Splendor Read Online Free Page A

and he never had, and that her escort was, probably, her latest lover. ' That was a very personal question^ Marcia," he said coolly.
    "Do you go to her now?" Lady Carradine cried.
    Nicholas bowed. "Do not disturb yourself on my account. I shall see myself out."
    She rushed forward. "I apologize."
    He shrugged, turned and walked across the dark room, his boots making no sound on the thick Persian rug. He unlocked the door and slipped through it. The corridor outside was lit by several wall sconces, and he walked unhurriedly downstairs, frowned upon by grim Carradine ancestors. He was feeling more than grim himself. The evening felt like a disaster, yet he hardly had cause to label it as such. And he was not a man given to premonitions.
    A bleary-eyed servant snapped to attention in the foyer downstairs and let him out the front door. Nicholas's coach, black lacquer with gilt trim and a completely gilded roof, emblazoned with the Sverayov coat of arms in silver, red, and gold, was around the block, since he had no wish to blatantly advertise his presence at the Carradine residence.

    But as he strode down the sidewalk, a thin, dapper form materialized from beneath a street lamp, rushing forward. Nicholas recognized his valet immediately, a Frenchman by birth, and stiffened in surprise. "Jacques!"
    "My lord." The slender, mustachioed servant reached him, out of breath. "Thank God you 'ave come. I 'ave been waiting over 'alf an hour—uncertain of whether to interrupt you or not."
    And Nicholas knew it was an emergency. Every fiber of his being tensed. His first thought was that it was too late— Napoleon had marched on either St. Petersburg or Moscow. "What is it?" His strides lengthened.
    They hurried side by side around the comer, toward the waiting coach with its four footmen, six horses, and two drivers. "It is the princess. She 'as begun to deliver the child. Two hours ago, to be exact."
    Nicholas stumbled and froze. "She cannot be due for at least four more months!"
    "Yes. It was four, exactiy." Jacques's brown eyes were somber. "The physician says the child is already dead— and your wife may die as well this night."
    Nicholas could not move.
    ' 'Excellency, let me get you a drink. I have vodka in the carriage," Jacques said, holding his arm as if steadying him.
    Nicholas looked at him. Jacques had to suspect the truth. "I am sorry the child is dead. But it was not mine." And there was no doubt—for he had not slept with Marie-Elena in five years.
    Jacques nodded. "Ow/. I thought as much, my lord."
    But Nicholas did not hear him. For all her failings, and there were many, Marie-Elena might die. And she was Ka-tya's mother—and Katya was at the house. Oh, God. Nicholas came to life. "Let's go," he said.

    <4^ Two ^
    "BROWNE'S Books—Old and New, Rare Manuscripts a Specialty" was nestled amongst a series of shops in a small, pleasant alley with a dead end two blocks over from Bond Street. It was a sunny spring morning, not yet nine o'clock. The air was unusually blue, marred only by a high passing cloud or two, and a bird was singing from the shop's second-story window box. Windowsills up and down the street sported gay summer flowers; the stout lady whose husband owned the bakery was sweeping in front of their store. Carolyn waved at her and then smiled up at the bird, which had stopped singing as she stepped outside.
    "Good morning, sparrow," she said cheerfully. "It is a wonderful day, is it not?"
    The bird hopped about the box far above her head then froze, peering down at her expectantly.
    Carolyn slipped her hand into the pocket of the apron covering the somewhat faded navy blue striped skirts of her simple gown and tossed a handful of stale bread at the base of the tree. "Enjoy your breakfast," she said.
    She turned and unlatched the shutters to reveal the large window of her father's store. Two beautiful maps were on display there, one centuries old, one brand-new. Then she stepped back inside, inhaling