The Tsarina's Legacy (20 page)

But the person waiting for him tonight was no mere apparition. The finely sculpted face, dark eyes, and soft curves were all too real.

Praskovia lounged lazily on his Turkish divan, leaning nearer the fire in the hearth to warm herself, casually thumbing through a political tract from Poland—a dry piece of work that had been quite effective in helping him get to sleep the last few nights. Seeing her now, when his attentions were so focused on Catherine, seemed incongruous, like a spring lily sprouting from its bulb in the middle of winter: lovely in its own right, but strangely disruptive.

“Grig!” The same endearment his family used for him. It caught him off guard. In the instant before her presence fully registered in his mind, he was suddenly transported back to his family's home in the provinces. He was a boy lying on his back under the broad blue sky, nibbling on an apple, as golden blades of grass swayed in the wind.

Praskovia tossed the tract carelessly on the lush carpet and rushed to him. Grisha thought she might throw herself into his arms and feared if she did his muscles would fail and he would drop her to the floor. But she stopped short and raised her chin so she could look into his eyes, regarding him with a distinct mix of admiration and desire. His ego's weakest points.

“Why are you here?” He saw no need for an overture.

“The officers told me you had changed your plans and that you were staying longer in St. Petersburg. They didn't know when you would be back, and I had to see you.”

“I thought we agreed you were to return to your husband.”

“That was a foolish idea.” Her chest was heaving and for a moment he had the strange notion that perhaps she had run a great distance only to be with him for a night. “How could I possibly stay away from you for so long? What was I thinking?”

She stepped back, but her gaze still held his in a most provocative fashion. A low, throbbing hum began in his head and then slowly coursed through the rest of his body. “Who let you in?” he asked, only because he could think of nothing else to say.

“Your servants seemed to expect me,” Praskovia purred. “They didn't think it unusual for a woman to call on you without warning.”

A dull pain thudded in the back of Grisha's head, warring with the stirring hum. He thought he had expressed his intentions from the beginning. It was true he had promoted her talentless husband so they might have more time together. But he had also made it abundantly clear that their arrangement was to be temporary.

“I explained I had business with Prince Potemkin and they did not question me. It seems I belong here.” She lowered her face but then regarded him again behind her long lashes in a most appealing manner, as though he were the center of the world. “I always suspected as much.”

“You do not belong here.” Grisha's voice was both gentle and firm, although already her nearness provided a welcome respite from the images of Zubov and Catherine. He began to wonder if Praskovia had developed feelings for him beyond physical passion. And in that moment further wondered if he might appreciate a young and simple woman as a companion during his declining years.

A fire blazed in the hearth, but she still wore her sable coat. This seemed odd to Grisha but he soon found the scent of the citrus perfume she dabbed on the back of her ears robbed him of all sensible thought.

Once he had spoiled her with an outfit in the Turkish manner, of the finest silk and in a rich shade of turquoise. At first it had been a shock to see a woman in trousers, even the loose ones favored by the Turkish women, but then he had fondly remembered Catherine in her tight-fitting guardsman trousers.

Praskovia had been thrilled with the ensemble, though it took her time to get used to exposing her trim and pale stomach. But she delighted in the gold bangles running up her arms, the charms tinkling around her ankles, and the thin veil she seductively tied behind her ears so that Grisha could only see her eyes.

It might not be so bad to live out his days indulging in such fantasies.

Now she slid her hand to the top of the coat and slowly drew it open at the chest. She wore nothing underneath.

“I don't expect anything,” she said. “I only desire the comfort of your presence for the evening. And I understand you are staying in tonight. Please don't turn me away.”

She caressed his face. He thought he caught her glancing at the tracts once more, but then her finger trailed over his cheek and her gaze met his and he knew he would never order a woman he desired out of his bedroom.

Ten

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

 

Dr. Herrera's first notable public appearance will be the opening of the “Treasures of the Romanovs” exhibit at the Hermitage Museum, where she will be available to answer questions for members of the Monarchist Society and others in attendance.

 

THE WINTER PALACE AND HERMITAGE
PRESENT DAY

Veronica's hand lightly rested on the cold, gray-white marble. The Jordan Staircase towered before her. Golden ornamentation curled around the high windows and alcoves and up the creamy walls. Glowing light fixtures illuminated classical statuary with firm torsos, solemn expressions, and gracefully curved arms. The Romanovs had descended this staircase every year in January for the Blessing of the Neva River to honor the baptism of Jesus on the Jordan. Catherine the Great had done it, no doubt magnificent in her elaborate eighteenth-century apparel. Veronica's great-grandmother had done it as well, nervous and shy Alexandra. Veronica imagined Alexandra taking care to remain a few steps behind her beloved husband, Nicholas.

“It is impressive, yes?” Dmitry offered his hand as they ascended a scarlet runner on the massive staircase. “And now you are here. The Romanov heiress. You will be enlightened empress for our time … as Catherine once was. This is fate.”

Veronica threw her head back to take in a painting of gods and winged angels floating on dark gauzy clouds. Would she be asked to bless the waters of the river Neva as well? She was from Bakersfield, for God's sake. She reached for her heart, fierce underneath the thin purple silk of the blouse Irina had suggested she wear this evening. The air didn't feel right. She detected an artificial undertone of vanilla.

Dmitry put his hand on her arm. “Are you well?”

She hated to admit it, but she wished Michael had come. After his encounter with the reporter, they had agreed it was best if he didn't attend the reception tonight, if he kept his distance at public events. In some ways Veronica felt relieved. She had enough on her mind without him around. But she would have liked to talk to him now, to have the reassurance of his hand on her back.

Veronica closed her eyes, trying to push the anxieties out of her head, focusing instead on the background noise, the murmur of voices and sound of shoes thumping as tourists began to tramp down the stairs. She opened her eyes and saw a family descending the staircase, a little girl with long black hair in pink ribbons carefully following her mother's footsteps. How nice it would be to join them, to lose herself in the crowd, to be only a dazed tourist like any other, showing paintings to a wide-eyed child.

She thought then of the cold tile on her cheek, the twisting pain in her middle, and the pounding on the bathroom door. The dark lumps of blood clotting in the toilet and the sudden collapse of a dream she hadn't even known she desired. The end of a pregnancy and soon the end of her engagement and the life she thought she would have back when she was still in Los Angeles, still in graduate school. A lump caught in her throat.

“Try to enjoy.” Dmitry's even voice summoned her back to the present. “This is informal event. Have fun. And look who is waiting.” He nodded his chin.

“Hey! You made it. Sweet!”

Sasha Yusupov stood at the top of the staircase, before a pair of high granite columns. He smiled down at her, jawline adorably scruffy, monarchist ribbon affixed to his lapel. Two girls stood to his side, a willowy blonde and voluptuous brunette, in jewel-toned cocktail gowns and stiletto heels that made them almost as tall as Sasha. No wonder he seemed happy all the time. As Sasha spoke, the girls appraised Veronica with their heavily lined eyes. She had the sense they found her a tepid heiress to the Romanov throne.

Irina stood on the other side of Sasha in a low-cut, off-the-shoulder blue gown that flattered her creamy skin and blond hair and made her seem almost as young as Sasha's leggy girlfriends. “Borya and Zenaida will be here tonight,” she told Veronica, not bothering with niceties. She tapped her hip, as though she longed for a cigarette.

“Who?” Veronica said.

Irina cocked her head and looked at Dmitry, her eyes wide. “You didn't tell her about Borya and Zenaida?”

“Not yet,” Dmitry said.

“It is imperative you talk to them. Borya's brother is in the Duma, and you are the representative of the Romanov family this evening.”

Veronica tried to nod, but her hands had suddenly grown cold. The State Duma was the lower house of the Russian parliament.

“Avoid anything controversial,” Irina said. “If you want to talk politics, bring up Prince Potemkin's mosque. Not Reb Volkov. Borya's brother has spoken in favor of property restoration for the nobility. Reparations. You need to be charming.”

“Reparations,” Veronica said. “For the nobility.” This wasn't exactly a cause for which she felt undying passion, but she supposed she could play nicely enough with Irina's friends. “I was hoping to see some paintings.”

Irina swept her arm grandly. “The reception won't begin for a little while still. You have time to visit a gallery or two in the Hermitage. One of my late husband's ancestors helped Catherine acquire paintings for her collection. Now that I think about it, a show of good faith with reparations is the least this country can do to express gratitude.” Irina lifted her hand up and let it rest on Sasha's shoulder. “You agree, don't you, darling?”

“It's not like I would complain. Oh, and hey…” Sasha moved forward, so the girls were left slightly behind. “I'm in charge of social media for the Society. So I set up a Twitter account. You're on Twitter, right?”

The last time Veronica had tweeted, she'd still been an adjunct professor. She'd mentioned an article on Alexandra and no one responded. Another Veronica Herrera triumph. “Yeah…”

Sasha steered Veronica away from Irina. “Live-tweet this party. Tell everyone it's awesome. I mean, it helps the brand, but it also makes us more visible for everything. Anything you want to do—politics or whatever. Make sure to get selfies with some of the guys. They'll love it.” He whipped out his phone. “Are we following each other?”

Veronica fumbled for the phone in her purse and pressed her Twitter app. She saw the new follower and followed back. “@RussMonarch. Yeah, I got it.”

“I'll retweet you so people get used to you without really shoving you down their throats, you know?” Sasha said.

“Nice image,” Veronica told him.

“Exactly!” Sasha said. “It's all about image.” He glanced over his shoulder and lowered his voice. “And if you want to tweet something about Reb, I say go for it.” He winked.

She smiled up at him. “Thanks.”

He patted her back. “Try to have fun.”

“I'll try.” Veronica looked around, wondering how much time Catherine and her Potemkin had spent in the palace. Maybe she would find their ghosts in the Hermitage, roaming the halls, examining the rich oil paintings in one of the museum's brightly painted galleries. She wondered what they would have made of an American woman, tottering on unfamiliar heels, ready to convince a roomful of fading ersatz Russian nobility that she was the proper representative for the Romanov throne.

No doubt Grisha Potemkin would have been a social media pro. He would have tweeted something witty about Veronica's upcoming appearance. And then he would have laughed and laughed and told her to have fun.

*   *   *

“This is a perfect opportunity to mingle,” Dmitry said. “Many members of the Monarchist Society also support the Hermitage Museum.”

The word “mingle” made her cringe, but Veronica didn't want to let Dmitry down. As they approached the foyer of the Hermitage Theater, she saw a poster board propped on an easel, a picture of Nicholas II, placid and affable as ever, surrounded by images of jeweled Fabergé eggs, ruby medallions, and a diamond-encrusted signet ring featuring a portrait of Catherine's grandson Tsar Alexander I.

“Smile,” he whispered.

“No, don't do that,” she groaned. “Never tell a woman to smile.”

Dmitry seemed confused. “It is party. You are to have fun.”

Given the situation, Veronica supposed she shouldn't default to her normal resting bitch face. She tried to fix her features into a smile.

Dmitry nodded a little too quickly. “Maybe think of something happy and let face do what will.”

Still smiling like a fool, Veronica bent over her phone and typed:
Amazing party at Hermitage tonight! Thank you @RussMonarch!
Brilliant.

“Okay.” She heard a Tchaikovsky concerto tinkling, the music coming from the other side of cream-colored doors laced with gilded curlicues. Dmitry touched her elbow, opened the doors, and gently steered her into the foyer. Under the light of crystal chandeliers, Veronica felt as though she had entered a rococo fairy tale. The room had been decorated with miniature pine trees trimmed in red, white, and blue bows seamed with tiny Romanov insignias, the double-headed eagle. Silver-haired couples circulated near small round tables set at a height made for drinks, canapés, and small talk. In one corner of the room, a man in a tuxedo played a grand piano. Long picture windows looked out over the dark and churning canal waters, waves tipped with beads of ice.

She heard a soft laugh with a sarcastic edge to it and abruptly turned her head. She realized, with a little jolt of annoyance, that she had expected to see Michael, had wanted to see him. But it was only an elderly gentleman at one of the tables, happily biting into a puff pastry topped with smoked salmon.