Midnight Angel by Lisa Kleypas
“Then why wouldn't she come out with this story in court, during the trial? She didn't lie then. She's not lying now. But you'd rather send an innocent woman to her death than face an unpleasant truth.”
“You dare mention the word ‘truth’?” Nikolas's voice was suddenly thick. He stood and faced Luke squarely. He was just as tall as Luke, but with a far different build. Luke had a broad-shouldered, muscular body, whereas Nikolas was wiry, flexible, catlike. “I'd like to shove it back down your throat,” Nikolas said. “Go question Shurikovsky with my blessing. I want to see your face when you realize what your wife has done.”
Luke turned to leave.
“Wait,” Nikolas muttered. “Don't try to see Shurikovsky now. Go tonight. After the sun sets. It is the Russian way to do these things privately, you understand?”
“I understand. Russians like to do everything in secrecy.”
“We prefer the word ‘discretion,’” Nikolas said mildly. “A virtue you don't seem to possess, cousin. I will go with you tonight. Shurikovsky doesn't speak any English. You'll need someone to translate.”
Luke gave a harsh laugh. “You're the last person I'd take with me.”
“You're a fool if you think I've persecuted your wife for personal reasons. If I could be proved wrong—if I came across evidence that Tasia has been unjustly accused—I would kiss the hem of her gown and beg her forgiveness. All I want is for my brother's murderer to be punished.”
“You want a scapegoat,” Luke said caustically. “You don't care who it is, as long as someone's blood is spilled in exchange for Mikhail's.”
Nikolas's shoulders stiffened, but he showed no reaction. “I will go with you this evening, Stokehurst, to expose Tasia's lies and remove all doubt that she killed Misha.”
Luke spent the afternoon harassing Lord Bramwell and his secretary until they began to write an official list of complaints about the mistreatment and illegal imprisonment of the wife of an English citizen. At sunset Luke returned to the Angelovsky Palace. Nikolas greeted him while casually munching on an apple. The fruit was unusual, with pure white flesh and a translucent emerald skin. Nikolas smiled as he noticed Luke's interest. “A Russian glass-apple,” he said, pulling one from his pocket. “I'm quite partial to them. Would you care to try one?”
Although he hadn't eaten all day, Luke shook his head.
Nikolas laughed. “The English are so proud,” he mocked. “You are hungry, but you will not take food from my hand. It's only an apple, cousin.” He tossed it toward Luke.
Luke caught it easily. “I'm not your cousin.” He took a bite of the crisp, sugar-sweet fruit.
“But you are. Tasia is the granddaughter of my father's cousin. And now you are connected by marriage. Russians are very aware of all family ties, no matter how distant.”
“Aware, but not loyal to them,” Luke sneered.
“Murder does tend to put a damper on family relationships.”
Exchanging a glance of mutual loathing, they went to the gleaming black carriage outside. The ride to Shurikovsky's home was excruciating, the silence infused with violent undertones. The streets were quiet. Warm light glowed from the windows of the homes and palaces they passed.
“Most likely Shurikovsky is with the tsar this evening,” Nikolas said. At Luke's silence, he continued casually “They are very close, almost like brothers. When the tsar goes to his country palace, Tsarskoe Selo, he always insists that Shurikovsky is part of the royal entourage. The governor is a man of great power and cunning.”
“You respect him?”
“No, certainly not. Shurikovsky would kneel on the floor and bark like a dog if it would please the tsar.”
“What do you know of his relationships?”
“There are none outside his marriage. Some men are driven by the desires of the flesh, but Shurikovsky isn't one of them. His appetite is for political power.”
“You can't be that naive,” Luke said.
“The circle of the Russian court is very small. It is impossible to keep secrets. If Shurikovsky had a taste for boys, everyone would know. There has never been a word. Not a whisper. And my brother always boasted about his conquests, in spite of the family's efforts to keep him quiet. Misha never mentioned or hinted to anyone that he even knew Shurikovsky. There was no relationship between them.”
“So Mikhail was a family embarrassment,” Luke mused. “How badly did the Angelovskys want to keep him quiet?”
For the first time, there was a flicker of emotion in the golden eyes. “Don't,” Nikolas said in a low voice. “Don't even suggest it, or I'll…”
“You'll kill me?” Luke suggested, arching a dark brow. “I imagine you're capable of murder—family ties notwithstanding.”
Nikolas kept his mouth closed, glaring at him. Hatred seethed in the air. Finally they reached Shurikovsky's residence, a two-story wooden manor house located on the Neva. There were two guards at the gilded and carved door. “Dvornik,” Nikolas said, swinging out of the carriage. “Harmless watchmen. Before you begin to carve them up like roasted grouse, let me speak to them.” Luke followed Nikolas from the carriage and watched as he exchanged a few words with the men and slipped them a handful of money. They were quickly and discreetly admitted entrance.
After speaking to an approaching manservant, Nikolas gestured for Luke to come with him along a hallway lined with gold brocade hangings. “None of the family is at home. Countess Shurikovsky is in the country. The governor is expected to return later this evening.”
“And in the meanwhile?”
“We wait. And drink. Are you a drinking man, Stokehurst?”
“Not particularly.”
“Russians have a saying, ‘Not to drink is not to live.’”
They went to the library, designed in the European style with tall bookcases, mahogany furniture, and leather chairs. A servant brought glasses and a tray of chilled, frosted bottles. “The vodka is infused with different flavors,” Nikolas said, pouring some amber liquid into a glass. He pointed to the array of bottles. “Birch bud, wood ash, pepper, lemon—”
“I'll take the birch,” Luke said.
At Nikolas's request, the servant returned with another tray, piled with sardines, bread and butter, and caviar. Nikolas settled back in his chair with an air of contentment, holding his vodka in one hand and a sliver of dark bread piled with black caviar in the other. He finished both in short order and refilled his glass. The yellow eyes regarded Luke intently. Suddenly he gestured to the hook on Luke's left arm. “How did that happen?” he asked, sipping his second vodka more slowly.
“I was injured in a fire.”
“Ah.” The syllable expressed neither sympathy nor surprise. Nikolas continued to stare at him assessingly. “Why did you marry Tasia? Were you hoping to claim some of her fortune?”
“I have no need of her money,” Luke said coldly.
“Then why? As an obligation to your friends the Ashbournes?”
“No.” Luke tilted his head and swallowed the rest of his vodka. The drink was smooth and cold at first, but afterward came a stinging rush of heat that burned his nose and throat.
“For love, then,” Nikolas said. Surprisingly, there was no mockery in his voice. “Of course. You've never met anyone like Anastasia Ivanovna before, have you?”
“No,” Luke admitted gruffly.
“That is because Tasia was brought up according to the old Russian tradition of terem. She was hidden in the country, away from all men except her father and a few close relatives. Very sheltered. Like a bird in a golden cage. It was common to do this a few generations ago, but rare in these days. After Tasia's first bal blanc, every man in St. Petersburg wanted her. Strange, quiet, beautiful girl. It was rumored that she was a witch. I could almost believe it myself, looking into those eyes. All the men feared and desired her. Except me.” Nikolas paused to refill Luke's glass. “I wanted her for my brother.”
“Why?”
“Misha needed someone to take
Luke glared at him. “Did you consider that instead of helping Mikhail, she might have been destroyed by him?”
“Of course. But that didn't matter, as long as there was a chance of saving Misha.”
“He got what he deserved,” Luke said with a grim smile, tossing back more of the vodka.
“And now so will Tasia.”
Luke stared at the Russian, hatred uncoiling inside him. If anything happened to Tasia, he would make Angelovsky pay. They were both quiet, letting the vodka work its numbing effect on the senses. It was the only thing that kept Luke from leaping on the Russian prince and ripping his throat out.
Quietly a servant came to the library and addressed Nikolas in muffled tones. A conversation ensued, until finally Nikolas waved the servant away. He turned to Luke with a frown. “He says Shurikovsky has returned, but he is ill.” He shrugged. “Too much to drink. Do you still want to speak with the governor tonight?”
Luke stood up. “Where is he?”
“In his bedchamber, preparing to retire.” Nikolas rolled his eyes as he saw the determination on Luke's face. “All right, we'll go to him. With any luck he'll be too drunk to remember anything afterward. Only five minutes, understand? After that we leave.”
They went upstairs to a lavish suite of rooms. Shurikovsky was seated on the edge of the bed, waiting passively as a servant undressed him. The governor looked completely different from the polished, self-possessed man who had presided over his own banquet earlier in the day. The gray hair was sticking out in untidy spikes. The keen eyes were now hazy and shot with red. Through the opening of his unbuttoned shirt, the drooping muscles of his chest were visible. The reek of wine and smoke was strong in the air, drifting from his sagging body.
“I don't know why I'm doing this,” Nikolas whispered sharply, as he walked into the room. He raised his voice. “Governor Shurikovsky…Your Excellency…” He paused and spoke brusquely to the startled servant. “Get out.”
Requiring no further prompting, the servant darted from the room. He brushed past Luke without a word. Luke stayed in the shadows by the door. Instinct kept him from moving forward. He sensed that his presence was better left undetected for the moment. A strange scene unfolded before him, one that he struggled to understand in spite of the language barrier.
“Your Excellency, I apologize for disturbing you,” Nikolas said in Russian, walking to the slumped figure at the edge of the bed. “I'll be brief, and then leave you to your rest. There is something I would like to ask you, sir, concerning the death of my brother, Mikhail Dmitriyevich. Your Excellency, do you recall every making the acquaintance of—”
“Misha,” the gray-haired man said thickly, staring up at the golden-eyed man before him. Miraculously he seemed to come to life. His shoulders straightened. His face glowed as if he beheld a wondrous vision. The dark eyes glistened with tears. “Oh, my beautiful boy, my lovely cub, how you've haunted me! I knew you'd come back, darling Misha.”
Nikolas froze, his expression turning blank. “What?” he whispered.
Shurikovsky's thin fingers went to the hem of Nikolas's coat, tugging urgently. Slowly Nikolas obeyed the silent command, sinking to his knees before the seated man. His yellow eyes didn't move from Shurikovsky's face. He stayed absolutely still as the governor's trembling hand moved in a caress over his golden-brown hair. Shurikovsky's lean face contorted with loving agony. “My beautiful Misha, I didn't want to hurt you. You made me so upset with your talk of leaving me. But you're here now, lyubezny, that's all that matters.”
From the doorway, Luke saw the tremor that went through Nikolas Angelovsky's body. Luke frowned in bewilderment.
“What did you do?” Nikolas whispered, his eyes locked with Shurikovsky's.
The governor smiled with ecstasy and madness. “Darling boy…you'll never leave me, will you? All the sweetness of heaven is in your arms. And you need me too…that's why you came back to your Samvel.” Tenderly he traced the taut line of Nikolas's cheek. “I was destroyed at the thought of losing you. No one understands…No one loves to the depth that we do. When you mocked me so cruelly, I went crazy, and I took the letter-knife on the table into my hand…All I could think of was that I had to stop your words, your terrible laughter.” He began to croon gently. “Wicked, lovely boy…all's forgiven now. We'll add it to our other secrets…my dearest love…” He bent down intently.
Nikolas jerked away before Shurikovsky's lips touched his. He rose to his feet, breathing through his clenched teeth, shivers rippling through his body. Bewildered, gray-faced, Nikolas shook his head. Suddenly he moved like a startled cat, fleeing the room. The governor collapsed on the bed with uncontrollable sobs.
Luke followed Nikolas in the headlong dash from the house. “Angelovsky,” he growled. “Damn you…tell me what happened!”
Nikolas stopped as soon as he reached the fresh air outside. He paused, staggered forward a few steps to the side of the street, and stood there with his face averted. He struggled to catch his breath.
“What did he say?” Luke demanded. “For God's sake—”
“He confessed,” Nikolas managed to say.
“An old man's drunken ramblings,” Luke said, though his heart was pounding.
Nikolas shook his head, still hiding his face. “No. He killed Misha. There is no doubt.”
Luke closed his eyes in relief. “Thank God,” he whispered.
Alerted to their presence, the coachman urged the Angelovsky carriage forward and stopped. Nikolas was oblivious to everything, occupied with his inner chaos. “I don't believe it. It was easier to think that Tasia was guilty…so much easier.”
“Now we'll go to the police,” Luke said.
Nikolas laughed bitterly. “You understand nothing about Russia! Perhaps in England it is different, but here no one in the government is ever guilty of anything. Especially a man who is close to the tsar. Too many things—reforms, policies—hinge on Shurikovsky's influence. If he falls, so will all the others who have attached themselves to him. You make a single noise about Shurikovsky, and you'll end up floating in the Neva with your throat slit. There is no justice here. I'd stake my life on the face that someone else knew about the governor's affair with Misha. I'll bet the minister of the interior was aware of it—he's made a career out of using others' dirty little secrets for his own advantage. But it was easier for everyone involved to mishandle the investigation and trial, and sacrifice Tasia for the ‘greater good.’”
Luke was outraged. “If you think I'll let my wife be executed in order to pacify your stinking government officials—”
“At the moment I can't think.” Nikolas gave him a baleful glance. His color was returning, and he seemed to be breathing easier.
“I'm getting Tasia out of this godforsaken country as soon as possible.”
Nikolas nodded jerkily. “On that we agree.”
Luke gave him a cynical smile. “Forgive me if I find this sudden turnaround hard to accept. A few minutes ago you were ready to execute her yourself.”
“From the beginning all I've wanted was the truth.”
“You could have looked a little harder for it.”
“How brilliant at hindsight you English are,” Nikolas sneered. “You always do the right thing the right way, don't you? All your bloodless rules and laws and documents…You respect nothing unless it's been made over in your image. You think only the English are civilized, and everyone else is a barbarian.”
“Of course this experience will convince me otherwise,” Luke said sarcastically.
Nikolas sighed and scratched his head, ruffling the sun-streaked locks. “Tasia's life here is finished. I can't change that. But I'll help you to return her safely to England. It's my fault she's in dan
“And Shurikovsky?” Luke murmured.
Nikolas glanced at the nearby driver and dropped his voice to a whisper. “I'll take care of him. I'll have my justice.”
Luke stared at the vengeful young man and shook his head. “You can't murder him in cold blood.”
“It's the only way for it to be done. And I'm the one to do it.”
“The governor is obviously crumbling under the weight of his guilt. He'll finish himself off soon enough. Why not let time take care of it?”
“Could you stand by and do nothing if your brother had been murdered?”
“I don't have a brother.”
“Your little red-haired daughter, then. Wouldn't you seek revenge, if there was no other way for her murder to be punished?”
Luke stiffened and kept silent.
“Perhaps you believe a self-indulgent parasite like Misha isn't worth all this trouble,” Nikolas said softly. “You think he was no great loss to anyone. You may be right. But I'll never forget that once he was an innocent child. I want you to understand something—Misha was not to blame for the way he was. Our mother was a stupid peasant woman whose only skill was breeding children. Our father was a monster. He…” Nikolas swallowed audibly and continued without emotion. “Sometimes I would find my brother in a dark corner, or a closet, crying and bleeding. Everyone knew he was an object of my father's lust. I don't know why he chose to molest Misha and not me. No one dared to interfere. Once I tried to confront my father, and he didn't stop beating me until I was senseless. It's not a pleasant thing, to be at the mercy of a man who has none. Finally I was old enough to…convince my father to stay away from Misha. But by then it was too late. My brother was destroyed before he ever had chance at a decent life.” Nikolas's mouth twisted in a thin smile. “And so was I.”
Luke stared down the grand, melancholy street, at the foreign silhouette of an onion dome, at the buildings standing in a stalwart line along the river. He had never felt so uncomfortable, so out of place…so English. This beautiful, complex country would ruthlessly bend a man to her will whether he was proud or humble, rich or poor. “Mikhail's past—and his death—are no concern of mine,” he said tonelessly. “I don't care what you choose to do about it. All I want is to take my wife back to England.”