"In that case, I'll be polite to the old bitch. Is Stefan really her only heir?" Nadejda asked the question as if verification were required for the nasty task ahead.

Her mother nodded significantly.

"Oh, very well," her daughter distastefully agreed.

So when Militza came for tea, Nadejda was as civil as her mother's promptings could make her. Spoiled from a young age, however, she found it difficult to instill any warmth in an endeavor she found tiresome. Had Stefan seen her outside the ballrooms and formal dinners of their brief courtship, he would have noticed her very narrow focus of attention-herself. But in the short days of their acquaintance he'd only played the courting male. Nadejda was at her very best as the center of attention; she played well to an admiring throng; it was her favorite role-her only role. In it she was without peer.

"Did Stefan give you any indication in his note when he might next have leave?" Princess Irina was saying to Militza, and Nadejda yawned without any attempt at concealment.

"I'm afraid the war is in great flux now," Militza replied, noting Nadejda's discourtesy. She did not mention the real purpose of Stefan's note. Although he had made use of Haci's return to Tiflis to make apologies to Militza for leaving so abruptly, he'd wanted most to see that Masha would open his town house to those of his men who weren't going to their villages on furlough. Haci, for one, was looking forward to the female pleasures available in Tiflis, the capital city of the Caucasus.

"It's such a shame Kars is proving recalcitrant. I do hope it falls soon so all the young men will be back for the season." Irina saw the war as an obstacle to her social activities.

"I'm sure the Tsar's officers agree with you," Militza ironically replied. Another afternoon in company with the vacuous Taneiev women was reinforcing her conviction she must intervene in Stefan's disastrous marriage plans.

"I really don't understand what's taking so long," Irina continued complaining, as if the war were a personal affront to her standards of speed. "Surely the Muslim rabble will capitulate soon. Vladimir says Grand Duke Michael is going down to investigate."

As daughter to a general, sister-in-law to a field marshal, wife to two military men and Stefan's aunt, Militza was well aware of the formidable opponents Russia faced. This war wasn't going to be a question of waiting patiently in dress uniform for the Turkish commanders to signal defeat. She'd heard enough from Stefan in his letters from the front and her own contacts with the Chiefs of Staff to understand the particular brutality of this campaign. "Michael will find his journey eventful" was all she said. Her faith in the Tsar's brother was faint; Michael drank and gambled better than he officered.

"Mama, I won't hear another word on this dreary war," Nadejda snapped, tearing a small piece from her macaroon in testiness. Her fifth macaroon, Militza noted. The girl would approximate her mother's girth someday and Stefan liked slender women. "I'll be glad when we're back in Saint Petersburg where every other word isn't about the silly war," Nadejda finished petulantly.

For a man who'd devoted his life to the army, Stefan apparently hadn't selected a wife inclined to view his profession with sympathy, Militza reflected, although she did have considerable affection for macaroons.

"And I wish Stefan would have taken my advice and had Melikoff rescind his orders back to the front."

Militza abruptly ceased contemplation of Nadejda's capacity for macaroons. Melikoff? Nadejda had suggested Stefan petition Melikoff? Militza would have bartered a year of her life to have seen her nephew's expression at that recommendation. There wasn't a man he hated more than Melikoff. When they met in public as they did occasionally in the small world of Tiflis society, Stefan quite literally glared daggers at the man whose family had replaced his as Viceroy of the Caucasus. Only his promise to Alexander II, his Tsar, had kept him from challenging Melikoff to a duel. Alexander wouldn't have the scandal, he'd said, of Stefan killing Melikoff.

"He wouldn't?" Militza casually inquired, watching Nadejda's face for her response.

"He said he only takes orders from the Tsar, which I don't fully understand because Melikoff distinctly told me he was Stefan's superior."

"Perhaps Melikoff neglected to make that clear to Stefan," Militza sardonically replied.

"Well, he should then," Nadejda asserted, tossing her chin up in an affected way that might have been charming in a four-year-old. "And everything would be much nicer. Stefan could come home from that ridiculous war and we could begin making marriage plans."

"If you'd like to write Stefan a note suggesting that, it seems sensible to me," Militza said, her face as bland as her tone. "I could have a groom deliver it to him."

"Mama, the macaroons are gone," Nadejda noted fretfully. Then, as if Stefan's future were secondary to her sweet tooth, she added, "I'll drop him a note on the subject before we leave."

"You're leaving?" Militza could have been on a treaty negotiating team for all her understatement and calm.

"Tomorrow or possibly the next day," Irina interposed. "Poor Nadejda is bored so far from Saint Petersburg, and I confess-" she smiled artificially "-although Tiflis is enchanting, I miss the stimulation of court."

What she meant was that she feared being away too long from the machinations of court politics. Stefan would also appreciate Nadejda's boredom with his native city. Militza dearly hoped Nadejda would include in her note an indication of her feelings on that subject, as well. "My wishes then for a pleasant journey," she said cheerfully. She chose not to mention she'd be following soon. Once Stefan actually returned to Kars, she also intended a trip to Saint Petersburg.

Leaving the Viceroy's palace after tea, Militza felt her years and, in the logical assessment of things, despaired whether she'd be successful in dislodging Nadejda as Stefan's fiancée. Her nephew was stubborn at times in his wishes and he hadn't lightly undertaken his choice of bride. His selection hadn't been whimsical but rather utilitarian, and her hope of discrediting Nadejda was minimized by that judgment. Stefan had made clear to her that the question of liking Nadejda was incidental to the usefulness of her family. Vladimir Taneiev controlled many of the ministers of state, although the army had always remained independent. It was actually Vladimir that Stefan was marrying and the power he wielded in the inner circles of government.

Tsar Alexander spent less and less time in the daily activities of government now that his young mistress and their three children were actually installed in the palace only a floor below his consumptive wife. Rumor had it the Tsarina was determined to hang on to life as long as possible to thwart her young rival. Although ravaged as she was by tuberculosis, she'd already outlived her physicians' estimates by five years.

In Saint Petersburg Militza intended calling on all her old friends to inform them she might be in need of their favors.

Even though she wished Stefan to renege on his engagement for his own future happiness, she wasn't unaware of the possible consequences. Prince Vladimir Taneiev was known for his vindictiveness; many political rivals rued the day they'd opposed him. Several were spending their remaining years in Siberia thanks to his implacable vengeance, and while Irina and Nadejda might be foolish and superficial, it would never do to underestimate Vladimir.

However… she felt she had sufficient influence herself to oppose any possible obstacles Vladimir might establish, provided she could convince Stefan to sever his ties to Nadejda. And Stefan's personal relationship with the Tsar was a very strong advantage. To a point.

Through bitter experience they all knew there were circumstances where even the Tsar had bowed to pressure.

On the same July night that Militza sat at her desk composing a list of friends in Saint Petersburg who might be needed should Vladimir turn difficult, and Stefan and Lisaveta were dining alfresco under the dark whispering pines, Choura was the featured entertainment at a bachelor party in Tiflis at Chezevek's Restaurant.

The windows were all thrown open to the heated night air, and Captain Gorsky, the host for the night, was in shirtsleeves in the middle of the floor encouraging Choura with energetic hand clapping and smiles. The Caucasian music had a pulsing rhythm of drumbeats interwoven with melodies both plaintive and voluptuous. The sound seemed to tremble in an insistent, fevered undulation, angry at times, hypnotic at intervals, convulsive, monotonous and galvanic. And Choura danced in her own expressive way: languorous and slow, stamping and impetuous, in a stylized version of courtship, of pursuit and retreat and ultimate seduction. She was wild and untamed, her dark eyes flashing, the lamplight flickering and glittering off her necklaces and rings and bracelets as she whirled, her bare feet barely touching the floor, her red silk skirt fluttering like flower petals in the wind. Her black lace blouse barely covered her firm young breasts, and when she smiled in sensual invitation, Captain Gorsky wasn't alone in planning on spending a portion of his wealth on the beautiful Gypsy girl, now that she was back in circulation.

When the musicians fell silent on a flourish of drumbeats, a roar of applause erupted in the room as every man gave vent to his approval.

The party was in celebration of a junior officer's engagement, and all the high-priced courtesans in Tiflis were in attendance. Since Stefan was on cordial terms with many of them, and since Stefan rarely missed occasions of this nature, he was repeatedly asked for.

"He's with his new lover up in the mountains," Choura cheerfully replied to those interested parties, "and he paid me fifty thousand roubles for my time." She was proud to announce the amount of her new worth. Stefan's payment would serve notice her prices had gone up. And when the identity of this newest paramour was demanded, her answer was equally cheerful. "Countess Lisaveta Lazaroff," she'd announce, a fact she'd discovered after her return to Tiflis, when one of the Gypsy grooms in Stefan's stables relayed the gossip from the villa on the hill. "He's taken her captive," she would finish with obvious relish.

"Captive!" the courtesans whispered with a particular breathy eagerness memories of Stefan induced.

"Captive!" the officers breathed, their imaginations running wild.

Had the lady screamed or fought or passionately yielded?

Yes and yes and she didn't know, Choura would answer with a suggestive smile. But if she hadn't yielded eagerly, certainly she had yielded.

The scandal was delicious. Leave it to Stefan, everyone said, to abduct a lady. He'd always been a law unto himself. Like his father, they said.

She must be extraordinary in bed, the ladies all thought, for Stefan's transient interest in women was well-known. He'd never stirred himself to pursue a woman before; an abduction indicated staggering attention. They were incredulous. What does she look like? they asked then, intrigued by her unique success. And the men listened, too, because they wanted to visualize this unusual woman.

"She's pretty," Choura said blandly, seated on Captain Gorsky's lap like a dark and languorous kitten.

"More than pretty for Stefan, I'd say," a woman remarked, her escort's head nodding in agreement.

Choura shrugged, not inclined to unduly praise her successor. "I suppose," she said.

"Is she small? He likes small women," a petite blonde reclining on a floor cushion noted, her waist hand-span narrow.

"She's tall."

"No!"

"With brown hair."

"Brown hair? She can't." This was not a paragon of conventional beauty; this was not a woman in Stefan's usual style.

"Well, she does," Choura complacently replied. She was now richer than a shopkeeper for her friendship with Stefan, and as a businesswoman who was secure in her own beauty, she was without personal jealousy for her replacement, although she was amused by the difficulties Stefan might encounter. "She was screaming at him, too," she said with a grin. "I mean screaming."

She must be good in bed, the men all decided, because surely her looks didn't appear remarkable. And screaming at Stefan? Normally he wouldn't have stayed a second in company with a vituperative female. Wherever had he found her?

"She was thrown away by the Bazhis," Choura added as if the men had spoken aloud.