Splendor (20 page)

And Carolyn seemed disappointed. Her smile was forced. "That is unnecessary in any case."

He did not reply. Staring, he could only think that Carolyn would make the perfect companion for his daughter, the absolutely perfect companion.

But did he need such a complication in his own life?

<4^ Fourteen ^

"I do not understand," James Taft said. He sat at his desk in the bustUng ground-floor office of the Morning Chronicle. The room was filled with desks and printing equipment, the latest technology just imported from Germany. One of the new steam presses was even now rolling, and in spite of the importance of her visit, Carolyn could not help watching with fascination. Thank God, she thought, for both the steam press and another new invention which allowed paper to be machine-made.

Carolyn faced Taft, a short, plump man with a face full of gray whiskers. ' T want to know who brought in the last Copperville column."

Taft blinked. ' 'That is an odd request. Some young boy. He said you were in a hurry and could not deliver it yourself." Taft leaned back in his solid oak chair. "What is wrong, Carolyn? It was a good column. My readers enjoyed it inmiensely. Prince Sverayov is an engaging topic, because he is foreign royalty. I want more columns about him."

Carolyn forced a smile. Inwardly she was dismayed. She did not, suddenly, want to write about Sverayov. Not now. Not anymore. ' 'Did you notice anything unusual about the boy? Did he come on foot? Was there a town coach outside?" The office had huge glass windows, and usually the shades were up. Currently Carolyn had a perfectly unfet-

tered view of the bustling street outside. Pedestrians thronged the sidewalks, and vehicles of all kinds, carriages and phaetons, mail coaches and heavy drays, were driving by.

"How would I know if he came on foot?" Taft frowned.

Carolyn swallowed, certain she was chasing a wild goose. "Perhaps there was a huge black lacquer coach outside, drawn by six blacks, with a snarling red wolf emblazoned on the door?" Surely it was a wild-goose chase— but Carolyn could not shake her feeling of uneasiness.

"A black coach drawn by a team of six blacks?" Taft chortled. "Please, Carolyn, some waif delivered the column. Now, unless you wish to tell me what this is about, I have work to do."

"Thank you, Mr. Taft. I will see you in a few days." Carolyn started to leave. "But in future, I shall not entrust any articles to anyone, so please do not accept my column unless I deliver it myself."

Taft laid down his quill and the article he was editing. He squinted at her. "I think I finally understand. Are you suggesting that the column was not yours?"

"Of course not!" Carolyn cried.

Carolyn was wearing her most elegant gown, a white muslin dress flecked with small sea-green flowers, and a green sash tied beneath her breasts. As it was short sleeved and had a scooped neckline, she wore a pale cashmere mantle over it, which had belonged to her mother. She had added a darker green satin ribbon to her hair, and was wearing a pearl necklace and earbobs which had also been Margaret's. Anthony had been giving her numerous admiring glances since picking her up at the bookstore.

His carriage was queued up in front of the opera house as they waited their turn to disembark. Carolyn was not thinking about Anthony now, even though he sat across from her in the small space, for she was watching couples and parties in their splendid evening wear descending from one coach after another, only to congregate briefly on the

sidewalk to greet one another before going up the sweeping stone steps of the opera house. She was itching to take up a quill and open a notebook. Of course, she had neither accoutrement with her—neither an inkwell nor a notebook would fit inside her small reticule, another possession which had been Margaret's.

"Is that Lord William Darrow?" she asked.

Anthony peered out of the window. "Yes, it is. Why do you ask?"

"Who is that with him?" The elderly Darrow was with a much younger man, someone not much older than Carolyn.

"That is his son."

"That's not Fred Darrow, Anthony." Darrow's heir and only child was at least thirty-five.

Anthony colored. "That is John Lewis."

Carolyn turned to gaze at Anthony. "An illegitimate child?"

Anthony nodded sharply. Clearly he was uncomfortable with the subject. Carolyn asked a few more questions and learned that Darrow had three children out of wedlock. Of course, it was hardly uncommon amongst the peerage.

"It is our turn," Anthony said, relieved.

Carolyn allowed him to help her out, feeling somewhat guilty for embarrassing him. She couldn't help comparing Anthony to Sverayov. The Russian would have been amused by her curiosity and would have supplied her with all the information she wished to have—if he had known it. Carolyn had no doubt.

They ascended the many front steps of the wide, granite building. Carolyn was somber now, recalling her visit to Sverayov's town house earlier that day. She thought about him, his child, the kitten, and that grim, nasty Taichili. Mostly, she thought about him and his daughter. She felt so sorry for them both. She had the instinctive urge to meddle in their private lives and somehow correct whatever it was that was wrong.

The foyer of the opera house was white marble, filled

with columns, and so crowded with chatting guests that it was hard to maneuver through them. Anthony kept a firm grip on her elbow, and every minute or two they paused to greet lords and ladies whom he was acquainted with. Carolyn was introduced, and was aware of a few mildly curious gazes turned her way, but she herself was more interested in observing the crowd than in noting their reactions to her. As Anthony led her through the throngs, she craned her neck, watching everyone, enjoying herself. She saw half a dozen noblemen and women whom she recognized. More than a few had made an appearance in a Copperville column. She saw Anthony's father in quiet conversation with a leading Whig, and she wondered what that was about. She saw the very notorious Lady Hampton, the mother of six children, none of whom had the same father, or so it was said, flirting outrageously with the very young, very dashing Lord Monroe.

And then she glimpsed Sverayov.

Carolyn halted without knowing it, turning, straining to glimpse him again to make sure it had not been an illusion. But he stood a head taller than most of the crowd, and she saw his perfect profile and crown of tawny hair as clear as day. It was too crowded for her to see whom he was speaking with. Anthony was tugging on her elbow so she turned reluctantly, and followed him into the theater.

They took their seats in his box, which he was sharing with three other couples. Everyone was politely introduced, but, like Carolyn, more interested in who was flocking to their seats than in each other.

"You shall enjoy this performance," Anthony whispered in her ear. "They say Giuseppe Maione is excellent."

Carolyn did not nod. Sverayov had entered his box, not far from where she and Anthony sat. He paused, nodding at the box's other occupants, before taking his seat. Unlike everyone surrounding him, he did not seem to care who was present in the audience that night. And he was alone. She was, insanely, relieved.

"Sverayov," Anthony said matter-of-factly.

Carolyn realized that she was staring, and that he was aware of her interest. She blushed. "He is very tall. He is

easy to notice, impossible to miss."

"Does he shop in your store frequently?" Anthony asked.

"No." Carolyn's reply was hasty. Her gaze remained on Sverayov as he chatted with a gentleman, although she did so out of the comer of her eye. She had never seen him in a tailcoat before. He was breathtaking. "He has asked my father to locate two rare manuscripts." She faced Anthony.

"I see." Anthony did not sound happy.

Suddenly a woman appeared in the box, a flash of silver, equally impossible to miss. Carolyn stared openly. Sverayov stood. She held on to his arm and kissed his cheek very intimately, pressing her body familiarly against his. Carolyn froze. The woman was magnificent, surely the most exotic, sensual creature Carolyn had ever seen, with thick blue-black hair and pale ivory skin, and although she was petite, her body was lush, and she was wearing the kind of gown made fashionable so recently by les merveil-leuses, a nearly transparent silvery-white silk that skimmed every curve of her body, leaving nothing to the imagination. She wore a huge necklace of sapphires and diamonds, the kind of jewelry that only royalty could afford. Carolyn could only guess who this woman was. Pain seemed to lance through her breast. She watched Sverayov bow over her hand. "Is that his wife?" Carolyn heard herself ask breathlessly—bitterly.

"I don't know," Anthony said, his tone strange.

Carolyn's gaze flew to his face. She caught him staring at the woman. Immediately he looked away. Carolyn quickly glanced around and saw that every man in the vicinity had eyes only for the princess. When she regarded Anthony again he was blushing, and looking everywhere but at Marie-Elena.

"She is ravishing," Carolyn said thickly. But it was more than that. It was her blatant sensuality, perhaps, that drew every eye to her. Why was she so dismayed? Carolyn

was not competing with the other woman, not for anything, and she had never beheved that beauty was relevant or important. And beauty was in the eye of the beholder. But God, Marie-Elena and Sverayov suited one another perfectly, for they were both incredible, superlative shining examples of their gender.

Anthony did not answer.

Carolyn watched Marie-Elena detach herself from Sverayov and leave his box. A moment later she had entered another box, the silver gown shimmering as she sat. Carolyn thought she could see right through the silvery fabric and glimpse the woman's actual skin. At least, she thought dismally, the princess had an entourage separate from Sver-ayov's.

Carolyn looked away, sorry now that she had come to the opera, for suddenly the day seemed burdensome, overwhelming. And when she glanced up again, it was not to watch the stage curtains parting, it was to find Sverayov.

He remained seated in his box. It was full. And one of the occupants, newly arrived, was Lady Carradine.

During the intermission everyone descended to the lobby to chat and mingle, the gentlemen with a glass of cognac and, occasionally, a lady with a sherry. Carolyn found herself face-to-face with Anthony's father, Lord Davison, a prominent member of Castlereagh's foreign ministry. She kept recalling the fact that Lord Davison had been in Madam Russell's brothel that night she had gone there with Sverayov.

"Father, I wish to introduce Miss Carolyn Browne," Anthony was saying.

"How do you do?" Carolyn said politely.

Stuart Davison gave her an odd glance and a stiff bow. "A pleasure," he said, turning a dark look on his son. Clearly it was not a pleasure, quite the opposite. "I will see you later," he said to Anthony, a warning in his tone. And then he mmed abruptly and began chatting, quite animatedly, with a group of gentlemen.

Anthony was red-faced.

"I am afraid your father does not approve of your choice of guest," Carolyn said flatly. She could not help being angry. Davison had no right to judge her, none at all.

"I apologize. He will come around. He will change his tune when he finds out that you are Lady Stafford's granddaughter."

Carolyn opened her mouth to tell Anthony to please not bother to relay that information, then saw Sverayov staring at her. She felt herself flush and she said nothing.

"Would you like a glass of sherry?" Anthony asked.

Carolyn nodded. Anthony disappeared. Sverayov shot her a look from across the crowd, nodded to something a woman Carolyn did not recognize was saying, and began, quite deliberately, making his way over to her. Carolyn did not move.

At least, she thought, he was not with the voluptuous Lady Carradine.

He reached her and bowed. "Miss Browne."

"Your Excellency."

His gaze slid over her face, as if memorizing every feature, and then over her decolletage, her waist, and her legs. He was very obvious, and she was both flattered and amused. Carolyn felt like hfting up one foot and asking him if he liked her sUppers. She remained silent.

"Once again, this is an unexpected pleasure," he said. "I did not think to find you here." He smiled. "You do have the habit of turning up in the most extraordinary places."

Carolyn wondered if he referred to her masquerade as Brighton. "One could say that about you, Excellency. Are you enjoying Maione?" she asked politely. Thinking about him, his wife, his daughter—and his mistress.

Sverayov shrugged. "I am not an opera lover. I prefer the theater."

Carolyn hesitated, for his gaze was piercing. "There is much theater here."

He smiled, the expression genuine. "There most certainly is."

Carolyn also smiled, and for one moment it was as if they understood one another perfectly. It was a stunning, beautiful moment.

And then his expression changed. His glance had moved beyond Carolyn—behind her.

Carolyn shifted—and saw Marie-Elena staring at them both. For some unfathomable reason, a chill swept over her.

"My wife," he said, unnecessarily.

"I guessed as much." Carolyn gave the other woman her back, although Marie-Elena still stared, but not before she had seen how cold and malevolent the princess's regard was. Carolyn was unnerved. "She is extraordinarily beautiful. Your daughter resembles her."

"Yes, Katya does." He hesitated. "I am afraid I have decided not to stay for the second half of the opera. I have work to attend to tonight."

"I am sorry," Carolyn said. "Maione is superb."

He held her gaze. "You are superb this evening, Carolyn. Evening wear suits you."

She was stunned.

He bowed briefly, with his customary arrogance, wheeled, and disappeared into the crowd.

Carolyn stared after him, aware now of her thundering heart. Such a simple piece of flattery—and she was bowled over. But she was intelligent enough to know that no good could come of her feelings and his sudden interest in her.

And when Carolyn turned, looking for Anthony, she came face-to-face with his wife.