The Perfect Scandal (21 page)

His Majesty chuckled and leaned forward, his full face brightening. “I take great pride in knowing that I can still make a woman blush.” He cleared his throat and searched her face. “Let us be done with this.
Seeing you are renouncing your title in the hopes of wedding Moreland, we regret to inform you of a quandary. A quandary involving Moreland.”

She glanced up, her heart pounding. “What is it?”

“He swept through here not even an hour ago, personally informing me of all that has come to pass.” He heaved out a breath, shook his head and leaned back against the chair. “I was so outraged. I almost seized everything associated to his name. I would have done it, too, but I know my cousin would have never forgiven me for it, and in truth, Camille means far more to me than that boy ever will.”

Zosia shifted forward in the chair, her pulse heightening. “Is Moreland still here? Might I see him?”

“No. The man has already left for London.”

Her heart sank. “With your permission, Your Majesty, I request an opportunity to make my way to London and see him.”

“I am afraid, my dear, he has requested there be no further contact between you and him. And I, for one, think it very wise. Let the passion settle.”

She gasped, snapping her spine straight. “He does not want to see me? Not ever again?”

“Oh, he does. He most certainly does. The boy is merely being honorable and leaving it up to you as to whether you wish to see
him
again.”

A breath rushed out of her. “Oh. Well. Of course I want to see him. He and I have quite a bit to discuss.”

“If that sentiment upholds, you will be allowed to see him in a year. Though not sooner.”

Her eyes widened. “What?”

“He is asking for a year on his own and will not have it any other way.” He rubbed at his round, shaven chin with thick fingers. “Aside from wanting to campaign extensively in England and Europe over the next year, he intends to also sail to New York, Boston, Washington, Philadelphia and heaven knows where else as a means of garnering support for Poles. He told me to assure you of his devotion, but that you need time to pursue what is most important to you and he needs time to develop his self-worth. Whatever the devil that means. So as not to send you into a complete panic, if after a whole year you still wish to pursue him and matrimony, Moreland wishes it and will ensure it. Though not prior to a year. He hopes you will understand.”

Zosia pinched her lips together, tears trembling against her eyelids. She pressed a hand against the parchment hidden within her bosom. Moreland was doing this for her. For himself. For them. All while going out into the world and supporting
her
dream. She had never felt so honored. She would willingly
wait ten whole years for his return, if he wished it. “Will I at least be able to write to him?”

“No. If there is any news of importance you believe he must be privy to, you are to relate it to me, and I, in turn, will relate it to him. He is of the mind that you deserve complete freedom apart from him, which continued communication would only warp.”

Moreland was trying to prove his worth and she couldn't help but be in awe of him. And though it would be a nauseating form of despair to live a whole year without seeing him or touching him or talking to him, it was something she was going to have to respect.

His Majesty raised a bushy brow. “'Tis obvious what needs to be done. I think we respect both sides and wait for a year to pass. But we cannot have Moreland doing all of
your
work, can we? That would be boorish. Which is why, despite you relinquishing your title, you will go to Saint Petersburg and make use of the year you are being given. A year alongside the Emperor should progress your cause considerably.”

Her lips thinned as she flattened her moist palms against her lap. “You expect a hen to cluck its way into a kitchen and rip off its own feathers for the chef?”

Throwing back his gray head, he let out a long peel of laughter. “You exaggerate. I know Emperor Nicholas quite well and you needn't worry about getting
your feathers plucked. He and I overturned many a good card together in our younger years. Why, he used to live in London, right on Stradford Place for a time when your father was still on the throne. A more animated and intelligent soul you'll never meet. You think the man is all blood, war and politics? You should have seen him at Almack's whisking our women about the floor. The man has charm.”

Zosia stared at His Majesty, her throat tightening. “Forgive my words, Your Majesty, but life is
very
different for those trying to breathe beneath his tyrannical rule. Poles are wilting very, very fast beneath the cold shadow he casts. While he dances, my people and their way of life are being obliterated. We Poles have no rights.
And it is our country!
How is that just?”

His Majesty's amused grin faded, revealing the harsh, wrinkled features of a very old and very tired man. He sighed and nodded. “Yes. I
deplore
his politics and his irrational dread of intellectual improvement. His hostility toward the Ottoman Porte in and of itself is vile and unacceptable. And that is why you must go. Use the year Moreland is giving you to guide the Emperor into better understanding your people. You have a duty to uphold, Moreland has his duties to uphold and I have my duty to uphold. Therefore it is done. You and our Russian guests will depart in three weeks. You will stay here at Windsor for
a small while so that I may offer you fortitude and rest, while better acquainting you with what you can expect. Russian Court etiquette alone will take us a damn week to discuss.” He rose with a groan and winced as he straightened his hefty frame. “I am getting far too old for this. I need to die.”

Zosia choked back a laugh and rose, bowing her head to hide her smile. “'Tis my hope you live indefinitely, Your Majesty. Thank you for your wisdom and assistance.”

He gestured toward her chair. “Yes, yes. Sit. 'Tis exhausting watching you stand on one leg. However do you do it?”

She grinned and set her chin but did not sit. “With practice.”

“I am infinitely impressed. Why, I can barely stand on
two
legs.” He snorted and regally trudged across the room toward the footmen set against the wall. He paused and clapped his hands at them. “Prepare several rooms for the Countess and all our Russian guests. See to it their needs are well provided for and have some damn port and a plate of sausages delivered into the reading room.”

The men bowed and breezed off to oversee the request.

His Majesty paused and glanced back at her. “Be at ease with your decision, dear girl. I will write a letter to the Emperor and have it sent straightaway,
so he can properly greet you and be prepared. I will also remind him that George will have his head if you are not treated with the same hospitality my family showed him whilst he was here in England.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty. I am honored by your endless generosity.”

“As well you should be, you Catholic wench. I confess I am rather annoyed Moreland gets
my
trinket, after I do all the work! God carry you.” He turned and disappeared out through the oversized double doors.

“Long live the King!”
she called out after him.
“For no greater man has ever lived!”
She paused and added playfully,
“Except for Moreland, that is!”

“There is no need for blasphemy!”
he called back without reappearing. “I will see you at supper. And you had best wear a pretty gown or I will not have you at my table.”

She smiled and repeated softly, “Long live the King, long live Poland and long live my Moreland. Amen.”

T
RISTAN HAD BEEN TOSSING OUT
so many orders to his servants every hour, he was beginning to forget what orders he had already issued and why.

Shortly after meeting with his secretary, his bookkeeper and solicitor, he reorganized and restructured his entire schedule to reflect the new life he was taking on for the next eight weeks while he prepared for his upcoming debate before Parliament concerning Russia's growing power, not only over the Ottoman but, of course, Poland. By keeping the focus
solely on Russia, as opposed to what England could do to salvage Poland, he hoped everything would fall into place without creating full opposition.

His newly arranged schedule included meetings with titled peers, merchants and gentry who were either Catholic or bore Catholic sentiment. His schedule also included attending any and all sessions and debates at the House of Lords, while designating two days to his grandmother, instead of one. He also terminated his membership to Angelo's Fencing Academy and commenced a new sport that required more grit, valor and far less clothing: boxing at Jackson's.

Fridays and Saturdays he'd completely allotted to the British Museum so he could delve into its extensive library and archives pertaining to history, politics and economics of the Ottoman Porte, Poland and Russia over the past hundred years. His debate depended on it. His Majesty had generously offered him access to the crown's own personal library, which included pamphlets, maps and documents unavailable to the public.

As the daily routine of his new schedule fell into place, so did his way of thinking. He slowly gathered all of the dirks, stilettos, razors, blades, dagger pistols, whips and riding crops that he'd collected throughout the years. It was an extensive collection that astounded even him, comprising a hundred and
twenty-eight different pieces. He only kept one blade. A rare silver-and-gold piece from Nepal he hoped to one day display in a glass case in the library. After he had carefully bundled the blade in velvet, he stashed it in a locked drawer at the bottom of his writing desk and gave the key to his butler.

He then hefted the remaining collection of weapons, whips and riding crops into several wool sacks and had everything delivered to a pawn shop, donating whatever money was acquired to a local orphanage. The only razor he kept in the house was his shaving razor, and that he assigned to his new valet, Winslow, with strict instructions to only deliver it for the twenty minutes he required each morning to shave.

Tristan also opted to altogether remove every object connected to his mother and father. Furniture, vases, books, paintings, stationery, letters, even inkwells and stubs of old wax in tins. He felt the need to purge and commence anew. Not as a means of forgetting—for his parents did not deserve such disrespect—but as a means of decluttering his life and his thoughts. As days went on, and more and more objects were removed from each room, he realized he was going to have to purchase countless items for the entire house.

After donating his entire wardrobe to a work-house, he invested over a thousand pounds in new
coats, cravats, boots, trousers, gloves, cloaks, hats, waistcoats and linen shirts. He opted for less gray and far more color. It pleased his grandmother no end and made him feel more attractive.

Though he felt awkward the first few dozen times he did it, he still joined all of the men at Jackson's in the routine of removing his coat, cravat, waistcoat and linen shirt and leaving his chest bare whenever he stepped into the roped arena. Men stared like prim misses gauging his scars, but he became surprisingly popular. Men eagerly sought to go up against him in the arena, thinking his scars reflected he was a tougher challenge. And
that
motivated him to remove his shirt every single time.

Sadly, tragedy momentarily touched his world when he received word that his father's good friend, Lord Linford, had succumbed to syphilis and had, in fact, passed. Tristan sent condolences and baskets of flowers to Lady Victoria and her husband, Lord Remington, but avoided them and the funeral. Silent prayers in church extended over several Sundays were about all he could afford to give without teetering off his designated path.

With each visit to his grandmother, he encouraged her to join him on his journey toward a new way of thinking and a new way of life by stepping outside the house. She wasn't quite as enthused as he'd hoped she'd be.

Eventually, he was able to get the woman to extend her arm past the open doorway of the entrance. He had to stand on the doorstep and extend her arm for her, but even that was far more than she'd been capable of in nineteen years.

She protested and panicked, but soon grudgingly opened the door herself and extended her arm beyond the entrance and held it out so that he would cease nagging. He wagered antique books for minutes spent holding out that hand, which motivated her, and eventually he was able to get her to stand in the doorway for over twenty minutes. Of course, whenever a gentleman passed and nodded his pleasantries, she would scramble back in and slam the door, bolting all eight locks. She usually wouldn't let him back inside the house when she fell into one of her panics, and he had to wait until his next scheduled visit to see her.

It was his hope that after his speech, which he'd aligned to occur two sessions before the closing of Parliament for the Season, he could get his grandmother to sail with him to America to campaign from city to city and from state to state. And from there, campaign and tour all of Europe.

Despite there being no guarantee that Zosia would even be waiting for him at the end of the set year, he had promised himself to enthusiastically count down each and every day, hoping it edged him closer to seeing and holding and kissing and loving and
marrying the incredible woman who had inspired him to put
more
into Moreland.

 

T
HE LONG JOURNEY FROM
E
NGLAND
to Saint Petersburg had commenced aboard the overly crowded and overly rustic
W. Jolliffe Steamer
. A more luxurious steamship could have been chartered, but would have delayed the trip by another week, and Zosia had no intention on putting off the inevitable.

The boasting terrain and coast of Kent and Essex eventually shrank to the size of a hand, fading against the sea's vast horizon until it disappeared, and it was as if England and her Moreland had never been.

The chugging vessel trailed constant veils of sooty smoke from its stacks, sweeping them out toward cloud-ridden skies, strong winds and massive waves that relentlessly rocked far more than the ship. It rocked her very gut to the core, threatening to slap her own innards up and out through her nostrils.

There was very little comfort to be had, although her newly acquired lady's maid did everything to make her journey comfortable. Their cabin, though sizable, was musty and at night was lit by several lanterns that all flickered incessantly as if chatting away amongst themselves.

Limited accommodations had forced her to set aside pretense and offer sections of her large cabin to Maksim, his five cavalry men and all four guards
His Majesty had graced her with. She insisted on sharing quarters, despite panicked protests from her lady's maid, after discovering all ten men had been sleeping on a rain-drenched deck, using their cloaks for blankets and bundling ropes for pillows.

What was far worse than sharing sleeping quarters with ten grown men—four of whom snored with the strength of the north winds snapping off branches—was having to endure the
stench
of grouping said ten men in one cabin.

Most of the meals served in the designated dining hall were tasteless, pasty and cold by the time they found their way into her mouth. Oddly, the less she ate, the better she felt.

Whenever weather permitted, she spent most of her hours on deck, reading the wonderful, extensive array of books His Majesty had gifted her with. Her favorite, by far, was the 1787 French eighteen-volume edition of
Correspondance Secrète, Politique et Littéraire
. It was a witty and salacious journalistic chronicle that wove truths, half truths and lies into intriguing tales about the reign, politics and personal affairs of Louis XVI. She kept her place marked with Moreland's folded, old parchment, hoping that on the day of their reunion, they'd burn it together in symbolic celebration.

Maksim watched over her and her lady's maid at every turn, always keeping them in sight and
constantly reprimanding any man who wished to be familiar. After she had threatened what was most dear to Maksim that day in the carriage, he himself maintained a very respectable distance she was grateful for.

Her own guards spent most of their bored hours playing cards with Maksim's cavalry. No one ever liked when she played. Between her luck, her competitive nature and her tendency to count cards, she almost always won. So she refrained from spoiling their fun and kept to reading instead.

Despite the notable language barrier between the two groups of men, the moment drink, food and cards were involved, they seemed to understand each other
very
well. They even knew to wordlessly nudge each other whenever a pretty face breezed past on deck. There were some things that were simply universal to all men.

When the ship finally arrived in Hamburg, Germany, almost two weeks later, and all of their papers had been inspected, three four-horse carriages were hired for the remaining distance to Russia. They took their time, stopping to refresh the horses and themselves often and visiting many cities along the way.

Upon entering the borders leading into the Kingdom of Poland, where their papers were inspected by young Polish sentinels who offered amiable conversation in her own language, a sense of peace and pride
propelled her onward, reminding her of her purpose. She didn't feel like a one-legged woman anymore. She felt like a dignitary.

During the very last week of their journey, after six long weeks Zosia realized something. The lacings on her corset were a tad uncomfortable, both of her breasts were unusually sore and she hadn't had her menses since London. Well before she and Moreland had…

And yes. She knew. She was pregnant with Moreland's babe. Though there was no visible belly, she still kept her hands protectively on it, secretly cherishing what she'd been gifted with in all but one moment of intimacy. She was thrilled to know that the year apart which Moreland had set was going to be shortened considerably, as she intended to send word about their babe upon her arrival in Saint Petersburg. She only hoped he would be able to rush to her side and marry her before her belly exposed them both to scandal.

When at long last she had arrived at the territory of Polangen, which admitted them into the expanse of Russia, their carriages were greeted by several blockades and countless Russian sentinels asking them to step out.

Far more than their papers were inspected. They were. She worried the sentinels were going to insist
she remove her gown and dismantle both of her crutches. Fortunately, it never came to that.

The inspection also included unstrapping and hefting off all of their trunks from the back of each carriage and sifting through each one. To her astonishment, the only trunk to have created a panic was the one holding her books. Stern, bearded faces paged through all fifty-eight of them, as if they were cannons. She considered whipping a book at each of their heads to demonstrate that a book against their skull would in fact hurt far more than propaganda.

After many shared mutterings and curt Russian words tossed over their shoulders to fellow sentinels, each book was returned to her trunk one by one. They returned everything except for her precious eighteen volumes of
Correspondance Secrète, Politique et Littéraire
. The Russian blighters shoved all eighteen volumes into several satchels, explaining books containing political subjects were not allowed.

Astounded, she protested by explaining that they had been gifts from His Majesty of England, and that the political content was more satire than truth. But the men only repeatedly waved her and her crutches off. When she demanded Maksim seize her rare 1787 editions, he only shrugged and confided there was nothing to be done.

So she showed him what could be done.

She commanded all four of her own British guards
to ambush the sentinels and seize her French volumes by force. Only…she found herself ambushed. Maksim hoisted her up and threatened to use her own crutches against her backside if she didn't get into the carriage. And such was her first impression of the great Russian Empire under Emperor Nicholas's ludicrous rule.