Chapter Text
He’s not fully aware of what she’s doing when she takes him by surprise in the library and attempts to make almost pleasant chit-chat. It clearly pains her to do anything other than throttle the life out of him, so it especially takes him by surprise when she pulls him to her fiercely enough that they fall onto the sofa, only for him to be pulled off by her own damnable father and some of his friends.
He catches sight of her as he’s pulled away, and he hears her telling her father that she’d sought refuge in the library from the ball, only to have him throw himself at her – and the baffling declaration that he, Baron Zemo, will not rest until he has ruined all of their family. The idea is ludicrous.
It is no less damaging, however. He is here at the discretion of the King and Queen of England, not as a diplomat, per se, but certainly an esteemed guest. And although she is an American and such people are not well-loved by the English in principle, her family has deep ties to the English court, and that means he is in deep, deep trouble.
He knows that throwing the blame on her and her odd behavior will not redeem him. As much as he may look down on her and her democratically-minded ilk, even he can admit she’d behaved perfectly at Court, and his claims will not be taken seriously, and he has a difficult enough time during discussions to address what will be done now to preserve the young lady’s honor. One mention from one of the English lords, a friend of her father’s, that Zemo is bringing shame to his family name, and Zemo is willing to fight them all. But that, too, would only make matters worse, so he does what gentlemen in such a position must – he accepts the terms, and he is overly generous, far too generous, in his attempt to make amends. He declares that he must leave to prepare his home for her, and her parents are invited to attend the ceremony and assure the arrangements go through as planned. In all that time, he only sees her twice more, and there is no room for private words between them. There is, unfortunately, no inclination on her part to even look at him; she casts her eyes demurely aside, and he gets no answers. If he weren’t so confident in his mental faculties, he’d think he’d dreamt the entire episode.
She and her parents arrive in a carriage befitting their faux-noble position a month after he arrives, and she alights, lightly touching her hand to his as he helps her from the carriage, keeping his movements precise and above reproach. Their wedding, just as so much of their interactions previously, takes place at a dizzying pace, and before he realizes it, they have finished supper with her parents, and everyone has parted for the evening. She escapes to her rooms before he can talk to her alone, and in the morning, she sees off her parents. He joins her, playing the part of a contented and noble husband, as she waves adieu to her parents.
He keeps up the charade until their carriage is out sight, then turns to study her. “We have not spoken since before our betrothal,” he says, his voice wry.
She ignores the unspoken question. “My carriage is ready, correct?”
“As specified in the wedding contract, yes. Is there a reason it needed to be at the ready so soon?”
“I’m leaving.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Are you? As your husband, I had thought you might make me aware of your plans.”
She smiles, though there’s little mirth in it. “I plan to live as a widow, in preparation for the inevitable.”
“Not much of a marriage.”
She pauses and turns to smile again. Her face is sweet, but her smile promises danger. “It won’t be much of a marriage, my lord. This is revenge, Zemo. You took my future from me, and I will assure you will have no legitimate heirs. Perhaps I may even bankrupt you before you meet your demise.” Her smile turns more genuine. “With good fortune, this will be the last time we meet.”
“And without us even getting to know each other better,” he murmurs as she walks away. He knows from spending his youth at the estate that his voice will carry. “What a shame.”
He is still standing on the steps when her carriage, already loaded with her marriage troussaeu and driven by the footman allotted for her personal use, hurries down the drive. Her actions make much more sense now, and he wonders what might have happened if he’d taken more notice of the mousy little sister in the corner. He’d have made sure she was on the ship when it sank, that was for sure. Just like her whore of a sister and ass of an American captain.
An empty marriage, oddly enough, suits him. He takes time to himself. The meddling mamas who want their daughters to become his wife are forced to admit defeat. He puts it around that the current baroness is away somewhere improving her limited American education and taking his advice on charitable matters, and then he for the most part retires to his estates, where he pointedly ignores certain rooms. He can’t help but think that her revenge had been rather well done when he still cannot face Heike’s former rooms. Were she to have stayed, she would have redone them, as ladies are wont to do, and perhaps he could have forgotten his former wife, if only enough to access part of his childhood home again.
He abstains from the Season in the Capital, and then as the weather turns warm finds a letter with no return direction on it. A brief, detached perusal leads to several more reads, and then he rings the bell to call Oeznik.
“My lord?”
“Pack my things and prepare the carriage. We must go to Moscow.”
He arrives with little fanfare. He’s sent ahead letters to the court, but as it is, he is only days behind the hastily-written letters, early enough that the royal servants are taken by surprise. Zemo peels off his gloves as Oeznik removes his heavy traveling cloak. “A dance, I take it?” Zemo asks a servant nearby in Russian, not feeling awkward in the slightest at all the Russian nobles in their finery all around him. He prides himself at seeming at ease in every situation. “I apologize for arriving at such an inopportune time. I feared to be trapped in your Russian winter.”
The servant doesn’t laugh at what, for a noble, could pass for a joke; Russians don’t waste time on laughter. There is only a deferential pause. “Yes, my lord. Would you like to restore yourself after your travels?”
“I believe I will change and then join in the festivities.”
The servant bows, and Zemo follows his luggage to the rooms that have clearly been set aside for his wife. Her dresses hang in the boudoir, her possessions are scattered on the vanity. He is surprised to see books in Russian on the bedside table and studies them with interest as his servants unpack for him. He half-turns to Oeznik. “An evening suit for tonight, Oeznik.”
An hour later, he wanders through the crowd, searching for his errant wife. Even though his suit is a touch more fashionable here, he draws little notice as everyone around him is more interested in their own petty matters. He tries to remember what his wife looks like. Tall. Pale. Blonde. Statuesque. Insufferable. Intolerable. Low-brow. Base.
He almost passes her by. He doesn’t blame himself for it; he hasn’t seen these clothes, hasn’t seen this hairstyle. She almost looks attractive, in a barbaric sort of way.
She sits at a table, cakes and other delicacies piled on the table before her. Gentlemen scattered around are helping her and another lady keep their plates full and their glasses full of wine as his wife and the other woman, hair as red as the fires of hell, laugh to one another. He stops and studies his wife as she turns to one of the gentlemen, her eyes bright and her skin glistening in the candlelight. She smiles at the insolent fool, listens, teases, and finally offers her hand. Zemo melts into the crowd to watch as she dances, moving well enough, he supposes. She seems to have charmed the Russians around, and Zemo places them in his mind as he follows her through the room with his eyes, turning away whenever she might spot him.
At length, he knows he cannot remain hidden for long. They’ll have to appear together in the future, and it will raise questions if people realize he’d been around without speaking to her. Hmph. The world would be better with fewer people.
He fixes a plate of small things to eat, remembering how Heike rarely ate large meals, even at festive dinners. When she is back in her seat, her red-haired friend twirling on the dance floor, he approaches and holds the plate before her face. “My wife deserves more sustenance than mere sweets, don’t you agree?” he asks the men nearby. He takes pleasure in the immediate effect of his words, with the men staring at him in surprise and the glow draining from his wife’s face.
She looks up at him, her jaw still open.
“I settled my business matters back home, my dear.” He places her food before her, gently pushing away the lemon cake there. “My early arrival is unexpected, I know, but not unwelcome, I hope.”
She stares at him still, and he can see her resolve return as her mouth closes and her lips thin. “No, of course. Your business was so pressing I didn’t expect to ever see you again at all.” She forces a smile. “You’re sure it’s finished? It would be terrible if you forgot something and had to return. Sokovia is so far away.” She taps her fan against her chin. “I really, really hope you haven’t forgotten anything...”
“Too far away from you, I agree.” He lifts her limp hand and kisses her fingers, enjoying the way a vein angrily thumps in her neck. “We have much to discuss. Shall we?”
She withdraws her hand. “After you took the trouble to fetch me this plate of food? I should hate to waste it.”
He reaches over and takes the plate. “I have traveled so long to be here. Why don’t I get us both some more food and we can eat together in our rooms?”
Her eyes narrow, though she quickly covers her irritation. “Of course.”
He takes her hand with his free one and helps her rise, guiding her to the tables with servants piling food onto plates. He murmurs to one and leads her to their room, delighting again in her gobsmacked features as she sees that his things are here now, too. He sets her plate on the table and makes his rounds, on the lookout for places spies might hide in the walls. He is familiar with places like this.
There isn’t much to check; a lone woman from abroad would not be given the best rooms, even if she is a Baroness. He supposes he should be affronted, but given that she’d done this to try to hurt him, he isn’t terribly upset. When he returns his focus to her, it’s to find that she’s removed her gloves and is eating with her fingers. He makes a face.
“You’re the one who didn’t think to get utensils,” she points out. “And I’m starving.”
“Perhaps if you’d focused on eating, then, rather than flirtation.”
She smiles to herself, pleased, and he realizes he may have let her think she got under his skin. Which she hadn’t. And then her smile disappears as a thought occurs to her. “What are you doing here?”
He moves closer, enjoying how she turns tense. He lets her have a reprieve, though, and pulls the letter from his pocket. Her eyes widen as she reads it, and he nods. “You have been accused of being a spy, my dear.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“You are a foreigner in a Court that traditionally is not fond out outsiders. What sort of notice did you think you would attract?” He watches her, and after a moment, his eyes narrow. “Or did you pick the Court farthest from mine?”
She looks faintly guilty, but far from apologetic. “To be fair, it’s the farthest from everyone’s.”
He can’t believe it. “My dear.” His tone is far, far too calm. The people who know him are aware that it means he is at his most livid. “You have come to Russia on the eve of an attack from Napoleon. You came alone, with no protection.”
She shrugs and stuffs some more food into her mouth. “Napoleon would be a fool to attack Russia.”
“He doesn’t think so.”
“Oh, men who overestimate themselves are hardly few and far between around here.” Her tone is dismissive, but the look she gives him is meaningful.
If it were not beneath him, he would strike her. “He thinks himself a military genius. He’d already begun his march when I left Sokovia. I suspect we’ll hear soon that he is nearly to Russia, and I will be away from my home should it need my services because I am here, babysitting you.”
She licks her fingers clean; he thinks it’s her attempt to show how uncouth she is, but he wishes she wouldn’t, anyway. At least, not looking up at him while she does it. As he turns away, she says, “He won’t go through Sokovia. He’ll know he has to get to Russia as quickly as possible if he wants his supplies to last, and Sokovia is too far north. He’ll storm in, stretch the supply line too thin as he puts distance between himself and France, and then try to get food from the land. As if the Russians will let him have it. Sokovia will be the furthest thing from his thoughts.”
He turns back and eyes her. “You know much for a back-country… what do you call it? In your tongue?”
She shrugs. “Better a bird of my tongue than a beast of yours.”
“Hm.” It isn’t disagreement. He had not anticipated his wife would know military strategy or Shakespeare. He had not, he’s starting to realize, anticipated much of anything about her. “Why did you come to Russia, then? Why would someone accuse you of being a spy?”
“I can’t imagine.” But there’s a pause in her words, just a hint, and he realizes that somehow, this empty-headed coddle-pated fool has taken to spy games of her own.
“Foolish.” Before he can say more, there’s a knock at the door, and he opens the door to a small group of servants who rush in with more food and drink.
At the sight of them, Sharon gets to her feet. “Hello,” she greets them in Russian. “Thank you very much.”
They bow to her, then Zemo, and then they are gone.
“You should not be so familiar with them,” he notes, drawing nearer to the table. She joins him, and he makes a point of handing her a fork.
She shrugs. “You were lecturing me on how you believe conspiracy theories a moment ago. I hadn’t thought you were so easily distracted.”
“I can multitask, my dear.”
She smirks and eats, making a point to stab things with her fork directly from the serving platter or use her fingers. “I should get ready for bed. Natalia and I are going riding tomorrow.”
“I will join you. We will take the carriage.”
She shudders. “No.”
“No?” He leans against the table and watches her.
“If I wanted to be trapped in an enclosed space with you, I wouldn’t plan on going riding with Natalia tomorrow.” She stabs her fork in a slab of beef, the tense gesture suggesting she’d like to put the fork in him, instead, and goes into the water closet, closing the door behind her.
He eats and pretends to read one of her books as he waits for her to come out, and he isn’t surprised to see her frown when she sees him.
“You aren’t sleeping in here, surely.”
He waves to the room. “Where else would I sleep? The chair?”
“The floor.”
He smiles and closes the book, setting it aside as he stands.
Her frown deepens. “You read Russian?”
“As do you, evidently. Full of surprises, aren’t you?”
“Hm.” Neither agreement, nor disagreement.
He goes to get ready for bed. He doesn’t have a plan so much as the knowledge that all is fair in love and war, and when he comes out again, she’s drawn the curtains on the four-poster bed. No matter. He opens the ones on his side and makes sure she can see him as he pulls back the covers. She stares at him before quickly looking away.
He moves under the covers and smiles to himself as she scoots away from him. He looks at her in affected innocence. “This has nothing to do with you,” he says. “I simply prefer to sleep naked.”
She frowns without looking at him and murmurs, “Where did I leave that fork?”
“Silly me. The candles.” He hops out, letting her watch him again as he pinches out the candles before climbing back into bed. “There now. We do not need to worry about burning to death. How pleasant.”
“Unless our neighbors forget their candles,” she says dryly.
He turns toward her in the darkness, but there’s no way he can make anything out about her. She’s turned out to be remarkably clever, far more than he’d expected. “Good night, Sharon.”
“Feel free to die before morning.” She turns away and settles.
“And you would sleep with a corpse?”
“Better than sleeping with you.”
“Hm.”
He wakes with a weight on him; his first instinct is to throw it off, but he soon remembers where he is. Slowly, his hand reaches the trace the object against him, and as much as he suspects it might be her, he also knows she might have woken up early and planted a poisonous snake in the bed.
Happily, he finds instead the warmth of a soft, shapely leg, and he traces its lines to feet clad in stockings. Hm.
She hates him, and he looks upon her with scorn and derision. He knows this. He also know it’s been a long time since he went to bed with a woman. Any woman.
His fingers drift up her thigh before he catches himself. The woman had tricked him into a loveless marriage. He shouldn’t want to have relations with her. Despite, admittedly, how he has been more amused and intrigued by her than by anything since his son’s passing.
He rests his hand on her knee as she slumbers softly on. She’d married him out of revenge for killing the man she thought she’d loved. Blinded by loyalty and stupidity. Zemo would have killed Rogers, certainly, but not in such a risky way. Not with so much collateral damage.
All right. He would have. An explosion beneath decks and it would have been an end to a problem for him. But not once he knew his wife and son were aboard.
He stares upward without seeing. Should he have come here? Sure, his current wife might have died without his interference – she may yet die with it – but couldn’t that be a benefit to him?
Several problems lie that way. The first is that he had come, and now – given the subterfuge in how they’d been married – there would doubtless be rumors of murder started by her own friends and family that would chase off eligible matches in the future. The second is that he wishes to have good relations with Russians as well as the English, and the suspicion that she is a spy could upset that. The third is that to lose one wife is tragic, but to lose two is suspicious. If he can’t have heirs, he must have another match. And the fourth is… frankly, she intrigues him. There are few people who can take him by surprise, much less women, and he is curious to see what she might do next.
It isn’t until the servants come in to stoke the fires that she stirs, and he quickly closes his eyes and pretends to sleep. It occurs to him that her leg is still on him, and his hand is still on her leg, and all he can do is try not to laugh as she tries to pull her leg free without disturbing him. In the end, he pretends she’s awoken him and greets her with, “Mmm. Morning, already?” And yes, he knows her foot is still trapped against him.
She freezes, then says, “Yep,” like some sort of country… bumpkin! That had been the word he’d been looking for last night!
He doesn’t have time to tell her that, though, because instead of trying to withdraw her foot as he’d anticipated, she uses it to kick him out of bed.
The ride with her and her friend is in turns remarkably tedious and almost amusing, particularly when they try to lose him in the woods. He won’t be shaken loose, though, and they relent, if only for their horses. When they return to the stables, he helps each of them from their horses as a gentleman ought, though his touch lingers on Sharon’s waist as he helps her down. As much as he likes making her squirm, he’s also amused at the thought she may well try to stab him.
On the walk back to the palace, they’re intercepted by Oeznik. “My lord,” he says with a quick bow. “News has arrived that Napoleon crossed the Russian border.”
“Hmph,” Sharon sniffs.
“That wasn’t directed at you, Oeznik,” Zemo says calmly. “I take it he is expected here?”
Sharon sniffs again, and he puts her hand on his arm so he can press his weight against it in silent warning.
“The Tsar is making plans just in case, my lord. It may be best to plan on leaving as soon as possible.”
Zemo nods. He has learned to trust Oeznik’s judgment; the man has served multiple generations of Zemo’s family, and Oeznik’s family has served the Zemos for generations before that. “Very well, Oeznik. We will take our leave of the Court and leave in the morning.” He frowns at Sharon, who scowls at Natalia. Feigning ignorance, he turns to Natalia. “You are, of course, welcome to join us.”
Natalia lowers her eyes. “I’m grateful, my lord, but I have duties here. But by all means, you must take your wife to safety.” She looks to Sharon, and there’s something decidedly wicked in her eyes. “She’s so very naive about some things.”
Seeing Sharon gear up to speak, he gives her hand a tight squeeze. “Very,” he agrees. “It’s a testament to the ease of her upbringing.”
Natalia smiles, and they part upon entering the palace. It doesn’t escape Zemo’s notice that Sharon won’t even look at him. In their rooms, they find the servants busy at work, packing.
“I’m afraid our cart has been requisitioned, my lord,” Oeznik says.
Sharon waves a hand. “My carriage should still be available. Use that. All I ask if that you leave room for me inside.”
“She’ll ride with me,” Zemo says, his voice firm.
“On second thought, perhaps I’ll stay here.”
“My dear. A word.” He turns on his heel and leads her into the hall, pretending to not notice the servants’ silence. In the hallway, he grabs her hand as she tries to pull away. “Do you know who accused you of being a spy?”
“For all I know, you faked that note in order to justify bothering me.”
“We are married,” he says. “We do not need justification to bother one another.” Her lips quirk, but she doesn’t answer. She also avoids looking at him. He tries again. “Do your parents know you are a spy?”
She rolls her eyes, and his grip on her hand tightens.
“No jokes, my dear. We are both involved in this, and if I am to get us out of this you must tell me what you know.”
She looks up at him with large eyes. “My dear. Isn’t the point of being a wife that I know nothing?”
He scowls at her, and she answers with one of her own. “Let us presume that someone, then, suspects you are a spy. In Russia, no less, a place known for how cruel it can be to its own citizens, let alone outsiders. Let us say that more than one person suspects this of you – one of whom felt the need to warn me, assuming I would care to prevent your demise.”
She studies him as if he’s a fly on a pin and looks him up and down.
“I am not the monster you believe me to be,” he says stiffly, kicking himself once again for not abandoning her to her fate.
She gives an impatient sigh and tries to pull away again, but he holds her close. “Natalia sent you the letter. We speculated what Napoleon might do – we’ve all speculated – and she likely thought I wouldn’t leave on my own. So if you would stop going on about this, that would be for the best, don’t you think? Unless you’d like someone to overhear this.”
He still doesn’t let her go. “Let us leave the servants to their work and take a walk in the gardens. Or visit the library, perhaps.”
She gives a long-suffering sigh. “Husbands like you are why people don’t get married.”
He watches her closely, but other than seeming happy to talk to everyone but him, she gives nothing away. They return to their rooms to change for the night’s festivities, and there, he thinks, he has more success. He wanders off and lets himself lose her – never for long – and every time he finds her after she is talking to military men and people close to the Tsar. People a spy would long to talk to. Natalia, too, is there, and he approaches her as they both watch his wife.
“What path would you recommend to return to Sokovia, then?”
“I’m sure I wouldn’t know,” Natalia says politely. “I’ve never left the country. Would it not be better to travel with the Tsar until it is safe for you?”
“People protect their own in hard times, and my wife and I are not the Tsar’s.” He studies her. “Your note was kindly meant, I’m sure.”
“Note?”
“The one you sent me in Sokovia.”
She blinks at him, the very picture of innocent confusion. She’s infinitely better at pretending than his wife. “Why would I send you a note?”
“My wife says you must have done it. I suppose it must have been someone else.”
Natalia’s guilt is in how quickly her eyes move to Sharon, who is talking to yet another general. “Ah. I’m afraid your wife is quite mistaken.”
“I suspected as much,” he admits.
They leave in the morning, and for now, they travel with the rest of the Court. They head North, to St Petersburg, and Zemo is wondering if they might book passage on a ship or if it will be safe enough to go by carriage.
Sharon eyes him from the opposite side of the carriage; neither of them like that their luggage takes up space across from them, but things could be worse in war, though it’s almost impossible to tell from the way she moves her skirt closer to her.
“You are a spy,” he says firmly. “Someone knows. Who is it?”
She sighs. “I’m not a spy.”
“The sooner you cease lying to me, the sooner we may make strides.”
She tilts her head. “It’s about the mystery for you, isn’t it. Not in keeping me safe, just the mystery.”
“I will do my duty by you. Even if I do not relish it.”
They both know she’s right, even if that’s all he says. She shakes her head and turns away. “Seems like it’s in my best interest not to say, then.”
He sinks into his corner and stews as he turns over the possibilities. She must be working with the Americans, that was for sure. Or perhaps the English? Napoleon being distracted only served to help the English, not the Americans.
“I did not kill him.”
She looks at him quickly, evidently surprised by his sudden speech.
“It is true, I had no fondness for Rogers. But he wanted peace for his country and England, and that worked in my favor, for I wanted to keep my lands safe from Napoleon’s grasp, and peace would have put England in a better position to defeat Napoleon. But I did not kill him. Certainly not with my own wife and child on board. I am not so monstrous.”
“But Steve had decided to fight. You knew that before the boat left.”
Zemo shrugged. “Even if I had intended to kill him, I would not have had enough time.” Because yes, he’d considered it. “You may think me a horrible man, but I hope you will not think me a horrible father and husband.”
She sniffs in disdain, but he thinks he can sense a small degree of doubt. “You would have killed him if you’d had the chance.”
“Perhaps. But not dishonorably.”
“Hmph.”
Progress is slow in the long line of carriages, and food enough for everyone is scarce outside of cities. Most of their time is spent in silence, reading books.
“You may as well tell me who you work for,” he says at last, because he still can’t figure out for sure who that is.
She only glowers at him. “I lost my place.” She makes a show of finding her place in the book again, and he grumbles as he sinks back into his seat.
“I’ll discover it,” he promises.
“You’ll die childless,” she retorts.
Of the two of them, she’s the one in the wrong. At least if her attack at the Winter Palace is anything to go by.