'You mean about the occupation?'

'Around then.'

He smiled wistfully, pausing in happy recollection before speaking. 'We could never get her to stop. I remember all her stories. She used to go on and on when we were children. About the French. About the fires. She and her father lost their home. They had to live in a churchyard.'

'It must have been dreadful.'

'They managed. Anything to beat the French not like these days. She had a brother who died at Borodino Fyodor.' He smiled again. 'And then there were her two captains.'

'Captains?'

'She rescued them from a fire. One of them was quite badly injured, but she nursed him back to health. I think she was quite taken by him, but she never admitted it not to him or to us. Petrenko that was his name.'

'Petrenko.' It was a name she had heard, not so long ago, on Dmitry's lips. It was too ridiculous for there to be a connection and yet she felt certain there was.

'That's right. Can't remember the other fellow's name. She didn't mention him half as much. Began with a D.'

Tamara almost hoped she would be wrong, but had to offer the suggestion. 'Danilov?'

'Danilov!' He pointed to her as he acknowledged the suggestion, and didn't notice the shiver that ran down her spine. 'Captain Petrenko and Captain Danilov. She helped them to get out of town give the French the slip so they could come back fighting all the stronger. And they did.'

'Did she ever mention a murder around then?'

'Murder? There was a b.l.o.o.d.y war on.'

'This was after the French left. In Degtyarny Lane.'

'Where's that then?' he asked.

'Up north. Off Tverskaya Street.'

He shook his head. 'She never mentioned anything like that.'

Tamara had come to speak to Natalia Borisovna in person, and was still tempted to ask if she was there, but it was easy to guess the truth from the way her son spoke of her. 'When did she die?' Tamara asked instead.

Oleg gave her half a glance and half a smile, acknowledging that she had deduced what he had never stated. 'You ever meet her?'

Tamara nodded and smiled broadly, she hoped convincingly, though she'd felt no affection for the woman during their brief encounter. 'She was quite a character.'

He nodded. 'It's been a long time. 1846 she died. Can't complain. She's up at St Clement's if you want to pay your respects.'

'Thank you,' said Tamara. 'I will.'

She didn't. What would be the point? There was no reason to doubt Oleg's word that his mother lay there, nor to doubt his a.s.sertion that she had died ten years before. And so unless she had somehow risen from the grave, the woman that Tamara had met just one year ago was not Natalia Borisovna Bazhenova.

'In a way, I'm sorry you've come.'

Raisa sat on her bed, wearing now only her undergarments linen pantalettes that went down to her ankles, and a tight corset that was the secret behind both her waistline and her bust. She gazed at the floor as she spoke, her voice meek and contemplative.

Dmitry sat on the bed beside her and placed his hand on her thigh, but immediately withdrew, feeling he was being too forward.

'I'll go, if you like,' he said.

She turned to him and clasped his hand, staring into his eyes. 'No. I didn't mean that. Please. It's just that ...'

'What?' He almost laughed at her discomfort, but restrained himself.

'I'd been looking forward to it.'

Dmitry had been looking forward to it too, and still was, but he suspected that so flippant an answer would not be welcomed. She was not referring to quite the same thing. 'To what?' he asked.

'To being wooed by you.'

He smiled partly in amus.e.m.e.nt at her romantic simplicity, partly flattered by the fact she had hoped for more from him than from her other clients. He wished now that he had been more patient, more trusting of what he had seen in her when they first met than what he had heard of her since.

'I think it's too late for that now,' she added.

'Why?'

'Because the thrill of the chase is lost if you know that conquest is already a.s.sured.'

'I can't change that,' he said.

'It's not your fault. It was impossible from the moment you found out about me. Who was it told you? Tamara?'

'Goodness no!' exclaimed Dmitry. 'I hardly think she'd approve.'

'Tamara?' Raisa laughed delightfully. 'You do know she works here too?'

Dmitry felt himself redden. His stomach knotted. 'Tamara?' His sister? And yet how like her mother. It was a strange consolation.

'Oh, not like I do. Tamara's the boss. What she says goes.'

'I never guessed.' Then an entirely different horror filled him. 'You won't tell her I came, will you?'

'Why on earth should that matter?'

It was a question that Dmitry could not answer even to himself. He had taken this revelation of his sister's profession in his stride, so why should he fear her opprobrium at his coming here? He said nothing. It was farcical. One day, perhaps, he could see them together laughing at it.

'She's away just now, but she'll find out,' continued Raisa. 'Even if I don't tell her, some of the other girls have seen you.'

'They don't know my name.'

'They'll describe you. You're quite ... distinctive.' She leaned forward and kissed his lips lightly, but pulled back before he could respond. 'So it was Vasiliy Innokyentievich who told you?'

Dmitry nodded.

'He probably thinks you'll charge in here and rescue me from all this.'

'I could,' said Dmitry.

'I don't want rescuing.'

'Why not?'

She smiled salaciously. 'Guess,' she replied. Dmitry felt the desire for her beginning to fill his body. He leaned forward to kiss her, but she had already turned her back to him. 'Would you like to untie me?' she asked.

Her corset was neatly fastened at the back with laces of brightly coloured blue silk, contrasting with the creamy white linen. A double bow tied at the top kept it secure, pressed hard against her back. He had to pull it away from her body to get at the knot, tightening the lacing even more as he did so.

'Ow!' she giggled. 'Aren't I thin enough for you?'

'Sorry,' said Dmitry. He finally got the knot loose and began to unlace the garment all the way down. When it was entirely undone, Raisa pulled it off and threw it on to the floor. Viewed from behind, her figure seemed as perfect in its natural condition as it had been when shaped by the stiff bones of the corset. He slid his arms around her waist and pulled her close to him, pressing his face into her neck and smelling her though detecting only the scent of her eau de toilette. He raised his hands and cupped them around her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, noting the slight shiver of her body as he touched them. There too, it seemed, her underclothing had needed to do little to improve upon nature.

They remained like that for a few moments before she pulled away from him and stood up, still with her back to him. She quickly stepped out of her pantalettes, revealing a delightful posterior perched atop her long, tapering legs. Finally she raised her hand to her head and, removing a number of clips and hairpins, allowed her hair to cascade in golden waves down her back, threatening, but never quite managing, to hide her charming bottom.

She turned and smiled at him. She looked angelic, almost to the degree that it would be a sin to even touch her. But sin was the entire purpose of Dmitry's visit. He sat and gazed for an eternity. He felt sure his mouth had dropped open, but he had no strength to close it.

'Don't you feel overdressed?' she asked.

Dmitry was stung into action, and quickly remedied the situation. Soon he was out of his overcoat and jacket and shirt and sitting topless on the bed, reaching forward towards his boot. She squatted down in front of him.

'Let me,' she said.

He sat up and extended his left leg. Raisa grasped the boot and pulled it off smoothly his ankle was healed enough that he didn't need laces now. She moved on to his right foot, and as she tugged at it she twisted slightly, sending a shot of pain through his injured ankle, from which Dmitry drew a perverse enjoyment. He suspected she had done it deliberately, and the look in her eye, fixed on his as she did it, gave him no reason to change his opinion.

Once Dmitry's boots were off, Raisa climbed on to the bed, lying on her side with her head resting in her hand, displaying the full beauty of her body. Her eyes never left Dmitry as he removed the remainder of his clothing. When he was as naked as she was, he lay down on the bed beside her, mirroring her pose.

She moved her leg towards him and ran her instep down his calf, pressing a little harder as she came to his ankle. Dmitry winced, but again saw the fire in her eyes as she caused him pain.

'That must hurt,' she said, giggling at the same time.

'Not when you do it.'

'Oh?' she said disappointedly. 'What about that?' As she spoke, she stamped her foot against his, just below where the bullet had hit. Pain shot up Dmitry's calf and thigh and mingled with the more predictable sensations they found there, amplifying both. For a moment he was reminded of Tyeplov, and the pleasure they had shared taking potshots at the French infantry with a stolen rifle from the White Works. He dismissed the thought from his mind.

He grinned and pushed her back on to the bed, climbing on top of her. Her smile suddenly faded to a look of concern.

'I'm sorry,' she said. 'I shouldn't make light of it like that. It must have been terrible in Sevastopol.'

Again, he rejected the obvious memory. 'I made it out of there,' he said. 'That's better than many.'

'Do you want to tell me?'

It seemed like a bizarre question from a woman to a man who was poised above her, his mind intent on one thing only, almost as if it was meant to distract him. But he was surprised to realize just how much he did want to talk about it, and to talk to her about it. She understood him better than he did himself but she must have been with many soldiers.

'Later,' he said.

She nodded and blinked, then reached out and put her arms around his back and pulled him down towards her.

It was spectacular.

'For your birthday,' said Konstantin. He crawled across the bed and kissed the back of her shoulder.

Tamara looked at the necklace. There were five large stones, pink with a hint of blue, each surrounded by cl.u.s.ters of what she could only guess were diamonds. The settings were silver, as was the chain.

'That's not till Wednesday,' she replied.

'I won't be able to see you on Wednesday.'

She was surprised how sad the thought of not being with him made her. 'Where will you be?'

He chuckled, and she took it to be a reprimand, but a gentle one. 'Put it on,' he said.

'I'm hardly dressed for it.' She wasn't dressed at all; neither was Konstantin, but the palace was not cold.

'It doesn't matter. If it can compete with your beauty now, it will be fit to be seen with whatever you choose to wear.'

She giggled, but enjoyed the flattery. She felt his hands at the nape of her neck, unfastening the one item that she had not removed from her body before making love to him.

'No,' she said, putting her hand on his. It was sentimental of her and so rude. She sensed his fingers draw back, and felt suddenly lonely. It would do no harm to take it off. The gold watch, a reminder of her husband, lay in her bag, somewhere in the adjoining dressing room. She'd had no qualms about being separated from that as she had climbed into Konstantin's bed. Why then should she be so precious about an icon of Christ that, somehow, reminded her of her father? 'I'll do it,' she said, and reached up to unfasten it.

She put the icon on the table beside the bed, glancing at the delicate little knot in its silver chain a hasty repair from some occasion when it had been broken. It had been like that as long as she could remember. Perhaps it had been she who had broken it her father who had repaired it. If so, the recollection was lost in her childhood.

She picked up Konstantin's gift and raised it to her chest. It was heavy. She felt his hands take it and bring its ends together. She clasped her hands behind her neck to lift her hair out of the way. It was loose now, out of its ponytail, and wild. Konstantin liked it like that. Most men did.

'Stand up,' he said when he had finished. 'Show me.'

She stood and turned to face him, feeling the weight of the necklace on her neck and chest. The lowest stone nestled comfortably at the top of the cleft between her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. It would require a low decolletage to show it off to full advantage that was the idea. His eyes didn't rest for long on the ornament, but began to wander down her body, lingering nowhere for too long, but marvelling at all that he saw. His gaze caressed her, down to the tips of her toes, and then moved back up her body, pausing a little more now in the expected places, until his eyes met hers.

He giggled. 'You look like an African princess,' he said.

'African!' She threw herself on the bed beside him, her face close to his for a moment, the gemstones banging against her chest as she landed. Then she rolled on to her back, and he knelt up to lean over her.

'You know,' he said. 'You've seen pictures; too primitive to display any modesty, but adorned with jewels to show off her husband's wealth.'

'So I'm primitive, am I?'

'You can hardly claim to be modest.'

She stuck out her bottom lip, unable to deny it. 'But African?' she complained.

'True. A bad comparison. When it comes to your complexion you are' he kissed her on the shoulder 'snow white.'

She giggled. 'And are you my handsome prince or one of the dwarfs?' For a moment she regretted saying it Konstantin was not the tallest of men but he laughed with her.

'And around the world, how many wicked queens look into their mirrors, only to be told that you are more beautiful than they?'

'Not many, I'd think.'