Flight to Verechenko (18 page)

‘The young lady in question took exception to my offer, did not deign to meet me and fled from London to her grandmother's, pronouncing me a dissolute womaniser whom no decent girl would ever marry.' There was something very much like amusement in his voice. ‘So you see what you would be getting, my love. The whole of London knew of the offer and will think you a young woman of very little taste in choosing to marry me.'

‘Oh Dominic,' Catherine's voice was anguished. ‘ Oh Dominic,
please
let me talk to you.
Please
let me explain …'

There came the sound of marching feet and Kiril burst into the room, white-faced and trembling.

‘My God, Clare! I'll kill you for this!'

A score of servants ran hastily down the sides of the drawing room, lighting the chandeliers, and from the open doorway beyond Kiril the dancers in the ballroom looked across with interest. The music had changed to a slow waltz and even above the band and the laughter and conversation Kiril's words rang clearly.

‘For what?' Dominic asked quietly, a dangerous light in his eyes.

‘For luring my fiancée into a compromising situation!'

‘Your fiancee?' Dominic's voice was ice-cold and deadly.

By now several couples had gathered interestedly in the doorway. As if in a nightmare Catherine was aware of Lena's girlish gown of rose pink and the incongruous rosebuds in the frizzed hair.

‘Our engagement is to be announced this evening,' Kiril said tightly, wishing to God he had a sword to run through the arrogant Englishman. ‘Eleanor accepted my offer a week ago. I have no alternative but to ask you to leave Verechenko immediately.'

Dominic stared from Kiril to Catherine, white-faced. ‘If what you say is true, nothing would give me greater pleasure.'

Catherine held her breath. She felt as if she were drowning, submerged beneath relentless waves.

‘
Everyone
knows Eleanor is to marry Kiril,' Lena was saying chirpily. ‘It really is too bad of you, behaving like this. Spoiling things for them in this way.'

‘Believe me, I wouldn't spoil things for them for the world,' Dominic's voice was a whiplash.

He looked across at Catherine, his eyes frightening in their intensity. ‘Is it true that Dolgorovsky intended announcing your betrothal this evening?'

‘Yes. But …' The room was closing in on Catherine, the blood drumming in her ears.

‘Then all I can say, madam, is that my first impression of you was accurate. You may be beautiful but you are also a harlot!'

The group at the door had turned into a crowd. They gasped in delighted horror as Kiril's fist shot out, knocking Dominic to the floor. Slowly Dominic rose to his feet, his eyes blazing as the crowd made way for Princess Dagmar.

‘I would beat the hell out of you, Dolgorovsky, only she's not worth the effort,' he rasped. ‘You're welcome to her.' And before Catherine could cry out in protest he strode from the room, shouldering his way savagely through the goggle-eyed spectators.

‘Dominic!' Catherine's voice seemed to come from a vast distance as she ran after him. ‘Dominic, wait. Wait! Let me explain! Wait! Oh, please wait!'

Princess Dagmar barred her way. ‘Distress yourself no further about his disgraceful conduct,' she said in her carrying voice. ‘You behaved with great presence of mind in sending for help.'

An imperious wave of the cane was enough to send her guests scurrying speculatively back to the ballroom.

The doors were closed behind the three of them: Kiril breathing harshly, Catherine only half conscious and the Princess, her face impassive.

‘You will continue to behave as if nothing had happened. Under the circumstances there will be no public announcement of marriage this evening.'

‘But …' Kiril interrupted hotly.

‘But nothing. You understand nothing and never have done. Catherine, I will see you in my boudoir when the guests have departed.'

It was the first time she had used Catherine's name in Kiril's presence. He was too angry even to notice.

‘But I must go to him!' Catherine protested, distraught.

The Princess's eyes held hers, freezing her where she stood.

‘You will do no such thing. It would be of no avail. You forget that I understand the situation perfectly. Go back into the ballroom with Kiril and behave as if nothing has happened.'

Even as the Princess was speaking, Catherine knew that she was right. She wouldn't even be able to find Dominic now, and she knew that the only person who could explain the situation to him was the Princess. She must leave it in her hands and do as she was told. A look of silent understanding passed between them. Then the Princess turned her attention to her grandson.

Now was not the time to tell him he had lost Catherine, for she knew her companion well enough to know that even if the Marquis never spoke to her again, Catherine would not marry Kiril now. Kiril still didn't understand. It had never occurred to him that Catherine had been in the darkened room and in Dominic's arms out of choice. He would soon recover from his broken heart, and present her with some lifeless but suitable Princess as his bride.

With her heart breaking, Catherine allowed Kiril to lead her back into the ballroom. The Princess's presence quenched any rumours or gossip. The music played and Kiril led her out into the centre of the floor.

‘It is no use arguing with my grandmother tonight,' he said bitterly. ‘ Clare has ruined everything.'

Behind discreet fans word had passed amongst the dowagers present of the scene in the small drawing-room till at last it had reached Lady Cunningham. The Marquis!
Amelia's
Marquis! Compromised by that brazen harlot and now already packing his bags and leaving before he had proposed to Amelia! Her mottled face was white with rage. And there she was, dancing in the arms of Prince Dolgorovsky as if nothing had happened! Lady Cunningham had an intense desire to commit murder.

‘I am not marrying you,' Catherine was saying. ‘I never did say I would, Kiril. Only that I would think about it.'

His steps faltered. ‘Because of Clare's behaviour? Because you think I would be hurt by gossip?' He laughed. ‘You don't understand Russians yet, my darling. The whole thing will be forgotten in twenty-four hours. This is St Petersburg, not London.'

Catherine shook her head. ‘No, it's not because of that. I don't love you Kiril. I couldn't possibly marry you.'

He stared at her incredulously.

‘Is there someone else? You love someone else?'

She could hold back the tears no longer.

‘Yes,' she said as the tears fell unrestrainedly down her face. ‘ I love Dominic and now he will never have anything to do with me again!'

For once Kiril came into his own. Already passing couples had noticed Catherine's tear-wet cheeks and he led her quickly off the dance floor and onto the deserted flower-filled balcony. He had lost her. He knew it with certainty. She had never said she loved him, never given him a promise to marry, but he had gone ahead with his plans, confidently assuming. And now the Englishman, the man she loved, thought her flighty and of no account. Yet Kiril knew differently. He could tell by the suffering in her eyes the depths of her feelings for the Marquis. Kiril would have been inhuman if he had not felt a pang of jealousy at the love Dominic had aroused in Catherine. He had destroyed her happiness with careless words, the least he could do was to try and make amends.

‘I am sorry,' he said gently. ‘ I will speak to him and explain.'

‘He will have left now,' Catherine said between sobs. ‘He could be anywhere. He won't stay in Petersburg. Your grandmother made it quite clear that he was forcing unwelcome attentions on me in order to protect my reputation. I have ruined him in London and now in St Petersburg.'

Kiril did not understand a word about London and decided not to tax his strength by enquiring. To him it was simple. He would follow the Marquis. Explain that Eleanor had never agreed to marry him and that the wedding annoucement had been a gross assumption. Eleanor and the Marquis would then live happily ever after and he could console himself with his little opera singer. It was all perfectly simple.

There was no sense in forcing Eleanor to endure the ballroom a moment longer. Risking his grandmother's wrath he led her unprotestingly towards her boudoir and an astonished looking Vilya.

‘I think your mistress needs a warm brandy,' he said to Vilya. ‘Ring for one and see that she is disturbed no more this evening.'

Vilya, backstairs gossip not yet having reached her, bobbed a curtsey and promised she would do so, wondering what on earth had happened. She had the good sense not to question Catherine. Silently she helped her out of her dress and draped a negligé over her shoulders while she summoned a footman for the prescribed warm brandy.

Catherine stared weakly into the mirror. The rose lay in her hair, as fresh, as fragile as it had been only brief hours ago when she had placed it there so carefully and happily.

Feeling as if her heart would break, she plucked it from its bed of curls and, smelling the sweet fragrance, crushed it between her fingers, laying her head on her arms and crying unrestrainedly.

Kiril strode through the endless rooms towards the suite occupied by the Marquis. Dominic's personal valet was busy packing countless clothes into monogrammed trunks.

‘Where is the Marquis?' Kiril asked abruptly.

The valet cleared his throat uncomfortably. ‘His Lordship has left. He gave me instructions to pack his wardrobe and to await further instructions when the trunks were collected.'

Kiril cursed beneath his breath. It was Russians who were supposed to be the hot-headed and impulsive, not the normally cool English, though Kiril had never for a moment classified Dominic in the same category as most of his countrymen. He had always found Dominic's presence disturbing. The women fluttered round him like moths around a flame, and he seemed impervious to them. Only Catherine had aroused him and Kiril could well understand why. Even as he called for his carriage he wondered if he was slightly mad, going to all this trouble to reunite the woman he had wanted to marry with a man who had the audacity to refer to her as a harlot. And in public! Not for the first time did Kiril feel he would never understand women.

The music from the ballroom rose and fell. Gay laughter drifted down behind him as he ran, his valet hurriedly throwing an evening cloak around his shoulders as he stepped into the waiting carriage.

‘To the Narymovna,' he said, leaning back against the padded leather as the stallions broke into a gallop down Verechenko's driveway.

Whether Dominic was a frequenter of the notorious club Kiril had no way of knowing. He could only judge Dominic by himself. If he had felt himself to have been made a fool of over a woman, his immediate reaction would be to forget his humiliation in other arms. In fact, under the circumstances, Kiril wanted nothing more than to get the damned business of Dominic and Eleanor sorted out so that he could pursue his own pleasures in the Nary-movna.

While there had been hope of marrying Eleanor he had behaved with great discretion, his desire for her overwhelming his desire for lesser women. Now, philosophically resigned to the fact that he would never possess her, his thoughts were already on the tempting lips and abandoned bodies of the Narymovna girls.

The St Petersburg streets, always a mass of seething gaiety late at night as carriages drew up depositing bare-shouldered women in glittering gowns, were so crowded this particular night that Kiril despaired of ever reaching his destination. For the first time he felt no elation at the coming war. Without it, half of the crowd would have nothing to celebrate and his carriage would be able to force its way through. As it was, even a carriage bearing the Dolgorovsky coat-of-arms was brought to a standstill time and time again by singing, drunken mobs. Kiril leant his head out of the window, crying ‘Get out of the way you damn fools!' wishing earnestly that he had brought his whip with him. His anger brought very little improvement as he was left to seethe impotently as his coachman did his best, forcing the horses forward regardless of who happened to be in their path. At last, quite out of temper, Kiril descended from his carriage into the opulent entrance of the infamous Narymovna Club.

Countess Rastrelli came forward to him arms outstretched. It had been weeks since one of her most influential customers had graced the Narymovna with his presence.

‘A little gambling, your Highness?' she asked, the soft lights kind to the blue-shadowed eyelids that looked crepey in the harshness of the day.

‘No. I am looking for an Englishman. The Marquis of Clare. Tall, broad-shouldered, black-haired.'

Regretfully the Countess shook her head. The Englishman sounded most interesting.

‘I am sorry, your Highness, only our regular clientele are gaming tonight. And not many of them. Princess Dolgorovsky's ball has claimed their attention.' She hesitated fractionally. Princess Dolgorovsky's name-day ball was one of the highlights of the social season and here was her grandson in St Petersburg's most notorious club instead of acting host at her side. It was most odd.

‘Thank you, Countess,' Kiril turned to leave, wondering where best to try next. The title of Countess was purely courtesy. It was common knowledge that no Count Rastrelli had ever existed.

A doorman, resplendent in red and gold, stepped forward deferentially.

‘An English gentleman answering your Highness's description arrived some minutes ago, while the Countess was attending to one of the young ladies.'

‘Are you sure? Did he give his name?'

Everyone gave their name on entering the Narymovna, but it was accepted that most of them were spurious.

‘Yes, your Highness. The Marquis of Clare. He demanded a bottle of champagne and is at one of the card tables and gambling for very high stakes.'