Read Online Splendor by Brenda Joyce - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Brenda Joyce
Tags: Women Authors
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to the man than met the eye. "I will bathe, but briefly," he said. "Jacques, after I have gone, I have an errand for you. I want you to purchase a kitten."
Jacques smiled. "For Princess Katrina?"
"Yes. Find her something she will adore—with a good temperament. I wish to present her with the gift this evening."
"As you conmiand, Excellency."
Nicholas strode into the breakfast room, a small chamber with several large windows, papered in a bright floral print fabric he found far too feminine and frivolous for his personal taste. But then, he did not particularly like the town house, either. It was a far cry from the many magnificent homes he had in Russia, including the ancestral palace in St. Petersburg, a fantastical new palace he had just finished building in Moscow, and Tver, his country home, a sprawling stone mansion built hundreds of years ago and added onto numerous times.
Nicholas took his place and allowed himself to be served. AU of his staff had come with him from his homeland. He would not trust a British chef not to poison him if the price were right. Europe was a continent at war, with ever-changing alliances, and agents operated in all of the major
cities. Nicholas dug into a plate of broiled sirloin and pickled red cabbage, dismissing those thoughts while reaching for the Morning Chronicle. And instantly he became aware of eyes upon his back.
He stiffened, annoyed—he could not even enjoy his meal. The spy was undoubtedly outside the window that was just behind him. How tempted he was to end this moment of subterfuge.
Determined to ignore the spy, Nicholas skimmed several pages pf the newspaper. Then he saw his name, and froze.
He slammed down his knife and fork, eyes wide, stared at the title atop the column, three words engraved on his mind—"A Royal Sham."
"What the hell?" he said, and then he read the article— every single blasted word.
He saw red.
Charles Copperville. The man was naive and romantic and far too idealistic, but Nicholas was a liberal himself, and he had, until now, agreed with some of his views. He had even enjoyed some of Copperville's columns, especially the one in which he had blasted two very well-thought-of lords for their wrangling in Parliament— presenting both men as they truly were—as vain, egotistical fools. But recently, goddamn it, he had been blasting Nicholas. And that was an entirely different matter.
And an entirely unacceptable matter.
Nicholas wondered if he knew the man. If Copperville were an alias—and the man himself was an old enemy of his.
Nicholas was shaking with anger. Copperville had made him appear to be a depraved, jaded, amoral rake—while Marie-Elena had been portrayed as some kind of holy victim. ''Chort voz'mi!" Nicholas rolled up the papfer and threw it at the wall. He was standing.
And when he turned, he came face-to-face with a young man with a scraggly goatee and a bicome hat set on a head of blond hair at an untidy angle. Only a simple windowpane of glass separated the two men.
For one instant, Nicholas was shocked. But not half as shocked as the young spy, whose eyes were bulging in a face gone frightfully white.
And then he smiled, savagely. To hell with cat and mouse. He had had enough.
The spy ducked frantically, disappearing from sight.
Cursing, Nicholas lunged forward. He was suddenly, savagely, determined.
^ Five ^
NICHOLAS shoved the window open. The spy was running pell-mell across the small garden. Nicholas put one foot over the sill and bent his body in half, trying to get outside. He cursed, following the spy with his eyes. He could not fit through the damnable window, he was too large, too tall.
He remained crunched up now, his gaze narrowing. Surely what he was thinking was impossible—was it not?
Nicholas jerked himself back into the breakfast room, rushed through the house. He exited through a back door and ran hard around the side of the house until the front sidewalk was in view. Sure enough, his
Jacques smiled. "For Princess Katrina?"
"Yes. Find her something she will adore—with a good temperament. I wish to present her with the gift this evening."
"As you conmiand, Excellency."
Nicholas strode into the breakfast room, a small chamber with several large windows, papered in a bright floral print fabric he found far too feminine and frivolous for his personal taste. But then, he did not particularly like the town house, either. It was a far cry from the many magnificent homes he had in Russia, including the ancestral palace in St. Petersburg, a fantastical new palace he had just finished building in Moscow, and Tver, his country home, a sprawling stone mansion built hundreds of years ago and added onto numerous times.
Nicholas took his place and allowed himself to be served. AU of his staff had come with him from his homeland. He would not trust a British chef not to poison him if the price were right. Europe was a continent at war, with ever-changing alliances, and agents operated in all of the major
cities. Nicholas dug into a plate of broiled sirloin and pickled red cabbage, dismissing those thoughts while reaching for the Morning Chronicle. And instantly he became aware of eyes upon his back.
He stiffened, annoyed—he could not even enjoy his meal. The spy was undoubtedly outside the window that was just behind him. How tempted he was to end this moment of subterfuge.
Determined to ignore the spy, Nicholas skimmed several pages pf the newspaper. Then he saw his name, and froze.
He slammed down his knife and fork, eyes wide, stared at the title atop the column, three words engraved on his mind—"A Royal Sham."
"What the hell?" he said, and then he read the article— every single blasted word.
He saw red.
Charles Copperville. The man was naive and romantic and far too idealistic, but Nicholas was a liberal himself, and he had, until now, agreed with some of his views. He had even enjoyed some of Copperville's columns, especially the one in which he had blasted two very well-thought-of lords for their wrangling in Parliament— presenting both men as they truly were—as vain, egotistical fools. But recently, goddamn it, he had been blasting Nicholas. And that was an entirely different matter.
And an entirely unacceptable matter.
Nicholas wondered if he knew the man. If Copperville were an alias—and the man himself was an old enemy of his.
Nicholas was shaking with anger. Copperville had made him appear to be a depraved, jaded, amoral rake—while Marie-Elena had been portrayed as some kind of holy victim. ''Chort voz'mi!" Nicholas rolled up the papfer and threw it at the wall. He was standing.
And when he turned, he came face-to-face with a young man with a scraggly goatee and a bicome hat set on a head of blond hair at an untidy angle. Only a simple windowpane of glass separated the two men.
For one instant, Nicholas was shocked. But not half as shocked as the young spy, whose eyes were bulging in a face gone frightfully white.
And then he smiled, savagely. To hell with cat and mouse. He had had enough.
The spy ducked frantically, disappearing from sight.
Cursing, Nicholas lunged forward. He was suddenly, savagely, determined.
^ Five ^
NICHOLAS shoved the window open. The spy was running pell-mell across the small garden. Nicholas put one foot over the sill and bent his body in half, trying to get outside. He cursed, following the spy with his eyes. He could not fit through the damnable window, he was too large, too tall.
He remained crunched up now, his gaze narrowing. Surely what he was thinking was impossible—was it not?
Nicholas jerked himself back into the breakfast room, rushed through the house. He exited through a back door and ran hard around the side of the house until the front sidewalk was in view. Sure enough, his
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