Chapter Two
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!