannot mean you would like to marry one of your nieces!’
‘You know perfectly well that’s not what I meant.’ His fingers tightened on hers as he leaned towards her. For a dizzying moment, she thought he was going to kiss her in full public view. And she wanted him to, for that dizzying moment.
Then he snapped his head back, dropping her hand. ‘Unfortunately the circumstances are not different. We must make a circuit of the room. I would recommend another glass of champagne to fortify you for the circus you are about to experience.’
* * *
It had indeed been a circus, and under the scrutiny of St Petersburg society, Allison would have felt as stripped bare and vulnerable as an acrobat on a tightrope were it not for the Count’s reassuring presence by her side. By the time they left the ball it was late—or early, she could no longer tell which—and her head was pounding. But though she had fallen into a brief, shallow sleep as soon as her head hit the pillow, her churning mind did not permit her to rest for long.
Wide awake by dawn, her head whirled as she recalled the sea of faces, the inquisitive looks and the myriad of seemingly innocuous yet patently barbed questions aimed at herself and Count Derevenko as they made the circuit of the Winter Palace’s ballroom. General Arakcheev—Allison shuddered, recalling the Vampire’s empty eyes—had been only the first of many to assume the intimate nature of their relationship. In England, as she knew only too well, society would have been scandalised—or at least they would have claimed to be. In St Petersburg, no one had batted an eyelid at the notion of Count Derevenko’s mistress playing governess to his wards.
And if society did not care, why should she? She was tired of railing against assumptions and prejudice. She realised she had gradually become—not ashamed, precisely, but she had come to wish her appearance otherwise, for it did not match what her patients expected of her. But she was sick and tired of that too!
Pushing back the sheets, Allison struggled down from the high bed and threw back the curtains. Outside, the sun was rising with her spirits. Inspired by The Procurer’s example, funded by the fee she would earn here, she would find a way to take charge of her own destiny, and she would not have to give any sort of damn about what St Petersburg, or London, or any other social elite thought of her. That was why she was here. That was why she would do everything in her power to succeed, whatever it was the Count required of her.
Curling up on the window seat, Allison rested her cheek against the thick glass. Her bedroom, on the third floor next to the children’s suite, looked due east. Through the gaps in the rooftops, she could see the glitter of the Neva River, where it flowed in an elegant curve before sweeping south through St Petersburg. The bedchamber was likely plain by the standards of the Derevenko Palace, yet it was opulent beyond her ken. The walls were covered in a dark-red paper embellished with gold. Her bed, a huge affair that required a step to climb into it, was dressed in velvet and brocade, the four posts gilded, the myriad mattresses and pillows designed to cocoon one in the cosiest, warmest embrace. Carpets of woven silk were soft underfoot. Her small collection of clothes was lost in the giant lacquered chest of drawers, her plain brushes looked like interlopers atop the matching dressing table.
Which was exactly what she was. An interloper. A stranger. A foreigner. Apparently the only person in this city that Count Derevenko could trust. Which begged the question, why couldn’t he trust anyone else? And why did he require his governess to be a herbalist? She’d assumed the children were poorly. Neither he nor The Procurer had either confirmed or denied this, yet what other reason could there be? Even before she met her charges, Allison was beginning to feel very sorry indeed for them. Poor little orphans, they must be feeling wholly abandoned. Something she could certainly empathise with.
Pulling on her robe, she quit her chamber and walked the distance along the corridor to the series of connected rooms allocated to the children. It was the custom, in some English aristocratic households, to confine the children to the basement or the attic, to furnish their rooms as spartanly as those belonging to the lowliest of servants. She’d tended to sick children shivering in bedchambers where the wind whistled through the bare floorboards, children living like moles in windowless rooms below stairs. Ideal preparation, she’d been informed time and again, for the character-building privations of the boarding school which almost every little boy attended, and an increasing number of girls too. The process of estrangement happened, in many cases, from birth, when babies were handed immediately to a wet nurse, and thence on to a nanny, a governess, a tutor.
Or in her case a grandmother, an arrangement which had turned out to be permanent. Her mother had not even deigned to turn up for Seanmhair’s funeral seven years ago. Or perhaps she had simply not dared. Seven years, during which Allison had worked tirelessly to establish herself. And now that life too was gone.
But now, she had been given the chance to make a new future for herself. Her charges might well have lacked parental affection but their material needs were abundantly satisfied. The children’s quarters were sumptuous, as richly decorated as the one she occupied. The playroom was an Aladdin’s Cave of toys. Wondering why the doll’s house looked familiar, Allison realised it was a miniature replica of the Derevenko Palace. The rocking horse which stood in the window had the look of an Arabian thoroughbred. A positive army of lead soldiers were lined up in one corner commanded, she noted with a wry smile, by an officer wearing Count Derevenko’s regimental colours. Next door to the playroom was a schoolroom complete with three desks and a large slate board, a cupboard full of text books, all in French and English. And next door to that, what must have been the nursery, but which now seemed to be the nanny’s room. There was no evidence of any sort of sick room.
Allison made her way back to her own chamber. She had thought herself accustomed to children, but really, she was only accustomed to children in distress, in the throes of illness. Fractious children, sobbing children, suffering children whose pain she relieved, whose maladies she remedied. Children who were grateful for her soothing presence, and whose parents too were grateful. But these three orphans were an entirely different proposition. Her presence would surely emphasise the absence of their mother and father. No matter how distant those parents had been, the children must be grieving. And then there was the governess who had also, mysteriously, deserted them.
There was no getting away from it, Allison must prepare herself to be perceived as an unwelcome intruder, and an inadequate one at that. Empathy did not make a teacher of her, and one thing she did know about children was that they were not easily fooled, seeing a great deal more than most adults realised. Her charges would likely sense she was a fraud.
Oh, for heaven’s sake! She was overthinking the situation. Honestly, Allison chastised herself, how hard could it be, really? Her life had been dedicated to caring for sufferers. Sympathy and understanding were as much a part of her armoury as her precious herb chest. What’s more, she had been selected, interviewed and judged capable. She had passed muster last night, she knew that, for if she had failed, she would have been ushered out of that hot, glittering ballroom tout de suite. The Count was not a man to tolerate failure. He hadn’t exactly relaxed by the end of the evening, in fact he’d been watching her like a hawk, but several times, when she had found the confidence to riposte some of the sly remarks, he had pressed her hand in approval or given her the most fleeting of nods.
Everyone to whom he introduced her had been informed that she was the new English governess. Everyone assumed she was also her employer’s mistress. ‘You are the envy of every unmarried lady in St Petersburg, Miss Galbraith,’ one of the courtiers had confided sotto voce. ‘As next in line to the dukedom, Aleksei is now one of the most eligible bachelors in the city. How unfair of you to force us to wait until he is done with you. You will understand why I hope that your liaison is short-lived. Though I cannot blame you for wanting to keep him to yourself. There is something about an officer in uniform, is there not? It makes one almost indifferent to the possibility that a ducal coronet may follow. Almost.’
That the Count was sought after did not surprise Allison. That she herself was drawn to him however, surprised her very much. That the attraction was mutual—now that was the biggest surprise of all.
Time and again, she had been propositioned, by husbands and fathers and brothers of her patients, by apothecaries and physicians. Not once had she been tempted, knowing full well that her reputation must be above reproach. All very well for a man in her profession to take a lover, but as a woman, she must be either an angel or a whore, to paraphrase The Procurer. Save for that one secret, salutary entanglement, Allison had never had any difficulty in opting to be the former. Which made it all the more infuriating that the gutter press had branded her a Jezebel with no more evidence than her hair and her figure and the vengeful mud-slinging of a few medical men intent upon protecting their own interests. It was so unfair it made her blood boil. At least, she thought sardonically, if it had been true she would have had some pleasurable memories to bolster her. Instead, ironically, she was a fallen woman with a past that was only one step removed from the virginal. Though as far as London society was concerned, she was irrecoverably ruined.
Which was, if one turned the idea on its head, rather a liberating thought, for the worst that could be said of her had already been said. Allison smiled slowly. What’s more, what was damned in London was positively encouraged in St Petersburg. Why should she make a virtue of resistance?
She enjoyed sparring with the Count. He brought out a teasing, playful side of her that she didn’t recognise. Another sign that she was emerging from the fog of the last six months? Smiling to herself, Allison sat down at the dressing table and took a brush to her hair. Perhaps so, but it wasn’t only that. It was him. Count Aleksei Derevenko. If she was being skittish—and she did feel rather skittish—then she’d have said that he had been fashioned to her precise design. She’d responded to his body on a basic, visceral level that was unknown to her, and she had flirted—yes, unbelievably, that is what she had done, she’d flirted with him. What’s more, she’d enjoyed it.
And so had he. He’d wanted to kiss her last night. Had they not been in the ballroom of the Winter Palace—Allison paused mid-brushstroke. She couldn’t believe they had nearly kissed in the middle of a ball in the Winter Palace.
She resumed her brushing and rolled her eyes at her reflection. She had far too much to lose to make a fool of herself over a man who was her employer, but provided she kept that salient fact in her head, where was the harm in indulging in a light flirtation, if he too was so inclined? She had nothing to lose. She was in St Petersburg, after all. It was pretty much expected of her. What the hell, why not!
Chapter Three (#u8389316a-1f91-5eb2-8398-0769950bc358)
The Square Room, where Aleksei had first encountered Allison Galbraith, was a suitably private and soberly oppressive venue for their next, crucial meeting. A room which epitomised the suffocating world of the Imperial court. A world which he had rejected and in which his brother had flourished, strangely enough, for though Michael had been a pompous prig, he’d had integrity and he had been scrupulously honest, both qualities in short supply in the court of the Tsars.
The aristocrats he had mingled with last night at the Winter Palace ball seemed like strangers to Aleksei. It was not on their behalf that he had fought for his homeland. Last night had confirmed what his gut had told him from the moment he arrived: he did not belong here in this chaotic city so singularly lacking the rules, discipline, the sense of order to which he was accustomed. The sooner he could escape it the better. Which meant getting to the bottom of the conundrum he faced.
He checked his watch. Five minutes before Miss Galbraith was due. He got to his feet. One thing to be said for the sprawling Derevenko Palace, it provided abundant opportunities for anxious pacing. He hadn’t expected to enjoy the company of the woman who would assist him in his search for the truth, but he had, very much. She had resolve, she had a ready wit and a great deal of poise. Her early encounter with Arakcheev had unsettled her, the general’s salacious remarks had made her furious, but she had quickly regained her composure, deftly handling the gossip and speculation which had followed them around the ballroom for the rest of the evening.
Gossip and speculation which, given her appearance, he ought to have anticipated. Allison Galbraith had a lush sensuality that was all the more enticing because she seemed blissfully unaware of it. No doubt she received more than her fair share of unwelcome propositions. And last night, he’d actually suggested that if circumstances were different...
Aleksei winced. He hadn’t actually propositioned her, but the implication had been there. To be fair to himself, he was pretty certain that the attraction was astonishingly, delightfully—and extremely inconveniently, mutual. Though by all that was precious, wasn’t the situation complicated enough without that!
It had been too long since he’d been able to enjoy the company of any woman. Frustration, that was all it was, he told himself. Though if that was true, why hadn’t he been attracted to one of the many other beautiful women he had been introduced to last night?
Because he couldn’t trust any of them, of course. And because none of them had that—that certain something which Allison Galbraith possessed. Something which made him sure, absolutely certain, that together they would be...
Dammit! She was here for a very specific purpose, and if he wanted to take advantage of her skills, he could not risk being distracted by her body. He was a rational man, he was a man who had forged a very successful military career by putting discipline above all else. Now was not the moment to change the habit of a lifetime.
But on the other hand, must a desire to conclude his business here as quickly as possible preclude enjoying the company of the woman who would help him do just that? How long had it been since he’d been able to indulge in even the lightest of dalliances? Months? It felt more like years. He would not go so far as to say he deserved the tempting Miss Galbraith, but didn’t he deserve some sort of mild flirtation?
But what if he was mistaken? What if he was imagining the attraction to be mutual simply because he wanted it to be? And really, wasn’t he getting his priorities all wrong?
As if in agreement with this very point, the double doors were flung open, the servant announced her, and Allison made a curtsy. ‘Good morning, your Illustrious Highness.’
* * *
He looked just as striking as he had at the ball, Allison thought to herself. Last night had not been a dream, then.
‘Good morning,’ the Count said, ‘and it is Aleksei while we are alone, if you please. In company, Count Derevenko will suffice. Hearing Your Illustrious Highness makes me want to glance over my shoulder to see my brother enter the room. Though actually he preferred Your Serene Highness. Michael was a stickler for etiquette, with a predilection for pomp and ceremony. As you’ll have gathered from our surroundings,’ he added, waving vaguely at the huge reception room in which they were ensconced.
‘What I gather, is that it is decidedly not to your taste,’ Allison said, crossing the room to join him.
‘I’ve been away on active service for so long, I have no idea what my taste in interiors is,’ the Count—Aleksei—replied with a faint smile. ‘It mostly revolves around canvas tents and wooden trunks. Last night at the Winter Palace, I felt even more of a foreigner than you.’
She took the seat opposite him, the same one she had occupied yesterday. He handed her a cup of black tea into which, to her relief, he had already added three sugars. Allison took a tentative sip from her cup. The taste of the tea was odd, the contrast of the sweet and bitter one that she could, despite her reservations, grow to like. Opposite her, the Count—no, Aleksei! She tried his name out for herself, mouthing it silently as she studied him. It suited him. Strong. Forthright. He was not wearing his uniform today, for which she was—shamefully—grateful, for it was true, what the courtier had whispered salaciously last night, there was something about a man in uniform. Or at least, something about this man in uniform. Though if she was being scrupulous about it, his attraction was in no way diminished by the austerity of his breeches and short boots, the long black coat and pristine white shirt with its starched collar. There was a rebellious and endearing kink in his hair, almost silver compared to the dark blond, which stood up on his brow like a comma. The slight frown which seemed to be permanently etched into his face was bisected by a faint scar which she hadn’t noticed yesterday. He sat awkwardly in the little chair, his long legs crossed at the ankles, his shoulders hunched, grasping the delicate teacup with both hands.
‘What is it that you find amusing?’
She hadn’t realised she was smiling. ‘You look like a giant squatting on a child’s seat.’
He grinned. ‘The furniture in this room is designed to discourage use.’
‘Similar to the chairs in the ballroom last night.’
‘No one would dare sit in the presence of the Emperor—or his deputy.’
‘Arakcheev.’ Allison couldn’t repress a shudder. ‘I most sincerely hope that was my first and only encounter with that odious man, if you don’t mind me being so blunt.’
‘I don’t, it’s what I much prefer, and you’re the only person in this city who’s likely to indulge me.’ Aleksei drained his tea in one gulp, a soldier’s habit, Allison assumed, and set the cup on the tray before leaning forward, his elbows resting on his knees. ‘So! I promised you last night that I’d come clean with you, and I’m a man of my word. But before I do, I must stress that everything I’m about to tell you is in the strictest confidence.’
‘As I said last night, you can trust me, Count—Aleksei.’
‘And as I said last night, you can have no idea how much trust I’m about to place in you. The Derevenko name is a venerable one. My brother was one of the wealthiest men in Russia. He was also the figurehead of one of the most powerful dynasties in the country, with the ear and the protection of the Tsar himself. If anyone in this city got wind of my suspicions, all hell would break loose, whether I’m right or wrong.’
Allison stared at him, quite confounded. ‘I am not sure—what is it you suspect?’
‘Assassination.’
Her jaw dropped. ‘I think perhaps I misheard you. Or perhaps your English—though it is most excellent. But you can’t have meant...’
‘I suspect my brother Michael was murdered,’ Aleksei informed her matter of factly, ‘and I need you to help me to discover whether or not I am correct.’
Utterly thrown, Allison ran her fingers through her hair, forgetting that it was not tied simply back but in a tight chignon, disrupting several pins in the process. ‘How on earth can I help? I am no Bow Street Runner, I’m a herbalist.’
‘Precisely! As far as the world is concerned, my brother died of natural causes, and that is what the world must continue to think until we can prove otherwise. I suspect he was poisoned, which is where you come in.’
‘Couldn’t you have consulted a local expert? Why send halfway around the world for me.’
‘I thought I’d made that clear,’ Aleksei replied with a hint of impatience. ‘You had a glimpse of what St Petersburg is like last night. Gossip is a way of life here, everyone’s life is an open book. I need an outsider with no ties here. No one knows you. Though the reality is that my wards require neither English lessons nor nursing, no one will question your notional title of governess.’
And all would assume that her duties extended from the schoolroom to Aleksei’s bed. Allison rubbed at her temples, distractedly pulling out several more hairpins. ‘Did The Procurer know your real requirements?’
‘She did. I heard of her from a fellow officer. He did not tell me the particulars of his own case, only that he had been obliged to be scrupulously honest in his dealings with her. He’d tried to pull the wool over her eyes, and she almost refused the commission. I decided I couldn’t take that risk, and so I was brutally honest.’
‘She was not quite so truthful with me.’
‘Clearly.’ Aleksei eyed her quizzically. ‘Would you be here, if she had been?’
Her hand instinctively clutched her locket, concealed beneath the neckline of her day gown. The Procurer had given her the opportunity, but it had been her grandmother’s belief in her which had given her the strength to take it. Now it was up to Allison to make the most of it. ‘I can’t tell you how glad I am that I did.’
Aleksei smiled at her, and she could have sworn that his smile tugged at something, an almost tangible connection between them. ‘I’ve no idea if I can help you,’ Allison said, ‘but I can promise, hand on heart, that I will do my utmost to do so. Tell me, in plain and simple terms exactly what it is that you suspect and why.’
* * *
‘Plain talking.’ Aleksei automatically made for the samovar, in need of another cup of tea, that panacea for all ills and aid to clear thinking. ‘What I have always preferred, though it is anathema here in Machiavellian St Petersburg. The starting point,’ he said, resuming his seat, ‘was when I received a letter from Michael’s man of business informing me that my brother and his wife had died within a few days of each other. I was shocked of course, and deeply saddened, but our imminent encounter with Napoleon at Waterloo was my priority, and so I gave little thought to the circumstances beyond assuming there must have been some sort of carriage accident. The matter of my guardianship was, as I’ve already told you, a most unwelcome surprise, but not one that I had much time to consider in the bloody aftermath of Waterloo, and the urgent need to look after the welfare my troops. It was only when I finally arrived here in St Petersburg that I began to worry that all was not what it seemed.’
Allison was listening intently, her teacup clutched, still full, in her lap. Aleksei set his own aside. ‘The first thing I discovered was that there had been no accident. Michael appeared to have died of an apoplexy, a violent heart seizure which killed him before the doctor could be summoned. Elizaveta then fell ill shortly thereafter, but her symptoms were quite different. A flux, breathlessness followed by palpitations, caused by a severe intolerance, the doctor confirmed. Here is a copy of his report.’
He handed over several pages of notes, which Allison quickly scanned. ‘The cause of the Duchess’s death is very clear. What is a coulibiac?’
‘A sort of fish pie, peasant food which my sister-in-law consumed on impulse at the market. She had been advised to avoid eating fish following previous adverse reactions as a child, as it says in the notes. It’s clear her death was nothing more than a tragic coincidence. Her reaction, as the doctor states, was severe, but not in the least bit suspicious.’
Allison frowned over the report. ‘But there is no suggestion that your brother’s death was attributable to any sort of poison. The doctor is quite clear, as you said, that he thinks it was due to an apoplexy.’
‘Thinks. But he is not certain,’ Aleksei said. ‘In fact, he told me that he was most surprised, because not only was my brother in rude health, Michael had just turned forty, a notoriously abstemious man and most unfashionably fond of taking exercise. What do you make of it?’
She spread her hands helplessly. ‘In my experience, apoplexies are more common in older men, or those who indulge in excessive consumption of food or wine, but it could simply be that your brother had a weak heart. Isn’t the more obvious conclusion what the doctor has described in his notes—a seizure of the heart?’
‘An obvious conclusion in London perhaps, but not in St Petersburg where poison and power are often bedfellows. And if it was not an apoplexy, it must have been poison, don’t you think?’
Allison scanned the report again. ‘No lesions or rashes. No signs of blunt force or trauma. Clear signs of stress of the heart but none to any other vital organs. I would have to study it more carefully, but—’
‘I know, it is not much to go on,’ Aleksei interrupted her, ‘but the manner of Michael’s death is not the only factor which aroused my suspicions. There is also the sudden disappearance of Anna Orlova, the children’s governess, which I mentioned yesterday.’
‘You can’t mean that you suspect the governess capable of murder?’
‘I know, it sounds far-fetched, but it is even more far-fetched, when you take account of the circumstances, to conclude she was not complicit in some way. Why else would she abandon her charges, whom she is purported to be devoted to, so suddenly and the day before Michael died? And if she has nothing to hide, why is she, paradoxically, in hiding?’
‘I assumed that you wanted to find her for the children’s sake,’ Allison said, sounding quite dazed. ‘I agree, in the context you have described that it looks suspicious, but she was not even present when he died. Not that that means—for there are poisons which are slow acting or have a delayed effect, but—what had she to gain from killing her employer? And such an illustrious one—a duke, for heaven’s sake.’
‘The Orlova woman was due a small bequest, but it has not been paid, since her whereabouts are unknown, and as a motive for murder, where the punishment would not only be death but torture—no, it beggars belief.’
‘What of the other beneficiaries of your brother’s will?’
‘Aside from the legacy to myself, there are no other significant beneficiaries. Michael left everything to his children, as indeed, did Elizaveta, which leaves my nieces and nephew extremely wealthy indeed, but I think we can rule them out.’
‘Aleksei!’
‘A poor joke,’ he said with an apologetic smile. ‘The children’s guardian has the most to gain, for he has their vast assets and their malleable minds entirely at his disposal.’
‘But you are their guardian.’
‘Which brings me to the root cause of my suspicions. Michael changed his will about a week before he died. According to his man of business, the change was to be kept under wraps until such time as Michael chose to inform the relevant parties. I’ve no idea if he informed Elizaveta, but as you know, I was in the dark, as was my first cousin, Felix Golitsyn, who until the change was the nominee of long standing.’
Aleksei drummed his fingers on his thigh, frowning off into the distance. ‘Felix was the first person to call on me to pay his condolences, though he was so grief-stricken himself, it was I who consoled him in the end. Michael’s man of business had fetched him from Peterhof Palace, some distance down river of here, where he had been staying when my brother died. It fell to my cousin, as Michael’s nearest male relative, to take charge of the funeral arrangements in my absence. Felix fully expected to take custody of the children too, and when he was informed of the change of guardianship it came as quite a shock.’
‘But if your logic is correct,’ Allison said, clearly struggling to keep track, ‘if this cousin did not know your brother had changed his will, then surely that makes him the prime suspect?’
‘Aside from the Orlova woman, you mean? Yes, I’m afraid that it does,’ he agreed heavily. ‘I find it very hard to believe, but as you point out, the logic is inescapable. I would give almost anything to prove his innocence, however.’
‘You must care a great deal for your cousin.’
‘The truth is I care more for what my cousin can do for me,’ Aleksei replied, ‘which is take my wards off my hands. Felix understands the workings of the palace and the court, and he’s much more familiar with the family estates than I am.’
‘Yet your brother clearly thought he was no longer suitable.’
‘I know, dammit. But until I find out why he changed his mind I cannot discount the possibility that it is somehow connected with his death.’
Allison was toying with one of her hairpins, absentmindedly bending it to form a circle. ‘Do you suspect anyone else?’
‘No one.’ Aleksei grimaced. ‘And everyone. I have gone through Michael’s accounts with a fine toothcomb and found no evidence of extortion, of shady dealings, property transactions or unusual payments or deposits. The political posts he held were much coveted but they now lie within Nikki’s gift—or mine, at the moment. No, if it was murder, and if it was not committed by either the Orlova woman or Felix, then the field is wide open. Assuming that we rule out a crime of passion which, believe me, knowing my brother, we can, the motive could be anything—revenge, a personal vendetta. Michael would have been privy to any number of potentially explosive secrets. Was he killed to silence him? Who knows?’

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