At Her Service Page 2

  Aurore made a small moue. “How true.”

  “Might I offer you something from our stores for your brother?” he quickly interposed, changing the subject. Neither of them needed more reminders of this bloody conflict. “Some sweets, chocolate, tinned pate perhaps?”

  “How nice of you, although you’ve done quite enough already.”

  “Nonsense. We’ve done nothing but offer you a ride into town. I have English candies and marzipan from France.” He grinned. “They are both much sought after by my customers, alliances be damned.”

  “Actually,” Aurore said, returning his smile, “my brother has been craving English marmalade, and since the war”—she shrugged—“it’s been almost impossible to obtain.”

  “We might have some; we often do. I’ll check with Cafer. He supervised the unloading of our last cargo at Kerch. If we have English marmalade, I’ll see that some is delivered to the hotel.”

  “You have been most gracious. Everything is so difficult of late, it seems,” she murmured. “Although I shouldn’t complain when our soldiers are suffering such awful hardships.”

  “Spring is near. Warmer weather will help the troops in terms of comfort at least.”

  She was weary to death of this war, exhausted in spirit, and whether spring mattered at all in the grand scheme of things she was not at all certain. “I’m sure you’re right,” she politely replied, because this man was in no position to change the course of the war or cure her afflictions. “Ah, there it is,” she added, pointing ahead to Ischenko’s sign.

  When they came to a halt a few moments later, the marquis quickly dismounted and moved to help Aurore alight. She’d already swung her leg over the saddle when he reached her side, and lifting his arms, he smiled up at her. “Last stop, Miss Clement.”

  He caught her under her arms as she slid from the saddle, although he was careful to hold her well away from his body.

  For which she was vastly grateful. It was simple enough to be prudent from afar, but in close proximity to her handsome Tatar, it was quite a different matter. How strong he was, she thought, as he effortlessly held her at arm’s length and carried her to the pavement. No doubt he was all hard, taut muscle beneath his sheepskin capote—an image of him sans coat and shirt suddenly leaping into her mind. Which would not do, she sternly reprimanded her wayward senses. How could she possibly allow herself to consider such wanton behavior when the world was literally going up in flames!

  The moment her feet touched the ground, she immediately took a step back, intent on putting distance between herself and this provocative stranger. Why he struck her sensibilities so profoundly was unclear. She was not normally susceptible to male virility alone. A polite, well-mannered good-bye was in order, she concluded. And that would put an end to her untoward feelings. But while she uttered all the requisite courtesies and expressions of gratitude, embarrassingly, she delivered them in a breathless tumble of words.

  Under his amused gaze, her voice trailed off, her embarrassment abruptly evaporated and she said with cool affront, “You find this entertaining?”

  “At the risk of offending you further, I do.” He grinned. “And I sincerely thank you for the pleasure.” He dipped his head. “The war affords one few opportunities to smile.”

  Oh dear. How reasonable he sounded while she was behaving like some juvenile maiden just out of the nursery. “I’ve been under enormous stress. I have no other excuse for my rudeness.” She half lifted one hand in propitiation. “Forgive me. These are trying times.”

  He looked at her for a moment as though debating his reply. “I suppose this is where I should say things will be better soon.”

  “And if I were five, I might believe you,” she murmured, holding his gaze.

  His heavy-lidded eyes narrowed. “But neither of us is naive.”

  “No.”

  His dark lashes drifted downward, almost completely shuttering his gaze. “Perhaps under different circumstances, we might…” This time it was his voice that trailed off.

  The fatigue in his voice was unmistakable, but then he’d come from Perekop without stopping. “Perhaps we may meet again,” she politely offered, knowing it wasn’t likely.

  “In better times, perhaps,” he said with equal mendacity, bowing faintly.

  A European gesture, she thought—that bow. But before she could speculate further on his effortless courtesy, he’d turned and walked away. Since she refused to act like some green young miss infatuated by a well-favored man, she would not watch him ride off, she told herself. And she didn’t. Or almost didn’t. Just as she crossed the threshold of Ischenko’s shop, she shot a quick look over her shoulder.

  He lifted his hand in the merest wave.

  Which was no reason for her heart to begin beating like a drum. No reason at all. But he’d looked back too, she thought, smiling to herself. Wasn’t that somehow gratifying?

  As usual, Mr. Ischenko was accommodating in all things, and thoughts of stunning men soon were displaced by affairs of more immediate import. Yes, he had a replacement wheel, the coach maker assured her. Yes, he would see that it was sent out immediately. No, she mustn’t worry. Ibrahim would be back to the city with her carriage in short order.

  She left for the hospital, her feelings buoyed, the problem of the carriage alleviated. But before she’d walked more than a block, she came upon a newly bombed building and brutal reality instantly dampened her spirits. The apartment block she’d passed yesterday was now in ruins—only black, smoldering debris remained. And as if she wasn’t anxious enough about Etienne’s safety, on nearing the hospital, she saw that the small ministry building next door had also been hit by mortar and cannon during the night.

  Perhaps the time had come to move Etienne despite his condition, she nervously thought. His lodgings were becoming increasingly vulnerable to artillery attack.

  A short time later, walking down the hospital corridor, Aurore stopped a Sister of Mercy to inquire whether she’d heard anything pertaining to an evacuation of the hospital.

  “No, my dear. It’s impossible to leave in any event,” one of Grand Duchess Elena Pavlovna’s ladies replied matter-off-actly. “There is nowhere to go. Simferopol is filled to overflowing with wounded, and our patients would never survive a longer journey.”

  Florence Nightingale was not alone in her efforts to aid injured soldiers. Both France and Russia also had charitable organizations that supplied battlefield nurses, women from all classes joining the cause. “I wish it were not so, of course,” the young noblewoman added. “We are all anxious about the shelling.”

  “My brother is lying abed here,” Aurore said, unnerved by the destruction she observed. “I’m beginning to fear for his safety.”

  “My brother is a patient here as well,” the Sister of Mercy gently replied. “We all pray that the war will be over soon. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” The nurse had dealt with distrait relatives before. One was polite, but with so many wounded requiring assistance, it was impossible to allay every fear.

  Standing in the hallway of what had once been the Admiralty Palace, Aurore watched the young noblewoman hurry away, the answers she’d received disconcerting at best, and more aptly frightening. The cavernous building was filled to overflowing with maimed and dying men, the sights and sounds and smells a veritable glimpse into hell. And apparently there was no escape for them from the constant shelling—and perhaps annihilation.

  What insanity drove men to engage in war, she wondered, miserable and sick at heart. To what purpose were all these young soldiers dying?

  There was no rational answer, of course. The troops were fodder to what were characterized as grand and noble principles. When in fact those principles were more pertinently imperialistic aims fueled by male egos.

  At least she was helping to expedite an end to this bloody conflict. Although her reasons were purely personal.

  She wanted Etienne safe, well and home again.

  She wanted to tend her vin
eyards once more and see the barren wastes surrounding Sevastopol restored to their former fruitfulness. Every tree had been cut down for firewood, every grapevine and root dug up to fuel soldiers’ fires. Not even a single blade of grass remained on what once had been a lush, fertile land.

  And for what, she bitterly thought.

  Further reflections on the evils of war would have to wait, however. She’d reached Etienne’s room. Pausing for a moment in the corridor, she drew in a small breath, forced her mouth into a credible smile and reminded herself that at least Etienne still lived. Then, exhaling softly, she pushed open the door and walked in. “How are you feeling today?” she brightly inquired, steeling herself, as usual, against the shock of her brother’s paleness and emaciation.

  “I am quite recovered,” Etienne said, smiling faintly in return.

  “He be eating right well, Excellency,” one of the elderly women Aurore had hired to care for her brother declared, speaking in Russian.

  “How nice to hear.” She offered the woman a grateful look before turning back to her brother. “I brought you fresh foodstuffs, darling, although the carriage broke down on that awful road, so it will be a few hours until our supplies arrive. Ibrahim should be here soon, though. Has the doctor been in today?”

  “Indeed, Excellency.” Etienne’s caretaker answered for her patient. “He was here not ten minutes ago. It was that foreign fellow—one of the Americans.”

  “Ah, very good. The Americans seem competent enough,” Aurore remarked, slipping off her gloves. The United States while ostensibly neutral in the war was dedicated to the Russian cause. Sixty doctors had come from America to serve in the Crimea. “If you’d like to take your tea now, babushka, I’ll watch over my brother.”

  Bowing and offering profuse thanks, the elderly woman backed from the room.

  “So, the doctor looked in on you?” Aurore slid her coat down her arms and tossed it on a small table. “Tell me what he said.” Pulling up a chair beside Etienne’s cot, she sat down.

  “Nothing much. Same old thing mostly.”

  She eyed him suspiciously; his tone was evasive. “Could you be more specific?”

  “It’s nothing, Rory, really.” He tried to shrug but grimaced instead. “You know how doctors are.”

  “Something’s wrong; now, tell me what it is.” She held his gaze. “Tell me exactly what the doctor said.” She spoke in her stern older sister voice.

  Etienne exhaled softly. “The bayonet wound in my leg. He mentioned something about an infection.”

  “An infection!” Panic spiked through Aurore’s brain.

  “I’m sure it’s nothing unusual.”

  That it wasn’t unusual was true. That infection killed more patients than actual wounds was also true. This was the worst possible news! Absolutely the worst! An infection could very well mean an eventual amputation, if not a slow lingering death. Etienne must be removed from this fetid cell straight away. She should have insisted on it long ago, regardless of his condition. “The moment your nurse returns, I’m going to call on General Osten-Sacken. He must give you permission to leave Sevastopol.”

  “Even if he does, he won’t let me go home. You know that.”

  Since Etienne was a prisoner of war, she understood that the general, amiable as he might be, could not authorize her brother’s return home. “Then we’ll go to Simferopol where the other prisoners are sent.” Aurore spoke with deliberate cheer. “I’ll make arrangements; we’ll find quarters outside the hospital and you’ll recover in no time.”

  “You make it sound simple when you know it isn’t,” Etienne murmured. “I’m not alone in wishing to leave this place. And you know what the roads are like. Not to mention, the facilities in Simferopol are stretched thin, lodging is impossible to find and—”

  “Nonsense,” Aurore interposed, dismissing her brother’s reservations with a smile and a flick of her fingers, resolved to move heaven and earth to save him. “We’ll leave tomorrow if not sooner—you just see.”

  “Somehow you almost make me think it’s possible.”

  “Of course it’s possible,” she firmly declared, terrified to see tears well up in her brother’s eyes. He knew, she thought, how perilous his case.

  “You’ve been an angel in not upbraiding me for enlisting.” His smile was tremulous. “Not that I don’t deserve it.”

  “You joined with the most honorable intentions, darling. Why would I scold you?” It was useless now to say she would have locked him in his room if she’d known his plans. “Papa would have been proud,” she said instead. And indeed he would have, she knew. Her parents owned a small villa in Paris, the family’s roots still very much French. “Let me get you some tea or wine or something sweet,” she said, wishing to change the conversation to something less grave.

  “A glass of wine—and some morphine too. My leg is giving me a bit of trouble,” he admitted.

  Suppressing her alarm, she walked to a small cupboard that contained a minimum larder, poured a glass of wine, measured out some morphine powder and sprinkled it into the liquid. Returning to her brother’s side, she helped him drink it down, then chatted inconsequentially until the drug took effect. The moment her brother’s eyes closed in sleep she exhaled in relief. At least his pain had been temporarily remedied—although temporary was the operative word. Morphine would not cure his infection. Healing his wounds would require conditions more sanitary than those in Sevastopol, along with good food and vigilant care. All of which she was determined to give her brother.

  While waiting for the nurse to return, Aurore paced the room and made plans. How best to plead her case to the general, she reflected, even while silently urging Ibrahim to all speed. And where were the likeliest available lodgings in Simferopol? She’d narrowed down a list of acquaintances she intended to petition for rooms to a manageable number when the nurse appeared. “My brother has just taken a draught of morphine,” she immediately explained. “I shall return in the morning if not before.” Quickly slipping on her coat and gloves, she thanked the nurse, took her leave and hurried toward the palace that had been appropriated by the Russian general staff for their headquarters.

  Chapter 3

  “I’m very sorry, mademoiselle. The general won’t be back to the city until late in the day,” an ADC politely explained, wishing he might be of more help to the enchanting Miss Clement. Every man on the staff was half in love with her. “If you like, I could send a note to your hotel on his return.”

  She debated asking to see another officer, but she knew her request required the highest authority and that meant Osten-Sacken. He was in command of Sevastopol. “Thank you. I would appreciate receiving word as soon as you may.”

  There was nothing more to do after that but go to her hotel room and impatiently await her summons. Putting the delay to good use, she took the opportunity to have a hot bath brought up. Readying herself for her interview with the general, she took special care with her appearance. Well aware that a woman’s beauty advanced any appeal for help, she wanted to look her best.

  Failure was not an option.

  Once bathed, wrapped in a warm cashmere dressing gown, she curled up on a chair before the fire and waited. She not only maintained an apartment at the hotel but kept a minimum wardrobe here as well since dining with the general had become habitual. She was in no position to refuse his invitations. Nor did she actually wish to, since conversation at dinner was often of acute interest to French intelligence.

  Sometime later, she woke to a sharp rapping on her door. On opening the door, she was handed a note by one of the hotel staff. Shutting the door a moment later, she immediately ripped open the envelope, scanned the bold print and smiled. Her plans were en train.

  The general apologized for keeping her waiting and invited her to dinner. He was looking forward to seeing her again, he gallantly wrote. Dinner was at nine. They would have time for a private conversation beforehand. He would expect her at eight.

  He wrot
e like he spoke, with the brevity and authority of a man familiar with command. She was surprised to experience a rare sense of apprehension as she set aside the note. But then why wouldn’t she? Etienne’s life was at stake. It was only natural to feel a certain anxiety. This was not just another dinner. And regardless how agreeable the general may have been in the past, tonight she would be asking a considerable favor of him.

  With the situation crucial, she knew that she must choose her gown with care. Normally, the thought of plying her feminine wiles would have been distasteful, but this was not the night for scruples.

  She had always been vastly independent, more familiar with giving orders than petitioning favors, and since her parents’ death, she had taken on even more responsibility—overseeing the entire vineyard and wine-making operation while Etienne had amused himself with his friends.

  Not that she had minded her brother’s disinterest. In truth, she enjoyed the challenge of competing in a man’s world.

  But General Osten-Sacken wasn’t interested in her wine business or in Etienne’s health for that matter. He enjoyed her company for purely selfish reasons. In the midst of battle, a pretty woman offered forgetfulness, however brief, from the unpleasantness of war. And tonight, Aurore was more than willing to fulfill that curative role.

  Her cream lace gown would best suit the occasion, she decided. The bouffant confection was innocently beguiling, while the low decolletage appealed to baser male instincts. The juxtaposition of sweet incorruptibility and a subtle invitation to ravishment was particularly apt in a war zone.

  Although events tonight had nothing to do with metaphor.

  Brute reality held sway instead.

  And she was quite ready to do whatever was required of her to save her brother’s life.

  Chapter 4