The occasional rudeness and disparagement. The people who always compared him to his father first and seemed surprised when he wasn't an exact duplicate. He'd learned very young to hide any evidence of his feelings, learned to give nothing away in his demeanor or speech or temper.
He felt again at that moment as though those awful years of his father's disgrace were hurtling back, as though all his hard-won triumphs and successes had never occurred or were inconsequential against Vladimir's threat. He felt as if all the doors to the future were closing before him, all means of escape were disappearing from sight.
Vladimir had survived enough years in the bloody battlefield of court intrigue to recognize an expression of discomfiture. His voice was silky with malice when he spoke. 'I
Stefan hesitated, feeling trapped, a rare, almost unprecedented sensation for a man who'd won all his battles because he'd never considered defeat. But the scars were deep when contemplating a repetition of his father's fall from grace. 'I'll have to think about what you've said,' Stefan carefully replied, wanting an opportunity to regroup and assess his options.
'When are you planning on returning to Kars?'
'Tomorrow.'
'In that case you have till noon tomorrow to reach a decision. I'm sure you'll see the practicality of honoring your engagement to my daughter. Once the war is over, well, then-' Vladimir opened his palms expansively '- Nadejda can have her pick of eligible officers.'
Stefan controlled his shock. Why hadn't Vladimir mentioned the time element before? Why not indeed? Stefan thought, surveying the corpulent figure opposite him. Because Vladimir preferred flaying a man alive if possible; he had a reputation for taking pleasure in torturing his victims, and had he mentioned the engagement could be regarded as temporary when their conversation began, he would have been deprived of Stefan's torment.
'The engagement could be broken once the war is over,' Stefan mildly inquired, 'but not now? Why?' Some pertinent reason existed, but in the few hours remaining to him before his return to Kars, there wasn't sufficient time to uncover the truth. One certainty was blatantly obvious, though. Money wasn't going to buy his way out.
'My concern is for my sweet Nadejda, of course,' Vladimir replied, blandly. 'In the midst of war, there's such a dearth of eligible parties,' he said, his smile one of exaggerated sincerity. 'She would repine.'
'You surprise me, Taneiev,' Stefan drawled softly. 'I didn't suspect you harbored feelings.'
Vladimir looked pained for a theatrical pause. 'Nadejda's my dearest treasure,' he said with exactitude.
'I'm sure she is,' Stefan sardonically replied as he rose to leave, aware now of the enormous settlements exacted in the marriage contracts.
'One thing more, my dear boy, before you go. I'd like you to apologize to Nadejda for the insult you did her at the Gagarins' last evening. She was in attendance at the ball.' He spoke with great casualness as though he were asking for the merest favor.
Stefan stood in shocked arrest for a brief moment. Apologize? To the daughter of the man who was threatening him with annihilation? 'And if I decline?' he said after a small silence.
'I'd strongly consider,' Vladimir said, his gaze devoid of emotion, 'dropping a first small hint to the Tsar-a mention that his cavalry commander's name came up during the interrogation of a suspect in the Sesta case this afternoon. An initial slight wedge, as it were.' His smile was chill. 'I could convey this new detail at a diplomatic soiree tonight where Alexander is scheduled to appear. The rumor could turn out to be a mistake by noon tomorrow should you decide to continue your engagement to my daughter.' He looked at Stefan across the expanse of his polished desktop. 'Will you,' he gently inquired, the way the axman at a beheading might question whether one cared to be blindfolded or not, 'be seeing our illustrious Emperor before you return?'
Stefan's flying trip to Saint Petersburg had been purely personal and he'd intended only a brief courtesy call on the Tsar.
'I haven't decided,' he ambiguously replied, disinclined to supply Vladimir with any information.
'Well,' Vladimir briskly said, confident in his victory, 'you decide, my boy, although with all your, er, experience with women, surely a simple apology shouldn't be too demanding.' When he raised his eyes from contemplation of his manicured nails, his glance was indifferent.
He had little concern for the Tsar or the course of the war, it seemed, if he could so casually contemplate imparting such malevolent lies. Nor did he seem to have any regard for his daughter's sensibilities, either. For she, too, would be touched, however innocently, by Stefan's disgrace. Prince Taneiev's motives were purely selfish, Stefan realized, observing the cool disinterest in Vladimir's eyes. He could consider distressing the Tsar without a qualm.
Checked, Stefan had no recourse, as Vladimir already knew. But his reply came with great difficulty. 'Very well,' Stefan said.
Vladimir almost looked disappointed, as though the lesser of his humiliations had been chosen, Stefan thought, as though he would have preferred humbling Stefan before the Tsar. A dispassionate impulse surfaced in Stefan's mind, drifting into his consciousness with the placidity of ripples on a pond. How satisfying it would be to put a bullet through Vladimir's chill smile. The cream silk draperies behind his desk would be ruined, Stefan decided with a curious detachment, and on that pleasant thought a small smile curved his mouth upward.
'You find something amusing, Prince Bariatinsky?' Vladimir's voice was smooth as silk.
'Perhaps later I may,' Stefan replied.
'Perhaps later we may all find this association amusing.'
'I certainly hope so.' Stefan glanced at the wall clock. 'Now if you'll excuse me. My time is limited.'
'Nadejda is expecting you. You'll bring me your decision by noon tomorrow?'
'I'll send a message.'
Prince Taneiev didn't reply, but he nodded and the interview was over.
As Stefan followed the footman down the corridor, he debated whether he could call Vladimir's bluff. Should he simply turn around and leave? He could feel the heat of his anger rising, for the thought of the coming act of submission was unnerving and unpalatable.
But he needed time. Time to figure out what to do; time to somehow escape this trap that was closing around him. And for the first time he realized that anything that affected him now would affect Lise, also. His gorge rose at the thought of Taneiev with his talons into Lisaveta. If a few words of pretense to Nadejda would gain him one evening of reprieve, he decided his pride could stand it. Perhaps by tomorrow he would have worked out what to do, although his brain seemed strangely reluctant now.
But it would be the briefest apology in the history of man.
Nadejda was alone in the Grecian drawing room when the servant showed Stefan in. If looks could have killed, her father could have begun counting his settlement money immediately.
She was standing as though she were expecting him, and he decided Vladimir was unquestionably confident. He waited for the servant to close the door before he spoke, and without moving from the vicinity of the entrance, he said, 'I've come to apologize. I didn't realize you were at Gagarin's last night.' There. It wasn't precisely an apology but a general statement. He took brief pleasure in his evasion.
'Obviously.' Her single word was sharp as a knife thrust, her lavender eyes so devoid of warmth his hair rose briefly on the back of his neck. Dressed in a white lace tea gown adorned with red silk roses, she reminded him of blood on a corpse and gave every indication of the same uncompromising coldness. 'And in future, I'm sure my father warned you, I will not tolerate such behavior!'
His spine went rigid.
'Nor will I allow that native dress in my presence,' she disdainfully added.
Stefan wore the loose trousers and belted shirt of his mother's people, his favored form of dress out of uniform, and far from being the shabby attire Nadejda's tone implied, his garments were luxurious. His black silk blouse was China silk embroidered in gold thread, and his trousers were of wool so fine each yard could be pulled through a woman's ring. The goats that supplied the raw material for the fabric were only found in one small section of the Himalayas and were so fragile they couldn't be sheared; the hair from their coats had to be gathered from the odd residue left on the brambles and bushes of their habitat. And his red kid boots were dyed with precious scarlet madder by his bootmaker in Tabriz.
He could feel the blood begin to throb in his temple; he'd never been spoken to in that tone of voice. He controlled the Tsar's cavalry; he was the wealthiest man in the Trans-Caucasus, perhaps in Russia. 'I dress as I
