by Anita Mills
“You know I am not very good at such things,” he countered. “She should have a woman with her.”
“You are not very good at anything,” she snapped. “And she will take her maid.”
For a time after his wife left, Paul stared absently, making Katherine acutely uncomfortable. Finally, she broke into his thoughts. “Actually, I do not mind seeing this Kanin, for one doctor is very much like another, I expect.” When he said nothing, she added, “And I have traveled more than I cared to these two days past.”
“No, Ekaterina,” he said, “if Olga Vladimovna says you must go to Moscow, you will go. She would be more unforgiving than Lena if you lost your child.”
Moscow: January 26, 1815
The hotel corridor was empty as they searched for the number given them by the clerk. Then Katherine found it—#16, and for a moment, she stood there, composing what she would say. Behind her, Paul Volsky waited. Finally, she squared her shoulders and tapped lightly on the door. She heard movement within the room, and her heart pounded in her ears. She knew he was going to turn her away.
Bell opened the door in his shirtsleeves, apologizing for the lapse, then he stared at her.
“Kate! What the devil—?”
“Please—I’d come inside. And Paul.”
As he stood back, she hurried past him, and the man with her urged him to close the door. He swung around to face them, his eyebrows raised.
“Never say this is an elopement?” he murmured.
“Of course not!” She caught herself, knowing she had to put her case to the touch quickly or lose her nerve. “Bell, I have nowhere else to turn!” she blurted out. “You are my last hope!”
“I suspect,” he decided wryly, “that you have come to enact me some sort of Cheltenham tragedy.” But something in her face told him she was utterly serious. “All right, Kate—out with it.” As he spoke, he shoved a chair at her. “But first you’d best sit—you look fagged half to death.” Before she could speak, he retrieved his chased silver flask, opened it, and handed it to her. “Have a sip—it will revive you.”
Her hands were shaking as she took it, and when she drank, liquid fire shot to her stomach. Coughing, she pushed it away.
“Ugh!”
“You are supposed to sip it.”
It was several seconds before she caught her breath. In half-strangled words, she asked, “What was that?”
“Your national drink. Vodka.” Screwing the lid back on, he set the flask aside. “Now—to what do I owe the honor?”
She didn’t know whether to look at him or not. Finally, she met his eyes. “I have left Alexei, you see.”
“What?” He gave a start, and his eyes narrowed. “No. It won’t fadge, Kate—nobody would believe it. Besides, I have given up my penchant for wives.”
“Monsieur—”
“Who the devil is he?” Bell demanded.
“Alexei’s brother, Paul Volsky. He brought me here.” She sucked in her breath, then let it out before trying again. “I would not have turned to you, Bell Townsend, if I had anywhere else to go, but I do not.” When he said nothing, she looked to her hands in her lap. “It is a very lowering tale to tell, you see,” she began, “and I don’t even know how to tell it.” Raising her eyes, she could see he was regarding her skeptically. “I have been such a fool—such an utter fool! I should have known he could not love someone like me!”
She looked like the veriest waif—her face was red from the cold, her nose ran, and her dark eyes seemed too large for her pale face. He reached for his flask again, and this time, it was he who drank, gulping, gaining time.
“It would be more affecting if you’d blow your nose, Kate,” he told her brutally. Pulling his handkerchief from among his effects on a table, he tossed the folded cloth at her. “Keep it.”
She blew loudly, then wadded it in her lap. “It is so humiliating that I do not even know where to start.”
“The beginning.”
He was giving her no encouragement, none at all. “Lexy does not love me, Bell.”
He supposed she’d discovered Alexei Volsky was no more faithful than any other man. “It was to be expected, Kate. Most husbands keep a bit of fluff here and there,” he said finally. “And most wives learn to live with it.”
“Bell,” her voice rose incredulously, “Alexei’s bit of fluff, as you call it, is Galena!” As his face mirrored his disbelief, she nodded. “I know. I caught them, Bell—I caught them!” She stopped to blow her nose again, then spoke more calmly. “I caught them in Alexei’s bed—and—and Galena said I should stay, any way—that no one else need know. She said I could be Countess Volsky and bear his children—but I cannot! I cannot!” She touched her rounded belly, and her voice dropped. “All they wanted of me was this, Bell.”
He felt acutely sorry for her, but he knew he could not help her. “I don’t know what you think I can do about it, Kate. Perhaps you ought to go to the authorities here. Surely the Church—”
“The Church will do what it has always done, monsieur,” Paul spoke up. “What is impolitic, it will ignore.”
“Bell, I want to go home,” Katherine pleaded. “I don’t want to have my babe here. I want to keep him safe—surely you can understand that.”
“Look, I’m sorry about Volsky, Kate—truly sorry. But if you have come to ask me to take you to England, I cannot.”
“You do not like it here any more than I do.”
“No, I don’t,” he admitted readily. “But I cannot very well run across Russia with a count’s wife in tow, can I? Besides, it is winter—not even the Russians go very far in winter,” he reminded her. “And it wouldn’t look right.”
“Right now, I am beyond caring how it looks.”
“You haven’t thought. Look at me, Kate—it is Bell Townsend! Do you know what everyone will say? That you have run away with me! Maybe even that the bun in your oven is mine! Do you want that?” He shook his head. “No, I don’t think so, Kate. We should both be ruined forever.” Unable to look at her, he addressed Paul angrily, “What were you going to do—dump her on my doorstep and flee?”
“No, of course not,” the Russian answered.
“Then you can dashed well take her back with you.”
“Listen to me, Bell—listen to me!” Kate cried. Biting her lip to still its trembling, she fought back tears. “If I go back to Domnya—or if Lexy finds me—I shall be committed to an asylum for the insane. They will take my babe, and Galena will have him, Bell. For this child’s sake, I pray you will get me out of Russia.”
“We would not have a chance,” he told her more gently. “Think on it—even if the weather were better, we should not know the roads. We should be caught like ducks on a pond, and you must surely know it.”
“For Harry, then—I’d ask you for whatever Harry’s friendship means to you, Bell,” she said, her voice husky from suppressed tears.
“You do not listen, do you?” he countered. “What about this Paul? Let him hide you—or go to the English embassy even. I’m sorry, Kate, but I am not your man.”
“Vicomte Townsend, if I take her back to Omborosloe,” Paul said quietly, “Olga will use the child to bring my brother down.”
“Who the hell is Olga?”
“My wife. She is Prince Narransky’s daughter, and there is more of him in her than in his sons, I think. The Narranskys,” he went on, “are a powerful family, and they will stop at nothing to gain their ends.”
“It still has nothing to do with me,” Bell countered.
“Please, Bell—I don’t want my child used as a pawn between Galena and Olga,” Katherine pleaded.
“Kate, even if I would, I could not. It would all come down on my head, and I cannot stand the consequences of another scandal. I can give you money, but more than that, I cannot do.”
She swallowed hard, then gathered the shreds of her dignity. She’d begged, and he’d refused her. Standing, she managed to speak with a calm she did not feel.
“I told Paul you were the last person I should ask. Nevertheless, I thank you for listening to the tale.” She pulled her cloak closer over her distended abdomen. “Good day, sir.”
“I’m sorry, Kate.” She held out her hand to him, and as he took it, he felt the small, almost frail bones. “Kate—”
“It is all right.”
His eyes met Paul Volsky’s. “You are taking her back with you?”
“No,” she answered for him. Surprising herself, she decided, “I shall stay in Moscow until the snow thaws, and then I shall hire someone to take me out of Russia.”
“Ekaterina, it is not possible,” Paul insisted. “They will search for you here.”
“It is a large place. I shall discover another hotel and register under another name. You did bring papers, did you not say?”
“Yes, but—” Seeing that she was indeed serious, the Russian sighed and reached into his coat. Drawing out a thin leather folder, he produced two official-appearing documents. “You may perhaps need both of them if you engage anyone to take you across the border. The names are Albert and Elise Chardonnay.” As Bell’s eyebrow rose again, he explained, “In the late war, they were of some use for spying, but now they are not needed. I have paid a small bribe for them.” He smiled faintly. “With the Narranskys for relations, one never knows when one must flee.”
“Thank you, Paul,” Katherine said sincerely.
“Is there a warrant out for the Chardonnays’ arrest?” Bell wanted to know.
“I was assured there is not. But she will have to remember to always speak French at the borders. In Russia, unless she is stopped, it will not make any difference. The serfs cannot speak the language or read at all.”
Katherine carefully folded the papers and inserted them into her reticule. Some unfathomable impulse prompted Bell to ask, “Where do you intend to stay?”
She looked to Paul Volsky, and he appeared to consider the matter. “There is a respectable hotel—not so patronized by the nobility as this one,” he murmured. “It is in the next block—on the corner.”
“Very well, then,” Katherine decided, nodding. “I shall inquire there of a seamstress, for I have left nearly everything at either Domnya or Omborosloe.”
“I did not think it wise to alert Olga by letting you pack more,” Paul said soberly.
“Have you got any money, Kate?” Bell asked her.
“Yes. When Viktor—Alexei’s youngest brother—offered to help me, I brought my quarter’s allowance.” Her mouth twisted ironically. “In that, at least, Alexei was quite generous.”
“Come, Ekaterina. I will take you to the hotel,” Paul insisted, taking her arm. “Good day, Vicomte Townsend.”
As he closed the door after them, Bell knew it would be but a matter of time before she went back to Alexei Volsky, one way or another. She’d been a fool to run, he told himself, and she was an even greater fool to attempt living alone in her condition in Moscow. And Paul Volsky was as much a fool for letting her stay.
But it wasn’t his affair. It was one thing for Harry to ask him to look in on her, quite another for anyone to expect him to risk his life for her. He picked up his flask and drained it, then went in search of another bottle. Finding one, he sank into a chair, and staring moodily into the fire, he drank. For all his wealth, for all his looks, he felt utterly empty inside. He had no honor, he had no purpose, and he simply could not care about anyone or anything. He was an utterly worthless fellow, and he knew it.
“Vicomte Townsend?”
Even the way it was asked made Bell reluctant to answer. He swung around and saw a uniformed officer approaching him.
“Yes?”
“Perhaps we could be private?” The fellow coughed into his gloves. “It is a matter of some delicacy.”
The hairs on Bell’s neck rose, but he managed to maintain an utterly bored mien. His eyebrow rose perceptibly. “Captain, I assure you—”
“It is Colonel—Colonel Bashykin, monsieur,” the officer snapped.
A faint smile played at the corner of Bell Townsend’s mouth. “Colonel, then. You must forgive me—not a military man, I’m afraid.”
“You are English.”
“Yes.” Bell looked around the sparsely occupied lobby. “Perhaps you would care to sit?”
“Not here—in your room.” The officer regarded him closely. “There is perhaps some reason we should not go to your room?”
“Not at all.” Shrugging, Bell led the way up the narrow stairs. Opening his door, he stood back. “Maid hasn’t been in yet, I’m afraid, and I am not much of a housekeeper,” he murmured apologetically.
The man walked in and surveyed the room. Is this all there is, Monsieur?”
“There is a suite—the bedroom is over there, and I sit out here where I can see the street.”
Rather than sitting, Bashykin opened the other door, then went in to examine the wardrobe and the chest, pulling out drawers, looking into them. His gloved hands poked beneath Bell’s laundered inexpressibles. Finally, he returned to the sitting room.
“You travel alone, Vicomte Townsend?”
“Alas, but my valet did not like the weather, and I cannot say I entirely blame him.” Bell dropped into a chair and lay back, stretching his feet out before him. Looking up, he indicated another seat. “Be my guest, by all means.”
The officer sat on the edge of the chair. “You are acquainted with Countess Volsky, are you not?”
“Yes.”
“When is the last time you have seen her?”
“I was at Domnya before your Christmas,” Bell responded easily.
“You are quite certain?”
“Is anything wrong? Has something happened to her?”
“I will ask the questions, monsieur.” Bashykin put his fingertips together and flexed his fingers. “Are you familiar with the Narranskys?”
“No, I am afraid I’ve not had the pleasure.”
“It is not a pleasure, monsieur!” the officer snapped. “They have ways of discovering the truth.”
“How very gothic.”
“What?”
“An attempt at levity merely. Er-what precisely is the connection between Countess Volsky and the Narranskys?”
“The Narranskys.” Bashykin studied him, then appeared to relent. “Countess Volsky is a relation of Prince Narransky by marriage, and he is very concerned for her health, monsieur. We fear she has been abducted.”
“Abducted,” Bell repeated blankly. “From Domnya?”
“Where does not matter. It is most important that she is found before any harm comes to her.”
“And you think I may have abducted her?” Bell demanded incredulously. “My dear Captain Bashokin, Kate Winstead and I have never dealt very well together, but I can assure you—”
“Colonel Bashykin—Ba-shee-kin,” the officer interrupted him coldly. “And naturally, I do not accuse you. However, if you should be contacted by the countess, it is expected that you will give me her direction, that I may return her to her family safely.”
“Does her husband know this?”
“There is madness in that side of the family, monsieur. It is Prince Narransky who would help her.”
“You think she may have bolted then?”
“Bolted?”
“Run away from Domnya?”
“Perhaps. And now we are afraid something terrible has happened to her. But whether she has fled or whether she has been abducted, she is vanished, monsieur—vanished,” Bashykin repeated for emphasis.
Bell appeared to consider it for a moment, then shook his head. “I shouldn’t think she has fled. The last I have heard, she is increasing, and I cannot think she would wish to run anywhere under the circumstances.”
“Increasing?”
“She is with child.”
“Yes, I believe that is correct. And that makes the matter even more imperative, monsieur.”
“She wouldn’t wish to contact me,” Bell was positive. “No, n
ot at all. But if I should see her, I shall be certain to inform Count Volsky.”
“Not Count Volsky, monsieur. Me.” He produced a card and handed it to Bell. “Vicomte Townsend, you must send her to me.” The colonel stood, his body stiff, and inclined his head slightly. “Otherwise, monsieur, I cannot guarantee her safety—or yours.” He slapped one glove against another. “Good day, Townsend.”
As the officer left, Bell could hear him muttering under his breath that the English were imbeciles. Not that he cared what the good colonel thought of him. His thoughts turned to Kate, and he considered warning her. But he supposed that for a little while at least, Bashykin would expect it, and there was the possibility of being followed. Instead, he sat there, thinking Kate Winstead had gotten herself into a devil of a coil. He would wait perhaps an hour, then ask at the desk for the direction of a barber, in case any listened.
Having made up his mind, he reached for last night’s bottle and took a long pull of it. If he lived ten years in Russia, the Almighty forbid, he would never truly like the taste of vodka. Nonetheless, he prepared to pass his hour with it.
Before much more than half that had elapsed, there was a quick, sharp rap at his door. When he did not immediately answer it, his caller pounded. Bottle still in hand, Bell opened it, then stood back, trying not to betray anything.
It was Alexei Volsky.
“Where is Ekaterina?” The Russian demanded.
“I suppose I should be surprised,” Bell managed to murmur, “but you are the second to inquire of her today.”
Volsky’s head seemed to snap back. “The second?”
“Yes.” Moving to the table, Bell produced the card and read, “Vasily Bashykin. And he does not like to be mistaken for a mere captain, I am afraid. But I expect you know him.”
The count seemed to have paled. “No, of course not.”
“I collect it has something to do with a Prince Narransky’s concern for Kate.” Enjoying himself now, Bell added, “He told me she has bolted—run from Domnya.”
“It was a family quarrel merely, and I have come to take her back.”