Scandalous Deception (Russian Connection 1)

A hint of frustration tightened Gerhardt’s thin face. “I must remain here.”

Edmond arched a brow. It was rare

for the older man not to be at the side of his Emperor at such an important gathering.

“You suspect trouble?”

“So long as Akartcheyeff is left in charge of the country, there is always danger,” he muttered, not bothering to hide his distaste of the man who had risen to such lofty ranks despite his lowly birth. “His devotion to his Emperor is beyond question, but he will never learn that you cannot use force to earn loyalty. There is a powder keg beneath our feet and Akartcheyeff might very well be the spark that ignites disaster.”

Edmond could hardly deny the danger. He, better than anyone, understood the smoldering dissatisfaction with the Czar that infected not only the masses, but several aristocrats as well.

The last thing he desired was to leave during this volatile time, but there was no choice.

“He is…unfortunately brutal in his dealings with others,” Edmond admitted, “but he is one of the few Ministers who have proven his integrity cannot be swayed.”

Stepping even closer, Gerhardt pitched his voice so it would not carry to the two footmen on duty beside the door.

“Which is why it is so important that you remain at Alexander Pavlovich’s side! Not only do you have the ear of the Emperor, but your…network will learn of any dangers long before any official report is put on my desk.”

Gerhardt’s delicate mention of the web of thieves, prostitutes, foreigners, sailors and more than a few nobles brought a smile to his lips. Over the past eight years, he had managed to create a connection of spies that kept him aware of brewing trouble the moment it began to stir.

It was an invaluable asset to Alexander Pavlovich. One that he had come to rely upon, as did those who considered it their duty to keep him safe.

“I will ensure that my associates keep in close contact with you,” he promised, his expression somber, “but I cannot postpone my return to England.”

Realizing that Edmond would not be swayed, Gerhardt stepped back, his brow furrowed with concern.

“Should I offer my sympathies?”

“Not if I can prevent it, my friend.”

“Then God go with you.”

With a bow, Edmond turned and with swift steps headed toward the Main Staircase, a magnificent work of marble that towered for three stories. For most guests to the Palace it was the extensive collection of Chinese porcelain vases and plates displayed along the walls that captured their attention, but Edmond had always been captivated by the warm glow of sunlight that was reflected in the rich marble. A true architect could breathe life into a building without the fuss of ornamentation.

From there he moved through the Portrait Hall where the painting of Empress Catherine I held a fitting place of glory amid the seeming endless gilded carvings, then through another hall, to at last reach Alexander Pavlovich’s private study.

In contrast to the lavish public rooms, Alexander had chosen a chamber that was refreshingly small and comfortable with a view of the beautiful gardens. Ignoring the guards who stood at impassive attendance, Edmond entered the room and performed a deep bow.

“Sire.”

Seated behind the rigidly tidy desk, Alexander Pavlovich, Imperial Highness, Emperor Czar, lifted his head and offered that singularly sweet smile that never failed to remind a person of an angel.

“Edmond, join me,” Alexander commanded in French.

With his Hessians clicking against the inlaid wooden floor, Edmond moved to settle his tall, lithely chiseled form in one of the mahogany carved and gilded wood chairs, his gaze covertly studying the man who had earned his unwavering love and loyalty since the battles against Napoleon in 1812.

The Emperor possessed the imposing form of his Russian ancestors that had grown a bit stout over the passing years, and the fine, even lines of his mother’s countenance. The golden hair had receded, but the blue eyes remained as clear and intelligent as in his youth.

It was the air of weary melancholy, however, that Edmond silently considered. It was growing worse. With every passing year, the once eager, impractical idealist determined to alter Russian’s future was becoming a defeated, withdrawn man who was riddled with such distrust, of himself and others, that he retreated more and more from the Court.

“Forgive me for my intrusion,” Edmond began gently.

“There are many who I consider an intrusion, but never you, my friend.” He waved a hand to the ever-present tray on his desk. “Tea?”

“Thank you, no, I do not desire to keep you from your work.”

“Always work. Work and duty.” Alexander heaved a sigh, precisely laying down his quill before leaning back in his chair. Like his father, Czar Paul, Alexander possessed a preference for a simple, military-style attire, relieved only by his Cross of St. George. “There are nights I dream of simply walking away from this palace and disappearing among the mobs.”