His Cavalry Lady. Joanna Maitland

      The Duke snorted. ‘This, from a pint-sized sabre-carrier who speaks not a word of English? No, my friend, the Regent has charged me to offer all assistance to the Emperor’s suite. I should be failing in my duty if I allowed you to be trampled underfoot.’

      It would be most impolite to argue further. Besides, the Duke probably had business to discharge. Business resulting from that urgent message. She must do what she could to find out about that. Major Zass would be expecting her report on the Duke. ‘You are very good, Duke. And I willingly accept your company, if it is not an inconvenience. If you are required at Horse Guards, I could easily take a hackney back to the Pulteney.’

      The Duke’s mouth twitched. ‘You might take one, but I doubt it would get you there. There are still crowds of people in the streets.’ He turned for the door. ‘Now, if you are ready, Alexei Ivanovich…?’

      Alex felt a sudden glow. It must be his continued use of the Russian form of address, she decided. Familiar. Friendly. It could not be the Duke himself, for he was a daunting figure, one to beware of.

      But then, as he ushered Alex out into the hall, he dropped an arm across her shoulders, in a brotherly fashion. Her heart stopped dead. Her insides plummeted down to her boots. Suddenly, she felt quite light-headed, as if she had drunk far too many glasses of champagne.

      How could she think that, she who had never drunk more than one glass in her life? What on earth was happening to her?

      Chapter Five

      Late though it was, the streets were still packed with people. They seemed to be generally good humoured, but there was no mistaking the pervasive smell of gin. Looking over his shoulder as they pushed their way through towards the Pulteney, Dominic realised that young Alexandrov looked incredibly small and vulnerable. That sabre of his—which had no doubt tasted blood in battle—would be no help here in London.

      ‘Oi! Who d’ye think ye’re pushin’?’ A couple of feet behind Dominic, a man with arms like prize hams had turned a furious face on Alexandrov. The ruffian was at least three parts drunk and seemed to be spoiling for a fight. He raised a huge fist to strike the Russian.

      Alexandrov’s hand went to his sabre-hilt and began to draw, just as Dominic moved to put himself between them. ‘Sheath it,’ Dominic cried, keeping his eyes fixed on the drunk. If he had to, Dominic could easily knock the man down, but that would be almost as risky as Alexandrov’s damned sabre. A fist fight could quickly turn into a street brawl and then a full-scale riot. ‘This is one of the Russian Emperor’s officers.’ Dominic was almost shouting to make himself heard. ‘We’re here to cheer the Russians, aren’t we?’

      The drunk was beginning to look confused. His clenched fist had slackened a little. Around him, the crowd was muttering. One or two were trying to pull the drunk away.

      ‘Three cheers for the Emperor Alexander,’ Dominic cried. To his relief, at least a dozen voices responded. By the third cheer, it was probably fifty. And the drunk was cheering, too. His furious face now wore a beatific smile.

      Dominic breathed a sigh of relief and pushed on through the crowd until they were out of danger in a fairly quiet side street. He had to warn Alexandrov about the risks he was taking. The young fire-eater would not always have Dominic at his side to calm the mob. ‘May I suggest, Alexei Ivanovich, that you would be unwise to brave the London streets alone?’

      The young man bristled visibly and started to protest.

      ‘I intend no slur on your honour,’ Dominic said quickly, putting a hand on Alexandrov’s shoulder and gripping it lightly. He might need protection, but he was much too proud to admit it. ‘Your bravery is beyond question. I meant only that, with the London mob, it is remarkably easy to provoke a riot.’

      Alexandrov had not attempted to shrug off Dominic’s hand, but he had become rather flushed. It seemed he was just as quick to anger as he was to put his hand to his sword.

      ‘I do not for a moment suggest that you would do so intentionally, Alexei Ivanovich. But if you had actually drawn that sabre of yours, their mood could have changed in the blink of an eye. They’re not overfond of foreigners, you see, even foreigners who have helped to defeat Bonaparte.’

      ‘Helped?’ exclaimed the young man, with savage emphasis. ‘You mistake, Duke. If one compares the losses of the Russian army with your own—’

      Very quick to anger, Dominic decided. ‘I do not seek to belittle you, Alexandrov, or the Russian army.’ He patted the lad’s shoulder in what he hoped was a reassuring way. It did not seem to be helping, for Alexandrov flushed even more. ‘I seek only to assist you. You do accept that, I hope?’

      As soon as Dominic removed his hand, Alexandrov’s angry flush began to subside. He even made a half-hearted attempt to smile. Did he feel he was being patronised? Was that the cause of his evident ill temper?

      Another burst of cheering drowned Dominic’s attempted explanation. In the distance, he could see that Emperor Alexander had appeared once more on the balcony of the Pulteney Hotel. The crowd’s reception was rapturous.

      ‘That does not look to me like a lack of fondness for foreigners, Duke.’

      ‘Agreed. But please remember, Alexei Ivanovich, that the London mob has one characteristic above all. It is fickle.’

      The young man appeared to consider Dominic’s words with rather more care than before. ‘I do understand your warning, Duke. I admit I was rash. And I ask you to forgive my display of…of ill temper. It was unwarranted.’

      ‘Doing it too brown, my friend. You have nothing to apologize for.’ Dominic smiled with relief. He had found himself unaccountably warming to this strange young warrior with the hair-trigger temper. The last thing he wanted was to offend him, even inadvertently. ‘Look! Your Emperor is leaving the balcony. Poor man, it seems the cheering crowd will give him no peace. Is he received in this way in Russia?’

      ‘Yes. No. Not exactly. The Tsar is “the Little Father” to his people. The…the relationship is not the same.’

      Dominic frowned, wondering. A father to his people? For a second he imagined the Prince Regent in the role. It was so absurd that he had difficulty in keeping his face straight. A sideways glance showed him that Alexandrov was set to take offence again. He was quick to see slights to his beloved Emperor, was he not? ‘Forgive me, Alexei Ivanovich. In my mind, I could not help but compare your Emperor with our Prince Regent. He has been called many things, but “a father to his people” would be the most unlikely of all.’

      ‘You are not very respectful, Duke.’ Alexandrov looked puzzled.

      ‘It is our way, Alexandrov. The English are fiercely loyal to throne and country, but unwilling to be blind to their faults. And the monarch does not have absolute power here. The scandal sheets and the cartoons lampoon the Regent, his mistresses, his extravagances… It is our way.’

      Alexandrov shook his head wonderingly. It was clear that he was finding it difficult to grasp the English attitude, so different from Russian ways. Yet he was at least trying to understand which, in Dominic’s experience, was unusual. Definitely an intriguing young man.

      Dominic clapped his companion on the back. ‘Worry not, my friend. Such things will not happen to your Emperor while he is here. Besides, all London is determined to celebrate. What better figurehead than your young and virile Emperor?’

      Alexandrov had flushed again. He swallowed. ‘Our beloved Tsar is a great man,’ he said simply.

      They had reached the entrance to the Pulteney. Dominic fancied that the crowd was now beginning to thin a little, possibly because it was so late. It would be thoroughly unreasonable to expect the Russian Emperor to appear again. As the pair passed into the foyer of the hotel, he said as much to Alexandrov, adding, ‘But that will probably not prevent them from trying. I doubt that your “Little Father” and his suite will get much sleep tonight. Or any other night.’

      ‘The Emperor does