The Perfect Scandal (12 page)

“
That
I will believe. 'Tis obvious you are protective of this girl. Which is good. It means you won't wag your tongue.” His grandmother stood, rearranging her skirts around her feet. “Come into the library.” Turning, she swept out of the dining hall, her heeled slippers echoing.

Why did he suddenly feel like he was placing his very name and entire fortune on a card table seated with cheats? Tristan pushed himself away from the table and strode beside her down the vast candlelit corridor toward the library in the east wing of the house.

They eventually veered into the massive room. He paused in the middle of the library, which was lined with hundreds of books from floor to ceiling.
Books he knew his grandmother selectively removed and replenished with new editions every three years after she'd read them all. It was her most cherished room and one she had dedicated her entire life to.

She settled before her painted French writing desk, lit by a standing candelabra, and gathered up a stack of folded letters. Sifting through them, she pulled one out and tossed the rest onto the desk. She turned and held it out with the turn of a wrist. “This is only one of several letters I've shared with my cousin over these past two weeks. It has everything you need to know pertaining to her situation. And I do mean everything. After you read it, I will burn every correspondence in my possession bearing her name, and her past will cease to exist for the both of us. Are we in agreement?”

Tristan hesitated, his chest tightening. The moment he took that letter, he would officially involve himself in Zosia's life and all of her personal affairs. Affairs she herself knew nothing of. It was a very dark and very twisted situation to be placed in.

His desire and fondness for her compelled him to do this, to submit to this, but the idea of keeping her blind to her own identity, even for a short while, was a different sort of blade he was not accustomed to handling. This could cut very deep. But if he walked away now and allowed her to marry another, Zosia would remain
blind to who she was for the rest of her life. And that he would never allow. She needed him.

“Yes. We are in agreement.” He strode toward her and snatched the letter.

His grandmother patted his arm reassuringly before crossing the room, her skirts rustling with each smooth step. She turned and eased into a gilded chair. “You will forgive me, Moreland, but I intend to ensure my letters don't leave this room or this house. I will burn everything the moment you read it.”

“I understand.” Tristan turned and made his way to the writing desk. Dragging out the chair, he sat and unfolded all four tediously long pages of parchment.

He leaned toward the candelabra to attain better light against the shifting shadows around him and read.

 

Dearest Cousin,

It is quite fitting, I suppose, after having endeavored upon so many adventures of the heart with no care as to the consequence of my own people or my poor family, I should find myself protecting the most astounding affaire de coeur to have ever graced these ears. For what I entrust in ink is vile scandal I do not wish to be associated with. 'Tis only my admiration for the girl that keeps me from flinging her out the door. In response to your inces
sant pestering, I will reply in earnest with all I know. Sadly, much like her deceased mother, she is but a ghost. Her mother, Anna Petrovna, had the great misfortune of being the daughter of the Empress of Russia and her Polish lover, Count Poniatowski. Her birth was recorded to have taken place in Saint Petersburg in 1757, followed by her death not even fifteen months later. Despite that recorded death, according to the Poniatowski family, Anna's death was in fact staged. It would seem the Empress had sought to remove every last association she had with Count Poniatowski, whom she was planning to make King in the hopes of tucking all of Poland into her reticule. Where Anna had disappeared to after her supposed death, and what became of her, was unknown until decades later. Apparently, the Empress confided to her grandson about a long-lost aunt in Warsaw and presented him with a sealed parchment he was to personally deliver to that aunt. Before he was even able to make his journey from Saint Petersburg to Warsaw, however, the Empress unexpectedly died, making that letter the only contact she ever had with her bastard child. However, that bastard child was no longer a child but, in fact, a woman of nine and thirty. Anna Petrovna had since flourished into a Catholic, a Polish patriot and a sworn spinster who had lived her entire life thinking she was Maria Hanna Kwi
atkowska, the daughter of a widowed scholar. In learning of her heritage from the letter the Empress had written, which called upon her to return to the Russian Court, she avoided her duty and became all the more sympathetic toward her fellow Poles. And herein my words blacken. That grandson, Alexander the First, former Emperor of Russia and godfather to our own Princess Victoria, fell in love with his estranged aunt. Learning of her patriotic tendencies from spies he had sent ahead, when he arrived to deliver the Empress's letter to his aunt, Alexander was so smitten he never disclosed who he was. Instead, he assumed the name of Feodor Kuzmich, claiming to be nothing more than a Russian royal courier. Despite already being married, he pursued his aunt for years, visiting Warsaw often and in disguise, even long after becoming Emperor. Although Anna resisted, she eventually became his lover, and at the astounding age of nine and forty, she gave birth to her first and only child, Zosia Urszula Kwiatkowska. Shortly after Zosia's birth, Alexander revealed his identity, wanting to bring both mistress and child into Saint Petersburg. That is when a vicious war ensued. Alexander's own wife and the entire Russian Court refused to recognize the explosive heritage of both mother and child, whilst Anna was horrified that her lover turned out to be her own nephew. She chose to raise
Zosia alongside the Poniatowski family, instead, who offered support. All contact was eliminated and to the relief of the entire Russian Court, the Emperor was forced to accept that the relationship was over. Zosia's mother died in 1825, and nineteen days later, so did the Emperor, bringing a tragic but romantic close to their relationship. Only now, four years after the death of both her parents, the Russians have rekindled their interest in making Zosia Grand Duchess. An officer from the Tsar's Imperial Court has appeared, claiming she is his rightful bride, promised to him by the former Tsar after he heroically rescued her whilst stationed in Warsaw.

 

Tristan tightened his hold on the letter, crinkling the parchment. He stared unblinkingly at the scribed words, refusing to acknowledge that this Russian was not only the same Russian who had saved Zosia's life and stolen her heart with a single kiss, but was, in fact, the same man he'd confronted with his pistol last night.

Tristan swallowed and forced himself to finish what little remained of the letter.

 

Despite the decree, I do not wish to expose her to two generations of scandal at the cost of her own sanity. As Grand Duchess of both Polish and Russian heritage, she would be expected to rep
resent both sides of one coin under one nation. Though I know she would argue for an opportunity to represent Poland within the Russian Court, the weight of it would only dismantle the poor girl. She is still under my protection, and as such, I have decided to inform the Emperor of my decision to turn away her title. I intend to create a match that will ensure she becomes a pawn to no one, not even herself. Due to your crass meddling into this unfortunate girl's affairs, you will assist me in finding her a husband of gentry or, by God, I will unfrock you. She needs a sizable selection of men if we are to offer her the sort of happiness I never knew as King. You have two days to inform me as to how we should go about finding these men. Oversee my command and respect her right to a better way of life. She deserves it.

Your Loving Sovereign,

George

 

Tristan refolded the four-page letter and tossed it onto the desk before him in disbelief. This was… The devil take him. There was no word for what this was.

What if Zosia discovered she was the very thing she had been cultivated to hate? And what would she—as a woman, not even as a Pole—do if she were to discover that the nameless hero she had been
searching for was no longer nameless, and that, in fact, the man sought to make her his wife?

The woman he had hoped to make his wife, his lover and his friend would run without a blink from the freak who mutilated himself and dash straight into the arms of her long lost hero. Even if Zosia no longer loved her Russian, there was no doubt she would, in fact, marry her Russian. After all, why settle for a mere British Marquis, when she could marry into the Russian Court itself and become an even stronger voice for her people?

He would never see her again.

He would never know her touch.

He would never know
her
.

It was over. All of it. It was over before his chance at happiness had even begun. Tristan drew in a long, slow breath and edged it out, fisting his hands. No. Damn it, no. It wasn't over. He was not about to give her up. He was done with life maliciously snatching everything away from him, whilst he sat in a corner gouging himself, trying to retain his sanity. He had to stop expecting life to grant him the sort of favors it never did.

If he wanted Zosia, it was up to him and him alone to claim her, and he was not about to give her up to anyone. She was his now. She wanted to be his and had agreed to be his, and as such, he would ensure she remained his.

Despite what His Majesty thought, Zosia had the right to know her history and had a right to continue to be a voice for her people. And he would ensure it.

Tristan rose to his booted feet, knowing full well what needed to be done. Zosia had to be removed from London as quickly as possible. Before this Russian up and lost whatever patience he had with His Majesty and took her by force.

He turned to his grandmother, who continued to observe him from across the room. Drawing in a steadying breath, he announced, “I can't bring her to you during the light of day. I've already met this Russian of hers and he was anything but fond of me. Should he hear of me parading about his intended, it will be like me throwing down the glove before all of Russia.”

She hesitated. “I agree. Bring her at night, when eyes are less likely to see. Shall we say…tomorrow at eleven?”

“No. People will still be returning from festivities.” He paced. “I'm going to need well into late evening on the morrow to settle matters pertaining to my estate. Whatever I cannot settle, which I fear will be more than half of what I am worth, I will allot to you.” He swung back to her. “Of course, it will only be on loan until I have time to oversee it from abroad.”

His grandmother arched a silvery brow. “It isn't necessary for you to settle your entire estate quite yet, Moreland.”

“That is for me to decide.”

She sighed. “When should I expect her?”

“Tomorrow night at two.”

She gawked at him. “You intend to bring her at two in the morning?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, no, no. That is crass, even if we are stooping to temporarily kidnapping my cousin's protégé due to passions you cannot control.”

He strode toward her. “Seeing that you do not wish to go to New York, it is either two in the morning or not at all. Whatever you decide, you'll be tasked to inform His Majesty three days from this night that it is with much regret your grandson has gone indefinitely to New York with his protégé. I have decided not to wait for his approval. It would only complicate matters.”

She gasped, her eyes widening as she rose to her feet. “Moreland! You cannot oppose your crown like this. You must await approval.”

“To hell with approval. Do you think His Majesty will approve of my marrying her?
Do you?
'Tis obvious he seeks to sever her way of life and her ability to assist her own people. And that is wrong. I intend to remove her from his so-called protection and take
her to New York. New York is conveniently liberal and would be far more supportive of her views than England ever will be.”

“Dearest God.” She brought the tips of her fingers to her lips. “You mean to actually support her irrational patriotism by publicly campaigning against the Russians?
In New York?
”

“Her patriotism is not in the least bit irrational. Ambitious, yes. But not irrational.”

“Why do you always seek to punish yourself like this, Moreland? Why do you never allow yourself the sort of peace and happiness you deserve?”

He glared at her. “I am not punishing myself. In fact, I am honoring myself by submitting to what it is
I
want and what it is
I
need. I'm bloody tired of circumstance controlling every aspect of my life. If I want her, I have to take her. Now, what is your answer? Do you want to meet her before we leave for New York or not?”

She dropped her hand to her side and said in a suffocated whisper, “Bring her. I will do my best to keep His Majesty from demanding your head. I only hope that she is well worth the mess you are intent on creating.”

“She is that and more.”

He would ensure Zosia knew everything, including who she was and why he was doing what he was doing. And together, they would fight for everything
she had ever wanted, including her dream of seeing a free Poland.

And perhaps one day, though he knew not when, he would be able to forgive himself for submitting to a deceitful form of greed by never telling Zosia the one thing he knew would destroy his chance of ever touching happiness. She could never know her beloved hero had at long last found her and sought to marry her. Because he was never letting Zosia go. Not now. Not ever. She was going to be his from this night forth and nothing and no one was going to stand in his way. Not the Russians and not even the King himself.