“Better?”
“Yes.” Leaning against the headboard, Brianna heaved a satisfied sigh. “It is so silly. I am never ill. My mother always claimed that I had the constitution of a horse.”
Vanya plucked the tray off Brianna’s lap and set it on the bedside table.
“Have you thought that there might be a reason for your current…discomfort?”
Brianna shrugged. “I presume I must have caught a chill on the journey. It was rather a grueling voyage.”
“Perhaps.”
The older woman sounded far from convinced and Brianna frowned in confusion. She sensed that something was troubling Vanya, and that whatever it was concerned Brianna.
“Vanya?” she prompted, softly.
With a jerky motion Vanya was on her feet, her hands nervously twisting the priceless jewels on her fingers.
“I think that you should consider the possibility that you are with child, ma petite.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
STANDING IN THE SHADOWS of the anteroom that offered a perfect view of the dining room, Edmond attempted not to fidget as he watched the guests seated about the small round tables with live orange trees growing through the center. Even without Alexander Pavlovich’s presence, a dinner at the Palace was always a formal affair with endless dishes served by Mameluke servants who moved through the vast room with a silent dignity.
From his vantage, it was a simple matter to keep sight of Fedor Dubov as he shared a table with the lesser dignitaries at the edge of the room. The short, rotund gentleman was flashing his practiced smile, hiding his undoubted annoyance at being seated so far from the Czar’s younger brother, Prince Michael and the royal family, but Edmond’s practiced gaze did not miss the nervous twitch of his hands as he smoothed his cravat, or the manner in which his eyes darted about the room.
Fedor had never possessed Viktor’s smooth ability to kiss the cheek of his enemy while sliding a dagger into his back. If any of the conspirators were to make a mistake, he was Edmond’s best hope.
At precisely ten o’clock, the few royals in residence rose from their table and headed out of the room, signaling the end to the meal. Edmond melted farther into the shadows, a smile curling his lips as Fedor signaled someone with a covert nod of his head and then strolled casually toward the side door that would lead toward an empty ballroom.
With swift movements, Edmond was slipping from the antechamber to the nearest staircase, relieved that the servants would be distracted by the crowd of guests being led toward the Hermitage for the evening concert.
Reaching the upper gallery, he was careful to avoid the splashes of candlelight as he hurried to crouch in the shadows of the marble balustrade that overlooked the short corridor leading to the ballroom. He had barely managed to catch his breath when Fedor stepped through the door, followed shortly by a large gentleman who was attired in the uniform of the Semyonoffski regiment of the Foot Guards.
Edmond sucked in a sharp breath. Grigori Rimsky had been known in his younger years to possess sympathies for the Polish independence movement, but since transferring to the regiment that Alexander Pavlovich claimed as his own, he had proven to be a courageous commander who had risen swiftly through the ranks during the war with Napoleon. Edmond had never suspected his loyalty for a moment.
Which made him the most dangerous sort of traitor.
The highly decorated officer glanced about the seemingly empty corridor before giving the nervous Fedor a furious glare.
“Have you no sense?” he growled, his low voice easily carrying up to the gallery above. “We cannot speak here. If we are seen together…”
“I cannot risk another note,” Fedor interrupted, withdrawing a handkerchief to blot the perspiration from his round face. “My house is being watched.”
Grigori snapped to attention. “By whom?”
Fedor shrugged. “Gerhardt, no doubt.”
“So, by now he knows that Viktor Kazakov has returned to St. Petersburg?”
“It will hardly matter in a few hours.”
Edmond choked back his shock. A few hours? Mon dieu. As much as he longed for this nasty business to be done with, he was woefully unprepared to halt the mysterious revolt. He needed information. And he needed it swiftly. Even if it meant tipping his hand and hauling these two traitors to the nearest dungeons. Grigori might possess the courage to face death rather than expose their nefarious plot, but Fedor’s spine was not nearly so stiff. A few lashes with a horsewhip and he would be begging to confess all.
“Besides,” Fedor continued, “Gerhardt is not our greatest concern.”
“What do you mean?”
“Lord Edmond is here.”