Chapter 24
Wolfgang had experienced any number of unpleasantries in his life. War, for one, and all the everyday misery that accompanied it, such as long marches in the driving rain, the leather of his boots sticky and swelling. Or sharing a tent with Lysander, who ate like a horse and farted like one, too.
But that night at dinner, as he sat outside at a polished table under the merry but somehow mocking light of three chandeliers strung in the hornbeam tree, he realized he’d take war anytime over attending a house party with Charlotte.
He’d also rather face down the whole Russian army than one blasted Russian prince.
Belozersky ranked above Wolfgang and sat in the seat of honor to the right of the dowager.
Wolfgang was on the dowager’s left, which gave him a perfect view of Charlotte and her prince, his close-cropped hair bent toward her storm of curls.
She was dressed like a damned rose for the evening, in a gown of dark pink with what Wolfgang could only think of as fabric petals cut wide across her shoulder and plunging into a deep V.
The prince seemed on the verge of dipping his nose into her décolletage and taking a long, deep sniff.
Charlotte Unthorned, thought Wolfgang, a name for her ensemble rising unbidden to mind.
He turned deliberately away and directed his attention to Miss Marby. “I’ve been meaning to ask you, what’s that great tome I see you lugging about? Are you a mathematician, like your sister Miss Helena?”
“No, Your Grace. If you must know, I’m reading a gothic novel, full of witchcraft, murder, and frankly”—she frowned up at him—“well, frankly, quite a bit more rape than I should like to read. The author is a man, Matthew Gregory Lewis, but he clearly writes for women. So I ask you, why include any rape?”
Wolfgang gave a startled laugh. “Why, indeed?”
“Quite!” Miss Marby sighed. “The trouble is, I can never put a book down unfinished, even if I loathe it so much that I must cover my eyes and read through my fingers. Are you a reader, Your Grace?”
“Yes. I’m especially drawn to Roman—”
“Roman history?” Miss Marby’s eyes brimmed with laughter. “Yes, so many men say they are. But I ask you—is English history really so dull? Or French? Why not read natural history, or poetry, or diaries, for that matter? What is it about Roman history that draws men like nothing else?”
Wolfgang lowered his voice to match hers. “Often it’s because our tutors made us read Tacitus and most of us have read nothing else. But in my case, I enjoy the scale of it. There aren’t that many civilizations that occupied so much of the world. Lysander tears through novels, though.”
Miss Marby dropped her eyes to the table. “Yes, I noticed.”
Ah.
Wolfgang eyed Lysander doubtfully. As an object of affection, his brother had serious shortcomings, primarily that while he was old enough to take a wife, he still seemed more interested in shooting things.
What was it about Clare? Why was it infested with so much sickly mooning?
Across the table, the prince leaned toward Charlotte and the sleeve of his jacket brushed against her arm. “Dushenka, may I offer you another slice of pheasant?” he said.
“Why, thank you, Your Highness.”
Wolfgang couldn’t help himself.
“What does that word mean—dushenka?” It rasped on his tongue like a curse.
“It means ‘darling,’ or at least that is the common translation. But it comes from the root dusha. ‘Soul.’ A word to make you Englishmen shudder.”
“Dogs have souls,” piped Georgiana from farther down the table. “I feel that very firmly.”
“Dogs do have souls,” Belozersky agreed. “Englishwomen, too, though it took me some time to understand that. But Englishmen?”
He shook his head sadly.
Marby snapped his fork down. “I say!”
“No, no, do not be offended, my friend,” said Belozersky. “Think—what would you do with a soul?”
“Pay no attention to him, James,” called Alexandra. “Only remember the time Newton failed to place first in the Gold Cup. Surely anyone who suffered that much over a horse race has a soul.”
Marby went red and Wolfgang, even as miserable as he was, stifled a laugh. “They’re baiting you, Marby. Both of them. Don’t rise to it.”
When Belozersky grinned and brushed a lock of hair off Charlotte’s shoulder, Wolfgang realized it was advice he ought to take himself. It was either that or reach across the table and throttle a member of the Russian aristocracy.
Belozersky flashed his teeth at Wolfgang. “You are not in good spirits this evening, Your Grace?”
“I’m in perfectly good spirits,” said Wolfgang. Which was true, because it pleased him to stare at the heavy crystal chandelier dangling over Belozersky and imagine it crashing down on the prince’s head.
The dowager seemed to be having an excellent time as well. As usual, she was keeping only the vaguest eye on her charge, this time because she was engrossed in the snifter of clear liquid that the prince had poured for her.
“Vodka, did you say?” The dowager gave her glass a hesitant sniff. “I admit I’ve tried a scotch or two before, but nothing quite like this.”
“I shall show you how we drink in St. Petersburg?”
“Please do!”
The prince raised his glass, said “Na zdorovie!” and tossed his head back to down the whole measure at once.
The dowager was rather more cautious. She sniffed the vodka again and held the glass up to her mouth to take a tiny mouse sip, shivering violently when the liquor hit her lips.
“Gran?” Charlotte asked, after a minute passed and the dowager sat unmoving, with her eyes screwed shut. “Gran, are you all right?”
The dowager unscrewed her eyes and beamed. “Perfectly! Your Highness, this liquor of yours is quite warming! How much did you say you brought?”
“I travel always with two crates.”
“How lovely!” The dowager turned to Wolfgang. “Your Grace, have you tried vodka?”
It took some effort, but Wolfgang unclenched his jaw. “Naturally, my lady.”
“You have not tried my vodka.” The prince leaned back in his chair and his borzoi, Valentina, nosed up to the table and nuzzled his fingers. “We shall drink, Your Grace?”
“Certainly.”
“Glasses for everyone!” called the prince.
Lady Skeffington tittered. “Not quite for everyone. Georgiana and I will abstain, of course.”
“Shall I pour, Your Highness?” Lawrence asked, when a footman returned with a tray of snifters.
“No, no, I shall do the honors.”
The prince doled out a small measure of vodka for each of the guests, but when he reached the last snifter he tipped the bottle and let the vodka glug until it nearly spilled over the brim. “This one is for you, Your Grace.”
It was a challenge, clear and simple.
“Excellent,” said Wolfgang. “I assume you’ll join me?”
“But of course.”
Miss Marby frowned. “Is this wise, my lords?”
“No, it certainly isn’t!” Charlotte snapped down her knife and fork and glared at both of them. “Nothing ruins an evening faster than a pair of drunks.”
Belozersky put his hand to his heart. “Lady Charlotte, you must not worry. I shall not be drunk.”
“Neither shall I,” Wolfgang said coolly as a footman brought his snifter over.
He lifted the glass and drained it.