Was he deliberately trying to provoke her? She'd been an independent woman since she was twelve years old. If she seemed like a wilting violet to him, it was only because she kept a firm leash on her tongue around him – most of the time, at least.
Besides, she had publishers of her own that she managed quite well, thank you very much, though this was her own secret.
"I think I shall survive," she said stiffly.
"Good. I wish you to manage as much of my affairs as you can in my absence.” He reached into his vest pocket and withdrew a handwritten letter. He handed it to her. She had to grit her teeth and pinch her wrist to keep from rolling her eyes when she saw the letter's recipient.
Luciana Luclair. The mistress.
"Give this to her personally. As well as any trinket you think appropriate.” He waved his hand in a vague gesture, as if to say it was of no concern to him.
"Appropriate as in, a token of farewell," she said flatly.
"Precisely." He betrayed not a glimmer of regard or remorse for breaking with – or, more precisely, having her break with – his mistress. Not that The Luclair, as Aline secretly called her, deserved the courtesy, horrible harridan!
She was relieved, actually, that she would not be subject to any more of the opera singer’s theatrical outbursts at Romanov's office. Somehow Romanov always managed to be "away" when The Luclair came hunting him.
At least he’d taken the time to hand-write a letter, even if he was making her do the dirty work. He had broken things off by tickertext with his last mistress. Low, even for him. The Professor seduced and discarded women with a cold-bloodedness that left Aline feeling chilled.
If not for witnessing first-hand his love for his so-called pups, and the closeness he shared with Fyodor, Aline could almost believe Professor Romanov had no heart.
She studied his wolf eyes and sensuous lips critically. She knew him too well to be taken in by his good looks, as other women were. Thank God she had more sense than to ever become Romanov's mistress.
She snapped her attention back to her notes, feeling the blush steal over her cheeks.
As if that were even a possibility! As if she would even consider...! And as if he would ever...! She didn’t find him attractive in the least, no, not in the least! He was demanding, impatient, and interacted with lesser mortals – that is, everyone but himself – as if they were scientific specimens under his microscope.
Of course, he was without a doubt quite brilliant and could afford to behave however he wanted. She read his impenetrable work for a living. But he was also insufferable; she’d gleaned that within a few seconds of being in his company five years ago. Brilliant, insufferable, and…
Well, it would be foolish to try and deny it. He was truly, devilishly handsome. He had an unaffectedly aristocratic mien, an animal-like grace. He was like some prince – or villain – definitely a villain – out of a fairy tale, with austere features, aquiline nose, and those strange yellow eyes. There was a compelling, exotic slant at the corners of those eyes, and his skin was a rich, burnished, very un-English olive.
And his hair.
Thick, curling and black with just a dusting of gray at the temples. Even she had to concede he had magnificent hair, but she’d die before she admitted it. He was used to women swooning over his exotic good looks, but she would never give him the satisfaction. He was too insufferable, and she was too sensible to behave like some ninny simply because the Professor happened to be easy on the eyes.
And, besides, she was getting married to Charlie Netherfield, who was as dependable, steady and accommodating as the Professor was arrogant and demanding.
And if he wasn’t as handsome as Romanov, he was quite acceptably attractive.
"What are you thinking, Finch?" Romanov inquired, his bored eyes now lighting with interest as he observed her red face.
"You don't want to know,” she murmured.
His eyes narrowed, as if he wasn't sure about that.
She squirmed under his scrutiny and once again attempted to break her news about resigning and Charlie. She was grudgingly willing to give him these final two weeks of hellhounds and mistresses. After that, she was out the door.
“Professor, I’ve something to tell you, and it’s rather urgent …”
He held up his hand, cutting her off, and extracted his pocket watch from his waistcoat. At the same time, as if on cue, the steam train began to slow down. He gave Ikaterina one last caress, then stood up, pocketing his watch, and straightening his already immaculate clothes.
“Your news will have to wait, Finch. My transport has arrived.” He signaled to Fyodor, who also stood, grabbing up two cases and exiting the cabin.
Flummoxed, Aline glanced out the window. They were in the middle of the countryside, not a station in sight. A herd of cattle grazed in the distance, but something suddenly startled them, sending their bulky forms scattering away from the train.
She could see a few passengers hanging out the window staring up into the sky at something she could not see. But she could certainly hear its unique sonic hum, and see its shadow, a giant oblong shape cutting across the rolling green hills above the train.
A dirigible.
She turned back to the Professor, dumbstruck.
“By transport, you mean the illegal dirigible hovering above us?” she asked as calmly as she could.
He quirked his brow. “Slightly illegal, Finch. A wonderful way to travel. I was tempted to take you with me on this particular excursion, since you had made it this far, but I know how sensitive your stomach is, even on the airship across the channel. A dirigible is not so tame a conveyance.”
Her stomach churned just at the thought. She’d felt as if she might die when she’d crossed the channel a week ago, losing, it seemed, every breakfast, lunch and dinner she’d ever eaten over the edge of the airship while the Professor held back her hair.
It was not something she looked forward to repeating.
A dirigible, a smaller, swifter, and less stable derivative of the airship, with its giant propellers and wings – and tendency to crash – would doubtless be a thousand times worse. Besides, most governments had outlawed dirigibles since the end of the Crimean War.
Doing a bit of light gambling in illegal venues of a Friday night was one thing, but traveling by what amounted to a pirate ship was quite another.
She was not surprised Romanov was meeting the dirigible in the middle of nowhere, as they were entirely unwelcome in cities. What did surprise her was how he’d maneuvered the train into stopping here. It must have cost a fortune in bribes, at the very least.
Then again, Romanov was mysteriously, obnoxiously, wealthy.
“But Professor!”
“No time, Finch. My flight awaits,” he said on his way out the door.
Aline gave the hellhounds a warning look to stay and followed Romanov out the door, shutting it behind her. She scurried after her employer as he made his way to the end of the car. He shoved open the outer door and began to ascend the small, wrought iron spiral staircase that led to the roof.
Aline swallowed hard as she glanced up into the belly of the beast hovering precariously above them. What looked to be an actual pirate, complete with a red kerchief and Welding leg, stood on the deck of the ship, unfurling a retractable ladder, but that was all she could discern in the chaos. The wind from the dirigible’s propellers was so fierce her hair threatened to come loose from its pins, and she had to hold her spectacles in place lest they blow off her face.
This is ridiculous, she thought to herself, her temper finally snapping completely.
Determined to have her say at last, she started to follow the Professor up the staircase, calling after him. He stopped at the top, and with his black cloak and hair swirling about in the wind, turned to look down at her, a smile on his face and a spark in his wolf-like eyes.
He looked slightly demonic and entirely too handsome, and her heart stuttered a little at his elemental beauty a
nd … well, her secret jealousy. Despite whatever serious business was awaiting him, he was embarking on an adventure.
Without her. As always. The insufferable man.
“Are you sure you will be able to handle the crossing on your own, Finch?” he bellowed at her over the hum of the dirigible’s engines.
Aline highly doubted it, considering her weak stomach and the fact she would have no company but two troublesome hellhounds, but she refused to show her panic. She’d die before she admitted a weakness to this too-perfect male.
“No, but I must tell you something…”
She choked on her words as the propellers blew a hunk of her hair directly into her mouth. She attempted to swipe it away, but in the process, her spectacles went flying. She barely managed to catch them before they fell onto the tracks.
He cupped his ear. “What was that, Finch?”
“I’m giving you two weeks!” She shouted up at him.
He nodded. “Yes, I’ll be back in two weeks!” he yelled back, obviously not understanding. He gave her an insolent little wave and turned his back. Aline stomped her foot in frustration.
She was tempted to follow him up the staircase and strangle him, but she’d never make it in time. Fyodor was already halfway up the dirigible’s ladder, two suitcases in one hand, his automaton side quickly scaling upwards.
Romanov started climbing up behind his so-called valet, and as he climbed, Aline stood, glued to her spot on the platform, staring upwards in mingled shock and frustration.
She was not mechanically inclined at all, despite her late uncle’s best efforts. Owing to her rare blood condition, she didn’t even have an Iron Necklace. She could operate a wireless tickertext and a steam kettle, but that was about it. As her rare blood disorder, her sea-and airsickness – not to mention her poverty – had nipped in the bud any thought of Welding for herself, she had little incentive for studying the subject.
But even without being an expert, she didn’t think it was logical that the entirely human Professor could scale the dirigible ladder faster than Fyodor, suitcases notwithstanding.
Her hair whipped into her face again, distracting her from her study, her frustration with the situation quickly outstripping her shock.
“I quit, Professor! That’s my news! I’m getting married, you infuriating clod, to someone who lets me finish my sentences!” She had no hope he’d heard her, but she felt somewhat better to have yelled at him. Then, for good measure, she made a rude gesture she’d learned from her years in St. Giles at the Professor’s retreating back.
With that, she stumbled towards the door to the car before the dirigible blew her to the tracks.
Chapter 2
NOTICE: All Citizens are urged by Her Majesty’s Government to acquire an Iron Necklace to combat the Deadly Fog that has arrived on our shores from the Continent. The Device has proven the only successful deterrent against this latest debilitating Consequence of the Great Steam Revolution. Casualties have already been estimated in the tens of thousands in France alone. Reports that the Fog originated in the Pale of Europe, formerly the Crimea, have been discredited by the War Office…
-from The London Post-Dispatch, 1857
Genoa, 1896
THE man currently known as Alexander Romanov – Sasha to his few intimates – had grown up surrounded by monsters. His father, Tsar Ivan The Terrible had been a legendary monster, still reviled to this day. His uncles had also been monsters, as well as the soldiers under their aegis who’d carried out their contemptible orders. And his older bastard brothers, the ones his father had raised alongside Sasha, were perhaps the worst of the lot, as savage and profane as the worst biblical demons.
Only Sasha had not realized they were monsters for many years. In their company since his birth, he thought the behavior of his grand Russian family was normal.
And he was the heir, Ivan Alexander Ivanovich, Tsarevich of the Russian Empire, and his father’s favorite – and only surviving – legitimate son. He was expected to follow in their footsteps.
But when Sasha became interested in the manuscripts his tutors assigned him when he was around his seventh year and discovered that there were other ways to live, he was shocked. It was not normal for his father to beat his mother. It was not normal for a tsar to beat and maim his vassals for amusement, or to rape his serfs. It was not normal to live life with no rules.
It was rather like the moment he realized the earth was round and not flat – a concept relatively new to barbaric 16th century Russia – wondering how such a simple, obvious fact had escaped him for so long.
Of course, the discovery of his family’s monstrousness confirmed his own private fears. He’d always felt different from the others. Even out on the hunt, a sport at which he’d excelled, he’d never felt bloodlust when he took down an animal like his father or brothers did.
His father called his behavior weak, and Sasha had tended to agree with him. With the help of regular beatings to make a man of him, he strove to overcome his natural aversion to the acts of cruelty that seemed to come so easily to the other males of his family. He’d wanted to fit in. Being seen as weak was dangerous when surrounded by predators.
Then the Novgorod Massacre had happened in Sasha’s fifteenth year, and Sasha had decided he would rather die than become what his father wanted him to be.
But Sasha hadn’t died, no matter how much he’d wanted to by the end of his life as Ivan Ivanovich. His father had taken everything from him – his wives, his unborn child, his faith, his very heart – and given him the one thing he’d never wanted: eternal life.
It seemed a cruel joke that Sasha had lived for centuries, cursed with the mechanical heart beating in his chest, put there upon the orders of his madman of a father.
When he’d left Russia, he’d started living by his second name, Alexander, and his maternal surname, Romanov, in his attempt to leave Ivan Ivanovich behind forever.
Current Welding technology was nothing compared to the device in Sasha’s chest. Like the twelve Elders who shared his fate, he was immensely strong and fast, and any injuries he received healed at an accelerated rate. Thankfully, the secrets of Da Vinci’s heart were lost. All Sasha knew was that he’d not aged a day in the three hundred years since his strange rebirth.
And he’d lived every day of those three hundred years searching for answers to the questions that had plagued him all of his life. What had motivated his father to inflict so much cruelty upon the world? Why had so many followed in Ivan’s footsteps, but not him?
Or would there come a day that he, too, would turn into a monster? Was the blood that coursed through his mechanical heart tainted with Ivan’s evil? Would he wake up one dawn to find some hidden switch inside of him thrown, his conscience extinguished, and the desire to do violence pounding in his veins?
The rage had happened only once before, when, still healing after his unwanted rebirth, he’d been faced with the full scope of what his father had done to his beloved Yelena and their son.
He’d taken exquisite pleasure in killing his father, watching across the chessboard as Ivan Grozny, scourge of Novgorod, had endured the slow, fatal agony of arsenic poisoning – and the agony of knowing it was his favorite son who’d done it.
His father hadn’t deserved the honor of dying by the sword.
Reason told him his fears of becoming like Ivan were baseless, and what he’d done to his father was just, all things considered. He’d never felt that bloodlust again, and doubted he ever could. There was no one left for him to lose, after all, no heart left to break.
But a part of him deep inside that was still that frightened fifteen-year-old boy, helplessly watching the brutal sack of Novgorod, could not let go of the past or the fear that his days as a normal, ordinary citizen of the world were numbered.
All those women, he thought to himself, as one particularly powerful memory of Novgorod flitted over his mind, so long ago, raped, thrown from the bridge into the icy river. The blood fl
owing like water over the ice and snow.
To have memories like that seared into his brain was a burden he’d not wish on his worst enemy. And he knew, deep inside, he’d never be normal or ordinary.
None of the Elders had that option.
Yet whatever he was, whatever his father and those awful, long-ago events had made him, he’d been well prepared for his lifelong vocation. It was useful to be able to bury emotion when solving murders for a living.
But that did not mean he was immune. When he looked upon the evidence of a crime and felt that ancient, sick ache in the pit of his stomach, he knew he had at least a drop of human blood left in him, which was perversely reassuring to him.
He would have preferred foregoing the reminder of his humanity if it could have spared him this present moment.
All he’d wanted was to stay in Paris with his secretary, the one bright light in his otherwise dark existence. He’d rushed them through a fortnight’s worth of meetings and conferences in a single week so that he could surprise Finch with a holiday.
He’d actually looked forward to escorting her to all of the sights she’d studied so covertly in her guidebook when she thought he wasn’t looking. Getting her across the Channel had been difficult enough with her weak stomach, so he didn’t think he’d ever have another opportunity to provide her with the adventure he knew she secretly craved.
But he’d learned the hard way in the past never to ignore a Council summons. Though this time he wished he had dared. The scene before him on the basement floor of the Genoa National Museum was so singularly vicious, and so nauseatingly familiar, he was struggling to choke down his usually disciplined emotions.
Above all else at the moment, however, he was furious.
The victim, a woman, had been here for some time, that much was obvious from the stench alone. He clenched his hands at his sides in an effort to rein in his temper before he addressed the smug Italian who still stood at the entrance to the room, arms crossed, staring daggers at Sasha’s back.
Prince of Hearts (Elders and Welders Chronicles) Page 2