“Wife!” Ivanov shrieked, as if he had picked out only that much from all that Damien had said. “Is it true, Katya? Did you wed the prince?”
April pressed her face against the collar of Damien’s coat. She peeked over his shoulder, tense with consternation and fear. She knew how pointless it was to try to reason with the count, so she merely nodded and confirmed the man’s irrational outrage.
“Betrayal.” Ivanov’s face mottled with rage, and he screamed the word at them like a curse. “But you will not take my fiancée without a fair fight, Andrei. I shall take you down where you stand if you do not give me one last chance for honor.”
When Ivanov reached into his smoking jacket to remove what appeared to be a cigar case, Damien tensed. He had seen such paraphernalia before. Inside the cleverly designee case, he knew, was a small but effective pistol.
“Get down,” he ordered April, and when she obediently sank down on the stairs, Damien stepped slowly toward Ivanov, suddenly speaking congenially to the count.
“You are right, of course. Honor dictates a fair course of action at this point. But what do you propose?”
Ivanov hesitated in opening the case and gave Damien a cold smile. It seemed he had been hoping for just such a chance.
“I have been called old-fashioned, by you in particular, Petrovna. But I have the blood of a dozen czars flowing in my veins, and they cry out for vengeance now. While I could shoot you down — and I see by your eyes that you know what I hold in my hand here — I am prone to be nostalgic, and also, you might say, gallant. The nobility has settled scores for centuries by an effective means.”
“You speak of the duel, naturally.” Damien refused to let Ivanov intimidate him. “I understand it is outlawed in every modern country now.”
“Country?” Ivanov laughed. “You speak as if someone rules Samarin House besides me, which is certainly not the case. Here I make the law, and I decide what is permitted. And you know as well as I that duels continue to happen behind closed doors among the boyar.”
The same was true in England and France, though laws had been in effect for years to try to halt such practices. Conceding the fact, Damien noted, “However, the weather would seem to negate the attempt this evening. And I doubt you wish your — humiliation — to become public knowledge.”
Ivanov’s brows furrowed darkly at that. He gritted out, “I am not speaking of dueling with pistols, which would not be appropriate in any case. No, I challenge you this night to a far more amusing sport — fencing.”
Damien arched an eyebrow back at the count. “Indoors?”
“Why not? I have several antechambers which will serve. But you understand, this is not merely for satisfaction. It is for honor, and shall be to the death.”
“No!” April’s cry rang out behind them. She would not allow such madness to take place, for what could Damien possibly know of sword-fighting? She had seen the outcome on occasion when the gypsies had strayed across a body run through and left to rot where it fell. The crazy ideas men had about honor made her furious.
But both of them ignored her protests. Ivanov put his case away and shrugged out of his silk jacket, setting it carefully aside on the banister. “You will follow me,” he said cordially to the man who still appeared in his tortured mind to be Prince Andrei. “The ballroom, though unused for years, has the best floor and the space necessary.”
Ivanov rolled up his shirtsleeves, and after stepping over the small body of the dwarf at the bottom of the stairs, Damien removed his coat and did likewise.
April flew down the stairs beside him. “How can you be such a fool? It was bad enough with Nicky, and your arm is still sore from that. You know nothing about fencing.”
“On the contrary, little girl,” Damien returned with a regretful smile, “I know more than I should like about it.”
“What do you mean? Why are you looking at me so strangely?”
Damien waited for another moment until the count was out of range. Ivanov walked away and was not listening to them in any case, wholly concentrating instead upon murdering his old enemy and the satisfaction it would bring him.
Finally Damien said, “Now is not the time or place, April, but if worse comes to worse, you will need to know that I, too, am not entirely who I seem to be.”
She gazed up at him, puzzled. “I already know you aren’t Romany. You said you had turned your back on the gaje world. Is that what you’re trying to tell me?”
“Yes and no,” he continued in a low voice. “Listen to me and don’t interrupt. If I am killed, you shall need to find refuge. Whatever it takes, you must make your way to the north of France. Go to Chateau de Villette —”
“Where?” April cried, stalling him with a frantic hand before he could turn to follow Ivanov who had thrown open the great double-doors to the ballroom.
“Just ask anywhere. It is well-known. You must go to my mother, Marcelle Cross, the Countess of —”
“Mother? You told me your mother was dead.”
“I lied.” Damien spoke curtly, adding, “Time is so short, ma chere. Don’t keep cutting me off. I hate for it to come out like this, but my full name is Damien Cross. It also so happens that I am the Earl of Devonshire. It is a long story how I came to be here. But listen, my love. Get to France. Marcelle will take you in. Tell her you are my wife —”
The stunned look on April’s face pained Damien, but he was forced to go on. “— and if the worst happens, tell her I died in battle. Not a word of the truth, do you hear? Nobody must ever question your right to Mistgrove.” For a moment his blue eyes visibly softened at the memory of his English home. “You need not lie, April, in telling my mother that you are of royal Russian descent. She will take care of you, I promise.”
“But why?” April drew away and her voice, though a whisper, carried volumes of reproach. “Why did you marry me then, Damien? You could have had any woman you wanted.”
“I discovered that I wanted you,” he said gently, looking more handsome than ever she remembered as he gazed tenderly down into her upturned face. “I will explain it all to you, soon. You must trust me one last time, little girl. Trust me now as you never have before. I have told lies, but it was never a lie that I love you.”
Her lips trembled and he could not read beyond the anguish in her beautiful green eyes. Would April desert him now? Because if she did, he would still fight to the death for her, and without regret. Suddenly, not knowing if these last moments they shared were their last, Damien took her by the shoulders and kissed her fiercely and desperately.
“Remember,” he said as they parted, and she shook with devastated sobs, “Chateau de Villette. You are the Countess of Devonshire now and have rights to all my holdings. You will be provided for —”
“Petrovna!” Count Ivanov interrupted with a tense and angry shout. “You have accepted the challenge and now must pay the price.”
The count stood in the center of the ballroom holding two sabers and extending one to Damien. “I assure you they are perfectly matched. They once belonged to Czar Ivan himself.”
“Which Ivan?” Damien asked as he strode over to accept the weapon, and tested it with several slashing movements through the air. It was well-balanced and deadly sharp, and he was not surprised when Ivanov laughed and said, “Ivan the Terrible, of course. He had a lust for fine weapons as he did for the deaths of his enemies. I hope that you lust for Death as well, Petrovna, for you are about to drink from His cup.”
There was no warning when the count suddenly spun around on the smooth floor and lunged for Damien. April cried out, but Ivanov’s running attack was effectively countered when Damien parried with a quick block that caused both blades to ring with a metallic clash.
Then, with artistic savagery that surprised both April and his opponent, Damien began a riposte that set Ivanov back in a desperate scramble for defense.
In the French Legion Damien had excelled at swordplay, and had taught several classes at the salle
d’armes in Rocroi. He felt a fierce satisfaction in being able to display his skills now, and he tested Ivanov’s abilities as he had once done that of his students.
As Damien had suspected, the count was not unschooled, either. But Ivanov’s style was Italian, straightforward and full of bravado. He lacked the feline finesse of the younger man.
April soon saw that the two men merely toyed with each other. They each pressed wild attacks and then subsided to a controlled pace as the minutes wore on. Damien had initially been the defender, but a quick turnabout occurred with his successful parry and now a series of clever feints occurred that clearly enraged Ivanov and made him more reckless. When he found himself driven further back and pressed to the left wall, Ivanov abruptly resorted to a stop-thrust that finally caught Damien off-guard.
Now it was the count’s turn to grin wickedly as he brutally drove the other man back with wide slashes of his saber. Sweat poured off both men, and Damien’s old injury was beginning to ache. Still, he could sense Ivanov weakening, and he let the older man vent his last bursts of adrenalin on a final savage flurry.
Pride drove the count to attempt anything. In the fantasy of his mind, he was scoring brilliantly over a desperate young prince, while Katya watched and cheered him on. Torn by the bloodlust and the vengeance in his soul, Ivanov lost control. His lunges were wild, undisciplined, and his saber hissed through the air like a furious serpent.
April watched in mute horror as Damien was driven back toward the great windows that revealed a snow-covered landscape bathed by the glow of an icy moon. The few lamps which Ivanov had lit for the duel cast an orange glow onto his murderous expression. He no longer reasoned, but fought only to kill. As he continued whipping his saber wildly from side to side, it suddenly snagged high in one of the red velvet curtains roped off beside the window.
With an enraged cry, Ivanov yanked it free again, but Damien seized the opportunity to assume a favorable stance and moved farther from the count’s reach. A final series of flurries between the two men occurred as both marshaled the last of their strength. Damien took a thin cut across one shoulder, laying open his shirt to reveal a bright line of bloody beads. Ivanov dropped to one knee when the earl scored a hit and flayed the skin open there.
Before the count could gain his feet, Damien sent his opponent’s saber skittering across the room with a clatter of steel. Only then did he glance over to see April had left, once she was assured of his victory. Too exhausted to pursue her, he looked down at the man at his feet.
Ivanov collapsed groaning onto his side. The wind had been knocked out of him, and the duel had taken its toll. Damien saw the count for what he truly was, a broken old man still living in the past and facing an empty future. As empty as his own. With a frustrated sound, he tossed his own weapon aside.
OUTSIDE IN THE BITTER night, April paused to gaze back at the lights still burning in Samarin House. Something deep in her soul cried to remain, to try and accept Damien’s explanation of deceit, but her Romany pride surfaced when she remembered how he had used her. Never again would she trust a gajo, nor would she attempt to enter a world in which she did not belong.
Prince Adar whickered a soft welcome and April turned to him for comfort. Burying her face in the horse’s silky mane, she whispered, “Home, Adar. Take me home. There is no other place for me now … you and Tzigane are the only real family I have ever had.”
Somehow in her dazed state she managed to mount the stallion and steer him south. After that, everything was a blur. But no matter how fast she rode, or how far, April could not leave her memories behind.
April lost all concept of time during her long journey. Somehow, by keeping off the main roads and resorting to her wits in order to find food and shelter, she avoided being accosted by anyone. Later she would look back and realize how lucky she had been. But she was thankful enough when she found her people again, camped outside Constantinople in their usual winter haven.
As April rode toward the gypsy camp, her eyes instinctively sought for Tzigane’s brightly-colored wagon. A slow feeling of panic surfaced when she could not locate it. The spot which Tzigane had always favored, underneath some sheltering trees, was alarmingly bare.
Adar whickered, scenting the mares hobbled nearby. April slid down from his back, pausing to tie the stallion to a stout young tree. She continued toward the camp, occasionally tripping over the soiled and torn hem of the blue velvet gown. She could not see anything beyond the ominously empty space beneath the distant clump of trees.
Then a familiar voice startled her from her daze.
“April. What are you doing here?”
She looked up into the wide eyes of her old friend, Petalo. His boyish face mirrored concern and surprise, and something else she did not want to see.
“Tzigane,” she whispered. Her voice thickened with tears.
Petalo was silent a moment. He cast a quick, furtive look over his shoulder as if checking to be sure nobody else saw her. “On the journey here,” he said, “she got sick. There was nothing anyone could do.”
When April let out a soft cry and started to move toward the camp, he reached out and restrained her. “No, April, you must not be seen. Nicabar is still furious over the loss of you and the horse. And with Jingo gone to the city today, there would be nobody to protect you from him.”
She shook off his grasp. Her voice surfaced at last, proud and determined. “I belong here.”
“You belong with your husband,” Petalo corrected her gently. “Where is he?”
“Dead.” She lied quickly and easily, avoiding her friend’s knowing dark eyes. “So I came back to my people.”
“Don’t be foolish. You can never take Tzigane’s place, and you will only stir up bad feelings in the camp.” Petalo informed her of the facts sorrowfully, and though she did not want to hear it, April knew he was right.
“Tzigane’s wagon and all her possessions were burned and buried with her,” Petalo continued. “But at her last wish, the money she had was set aside for you. It is strange, is it not, that she gave it to me of all people for safekeeping?” He paused for a moment, watching April’s shoulders shake with silent sobs. “I have it hidden safely away. Stay here and I will get it for you.”
April could not have moved if she wanted to. She sank down in the lush grass, quietly keening for the loss of the only mother she had ever known. She pummeled her fists on the ground in helpless rage, feeling the bitterness of betrayal yet again. Tzigane had left her. Why now? How could she? Now April was truly, terribly alone, with nowhere to turn.
When she raised her tear-streaked face a short time later, Petalo was gazing down at her with pity. In his hand he extended a leather pouch clinking softly with gold coins.
“Tzigane said your destiny lay over the water,” he told her softly. “I think she wanted you to use this money to get there.”
The coincidence seemed too incredible to believe, yet as April took the surprisingly heavy bag, she accepted once and for all that fate did indeed deal out unexpected cards. She nodded with new resolve. “Thank you, my friend. I think I understand what I must do now.”
Petalo helped her up, regret in his kind, dark eyes. “I wish things had been different, April.”
“So do I,” she murmured sadly. “So do I.”
Chapter Twenty
“CIEL!” MARCELLE CROSS GAVE the train of the black taffeta gown an angry shake and critically studied her reflection in the pier glass. “I do not believe the new court style flatters me, Henriette. What do you think?”
The younger woman had barely opened her mouth to speak when there came a sharp rap at the bedchamber door.
Guy Fontblaine’s droll voice came through the wood. “Madame, there is a person asking to see you downstairs.”
“Send them away.” Marcelle quickly returned her attention to her gown. “Do you think my pearls would improve it, Henriette?”
After a brief silence the knock came again, louder this time. “Ma
dame, this — this person is quite insistent. She will speak only to you and refuses to leave until she has satisfaction.”
“Mon Dieu! Of all times, why now? We must be at Fontainebleau within three hours. No doubt a peasant is peddling her wares.” She gave her sleek black chignon a final pat as she turned to Henriette. “I suppose I must deal with it before we go. Would you prefer to wait here, my dear?”
“Au contraire,” Henriette Dupre purred, rising from the velvet divan. She was a strikingly lovely, raven-haired woman with flashing dark eyes. Her voice was low and throaty. “Perhaps she has something of interest to sell me.”
“Very well.” Marcelle led the way to the polished mahogany staircase, gliding gracefully down with her black skirts flowing a full length behind. She dismissed the perplexed steward and moved to confront the young woman at Chateau de Villette’s entrance.
Marcelle gazed in surprise at the wraith-like vision standing there, wrapped in a cloak of good quality. The young woman would have been beautiful, except she looked deathly ill, her green eyes huge against the pale oval of her face.
“Madame Cross?”
The question came in a whisper. Puzzled, Marcelle nodded. “Oui. What do you want?”
Her affirmative answer caused the young woman’s shoulders to sag in relief. “Merci Dieu! I have found you,” she murmured, more to herself than the countess.
Henriette Dupre moved forward from the shadows. “What can the bold creature want? Send her away. She looks half-dead and may have the pox.”
But Marcelle was curious. “Speak up, child. Who are you?”
Tears streaked the wax-white cheeks of the young woman in the doorway. “Bonjour,” she whispered, taking a single, trembling step forward. “I am April Cross.”
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