The girl was obviously not dressed to survive very long in this below-zero winter night, the prince thought, measuring her with his cool, tawny eyes; and, if he took her with him (she was pretty enough—in fact, a rare, dainty little beauty), it would save him the trouble of driving to the Islands to find a gypsy girl to bring along.
Zena shrank back under that hard gaze. The gentleman's features had a vaguely predatory look about them-— like some fierce black panther, both beautiful and terrifying in its cruelty: swarthy skin drawn tight over the patrician bones of his face; feline eyes distinctly slanted and framed by vivid black brows sweeping upward; a haughty aquiline nose and a finely modeled mouth, now pursed in reflection. It was a face without a trace of gentleness or pity but with a savage beauty that drew the eye. Looking up timorously into those cold, calculating eyes, Zena felt a sudden urge to turn and flee.
An imperceptible shrug of his muscular shoulders indicated the prince's decision. "Why not, ma petite}" he drawled indifferently, offering his arm and courteously handing her into the troika.
Zena, with immense relief but a heart still palpitating wildly, sank into the cushion of soft furs Ivan arranged around her. The prince lounged comfortably next to her in the small sleigh, and within seconds they were galloping at breakneck speed through the broad streets.
The prince spoke not a word to his passenger, his thoughts concentrated on the few necessities he required for the journey. Since his country estate at Podolsk was always kept at the ready for his erratic visits, very little had to be conveyed there. However, he did want those guns and the wine and maybe that new pastry assistant to his chef who made such glorious croissants. Alex's mornings had been infinitely improved, regardless of the state of his pounding head, with the appearance of those new croissants on his breakfast tray. To this day, he had a prodigious fancy for sweets and often disgusted his fellow gamblers at the Yacht Club by devouring 'bonbons and pastries with his brandy in the wee hours of the morning when everyone else's stomach was slightly queasy after ten or twelve hours of drinking and smoking. This idiosyncrasy was the result, plainly, of a spoiled and pampered childhood, which Alex's certainly had been, but then, a Kuzan never questioned his whims; he simply indulged them. Yes, the pastry cook would come along.
When they reached the imposing pink marble Kuzan palace on the Neva Quay, given long ago by Catherine the Great to her favorite Platon Kuzan, the prince issued a few abrupt instructions to Ivan, then helped Zena out of the troika and escorted her up the pretentious marble stairway rising gracefully from the street. Elaborate cast-bronze double doors were swept open before they reached the entrance, as though unseen eyes had been on the alert for their master's return.
Alex informed a very correct English butler that he was leaving forthwith for Podolsk and had only to change his evening clothes. "Rutledge, would you please show Mademoiselle ... er ..." He glanced at Zena inquiringly.
"Turku," she quickly responded, and then, fearful the name might be recognized, amended rapidly, "Mademoiselle Turkuaminen."
"Ah, of course, Rutledge, Mademoiselle Turkuaminen would no doubt like to freshen up a bit before the journey. Show her to the lapis guest room and send a lady's maid to her."
"Very good, my lord prince," the butler replied, assessing the inelegant appearance of the young woman with a cool dignity, immediately placing her precisely where she belonged in his very rigid hierarchy of rank. The Kuzan household was used to dealing with the sudden appearance of beautiful and colorful women in their master's company, and, as he had so often in the past, Rutledge rose nobly to the occasion.
Alex turned again to Zena' and brusquely, in the manner of one accustomed to command, added, "Please, mademoiselle, no more than fifteen minutes. I detest waiting and I'm impatient to be off."
With the imperturbable calm of one long familiar with the gross idiosyncrasies of the entire Kuzan family menagerie, Rutledge conducted Zena to the lapis room, inquiring politely if she required anything in addition to a lady's maid.
"No…thank you," Zena softly declined, awed by both the opulent magnificence of the rococo palace and the restrained hauteur of the formidable butler. Her family's servants had always been Russian peasants, who, though childishly lovable and accommodating, never approached the noble, proud grace of this creature.
Minutes later, back downstairs, Rutledge permitted himself one raised eyebrow as he informed the housekeeper of the prince's "guest." "Mrs. Chase, we have seen a multitude of, ah, females come and go into the young master's bedroom, but usually he knows their names."
"No doubt he will know this one's name by morning," Mrs. Chase dryly retorted, as they both calmly waited at the bottom of the stairs in the event the prince had any final directions for them before taking his leave.
Within ten minutes Alex reappeared at the top landing, casually dressed in a cream-colored muzhik shirt belted with red suede over black cashmere trousers tucked into beautifully embroidered black kid boots, his overlong black hair tossed carelessly in disarray, for, in his haste to change, raking fingers had sufficed for a comb. He was slipping his arms into the sleeves of a greatcoat of pearl-gray lynx as he unhurriedly strolled down the ornate marble staircase flanked by Falconet marble nymphs of exquisite proportions. "Did Ivan send a messenger to hold the Moscow train?"
"Yes, my lord. It has been«taken care of."
"Is the young cook up and dressed?"
"Yes, Prince, already on his way to the Moscow Vauxhall."2
"My guns and wines gone on as well?"
"Yes, my lord," Rutledge assured Alex confidently, for he ran a well-ordered establishment. "Is there anything more you wish?"
"No, thank you, Rutledge. And thank you, Mrs. Chase; you are ever efficient."
The prince began to pace the immense entrance hall, while Rutledge and Mrs. Chase remained quietly at attention. On the third traverse of the inlaid-marble floor, he impatiently slapped his gloves against the palm of his hand and gruffly noted, " Mademoiselle s toilette must have exceeded fifteen minutes by now. Please send someone to hurry her along."
Damnation, he thought, was there ever a woman who was on time? He'd give her five more minutes and then leave the impertinent female behind. She could fine someone else to convey her to Podolsk. Just as his ready temper was beginning to smolder, Zena came running down the stairs, breathlessly apologizing for the delay:
"I'm so sorry, my lord, but the fire was delightfully warm and my shoes were quite wet and—"
The prince rudely broke into this recital by grabbing her arm and propelling her briskly toward the door. "Yes, yes, well, never mind, we must hurry. They're holding the Moscow train for me. Vite, vite, my dear."
"Good-bye, Prince Alex," Rutledge and Mrs. Chase chorused in unison.
"Au revoir. I'll be gone a fortnight or so, in case my parents should inquire."
They were out the door, down the steps, and seated in the troika within a few swift moments.
"My Lord?" Zena timidly inquired as she looked up into a slightly fierce counterfance.
"Yes?" he retorted brusquely. They were quite late, he noted with annoyance, and were going to keep the Moscow train waiting longer than usual.
"I must make one stop."
"Must?" the prince challenged, bridling at the demand.
Zena observed the flashing indignation in those steely eyes and avoided another direct confrontation with the scowling face. Keeping her lashes lowered, she said quietly, "I beg, sir, one small favor. It won't take me long."
Damn women! he thought. Always one more stop—one more piece of luggage; one more minute to adjust their coiffures. Sighing softly to himself, he reflected that the train had waited for him countless times before, and the little baggage was prettily contrite. "Very well, my dear, but do hurry. Where do you wish to go?"
Zena gave him the address, which Alex conveyed to his driver, and shortly they were in the narrow street that ran behind the mews of her aunt's town house.
"
I'll be back directly, my lord. Thank you so much for stopping," Zena breathlessly declared, and quickly threw aside the fur robes and jumped out of the troika before either man could assist her.
Quietly opening the kitchen door, Zena stealthily trod the back stairway up to the third-floor nursery. The house was still; either her aunt and the general hadn't yet missed her, or, having noted her absence, were searching for her somewhere other than here—at least for now. She must rush! Bundling some of Bobby's clothes into a small blanket, she then wrapped the sleeping three-year-old in a warm down comforter, lifted him into her arms, stole silently past the room where the boy's nurse snored noisily, and retraced the rear staircase. The child slept on, undisturbed, and Zena breathed a great sigh of relief as she softly shut the kitchen door.
"Thank you for waiting, my lord," Zena said when she'd handed her burden to the waiting driver and climbed into the troika. Once she was settled, the impeccably trained Ivan impassively passed the young child back into her arms and covered them both with fur wraps.
The prince had been lightly dozing, his dark head resting against the quilted green velvet. He slowly opened his eyes and glanced down at the young girl. The golden eyes snapped open in alarm. Good God—a child! She has a child! Alex sat bolt upright and stared down in astonishment at the angelic face of the sleeping boy.
"I couldn't leave him behind, my lord," Zena whispered entreatingly, terror-stricken at the violent expression on the handsome face.
While a hundred alternative options, none of them pleasant, raced through the prince's stupefied mind, he quickly recovered himself and attempted to quell the young girl's obviously fearful apprehensions by mechanically replying, "No, of course not. Ah . . . well, now"—he hesitated, threw a distracted glance at the sleeping child, then continued gallantly—" alors, it seems we are ready. Ivan—the Moscow Vauxhall!"
The horses immediately broke into a dashing gallop.
"He's all I have in the world, my lord," Zena quietly explained to the silent, severe man beside her.
"I understand, ma petite," Alex politely assured her. But, sacré bleu, he observed to himself, this was decidedly outre passé. Most assuredly it was unique for a streetwalker to take her brat along on a "business trip."
4
The dash to the station was at furious speed, the horses' breath billowing frosty white in the crisp, cold air. Ivan crooned and encouraged the beautiful bays to ever greater speed, turning Zena's cheeks rosy pink as the cold wind rushed past.
When the horses finally came to a halt at the station entrance, a street boy ran forward to relieve Ivan of the reins.
"Ivan, carry the child," the prince commanded.
All the passengers had boarded fifty minutes before, and the station platform was empty. Alex presented his arm to Zena and they began the long trek down the deserted concourse to the waiting train. Several railroad officials were drawn up before a pale-gray coach with the Kuzan motif embellishing the center panel, and all snapped to attention as the prince drew near.
"Good evening—er, good morning (for it was now past two o'clock), Your Excellency. Everything is in readiness," one of them offered.
They all discreetly averted their gaze from the child the prince's servant was carrying;,but the startling fact that the prince was traveling with a young woman and child would be common gossip throughout St. Petersburg by noon tomorrow.
"Thank you," Alex responded absently, thoroughly acquainted with traveling en prince. Hundreds of years of Kuzan privilege prompted this easy self-assurance.
Ivan transferred the sleeping boy to Zena.
"Have a pleasant journey, Excellency," the crowd enjoined as Alex helped Zena with the child up the stairs to the interior.
The prince smiled faintly in response, while Ivan proceeded down the line of officials and distributed the usual gratuities that warranted, in part, this preferential deference.
As the prince opened the door, Zena gasped in surprise at the magnificent decor of the railway coach. She certainly was escaping from her aunt and the old general in fine style, she ruefully noted. Three manservants, the pastry cook, and a maid stood at the ready. The room they entered was a drawing room paneled in lustrous rosewood with heavily silvered moldings and mirrored inserts. The drapes were a soft apple-green velvet, while a Persian mil-lefleurs carpet in tones of black, green, and gold covered the floor. Purest Louis Quinze furniture in embroidered cream satin was comfortably arranged throughout the car.
A barely perceptible nod from the prince brought the maid standing before them. "Put the child to bed in the small blue bedroom, Mariana, and stay with him tonight," he said.
"But, my lord . . ." Zena began.
"Yes?" he asked coolly. He was not accustomed to people querying his wishes. "Rest assured, my dear, Mariana is very good with children."
Mariana beamed happily and stretched out her arms for the child. One penetrating glance from the nobleman assured Zena that he dislike'd being crossed, and as she had no inclination to begin the journey with a scene, she quietly relinquished her young brother to the plump young maid, who walked from the room singing softly to the sleeping child.
"Now, please," Alex said affably, the issue having been resolved to his satisfaction, "Mademoiselle ... er ..."
"Turkuaminen—but please call me Zena, my lord."
"Ah yes, a delightful name and so much simpler than . . . Well, now, Zena, may I help you with your wrap and offer you a hot punch to warm yourself? Feodor, is the punch ready?"
"Yes, Your Excellency."
"Fine. Bring the bowl in and leave it on the table."
"Will you need anything more, Excellency?"
"No, that will be all. You may retire for the night."
A silver punch bowl was deposited on the table and the remaining servants dismissed. Alex poured two engraved-silver cups of the steaming punch and offered one to Zena.
"I don't think I should, my lord," she equivocated softly, slightly uncomfortable alone with the prince.
"Nonsense, mademoiselle, you're chilled. The hot drink is a restorative; it will warm you. I insist," he persisted.
"Very well, perhaps just a little," Zena consented, deciding to herself to drink a sip or so and then sit up until they reached Moscow. It was a nine-hour run from St. Petersburg, so they should arrive shortly before noon.
Alex sank into a down-cushioned fauteuil across from Zena and relaxed comfortably, holding the warm cup between his hands, his long legs sprawled before him. Through half-closed eyes, he studied the young woman who sat opposite him. She certainly didn't look like a streetwalker—at least not a successful one. Her light silk gown of aquamarine, enlivened with green and white beading, was two or three years out of style and a bit tight across the bosom, as though it might have been a hand-me-down or picked up from a used-clothes dealer. The slippers, too, had seen better days, while the narrow string of pearls around her slender neck was very modest indeed. Perhaps the finery had been presented to her by a protector a few seasons past and no one had yet taken his place. The winsomely beautiful face, framed with the heavy masses of dark auburn hair, was taking on color as the warm punch and the crackling fire in the small porcelain stove did their work.
Silently Alex drank the delicious brew, then refilled his cup. The punch was a favorite of his, the recipe purloined years before from a centuries-old recipe of the Berlin court and composed of several score ingredients in addition to the arrack and rum. As the girl appeared increasingly nervous in the quiet atmosphere broken only by the steady rhythm of the wheels, he attempted, in a somewhat desultory fashion, to arrest her discomfort with trivial social conversation. However, when she scarcely responded to his questions or answered in ambiguous phrases, he again lapsed into his comfortable lethargy. After all, he considered tranquilly, this was strictly a business proposition for her, and as far as he was concerned, she was merely a receptacle for future physical needs, so there really was no necessity for pretense or polite flirtation o
r any of the normal catering civilities. So very convenient, Alex reflected gratefully.
Strangely, he felt asexual, most unusual for him in the presence of a beautiful woman; perhaps it was the childlike appearance of the delicate beauty. She couldn't weigh much over a hundred pounds, and even in heeled slippers she scarcely came to his shoulder. Young girls had never been a particular caprice of his, his preferences decidedly in the direction of full-blown, voluptuous females, tall and fleshy enough so you knew you had a woman in your arms. This pretty little charmer reminded him very emphatically, in looks and timidity, of a dainty sparrow. How the devil had she survived on the streets with that utter lack of aggressiveness so typical of the world's oldest profession? The retiring little sparrow was hardly characteristic of those who practiced the vocation she'd chosen; nevertheless, the "vulnerable innocence" she projected was vaguely attractive.
In the hushed atmosphere of the private coach with those cool golden eyes trained on her, Zena felt as though caught in a cat-and-mouse scenario. The prince's savagely handsome countenance, awesome size, arrogant composure—all served to unnerve her. She must stay awake until Moscow, and then she and Bobby could leave. Yet, when Alex pressed another cup of punch on her, she drank it, and though she valiantly tried to stay awake, her eyelids kept dropping shut. Two portions of the potent liquor on an all-but-empty stomach, plus the late hour, had combined to make her unable to hold them open.
After another ten minutes of surveying Zena's utter exhaustion, Alex suggested she go to bed. " Mademoiselle, you are all but asleep. The bedroom is the first door on the left. Please make yourself comfortable." He rose to refill his cup, then pulled Zena out of her chair and gave her a gentle shove in the direction of the bedroom.
She moved in a soporific daze born of the liquor, the late hour, and the emotional strain of the evening, vaguely recalling the way—first door on the left. Once inside the room, she hardly noticed the sumptuous appointments as she advanced directly to the carved mahogany bed and fell on it fully clothed, staying awake only long enough to pull a down counterpane over her.