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Interlude

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London, England

George V, by the Grace of God, of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland and of the British Dominions beyond the Seas, King, Defender of the Faith, Emperor of India, stepped out into the unceasing mistiness of the English morning. Despite the damp (it was always damp!), George felt a lightness in his being that translated to a spring in his step. Even the deep, chesty cough that plagued him couldn’t diminish the cheer in his mind as he turned to offer his hand to his wife as she followed him out.

“My love,” he said, with a smile for his Queen. She returned his greeting with a small, dignified nod. As always, Mary presented herself as the pinnacle of elegance and decorum. Only the tiniest of glances, a secret gleam of a deepening smile indicated that she, too, shared his good mood this morning.

Not for the first time, George V thanked the Lord above for a wife who loved him. It was a rare enough thing in his social circle.

And she has, too, he thought, grown more regal and still better looking with the years. I am a lucky man and perhaps, given recent history, the luckiest of kings.

George tucked his wife’s hand into his arm and started walking toward the path that would lead them to the estate’s chapel. Mary squeezed his forearm gently, another secret reminder of her love.

“Your Majesty!”

George paused at the sound of his private secretary’s voice. It wasn’t like Bigge to be flustered, but here he was, rushing up with gravel crunching under the army-style boots he still wore.

“Why, Stamfordham,” the queen said, her voice light and musical despite the gentle rebuke in her tone. “On the Sabbath morning?”

“My apologies, Your Majesty,” Bigge said, coming to a halt and executing a bow with military precision. “I am afraid this news cannot wait.”

George let out a sigh and smiled gently at his wife. “Go on, my dear,” he said. “You know Stamfordham wouldn’t interrupt us if it were not necessary. I shall join you presently.”

Mary met his eyes, a question in her gaze. He smiled, hoping she’d draw reassurance from his calm expression. She gave him a tiny nod and turned to continue walking toward the chapel. George watched her go, taking one more moment to admire her graceful, elegant form before turning his attention back to his private secretary.

“All right, Stamfordham,” George said. “What is so earth-shattering that you had to interrupt me on my way to church?”

“Your Majesty,” Bigge said, “I have . . . terrible news. Your cousin, Tsar Nicholas is dead.”

“The Former ts—what did you say?” The correction had come automatically before George had fully processed Bigge’s words. Nicholas had been forced to abdicate by the revolutionary forces currently enflaming Russia. Fear of those same forces in England had kept George from acting to retrieve his cousin and his family from their suddenly dangerous homeland. An icy tendril of fear snaked through his gut at the thought. Had he condemned Nicky to death with his inaction?

“It’s true, sir. I’ve just had the report this morning. Apparently there was a rescue attempt made by monarchist forces in Tobolsk. They stormed the house where the former Tsar and his family were being held. Casualties were quite high, among them the former Tsar and his wife, and Tsarevich Alexei and one of the daughters.”

One of the daughters? So the others still live?”

“Yes, sir. The former Grand Duchess Tatiana has been crowned Empress of all the Russias by the monarchist faction.”

“Tatiana? Was Olga the one killed, then? And what is happening with the other two?”

“According to the report, Grand Duchess Maria and Grand Duchess Anastasia were both present at their sister’s makeshift coronation, sir.”

“And where are they now?”

“We don’t know exactly. The foreign office suspects that the Russian monarchists may have them on the move—likely for their own safety. But we don’t really know for certain.”

“They must come here!” The King felt his face flush as he straightened his spine and met his private secretary’s eyes. “I was wrong not to do it before. Poor Nicky . . .”

“Sir, I’m not sure—”

“Damnit, Stamfordham! I know you’re worried about sending the wrong message to the socialists here at home, but they’re just little girls! And they’re my family!”

Lieutenant Colonel Arthur Bigge, 1st Baron Stamfordham, rolled his shoulders back and nodded. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

George stared at his private secretary for another long moment as he recalled an earlier conversation they’d had about his Romanov cousins. After Nicky’s abdication, Bigge had been the one to persuade him of the folly of extracting the former tsar and his family. As George continued in silence, Bigge’s shoulders slumped infinitesimally, showing that he knew he carried a portion of the blame.

“I don’t care how you or the Government do it,” George said, his quiet words throbbing with intensity. “But bring them here. If not Tatiana, then at least Maria and Anastasia. And find out what’s happened to the rest of the family. The Dowager Empress is the Queen Mother’s sister, for God’s sake! She must be protected!”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Very well,” the King said, and drew in a deep breath. He nodded once at Bigge, who stood still as a statue under his monarch’s scrutiny. “I will leave you to it. I must to church. Poor, poor Nicky!”

With that, the King of England turned his steps toward the house of the Lord God, where he hoped he might find solace . . . and forgiveness.





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Framed