"Is she all right?" Blake demanded of Leah who was busily kneading Cristina's stomach to help dislodge the afterbirth.
Leah noticed the tired rings under Blake's eyes and the unusual pallor of his bronzed face and took pity on him. Lord Lawrence had suffered almost as much as Cristina. "She'll be fine as soon as she gets some rest."
Blake expelled a sigh of relief and relaxed a bit. If Leah said Cristina would recover, she would. She had to get well because she meant so much to him. They meant so much to him. Cristina and her child. His child. Their child.
Blake turned to view his child and found Dr. Kraus feverishly working over the infant.
"What is it?" The bluish tinge of the baby's skin frightened Blake.
"I'm sorry, Herr Lord Lawrence, but he will not breathe."
Blake watched, alarmed, as the doctor opened the baby's mouth, ran his finger around the inside, then turned the tiny babe upside down and shook him gently, hoping to clear the air passages of any mucus blocking the way.
Doctor Kraus pinched the tiny nostrils closed, then breathed his own breath into the baby.
Blake waited anxiously for the baby to breathe his first breath and watched hopefully for the gentle rise and fall of his chest as the doctor worked over him, but the movement he hoped for, the cry he hoped for, never came. Their beautiful child was dead. Stillborn and silent.
Doctor Kraus raised his head and looked at Blake. A sheen of unshed tears sparkled in the doctor's compassionate eyes. "I am very, very sorry, Herr Lord Lawrence. I have done all I know to do. I cannot make him breathe."
"You must." Blake knew it was an impossible task, yet he felt compelled to order the doctor to accomplish it. "You must make him live. He's my son...." Blake reached out a finger and softly caressed the downy, black hair and the miniature shell of a perfectly formed ear. He bent his head over the baby, kissed the tiny forehead, and whispered brokenly, "You have to live, son. I've barely gotten to know you. You have to live. There are so many things I want to share with you. How can I tell your mother? How will she bear this? We want you so much. We love you so much...."
The doctor placed his hand on Blake's shoulder, shook his tired gray head in sorrow, and taking the baby from Blake, wrapped the tiny, still form in a pale blue blanket and placed him in the cradle Leah had prepared for him. "Herr Lord Lawrence, the little one, is in the hands of the Lord. There is nothing we can do."
Blake sank into the nearest chair and covered his face with his hands. "All that torment for nothing. All that pain for nothing. It isn't fair. Oh, God, how can you do this to her? How am I going to tell her? How can I break her heart again?" His words were lost in the hoarseness of his voice as his shoulders shook with grief. He suddenly felt very old and very weary.
"Blake?" Cristina's voice was soft and hesitant, barely audible. "Blake, what is it?"
Leah leaned over Cristina and smoothed her damp hair away from her face. "Ssh, missy, rest. You're tired and Lord Lawrence is just as tired as you. Rest for a while." She murmured to Cristina, buying time and allowing Blake precious moments to compose himself.
"The baby," Cristina whispered, making her wishes known. "I want to see my baby. I didn't hear him cry. I want to see him. It's a boy, isn't it?" Cristina followed the direction of Leah's gaze. She could barely see the top of Blake's bowed head from her place on the bed. "I want to see my baby." Her voice was louder this time, anxious. "I want to see my baby. Blake?"
"I'm here, Countess." Blake slowly raised himself from the chair and crossed over to the bed.
"Blake, the baby? A boy or a girl?"
Blake struggled with the lump in his throat. "A boy, Countess. A beautiful baby boy."
"Nicholas," Cristina sighed. During the past few months she'd changed her mind about wanting a baby girl and decided she wanted a boy with dark hair and eyes like his father. "His name is Nicholas Fairfax."
"Yes, Nicholas Fairfax Lawrence," he repeated softly. Nicholas was the name they had chosen. "Cristina..."
Cristina was suddenly afraid. She could tell by the way Blake said her name that something was wrong. Terribly wrong. She fought to sit up against the pillows and failed. "My baby! Please give me my baby!"
"No, Cristina, please ...," Blake pleaded.
"What's wrong with him? What's wrong with my baby?" Her worried gaze darted from one face to the other, first Leah's then the doctor's, before finally settling on Blake. "Is he missing fingers or toes? Tell me! I have a right to know."
Blake moved closer to touch her hand. "Nicholas is dead, Cristina. Stillborn."
"No!" The anguished scream penetrated the deadly quiet of the house and ripped at the hearts and the souls of the three people who stood watching her, unable to ease her sorrow. "Oh, God, please, no!"
Blake glanced at Leah, then the doctor, then walked over to the cradle. He gently lifted Nicholas from his resting place and carried him to his mother, then sat on the edge of the bed next to Cristina and carefully unwrapped the blanket and allowed Cristina to see him.
Cristina stared at her son. He was perfect and beautiful from the top of his little head with its cap of downy, black hair to the tips of his perfectly formed toes.
He was all she had imagined he'd be; all she had hoped for in her firstborn son. He couldn't be dead. He couldn't. She had felt him turning and kicking within her womb during the carriage ride, so eager to see the world, and now he lay so still.
"Nicholas, my sweet baby, Nicholas," Cristina crooned before turning to Blake. "Wrap him back up, Blake. He's cold."
"Cris..."
"Babies shouldn't be exposed to the cold air."
The doctor looked at Cristina, then stepped to the bed to take Nicholas from his father's arms. Blake waved him away with a quick shake of his head and continued to hold his son.
Doctor Kraus spoke to Cristina. "I am very sorry, Frau Cristina. I couldn't save your little one. He is in God's care now."
"No," Cristina said, firmly. "You're mistaken. He's just sleeping. Tell him, Blake. Tell him our baby's fine."
"I wish I could, sweetheart," Blake said, gently. "I wish with all my heart I could make Nicholas breathe for you, but I can't, Cristina. I can't."
"Don't worry about it, Blake," Cristina repeated. "Nicholas will breathe when he's ready to."
"No, my darling, he won't. Our son is never going to breathe."
"Then, make him," she insisted. "You're his father, tell him to. You've always been able to make him do what you want. You can make him breathe."
"No, sweetheart, I can't."
"Yes you can," she said. "You have to. You can make anything right. You can, Blake, I know it. Please do something. I'm begging you. Please, please make my baby breathe." Tears rolled silently down Cristina's face as she pleaded for Blake to do the impossible, to turn back the clock and give her a healthy, living child. "Please, Blake, I'll do anything. Anything. Please make him listen to you."
Blake shook his head, afraid to speak for fear his own tears would choke him.
"You must! Don't you remember? You promised to protect us! You can't let our baby die! You promised!" Cristina screamed the words in a voice raw with naked grief.
"I'm sorry, love," Blake whispered roughly. "I'm so sorry." It was all he could say. All he could do.
Cristina stared at him with her huge, emerald eyes shimmering with tears, then collapsed back on the pillows, completely spent. She turned her face to the wall and cried softly, hardly making a sound.
Doctor Kraus filled a glass with water and stirred several drops of brown liquid into the water. He lifted Cristina's head and coaxed her to swallow the bitter drink. "This is laudanum, my dear. It will help you rest."
Cristina swallowed the drug without protest, but the tears continued to roll down her face long after she slept.
Blake sat next to Cristina until she fell asleep, then walked to the door o
n the other side of the room.
Leah stopped Blake at the door. "Where are you goin'?"
"Arrangements must be made." He walked on through the doorway and into the nursery. He placed Nicholas in the crib and covered him with another blanket.
"The arrangements can wait a while. You're tired and you need some rest," Leah said.
"We're all tired," Blake admitted. "But I can't rest. I have to see to the arrangements for Nicholas and return to the embassy."
"Why?" Leah demanded.
"Because I'm sending you and Cristina to New York as soon as she's able to travel. And I have to make sure everything is set before I leave for London."
"You're still goin' to London after what's happened?"
"I must, Leah. You see, I'm taking my son home to be buried. I don't want him left alone here in Vienna. I'm taking home to Everleigh where my parents live. They'll look after him." He saw the look of concern in Leah's eyes and held up a hand to forestall her argument. "I'm going to do this, Leah. I owe it to Nicholas and to myself. Please don't argue. Just send someone for a cab."
"There's no need." Leah placed her hand on Blake's arm. "Mister Cason is waitin' in the sittin' room. Has been all night."
"Thank you, Leah. And one more favor..."
"Anythin'."
"Dress Nicholas in that thing Cristina made him at Christmas. I want to remember my son in something his mother made for him."
"Yes, Lord Blake." It was the first time Leah had ever addressed him by his given name. It made Blake smile a little in spite of his grief.
"Ah, Leah." Blake leaned over and kissed her soft cheek. "I doubt I'll see you again before I leave for London. I'll have a coffin here later this afternoon and someone to take it to the station. Try to get some rest. Cristina will need you when she wakes up. Be strong for her, Leah, and love her for me." Blake's baritone voice cracked and he quickly turned away and headed for the salon where Cason waited patiently.
It took most of the morning, but Blake was finally able to locate a suitable coffin for Nicholas and obtain rail passage on a train out of Vienna. By the time he had finished his arrangements, he was so tired his body ached for sleep.
He wanted to crawl into bed and sob out the anger and grief welling up inside of him, but he forced himself to go on. He felt old and weary. Bone-weary.
He needed a deep, dreamless sleep that would allow him to forget the horror of the past twenty-four hours.
But by the time he and Cason returned to the embassy, Blake knew there would be no opportunity for him to sleep. A letter from Albert Mead, his solicitor in London, lay waiting on his desk.
Blake sat down behind the desk, picked up the letter, ripped it open, and read:
Lord Lawrence:
I regret that it has taken so long to secure the information you asked me to obtain. The route of the necklace was difficult to trace, but I finally managed the task.
I spent several weeks contacting jewelers and pawn shops in London asking for information leading to the recovery of the necklace stolen from your residence.
The jewelers and pawn shops owners didn't know, of course, that you had already recovered the necklace. It took quite a while but I finally hit upon a bit of luck. I found a jeweler, Monsieur Jureau, who claimed to have designed a necklace such as I described for you as a gift to your bride. He referred to the necklace and the matching earrings and bracelet as his finest achievement. He remembered it well and described it in detail. He also recalled another incident that happen several years later.
A woman calling herself Lady Lawrence brought the same necklace into his shop, wanting to sell it. Monsieur Jureau recognized your wife from her pictures but he refused to buy back the necklace without your permission. He didn't understand why a woman of her wealth would wish to sell a wedding gift from her husband and he admitted to being insulted by your wife's dislike of his creation. When he refused to buy the necklace, Lady Lawrence became furious and left his shop.
Monsieur Jureau followed her onto the sidewalk, trying to explain his position. She refused to listen and pushed past him to climb into a carriage.
There was a man waiting for her in the cab. He was dressed in a uniform and spoke with a German accent. He began arguing with Lady Lawrence over her failure to sell the necklace. After a few moments, Lady Lawrence shoved the necklace at the gentleman saying: "Take it, Oskar. It means nothing to me and I suppose it's a small price to pay for your loyalty." He answered: "A necklace is no good to me. I need money on which to live. I need the money you promised me for watching your husband." She answered in return: "Idiot! Sell it in Vienna. It's worth a fortune, much more than I owe you, but take it and keep it as payment on account in case I need your services again some day."
They stopped arguing and began to laugh as the carriage rolled away. Monsieur Jureau attempted to contact you to tell you of this, but you were away and by the time you returned to London he had forgotten the incident. He only recalled it again while we were discussing the necklace. After I spoke to Monsieur Jureau I took the liberty of searching through copies of the society pages until I discovered that one of Lady Lawrence's escorts during that London season was an Austrian cavalry officer, Captain Oskar von Retterling. He was a member of the Horse Guards attached to the Austro-Hungarian Embassy.
I regret that you must learn of your wife's indiscretions in this way and I can only hope that this information is what you require.
I remain . . .
Your Servant,
Albert Mead
Blake carefully refolded the letter. He had known in his heart that Meredith was responsible for the theft of the necklace. It was the only logical explanation. Who else could it have been? And he had known that Meredith was desperate, known that she was capable of exacting a terrible revenge. But that didn't make the proof any easier to bear. She had warned him. But dear God ... It came as shock to know she had paid someone deliberately to murder his child! But there could be no mistake. Cristina had awakened after the bombing crying the name "Retterling."
Blake placed the letter in the pocket of his coat and called for his assistant. "Cason!"
"Yes, sir?" Cason hurried into the office.
"Find copies of yesterday's papers. All of them. I want to see the lists of the casualties from the explosion. The dead and the wounded."
"Your wife's name wasn't among them," Cason ventured. "I sent a request to the crown prince in your name asking that the name of Cristina Fairfax and the alias of Comtesse di Rimaldi be kept out of the newspapers."
"Thank goodness for that," Blake said. "Nevertheless, I need to see the papers. It's urgent."
"Right away, sir."
A quarter of an hour passed before Cason returned with the papers. Blake scanned the front page articles rapidly, going through each paper until he found what he wanted. A name in the lists of the wounded. Captain Oskar von Retterling.
It was simply too much of a coincidence to suit Blake. He knew the truth. Meredith had promised revenge and she had gotten it. There was no anarchist. The imperial guard could rest easy. The attack hadn't been aimed at Rudolf, but at Cristina. Oskar von Retterling was a henchman hired by Meredith to exact her revenge on him and Cristina and Nicholas had paid the price.
It was too horrible to be believed and yet Blake knew it was true--knew it had to be true. He had suspected Meredith on another occasion and had put it out of his mind. He had never wanted to think that a woman he had once believed himself in love with could murder in cold blood. He hadn't wanted to believe his judgment of human nature could be so faulty. Until tonight...
"Oh, God, Nicholas! Cristina!" Blake put his head down on the papers in front of him and wept. He cried for the son he would never know and for the agony he had unwittingly brought on Cris
tina in desiring her. He wept until his eyes burned from the salty tears and the hoarse, shoulder-racking sobs died in his throat. Then he slowly composed himself.
He had a great deal to do before sunrise. He had to devise a plan.
Blake cleared his desk and set out his pens and paper. He wrote out a cable to Cristina's father and a message to Rudolf asking him for one last favor while he thanked him for keeping Cristina's name out of the newspapers. Lastly he wrote a letter to Cristina. He finished his correspondence and called once again for Cason.
The young man came almost at once--almost as if he had been hovering outside the door waiting for Blake to call him, Blake stated his instructions explicitly. "Send this cable to William Fairfax in New York City first thing in the morning, I'm sending Cristina to him as soon as she's able to travel."
"I thought you were returning to London."
"I am. And when my wife is able to travel, you're to make the travel arrangements for her and Leah in Leah's name. Leah Porter. Remember that, Cason. No one is to suspect that Cristina is on that ship. Veil her, lock her in her cabin if you have to, tell Leah to do anything, but keep Cristina's name a secret. When everything is arranged, cable William Fairfax and ask him to meet a Mrs. Porter, a prospective client, at the docks on the date of their arrival. I'll leave you money to cover the expenses. And when I've gone, I want you to give this letter to Cristina. It will answer her questions and encourage her to leave," Blake explained. "And Cason, send this message to Crown Prince Rudolf as soon as possible."
"Yes, Lord Lawrence," Cason responded automatically. "Is there anything else you require?"
"Please bring me a bottle of brandy and a glass. That will be all I require for the remainder of the night. Go to bed as soon as you're through, Cason. You need sleep just as much as I do." Blake suddenly realized that Cason had been without sleep for as many hours as he had. "You've been an invaluable friend through all of this and I thank you from the bottom of my heart."
Lord Lawrence's heartfelt thanks embarrassed the younger man. He nodded to Blake. "Thank you, Lord Lawrence. I'll get your brandy and take care of these letters before I retire." He hurried away before Blake could say anything more.
When Cason returned some minutes later, he entered the office quietly and placed the brandy decanter and glass on the desk. Lord Lawrence looked up from the letter he was rereading and Cason was chilled by the expression of guilty anguish in those black eyes. He turned and left the room without uttering a word, leaving Lord Lawrence alone to drown his grief with his assault on the brandy bottle.