At Her Service

  They were traveling at a snail’s pace for Etienne’s sake. Even sedated as he was, the rough roads were an agony for him.

  The forty-mile journey took them three days.

  Arriving in the Crimean capital at last, they were warmly welcomed by Gazi’s staff. But the trip had taken its toll on Etienne; he’d been carried into the house unconscious and desperately weak. That first night, Aurore sat beside her brother’s bed, watching his every breath, the almost imperceptible rise and fall of his chest, the occasional flutter of his eyelids. Try as she might to convince herself that he would survive, she found herself in deep despair. Particularly in the pre-dawn hours when Etienne’s breathing became more labored. She was terrified that he was slipping away.

  Watching the clock with the vigilance of a sentinel, prey to an increasing dread, she waited for morning—persuading herself that if her brother survived the night, a new day would offer renewed hope. At the break of dawn, with Etienne still alive, Aurore sent up whispered prayers of gratitude and thanksgiving to every god she could recall. Having propitiated the spirits and the intangible mysteries of faith, she rose from her chair, walked to the glass-paned doors overlooking the garden and threw back the curtains.

  The morning sun was dazzling bright—dare she hope, auspicious?

  But even more heartening, as the golden light filled the room, Etienne’s eyes fluttered open and he whispered, “Where are we?”

  Dashing back, Aurore dropped to her knees beside the bed. “We’re in Simferopol, darling. You made the journey in excellent form,” she lied. “In no time, you’ll be feeling your old self—just wait and see,” she cheerfully added. “Gazi’s cook is busy even now preparing nourishing food for you. If you’re hungry of course,” she quickly went on, not wishing to pressure him when he needed calm and serenity above all else.

  “I—am…hungry.”

  While her brother’s voice faltered, the fact that food appealed to him was enormously reassuring. He’d scarcely eaten during their journey. “Let me call in a nurse to sit with you,” she murmured, rising to her feet, “while I fetch you something to eat.”

  “Coffee—with milk…first.”

  She smiled, thrilled that he wanted coffee. It had always been a ritual with Etienne—that first cup of coffee in the morning. “One or two sugars?”

  “Two.”

  “Excellent.” It was a sign, she thought.

  It was a beautiful, hopeful sign.

  In the following days as Etienne slowly regained his appetite and his recuperation continued apace, Aurore concentrated exclusively on catering to her brother’s wishes. At first, he could do little more than eat and sleep, but before long, he felt strong enough to sit out in the garden for brief intervals. As his health improved, he enjoyed the sunshine and fresh air for lengthier periods of time.

  The courtyard was protected from breezes, the warmth of the sun contained within the stone walls, the scent of spring blossoms fragrant in the air. An ancient apricot tree heavy with blossoms graced the center of the courtyard. Hyacinth, scilla and wild tulips bordered the meandering paths in waves of color. A fountain constructed from Greek architectural relics ran the length of one wall, the water dancing prettily in the sunshine, splashing and gurgling, entrancing the senses.

  And so a fortnight passed, with Aurore’s every waking minute defined by invalid duties—until…Etienne began sleeping through the night. Welcoming her evening respite, Aurore often would take advantage of the quiet garden at night, and resting under the stars, she would collect her thoughts and plan the events of the coming day. She’d stayed in touch with her staff, so a certain amount of contemplation centered on activities concerning the vineyard and her household at Alupka. And of course, the ongoing intelligence that Ibrahim was collecting even during Etienne’s convalescence had to be dealt with and relayed to the appropriate parties. But after the necessary utilitarian issues had been discharged, her thoughts often wandered to pleasantries, and inevitably, tantalizing images of Gazi would float into her mind.

  She cautioned herself against dwelling on that which was improbable, impractical and unlikely—on roseate dreams. With the world in flux, neither he nor she knew from day to day what life had in store. Gazi might be dead by now for all she knew. But even if he wasn’t, their romantic tryst had been, by definition, transient.

  It was futile to expect more.

  She was not blind to social custom.

  Affaires were what they were.

  But as the days progressed and her brother’s health continued to improve by leaps and bounds, she found herself with increasing time on her hands. Etienne didn’t require much of her assistance anymore, while reminders of Gazi struck her more profoundly each day as she became more familiar with his house.

  Nor did it help her intemperate desires when his servants spoke of him in clearly adoring terms. Not that she took issue with their assessment. Gazi was definitely a man to be adored. But when she began actually dreaming of him on a nightly basis, she decided that she had too much free time on her hands.

  In the interest not only of her peace of mind but of France’s ultimate success in the Crimea, she set about paying calls on the local gentry. Attended by Ibrahim, she reacquainted herself with local society, and together, she in the drawing rooms and he in the servants’ quarters, they collected information for their spy masters.

  Once Etienne’s health was completely restored, he could have accompanied her to the provincial entertainments, but sitting through teas or musicales was not his idea of pleasant diversions. Furthermore, wealthy prisoners were allowed considerable freedom within the city in this civilized war for those with family and fortune, so he chose amusements that better suited him.

  With Russian society an amalgam from the empire’s satellite nations, along with prisoners residing in the capital city of the Crimea, the resulting mix of nationalities in Simferopol was considerable. Over tea one met English, French, Greeks, Turks, Tatars, Poles, Germans, Italians, those from the Baltic and a variety of other nations. It wasn’t long before Aurore dispatched her first comprehensive report to the French Secret Service. Nor was it long before Etienne was involved with an international cadre of young officers who spent their leisure time much as they had before the war—with wine, women and song.

  “The young master is back in form,” Ibrahim noted with a smile one morning. “He sleeps ’til noon and thinks of nothing but the ladies.”

  Etienne was tall, fair and as handsome as his sister was beautiful. “If only he doesn’t succumb to the governor’s daughter,” Aurore noted drily. “Miss Adlberg has a cool assessing gaze behind her brittle smile. Although I doubt Etienne has noticed with her other—ah…assets.” The young girl’s bosom was large and rather prominently on display in her corseted gowns.

  “Rest easy, miss, the young master has no favorites,” Ibrahim replied with a reassuring certitude.

  “Thankfully.” Etienne was barely twenty-one. “Now if only Miss Adlberg doesn’t seduce him or compromise him in some way. She is looking for a husband—without a doubt—and the wealth of the Clement estates is well known.”

  “Are you talking about me?” Etienne strode into the small office near the kitchen where Aurore and Ibrahim were collating their reports.

  “Yes. I am hoping Miss Adlberg does not lure you into marriage,” Aurore said bluntly. “You could do better.”

  “Acquit me, sister. I am decades away from marriage. Tell her, Ibrahim. You know.”

  “I have done so, and yet she worries.”

  “Don’t worry.” Etienne smiled. “I’m not about to marry anyone.”

  “Then we agree.”

  “When haven’t we,” Etienne expansively remarked.

  “When indeed,” Aurore pleasantly replied. That she allowed her younger brother carte blanche accounted for their happy accord. But Aurore wasn’t so unkind as to point that out to him. He was all she had now that their parents were dead; he had almost died. She would permi
t him anything.

  “There’s a race this afternoon outside town,” Etienne declared. “Would you like to go with me?”

  Aurore glanced at the clock. It was almost one and she’d promised Ibrahim she’d finish her report for his messenger. “I’d better not.”

  “Why not? It’s a gorgeous day. Sunny, no wind, it’s warm as summer and it’s only March.”

  “I could finish what you’re doing,” Ibrahim murmured.

  Etienne glanced from Ibrahim to Aurore and then to the papers before her on the desk. “Who are you writing to?”

  “I’m just sending a message back to the house.” Quickly coming to her feet before Etienne asked more, Aurore turned to Ibrahim. “You can give instructions for the vineyard as well as I,” she mendaciously said. “Thank you, Ibrahim. I appreciate your help.”

  “My pleasure, miss.”

  “So, are you coming with me then?” Etienne’s smile was brilliant. “If you say no, I’ll pout.”

  “I doubt you need my company with all your friends about.”

  “I don’t need your company, Rory. But you’ll enjoy the races. A dozen horses from the Caucasus were brought in earlier in the week. The betting is fierce. I have five hundred roubles on a glorious black racer from Daghestan.”

  Chapter 14

  Provincial society was less formal, and the bustle at the racetrack had the look of a country fair. Children were everywhere, running and playing, their parents and governesses having lost the battle for control. Hawkers were crying out their wares, and everything was for sale from tack to jam tarts; the rough stands were jammed with viewers, the verge of the track crowded with those of lesser rank. And in the festival atmosphere, one could forget for a time that there was a war going on.

  Aurore had found a seat with some ladies in the stands, Etienne having disappeared moments after their arrival, as had most men. Male camaraderie apparently required a position nearer the track. Not that Aurore needed her brother’s company; she knew most everyone.

  In the relaxed fairground milieu, Aurore had loosened her bonnet and let it hang down her back, and her gloves were tucked into her reticule. She’d even pushed her sleeves up to her elbows to better enjoy the warmth of the day. It was absolute heaven to bask in the sun after such a bitter cold winter.

  “Your brother is in fine fiddle once again,” the governer’s wife murmured, her gaze on Etienne and his friends in a huddle near the starting post.

  “Thankfully,” Aurore replied, ever grateful for his recovery. “He would not have survived in Sevastopol.”

  Countess Adlberg grimaced. “Nor do many as I understand.”

  “I have General Osten-Sacken to thank for Etienne’s release. He was most gracious.”

  “He is a good friend of yours, is he not?”

  The insinuation in the countess’s words was measured. “We have known each other for some time,” Aurore said, her voice as tempered as the countess’s. “His daughter and I were friends growing up.” The two women sat a little apart from the female group in the area designated for the governor’s use.

  “Ah, yes…Ingrid. How does she?”

  “She is in Moscow and well. She’s concerned for her husband’s safety, of course. He is with Menshikov.”

  “Who is not long in command, I hear.”

  “Indeed? I know nothing of the military, I’m afraid,” Aurore lied, when she’d known of Menshikov’s weakened position for months.

  “My goodness—look!” Countess Adlberg cried, leaping to her feet. “It’s Gazi!” Ignoring propriety completely, waving frantically, she shrieked, “Gazi! Over here! Over HERE!”

  If it was possible for her heart to skip a beat, Aurore felt as though it might have. And when she followed the direction of the countess’s shamelessly come-hither gesticulations and saw him, there was no doubt her heart stopped.

  Drawing in a quick breath as if to remind her body to continue functioning, Aurore took in the sight of the man who had been too much on her mind.

  He wore utilitarian Tatar dress—black leather breeches and boots, dun-colored tunic half-open at the neck, the only embellishment to his attire, small silver studs on his belt. His dark hair gleamed in the sun—like his sudden smile.

  He was waving back—a man’s wave…unfrenzied and calm.

  And then he began walking toward the stands.

  “Isn’t he just the most beautiful man you have ever seen!” the governor’s wife exclaimed as she sat down. “But then the Caucasus tribes are known for their beauty. I swear, if he asked me to ride away with him, I would without a second’s delay. They think nothing of it, you know—abduction.” She glanced sideways at Aurore. “They consider it a form of courtship.”

  “I daresay your abduction would still cause a bit of a scandal here,” Aurore remarked.

  “Wouldn’t it just!” The countess sighed. “Not that any such thing will ever happen, but”—she shot Aurore a smile—“he is most, most glorious in every way—don’t you think?”

  “Indeed. I first saw him with Zania at the general’s dinner party in Sevastopol.”

  “So you know him! Of course—I forgot. You are staying at his farm.”

  “I only know him casually,” Aurore lied. “He offered his farmhouse in the most offhand way when he heard of my plight. He and Zania were thoroughly engrossed in each other at the time.” Another lie, but she wasn’t inclined to offer Helena gossip for her rumor mill; the woman was a notorious busybody.

  “Zania is nothing but a little tart!” Countess Adlberg sniffed. “She is quite disreputable.”

  “Consider though, she was married to an old man for many years. Perhaps she should be allowed some pleasures now.”

  “You are much too kind. Zania would not be so lenient toward you.”

  “Perhaps,” Aurore replied, wondering if her benevolence was simply a means of protecting herself from disappointment, her sympathy for Zania in the way of self-pity. Gazi hadn’t even bothered stopping by his own house to say hello and yet here he was. With equal disregard, he’d divested himself of Zania that night in Sevastopol.

  As he approached, Aurore purposefully schooled her expression, refusing to display any interest. No doubt he was aware that every woman who saw him wanted him—the governor’s middle-aged wife included. She would not be so gauche.

  Particularly since he’d chosen not to pay her a call on his return.

  As he stopped before the governor’s dais, Countess Adlberg held out her hand with a majestic flourish. “Gazi, my dear boy,” she said with an ingratiating smile. “Promise me you have only just arrived so I shan’t feel slighted.”

  “Rest easy, my dear Helena. I rode in an hour ago and have to leave in the morning.” Taking her hand, he bowed over it with punctilious grace. “My apologies for not calling, but as you see, my time is limited.”

  Was he apologizing? Aurore thought. Might that be an apology?

  “You know Aurore,” the countess said with a cursory nod to good manners, her gaze still unerringly on Gazi.

  “I told Helena that we met at Osten-Sacken’s dinner party,” Aurore quickly noted to allay the sudden uncertainty in Gazi’s eyes, “where you were gracious enough to offer us the use of your house.”

  “How nice to see you again, Miss Clement,” he smoothly answered, having been cued. “I hope the accommodations are to your liking.”

  “Indeed they are. Thank you again.”

  “It’s of no consequence,” he carelessly replied. His feelings however were less nonchalant. While he had sensibly decided not to renew their acquaintance when he’d arrived in Simferopol, he could not curtail the immense joy he felt on seeing Aurore again. Perhaps after so many years in the mountains, his pagan sensibilities were more acute or maybe logic was at a disadvantage when Aurore was near. Whatever the reason, rational thought had apparently debouched, for against his better judgment he gave utterance to a personal remark. “I’m pleased to hear that your brother has recovered his health.”
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  He’d spoken to someone in his household, Aurore thought, charmed by his concern. “Thank you, he is quite his old self again.”

  “You must come to dinner tonight,” the countess interrupted, her tone one of regal command. “And I forbid you to refuse.”

  “Alas, I fear I must,” Darley replied with a disarming smile even as his plans were rapidly changing—resisting temptation no longer a priority. “My men have family in town and I’m promised to Cafer’s sister’s for dinner tonight.”

  “You will be in my black books if you don’t at least make an appearance, you bad boy,” the countess scolded. “Come later. Unlike the natives,” she said with a sneer, “we dine at a more civilized hour.”

  “If possible, I will. Tell me now, do you have any favorites in the races today?” Gazi inquired, preferring to change the subject with the governor’s wife displeased at his refusal. “Two of my horses are running.” Well aware of Helena’s penchant for gambling, he said, “You might care to wager on them. I can guarantee they’ll win.”

  “Tell me their names at once!” The countess’s resentment was instantly replaced by a piquant excitement.

  When Gazi did, Countess Adlberg leaped to her feet, pushed past Aurore and dashed off to place her wager without so much as a good-bye.

  Aurore’s brows rose faintly. “Apparently, she likes to gamble more than I thought.”

  “She does like to gamble, but she likes a sure winner even more.”

  Aurore’s gaze narrowed. “Don’t say you deliberately baited her?”

  “I like to think I made her a nice profit.” Darley’s voice was teasing. “She’ll be extremely happy at the end of the day.”

  “I see.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Nothing.”

  He smiled. “You think I’m manipulative.”

  “Yes.”

  “I had good reason.” His voice was no longer teasing, his smile replaced by a patent solemnity. “I’d like to get away from here—with you.”