Authors: Alicia Rasley
Buntin, a vicar's daughter, had lived in the Winter Palace for nearly a decade but had never gotten used to the violent intrigue of the Russian court. In fact, she generally tried to ignore it, almost preferring to believe that it was all a figment of Tatiana's imagination. "Oh, Tatiana, when will you learn to think before you speak? You harm only yourself with such wild talk. I thought teaching children would have made you a little more responsible, but instead you seem to be getting more childish yourself. If only you could see yourself now. You are pouting just like little Arkady."
Tatiana gritted her teeth with frustration. With her red hair and elfin features, she was always taken to be a willful child. However justified, her anger was regarded as pique, her resolve dismissed as obstinacy. Even her companion refused to take her seriously. She still loved Buntin, for she'd had no one else all these years. But she suspected that her companion believed what Dmitry said, that Tatiana's wildness was all that kept her from being accepted by her relations.
But she had no other confidant in this vast palace, so she retorted, "Well, I have reason to be agitated, Buntin. I'm supposed to marry your mad prince, Cumberland. And if I don't they'll exile me to Siberia and send you away, and the children will have no one to care for them while their mothers work."
Buntin raised frail hands to her trembling mouth. "Of course you must do what your uncle wants. He is your closest kin."
"Uncle?" Tatiana repeated, glaring at the door whose only offense was to admit Prince Dmitry to the room. "He's no kin of mine. He sees me as an obstacle, one he can marry off to a madman." She paced to the window, gazing out at the dingy snow four stories below, slowly receding from the courtyard as spring advanced into summer. The horrid winter had confined the children to their schoolroom and kept Tatiana from her daily rides through the nearby park. She had longed for summer, for the chance to teach the children about the glorious march of nature. But she would not see any riot of blooming in Siberia, where summer never took hold.
"Cumberland is a royal duke." Buntin recalled her to the subject at hand. "I hardly think he would be mad."
Tatiana received this with a world-weary sigh, for Buntin's innocent notions of royalty were absurdly at odds with palace life. "I know the Hanovers are your royal family, but you must not be so naive. King George talks to trees as if they were his advisors. Cumberland slit his valet's throat. The whole family is utterly crack-brained."
"Those are only rumors."
"And if they've reached us here in Petersburg, they must have merit." Actually, she knew of Cumberland's unsavory reputation only from the scandal rags Buntin's sister sent every month from Kent. But those journal were lavish in detail and speculation: Cumberland had cuckolded his valet and then murdered him, Cumberland had impregnated his own sister—if half of it was true, Tatiana was in deep trouble. "Oh, Buntin, what am I to do?" Like a child, she dropped to the floor and buried her head in the governess's lap, her body tight with fear.
Buntin smoothed back Tatiana's tangled red hair, her fingers brushing her temple. Finally she replied, "Is it all bad, dear? I wonder if you are reacting out of dislike for your uncle. But you may be cutting off your nose to spite your face."
This was a frequent lament of Buntin's, that Tatiana reacted rebelliously to any perceived domination. Perhaps there was some truth to it after all, for Tatiana did savor defying her uncle. Buntin, sensing some weakening, persisted in her gentle way. "Think on it. You'll be away from Dmitry and the court that you say you hate. You'll meet people your own age and go to dances and parties. No one there will know about your—your father, and with your beauty, you might be the toast of town, if only you are careful."
"With my beauty?" Tatiana echoed, startled out of her anguish. "What beauty? Who ever heard of a redheaded princess? Of course," she added thoughtfully, "Napoleon himself called me 'that flaming flower' and he's a noted connoisseur, isn't he?"
"Don't speak of Napoleon, dear, please," Buntin said faintly. For Tatiana was never meant to meet nor to attract the emperor, and if the tsar ever learned about that escapade, they'd both be packed off to Siberia in a winking. "Think instead of leaving this place, and of having the life you were meant to have, a palace of your own, a highborn husband and children, your freedom."
Tatiana sat back on her heels, her eyes unusually cloudy with thought. Oddly, it had never before occurred to her that she might have a life outside the Winter Palace. In fact, with her usual disregard for the morrow, she had assumed that, were she ever allowed to marry, she would wed poor Cousin Peter and move to a larger apartment in the palace. She knew no other life; however unloving, the palace was the only home she had ever known. What happiness she had made in life, she had made here.
"But I would be leaving behind our little school." She gestured around the room she had commandeered for the children of servants. "And it's been such fun, stealing all those desks from the other palace school—the headmistress must seethe whenever she thinks of nonroyal bottoms in them. And all the children's paintings put up to relieve the gloom—I daresay this is the cheerfullest room in the palace." She stopped to draw a breath, but plunged on almost immediately. "And the children's mothers are so grateful to visit their children while they work. Count Nevski might have been angry at first, but now even he might admit his staff works better when their children are safe. I daresay he was glad to get me out from underfoot also."
Buntin finally threw politeness out the window and interrupted. "Perhaps he will be glad enough to keep the school going in your absence. He certainly could do it if he chose. No one interferes with his decisions on the household matters in this wing."
"I hardly think he would even enter this room, much less run the school," Tatiana said resentfully. She knew that if she left, the school, into which she had poured all her restless energy for two years, would be closed and the children abandoned again.
"Of course," she said thoughtfully, tapping her finger on her chin, "I could insist that Nevski keep the school open."
Buntin looked anxious, for a militant light had appeared in the girl's green eyes. "You mustn't make them angry."
"Why not? They are making me angry, disarranging my life so dictatorially. But I have the advantage now for the first time. They should expect me to negotiate to make my prospects more comfortable." A triumphant smile curved Tatiana's mouth. "In exchange for my consent, I will exact some small payment. Oh, do not worry, Buntin. I shall only ask for sensible concessions. Like the crown jewels of Saraya Kalin. They're mine by right anyway. And money of my own, so I shan't be dependent on a prince's largesse any longer. And a new wardrobe. I can hardly meet the British royal family dressed like a ragamuffin, can I? And a schoolmistress and funds for the school. Oh, I'm sure I can get whatever I ask for. I f the alliance truly rests on me, the tsar should be happy to meet such meager conditions, don't you think?"
Ignoring the moan that was her only reply, Tatiana took Buntin's hand and squeezed it. "And you must come with me. I'd be lost by myself at the British court."
Buntin's faded eyes brightened just a little. "You? No, you will never be at a loss. But of course I will accompany you. I've grown to hate these eternal winters, and I long so for my homeland."
Tatiana was chagrined, for with a princess's presumption, she had never considered that her companion might want to be somewhere other than right by her side. Eager to discard the self-centeredness of a decade, she demanded, "You've only stayed here because of me, haven't you? You would have returned to England years ago, if you hadn't felt responsible for me."
Buntin smiled with gentle amusement. "I was waiting for you to grow up, and it has taken an unconscionably long time. But finally, you are twenty, ready to be married, and to a royal duke, no less, just as you deserve!"
Tatiana's sulky mouth turned down as she considered this. Then, with typical disdain, she dismissed all her fears. "I don't have to think of that yet." As Buntin opened her mouth, Tatiana shook her head, setting her too-long curls dancing. "Oh, don't listen to my nonsense! Tell me again about how shocking married ladies are in England, how they walk about town with only one attendant, how they choose their own friends."
Relieved by Tatiana's proper interest in marriage, Buntin replied, "Oh, they're shameless, they are. Here a man would send his wife to a convent if she behaved so wantonly, taking admirers left and right and talking about issues of the day. You'd love it, riding in the park virtually unchaperoned, and speaking your mind—of course, you do that here unsparingly."
"But there I shouldn't be punished for it." Tatiana sat back thoughtfully, tucking her skirt under her heels. "Oh, I think I might like this homeland of yours, Buntin. England . . . the very name sounds like freedom to me."
She jumped to her feet and pulled at Buntin's hand. "Come help me. I need to put on my best gown. I'll insist on speaking to the tsar himself—to give him my conditions for consent."
Chapter Two
August 1811 London
Before he opened his eyes, the Viscount Devlyn oriented himself in the universe. He was in his Cavendish Square townhouse, not Portugal; in his own bedroom, not a dusty tent along the River Caia. He was playing civilian again, at least for a few months, and the war's tedium and terror were far away.
It was the second of August in 1811, and he was alone. He had been home almost a week now, and thought he'd never get used to it again.
Precisely three weeks before, he had been on the Peninsula, with gunfire still echoing in the hills above the Caia. It was rising noon when Devlyn galloped up to the farmhouse commandeered as General Wellington's headquarters. He dismounted slowly, bone-tired from three days riding to and from the various cavalry regiments ranged above the river. He could see Wellington through the dusty window—everything was dusty that Portuguese summer—counting off his staff aides as they straggled in across the flagstone courtyard, safe again from their various skirmishes. The general's ramrod stance was the only sign of his anxiety, but then, Devlyn mused, the general was ever one for perfect military bearing.
That morning Wellington could count off the whole of his little family, for "family" was how Wellington liked to style his staff, and the bickering and rivalry and jealousies among them made that appropriate enough. In fact, Berendts and Destain were whispering insults to each other even as they followed Devlyn into the fussy parlor where the lady of the house used to receive the parish priest.
Only when the staff was all assembled and silent did Wellington turn from the window. With the privilege of rank, the three generals gave their reports first and were dismissed back to their divisions with a wave of Wellington's hand. When only the junior staff remained, Major Ellingham received the nod and, eyes on his muddy boots, reported the infantry's excessive casualties, caused more by dysentery than French aggression. Jordy Tregier contrived to be elegant even with a scratched face and a torn uniform—the result of an encounter either with a bramble bush or a Portuguese belle. But he too looked abashed as he described a misinterpreted order that had a squadron of grenadiers blowing up the wrong aqueduct.
Wellington rubbed the bridge of his hooked nose and turned with a baleful look to Devlyn. "Oh, no, it's back to digging trenches for you," whispered the irrepressible Destain. But Devlyn ignored him, and Wellington only flicked an amused glance at them both.
"He's right, Major. If you've only unhappy news for me, I'd suggest you put it in writing and post it to me, for I'm in the mood for killing the messenger."
But Devlyn's news was good, or good enough, at any rate—the French cavaliers were exhausted, their horses dying on their feet, and the retreating units hadn't the strength to hold off a British march toward the Spanish fort of Cuidad Rodrigo. Wellington nodded regally, received the reports of his other staff officers, and sat for a moment at his spindly maple desk before taking up his quill to write. "We have outstared them again. Dare I call it a victory?"
The other young aides—for Wellington himself was young for a general, and liked to surround himself with youth—all called out affirmation. Only Devlyn remained silent, propped against the stone mantel, his eyes half-closed. "Are you still with us, Major? You seem less than enthusiastic about our latest victory," Wellington observed in his cool voice.
But Devlyn, opening his eyes for just the moment, replied with matching calm, "If you are looking for enthusiasm, General, you must find yourself another major. It is a victory if you say it is a victory—and if Bonaparte agrees."
"I can always reply upon you, Devlyn, to keep the war in perspective for me," Wellington said sardonically. He regarded his aide steadily, and Devlyn, with a sigh, pushed away from the mantel until he was nearly at attention. No regulation, however, required him to smile at the general's little jokes, barbed with the faint antagonism that always existed between Wellington and his unenthusiastic major.
Now that he had that major back in line, Wellington returned to his letter. "Well, I haven't Bonaparte here to advise me, so I will take it upon myself to declare a victory. We have had so few this summer." The general's quill scratched at the dispatch, then, with a flourish, he signed his name. "Now who would like to take this home for me?"
Routine dispatches from the front were carried by the captains of the supply ships that left Portugal nearly every other day. But this was an especially important message, of the French retreat after four tedious weeks, of the plans for the march north, of the immediate need for reinforcements and resupply. Along with the responsibility for briefing the War Office would come several weeks of rest and respite for the fortunate messenger. And none of them had taken leave for a year or more. So at Wellington's jaunty question, four young officers looked at each other, all of them about to cry out like children, "Me, me!" But the fifth officer, Devlyn, only closed his eyes again, wishing Wellington would dismiss him so he could go to his tent and take off his boots for the first time in three days. He tried to move his toes, but they were mortared into place.