His spine went rigid.

"Nor will I allow that native dress in my presence," she disdainfully added.

Stefan wore the loose trousers and belted shirt of his mother's people, his favored form of dress out of uniform, and far from being the shabby attire Nadejda's tone implied, his garments were luxurious. His black silk blouse was China silk embroidered in gold thread, and his trousers were of wool so fine each yard could be pulled through a woman's ring. The goats that supplied the raw material for the fabric were only found in one small section of the Himalayas and were so fragile they couldn't be sheared; the hair from their coats had to be gathered from the odd residue left on the brambles and bushes of their habitat. And his red kid boots were dyed with precious scarlet madder by his bootmaker in Tabriz.

He could feel the blood begin to throb in his temple; he'd never been spoken to in that tone of voice. He controlled the Tsar's cavalry; he was the wealthiest man in the Trans-Caucasus, perhaps in Russia. "I dress as I please," he said in a low growl. He didn't want to say more; he wished to leave before his temper gave way, and there was no need to speak further with Nadejda.

He'd observed the obligation Vladimir required and he was turning to leave when Nadejda said, "I'm not finished with you yet."

Her father had assured her that afternoon when he'd come home that he would find a means to restrain any further embarrassing incidents by Prince Bariatinsky. He had further assured her that while she must suffer the fiction of their engagement in public, in private she need not. In a vastly simplistic and highly edited fashion he'd explained that Prince Bariatinsky was valuable to their family until the war was over, although, he'd added, he couldn't go into any of the particulars due to the secrecy required in wartime. The visit to Brabant's had further reconciled her to her required role. She was wearing a new and very expensive ruby necklace.

"I expect you to conduct yourself," she said, advancing toward him with revenge in her heart for the scene at the Gagarins', "without any further scandal. Should I hear even the merest breath of misconduct, Papa will have your bars and your command. And I will personally take great pleasure in your disgrace."

Nadejda had been too long assured the world was hers. She had no sense of proportion.

Stefan's uncommon prudence disappeared in an explosive rage. He couldn't go through with this farce if they hanged him tomorrow for high treason. Vladimir be damned! He'd stand up to his threats the way he should have from the beginning. His fleeting display of caution gave way to Stefan's more familiar headstrong boldness. "Consider this engagement over," he tersely said, each word a blunt hammer blow, "as of this moment." And he drew a deep breath to steady a killing instinct.

"You can't," Nadejda raged, her pale skin mottled, her lavender eyes narrowed with spleen.

"I can do anything I please, mademoiselle." Stefan was absolutely still, his hands rigid at his sides in an effort to curtail his rash impulse to strike out. "And it pleases me," he softly added, "to terminate this very large mistake."

"Papa will not allow it!" Each of Nadejda's words rang with authority.

Stefan had heard that already in a variety of nuances, but she seemed so very sure he asked, "Why?" in a quiet, menacing voice. She had spoken as though she knew Taneiev's reasons; perhaps she might offer a better reason than the one her father had given.

Nadejda knew immediately she'd misstepped when Stefan's brows came together and his voice softened in query, when his dark eyes seemed to be scrutinizing her with a new attention. "He…Papa wouldn't want me to be embarrassed. Once the war is over, I'll break the engagement."

"Yours and your Papa's timetable is intriguing." Stefan's drawl was low and silken, his mind racing, contemplating the circumstances contributing to this obstinate delay.

"There are no men now," she said, the way a child would say, "The candy store is closed."

That remark at least had the ring of sincerity. Stefan wished he had the time to get to the bottom of this matter, but he didn't.

At least he'd had the courage to end this damnable engagement. He felt a great sense of relief, a tidal wave of deliverance.

"You might like to congratulate me," he said with a grin, thinking how simple it had been after all to cut away the impediment of his engagement. "I'm to be married tonight." He was suddenly well-disposed to the world at large, including Nadejda, who was no more than a silly young woman now- detached from his life with a few simple words.

"Papa will kill you," she said in a neutral voice contrasting starkly with her statement, "if you shame our family so."

"He can try," Stefan quietly replied, "but he may not succeed. And you might want to give him that warning." Stefan's eyes narrowed slightly although his smile was still in place. "My bodyguard," he added, his tone soft as velvet, "reverts at time to some of their barbaric Kurdish customs. Tell your father it takes a man eight hours to die-forgive me, mademoiselle, for my bluntness-with his entrails on the ground."

Nadejda's face was white as her dress when he left the room. Immune to the perils of his future, as though a decision of the spirit had been made distinct from rational deliberation, he thought only of his freedom, of his escape from Nadejda, and he wondered with a curious speculation whether his father's life would have been different if he'd fought against his disgrace. He had thought at first he could deal with Vladimir's demands, submit enough to buy the time he needed, say yes, when he didn't mean it, apologize to Nadejda for something he didn't feel. But his nature wouldn't allow it, and he was wildly exhilarated now, striding down the hallway, his sensations reminiscent of the excitement he felt in battle.

It was the same-when there was no longer time for apprehension or indecision or any of the debilitating hesitation that marked the cognitive man. The irrepressible energy carried you, drove you, brought victory as if by magic, and Stefan felt at that moment the same triumph. He had succeeded at last in putting the past to rest. What had happened to his father would no longer be his burden. In a way totally unplanned and tumultuous, he'd severed that impediment to his life. As he sailed down the bank of steps to the street in two leaping bounds, the driver glanced at his partner beside him on the carriage seat and said, "Things must have gone well."

"Even better than that from the looks of it.''

"Home, Excellency?" the groom holding the door open for Stefan inquired as Stefan reached the blue-lacquered carriage.

"No, to the Winter Palace."

The liveried servant came to attention. "Very good, Excellency." His voice was crisp when he repeated the order to the driver.

The Prince was going to see the Tsar.

Chapter Fifteen

The Tsar's equerry had only said, "I'll do what I can."

Stefan paced the small room, knowing he'd faced the entire Turkish army with less trepidation than he was currently feeling. He'd stop to gaze out the windows on the vista of the Neva for a moment, or try sitting on the numerous chairs lining the walls of the chamber, only to find himself pacing again a few moments later. Alexander could be unpredictable and with good reason.

He was beset from all sides of the political spectrum and had survived a dozen assassination attempts in the past three years. Since he had freed the serfs by manifesto in February of 1861, Alexander II's reforms had been slowly changing the character of the Russian Empire. But to many, the wheels of reform moved too slowly; to others, reform was anathema, and malcontents of every political persuasion had sought to kill him. Only last month a bomb had destroyed his dining room. Had he not arrived late because of his son's illness, he would have been killed. Alexander had become wary of who was friend and who was not.

Stefan was relying on his years of devoted service to the Empire and his friendship with the Tsar as support for his presentation, but he realized his position as cavalry commander and his popularity were themselves suspect. Most of the palace coups over the centuries had been initiated in the officer corps by ambitious men trading on their celebrity and fame and on their control of the elite regiments of the army.

By the time the equerry returned and said, "The Emperor will see you now," Stefan was tense and agitated as well as increasingly gloomy about his prospects of success. Vladimir cultivated his political alliances on a daily basis while Stefan had not.

The Tsar's welcome was cordial, though. Seated at his desk, he gestured Stefan to an adjacent chair and smiled in greeting.

It was at least a friendly beginning. Stefan took a steadying breath as he seated himself. They exchanged social pleasantries first-Alexander asking about Militza and Stefan admiring the new photos of his young family on his desk. The Tsar's desktop was half-covered with framed photos, the ones closest to his work space those of his new children. Framed portraits of his father and mother were prominent on the wall above his desk; even his wife's portrait was in evidence, although it was set back in the second row behind those of his young mistress.

Over tea, brought in on a solid gold tea service, the state of the war was discussed in some detail. Alexander had recently returned from the environs of Pleva, where the Turks still held out, and he was visibly tormented by the thousands of soldiers who'd lost their lives to date. The question of the reinforcements of men and artillery in the Asian campaign was dealt with. Stefan described which divisions were up to strength and which were still waiting for the new troops; he related the progress of the telegraph lines being constructed and described his hopes for victory.

When eventually the reason for his sudden appearance in Saint Petersburg was broached, Stefan answered honestly. "Since the campaign is on hold and I'm totally obsessed with the Countess Lazaroff, I came north to see her."

"When did you arrive? "

"Yesterday."

"And you'll be returning?"

"Tomorrow."

The Tsar smiled. "I see."

Stefan felt the heat rising to his face and he smiled ruefully. "She's most remarkable."

"I agree," Alexander warmly said, "as does the entire male population of the soirees she's attended here in the capital. Did you find the competition formidable?"

"I didn't notice."

"She's amenable then to your interest."

"After," Stefan softly said, "some persuasion."

"She is certainly worth persuading," the Tsar cordially replied. "She's not only beautiful and charming but brilliant, as well. Do you find her education intimidating?" He leaned back in his chair and surveyed Stefan.

"I find everything about her intimidating," Stefan retorted, adding with a smile, "in a most refreshing way. And I'd like to thank you for her sponsorship into society."

"I was more than happy to comply with your request. She's very entertaining.''

Stefan's glance went steely for a suspicious moment and they were no longer Tsar and Commander but only two men.

"I meant that in the most benign sense," Alexander II said mildly. He stroked his heavy sideburns for a second or two and then quietly declared, "I'm no longer young, and Catherine and my small family are my comfort."

"Forgive me," Stefan apologized. "As you can see," he said with a sigh, "I'm beyond sanity when it comes to the Countess." Taking a deep breath he plunged on. "Which point, in fact, brings me here today." He went on to describe his current problems with Vladimir and his rather sudden termination of his engagement.

Alexander was quiet throughout Stefan's recital, asking questions only twice, both having to do with the Sesta incident.

"Vladimir threatened to see you tonight," Stefan finished, "and suggest my involvement."

"We'll see that he's detained for a time at the chancellery," Alexander said.

Greatly encouraged by the Tsar's reaction to his story, Stefan dared to add, "But there's something about him that doesn't seem quite right. He and his daughter both made remarks along the lines of 'just until the end of the war.' I don't have the time to find out what he's involved in-if it's anything. You know I have to get back to Kars. But perhaps, sir…?" He hesitated.

Alexander stroked his chin meditatively. "I've never liked Taneiev. Perhaps he should be looked into." He stared at the photo of his two young sons. "Trust is so difficult these days," he said, his voice sad and introspective. He'd become more isolated and suspicious over the past few years, distrustful of friends, appalled by the dissensions and intrigues among his chiefs of staff in the course of the war, aware of the venality of his bureaucracy. He was a man under siege.