The Tsarina's Legacy Read Free

and tried not to shudder. He had seen that look before, in the eyes of one of his officers while choosing a man to execute, to break the will of the other prisoners.
    At last, the monkey chirped and bounded over to a courtier cringing near the back exit. The creature plucked the freshly powdered silver wig from the man’s head and twirled it in his hand, as though preparing for some exotic ball game. He hoisted the wig up in the air, where it caught on the chain of a crystal chandelier.
    Sputters of nervous laughter erupted from the corners of the room. Zubov choked on his cheese and coughed, handsome features distorted as he worked the food down his throat and laughed. He took a long swallow of wine. “Priceless! Priceless!”
    The men in the room managed a few more chortles. Even the courtier who’d lost his wig tried to smile at his ruined hairpiece. Silver powder scattered on the dark green carpet below.
    The monkey scampered up Zubov’s arm and hopped onto his shoulder. Zubov ran his hand through the creature’s luxuriant fur. Grisha escorted the old man to Zubov’s side table, where he placed the pot of jam next to the tea.
    â€œPrince Potemkin!” Zubov cried, catching Grisha’s eye. “When did you sneak in?”
    The cadet who had been standing next to Grisha suddenly straightened his back. Grisha realized the young man hadn’t recognized him at first.
    â€œYour Most Serene Highness,” Zubov intoned. “Field Marshal! Grand Admiral of the Black Sea! Have I learned your titles correctly? It seems the empress enjoys frequently adding to their number.” He fluttered his large hands at Grisha’s medallions and ribbons. “My brain simply cannot keep pace.”
    â€œPrince of Tauride,” the cadet told Zubov helpfully, using the ancient name for the Crimea.
    Zubov glared at the cadet but kept his voice merry, still reclining as though he hadn’t a care in this world. “We’ve been expecting you, Prince. What kept you?” He cocked an eyebrow imperiously. “Fucking one of your officers’ wives again?”
    Low laughter filled the room, this time genuine.
    Grisha needed to appear as though he didn’t care—only the laughter had grown so loud he feared Catherine might hear. He felt sure she’d taken to her neighboring study, quill in hand, scribbling her correspondence, one ear inclined to the door for signs of unrest.
    But he had no intention of being driven away by Zubov’s hollow attempts at wit. The stench of urine cut through the lavender oil in his handkerchief and Grisha stuffed the linen in his pocket.
    â€œAnd here I thought I was early for our appointment. We were meant to discuss plans for the construction of a mosque in Moscow. I didn’t realize you’d planned court entertainment first.”
    â€œYes, yes.” Zubov drew to full attention, straightening the ruffles above his ridiculous velvet frock coat. The monkey dug his fingers deep into Zubov’s shoulders so as not to fall when his master moved. “But a mosque in the very heart of our land? Wouldn’t a church make more sense? We’re still a Christian people, are we not?”
    Grisha needed to tread carefully. Rumors had reached his ear, even in the faraway southern lands where he had spent the last several months, tales of Zubov’s youthful beauty and hold on the empress’s affections. He saw it for himself now: Zubov’s fine features, broad shoulders, and brilliant eyes, so different from the lumpiness that had spoiled Grisha’s own looks as the years passed.
    â€œThe empress has taken care to preserve cordial relations with her subjects of the Islamic faith,” he said. “I am particularly pleased with this design. It is modeled after a mosque in the old fortress of Ochakov.”
    â€œAnd yet you ran the heathen into the ground in that godforsaken place.”
    Grisha’s hands, slick