Prisoner of the Iron Tower (12 page)

“Your imperial highness.”

“How like your late uncle you are,” Eugene said, smiling affably.

“Other people have told me so too.” Pavel Velemir smiled back, a smile of heart-stopping charm. He had not only inherited his uncle’s good looks but also his pleasant, easygoing manner. “What miracles of restoration you have accomplished here at the Winter Palace, highness. From the tales coming out of Muscobar, it was feared that the place had been burned to the ground.”

Eugene sat down at his desk and gestured for the young man to sit opposite him. “You were abroad at the time of your uncle’s death, I believe?”

“I was in Francia. Grand Duke Aleksei sent me as undersecretary to our ambassador there. I have a certain skill with languages.”

Eugene nodded indulgently. He knew the real reason for Pavel Velemir’s placement in the embassy: at the time, his agents in Francia had alerted him to the arrival of a new spy from Muscobar.

“I’m looking for an agent to undertake a mission of considerable delicacy. You might be the ideal candidate.”

“I’m flattered, highness.” Another hint of that heart-stopping smile.

“But first . . .” Eugene unfolded a document he had kept to his side of the desk. “Am I correct in thinking that you have inherited nothing from your uncle’s estates?”

The young man’s smile faded.

“In fact, I understand that at the time of his death, the count’s affairs were found to be in total disorder. What was it he left you—his art collection?”

“His rooms in the Winter Palace here were ransacked by the revolutionaries. The paintings that were not looted were defaced or burned.” Eugene saw that Pavel Velemir had clenched his hand into a tight fist. For a moment Eugene was vividly, painfully reminded of another passionate, fatherless young man: Jaromir.

“So you have nothing.”

The young man’s chin jerked up defiantly, as if countering a blow.

Eugene smiled. He had not been so impressed by Pavel Velemir’s good looks that he had failed to notice that his immaculate white shirt was frayed at the cuffs, or that the polished sheen of his riding boots could not quite conceal the fact that they had been mended once too often. Pavel was making a brave job of concealing his impoverished state, and that could only work to Eugene’s advantage.

Eugene leaned forward across the desk. “Work for me, Pavel, and I will see that you never want for anything again. Do you know Smarna?”

“Of course. My mother used to take a villa on the coast every summer when I was a child.”

Eugene allowed himself another smile. His sources had done their research well. “And you’ve heard that there’s trouble brewing there? A rebellion?”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Become part of that rebellion. Convince them that your heart burns with the same passion for freedom as theirs. And then . . .”

“And then?”

“You’re an intelligent young man. Exactly how you act on that information, I leave to your discretion. But fulfill my trust in you, Pavel, and you will go far. Rossiya is a new empire, a young empire—and I need men and women of promise to protect our interests. What do you say?”

Pavel looked at him directly. “I am honored, highness, that you have chosen me.” His clear hazel eyes betrayed not the slightest trace of guile. Had he inherited Feodor’s gifts for deception as well as his charming smile? “But wouldn’t it help my mission if I had a strong motive to convince the Smarnan revolutionaries of my hate for Tielen? I need to engineer some public slight—and ensure it is witnessed by one or two influential people. That way it will be reported abroad in court journals and gazettes.”

Good!
thought Eugene, warming to him even more.
Not just a handsome face.
“I will leave the details to you. I imagine you can be quite creative when the situation allows.” He rose; Pavel rose too. “And this is for you,” he added, holding out the folded document, “Count Pavel Velemir.”

Pavel stared at him a moment and then opened the document. “My uncle’s title—and the deeds to his estates?”

“You may continue to call him ‘uncle’ if you wish, but he named you as his only son and heir in this second, secret will,” Eugene said, intrigued to see that the news had made the young man flush an angry red.

Pavel Velemir refolded the will, meticulously smoothing down each crease. He looked up at Eugene, the angry flush gone from his cheeks, his hazel eyes calm and shrewd as he handed back the document.

“Imperial highness, I believe this could be the key to my public disgrace. Is there anyone you trust implicitly among the younger Tielen nobility, who could be made party to our plan?”

“You want me to transfer your uncle’s estates as a gift to one of my court?”

“And when I protest volubly, you could have me thrown out.”

“Then I would like you to join us for dinner tonight. My wife Astasia is most eager to hear the latest news from Francia.” Eugene could not resist setting another little test; his sources at the Mirom court had warned him that before her betrothal, Astasia had been seen to dance with Pavel Velemir on more than one occasion.

“I’d be delighted, imperial highness.” There was not even a flicker of reaction to the mention of her name.

Pavel Velemir walked swiftly along the gravel paths of the Rusalki Gardens. In the white-painted tubs, rare tulips bloomed, their heavy burgundy heads feathered with cream and gold. In Francia, the first roses were already in bud, but this far to the north, the spring flowers were only just opening.

He passed the Rusalki Fountain, which sprayed fanning jets of water high into the mild air. Courtiers out strolling in the afternoon sun stared curiously as he strode past, making for the River Gate. Young ladies-in-waiting whispered and giggled behind their lace-gloved hands.

So the gossip that had haunted him was right. He was not Feodor Velemir’s nephew. He was his son.

He slowed. It was not as if he had never suspected his true parentage. But he was angry with his mother. Why had she never told him the truth? He was no child, damn it; he was twenty-three.

As to the circumstances of his conception, he could only guess. An early forbidden romance between his mother and her libertine cousin, Feodor.

He had reached the wild garden that lay beyond the austere formal parterres and tubs. Here the grasses grew high between alders and the fresh green of weeping willows, all artfully planted to give the impression of a natural river meadow.

He snapped off a slender alder branch and struck angrily at the tall grasses.

Throughout his years at Mirom’s Military Academy he had been forced to endure the sneering comments of his blue-blooded, highborn fellow cadets.

He had fought more than one sabre-duel in defense of his mother Xenia’s honor.

He slashed at a yellow iris, neatly severing the flower from its stalk.

There were officers in the Mirom army who would bear the scars of their insolence to their graves.

It was Uncle Feodor who had rescued him from the drab prospect of an undistinguished military career, steering him into the Muscobar diplomatic service. Why had he never acknowledged him as his son? To avoid shaming his mother? Had he planned to reveal himself at some later stage? Or was it just too inconvenient in his busy life to burden himself with the duties of a father?

Just when did you plan to tell me, Uncle Feodor?

Another iris flew spinning from its stalk.

But it was nearly time to dress for dinner. This was not the moment to let his feelings run riot. And the Emperor had singled him out from all his other agents for a crucial mission.

If he had learned one thing from his natural father, it was the art of deception. Was it not Feodor Velemir who had initiated him into the shadow-world of espionage?

He reached the River Gate; a young officer stepped forward to bar his way, hand extended.

“Your pass, please.”

There was something familiar about his stance, his bearing. Pavel produced his pass and, as he handed it over, stared at the young man’s face. “Good God,” he said. “Valery Vassian.”

“Pavel!” said Valery, obviously equally surprised.

“Lieutenant Vassian, if I’m not mistaken,” Pavel said dryly, “in the
Tielen
Household Cavalry.”

It had never been difficult to embarrass Valery when they had been cadets together, and Pavel noted with some satisfaction that, lieutenant or no, Valery was still easily flustered.

“We’re all one empire now, yes?” Valery said, his voice a little overloud. “And it’s the Imperial Household Cavalry. See this imperial purple trimming on the collar?”

“Of course,” Pavel said easily.

“Quite frankly”—Valery dropped his voice—”and not wishing to insult old Duke Aleksei, the conditions are so much better than in our own army. Good pay—regular pay, Pavel!—and decent lodgings and food. Training in maneuvers, weaponry, strategy—we were treated shabbily in Mirom. Remember Colonel Roskovski?”

Pavel nodded, remembering all too well Roskovski’s irascible outbursts and lunatic lectures on military tactics.

“Why do you think I joined the diplomatic service?” he said, relaxing a little. He allowed himself to remember that Valery had not been one of his persecutors at the Academy, and had suffered quite a few torments of his own.

“I see you’re invited to dinner at the palace tonight, too,” Valery said, stamping his pass and handing it back.

“Too?” Pavel looked at Valery, wondering if he might be the one to involve in his plan.

“The Emperor honored me with an invitation as well. And now that you’re here, I begin to wonder if he’s invited our whole year from the Military Academy.”

The Emperor favored an informal approach to entertaining his dinner guests, borne of long years on campaign and an ingrained impatience with elaborate dining rituals.

So when Pavel and Valery met in the antechamber, a liveried servant presented them with a tray of crystal glasses filled with aquavit—a custom more usual at military dinners.

“To a brighter future, then,” Valery said, raising his glass. “To the empire.”

Pavel shrugged and clinked his glass against Valery’s. The aquavit was clean-tasting, sharp in the throat as a breath of icy air. He glanced around the antechamber, wondering who else the Emperor had invited from his Mirom past.

The double doors at the far side of the antechamber opened. The murmur of conversation ceased as the guests drew back from the doorway, bowing.

The Emperor Eugene and the Empress Astasia, accompanied by two of her ladies-in-waiting, had entered the antechamber. Astasia was dressed in a watered silk gown of hyacinth blue. Sapphires and diamonds glittered at her throat and in her elaborately arranged dark hair. Yet in spite of her formal court attire, Pavel still saw the young girl in white muslin who had once so intrigued him.

Suddenly he was back at his first court ball, thrown in honor of Astasia Orlova’s eighteenth birthday. In her simple white gown, she had seemed to him more exquisite than all the bejeweled women of the court—even the flamboyant beauty of the famed tragedienne, Olga Giladkova. With her cloud of soft dark hair and wide, violet eyes, Astasia had completely bewitched him. He and Valery had competed to partner her in dance after dance. It had not gone unnoticed at the time.

Was that why he had been sent back to Francia so swiftly afterward?

Astasia was coming nearer, welcoming the guests with smiles and polite little exchanges of greeting.

He shot a sideways glance at Valery and saw that the lieutenant’s face had turned red. Valery started to fiddle with his stiff imperial collar as if it were too tight. Did he still have feelings for Astasia? Surely it was not the heat that had caused him to flush so deeply. . . .

“Lieutenant Valery Vassian; Pavel Velemir of the Muscobar Diplomatic Service,” announced an equerry.

Vassian clicked his heels and saluted; Pavel bowed. As he raised his head, he saw Astasia gazing at him intently. It was only for a second; a moment later her expression was composed, her smile distant.

“Lieutenant Vassian, I am delighted to see you’ve joined the Imperial Household Cavalry.” She extended her hand and Pavel watched Vassian fumble a clumsy kiss. “I had great respect for your father. I know you will serve the empire as dedicatedly as he served Muscobar.”

Then she turned to Pavel.

“And welcome, Pavel Velemir. It seems so long since we last met in Mirom. I trust the journey from Francia was not too tedious?”

He took her hand and held it to his lips. In spite of the warmth of the late spring evening, her slender fingers were cool.

No mention of his uncle. Well, it was hardly surprising, under the circumstances.

“The weather was clement and the seas were kind, highness,” he said formally.

“Did you attend the ballet in Lutèce?”

The question took him by surprise. “On several occasions.”

Her violet eyes were suddenly alight with interest. “You must tell me all about it! I am determined we should invite the company to the new theater at Swanholm—” She broke off, glancing uncertainly at Eugene, as though sensing that she had stepped beyond the bounds of imperial propriety.

Eugene nodded indulgently at his young wife, then moved on, obliging her to follow.

Pavel let out a slow breath; he had the distinct sense that he and Vassian had just been tested by the Emperor.

“So where’s your next mission?” Vassian took out a linen handkerchief and mopped his forehead. Pavel could tell he was forcing the polite conversation for even as he spoke, his eyes strayed after Astasia. “Back to Francia?”

Pavel gave him a brief smile. “Probably.”

“Damn it,” Vassian said in a sudden burst of feeling. “She’s radiant, isn’t she? Too good for the likes of us. And yet if things had gone otherwise for Muscobar, if Andrei Orlov hadn’t drowned—”

The double doors opened again, revealing a candlelit dining table beyond. A delicious savory smell wafted out; Pavel recognized the bittersweet aroma of fennel and fish bisque.

“Dinner is served.”

“It is my custom, as many of you know,” the Emperor announced as servants discreetly and efficiently removed the dessert plates from the long dining table, “to reward those who have served the empire faithfully.”