Midnight Angel

  Tasia turned a page and continued reading. “Oh,” she said softly, her fingers trembling a little.

  Alerted by the strange note in her voice, the women looked up at her. “What is it?” Alicia asked.

  Tasia answered slowly, staring at the thin sheaf of letter paper in her hand. “Governor Shurikovsky was recently found dead in his palace. ‘He took poison,’ Maman writes…'and it is commonly believed that he committed suicide.’” Her voice faded, and she exchanged a grim glance with Alicia. Regardless of appearances, there could be no doubt that Nikolas had finally taken his revenge. Tasia looked back at the letter. “‘The tsar is distraught,’” she continued, “‘and his health and state of mind have been severely affected by the loss of his favorite adviser. He has withdrawn to such a degree that all his ministers and high officials are squabbling for power.’”

  “Does it say anything about Prince Angelovsky?” Alicia prompted.

  Tasia nodded, her forehead wrinkling. “‘Nikolas is suspected of treasonous activities,’” she read, “‘and he has been arrested and held for questioning for many weeks now. There is a rumor that he may be reprieved and exiled soon. If he's still alive.’”

  A heavy silence fell over the room. “They've done far more than question him,” Alicia said softly. “Poor Nikolas. I wouldn't wish such a fate on my worst enemy.”

  “Why? What have they done to him?” Emma asked curiously.

  Tasia was quiet, thinking of the hideous tortures that were sometimes whispered about in St. Petersburg, used for punishment or as a way to ferret out enemies of the imperial government. The torturers most often used the knout, a whip that could lay open flesh to the bone, and they plied it in conjunction with hot pokers and other fiendish methods of applying pain that could separate a man from his sanity. She wondered what they had done to Nikolas, and how badly he was hurt.

  Suddenly all the pleasure in the gifts from her mother was gone, and Tasia was flooded with pity. “I wonder if there's something that could be done for Nikolas.”

  “Why would you want to help him?” Emma asked. “He's a bad man. He deserves everything he gets.”

  “‘Condemn not, and ye shall not be condemned,’” Tasia quoted. “‘Forgive, and ye shall be forgiven.’”

  Emma scowled and returned her attention to the box of treasures in front of her. “He's still a bad man,” she muttered.

  To Tasia's dismay, Luke's reaction concerning Nikolas's plight was similar to his daughter's. When she showed him the contents of Marie's letter that night, Luke was disappointingly unsympathetic. “Angelovsky knew the danger he was in,” he said evenly. “He decided to kill Shurikovsky even if it meant sacrificing his own life. He had a taste for playing dangerous games, Tasia. If his political enemies have found a way to destroy him, it's not more than what he expected. Nikolas's eyes were wide open.”

  “I can't help feeling sorry for him,” Tasia said. “I'm sure they've made him suffer terribly.”

  Luke shrugged. “There's nothing we can do about it.”

  “Couldn't you at least have someone make an unofficial inquiry? One of your acquaintances in the English foreign office?”

  Luke's blue eyes were sharp as he looked at her. “Why do you care what happens to Nikolas Angelovsky? God knows he's never given a damn about you or anyone else.”

  “Part of it is that he's a family member—”

  “A distant one.”

  “—and part of it is that he's been victimized by the same corrupt government officials that I was.”

  “In his case there was good reason,” Luke said sardonically. “Unless you believe Shurikovsky's death really was a suicide.”

  His condescending manner stung her. “If you've decided to appoint yourself judge and jury over Nikolas, then you're no better than the tsar and his rotten ministers!”

  They glared at each other. A flush of fury began at Luke's shirt collar and swept upward. “So now you're defending him.”

  “I have a right. I know what it's like to have everyone against you, facing all the accusation and scorn, having nowhere to turn—”

  “Next you'll be demanding that I take him under my roof.”

  “Your roof? I thought it was our roof! And no, I hadn't thought of such a thing—but would it be too much to ask for you to offer shelter to someone in my family?”

  “Yes, if it's someone like Nikolas Angelovsky. Dammit, Tasia, you know as well as anyone what he's capable of. He's not worthy of this conversation. Not after what he did to us.”

  “I've forgiven him for that, and if you can't, at least you can try to understand—”

  “I'll see him in hell before I forgive him for his interference in our lives—”

  “Because he hurt your pride,” Tasia shot back. “That's why you're so enraged by the mere mention of his name.”

  That was a direct hit. She saw it in the sudden lowering of his brows and the violent twitch of his jaw, saw that he was clenching his teeth to hold back a scornful remark. Somehow he controlled himself enough to speak, though his voice was distinctly unsteady. “You think I value my pride more than your safety?”

  Tasia was resolutely silent, torn between anger and guilt.

  “What are we arguing about?” Luke asked, his eyes as cold as ice. “What is it you want me to do?”

  “All I'm asking is that you try to find out if Nikolas is dead or alive.”

  “And then what?”

  “I…” Tasia looked away from him and shrugged evasively. “I don't know.”

  His lips curled in a sneer. “You're a poor liar, Tasia.”

  He left without agreeing to her request. Tasia knew that it would be foolhardy to raise the issue again. For the next few days they carried on as usual, but their conversations were strained and their silences were filled with unanswered questions. Tasia couldn't explain why the thought of Nikolas's plight bothered her so, but she was increasingly anxious to know what had happened to him.

  One evening after supper, when Emma had gone up to her room, Luke drank a snifter of brandy and regarded Tasia with a speculative stare. She squirmed uncomfortably but held his gaze, sensing that he had something important to tell her.

  “Prince Nikolas has been exiled from Russia,” he said curtly. “I heard from the foreign minister that he's taken a house in London.”

  Tasia burst with excited questions. “London? He's here now? Why did he come to England? How is he? What about his condition—”

  “That's all I know. And I forbid you to have anything to do with him.”

  “Forbid?”

  Luke toyed with the brandy snifter, rolling it gently in his fingers. “There's nothing you can do for him. He has everything he needs. Apparently he was allowed to leave with a tenth of his fortune intact, which is more than enough to sustain him.”

  “I should think so,” Tasia said, reflecting that a tenth of the Angelovsky fortune would amount to at least thirty million pounds. “But to lose his home, his heritage…”

  “He'll do fine without them.”

  Tasia was stunned by his callousness. “Do you know what the government interrogators do to men suspected of treason? Their favorite technique is to flay a man's back until the bone appears, and then roast him over a fire like a pig on a spit! Whatever's been done to Nikolas, I'm sure no amount of money could compensate for it. He has no family in England except me and Cousin Alicia—”

  “There's no way in hell Charles will let her visit Angelovsky.”

  “Ah. So both you and Charles are in complete control of your wives?” Tasia sprang from her chair, unable to sit and talk calmly any longer. Resentment boiled up inside her. “When I married you, I expected to have an English husband who would respect me, who would allow me to say what I think, and give me the freedom to make choices for myself. From what you've told me, that was no less than what you gave your first wife. You can't claim that I would be in any danger from Nikolas, nor would I do harm to anyone by seeing him! You can't forbid
me something without offering any explanation why.”

  Luke's face darkened with rage. “In this you'll obey me,” he said in a guttural tone, “and I'll be damned if I give you an explanation. In some matters my decision is final.”

  “Simply because you're my husband?”

  “Yes. Mary abided by that, and so will you.”

  “I will not!” Tasia quivered like a tightly drawn bow. Her hands knotted into fists. “I'm not a child you can order about! I'm not a belonging, or an animal you can harness and lead wherever you wish, or a slave to do your bidding. My mind and body are my own—and until you reverse your decision about letting me see Nikolas, you are not to touch me!”

  Luke moved so swiftly that she didn't have time to react. All at once she was caught up against him, his hand twisted in her hair, his crushing mouth fastened on hers. He kissed her hard, grinding her lips against her teeth until she tasted blood. She whimpered and pushed against him, gasping with fury when he released her. Slowly her trembling fingers moved up to her bruised lips.

  “I'll touch you whenever and however I want,” Luke said harshly. “Don't push me too far, Tasia…or you'll regret it.”

  Although Alicia had no desire to see Nikolas, she was curious about his situation. “They say it took twenty wagons to bring his valuables from the docks to the house he let,” she told Tasia as the two of them talked over tea. “He's had all sorts of callers already, but he won't see anyone. It's all anyone is talking about—the mysterious exiled Prince Nikolas Angelovsky.”

  “Are you going to visit him?” Tasia asked quietly.

  “My dear, I haven't seen Nikolas since I was a little girl, and I have no desire or obligation to see him now. Besides, Charles would explode if I set one foot on Nikolas's property.”

  “I can't imagine Charles in a temper,” Tasia said. “He's the most mild-mannered person I've ever known.”

  “It does happen,” Alicia assured her. “Once every two years or so. You wouldn't want to be in the vicinity when he blows.”

  Tasia smiled slightly, then gave a deep sigh. “Luke is angry with me,” she confided. “Very angry. Perhaps he has every right to be. I can't explain why I must see Nikolas…All I know is that he's alone and suffering, and there must be some way I can help him.”

  “Why would you want to, when all Nikolas has ever done for you is cause trouble?”

  “He also helped me to escape from Russia,” Tasia pointed out. “Do you know where his house is? Tell me, Alicia.”

  “Surely you're not going to disobey your husband?”

  Tasia's brows quirked with a frown. She had changed over the past months. Once there would have been no need to ask such a question. She had been raised to regard a husband's word as law, to accept his authority without question. She remembered the bitter irony of Karolina Pavlova, a Russian writer: “Learn, as a wife, the suffering of a wife…she must not seek the path to her own dreams, her own desires…all her soul is in his power…even her thoughts are fettered.”

  But that was no longer her fate. She had come too far, had changed too much, to let someone else own her soul. It was important for her to prove that to herself as well as to Luke. She would act according to her own conscience, and love her husband as a partner rather than revere him as her master.

  “Tell me where Nikolas lives,” she said firmly.

  “Forty-three Upper Brook Street,” Alicia murmured, wincing. “The big white marble house. And don't let anyone know that I was the one who told you—I shall deny it to my last breath.”

  Tasia waited until the next afternoon, when Luke was gone and Emma was immersed in French philosophy. She ordered a carriage to be prepared and left on the pretext of paying a call on the Ashbournes. Upper Brook Street was only a short distance from the Stokehurst estate. Tasia wondered why Nikolas had taken a house there, and if anyone had accompanied him from Russia. Her feeling of urgency increased, not to mention her nervousness, as the carriage stopped in front of a huge marble mansion. A footman preceded her up the front steps to knock at the door. They were greeted by the housekeeper, an old Russian woman dressed in black, with a gray scarf tied over her hair. Evidently Nikolas had not seen fit to hire a butler. The housekeeper muttered a few words in broken English and gestured for Tasia to go away.

  Tasia spoke briskly. “I am Lady Anastasia Ivanovna Stokehurst. I have come to see my cousin.”

  The woman was surprised by her perfectly accented Russian. She answered in kind, seeming relieved to have a countrywoman to confide in. “The prince is very ill, madam.”

  “How ill?”

  “He is dying, madam. Dying very slowly.” The housekeeper crossed herself. “A curse must have been placed on the Angelovsky family. He has been this way ever since he was questioned by the special committee in St. Petersburg.”

  “‘Questioned by the special committee,’” Tasia repeated softly, knowing that was far too civilized a description for what had really gone on. “Does he have fever? Infection in his wounds?”

  “Not any longer, madam. Most of the outside wounds have healed. His sickness is of the spirit. The prince is too weak to get out of bed. He has commanded that his room be kept in darkness. No food or drink will stay down, except a glass of vodka now and then. He will not allow himself to be moved or bathed. When anyone touches him, he trembles or cries out as if a hot coal has burned him.”

  Tasia listened to the short speech without expression, though her insides were wrenched with pity. “Is anyone with him?”

  “He will not permit it, madam.”

  “Show me to his room.”

  As they went through the shadowy house, Tasia was amazed to see that the rooms had been filled with many of the priceless treasures from the Angelovsky Palace in St. Petersburg. Even a magnificent icon wall had been transported and reassembled in flawless detail. They neared Nikolas's bedchamber, and the smell of incense became very strong. The air was thick with an Oriental scent that was used to ease the passage of the dying. Tasia remembered that the same fragrance had clung to her father's deathbed. She entered the room and asked the housekeeper to leave them.

  It was too dark to see anything. Tasia made her way to the heavy curtains and drew them back a few inches, shedding afternoon light into the dim room. She opened the windows. A crisp fall breeze began to whisk away the haze of incense smoke. Slowly she walked to the bed, where Nikolas Angelovsky lay sleeping.

  Nikolas's appearance shocked her. He was covered up to his chest, but one long, thin arm was visible. The fingers twitched slightly as his mind wandered in and out of dreams. Freshly made scars twisted like serpents around his wrists and inner elbow. Tasia's stomach turned at the sight of them. She switched her gaze to his face, seeing with regret that Nikolas's once-splendid handsomeness was in ruins. There were deep hollows in his face and neck. The healthy bronze of his skin had faded into a grayish-yellow death mask. His bright golden-streaked hair was dull and matted.

  There was a bowl of herbed soup, untouched and cooling, on the table by the bed. There were also carved animal figurines to ward off evil spirits, and a pot of burning incense. Tasia snuffed the little flame and covered the pot to eliminate the vertical stream of scented smoke. Her movements, and the fresh air, disturbed Nikolas. He awakened with a nervous start.

  “Who is it?” he said groggily. “Close the windows. Too much air…too much light…”

  “One would think you didn't want to get well,” Tasia observed quietly, coming closer to his bedside. Nikolas blinked and stared up at her with his odd wolf-eyes, which seemed even more sterile than she remembered, if that was possible. He reminded her of a listless, suffering animal, uncaring if he lived or died.

  “Anastasia,” he whispered.

  “Yes, Nikolas.” Carefully she sat on the edge of the bed, looking down at him.

  Though she made no move to touch him, Nikolas shrank away from her. “Leave me,” he said hoarsely. “I can't stand the sight of you…or any other human being.”
br />   “Why did you come to London?” she asked gently. “You have family in many other places, France, Finland, even China…but you have no one here. No one except me. I think you wanted me to come to you, Nikolas.”

  “When I want you, I'll send an invitation. Now…go.”

  Tasia was about to reply when she sensed that someone was at the door. She glanced over her shoulder. To her horrified surprise, Emma was there. Her slender form was nearly lost in the shadows of the doorway, but her red hair glowed with burning cinnamon lights.

  Tasia rushed over to her with an annoyed scowl. “Emma Stokehurst, what are you doing here?” she whispered sharply.

  “I took one of the horses and followed you,” Emma replied. “I heard you and Papa talking about Prince Nikolas Angelovsky, and I knew you were planning to go to him.”

  “This is a private matter, and you have no business interfering! You know how I feel about your eavesdropping, as well as your habit of prying into things that are not your concern.”

  Emma tried to look repentant. “I had to come alone to make certain he didn't hurt you again.”

  “A gentleman's sickroom is not a proper place for a young girl. I want you to leave at once, Emma. Have the carriage take you home, and send it back for me.”

  “No,” came a low voice from the bed.

  The two women turned to look at him. Emma's blue eyes rounded in curiosity. “Is that the man I saw before?” she asked under her breath. “He doesn't look the same at all.”

  “Come,” Nikolas said imperiously, gesturing with a slender hand. The effort cost him, and his hand dropped back to the bed. His gaze fixed on Emma's freckle-spattered face, surrounded by brilliant curls. “We meet again,” he said, watching her without blinking.

  “It smells bad in here,” Emma observed, folding her arms over her flat chest. Ignoring Tasia's protests, she went to the bedside and shook her head disdainfully. “Look at all these empty bottles. You must be completely plowed.”

  The ghost of a smile touched Nikolas's dry lips. “What does it mean, ‘plowed’?”