Lord Buckingham’s Bride (2 page)

Mrs Taylor hadn't suffered at all, and had spent most of her time flirting with the various gentlemen on board. She wasn't a suitable chaperone, she was a predatory widow on the lookout for another husband, and her charge's welfare couldn't have been further from her mind. When the ship had at last entered Amsterdam harbor, Mrs Taylor was in the company of a Prussian cavalry officer, but when it became apparent that marriage was the last thing he intended, she gave him his
congé
and turned her attentions to a particularly
handsome
and engaging American gentleman from Boston.

The
Duchess of Albemarle
sailed on to Copenhagen, where the year before Nelson's fleet had demolished that of the Danes, and where the American gentleman demolished the chaperone's hopes by confessing that he had a pretty wife at home in America. Furious, the formidable Mrs Taylor had been in a very disagreeable temper for several days, but then her ambitious gaze happend on a widowed Swedish baron, who, although of somewhat gloomy temperament, was both wealthy and available. She descended upon him like an eagle on a witless rabbit, and Alison doubted if he ever knew what had hit him, for by the time the vessel reached Stockholm he was so firmly in her talons that she was set to become his baroness.

When the
Duchess of Albemarle
dropped anchor earlier that very day, the chaperone and her prey had departed for his estate on the shore of Lake Malaren, west of the Swedish capital, and Alison had been left entirely alone for the remainder of a journey that she hadn't wanted to make in the first place, and that she now found both
intimidating
and hazardous. Indeed, the only good thing that could be said about it was that Miss Wright had insisted on sending most of her wardrobe and other belongings on ahead, so that instead of reposing
now at the bottom of the harbor, they would already have arrived at the Clearwell residence on St Petersburg's English Quay.

The rowing boat had almost reached the quay now, and Alison could see the city quite clearly. The crowd on the waterfront was beginning to disperse, but there were still many people standing around. Lights shone in windows, tavern signs were illuminated by lamps, and the sound of a little light traffic echoed through the streets near the harbor.

Earlier in the day she had seen that Stockholm was very beautiful, with a blend of magnificent public buildings, including the royal palace, facing the harbor, and an old medieval city of narrow, tightly packed houses and even narrower alleys and courts. Built where the salt water of the Baltic met the fresh water of inland Lake Malaren, the city was set on a cluster of beautiful islands that were surrounded by a mainland of tree-clad slopes.

Alison didn't realize Captain Merryvale was addressing her.

‘Miss Clearwell?' he said again.

She gave a start. ‘Captain Merryvale?'

‘I was saying that it is my duty to see you safely on board another vessel for the remainder of your journey. The best thing would be to wait a day or so for the
Duchess of Albemarle
's sister-ship, the
Duchess of Clarence
, but she might be delayed. A young lady on her own is obviously greatly at risk. It so happens that a brigantine by the name of the
Pavlovsk
is due in tonight, and she will leave again on tomorrow's midday tide for St Petersburg, for she only stays in port for one tide. Her captain is a friend of mine, and he owes me a favor or two. I'll see to it that you are accommodated on the
Pavlovsk
when she leaves tomorrow, but in the meantime I wish you to go to the Dog and Flute, an inn I—'

‘An inn?' Her eyes widened, for Miss Wright had always instructed her pupils that they were never on any account to stay at inns.

‘Miss Clearwell, I fully understand your alarm, but I promise you that the Dog and Flute is a very respectable hostelry, quite the most respectable in Stockholm, and entirely suitable for ladies. Besides, there really isn't much else I can do in the circumstances. I can hardly permit you to wait on the quayside for the
Pavlovsk
to come in, and since it is incumbent upon me to look after you to the best of my
ability
,
the wisest thing would be to have one of my men escort you to the Dog and Flute, which isn't far. I trust that that will be acceptable to you?'

She knew that she really didn't have much option but to agree, for he was doing his best under extremely difficult circumstances, and the last thing he needed now was a foolish creature twittering about inns not being suitable. She managed a smile. ‘Of course it's acceptable, sir.'

‘Thank you, Miss Clearwell, and I promise you that passage will be obtained for you on the
Pavlovsk
tomorrow. I'll send Billy with you when we reach the shore, for he speaks a little Swedish and will be able to explain to the landlord.' He nodded toward a curly-headed young sailor in a brown jacket and baggy beige trousers who was rowing the boat with the others.

In readiness for stepping ashore, Alison rearranged her hood, trying to conceal her disheveled hair. She resolved to keep her cloak closed tightly at the front, to hide the white of her nightgown. Looking at her feet, she was thankful that she'd had the presence of mind to put on the little black ankle boots she had bought in Bath's fashionable Milsom Street, otherwise she'd not only be in disarray and in her undress, but barefoot as well. Miss Wright would be shocked to the core if she could see her pupil now, for the highly respectable, very proper, very neat young lady who had left the
academy
with the odious Mrs Taylor had become a veritable ragamuffin.

The boat nudged the foot of some steps, and one of the sailors made the rope fast. Captain Merryvale took Alison's valise and then assisted her ashore before handing the valise to the sailor named Billy. ‘Take Miss Clearwell to the Dog and Flute, Billy my lad, and see to it that she's accommodated safely for what's left of the night. And tell them they're to send someone with her to the quay tomorrow
morning
, to the
Pavlovsk
, which always comes alongside by the royal palace. Is that clear?'

‘Yes, cap'n.' Billy touched his forehead, for his hat had been lost in the panic of the fire.

Captain Merryvale smiled at Alison. ‘I trust that I will see you again in the morning, Miss Clearwell, but if I do not, then I wish you well for the remainder of your journey. I shall wait here for the
Duchess of
Clarence
, and will join her to travel to St Petersburg, where I must report what's happened to the shipping company. If I can be of any assistance to you there, please do not hesitate to call upon me.'

‘You're most kind, Captain Merryvale. I'm truly sorry about your ship, for I know that you did everything you could to save her.'

‘I did indeed, miss, but I only hope that her owners view matters in the same benevolent light. I trust you didn't lose too much,' he added, glancing at the valise.

‘To be truthful, sir, I don't know what I lost, for I cannot recall what I managed to pack. All I remember is that I rescued the book I was reading, for all the good that will do.' She smiled a little ruefully, for it wasn't even a particularly good book, but was a lurid gothic tale of runaway lovers, wicked lords, and dastardly deeds. She didn't know why she had chosen it in the first place, and she doubted very much if she would ever finish it now. Still, it might serve to while away the rest of the night at the inn, for she was certain she wouldn't be able to sleep.

Billy led her up the stone steps to the quayside, where the
lingering
crowd parted for them to pass. She was careful to keep her eyes lowered and to hide her hair and nightgown hem as she hurried after Billy, but she still felt as if her state of undress was all too apparent.

They entered a narrow medieval alley that led at a right angle away from the harbor. The way was just wide enough for a carriage to pass, and the buildings seemed to almost meet overhead. It was a place of inns and taverns, lodging houses, and a few private residences, with only one or two shops. There were several other establishments too, of a somewhat improper nature, and Billy hurried her respectfully past them.

Almost at the end of the alley there was an inn that was larger than all the others, and outside it hung a sign showing a little white dog dancing on its hind legs while playing the flute. The hostelry was five stories high, its upper windows boasting wooden balconies, and the main doorway from the alley was approached up a flight of four stone steps. The front of the building was stuccoed in pink, and it was flanked on one side by a bright-yellow lodging house, and on the other by a dark-red chandlery. All the buildings of old Stockholm were prettily colored, and in daylight they presented a handsome
sight, but in the dark the colors were strangely muted.

Billy made to go straight in, but Alison called him back for a moment so that she could glance in through the tap-room window and compose herself. The tap room stretched away from the front of the building, culminating at the far end in a doorway that seemed to lead to the kitchen, and a wooden staircase that led up to a gallery that crossed the room on the floor above. There were still a number of guests seated at the white-clothed tables, and several serving girls were bringing plates of food and tankards and bottles of drink. There was a long trestle counter on which a good selection of cold dishes had been set out, and behind it reposed a burly man who looked as if he must be the landlord. His apron was starched and very white, and his shirt sleeves were rolled up because he was standing close to the fireplace, where a roaring birchwood fire glowed in the hearth.

A rosy-faced woman in a brown-and-white-striped woolen gown bustled from the kitchen door at the rear of the building. Her faded fair hair was coiled up in plaits beneath her mobcap, and she carried two plates of hot food, which she took up the staircase to the gallery, where Alison suddenly realized that there were other tables, although only one of them was in use. A large group of young army officers was playing cards and drinking schnapps, and everything about them suggested that they were from a very elite regiment. Their elegant uniforms were black with red cuffs and collars, and bright golden braiding, and they looked very dashing indeed.

A red-haired serving girl was waiting upon them, her warm blue eyes moving time and time again to one of the officers in particular, who, although only in his twenties, appeared to be of a surprisingly high rank. He was blond and very handsome indeed, with strangely dark eyes for one who was otherwise so fair, and he lounged back in his chair without giving the adoring girl so much as a smile. She pouted, thrusting her voluptuous bosom forward as she leaned across him to pour some more schnapps into his glass. He glanced up at her for a moment. It was a cool glance, showing that he was fully aware that she was there for the plucking, and showing too that he was only mildly interested.

Billy touched Alison's arm. ‘We should go in, miss.'

‘Yes, of course.' She took a deep breath in readiness.

Billy hesitated. ‘A word of advice, miss. When you're safely in your room, make the door fast.'

She stared at him. ‘But Captain Merryvale assured me that this was a respectable place.'

‘And so it is, miss,' he reassured her quickly, ‘but I've just noticed that group of Russian officers up on the gallery, and they are renowned for the attention they pay to the ladies. Begging your pardon, miss, but I think it would be wise to lock yourself in. If there isn't a key, then wedge a chair under the door handle. It's better to be safe than sorry, that's what my mother always said.'

‘If you really think I should …'

‘I do, miss.'

‘Then I'll do as you suggest.

‘Let's go in.' Billy went up the stone steps and pushed open the door.

With some trepidation, Alison followed him inside.

V
ery little attention was paid to them as they entered, and it was a moment or so before the landlord left his place by the trestle counter to attend to them. Billy began to explain everything in
halting
Swedish, and as the landlord expressed astonishment to learn of the loss of the
Duchess of Albemarle
, an event that evidently hadn't reached the inn, Alison glanced discreetly around. At a burst of sudden laughter from the Russian officers, she looked up toward the gallery, and as she did, she dislodged her hood so that it fell back for a moment, revealing her tangled hair. Quickly she pulled the hood forward again, but not before she'd caught the eye of the
high-ranking
young officer who had been receiving so much fruitless attention from the serving girl.

Tossing his cards down, he rose to his feet, coming to stand by the balustrade to look down. He was tall and of a strong, athletic build, and his face was almost boyishly handsome. His fair hair was a little more blond than Alison had realized, and his dark eyes were more than just unusual, they were positively arresting.

His uniform was very splendid, the black tunic liberally adorned with golden shoulder knots, gold braiding, and rich crimson
trimmings
. The light-blue cordon of St Andrew, Russia's highest order, lay over his right shoulder. There was a miniature of the new czar at his throat and there were several heavy rings on the hands he rested on the wooden balustrade. Alison guessed that he was about twenty-five years old, and that he was very well born, for there was an air of authority and assertiveness about him that spoke of a man who was accustomed to privilege and being obeyed.

When he had appeared at the balustrade, the room had fallen quiet, so that when he suddenly addressed the landlord in what sounded like immaculate Swedish, his voice carried very clearly indeed. He obviously asked about Alison, for the landlord indicated her as he replied at some length, and then there was a stir as the
Duchess of Albemarle
's fate was mentioned. Several men left their tables and hurried out, evidently in the hope of still seeing something of the recent spectacle, and a buzz of conversation passed around the room.

The Russian officer walked slowly to the head of the staircase and then descended, and Alison could hear the jingle of his spurs. Behind him, the serving girl came to the balustrade, her eyes stormily jealous as she realized how interested he was in the newcomer in the green velvet cloak.

Halting in front of Alison, he sketched an elegant bow and spoke to her in faultless English. ‘Prince Nikolai Ivanovich Naryshky, general in the Preobrazensky Regiment of the Czar's Imperial Guards,' he said, his glance moving over her. ‘May I know who I'm addressing, Miss, er?'

Alison was a little startled to find herself speaking to a prince, but although she didn't know it, she was also supposed to be impressed by the name of the Preobrazensky Regiment, which was the most senior in the whole Russian army and membership of which carried kudos like no other. Hastily she sank into a curtsy, but to her dismay her cloak parted to reveal the unmistakable frill of a nightgown hem. ‘Miss Clearwell,' she replied, color rushing into her cheeks.

His dark eyes perceived the telltale white, just as shortly before they'd perceived the brief glimpse of unpinned hair. He smiled a little. ‘You appear to have come ashore in something of a hurry, Miss Clearwell.'

‘I think that the landlord has explained my situation, sir,' she replied, struggling to regain her poise.

‘Ah, yes, what a very unfortunate accident, but then ships can so easily be set alight, can they not? Tell me, wasn't the
Duchess of Albemarle
on her way to St Petersburg?'

‘Yes, she was.'

‘Which means that you are also going there?'

‘Yes.'

He smiled again. ‘But now you have to wait here in Stockholm?'

‘Only until the morning, when arrangements will be made for me to continue my journey on the
Pavlovsk
,' she replied, wishing that he wasn't so obviously probing.

‘I wish that I was about to return to St Petersburg, but I fear that official duties are contriving to keep me here.'

‘Official duties?'

‘I have the signal honor to be the czar's representative at talks with King Gustavus Adolphus here in Stockholm, but it is an honor I would gladly forgo in order to be at home in St Petersburg.'

‘I can understand that, sir,' she replied, wondering how she should be addressing him. Was he to be called ‘your highness?' or ‘
excellency
?' There were so many princes in Russia, and they weren't of royal blood, for the sons or descendants of the czars were all
grand-dukes
– that much she remembered from Miss Wright's interminable lessons on etiquette and correct form – but the actual matter of how to address a Russian prince had somehow slipped her memory completely. All she could do was continue to address him very politely as ‘sir' and wait for him to correct her if he was in any way offended, which for the moment he didn't appear to be.

‘Have you been to St Petersburg before, Miss Clearwell?' he asked, evidently being disposed to stand in polite conversation.

The color still burned on her cheeks and she wished he'd leave her alone, but she managed another polite smile. ‘No, sir, I've never been there before.'

‘I'm sure you haven't, for I feel certain that I would have
remembered
beauty such as yours,' he said softly. ‘How glad I am that the war is over, for I had forgotten how very lovely English women are.'

‘You're very gallant, sir,' she replied, silently wishing him to
perdition
for keeping all attention upon her when she wished to be as discreet as possible.

Something of her thoughts must have shown in her eyes, for suddenly he apologized. ‘Forgive me, Miss Clearwell, for I did not mean to keep you talking like this.' He turned to the landlord and spoke swiftly to him in Swedish. The man bowed, took her valise from Billy, and then hurried away up the staircase, calling to the
jealous 
serving girl to go with him.

The prince returned his attention to Alison. ‘A suitable room will soon be in readiness, Miss Clearwell. Would you care for some refreshment? A light supper perhaps? Or just a little coffee?'

‘I don't require anything at all, sir, just a room,' she replied,
sensing
that acceptance of the offer would entail taking said refreshment in his company. For all his courteousness, she didn't like him, finding his smile too easy, his tongue too glib, and his glance too knowing. He might be a prince, but he most certainly wasn't a gentleman.

He turned to Billy. ‘That will be all, you may go,' he said shortly.

Billy backed uneasily away, his glance moving toward Alison, whom he didn't wish to leave to this Russian's attentions. But under the circumstances, there was very little he could do about it.

As the sailor withdrew into the alley and hurried away, the prince looked at Alison again. ‘What is your opinion of Bonaparte, Miss Clearwell?' he asked suddenly.

Her lips parted in surprise, for it was a most unexpected question, but she responded as Miss Wright had firmly instructed when one was faced with such an inquiry. ‘Sir, I'm afraid that I never discuss politics or religion, for it is my unhappy experience that even those who see eye to eye on the subject can somehow fall out.'

‘What a very tactful and diplomatic reply, Miss Clearwell.'

The landlord and the serving girl were returning, and the prince smiled at Alison. ‘Go with Agnetha, Miss Clearwell, and she will conduct you to your room. I trust that you and I will see each other in the morning, for I am staying here.'

‘I'm sure we'll see each other then, sir,' she replied. ‘Thank you for your kind assistance tonight.'

‘Not at all, Miss Clearwell.
A bientôt
.'

She hesitated, for there was something in his voice that she suddenly found a little disturbing, but the serving girl was beckoning to her and so she followed her up the staircase. At the top the other Russian officers all gazed at her, and she saw them exchanging
meaningful
glances as she passed.

Agnetha paused to pick up a lighted candlestick from a table and then led her down a passage toward the rooms at the front of the inn, overlooking the alley.

Down in the tap room, Prince Nikolai remained where he was. His dark eyes were pensive, and there was a faint curve on his lips as he contemplated the undoubted charms that lay beneath the young Englishwoman's green velvet cloak. She was so very beautiful, and so delightfully innocent and untouched, just the thing to sharpen his somewhat jaded appetite. She was also so providently alone, without a maid or chaperon of any kind to protect her, and for the rest of the night she would be beneath this roof. The thought of enjoying her was far too enticing to deny, and before the dawn he meant to have possessed her.

Unaware of the dangerous desire she'd kindled, Alison followed Agnetha to the room that had been quickly prepared for her. It was a large but plain chamber warmed by a newly lit fire that still spat and crackled so much that a wire guard had had to be placed before it. A four-branched candelabrum stood on the mantelpiece, and Agnetha lit it with the candle she had brought with her.

Alison glanced around. There was a cumbersome four-poster bed hung with faded blue brocade, a heavy wardrobe, a washstand with a looking glass, and a comfortable armchair by the fireplace. The
floor-boards
, painted brown, had been scattered with homemade rugs, and the whitewashed walls were decorated close to the ceiling with a frieze of pretty green, red, and blue flowers. Curtains of the same blue brocade as the bed were hung at the tall window and had been drawn firmly across to shut the cold night out. Everything was bathed in a warm flickering light, and would have looked welcoming had it not been for the circumstances under which Alison had arrived at the inn.

Agnetha went to the door, turning to give Alison another look of jealous loathing, and as she went out, Alison went relievedly to lock the door behind her. To her dismay there wasn't a key. Remembering Billy's advice about securing the door, she dragged the armchair from its place by the fire and wedged the back under the door handle. Then she stepped back, feeling safe at last.

Turning, she went to the windows, drawing the curtains aside to look out. As she did so, she realized that they weren't windows, but glazed French doors that gave on to one of the wooden balconies she'd noticed from the alley. Pulling the doors open, she stepped outside into the brittle night air. The balcony was flanked on either
side by those of the adjoining rooms, both of which were in darkness. The alley below was empty. Pools of light fell across it from the
tap-room
windows, and similar lights were still illuminated in other hostelries farther toward the quay, but there weren't any people around now. Stockholm seemed to have almost settled down for the night, but already the first faint gray of dawn was beginning to creep over the sky to the east. There was something strange about such brief nights.

Drawing back inside, she closed the French doors again, but they wouldn't close properly, and then she noticed a little wedge of folded paper that had fallen to the floor when she had opened them. The catch was broken and the wedge of paper was to keep them as closed as possible. With a sigh she put the paper in the place that seemed the most effective, then she drew the curtains across again.

Her valise had been left on the bed, and she went to look in it, to see what she had managed to pack in the few panic-stricken moments she had had before fleeing the ship. She took out a rose dimity gown with long sleeves and a demure lace-filled neckline, a
black-and-white-checked
wool gown with full wrist-length sleeves, and a fringed white shawl. There was also a brush and comb, some pins, her bottle of lavender water, a length of white satin ribbon, and a straw bonnet adorned with artificial forget-me-nots. She hadn't thought of gloves, stockings, her reticule, a pelisse, or her spencer, just those few things and that wretched, wretched gothic book! Why, oh, why, had the book come to hand instead of her reticule, which contained a pair of scissors, a needle and thread, a vial of scent, a handkerchief, a pencil and little notebook, and the emerald ring her father had sent to her on her sixteenth birthday. Her breath caught in dismay, for the ring would now lie forever at the bottom of Stockholm harbor.

Blinking back sudden tears, she set aside the dimity gown and the shawl, meaning to change into them instead of remaining in her nightgown, which made her feel so ill-at-ease and vulnerable. As she had known on the rowing boat, she wouldn't be able to sleep again tonight, not after all that had happened, and so she meant to dress, pin up her hair neatly, and try to read the book that had managed to take foolish precedence over other much more important items.

There was a washstand in a corner, with a cracked mirror and a
large bowl and jug of cold water. She hadn't noticed it before because it had been behind her when first she had glanced around the room. As she stepped out of her cloak and nightgown, she went quickly to pour some water and give her face and hands a quick wash. She
shivered
, moving over to the fireplace to dry herself, and then she quickly put on the rose dimity, struggling with its interminable row of hooks and eyes, which required contortions to do up properly.

Laying the cloak on the floor near the fire so that it would keep warm and aired, she repacked the valise, after first dabbing some of the lavender water behind her ears, and then took her hairbrush, comb, and pins to the washstand to see what she could achieve with her hair, which was willful and difficult at the best of times.

She stared at her reflection in the mirror. What would Miss Wright say if she could see her now? And what would Pamela say – Pamela, who never had a shining dark curl out of place and whose clothes were always the immaculate height of perfect fashion? If Pamela had had to flee from a burning ship in the middle of the night, she would never emerge from the experience looking anything but flawless. Pamela was always faultless, always the epitome of poise and beauty, and on the day she married handsome Lord Buckingham, she would be a breathtakingly lovely bride.