Timidly the servant pointed down one of the shining halls. “Bramvell.”
“Sir,” came Biddle's worried voice behind him. Biddle detested scenes, and he clearly sensed that one was imminent. “Perhaps I should wait in the entrance hall with the bags?”
“Yes, stay here,” Luke replied, going in search of Lord Bramwell's banquet.
Biddle retreated to the entrance hall with obvious relief. “Thank you, my lord!”
Columns covered with gold and semiprecious stones lines the halls. The sounds of many conversations held in French—the language of diplomacy—poured from an open set of double doors decorated in a mosaic of gold tile and blue lapis. The sounds of a delicate stringed instrument, a zither or something similar, provided background music. Luke walked into the banquet hall, where at least two hundred foreign officials were seated at a long bronze table.
Servants dressed in gold and velvet paused in the act of pouring chilled champagne. The table was laden with meats, sweetbreads, cold salads, pies and dumplings, sour cream and caviar. Giant silver bowls filled with pickled mushrooms or salted cucumber were placed at measured intervals, in addition to enameled dishes of mustard and salt. A roasted peacock, feathers carefully spread in a brilliant fan, served as the centerpiece.
The distinguished guests fell silent at Luke's unexpected intrusion. The music stopped.
Luke recognized the ambassadorial insignias of Denmark, Poland, Austria, France, Germany, Sweden. He spared a brief glance at the guest of honor, who was seated at the head of the table. The governor was a lean, gray-haired man with aristocratic bone structure and dark, slanted Tartar eyes. His chest was laden with gold medals and jeweled buttons.
Noticing that the English ambassador was seated at the governor's right hand, Luke reached him in a few purposeful strides.
“Lord Bramwell,” he said, while all gazes turned to him.
The ambassador was plump and pink-faced, with porcine features and a pair of beady eyes staring out from beneath two sparse eyebrows. “I am Bramwell,” he said haughtily. “This interruption is most irregular—”
“I must speak with you.”
Soldiers on sentry duty came forward to apprehend Luke. He swiveled to face them with a menacing stare.
“No, it's all right,” Lord Bramwell said with imperious calm, holding up his pudgy hands to keep the sentries at bay. “This fellow has obviously gone to a great deal of trouble to see me. We'll let him speak. In spite of his lapse of manners, he has the appearance of a gentleman.”
Luke introduced himself. “Lucas, Lord Stokehurst.”
Bramwell regarded him thoughtfully. “Stokehurst…Stokehurst…if I'm not mistaken, you're the unfortunate husband of Anastasia Ivanovna Kaptereva.”
Whispers flew around the table.
“Yes, I'm the husband,” Luke said grimly. “I've come to discuss my wife's situation with you. If you'd care to conduct this in private—”
“No, no…that won't be necessary.” Bramwell gave Luke a patronizing smile and glanced at his guests as if to convey the difficulty of reasoning with a madman. “Regretfully, Lord Stokehurst, there's nothing I can do. It is my understanding that a date has already been set for your wife's hanging.”
Luke had expected that the government would act quickly, but to actually hear the words “your wife's hanging” was like a kick in the stomach. It was hard to keep from leaping on the ambassador and ripping his throat out. Somehow he managed to keep his voice cold and steady. “I have a list of official actions I want you to take on my wife's behalf. You have the power to delay the execution.”
“No, Lord Stokehurst, I cannot. In the first place, I am not disposed to risk my name and position in defense of a woman of questionable character. Moreover, I have no power to act until I receive instruction from my superiors in the foreign office in London. Now kindly remove your person from this gathering.” Bramwell smiled smugly, settling back to his plate, clearly relishing the use of his power.
Gently Luke picked up the plate of exquisitely arranged food, sniffing appreciatively. He tossed it to the floor. The costly Sèvres plate fell with a splintering crash, sending shards of priceless china and clumps of food everywhere.
The room was silent. No one dared move or speak. Luke reached inside his coat. “Hmm…I seem to recall…ah, yes. Here we are.” He slammed a thin folded sheaf of documents on the table in front of Bramwell. Several guests jumped at the sound. “Papers from the foreign minister in London, with detailed orders concerning the diplomatic actions you're to take in this matter. And if you don't convince your Russian counterparts that this is going to turn into an ugly international incident…” The gleaming arc of his hook slid over Bramwell's shoulder. “…I might lose my temper,” he finished softly. “We wouldn't want that.”
Evidently the ambassador agreed. “I'll do everything I can to help you,” he said hastily.
“Good.” Luke smiled at him. “Let's go have a talk in private now.”
“Certainly, my lord.” Bramwell pushed back from the table and tried to assume the expression of genial host. “Please, everyone—Your Excellency—continue in my absence.”
Governor Shurikovsky nodded regally. There was no sound until the nervous ambassador had left the room with the large, sullen Englishman. Then the assemblage burst into excited chatters.
Luke followed Bramwell into a small, private drawing room. They closed the glass-paneled door. “I imagine you have many questions,” the ambassador said, regarding Luke with a mixture of dislike and fear.
“Just one for now. Where the hell is my wife?”
“You must understand. Public sentiment having been aroused against her, and threats coming from all quarters, there would be a great deal of risk in keeping her at the official prison. And then, of course, there is the matter of her previous escape—”
“Where is she?” Luke growled.
“A pr-prominent citizen of St. Petersburg has graciously offered to keep her in confinement at his private residence while the state provides all necessary security arrangements.”
“‘Prominent citizen’?” Luke stared at him in furious disbelief. “Angelovsky,” he said hoarsely. At Bramwell's bobbing nod, he couldn't hold back an explosion any longer. “Goddamned corrupt imperialist bastards—they've given her into Angelovsky's keeping? What next? Are they going to accept his gracious offer to officially execute her and save them the trouble? Is this a civilized country or something out of the Dark Ages? By God, I'm going to kill someone soon—”
“My lord, please calm yourself!” the ambassador exclaimed, backing away from him. “I'm not responsible for any of this!”
The blue eyes turned demonic. “If you don't do everything in your power—and then some—to get my wife out of this unholy mess, I'll grind your bones into powder beneath my heels.”
“Lord St-Stokehurst, I assure you—” Bramwell began, but Luke was already leaving.
Walking with quick, ground-covering strides, Luke nearly bumped into a pair of men passing through the hall. He recognized the tall gray-haired one as the man who had been seated at the head of the table. His young companion was evidently an aide, dressed in an immaculate imperial uniform.
“Governor Shurikovsky,” Bramwell said anxiously, “I hope you have not been too displeased by the interruption of our banquet.”
Shurikovsky's slanted eyes fastened on Luke. “I wanted to see the Englishman.”
Luke was silent, though his muscles tensed with challenge. God knew why the governor wanted to have a look at him. He felt an instinctive dislike for the man, whose eyes were as hard and dark as pebbles.
The aide spoke impudently, while the two men stared at each other. “What a strange tale this is! Prince Mikhail Angelovsky is murdered, the young woman who is responsible ‘dies’ in prison, several months later she is brought back to Russia very much alive, and now there is an English husband who wants to take her away again.”
“You will not succeed,” Shur
ikovsky said to Luke, his voice thin. “I speak for the government when I say that someone will pay for Angelovsky's death. Atonement must be made.”
“Not by my wife,” Luke replied softly. “Not in this life.”
Before another word could be said, Luke was gone in an instant, heading like a fast-moving storm to the Angelovsky Palace.
The Angelovsky residence was even more magnificent than the Kurkov Palace. The doors were decorated with gold, and the windows were bordered with strips of engraved silver. Works by painters such as Gainsborough and Van Dyck were framed in gold and precious gems. Chandeliers of crystal and enamel gave the impression of glittering floral arrangements hanging from the ceiling. Luke was privately astonished by the opulence around him. The queen of England didn't live in this kind of splendor. Or with this kind of security. Uniformed chevaliers, cossacks, and Circassian officers were everywhere, lining the entrance hall, the marble staircase, and every doorway.
To Luke's surprise, his demand to be taken to Prince Angelovsky was obeyed quickly and without question. Biddle was more than happy to be left waiting in the entrance hall, and Luke was led to a downstairs gentleman's room filled with tobacco smoke. The walls were covered with a collection of antique broadswords, rapiers, and Slavic axes with wickedly curved blades. In the center of the room was a turntable laden with decanters of liquor. A group of officers and aristocrats lounged in the room, sitting, standing, smoking, and talking. They all stared at the newcomer.
One of them disengaged himself from the group and stepped forward. He said something in Russian, saw that Luke didn't understand, and switched to lightly accented English. “What do you want?”
It had to be Angelovsky. He was younger than Luke had expected, a man in his early twenties. He had startling yellow-gold eyes, a face of stark masculine beauty, and the exotic animallike quality Alicia Ashbourne had described. Luke had never wanted to kill someone so badly. A tremor of bloodlust went through him, but somehow he controlled it.
“I want to see my wife,” he managed to say.
Angelovsky looked startled for a moment. He stared at Luke closely. “Stokehurst? Somehow I thought you'd be an old man.” The corner of his mouth twitched with insolent amusement. “Welcome to Russia, cousin.”
Luke was silent, clenching his teeth until his jaw trembled.
Seeing the faint movement, Nikolas mistook it for awe, perhaps even fear. He smiled into Luke's expressionless face. “You've wasted your time. The prisoner isn't allowed visitors. Take my advice—go back to your country and get a new wife.”
He was taken by surprise as Luke moved with blinding speed, shoving him against the wall and snarling at him like a rabid wolf. The sharp point of the silver hook pressed into his chest until a drop of blood welled from the nick it had made.
Luke's voice was a scraping whisper. “Let me see her…or I'll use this to dig your heart out.”
Nikolas stared at him for a moment, and then bared his teeth in a feral laugh of approval. “You have balls of stone, to threaten me in my own house, in a room full of weapons and soldiers! Very well, you may visit Anastasia. No harm will come of it. She'll still be mine when you leave. Now, if you please…” He glanced down at the spreading bloodstain on his shirt. Luke dislodged the stinging point of the hook and lowered his arm.
Taking a linen napkin, Nikolas pressed it to the sore spot on his chest. Still smiling, he spoke to a soldier. “Motka Yuriyevich, show my new cousin to the prisoner's quarters. And don't get too close—he may bite.”
There were a few appreciative chuckles, for the Russians admired nothing more than brute force coupled with a strong will. To find that combination in an Englishman tickled their sense of humor.
Tasia's suite consisted of a small antechamber and a bedroom, both luxuriously furnished. She reclined on a sofa framed with lacy Russian woodcarving. Although she had not been allowed visitors, she had received a few tear-blotched, loving notes from her mother, Marie. Nikolas had allowed Marie to send a few of Tasia's old gowns from the Kapterev Palace. Tasia wore one of them now, a girlishly styled violet silk with a full skirt, puffed sleeves, and white lace trimming. Dully she sorted through a pile of French novels. So far her attempts at reading hadn't gone well. She found herself going over the same pages a dozen times.
She heard a key turning in the lock. The door opened and closed. Knowing it was one of the servants with an afternoon meal tray, Tasia kept her gaze on the book. “Put it on the table next to the window,” she said in Russian.
Her order was met with silence. She looked up with a coldly questioning frown…and stared into a pair of smiling blue eyes. Her husband spoke in a rough voice. “I told you I didn't plan to sleep apart from you.”
Tasia gave a cry of disbelief and flew across the room, flinging herself against him.
Luke laughed and caught her in the air, locking one arm around her narrow waist. Lowering her feet to the floor, he buried his face in the curve of her neck and shoulder. “God, I've missed you,” he muttered, while she wriggled and tried to crawl closer.
“Luke, Luke…Oh, you came for me! Are you really here? No, it must be a dream!” Tasia slid her hands behind his head and pulled his mouth down, kissing him with violent passion. She reveled in his familiar smell, his taste, the solid strength of his body.
Somehow he managed to tear his mouth from hers. “We have to talk,” he muttered.
“Yes…yes…” Tasia wrapped her arms around his neck and they kissed again, deep, yearning, heedlessly absorbed in each other. He pushed her against the wall, twisting his mouth over hers. Their tongues touched, played, slid hotly, while his fingers spread over her breast and molded the tender shape. Tasia nuzzled into the side of his neck, licking at the touch of salt on his skin. He groaned softly, urging her against the wall with the pressure of his aroused body.
“Are you all right?” he managed to ask, after smothering her with a brutally hard kiss.
She nodded and smiled unsteadily. “How is Emma? I've been so worried—”
“She wants you to come home as soon as possible.”
“Oh, if only…” Tasia began with aching longing, but suddenly she jumped in excitement and clutched his shirt collar in her fists. “Luke, I remembered everything on the ship! I know what happened to Mikhail! I didn't do anything. I stumbled on the scene at the worst possible moment, and I saw the real murderer. It wasn't me!”
His eyes narrowed. “Who did it?”
“Count Samvel Shurikovsky. He and Mikhail were lovers.”
“Shurikovsky,” Luke repeated, stunned. “The governor? I just saw him!”
“But how—”
“Never mind, just tell me everything.”
Tasia related the story of all she had seen and heard the night of the murder, while Luke listened intently. His hand slid between the wall and her spine, keeping her pressed close to him. “But Nikolas doesn't believe me,” she finished. “He wants me to be guilty, and he won't hear any evidence to the contrary. Count Shurikovsky is a very important man—the companion-favorite of the tsar. I'm certain that the servants knew he was in the palace that night, but they were afraid to say anything. Perhaps they were threatened or bribed to keep silent.”
Luke was quiet, keeping his thoughts to himself. Tasia found it hard to believe he was actually there in St. Petersburg. The knowledge that he had followed her caused a burst of love and heat in her chest. She nestled against him with a sound of pleasure, and his arms tightened.
“Have you been eating?” he asked, kissing the edge of her temple where silken wisps of hair had escaped her pinned braids.
“Oh, yes, I have a very good appetite. They've sent up all my favorites: cabbage soup, blini with caviar, and the most wonderful mushrooms in cream. And big bowls of kasha.”
“I won't ask what kasha is,” Luke said wryly. He surveyed her face, gently touching the dark circles beneath her eyes as if he could make them disappear. “You haven't gotten much rest.”
Tasi
a shook her head. “They'll never let me go,” she said softly. “I don't think there's anything you can do, Luke.”
“There's a great deal I can do,” he corrected gruffly. “I'm going to leave for a little while. Try to sleep until I come back.”
“No,” she said, clutching at him. “Don't leave yet…or I'll think I just imagined you. Hold me.”
Luke enfolded her in a hard embrace. “My love,” he said, his breath warm in the hollow beneath her ear. “My sweet, precious wife. Don't you know I would fight the world for you?”
She laughed shakily. “I think you may have to.”
“The day of our wedding, I calculated the number of nights I was going to have with you. At least ten thousand. A week's worth has been stolen from me. Nothing is going to keep us apart for the rest.”
“Don't…” Her fingertips came to his mouth. “You're tempting fate.”
“I'll tell you what your fate is.” Luke pulled back and stared into her eyes. “Nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety-three nights spent in my arms. And I'll have them, Lady Stokehurst, no matter what it takes.”
Sitting on the carpeted steps with one leg propped up, Nikolas watched as Luke approached. “Now you've seen that she's being treated well. Food, books, furniture—”
“It's still a prison,” Luke said coldly.
“Did Tasia tell you her story about Samvel lgnatyich?” Nikolas smiled at Luke's blank look, and added, “Count Shurikovsky.”
Pausing at the top of the steps, Luke looked down at him. “She told me you've decided not to believe her.”
“There was never any relationship between Shurikovsky and Misha.”
“Have you questioned Shurikovsky?” Luke asked.
“That would accomplish nothing, except to discredit me. It is a desperate lie that Tasia concocted in order to make us all look like fools.”