Golden Paradise

Chapter Ten

When Lisaveta had arrived at Vladikavkaz, she'd been met by the Tsar's envoy and one of the Tsar's railway coaches. With politeness and protocol she'd been escorted into her private car, told by an obsequious aide that her wish was their command and invited to enjoy her journey north.

Astonished at first by her preferential treatment, she inquired whether they had the right person. She was assured they did. The young officer smiled winningly and said, "Please, mademoiselle, relax and make yourself comfortable. The Tsar looks forward to meeting you." Pampered by a full staff of servants, she sped northward to the capital.

The next morning over breakfast she asked the Tsar's equerry whether all the guests to the ceremony commemorating her father's work were treated so royally. He hesitated only the minutest moment before replying, "My orders were to escort you, Countess, and beyond that I don't know. I never," he added politely, evading her question nicely, "question the Tsar." He knew of course that a telegram from Prince Bariatinsky had set the Tsar's orders in train; he also knew scholars, even scholars honored by the Tsar, were rarely treated with such pomp. And while not privy to the details of the Prince's telegram, he'd already come to his own conclusions apropos of the Countess Lazaroff's relationship to the Prince. As a man of the world, he understood Bariatinsky's request and, perhaps upon seeing the lady, understood also his possible reasons for ensuring she had private accommodations.

Perhaps the Prince was protecting his paramour from prying eyes or other men's advances; maybe he merely wished her journey to be as luxurious as possible. Certainly, whatever his reasons, the lady was worth the effort. She was breathtakingly beautiful, her fresh blooming youth not only dazzling the eye but stirring the imagination. In her peach-colored summer frock adorned with cream lace flounces at neckline and cuffs, she seemed both lushly opulent and heatedly alive.

At the Countess's request, a message was sent from Moscow to her cousin Prince Nikki Kuzan, informing him of her arrival time. When they detrained at the Station Sud, Nikki and his wife, Alisa, were at the platform to meet them. Amid hugs and kisses, introductions were made, since Nikki had married rather precipitously since her father's funeral and neither woman had met. While Nikki dwarfed the pretty redhead at his side, he deferred to her, his smiles those of a besotted man, and as the two women chatted with the familiarity of old friends, he listened with amusement and courtesy.

"Do you think," he said at last, breaking in during a short pause for breath on his wife's part, "we could rediscover the merits of royal rail travel and the Russian landscape in the comfort of our home?" His grin was appealing. "And let all these vastly bored officers and railway officials leave?"

"Oh, dear," Alisa said, glancing at the ranks of officialdom standing at attention.

Lisaveta flushed in embarrassment at her discourtesy. Unused to royal entourage, she'd simply forgotten they were present, having in the past always traveled in the utmost simplicity. "By all means," she said, and with a directness that Nikki watched with interest and the entourage found delightful, Lisaveta shook hands with and thanked each man.

When they arrived at Nikki's palace on the Neva Quay, Katelina, Alisa's daughter from a previous marriage, two-year-old Alex and the new baby were all waiting with their nannies and descended on their parents with squeals of excitement. Katelina was eight now and poised in an engaging way that would shatter abruptly when Nikki teased her. Alex was a chubby toddler, testing his curiosity and independence with tugs on Lisaveta's skirt and questions of his own. He pronounced his baby brother's name in a charming two-year-old lisp, and Lisaveta thought how warm and loving the small family appeared. The children were allowed at the table for dinner, served unfashionably early to accommodate their bedtimes, and when the last child was tucked into bed, the three adults settled in the drawing room for tea and sherry.

The intervening years since they'd last met were discussed, Nikki and Lisaveta exchanging pertinent details of their lives. Nikki's new family, of course, was a more staggering alteration than Lisaveta's continuing research, and Lisaveta listened with interest to the story of Nikki and Alisa's courtship and marriage. She could see they were happy, and she found herself wishing her relationship with Stefan might have had the same fantasy ending. Stefan was apparently more immune to Cupid's arrows… an unfortunate circumstance when she had found herself so vulnerable.

Eventually, the reason for Lisaveta's visit to Saint Petersburg was spoken of.

"Uncle Felix is much revered by the Tsar," Nikki said, warming the glass of brandy he preferred drinking in his cupped hands. "This ceremony is more than the usual diplomatic dispersal of medals in a palace stateroom. A dinner is planned and a ball with a very select guest list."

Unaware of the reason for Alexander's unusual favors, Lisaveta said, "Papa did have a very special relationship with the Tsar. They corresponded for years, although their letters were mostly analyses of obscure translations or interpretations of particular stanzas. It was a bit," she added with a smile, "like playing chess through the mails."

"And you came to follow in your father's footsteps," Alisa said. "I suppose you've been asked countless times whether you find the field unusual."

Lisaveta nodded. "Hafiz seems very normal to me, raised as I was in the midst of his research. The exotic qualities of the topic elude me. It's rather like a comfortable old sweater."

Nikki smiled. "An uncommon metaphor for Hafiz, I'd warrant, but I understand. Mother's Romany blood may seem exotic to others, but their culture is prosaic and second nature to me. I may see it as interesting but certainly not exotic."

"Exactly," Lisaveta agreed warmly.

"Be warned, though," Nikki cautioned out of concern for his cousin's feelings, "some in society may see your interest in other terms."

"I understand," Lisaveta replied, her smile intact. "Papa was careful to apprise me of those possibilities years ago, and I've all the bland phrases readily available. I deflect the rabidly curious, politely correct the detractors, and I tell the mildly inquisitive that Hafiz was a troubadour of sorts, much like the medieval European ones. He composed love songs. It sounds all very innocent." She was composed, Stefan's pearls at her neck, a sherry in her hand, unintimidated by prurient interpretations of her work.

"Should you need a champion beyond the curiosity seekers, I'm at your disposal," Nikki offered, "and apparently the Tsar is, as well. Note was taken, you can be sure, of your arrival in a royal railcar."

"His special courtesy was very kind… I was wondering, perhaps, if Stefan had anything to do with it." She spoke moderately without inflection, and her golden eyes were guileless.

"Stefan?" Nikki carefully repeated, knowing only one Stefan that close to the Tsar, conscious as well of that Stefan's libertine reputation.

"Bariatinsky," Lisaveta supplied.

The Tsar's overture of hospitality was immediately crystal clear.

"You know Stefan?" Nikki asked casually. He and the Prince had been frequent compatriots in female amusements before his marriage, had in fact been friends from their days in the Corps of Pages.

"I met him by accident on the Plain of Kars," she said, and proceeded to describe her dramatic rescue, their journey to Tiflis and her meeting with Militza and Nadejda. She didn't, however, detail the exact chronology of these events, nor did she mention their two-week holiday in the mountains.

Nikki, though, knew the distance from the Plain of Kars to Tiflis. He also knew Stefan's propensity for beautiful women and knew Stefan had been actively involved in the siege of Kars for several months. Stefan would not let an opportunity like Lisaveta innocently pass, certainly not after being deprived of female companionship for so long.

"Princess Orbeliani is pleasant, is she not?" Alisa mentioned, having met Militza several times at Stefan's over the past few years.

"Utterly charming," Lisaveta declared with warmth. "Her candor is-"

"Much like Stefan's," Nikki finished.

"Yes," Lisaveta answered. "Both are without subterfuge." There had been times in the past few days as she traveled north when she had wished Stefan had been less bluntly frank. She would almost have wished to cling to the unreal hope that they would meet again rather than the reality of their parting. He had said a simple goodbye. And meant it. The sorrow she felt for a moment, knowing she would never see him again, was evident on her face.

"He's back to Kars, then?" Nikki inquired, aware of Stefan's habit of transient affairs. But this time, with a female relative of his involved, he viewed Stefan's amorous amusements with less tolerance. And Lisaveta was obviously despondent.

"As I understand it," Lisaveta replied, recovering from her futile grieving over Stefan with a ready logic she'd always commanded. Mourning his loss wouldn't recall him, and she was in Saint Petersburg for the first time in her life and about to be introduced into society. There was enjoyment in the prospect. "Apparently the Grand Duke is on some fact-finding junket," she added, able to smile again.

"Making trouble no doubt," Nikki snorted. "Will Stefan be coming up to Saint Petersburg soon?"

"I don't know."

And his question of Stefan's interest was answered. "We'll have to see you're introduced around," he said avuncularly, annoyed despite his own sexual adventuring that Stefan had preyed on his cousin. His sense of outrage surprised him momentarily-it must be a sign of domesticity. He smiled at Alisa. "Alisa will see to your gowns. Won't you, darling?"

"I'd love to." Since she knew many of Nikki's friends and their predilections she, too, had come to her own conclusions about Stefan Bariatinsky and the Countess. Lisaveta was very splendid, her disposition charming; Alisa understood what Stefan had found alluring. There were, however, scores of men less ruthless in amorous dalliance and she meant to see that Lisaveta enjoyed herself in Saint Petersburg. "Did you bring something for the ceremony? For the ball? Do you have a court dress?"

"No…on all counts, I'm afraid. My baggage was all left behind when the caravan was attacked, although it wouldn't have been adequate anyway, and while Stefan had a dressmaker at Aleksandropol repair my wardrobe deficiencies, it was a sketchy arrangement."

Nikki was not pleased to hear Stefan had clothed his cousin; he'd done the same too many times himself for the paramours in his past to misunderstand the nuances of the situation. "How many days do we have," he said in a crisp voice, "before the ceremony?"

Alisa looked sidelong at her husband as he sat beside her on the sofa. He was angry about Stefan. "Two days," she said, and added with a placating softness, "it's plenty of time, dear. Madame Drouet will manage."

Turning to her, he smiled an apology; he knew she was actually suggesting they would manage to repair the hurt caused by Stefan's philandering. "Of course, you're right." Of Lisaveta he asked, "Are you up to a day of standing and being measured and fitted?" It was obvious from his tone that he had taken on her protection in all things.

"To please the Tsar, of course. What do you suggest, Alisa? I'm completely ignorant of fashion, existing as I have so long in the country."

And the conversation turned to deciding on the basic requirements she would need to be entertained by the Tsar and Saint Petersburg society.

The next three weeks were like a young girl's dream come true. The Tsar feted Lisaveta beyond the ceremonial functions surrounding the honors given her father. He invited her to small dinners at the palace, he took her out riding in his carriage, he sent gifts and flowers, he danced with her always at the balls he attended, and he wasn't known to exert himself as a dance partner. He was, in a word, assuring Countess Lazaroff's success in Saint Petersburg society. His deliberate patronship was noted and remarked on, although even without the Tsar's recognition, Lisaveta's beauty would have gained her avid attention.

The whirl of parties, dinners, balls, the deluge of admirers, was heady. Enormous numbers of bouquets and male callers descended on the pink marble Kuzan palace on the Neva Quay, and the Countess Lazaroff became the most sought-after belle in Saint Petersburg. Lisaveta enjoyed her first encounter with Saint Petersburg's gilded set; she danced and flirted and smiled; she met everyone of importance and was treated with the deference and fervor her beauty and the Tsar's favor engendered. She appeared in the Kuzan box at the ballet and opera; she attended musical soirees and afternoon teas; she danced till dawn and slept till afternoon; she indulged herself completely in the aristocratic world of luxury and amusement.

But in the rare moments of respite from the dizzying diversions, she would recall the quiet solitude of the mountains and the man she'd come to love. Against the yardstick of that cherished time, the glitter of Saint Petersburg paled. She'd promised Alisa to stay until Katelina's birthday and she would, but after that she intended returning to her country estate. Once the war was over she'd accept the Khan's invitation to return to her study of his collection in Karakilisa. In the meantime, she could begin collating her voluminous notes and, she reflected with a small sigh, try to forget the man who'd captured her heart.

Lying back against the bed pillows, her gaze on the sunlit window the maid had opened to the afternoon air, she determinedly shook away the melancholy of Stefan's departure from her life and briskly thought, Now then, was it a poetry reading this afternoon or a piano recital? And dinner tonight was at one of the numerous grand dukes. Should she wear her emerald satin or her fuchsia tulle? Stefan's pearls would compliment either. She wished he could see her wear them.

That afternoon, though, she decided to forego the piano recital and found comfort instead in the Tsar's gift of a manuscript-The History of the House of Musaffar-a rare and special monograph she'd seen only once before. For a few hours as she immersed herself in the confusion of the minor dynasties who ruled over Fars and Kirman in the fourteenth century, she was able to forget her own confusion over wanting a man beyond her reach. She was even able for a brief time to diminish the powerful presence of Stefan in her mind.

In the following days, she escaped whenever she could to the quiet of Nikki's library and began working again, taking careful, minute notes from the manuscript, translating the sometimes cavalier chronology of Viziers into a plausible sequence, making duplicate notes for the Tsar's collection. Hafiz had lived in a turbulent time and his delicate love songs must have been created to the clash of arms, the inrush of conquerors and the flight of the defeated. Anarchy had prevailed, and invader after invader forced the city of Shiraz to submit to his rule. If Hafiz had survived such chaos and destruction with his inimitable gift of philosophy and song intact, surely she could overcome the melancholy of an unrequited love.

And she found a measure of solace in her familiar tasks.

Stefan heard the first glowing comments a week after Lisaveta was introduced by the Tsar at her first formal ball; one of his officers returned from leave in Saint Petersburg with the news. The Countess Lazaroff had been christened the Golden Countess for her sublime radiance and glorious eyes, he'd been told. She was, Loris said, the absolute center of every male's attention. She was more than beautiful, he'd gone on ecstatically, as though each word weren't doing disastrous things to Stefan's detachment; she was witty and gay with the charming cachet of her Hafiz scholarship. The intriguing possibilities in her exquisite looks and exotic background were a tantalizing lure. Men were lined up for a turn on her dance card, favors were offered for a seat beside her at dinner, and the drawing room of the Kuzan palace, where she was staying, was awash with floral tributes and besieging men. Loris went on at some length, driven by his own enthusiasm but also indulgent to Stefan's known partiality for gorgeous women. Rumor had it, he finished at last, two grand dukes had proposed.

The shock of those initial stories had taken several days for Stefan to rationalize satisfactorily. He'd never remotely imagined Lisaveta as society's reigning queen, although certainly her beauty was breathtaking. Rather, he'd thought her uninterested in the superficiality of society. Loris must have been exaggerating, he decided after several more days of contemplation. And for a man who'd forgotten women as easily as he'd seduced them, Stefan found himself uneasy with his feelings regarding Lisaveta. Eventually with the same kind of determination Lisaveta had summoned in regard to her memories, Stefan decided Loris's statements were probably primarily rumor and so dismissable. Even if they weren't, he had no further interest in the Countess. She'd afforded him a delightful holiday but he disliked prolonged relationships and it was all over now.

He was able to maintain his objective and habitual savoir faire until Dmitri and Kadar returned three days later from their leaves with stories of the Golden Countess as their foremost topic of conversation. They discoursed endlessly on her abundant attractions: she danced like an angel, and Stefan found himself inexplicably annoyed he'd never danced with her; she could make you laugh effortlessly without the silliness of other women, and Dmitri and Kadar both detailed numerous instances of her humor-to which the officers in the staff tent guffawed aloud; her gowns were lush like her beauty, but then Nikki Kuzan understood feminine fashions and had taken her to his wife's dressmaker. When Dmitri began describing Lisaveta's voluptuous form, Stefan glowered. He almost said, "You can't touch her," and only caught himself in time. But when hey both remarked on the canary diamonds she wore in her ears, so perfectly matching the gold of her eyes, Stefan abruptly said, "I gave her those," as if the four short words acknowledged his territorial prerogatives.

All the officers in the large tent looked at him. They were curious he knew the Countess, of course, also they heard the temper in his voice. Most of them took cogent note of his tone. If Bariatinsky was laying claim to the woman, it wouldn't be wise to step in his way. Although in the past Stefan had never shown enough concern for a woman to exert himself, perhaps the Countess was different. She must indeed be special.

It was Captain Tamada, just returned from the western front, who added the final straw a day later. To a brooding and unusually moody Stefan, who was playing a silent game of solitaire in the officer's mess, he said, "What you need, Stefan, to lighten your mood, is a night with the newest belle in Saint Petersburg. I saw her myself only a week ago, and she puts the delectable Helene to shame. Have you heard of the Golden Countess?"

A moment later, after Stefan had swept his cards on the ground and stalked out, the Captain turned to a fellow officer who was writing a letter home. "What did I say?"

"He knows her," the man answered, and shrugged.

"And doesn't like her?" Tamada inquired.

The letter writer shrugged again. "Damned if I know, but I'll tell you this. I wouldn't mention her name again if he's around."

That night Stefan suddenly decided that since the campaign wasn't scheduled to begin for two more weeks, due to delays in transport of munitions primarily, he'd travel to Saint Petersburg.

It was an unusual decision, one likely to cause comment, but the Turks, too, had still not conveyed more than light replacements to the front. And since the weather had continued to be unseasonably warm, any large movements of troops from reserves in Erzurum or the Black Sea ports or Istanbul were considered unlikely. It would be suicidal without adequate supplies of water.

Additionally, the Russian engineers were still constructing the new telegraph lines encircling Kars, and their completion was delaying the attack, as well. Unlike Alaja Dagh, where lack of organization had cost the Russians their victory, the assault on Kars was going to be fully coordinated. Until that time, however, Stefan's presence as the general in command of cavalry was really unnecessary. And since he was as prudent a soldier as he was prodigal a man, he had conscientiously delegated those few duties that would have concerned him during the hiatus.

But his unusual decision to leave the front did cause considerable comment, as did his given reason: he wished to visit his fiancée. Everyone knew Stefan never mentioned his fiancée, and when her name came up occasionally, he immediately made it plain he wasn't marrying for love.

So bets were taken on the real reason he was traveling so great a distance, and the Countess Lazaroff figured prominently in those wagers. More complicated odds were negotiated on the outcome of his visit; both his temper and odd moodiness were factored in the point spread.

He went alone because he didn't want company in his sullenness; he also went alone for speed.

Haci had protested at first. "The road to Aleksandropol isn't safe," he'd said, his voice cool with reason.

"I'm in a hurry," was Stefan's blunt reply.

"Have I ever slowed you down?" his friend inquired, watching Stefan toss a few basic items in his saddlebag.

Stefan looked up, the dim lantern light in the tent they shared casting dark shadows across his aquiline features. His smile was brief but apologetic. "No offense, Haci. I should have said I want to be alone."

"It's still dangerous."

Stefan had resumed buckling the red leather straps securing the side pouches. "I'll be careful."

"You don't know how to be careful."

"I'm traveling at night… that'll help."

"You're crazy!" Haci went so far as to grab Stefan's arm for attention. "The road's almost impassable since the transports chewed it up. Cleo could break a leg in the dark."

"I wasn't planning on taking the road." With anyone else he would have shaken the restraining arm free. Out of courtesy for their friendship he ignored it, testing all the closures one more time before sliding an extra knife into his belt.

"Is she worth it?" Haci quietly asked, his hand falling away. "Worth your horse and maybe your life?"

Standing upright, Stefan exhaled gently before answering. "I don't know," he said quietly. "I don't know why I'm going, I don't know what I'm going to do when I get there, but-" he slid his saddlebag over his shoulder, took a quick glance around the small tent to see if he'd forgotten anything, still practical despite his tumultuous feelings, "-I'm going. I'll be back in two weeks."

"Even traveling fast," Haci persisted, heedful of the tremendous risks even if Stefan chose to overlook them, "you won't have more than two or three days in Saint Petersburg."

"I don't need much time." A flat statement.

"You may want more," Haci reminded him, aware of Stefan's craving for this woman.

"Then I'll bring her back." He was not to be deterred or dissuaded.

"Not here, certainly," Haci swiftly said, alarmed at the extent of Stefan's imprudence.

"No… but closer."

He was determined to have his way.

"And if the lady protests?" Haci softly inquired. Stefan's expression was one Haci had seen hundreds of times before as Stefan sat astride Cleo waiting for an attack: part exhilaration, part cold calculation, with an intrinsic vital energy glowing from his dark eyes. "I'll see that she doesn't," he said very, very quietly. And then he grinned. "Wish me luck now on my night ride."

Their friendship was unconditional; Haci smiled. "Bonne chance, you fool. You'll need it."