Adam Blake & the Empress: The Adam Blake Chronicles, #2

By John C De Groot

Adam Blake has become a friend to King George III, returned a hero from the impending war with the American Colonies, where he fell in love with the beautiful Lady Eleanor and disposed of his sworn enemy Charles Beaufort Duc De Montmerency and his sister. He's granted a commission in the 1st the Kings Dragoon Guards only to find himself once more before the King's Spymaster Viscount Barrington.

The fabulous Norfolk Emerald has been stolen by a Russian Count and Adam is sent to Russia with the British Ambassador to recover it.

Despite finding some romantic interludes with the Empress and a beautiful Countess Adam's seemingly simple mission turns decidedly dangerous when he has to follow the trail of the Emerald into the siege of Kazan and the Pugachev Rebellion. But his troubles are only about to start when he's captured by Tatar slave traders and taken to the Crimea.

His escape from captivity with the exotic Nadia and return to Russia to find the emerald only serve to have him accused of an attempted assassination of the Empress, become a fugitive beggar on the streets of Saint Petersburg and be thrown headlong into the dangerous intrigue of the Russian Court.

Will the Blake luck be with him and the friends and lovers he's made, as he encounters the Beggar King, the Red Duke and the powerful Count Panin. Will he survive, or will he have to run.

• Language: English
• Publisher: John C De Groot
• Release date: Jan 1, 2024
• ISBN: 9798223482420

John C De Groot

Albert Einstein said that ‘it is the supreme art of the teacher to awaken joy in creative expression and knowledge’. That was certainly the case with my high school history teacher, who brought history alive and started my fascination in Ancient and Early Modern history. There are countless mysteries that still remain unsolved and I have a real suspicion that we have lost or forgotten more knowledge than we have ever gained. After a career in business, business support and as a trainer for Dale Carnegie, I did some consulting. It was a client who once said to me that ‘I was a useful man to have around’, based to some degree on my ability with the written word. When retirement loomed his words, my interest in history and a very patient and supportive wife encouraged me to ‘put pen to paper’ and with heart in hand resulted in my first book ‘The Quest for Eternal Life', the first in the ‘Last Librarian’ Series. That was several books ago in a growing portfolio.

Book preview

Mayfair London September 1922

Ihave become to some considerable degree a hermit or so Stanley my oldest son says, but what-ho he has more problems to deal with than an absent minded father as he’s trying to become a Conservative Member of Parliament for Winchcombe, which is somewhere near the family seat at Charnley Castle.

Why you might ask would a normal, well there’s some who may disagree with that description, sixty year-old Peer of the Realm suddenly withdraw from almost all social contact and hide himself away in his flat in London. Even a damned comfortable one like this one overlooking Down Street in London’s Mayfair, with its hot and cold running facilities all under the control of Charles the Butler and General Factotum.

Ah and here he is now at the door of the library. I’m sure I don’t know how he does that. One moment he’s not there and the next he’s standing there in his inimitably calm manner with his smug and rather haughty expression as if ne’er shot-nor-shell would affect him. I’m convinced butlers spend half their off-duty time trying to perfect that look and by Jove he’s got it off pat, what.

You’ve not eaten you luncheon m’ Lord, he says, as if I’m a naughty child who’ll now have the pudding put on the no-go list.

Eh what, lunch. Ah, forgot it was there Charles.

Shall I bring tea m’Lord, he says with an exasperated expression, as if he expects me to forget that too.

Actually, I’m rather peckish Charles. So tea will be welcome. Has Mrs Finch made any of those rock bun things.

Yes m’ Lord.

Mmm, with cream and jam what!

Yes m’ Lord.

Good oh! and off he goes.

Now as to my self-imposed retreat from the world. Well if you read the first part of the memoirs of Adam Blake my ancestor and the very first Baron Moorfield, you’ll know that I am James Blake Seventh Baron Moorfield and you’ll have got the gist of it all I think. If not then let me elucidate a little.

Adam Blake was the by-blow or, as we know it the illegitimate son of a Lord of the Realm and a servant. He was a bit of a fraud, but a handsome, smart and capable one I might add who often finds himself in tricky situations from which he manages to emerge a bit of a hero. Stanley had found his memoirs while clearing out the attics at Charnley Castle and had sent them on to me in seven tea chests which now stand stacked across the room from me and were accompanied by a letter from Adam Blake himself, written on the 3rd day of November 1830. I’ll read it again for you.

‘It’s the 3rd November 1830 and I’m writing this note in the library of Charnley Castle. The snow is thick on the ground outside, and that damned Alfred still hasn’t brought more logs for the fire. But never mind there’s no time to waste as it’s my seventy seventh birthday and I don’t think I have much time left anyway. But I’ve had a grand life and a greater share of the good things of life than most, plenty of birds of paradise and even a diamond or two of the first water.

Even had some close shaves and always managed to come out right. Even when I didn’t have a sixpence to scratch with. Had a mill with the Prince of Wales once. Anyway, I digress.

Always been one to keep a diary of sorts, at least ever since I was in my twenties. For the past couple of years I’ve gathered together almost everything I’ve written and have added more to fill in the gaps, so to speak. You may ask why I’d go to all this trouble. Well, to be honest the estate’s in the suds and if something isn’t done it’ll be in the basket. But I’m actually swimming in lard, but I can’t let on otherwise it’ll be snatched away by those damned hangers-on, who call themselves friends and relatives, and it’s one of the reasons I’m writing this tome. Now listen carefully.

‘Before I go any further you must know that according to some I am a hero and to be looked up to as a fine example of Georgian manhood, but to others who perhaps know me better, I’m an unrepentant charlatan and opportunist much of which is true I’ll admit here, whilst some have spread damned hum and Banbury stories in my opinion.’

Rumours and falsehoods, I explained before Stan could ask.

‘You may find my story from servant to Bon Ton, from below hatches to rolling in blunt, interesting, entertaining or simply a bag of moonshine, but I pen here and in the papers I leave behind me, the true story of my life.’

Right, now once you get used to the language they used in those Georgian times, the story’s not so hard to follow and anyway I’ve changed some of it so it’s a bit easier for you. I’ve also spent some time sorting it all into some sort of order. Took a while I can tell you, but very worthwhile and that’s how I found this next bundle of papers. Adam just labelled it ‘Russia’.

Part One – The Empress

Chapter One – Spring 1776

H ow good is your Russian language Adam?

I looked at Viscount Barrington with a frown at his strange and unexpected question.

Non existent Your Grace. I replied courteously.

So how’re we going to correct that then, eh, he replied with a wry smile.

Beg pardon, Your Grace.

Well your French will be most useful in Empress Catherine’s Court, even English is common I believe, but outside of it you’ll need to speak Russian.

Empress Catherine’s Court, Your Grace? I was starting to get little shivers down my spine at this point despite the warmth from the roaring fire in Viscount Barrington’s drawing room at Beckett Hall to which I’d been invited – you can read that as commanded – not two weeks after returning home after somehow surviving attempts upon my life in New York and managing to eventually bump-off Charles duc de Montmerency, who’d sworn to kill me.

Now you may wonder how I, a person of a non-military disposition, could be commanded by the man who was Secretary at War in the Cabinet and referred to by many as King George III’s Spymaster. A man I might add, not to be underestimated. Well after my return from the American Colonies and I have to say becoming rather friendly with King George, they conspired together to grant me a commission as Captain in the 1st The Kings Dragoon Guards. Which made me proud at the time smart uniform and all absolutely designed to impress the Ladies, until I realised that as an Officer and Gentleman with a loyal commitment to King and Country it put me at the beck and call of the Viscount. But there was nothing I could do. Big disgrace if I’d tried to resign. Only way out was to be badly wounded or killed and I was going to avoid both of those like the plague. I could only hope that my work for Viscount Barrington would be less dangerous than previously.

Now His Grace and I have been on what you might call cordial terms when in private after sharing the loss of Countess Caroline, his only daughter and my first love. She was also Adolphus, a Secret Agent for England working for her father.

You’ve not been to Russia then, he asked hypothetically.

Dammit Frederick you know damn well I’ve not been to Russia.

Ah, then this is an opportunity not to be missed Adam, he responded without taking the slightest offence at my outburst, or batting an eyelid.

I put my head to one side knowing that I was about to be sent on a who-knows-what mission to a country about which I knew little other than it consisted of empty wastes of freezing snow ruled over by the iron hand of Empress Catherine, who was busy aggressively enlarging her Empire. Oh and that they had an alphabet and language nothing like our own and I said so to Frederick, who chuckled alarmingly at what he said was a mere trifle for such an accomplished linguist as myself.

But I knew that there was more to come when his grey eyes became serious.

Have you heard of the Norfolk Emerald? he asked.

I shook my head.

It is one of the largest emeralds to have come out of the newly discovered Columbian mines, he paused and looked even more serious, it’s been stolen from Arundel Castle the home of the Howard’s.

I waited with a sinking feeling.

I am given to understand that all the evidence clearly indicates that it was stolen by a Russian Count who was visiting the Duke recently.

Why would a Russian Count steal it?

You are not familiar with Catherine’s penchant for emeralds then. It seems that she has a collection of emerald jewellery that is unequalled anywhere and wears them in abundance to project her power to her own court, and anyone else for that matter.

Frederick looked at me with narrowed eyes.

You are aware that she rules alone and is becoming rather infamous for her sexual appetite and a growing list of lovers. My informants tell me that Count Ruchkin the man who stole the emerald, has been spurned by Catherine and my guess is that he’ll try to win back her favour by giving her the Norfolk Emerald.

And you want me to?

Why, he declared, make a damned good impression for Britain which is sorely lacking, encourage the Empress to work more closely with us on European affairs and retrieve the damned emerald so I can get Norfolk off the King’s back. You’ll be travelling with one of our ambassadors and his entourage, who know nothing of the emerald.

He handed me a package of papers which were to provide me with background information on who I may meet, and a summary of England’s political history with Russia.

Well I thought apart from trying to get the emerald back the rest of it was as clear as mud, but at least it didn’t sound dangerous and maybe a visit to Russia would be interesting at least. I didn’t have anything else planned.

If only I’d known.

Chapter Two – Saint Petersburg

With the arrival of early Summer I was on my way to Saint Petersburg on HMS London, a 90-gun second-rate ship of the line of His Majesties Navy. It was a new experience and vastly different to my previous voyages across the Atlantic on merchantmen, although they had prepared me well for the discomforts of sea travel. Now travelling on a diplomatic mission for His Majesty we were treated as honoured guests.

There were three of us. The British Ambassador Sir Edward Lloyd, who was a serious fellow in his late forties. He was a rather humourless character probably the result of many years of service for the Secretary of State for the Northern Department that included relationships with Russia, a wife who he complained spent too much and four daughters whose future cost was a subject of his regularly voiced discontent. I was amazed to discover that he knew no Russian and his French was rusty to say the least. His entourage comprised of only one man Alfred Carmichael, a slim fellow in his thirties with a jovial disposition despite, or perhaps because of the doleful character of his master. Anyway I learned more of the history of our relations with Empress Catherine from Alfred than I ever did from Sir Edward. Alfred was always in the shadows so to speak, whenever there’d been an audience with the Empress and he’d been better able to observe the proceedings. He’d also made acquaintances amongst the lesser mortals at Catherine’s Court giving him access to gossip and details to which his master would have been ignorant. He’d also learned some colloquial Russian which with some mirth, I was able to benefit from as we travelled.

I’d mentioned the name Count Ruchkin to them, but it elicited no recognition.

As the ship steered eastwards from the Bay of Finland, the island of Kotlin could be seen ahead dividing the approach to Saint Petersburg. Anchoring off from the island city of Kronstadt and following an exchange of signals we were rowed ashore in one of the ships cutters accompanied by the ships First Lieutenant, a Captain of Marines and six Marines, their bright red tunics white cross-belts and muskets all making a pretty sight as the coxswain gave the command to the sailors to up-oars as we approached the quayside.

I was wearing my best new uniform and Sir Edward and Alfred were in their smartest civilian clothes. There were several Russian naval officers and a contingent of armed Russian sailors waiting as we ascended the steps. Our Marines had come up behind us and now assembled smartly into two rows under the command of their Captain. With an exchange of salutes the First Lieutenant introduced us to the senior Russian officer, Captain Yenotov, who responded in excellent English. We were obviously expected and a look of recognition passed between Yenotov and Alfred which Sir Edward didn’t notice. With the formalities completed our escort returned to the cutter and started the short journey back to HMS London and just in the moment I felt a strange sense of foreboding, but put it down to the unfamiliar surroundings.

I regret, Captain Yenotov started a rather exaggerated expression of apology on his rather flat face, that the Tsarina is unable to receive you as she’s at the Summer Palace.

I could see the anger rising in Sir Edward’s face. He’d told me that on almost every occasion he’d come to Saint Petersburg excuses had been made as to why he couldn’t see the Empress and on more than one occasion he’d never got to see her at all.

Before he could explode I offered an apology in advance for my Russian, and asked as well as I could in what was still an awkward language for me, when the Tsarina would be returning to Saint Petersburg.

Yenetov’s face lit up at my attempt at his language.

Perhaps there will be time for us to help you improve your Russian before she returns! he replied, avoiding my question. But come I will take you to your accommodation. It is a short distance from the island to Saint Petersburg, and with that he ushered us back to the quayside where we were rowed out to a small, but smart looking sailing boat. Yenetov saw me take an interest in the boat.

It is a brig rigged cutter, he declared with some pride when we were aboard and then lowered his voice. Built in England. I believe your Navy uses them to catch smugglers.

As we sailed away from Kronstadt we could already see Saint Petersburg ahead and more immediately and impressively moored around Kotlin island, the Russian navies Baltic fleet.

Tsar Peter and now Tsarina Catherine put great value in our navy, Yenetov said at my side. I nodded.

How do I improve my Russian, I said, deliberately not responding to his words.

When you are settled I will come and make arrangements.

Thank you, I replied simply and then we stood silently together until we entered the waterways that dissected the city. I was to visit Venice much later and would then understand the great difference between the two cities, but informed by descriptions of Venice from those who’d undertaken a Grand Tour, my first impression of Saint Petersburg was of a modern and grander version of Venice[1].

The brig moored alongside a stone wharf beside the Winter Palace[2] from where I could see what looked like a formidable castle in the distance.

The Peter and Paul fortress[3], Yenetov explained when he saw me looking. It was the original citadel of Saint Petersburg. Not somewhere you would want to go. It’s now a prison, he said ominously.

With his words still echoing in my ears we disembarked and entered the palace through a stout but very modest doorway guarded by two armed soldiers, into a courtyard bordered by rows of quite bland almost barrack like buildings.

Guest accommodation, Yenetov explained before leading us into the row on our left. The interior was a surprise. We had obviously entered through the back door to what was a quite magnificent building. In front of us was what was now obviously the main entrance, with a high vaulted entrance hall and grand double doors with wide hallways stretching away left and right and floods of light from rows of tall windows illuminating elaborate gilded decorations, mirrors and marble.

Yenotov had a smile on his face as if to say, ‘not so bad, eh’, and he was obviously amused at our reaction. I was coming to like this man with his understatement and sense of humour. I smiled back at him and in that moment a mutual appreciation passed wordlessly between us.

Sir Edward was far from impressed, the dour expression on his face and his irritated demeanour quite obvious.

How much further Captain Yenetov? he demanded.

This way Sir Edward, Yenetov replied politely and led us down a hallway to an open doorway which was one of several along the hallway. It led to a suite of comfortable looking rooms furnished in a Baroque style.

Your baggage will be here shortly, Yenetov advised. I will return shortly. And with that and a brief salute of his head he left us, giving my a wry smile and a raised eyebrow as he went.

Well, this is really not acceptable! Sir Edward fumed. Now we’ll be left to stew for who knows how long!

I could imagine that Sir Edward’s pompous attitude must well have raised the ire of more than one of our Russian hosts in the past and increasingly he seemed a poor choice of diplomat to be charged with developing good relations with the Russians, but I was yet to be even more surprised.

Sir Edward was right in one respect. Despite being politely treated and well fed, we were left hanging without any indication that we would ever be granted an audience by the Tsarina. Sir Edward paced and fumed for two days and Alfred kept himself out of his masters way as best he could, being harangued about anything and everything whenever he caught his masters attention. It was two days before Captain Yenetov reappeared with news.

Empress Catherine has invited you to the Summer Palace at Tsarskoye Selo[4]. A carriage has been arranged. It will depart in the morning. His declaration was without any apology for having kept us waiting and an assumption that the invitation to the Catherine Palace would be accepted without question.

What Sir Edward and Alfred didn’t know was that I’d not sat idly by waiting for news as they had. The three apartments in the suite we’d been given each had private entrances and it was at mine on the evening of our arrival, that Yenetov appeared.

Good evening Captain Blake.

Captain Yenetov?

You desired to improve your Russian.

I nodded.

Then may I invite you to join me.

Uniform? I asked.

Dress down, he replied.

We left the Winter Palace by the same back door through which we’d arrived and strolled off along the broad roadway bordering the River Neva before turning left alongside