Salt Redux

by Lucinda Brant

  “Is Mrs. Semper aware of the journey you must undertake and why?”

  “She knew before we left ’Petersburg, my lord. I thought it only right to tell her—on the off chance I was only here for a short while before returning to Russia. I did not tell her why I had to return, only that I must, and that I would be back in London as soon as the job was done.”

  “I apologize for adding to your burden, Semper, but it cannot be helped. You need only escort my sister under guard of the five Russians as far as Lubeck, not ’Petersburg. I’ve arranged for an armed escort, with your Russian contingent, to take her from there to her final destination. The papers granting freedom for all those involved—all twenty serfs who volunteered for the mission—you are to give to Captain Vorlkonsy in Lubeck. He will see to it that once my sister is settled in her new lodgings, the men and their families are to have their freedom. You do not approve?” he added, catching his majordomo’s frowning nod in the looking glass reflection.

  “I approve of your plan, my lord; of course. I had thought I was to go as far as the final destination,” Semper replied, disappointment evident in his tone. “To make absolutely certain the mission is carried out to your stipulations.”

  “Oh, don’t misconstrue me!” Sir Antony replied with sincerity, turning to face Semper. “I have every confidence in your abilities, and I cannot tell you how grateful I am at your willingness to see this distasteful episode dealt with yourself. I just couldn’t bear the thought of tearing you away from your bride for some considerable time. As a castle in the remoteness of Wales was unable to contain my sister, I have had to find a place that will, and for the rest of her natural life. So I am sending her to Beryozovo.”

  “Beryozovo…?”

  “I’m not surprised you have not heard it spoken. It is not a place that comes up in conversation. Well, only in hushed tones. Even those who are sent there by her Imperial Majesty read the name in the document of exile with disbelief, and so cannot bring themselves to speak it. Saying the name aloud makes their fate all that real, and finite. It is a settlement on the Ob River in Siberia.”

  The majordomo’s face drained of color at mention of a region beyond the Ural mountains that was so far from civilized society of any sort, he had only ever heard it spoken once, and as his master said, in a whisper. He understood now why he was going only as far as the Prussian port. Traveling all the way to Beryozovo, even at this time of year, would be hazardous, arduous and more than a little dangerous; those who went there never returned, and not from want of trying.

  “It’s a settlement for those who are sentenced to katorga, my lord?”

  “Penal servitude? Yes. And it is almost at the limits of the known world. I have heard it spoken of as an icy hell. People do freeze to death in the streets, if, indeed, they do have such amenities as streets. I have no idea…”

  He sighed heavily. It was not a fate he wished on anybody, yet knew there were few opportunities left to him where his sister’s future was concerned, short of committing a heinous crime that would see him hang. He forced himself to rally, and said with a buoyancy he did not in the least feel,

  “When this business is over with I will make it up to you—both of you,” he told his majordomo. “You may take Mrs. Semper on the bridal trip you had to forgo to get me and my belongings back here with all speed.”

  “Thank you, my lord.”

  “At my expense, Semper. Wherever you wish.”

  “That is very generous of you, my lord.”

  “For a month.”

  “That is too generous.”

  “Rot! Any idea where you’ll journey?”

  “Dublin, my lord.”

  Sir Antony took up his quizzing glass and peered through the magnified lens.

  “Dublin? I didn’t know you for an Irishman, Semper.”

  “I’m not, my lord. Nina—Mrs. Semper—her sister is married to a wool merchant. They have a small estate on the outskirts of Dublin, and two children.”

  Sir Antony let the quizzing glass drop on its black riband.

  “Dear me, these Russians do get about!”

  “Yes, sir. But it was Mr. Barry who went to Russia on business and met Sylvia—that’s Mrs. Semper’s sister.” Semper followed Sir Antony across the dressing room and into his sitting room where two of the Russian servants in livery were standing either side of the double doors that lead out onto the passageway. “Barry paid for Mrs. Barry in wool bales. Said he would have paid twice what was asked for her.”

  Sir Antony paused, a frown between his brows. “She was a serf like her sister? Owned by the Yusupovs?”

  It was Semper’s turn to frown, and in surprise, that Sir Antony could think otherwise.

  “Body and soul, my lord. Nina’s family have been enslaved to the Yusupov princes for generations. She and her sister are the first in their family granted their freedom. For that alone my wife would let you send me to China, if the need arose. As for your Russian servants,” he added, handing Sir Antony a lace-bordered handkerchief he had failed to slip into a deep pocket of his frock coat. “You can’t be all that surprised twenty volunteered to go all the way to hell on earth; freedom is worth any price to the enslaved.”

  “Not surprised, Semper. I only wish I did not need them to travel to hell to get it!”

  “Don’t you concern yourself about that, my lord,” Semper reassured him, a wave at the attendant footmen to open wide the double doors leading out onto the passageway. “There’s plenty of serfs living in hell, and with no expectation of freedom or anything else from their masters. I don’t mind telling you, my lord, that Nina and your Russians look upon you as their earthly savior. Candles are lighted every night and prayers said over them in your honor.”

  “Good Lord!”

  Sir Antony shuddered his incredulity and left the room.

  Two steps inside the crowded Etruscan Saloon and he caught the run of his sister’s conversation as she mingled with the guests. It set the short hairs under his neat wig bristling. Had he heard correctly? Did she truly say: When I was visiting Antony in ’Petersburg…? He bowed to the perfumed and beribboned gathering as the butler announced his presence and was immediately sucked into the vortex of his sister’s lies.

  FIVE

  ‘HERE YOU ARE at last, Antony!” Diana St. John announced brightly, pulling him into a circle of bewigged gentlemen of which she was its center. “I was just explaining about the English Factory at ’Petersburg. Do you recall the gala evening? What spectacle! I do believe I have not seen so many diamonds dripping from ears as I did that night.” She turned to include several ladies hovering on the fringe of the small group and smiled at them. “And there was a dance—What was it called, Antony? Country something—”

  “Bumpkin. Country Bumpkin.”

  “The very one! Country Bumpkin is danced by everyone. Antony and I danced the Country Bumpkin, and amongst all the merchants, which is the thing to do. There is no distinction amongst the English at such events, which vastly amuses the Russians,” she continued, a hand pressed to her brother’s close upturned cuff. In fact, she had hold of one of the three embroidered buttons, as if needing to anchor him to the spot. “Unlike the French and Austrian Courts, we don’t have an embassy in Russia. Well, not in ’Petersburg, which is, for all intents and purposes, Russia, because that is where the Empress resides.” She gave a little start, painted lace fan pressed to her low décolletage, as if to stress her next revelation. With wide eyes, gaze sweeping her rapt audience, she said, “I was never more surprised when I discovered that it is our merchants who are looked upon with more favor by the Russians, because of what they can supply to our foreign friends. Why, my poor brother here is treated as if he, too, were one of them. Imagine! Tradesmen looked upon with as much favor as a first cousin of the Earl of Salt Hendon. Is that not so, Antony?”

  “Yes,” he replied evenly, because she had cunningly ended with a question to which he could reply without contradicting her.

&nb
sp; There was a low rumble of shocked surprise at the very idea of the Russians showing favor to merchants of no particular family over persons of rank. Diana St. John was soon answering numerous questions that were directed at her brother, but which she was more than willing to answer in his stead. After all, as children, indeed well into adulthood, she was determined to outshine him, dominate him and show their father that she was by far the better choice of sibling to inherit the baronetcy, despite the insurmountable fact that as a female she could not inherit, no matter how superior her intelligence. At the time he had agreed with her, and was sympathetic she had not been born a man. Now, to his great sadness, he wished she had never been born at all.

  As he listened to her erudite and very entertaining responses, shoulder slightly turned away, quizzing glass raised, searching out the one face he hoped to see above all others, Diana impressed and disturbed him in equal measure. The more questions she answered the more entrenched the idea became that she had indeed been to St. Petersburg. Her ability to recall details of places and persons entirely unknown to her was startling. That she was lying through her lovely teeth, and had drawn him into her web of deceit was appalling.

  He had only himself to blame.

  In St. Petersburg, sitting before the fire in his comfortable apartment with its view of the Neva River, he had written Diana beautifully detailed letters about St. Petersburg and his life there. He told her about its people, their customs, the places he visited and the happenings at court; he even told her about Misha and Katya, anything he thought would brighten her long, lonely days of captivity. And with these letters he sent gifts. She was displaying one now. A fan with intricately carved ivory sticks and leaf painted with a scene of the Neva in wintertime. He had not reckoned on her exceptional retentive memory. Then again, not in a month of Sundays had he ever expected she would escape her Welsh castle and he find himself standing beside her while she held court in his Etruscan saloon.

  He calmed himself by staring out across the sea of faces. Even after a protracted absence from London’s social scene, he could still put a name to many of the powdered faces within this crowded and noisy room. He had interacted with these people at a ball, recital, soirée or other function where Polite Society gathered in numbers. It was just that those standing about sipping champagne, eating strawberries dusted with sugar, and whispering the latest gossip behind their gossamer fans, were not his close friends but friends of his sister’s set.

  Why should he have expected her to invite his friends? Diana had always been of the opinion that her friends were the best sort of company and what few friends he had were of no importance, except for the Earl of Salt Hendon. He smiled to himself. What better way to proclaim her return to Society than with a select soirée for those dear friends who were sure to report the event and all that transpired by breakfast time.

  She was well on her way to spinning her social web far and wide. The more she spun the more intricate her social web, she the big black spider at the center of it all. Try to sever a strand of her web, touch it even, and she was sure to come inching down it and strike. The wider her web was cast, the more difficult—dare he think stickier—the task of her removal from it.

  Eliminate Diana from her web and all those ensnared by it would know instantly, and cause the sort of public scandal the Earl abhorred. He would not want Diana’s crimes revealed to the world. While Salt’s political career and reputation would never recover sufficiently to see him First Lord of the Treasury or any other post within government, the ramifications for the family would echo down the generations. When it suited the caprice of a public opponent or the family of a prospective suitor, old newssheets that carried the stories of Diana St. John’s madness, her crimes and her incarceration, need only be aired as proof of the family insanity. It was no wonder Salt had had her bundled into a carriage and sent her off to Wales without thought or explanation to anyone. Yet, averting a public scandal four years ago by this method had now brought them to the precipice of another, and with Sir Antony none the wiser as to his sister’s evil intent. Thus, Diana’s removal from good society required not only the greatest of care, but timing was everything.

  “You will be pleased to know our merchants residing in ’Petersburg give Antony and those of his station within the diplomatic corps the proper accord,” Diana was saying to her rapt audience. “Which is only right and proper, even if the Russians do not feel the need to do so. Which, I can say here, but never dreamed of saying so before the Russians, shows a most shocking lack of manners.” She looked to her brother, while signaling to a hovering footman holding a silver tray to step forward and offer champagne to those who did not have a glass. “You were Envoy Extraordinary after Buckingham, were you not, Antony?”

  “Envoy Extraordinary?” Lady Dalrymple echoed, turning her wide-eyed gaze on Sir Antony. “That sounds awfully important. Is it?”

  Lady St. John watched her brother continue to sweep the room with his quizzing glass and knew who he was looking for, but did not offer to tell him Lady Caroline’s whereabouts, saying brightly,

  “It most certainly is, my dear Lady Dalrymple. An Envoy Extraordinary is one rank below Ambassador and performs the duties of that post when an ambassador is not present. Lord Buckingham held the post of Ambassador to the court of ’Petersburg until ’65, but of course, all the work, all the negotiation was left for poor Antony to shoulder. And now Antony has come home, we have no idea who will look after England’s interests in that corner of the world.”

  “Mr. Hans Stanley has the post—” Sir Antony began and was interrupted by his sister.

  “Stanley? But he has yet to leave English soil! Surely the Court of St. James’s can do better than Hans Stanley?” She let her gaze sweep her audience and smiled sweetly. “Of course I don’t need to tell you all that my little brother performed his duties with tact and aplomb.” She let out a small sigh. “What a pity you were recalled home when you were just making inroads with the Russians…”

  “Yes, a pity,” he murmured, again unable to correct or contradict a word his sister spoke. He cursed the thoroughness and frequency of his letters.

  When a tray of crystal champagne flutes was put under his nose, he waved aside the footman and dropped his quizzing glass on its silken black riband, looking about for his butler. What he wanted was a nice hot cup of tea, and he was certain the half a dozen turbaned dowagers in the room would prefer tea, too. Before he could ask the question, Diana thrust a champagne flute in his hand.

  “I cannot perform a toast to our return if you do not have a glass of champagne. Besides, you have not sipped anything since you arrived. You must be parched.”

  “I am, for a cup of tea,” he replied, a frown at the glass in his hand. He went to return it to the tray but Diana stayed his hand.

  “I insist. Our guests insist.” She leaned into him, and said, as if needing to remind him, “You, the most polite man I know, could never be bad-mannered and not raise your glass. You must, and join our friends in taking a sip or two at the very least.”

  He bit back a retort about sisterly interference and instantly reminded himself that the being inhabiting the beautiful outer shell of his sister was something else entirely, and he must not give himself away. Thankfully, into the tense moment stepped Lady Dalrymple, who held up her glass of champagne, and with a sweeping look at the assembled company, said with sincerity,

  “I speak for everyone here when I say we are so very pleased our dear friend Lady St. John has returned from her Continental wanderings. We have greatly missed her company and the company of Sir Antony, and we hope they never need leave us again.”

  There was a general rumble of agreement and Sir Antony smiled and said no more.

  Quiet was called for; a light tapping of gold quizzing glass rims against crystal set off a musical tinkle across the room. Conversations hushed then stopped. All powdered faces and coiffures turned to where Diana Lady St. John stood beside her brother. No one thought it
odd that Diana and not her brother should make a speech. As her friends, they knew she completely dominated him. She had led most of those in the crowd to believe her brother an ineffectual Merry Andrew of little consequence. Drunken episodes witnessed in Sir Antony’s past did nothing to disabuse them of this belief.

  Thus, when the tall, straight-backed Adonis with the piercing blue eyes had entered the room upon the butler’s announcement, more than a few of the gentlemen and most of the ladies let their mouths drop to half-cock. The cold cruel Russian winters had certainly not done their friend’s little brother any harm, and so a few of the guests murmured with approval to Diana St. John. One guest went so far as to congratulate her on recommending to the Earl of Salt Hendon that a post to St. Petersburg would do Sir Antony the world of good. Diana St. John inclined her auburn coiffure at the compliment and did nothing to dissuade her guests that this was indeed the truth of the matter.

  Glasses raised, the was toast made, and champagne sipped then downed with relish.

  Sir Antony followed the crowd and lifted the glass with a steady hand, but did not allow the rim to touch his mouth. His nostrils quivered when the enticing bitter sweetness of champagne bubbles tickled his nose. He breathed in and swallowed hard. He craved the taste of the golden fluid on his tongue and to feel its coldness slide down his throat and warm his blood. But he kept his mouth clamped before temptation overwhelmed good sense and he did the unthinkable.

  There’s no harm in one tiny sip. Drink and see for yourself you have the willpower to resist the whole glass, coaxed the demon of temptation that sat on his shoulder.

  No sooner had the demon posed the question than out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of one of his Russian servants. The man was standing tall and proud in his new livery, but startlingly incongruous was the growth of facial hair. Instantly, the demon of temptation vanished, replaced by a memory and words of encouragement from his good friend Prince Mikhail, who had noticed the signs of the habitual drunkard well before Sir Antony had admitted it to himself, for he, too, was one.