The Paleys (1921-1927) - An Alternate Romanov Story

Indiscretion

Long after Tata left, Vladimir worked late into the night in the library. When he finally left after a long day, he heard his father coughing from his nearby study. Because of the late hour, Vladimir had assumed his father had already retired to bed, but the sound prompted him to make a detour to wish him a good night.

When Vladimir stepped into the room, he found his father seated at his oak desk, spectacles precariously perched on the tip of his nose as he scribbled something with quiet determination on a piece of paper.

"Are you planning on working late tonight?" Vladimir asked, cutting through the quiet.

His father paused for a moment, then replied without looking up, "No, no. I'll be up in a minute."

Satisfied, Vladimir nodded and turned to leave. "Good night, then," he said.

But just as he reached the door, his father's calm and steady voice stopped him in his tracks.

"Vladimir, just one more thing," he began, still focused on his writing. "Do you intend to continue your activities with Miss Mamontova as they are, or are there any plans to make them official?"

Vladimir froze mid-step, his hand still gripping the doorknob like it was the only thing keeping him from falling off a cliff. For a second, he genuinely believed he'd misheard. Surely, surely his father hadn't just said that. Slowly, he turned around with wide eyes and a slack jaw - the distinct expression of a man whose soul had just left his body.

"I... what?" he croaked, his voice cracking in a way that would haunt him later.

Grand Duke Paul didn't even glance up from his desk. His pen scratched across the paper with maddening serenity as if this were a perfectly normal topic of conversation.

"You heard me, Vladimir," his father said in that infuriatingly calm tone. "Miss Mamontova. Are you planning to keep things as they are, or do you have intentions of formalizing them?"

Vladimir's brain stopped functioning. Heat shot up from his collar to his ears with such speed he thought he might spontaneously combust. His mouth opened and closed several times, producing no sound other than a faint, pitiful wheeze. His mind raced, wondering how in the world he knew. Could Natalia have told him? No, she'd never betray Tata like that. His heart pounded like a drumbeat of doom. Was it Dmitri? No, Dmitri would just tease him mercilessly, not snitch. Then how—

"The windows, Vladimir," his father said with exasperating patience, still not looking up. "They're made of glass, not brick."

Vladimir's heart stopped. Slowly — painfully slowly — his gaze flickered toward the large study windows. It was dark now, but he didn't need to see outside to know exactly where they were positioned. His entire body went cold as the realization hit him. The very same corner of the garden where he and Tata had been... talking... just so happened to be in full view of his father's desk.

Full. View.

"Dear God," Vladimir muttered under his breath, rubbing a hand over his face. He felt like he'd been caught sneaking pastries from the kitchen — except this was infinitely worse.

"I was about to send a servant out," his father continued, ever so casually, like this was a completely normal observation. "Just to check if the poor girl was still breathing."

Vladimir's face went from flushed to absolutely scarlet in an instant. His eyes snapped shut as if he could will himself into another plane of existence where this conversation wasn't happening.

"Papa," he groaned, dragging his hands down his face. "Please. I'm begging you. For both our sakes, can we just—" he gestured vaguely at the air, his voice strained with desperation. "—not do this?"

Grand Duke Paul finally set down his pen and leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers under his chin like a man with all the time in the world. His eyes, sharp and annoyingly amused, locked on his son with the precision of a master strategist spotting an opening on the battlefield.

"Oh, believe me, Vladimir," Paul said with dry amusement, "this is me being merciful. It could be much, much worse."

Vladimir braced himself, already dreading what was coming.

"How, exactly, could this possibly be worse?" he muttered, not really wanting to know but powerless to stop himself from asking.

Grand Duke Paul tilted his head toward the ceiling, the picture of patience.

"Your mother's bedroom is directly above this study."

Silence.

Complete, absolute, deadly silence.

Vladimir blinked once. Then twice. His face slowly contorted into an expression of pure, unfiltered horror.

"No," he whispered as if his denial could somehow alter reality.

"Oh, yes," Paul continued mercilessly, his lips curving into a small, knowing smile. "I suggest you light a candle or two to your favourite saint tonight. If your mother had been awake..." He trailed off with a light, knowing sigh. "Well, I'm not sure her heart would have taken it."

Vladimir threw his head back, staring at the ceiling as if it had personally betrayed him. He let out a sound halfway between a groan and a why-does-God-hate-me prayer.

"Papa," he said through gritted teeth, barely managing to stay polite. "Please. I am begging you. End this conversation."

Grand Duke Paul leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk, his fingers laced together as if settling in for a very comfortable chat.

"I'll stop in a moment," he said. "But first, two things." He raised one finger, his eyes sharp but his tone light, like he was merely pointing out a scuff on Vladimir's boot. "One, your sister was not far from where you and Miss Mamontova were conducting your symposium on romance." His brow lifted pointedly. "I'd rather she not be exposed to such... practical demonstrations of affection."

Vladimir squeezed his eyes shut like it might block out the sound. Please, just strike me down, right here, right now.

"Understood," he muttered through gritted teeth.

"Good," Paul said brightly, as if his son had passed a particularly difficult spelling test. "Now, for the second matter." He tapped a finger on his desk with a deliberate rhythm. "You still haven't answered my question."

Vladimir frowned, lifting his head slightly. "What question?"

Paul arched a brow as though the answer was painfully obvious. "Your intentions with Miss Mamontova."

Vladimir stiffened, suddenly feeling like a cadet being interrogated by a particularly stern commanding officer. "It's... complicated," he said reluctantly, the words tumbling out in a way that even he knew sounded unconvincing.

Grand Duke Paul sighed, leaning back in his chair. "I don't understand what that means," he said bluntly, "nor do I care to learn the ways of your so-called modern youth. But," he added, his tone lightening, "if it helps, I quite approve of the girl. She's sharp, charming, and has just enough mischief in her to keep you on your toes."

Vladimir blinked, momentarily stunned into silence. "You... approve?" he asked cautiously, as though testing the waters.

Paul's lips quirked into a small smile. "I do. And I would be delighted if she joined the family someday. It would certainly be an improvement to the current entertainment around here."

For a moment, Vladimir didn't know what to say. His father's words were unexpected, and though they should have brought relief, they only added to the weight pressing down on his chest.

"Thank you, Papa," he managed finally, his voice quiet.

Paul nodded once, satisfied, before picking up his pen again. "Good. Now, go to bed, Vladimir. And remember—candles to your saint."

Vladimir hesitated for half a second, then turned and left the study with as much dignity as he could muster. The door clicked shut, but Vladimir's muffled groan was still perfectly audible from the hallway.