From Governess to Countess (Matches Made in Scandal #1)(62)

‘Leave that with me. You are irreplaceable but I’m sure I’ll find a competent substitute to carry on your fine work.’

‘You flatter me. No one is indispensable. I’m sure there are skilled herbalists out there.’

‘Perhaps, but they will not be you.’

She should be pleased he valued her so highly. She was pleased, she was, and it was very foolish indeed of her to feel hurt. Anna Orlova would take her place in the schoolroom. Some other herbalist would take her place in the dispensary. She could live with that. But would Aleksei also substitute someone else for her in his bed? She was much less sanguine about that prospect. Would he take another mistress, or would he start his search for a suitable wife, just as soon as her ship sailed? A woman of breeding suitable to bear the Derevenko name, an aunt for the Derevenko heirs, a mother to Aleksei’s own children.

A tear trickled down her cheek. She brushed it away angrily. ‘It seems you have everything well in hand.’

‘Allison, you must not be thinking...’

But she shook her head. The dam of her feelings was threatening to break and she was desperate to escape to the sanctuary of her bedchamber and burrow under the sheets. ‘I’m not thinking anything. Save that I meant it, I am pleased that you have contingency plans and I shall not be missed too much.’

‘You know that’s not true.’

But she brushed him aside. ‘I need to—the children—their lessons—my dispensary—I need to go and do—I need to go.’ From somewhere deep inside her, she summoned a brittle smile. ‘One last thing. Promise me you will not be too hard on Catiche, Aleksei. About the text, I mean. She is no thief. She is more like a magpie, stockpiling memories in the form of keepsakes. Like the miniatures.’

*

Aleksei stood unmoving in the centre of the room, staring at the door Allison had closed softly behind her, forcing himself to ignore the impulse to run after her, the urgent need to pull her into his arms, to kiss her, to soothe her, to dry her tears. What was the point? A fleeting comfort that was all it would achieve. And the danger of doing what he had promised he would not do, and beg her to stay till spring. Because she would love St Petersburg in the snow. Because then there would be time for her to properly train up someone to take over the dispensary. Because she could ensure that Madame Orlova continued with the children’s new, physically active regime, while resuming their lessons. Good, practical reasons. But trivial compared to the real reason. He desperately wanted her to stay for him. Selfish? Yes. Irrefutably true? Absolutely!

And yet he did resist, though it took almost all of his self-control. He forced himself to sit back behind the desk, staring at the astounding, incontrovertible evidence that Elizaveta had murdered Michael. That a Derevenko duchess had murdered a Derevenko duke. In any other St Petersburg family, it would not be so shocking. The history of the Imperial family was littered with heinous crimes. But his family name was beyond reproach. There had never been any scandal attached to the Derevenko name.

He still struggled to believe that Elizaveta had taken a lover. What kind of a man would dare to bed her? Who was he? Where might he find the answer to that question? Why in a magpie’s nest of course!

He jumped to his feet and was halfway across the room before pulled himself up short, recalling Allison’s warning. Catiche must not be made to feel she had done any wrong. He would tell her that he wanted to get to know her mother better through her keepsakes—yes, that was it, and dammit, it was the truth too! There was a chance, just the tiniest chance, that Catiche unwittingly held the answer to the final question.

*

It was late afternoon when Aleksei sent for Allison. He was in his study, in formal dress, motioning her to take the chair on the opposite side of the desk. ‘What is it? What has happened?’

He handed her a cup of sweetened tea and sat down. ‘You would not believe—I still cannot believe it myself.’ Drinking his own brew in one gulp, he set down the plain china cup. ‘After you left, I got to wondering what else Catiche had appropriated from her mother’s rooms. Do not worry,’ he added hastily, ‘I promise you, I did not accuse her of anything save missing her mama. Which she does, just as you told me, much more than I had realised.’

‘Your relationship with your own mother was so very different, Aleksei.’

‘As was yours, yet you understood. I have much to learn.’

‘So you have decided...’

‘I am beginning to think that I have no option. Hear me out. You will understand why soon enough. Amongst other trinkets, a handkerchief, a bottle of scent, a few buttons, Catiche had this in her little collection of memorabilia.’

He pushed a leather-bound scrapbook towards her. Inside there were sketches of the children, cuttings of their hair, ribbons, little childish notes, all pasted into the pages with annotations in French, in what Allison assumed must be Elizaveta’s handwriting. If ever any doubt had been cast on the extent of the Duchess’s love for her children, this touching testimony would put her feelings beyond question. ‘No wonder that Catiche took this,’ Allison said. ‘It is right that she should have it, to share with Elena and Nikki.’

‘I agree. But the book does not only contain keepsakes of her children,’ Aleksei said, looking very grim. ‘If you turn to the last page.’

She did as he bid her. Another lock of hair was pasted there, dark blond, and much coarser than the others, and beside it, what looked like a name, though unlike the rest of the book, the script looked to be Russian. ‘What does it mean?’