Prince of Dreams (Stokehurst #2)(74)

“I'm always thinking that,” he assured her.

She patted her corseted waist. “I'm tied up with so many strings, you won't be able to reach me tonight.”

He smiled and brushed his fingers over hers. “I'll find a way, believe me.”

Their banter was interrupted by the arrival of the tsar. But the chatter and excitement that always greeted Peter's entrances were far more pronounced than usual. Wondering what was causing the stir, Nikolas stared at the crowd surrounding the tsar and his entourage, until finally Peter stepped into view. Nikolas shook his head in surprise, while Emelia drew her breath sharply.

In contrast to all the guests dressed in their finery, the tsar wore the simple clothes of a peasant, a red tunic and loose gray trousers, and embroidered felt boots.

“Why?” Emelia breathed.

Nikolas answered tonelessly, without looking at her. “It's a tasteless joke. He's mocking the peasants for complaining about his policies.”

The guests chuckled and applauded while Peter did a silly little folk dance, turning so that everyone could view his costume.

“How terrible,” Emelia said, flushing in embarrassment and anger.

Nikolas could find no reply. He concentrated on the parquet floor, inlaid with a variety of woods and touches of mother-of-pearl, hoping fervently that the tsar would soon tire of making an ass of himself.

“You don't seem to appreciate Peter's wit,” came a man's silken voice from nearby.

Nikolas's brows drew together as he beheld Prince Aleksandr Menshikov. “If that's what you want to call it,” he said softly, giving the man a deadly glance of warning. There was an air about Menshikov that made Nikolas uneasy, a sense of malicious triumph.

Menshikov turned toward Emelia with an elaborate flourish. “How are you, Princess?”

“Very well, thank you,” she said woodenly, refusing to look at him.

Nikolas took his wife's elbow and began to guide her away. “If you'll excuse us, Menshikov—”

“Not just yet,” the other man murmured. “I have a bit of news for your attractive wife. Now may not be the appropriate occasion to impart it…but then, there is never a good time for news like this.”

Nikolas looked at Emelia, who returned his glance with a confused shake of her head.

“It seems that you have been making inquiries, Princess, about your family—to be more specific, your uncle and brother, who have been sent to work in St. Petersburg.” Menshikov emphasized the word “princess” as if it were a term of mockery rather than one of respect.

Nikolas stared at Emelia without expression. What the hell was going on? She had said nothing about wanting to find her uncle and brother—she hadn't mentioned one word of concern to him. Sidarov had been equally closemouthed.

Emelia flushed guiltily and explained in a hushed voice. “I…I asked Sidarov to try and find out how my uncle and brother were. They've sent no word since they were conscripted to work in St. Petersburg, building houses and churches. I wanted to find them, and tell them about my marriage, and…” She fell into a cowed silence, her gaze darting to Menshikov's face.

“Why didn't you come to me for help?” Nikolas asked. “Did you think I'd refuse?”

“I don't know,” she said unhappily.

Menshikov smiled in satisfaction at the turmoil he was causing. “Apparently it takes some time to build trust in a marriage. In any event, your servant Sidarov wasn't able to find out anything. Recently I was informed of his attempts, and I took it upon myself to make my own investigation—as a personal favor.” He gave a long, pitying sigh. “Your uncle and brother were fortunate enough to meet their fate together, Princess, although their loss is a pity. They were working side by side when a wall collapsed on them.” He shrugged regretfully. “Both dead. But life must go on for those of us left behind, mustn't it?”

“Get away from me,” Nikolas sneered at Menshikov, “before I kill you.”

Menshikov retreated a few feet, but hovered nearby, watching them intently.

Emelia's long fingers twisted around the fan, clenching until they were white. Her whole body was trembling.

“We don't know if it's true,” Nikolas murmured, sliding an arm around her.

“It is true.” Tears dropped from her eyes and rolled to her chin. “I knew something would happen to them. Now I have no one left.”

“You have me.” Nikolas smoothed his hand over her shoulders and back. In spite of his concern for her, he was mindful of the situation they were in and the dangers it presented. “Quiet, ruyshenka, people are listening.”

“Neither of them wanted to be there,” she wept. “They had a right to stay in the village and live with their families and grow old in peace. I hate the tsar for making them go to St. Petersburg! And he's done this thousands of times, to so many other people. He has no right to mock the peasants when he has taken so much from them—”

Nikolas gripped her upper arms, squeezing until she winced. “Hush. You must be quiet now.” She nodded, managing to gulp back any further tears and bitter words.

But the damage had been done. Nikolas knew it from the satisfied smile on Menshikov's face and the startled expressions of the people who had overheard them. Halfway across the ballroom, Peter noticed the small disturbance, and he looked over at them, his face thunderous and dark with foreboding.