would have continued to believe it had it not been for one smallslip on their part, and one small impulse on his. He didnât really know why he had bothered to ask the landlord anything â it had simply been idle curiosity â but nevertheless it had elicited a very disturbing discrepancy in their tale. Miss Clearwell had quite definitely said that Lord Buckingham would ask for the room adjoining hers, and that was indeed what appeared to have happened â except that the landlord said that the earl hadnât asked after the lady at all, let alone which room she was occupying. How, then, had they come to be placed in adjoining accommodations? How could the Englishman possibly have known which room to ask for? It was a mystery that became even more bothersome when subsequent discreet inquiries on board the Pavlovsk , which now lay at her mooring in the shadow of the royal palace, revealed that Lord Buckingham had always been booked to travel on her to St Petersburg, but that very hasty last-minute arrangements had been made for Miss Clearwell, who had originally, as she said, planned to sail on the doomed Duchess of Albemarle . The lady had been quite emphatic that they had been traveling on the Duchess of Albemarle and that theyâd been forced to change their plans to go on the Pavlovsk instead. Sheâd been lying.
Nikolai drew a long pensive breath. He didnât like mysteries, especially when they involved the British, for his plans were as yet far from completely laid, and he was vulnerable to discovery. What if Lord Buckingham and his ladylove were British agents? It was a possibility he couldnât afford to ignore, for there was far too much at stake. He hadnât heard anything from his contact in the British embassy in St Petersburg in recent weeks; indeed, everything had been almost suspiciously quiet. Damn that clerk in Paris! Had he been sent too late to his watery grave in the Seine? Had he somehow managed to send his information to London, after all?â
A nerve twitched at Nikolaiâs temple and he tossed the cards on to the table, the draft causing the candle flame to shiver. He had to be cautious, for it could still be that the English lord and the lady were what they claimed to be. There was no arguing that Lord Buckinghamâs approach to the czar had been made months ago, too long ago for anything of consequence to have been discovered by the British, and that was a fact that should reassure him. And yet ⦠Why were they telling lies? What were they hiding? Nikolai drew a longbreath. He didnât trust them, and so he had to take every precaution. He had to stay here in Stockholm, but he could have them watched, both during the voyage and in St Petersburg itself, and the moment it became clear that they were involved in any intrigue, his overseer, Bragin, could be relied upon to see that they simply disappeared.
In the meantime, he could make certain that Lord Buckingham didnât gain the imperial audience he was at such pains to achieve. All it would take was a brief note to Irina. With hindsight, it seemed a mistake had been made in allowing the Englishmanâs communication to reach the czar in the first place, but it had seemed so very innocent and sincere an approach that no suspicion had been aroused. There would still have been no suspicion had it not been for the inconsistencies in the story he had been told tonight. If they were indeed British agents, it had been a clever move to add the delightful Miss Clearwell to the proceedings, for she was a wonderful diversion, with her beauty, her impression of unaffectedness and inexperience, and her enchanting vulnerability. Oh, she was perfection, he could not deny her that, but now he also knew that she was quick-witted and adaptable and that if she hadnât yielded before tonight, she had certainly yielded now, for what else was she doing at this very moment if not lying between the sheets with the
Nikolai drew a long pensive breath. He didnât like mysteries, especially when they involved the British, for his plans were as yet far from completely laid, and he was vulnerable to discovery. What if Lord Buckingham and his ladylove were British agents? It was a possibility he couldnât afford to ignore, for there was far too much at stake. He hadnât heard anything from his contact in the British embassy in St Petersburg in recent weeks; indeed, everything had been almost suspiciously quiet. Damn that clerk in Paris! Had he been sent too late to his watery grave in the Seine? Had he somehow managed to send his information to London, after all?â
A nerve twitched at Nikolaiâs temple and he tossed the cards on to the table, the draft causing the candle flame to shiver. He had to be cautious, for it could still be that the English lord and the lady were what they claimed to be. There was no arguing that Lord Buckinghamâs approach to the czar had been made months ago, too long ago for anything of consequence to have been discovered by the British, and that was a fact that should reassure him. And yet ⦠Why were they telling lies? What were they hiding? Nikolai drew a longbreath. He didnât trust them, and so he had to take every precaution. He had to stay here in Stockholm, but he could have them watched, both during the voyage and in St Petersburg itself, and the moment it became clear that they were involved in any intrigue, his overseer, Bragin, could be relied upon to see that they simply disappeared.
In the meantime, he could make certain that Lord Buckingham didnât gain the imperial audience he was at such pains to achieve. All it would take was a brief note to Irina. With hindsight, it seemed a mistake had been made in allowing the Englishmanâs communication to reach the czar in the first place, but it had seemed so very innocent and sincere an approach that no suspicion had been aroused. There would still have been no suspicion had it not been for the inconsistencies in the story he had been told tonight. If they were indeed British agents, it had been a clever move to add the delightful Miss Clearwell to the proceedings, for she was a wonderful diversion, with her beauty, her impression of unaffectedness and inexperience, and her enchanting vulnerability. Oh, she was perfection, he could not deny her that, but now he also knew that she was quick-witted and adaptable and that if she hadnât yielded before tonight, she had certainly yielded now, for what else was she doing at this very moment if not lying between the sheets with the
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