Prince of Dreams (Stokehurst #2)(63)

Nikolas shrugged, recalling that Charles had made it across Poland and captured Grodno with ease. “Only God and the tsar know,” he said, quoting an old Russian proverb. He ignored the way Sidarov's eyes rolled at the bit of flattery.

A smile touched Peter's thin lips. “I have missed you, Nikolai. I will see you often during my stay in Moscow. Two years I have been away from the capital! There is much to be done, enough to keep me here through the Christmas holiday. Unfortunately Menshikov will have to return to his regiments in Poland.”

“That's too bad,” Nikolas replied smoothly, rising from the bath and donning a robe that Sidarov handed to him.

Peter gave a short bark of laughter, as if Nikolas had made a joke. “There is no need to pretend you'll miss him, Nikolai. Everyone is well aware of the bad blood between you and Menshikov. But you must put your hatred aside, at least for tonight. Menshikov has done well by his country, and he must be respected for his achievements on the battlefield.”

Nikolas agreed with a neutral murmur, uncomfortable with the new experience of looking up at another man. His own height was not inconsiderable, but the tsar was a giant.

“Besides,” Peter continued, “there is no reason the two of you shouldn't like each other. You and Menshikov have much in common. You are both intelligent, ambitious—and willing to break with the old ways in order to make Russia equal to the West. Granted, Alexashka lacks your polish and good looks, but he has talents of his own.”

“Especially when it comes to acquiring wealth,” Nikolas said idly, remembering Aleksandr Menshikov's historical reputation for greed, and his abuse of power in stealing money from the Russian people and the government. He heard Sidarov's quiet intake of breath at the impudent remark.

The left side of Peter's face twitched as if in annoyance, but a sudden laugh burst from him. He gave Nikolas a warning look. “My Alexashka has his faults, but he has done me great service. And as for you, my clever friend…how goes it with the Moscow merchants? Have you convinced them to form trading companies similar to the English and Dutch?”

Nikolas hesitated, considering how to bluff his way through the answer. “I doubt they'll do it voluntarily,” he said, meeting Peter's gaze directly. “The transition from the marketplace posád to industry won't be easy.”

Peter grunted in disapproval, though he exhibited no surprise. “It is always this way with my people. They must be forced into progress, for they would never choose it willingly. Well, be prepared to receive a new appointment, Nikolai. From now on I want you to regulate the commercial and financial undertakings of the city. You will advise the governor, who seems to have no understanding of how things are done in the West.”

“But I don't—” Nikolas began to protest, having no desire for a government post.

“Yes, I know you're grateful,” the tsar interrupted, and strode to the door of the bathhouse. “I must tour the new fortification in the city, and see how the construction goes. I will return later this evening, to enjoy one of your excellent evenings of food and entertainment. I was told you have refurbished your private theater—I look forward to viewing it.”

When the surly giant had left, Nikolas sat on the edge of the bath and shook his head in disbelief. “I've lost my mind,” he muttered.

Sidarov gestured for him to come and dress in the adjoining room. “After I help you with your clothes, Your Highness, I'll make the necessary arrangements for tonight. There is no time for delay.” He paused and added delicately, “You might try to charm the tsar a little more, Your Highness. No doubt Menshikov has been plotting against you as usual. Much depends on your ability to stay in the tsar's good graces.”

“Of course,” Nikolas said grimly. The Imperial government was always the same, no matter which century. A man's life was at the mercy of the tsar's whims. “I'm supposed to lick one of the tsar's boots faster than Menshikov licks the other. Nobility has its privileges.”

Sidarov gave him a shocked glance but said nothing, quietly going about his duties.

The estate swarmed with frenetic activity as the servants readied several rooms in case the tsar and his entourage should decide to stay the night. The state's private company of actors was summoned to perform a French farce for the evening, while the cook directed the servants in the preparation of an enormous banquet. Sidarov was nothing but a blur as he sped through the house, giving orders to everyone he encountered.

Left to his own devices, Nikolas set about investigating the condition of the Angelovskys' current holdings. He was surprised to find that most of the family's property was poorly documented. Looking through what few papers and account books he could find, he discovered that the family fortune was only a fraction of what it would be in the future. The Angelovsky income was comprised solely of rents from a few private properties, and a minimal interest in an Imperial porcelain factory. It seemed that among Prince Nikolai's interests, making money had not been paramount.

“Nikolai?” Emelia's soft voice came from the library doorway, and he looked up to see his wife peeking around the corner.

“What is it?”

Cautiously she ventured into the room. “Sidarov said that the tsar will eat at our table tonight. Will I have to be there?”

“Yes,” he said brusquely, closing an account book. “Western women always eat at the same table as their husbands.”