The Jewel of St Petersburg (46 page)

“What is it?”

He was leaning over her, full of concern. She stepped back and regarded him fiercely. “You lied to me.”

“About what?”

“The duel.”

“Oh, that.”

“Yes, that.”

He moved over to his desk, a haven of order and neatness compared to the untidy paperwork on his clerk’s desk. He sat down and looked at her with a guarded expression that she wanted to scratch off his face. “What about it?”

“You’re going to fight?”

“Yes.”

“No, Jens, no. Don’t, you mustn’t. Do you hear me? Are you out of your mind? He’ll kill you. He’ll ...”

She was determined not to cry, not to be
a
girl. She had promised herself. But the thought of losing him tore at her heart and her throat closed on the words, as though to utter them aloud would be to give them power to become real. She looked away from him and concentrated on the window, on a spider spinning its intricate web in the corner. Her hands were shaking, so she hid them under her cloak.

“Please, Jens. Don’t fight him. I want you alive.”

That sounded better. More controlled. He would listen to that. But the silence that stretched between them was as gloomy as his tunnels, and in that moment she knew she would not win. She swung around to face him and found him examining her from behind his desk as intently as if it were for the last time.

“Trust me,” he said in a low voice. He sounded tired.

“He might kill you.”

“Or I might kill him.”

“He killed two other men in duels last year.”

“I am not
other men
.”

“Jens, don’t. For me.” She kept her voice reasonable.

His mouth flickered with a hint of a smile. It startled her. It was so resigned.

“Why, Jens? Why do it? Just walk away.”

He shook his head.

“Chyort!
Don’t,” she shouted as she slammed the flat of her hand down on his desk. “Don’t tell me it’s something men have to do, to fight for what is theirs, to set down their mark. Don’t tell me you’re that stupid. Or maybe I’m wrong. Maybe you are as thick-skulled and eager for glory as all the rest of those mindless would-be heroes in their military peacock feathers. I thought you were different, I thought you were ...”

She stopped. He had risen to his feet and walked around the desk. His hand seized her, dragging her to him, enveloping her in his long arms till her face was buried in the neck of his shirt. She couldn’t have spoken even if she’d wanted to.

“Listen to me, Valentina. I am not eager for glory, but I am eager to have a life with you here in Petersburg.” As each word came from his mouth, she could feel it hot on her hair. “Captain Chernov has challenged me. If I don’t accept the challenge I will be labeled a coward, and that will be the end of my life and my work in this city. I would be dropped from the sewage project, cold-shouldered by the tsar and his courtiers, rebuffed by all decent homes. I would be a leper. A pariah.” He lifted her face from his chest and kissed her pale forehead. “What kind of life would there be for us? No one would employ me.”

She clung to him. “We could run.”

“Run where?”

“To another city. To Moscow. Anywhere.”

“My reputation would follow me like a sick dog. Russia may be a vast country, my Valentina, but word spreads faster than the plague from city to city. Wherever I go, as an engineer my reputation is my lifeblood.”

“I’d rather have your lifeblood tainted than spilled on a forest floor.”

He said no more, just held her. “I’m not worth it,” she whispered at last.

“Who says so?”

“I do.”

“Then you don’t know what love is.”

She broke away from him and returned to the window. She didn’t want him to see any tears. “Have you ever killed a man before?” she asked, watching a child shoveling ice off the tracks outside.

“No.”

“Do you know how to handle a pistol?”

“Of course. Don’t worry, I’m a decent shot.”

“But he’s in the army. It’s what he does all day.”

“And chasing my woman. The bastard does that too.”

But she wouldn’t smile. “What kind of man has it in him to shoot another in cold blood?”

“None of us know”—she heard him step closer—“what we are capable of doing until we are faced with it. What about you, Valentina? What are you capable of?”

She swung around and found him standing right behind her, tall and unbending. “I love you, Jens Friis.” She touched his face, rested a hand on his heart. “So don’t underestimate what I am capable of.”

Twenty-eight

A
RKIN PUSHED HIMSELF AWAY FROM THE WALL THAT WAS leaching the heat from his body and advanced warily down the crowded sidewalk at the lower end of Nevsky Prospekt. He had been waiting for more than an hour. The sky was overcast, a bruised purplish color that made the city feel fragile. People hurried in and out of the shops without looking up. A carriage with a coachman in maroon and gold livery pulled up at the curb with a rattle of wheels, and the coachman vanished into a tiny shop with a painting of grapevines over its front window. Arkin had performed the same task himself many times.

He dodged between shoppers and approached the carriage. She was there, alone as usual. Through its window he could make out Elizaveta Ivanova’s profile and saw the expectant little smile on her lips. Every Thursday after her morning round of social engagements in the mansions of the wealthy ladies of St. Petersburg, he used to halt the Turicum here. He would return from the tiny shop with a cup of warm spiced wine for her from good Georgian grapes, and she would sip it slowly in silence. It had become a ritual.

Always there was a queue at the counter, so he knew he had several minutes now before the coachman returned. He opened the carriage door swiftly and slipped inside, taking the bench opposite her. The maroon leather with its gold tassels and brass trimmings smelled of her perfume. He had prepared in his mind the words he would say if she started to scream and shout for help, but she astounded him. Her blue eyes grew wide, and for a split second her mouth fell open, and then she gave him a smile of such genuine warmth it unknotted something painful in his chest that had sat there under his ribs ever since that moment in the alley with Sergeyev.

“Arkin, I’ve missed you,” she said.

Such simple words.

“Thank you, madam.”

“I was worried that the police might have ...” She let the words trail away.

“They haven’t caught me yet, as you can see.”

She frowned. “I know you wouldn’t intend harm toward my family. Any of the servants could have planted the box of grenades in the garage.”

He didn’t contradict her, but let his eyes enjoy the sight of her again. She was dressed in oyster pink with a slate gray wrap trimmed with silver fox fur around her shoulders, and the appearance of her jewels and her cosseted wealth didn’t anger him the way he knew it should have done.

“Madam Ivanova, I must be quick. There’s something you need to know.” He edged forward, his knees almost touching hers. “Something I’ve heard in the city’s bars that I fear you may be unaware of.”

“What is it?”

“That Captain Chernov is to fight a duel with the engineer, Jens Friis.”

He had expected a reaction of surprise, but not this draining of blood from her face till her lips were the color of paper.

“Why?” she whispered.

“Because of your daughter.”

“Valentina?”

“Yes.”

“Dear God, no.” Her mouth opened and a harsh sound issued from her throat. “My husband is ruined,” she moaned under her breath, rocking back and forth on her seat, her hand clamped over her mouth.

The word astonished him.
Ruined?
What did she mean? Her reaction was so extreme he almost wished he hadn’t decided to bring her this information. But he had taken the risk for a purpose. Sergeyev was dead. Many apprentices were dead. Before long, if the next plan worked well, Prime Minister Stolypin would be dead. Russian soil was shaking beneath the streets of St. Petersburg, and the edifices would start to tumble one by one. He could not stop himself from wanting to make certain that Elizaveta Ivanova was safe.

“Madam,” he said softly, the way he would to a child he had inadvertently frightened, “Captain Chernov is a renowned shot. He will kill the engineer. There is no need for you to fear ...”

“No, no, no. If he kills the engineer she will
never
marry Chernov—I know Valentina.” In her distress she was thumping the heel of her hand against her small chin, and he could hear her teeth clicking together.

“Does it matter so much?” he asked. “If she doesn’t marry Chernov?”

She didn’t answer. Instead she swayed forward till her pale face was so close to his that he could see every detail of her eyes, the motes of lilac like patchwork in the blue of her irises. A thin scarlet thread on the white of one eye. Her breath smelled faintly of mint.

She wrapped both her hands around one of his and pulled it onto her knee. Her eyes fixed on him. “Help me, please?” she begged.

Even through the gray material of her gloves he could feel that her hands were icy. It was as though all the heat that belonged in her body had flowed into his, and he could feel the skin of his neck burning.

“How could I help?”

“You are a resourceful man, Viktor.”

She’d called him Viktor. He didn’t think she even knew his first name. He glanced out the window to check that the carriage driver had not yet emerged from the wine shop, but she lifted her hand, seized his jaw, and turned his face back to her. Her lips were quivering, parted in mute appeal.

He kissed her. A quick firm touch of his mouth to hers, an awareness of the fullness and sweetness of her lips.

“Help me,” she breathed.

He knew he would help this government minister’s wife. But he didn’t know why.

T
HE
DROZHKY
DROPPED VALENTINA OUTSIDE THE MILITARY barracks of the Life Guards Hussar Regiment, and soldiers’ heads turned as she was ushered through the courtyard into the visitors’ room. She had dressed carefully. After much thought she’d chosen a flowered silk gown and with it a scarlet hat trimmed with pale ostrich feathers that fluttered in the lightest breeze. Her coat was cream, pulled tight to emphasize the narrowness of her waist and adorned with a black fur collar and small scarlet buttons. Her mother had ordered the coat specially because the colors of the Hussar Guards were scarlet, white, and black. Today it would come in useful. Because today she needed to entrance the captain.

The room was extremely male. Dark oak settles and table, a plain oak floor, and on the walls two portraits of severe-looking military gentlemen in full dress regalia, bristling with silver and gold galloon. Valentina frowned at them and wondered how many men they had killed. She did not have long to wait. She heard Chernov’s footsteps crossing the hall, quick and eager, hurrying toward her in hungry strides. Her heart raced. Was this how a soldier felt before battle? With a life hanging in the balance? His energy burst into the room with him, and his smile leapt all over her skin. His lips claimed her glove. He didn’t release her hand but kept it prisoner in his own, taking it hostage.

“Valentina, my dear girl, what an unexpected pleasure. And how well you seem.”

Not in a stupor. Not flat on her back. Not tipping vodka down her throat. That was what he meant.

“I am very well, thank you, Stepan.”

“And how utterly charming you look too.” His eyes skimmed over her, and when his gaze came finally to rest on her face she caught a sound like a purr in the back of his throat. “Forgive my own appearance,” he said, “but I am only just back from drilling on the Field of Mars.”

“How appropriately named. The field of war.”

“We are warriors, Valentina. That’s what the army does. What else would you expect?”

She lowered her eyes. “The people of Russia are grateful to you.”

Chernov kissed her hand once more in response. He was wearing a clean white shirt, open at the neck, and the Hussars’ black trousers with a single red stripe down the side. His hair was wet, freshly washed and slicked back from his face. Strong golden curls glinted at his throat.

“I hope I am not disturbing you, Stepan.”

“Not at all. Tell me, what has brought you here today? Without a chaperone.” It was a mild rebuke.

“I wanted to speak with you. In private.”

“Concerning what?”

“Concerning Jens Friis.”

His mouth was still smiling, but his eyes had changed, suddenly pale and sharp as ice. She brushed her free hand down the length of his shirt sleeve.

“I want you to abandon this duel with him,” she said softly. “It’s not of any importance and”—she drew in a ragged breath—“I couldn’t bear you to be hurt.”

The triumph. She saw it on his face. An unmistakable rush of it.

“Valentina, why play games?”

Her heart thudded. “What games?”

“Pretending that you don’t care for me and trying to rouse my jealousy by flirting with another man. Don’t look so shocked. Look at you now; I can recognize your distress under your pretty feathers, and I know the reason for it.”