The startled Princess Yusupova blinked repeatedly in embarrassment, her large black pearl earrings swinging with the shock. She even had the good grace to blush.
‘My dear!’ she said, nervously fiddling with her long black pearl necklace. ‘What a surprise! What a pleasant surprise.’ She gathered her wits. ‘How are you?’
‘Well.’ Militza smiled and nodded, looking swiftly around the table to see with whom Zinaida was dining.
Sitting to her right was Sandro, Grand Duke Alexander, with his thin hair and thick beard and opposite was his pretty blue-eyed wife, Xenia, the Tsar’s sister. She appeared frozen: her slim hand was holding a wine glass in the air, her lips fractionally apart, as she stared at Militza. Next to her was Count Yusupov, his stomach straining at his waistcoat, his thick moustache sweeping across his face. To her left was the man who’d been talking. Bald, with a round head, a short white moustache and sporting a monocle, Militza had not seen him before.
‘Anastasia Nikolayevna!’ declared Zinaida on seeing her also appear from behind the screen. ‘You as well!’
‘Good evening, everyone,’ Stana said, smiling.
‘Anastasia Nikolayevna.’ Xenia nodded, seemingly now more capable of putting down her glass of wine. ‘We are endlessly bumping into your husband in Biarritz.’
‘I hear it is quite the place these days,’ added Zinaida.
‘Quite the place,’ Xenia agreed. ‘The Hotel du Palais, the Hotel des Ambassadors, and the Continental are packed. The Oldenburgs, the Orlovs – everyone’s there. Mama came this summer on her train and had a fabulous time. Parties, the casinos… honestly, Ambassador,’ she leant over and touched the bald man’s knee, ‘it is one of the most wonderful cities in your country.’
The bald man nodded his head. ‘It is very beautiful and the climate is very forgiving.’
‘And everyone speaks French, so there’s no language barrier at all! We are so very happy at our little Villa Espoir.’
‘Do you know the French Ambassador, His Excellency Maurice Paléologue?’ asked Zinaida.
‘Not yet,’ replied Militza.
‘Your Excellency, this is Grand Duchess Militza Nikolayevna.’
‘And this is my sister, Anastasia.’
‘I have heard a lot about you,’ he said, nodding. ‘Mainly through Rasputin – Brother Grisha – whom you know.’
‘Know?’ said Xenia. ‘Militza and Stana are Rasputin’s closest friends! He goes everywhere with them. It is only through them that any of us have heard of him. It was they who introduced him to my brother! In fact, I am surprised the Muzhik is not here tonight!’ she added, drinking a large sip of her wine.
‘He is a little late,’ smiled Stana.
‘He’s dining at the Yacht Club?’
Count Yusupov’s face said it all. He was shocked and appalled; he was not a man adept at hiding his feelings.
Militza smiled and offered her hand as Rasputin walked out from behind the screen. Dressed in his traditional red silk peasant trousers and blue silk shirt, he appeared more kempt than usual; clearly the grandeur of the Club had affected even him.
‘Ladies,’ he said and smiled wolfishly. He went around the table and kissed each of the women in turn, either on the cheek or deliberately clipping their lips with his soft mouth. Each stiffened and blushed in turn, furious at such an invasion but too polite to do anything about it. ‘I trust you are having a pleasant evening?’
‘Yes, thank you,’ Zinaida said slowly, her back rigid, her lips pursed, her cheek still damp from his kiss.
‘How are you, Brother Grisha?’ The French ambassador leapt out of his seat and attempted to embrace Rasputin across the end of the table. Rasputin remained impassive. ‘Maurice Paléologue,’ he said quickly, his lips pouting slightly under his short moustache.
‘Monsieur l’Ambassadeur de France,’ added Xenia.
‘Ah, Maurice,’ said Rasputin, raising his eyebrows. ‘I didn’t see you there. I was distracted by the ladies and my eye must have missed you amid all that treasure.’
Maurice chortled with relief. He had spent the last fifteen minutes regaling the present company with stories of his close personal friendship with Rasputin and to have it denied in front of this illustrious crowd would have been a situation too mortifying for even such an oleaginous old diplomat.
‘Well, I must add you look quite unrecognisable yourself,’ he said ebulliently. ‘With your smart clothes! Your blue silk shirt!’
‘How is your friend with syphilis?’ asked Rasputin, his cold eyes locking on to the ambassador.
‘Oh!’ Maurice did not know whether to deny all knowledge of such a friend or whether the present company might, wrongly, assume that it was he. ‘H-he is well, much better,’ he stammered. ‘Ever since your visit.’
‘He paid me in French wines. I found them a little weak.’
‘Shall we?’ asked Militza, taking Rasputin by the arm. ‘Peter and Nikolasha are waiting.’
‘Nikolasha?’ asked Xenia, her eyes flickering from her husband, to Zinaida and then up at Anastasia. ‘I did not notice him. I thought he was on his estate, looking after those dogs of his.’
‘No,’ said Zinaida, with a small, tight smile. ‘He seems to be spending more and more time in St Petersburg. He can’t seem to stay away.’
‘And we are fortunate that he is able to join us this evening,’ declared Militza.
‘Is it not every evening?’ asked Count Yusupov.
It was true. It was becoming increasingly difficult to keep Stana and Nikolasha’s relationship a secret. However, with the Tsarina so occupied at Tsarskoye Selo, discretion seemed pointless. And as Stana pointed out in her defence, George’s lifelong interest in Biarritz was known even to the pot washers in the restaurants on Nevsky Prospekt. So as Militza and her sister escorted Rasputin through the room towards the table where Peter and Nikolasha were sitting, she could feel the heat of their stares and sense their tongues were desperate to clack. It must have taken immense willpower, she concluded as she sat down and glanced back at the table, for them not to start yapping immediately.
‘You took a while!’ said Peter, standing up as soon as his wife arrived at the table, kissing her gently on the cheek. ‘We are already on our second glass of champagne!’
‘My darling,’ replied Militza, stroking her husband on the shoulder, ‘we were sidetracked by the Yusupovs and Xenia, Sandro and the French ambassador.’
‘Yes,’ added Stana. ‘They are all having dinner over there.’
Nikolasha tuned and nodded across the room with a wide smile. ‘I am not a fan of Maurice. He has the appearance of a busy little man.’
‘He’s a gossip,’ declared Rasputin, sitting down. ‘Not to be trusted. But then again, he is French.’ He picked up his glass and helped himself to a large serving of champagne. He knocked it back and winced. ‘Like this,’ he coughed. ‘I can’t stand the stuff.’
The food was delicious. Pike quenelles and crayfish sauce were followed by sturgeon with peaches and a delightfully light tarte tatin. There were pickles and caviar and shots of vodka as well as glass after glass of fine wines from Burgundy. By the time the slices of pineapple, walnuts in honey and small glasses of brandy were sipped and sampled, the conversation was indiscreet and unguarded.
‘Little Mother and Little Father must leave their palace,’ opined Rasputin, slouching in his chair and picking a large walnut out from between his teeth. ‘The people never so much as glimpse them these days. Little children need to see their parents and they haven’t left the palace in months.’
‘You can hardly blame them,’ said Peter, taking a large sip of his brandy. ‘Sergei murdered outside the Kremlin and Ella so shocked she has taken holy orders, Nicky feels under threat.’