Flight to Verechenko (20 page)

The Nestorevs'. He'd gone to the Nestorevs'. Of course, that was where he would go. They were the only other Russian family he was on intimate terms with. Whether he would marry Amelia, Catherine had no way of knowing. She only knew that whatever he did, she couldn't bear to go on living if he thought that the magical ecstasy of their brief afternoon together, and their few precious, fateful moments in the salon, had meant nothing more to her than a light flirtation. He had to know that she had never promised herself to Kiril. That her feelings for him reached to the very depth of her being. If he still wanted nothing further to do with her, then she would have to accept it. But to allow him to continue thinking her nothing but a flirt and a tease was unbearable.

‘My gown and coat,' she said to Vilya, rising shakily to her feet.

‘But Miss Eleanor …'

‘My gown and coat, Vilya.' Not even bothering to slip her arms into the sleeves she flung the sable around her shoulders and low-cut dress and ran from the room.

The music from the ballroom filled the palace, couples, arm in arm, gazed strangely at her as she hurried down the main staircase. She had to get a carriage or the Panhard. But the chauffeur had been given the evening off and the grounds were so crammed with the carriages of guests that she didn't know where to start looking for the one bearing either the Vishnetski or Dolgorovsky emblems.

‘You seem distressed. May I be of assistance?'

She turned to meet the expressionless eyes of Captain Bestuzhev. Catherine forgot her instinctive dislike of him. ‘I need a carriage. Urgently.'

Bestuzhev's bald head shone beneath the glittering lights. ‘Allow me to offer you mine.'

‘Oh thank you!'

Bestuzhev wiped his bull-like neck with a large handkerchief and followed Catherine outside, the evening was proving more interesting than even he could have hoped for.

Seconds later Captain Bestuzhev's carriage was rolling to a halt and Bestuzhev was offering her his hand.

‘I am most grateful, Captain.'

‘Am I allowed to ask where it is you are going in such a desperate hurry, Mademoiselle?'

‘To the Nestorevs'.'

‘But the Count and Countess are here, at the ball.'

‘I know. It is someone else I have to see. Thank you for your help.'

Catherine was impatient to say goodbye, for the coachman to whip the horses to a gallop.

‘I cannot allow you to travel unattended, Mademoiselle,' Bestuzhev said, entering the carriage and closing the door behind him. He knocked on the wall and the coachman flicked the reins, the horses beginning to trot away from Verechenko.

Catherine was slightly flustered. She had not anticipated him joining her, but she was too concerned with reaching Dominic in the shortest possible time for it to cause her unnecessary alarm.

‘You slipped away from me the last time we were together,' Bestuzhev said, and in the dim light of the coach she could see his thick lips parting in a smile.

‘The party was too boisterous for my liking,' she said remembering all to clearly how she had made a hasty exit from the circle of the whirling dancers and how Dominic had kissed her on the darkened terrace steps, confirming what she had known in her heart since their first, brief meeting. Tonight would probably be their last one. It was a thought too painful to be borne. She clenched her hands together, struggling to hold back the tears.

‘But tonight is not boisterous,' Bestuzhev leaned back, completely at his ease, feeling the sweat break out on the palms of his fleshy hands. Catherine wished he would cease to make small talk.

They were crossing the Neva now, the water shining jet black beneath them.

‘And this is a perfect setting for two people to become better acquainted.'

Catherine's thoughts were elsewhere. The streets and squares looked different at night. She struggled to remember the way to the Nestorevs' and was certain that they were going in the wrong direction. She saw the lights of the opera house and her suspicions were confirmed.

‘Your coachman is lost. This is not the way to the Nestorevs'.'

Bestuzhev laughed, the powerful thigh muscles showing beneath his breeches as he crossed his legs negligently.

‘Indeed it is not. Your errand can wait a little longer. After we have enjoyed what you are so obviously seeking.'

Catherine stared at him uncomprehendingly. ‘But I must go to the Nestorevs' at once! You are taking great liberties with me in not doing as I ask.'

Bestuzhev's fat lips parted and he reached across the carriage, his sweating hand enclosing Catherine's slender wrist.

‘That is nothing to the liberties I am about to take, Mademoiselle.'

With sickening clarity Catherine realised his intentions and her predicament.

‘You have made a mistake,' she whispered hoarsely. ‘ I am not that sort of woman. You must return me to Verechenko immediately.'

The grip on her wrist increased so that it was all she could do not to cry out in pain.

‘That is not what I have heard, Mademoiselle. I believe you are going to the Nestorevs' in order to be
very
accommodating to a certain young gentleman. But first we will visit my apartment. Some champagne and brandy will soon overcome your shyness.'

Catherine's initial shock was over. Her eyes glinted dangerously. ‘I shall scream.'

‘Scream as much as you like. My coachman will take not the slightest notice. In fact he is quite accustomed to such protests.'

With her free hand, Catherine clutched her fur to her throat, concealing the low décolletage of her dress. Bestuzhev, seeing the movement, laughed. He was in no hurry and a fight only made the final conquest all that sweeter. The hoof-beats changed tempo. The carriage was slowing down. The street outside was dark and empty.

Catherine contemplated kicking him hard and then running as far as she could. She was given no opportunity. With a quick, practised movement, Bestuzhev had grabbed her other wrist and now held them tightly behind her back as the coachman, eyes blank, opened the carriage door and Bestuzhev proceeded to push a vainly struggling Catherine across a small stretch of pavement, up a narrow flight of unlit stairs and into an ornate room.

As he released the hold of one hand in turning the key in the lock behind him, Catherine swung round, her nails scoring deep scratch-marks down his cheeks. His only reaction was one of pleasure. It had been a long time since he had enjoyed a fight with such a beautiful wild-cat. He released her other wrist and as she ran from him, searching for other doors, other exits, he slowly and purposefully divested himself of his jacket and shirt.

There were no other doors. No servants. No people in the street below to hear her cries. Frantically Catherine turned to see Bestuzhev moving towards her, naked to the waist, wet lips parted in lust.

‘What do you mean you don't know where she is?' Dominic resisted an overwhelming urge to shake Baroness Kerenskaya till the rosebuds fell from her hair.

‘The Princess has been searching for her this last half hour. No-one has seen her.'

Dominic took the stairs two at a time, oblivious of the interest he was causing. He hammered on the door of Catherine's room so loudly that Vilya, who had had enough excitement for one day, thought she would faint in fear.

Nervously she opened it the merest fraction, only to have it pushed wide as Dominic strode in, looking around him like a man demented.

‘Where is she? Where is Catherine?'

Vilya had no idea who Catherine was and wondered if the Marquis was mad.

‘I don't know anyone by that name, my Lord. Perhaps if you ask the footman. There are so many guests and …'

‘Your mistress!' Dominic shouted at her, unable to control his patience any longer. ‘Where is she?'

‘She has gone, my Lord.'

‘Gone?' Dominic stopped short. ‘ Gone where?'

Vilya was completely out of her depth. ‘After the quarrel with the other English lady she asked for her coat and ran from the room. I have no idea where she has gone.'

Dominic realised he was terrifying the maid half to death and that he would get no sense out of her if he did so. He struggled for control.

‘What quarrel? What was said?'

Knowing that the quarrel had been about the very gentleman who stood towering above her, his eyes flashing beneath black brows like the devil incarnate, Vilya was at a loss.

‘Come on girl. I won't eat you! What was said? I must find her, can't you understand?'

Vilya couldn't, but was unable to hold out any longer.

‘The English girl, the blonde one, said she wasn't going to lose you over a—gutter-snipe I think was the expression, my Lord. She said she was going immediately to the Nestorevs' and she slapped Miss Eleanor across the face and swept out of the room like a tornado.'

‘And then?' Dominic would reckon with Amelia Cunningham later.

‘And then Miss Eleanor asked for her coat and ran from the room without another word.'

Dominic was already at the door. The Nestorevs', she had gone to the Nestorevs'.

He raced back down the stairs, ignoring the protests of the distinguished guests he was thrusting aside, and sent a servant for a carriage.

As the Vishnekskis'coachman cantered the horses to Verechenko's entrance, Dominic said to the waiting doorman: ‘How long since the Princess's companion left in the Dolgorovskys' carriage?'

‘The young lady left, but not in the Dolgorovsky carriage. Captain Bestuzhev escorted her.'

Dominic froze. ‘Bestuzhev?'

‘Yes, your Lordship. The young lady was distressed and the Captain offered her the use of his carriage.'

Dominic knew Bestuzhev. His throat tightened. The thought of Catherine alone in a carriage with that lecherous monster appalled him. He ordered the coachman to whip the horses to a frenzy and tried to persuade himself that Bestuzhev would act honourably as the carriage threaded its way through St Petersburg to the Nestorevs' imposing residence.

Only a few lights were on. The Count and Countess were at the Princess's ball. Only the servants remained ready to carry out any whim their master and mistress might request when they returned.

‘Count Bestuzhev arrived with Princess Dagmar's companion only a short while ago. Please conduct me to them at once.'

The footman shook his powdered head. ‘Lady Cunningham and her daughter are in the salon awaiting your presence, your Lordship. But there have been no other visitors.'

The Vishnetski coach had driven like a bat out of hell, but it would still have been impossible to overtake the Captain's carriage with the start he had had.

‘Shall I tell her Ladyship you have arrived?'

‘No.' The Marquis swung on his heel. Lady Cunningham and Amelia could wait there all night for all he cared. Where was Catherine and Bestuzhev? That Bestuzhev had seen an opportunity of taking advantage of Catherine, Dominic did not doubt for a moment. Where would he have taken her? Even a girl as spirited as Catherine could offer no defence against an ox of a man like Bestuzhev. With every passing second, Bestuzhev would be forcing his attentions on her, taking that slender body with brutal force.

‘Bestuzhev?' Dominic said harshly to the coachman. ‘ Do you know where he lives?'

‘He quarters with the Regiment, but he has a private apartment in the city.'

‘Then take me there,' Dominic pressed a fistful of roubles into his hand. ‘Force the horses to the limit, understand?'

The coachman understood. While Dominic suffered torments, imagining Catherine's body broken and bruised in Bestuzhev's arms, the coachman lashed the horses to a frenzy, pounding over the bridge and through the wide squares to the smaller streets and the Captain's apartment.

Dominic did not wait for the carriage to halt. Dementedly he raced up the narrow staircase, wrestling with the doorknob, hammering his fists on the door, shouting. ‘Catherine! Catherine!'

There was an answering cry and Dominic yelled for the coachman as he threw his whole might against the door.

The coachman, who hadn't seen so much drama since Prince Charykov had shot Count Danileck, joined in with gusto.

The wood split, the hinges gave and the two men hurled themselves into the room.

As the door began to give way, Bestuzhev had rolled his weight off Catherine, stumbling wildly across the room for his jacket and his pistol. Dominic had a glimpse of Catherine, her gown torn to the waist, her breasts bare, her hair cascading over her shoulders, and then he saw the glint of metal and Bestuzhev's hands closed on the pistol. Catherine screamed, Dominic dived, his hands closing around Bestuzhev's, as Bestuzhev struggled to lift the pistol into a firing position.

The coachman grabbed at Bestuzhev's legs, knocking him off balance, and Catherine, careless of her nakedness flew across the room, biting and kicking Bestuzhev so that with a cry of agony he fell and the pistol dropped on the floor.

‘Don't, sir! Don't shoot him!' the coachman implored. ‘It would cause a terrible scandal.

The young lady …' He kept his back to Catherine and tried to behave as he felt a gentleman should.

Bestuzhev cowered and blustered. Dominic stood, legs parted, the pistol pointing at Bestuzhev's head, and Catherine clung to his arm.

‘No, my love! No! It's all right, you came in time. It's all right!'

Restraining himself from pulling the trigger was the hardest thing Dominic, Marquis of Clare, had ever done. Slowly he lowered the pistol and handed it to the relieved coachman.

Then he turned to Catherine, seeing with agony the purple bruises already colouring her neck and breasts. Gently he lifted the torn remnants of her dress to cover the rose-red nipples.

‘Forgive me, Catherine,' he said huskily.

‘There is nothing to forgive, my love.'

The beaten Bestuzhev watched sullenly, the coachman pleasurably as Dominic took Catherine into his arms and kissed her long and deeply.