Gypsy Jewel (25 page)

C
OUNT
I
VANOV CAME OUT
of the stables shaking his head. “He is not here,” he told the young woman waiting in the sleigh. “He has been by and gone, the man said. From my description they did admit seeing him walk past.”

“But where?” April could not keep the despair from her voice. “Where would he go, and without word to me?”

The count shrugged, climbing back up beside her. “You must understand, he is a man, and Romany as well. He likely wanders where he will. He will return to Samarin House eventually.”

His words were no longer comforting. It had been battle enough to persuade the count to stop at the stable and inquire after Damien. For some reason, he had been loath to do so. But with April’s piteous pleas, he finally succumbed. Now it appeared to be a waste of time, though she was too weary to cry. They had driven for over an hour, and she was almost frozen through. Her feet were numb, and though buried in the mink muff, her hands were red and raw with cold.

Suspecting as much, Ivanov said, “We shall return to the house. A fire and a hot drink will soon revive you. It was careless of me to let you get chilled; as a dancer, your muscles will suffer for it.” He called to the driver, and they raced out into the traffic as soon as a spot was clear.

April had only one desire — to be with Damien again. Her heart ached imagining where he might be. And if he did not appear soon, the count might decide not to present them to the court. Ivanov had tentatively set a date for three weeks hence, but without her music, she could not perform. She had no wish to appear without Damien anyway. It was the magic between them that brought the act alive, and nothing else.

Perhaps Damien was just another
gajo
after all. A cheat, a liar, a turner of pretty phrases. No! She would not accept that. Not as long as she had breath in her body. Her very soul cried out for him now, but her heart drained of hope with every mile.

Ivanov drew the fox wrap snugly about them both. “Our body heat will soon warm us again. That is another thing you will learn about Moscow. You must keep close quarter with friends.”

He was trying to amuse her, April knew, but she could not force a meager smile. All she wanted was Damien, and it was beginning to seem like he had left her.

T
HE JOURNEY BACK TO
the estate was long and cold. It had begun to snow again, tiny flakes that hinted at another lengthy storm. April opened her window with childlike wonder to taste them on her tongue like melting sugar, and felt them sting her eyes as they drove into the wind. She had never seen so much snow in her life, certainly never lived in it. For a moment it was delightful, but then she remembered that she had been abandoned to the care of a stranger. No matter how kind Count Ivanov was, he could not replace her husband.

“Ah, here we are.” Soon the count was handing her down to the groom, who steadied her fur-wrapped figure. April was then passed back to the count like a side of beef, and she giggled. She could not have moved if her life depended on it. Her feet prickled and burned with every step.

Shuffling her up to the door, Ivanov shouted for the maid. It took a long time before Zofia appeared, not hiding her scowl of displeasure.

“Take the lady to her room, and see that she is brought a hot bath,” Ivanov instructed.

“I cannot carry up the hot water by myself,” Zofia said stubbornly.

“Then get the groom to do it after he has seen to the team.” For some reason, the count did not pursue her insubordination, but turned to April and said gently, “Go with Zofia now. She’ll get you warm again.”

“I’m like a walking icicle,” April said and shivered, but forced herself to follow the servant upstairs. In the Gold Room, she went to toast her cold hands over the fire in the grate, not stopping to take off her wrap.

Zofia made a disapproving noise and hurried over, scolding, “You will scorch the fine fur so close to the flames.”

“Then you must take it off for me,” April said coolly, disliking the tone the woman used with her.

Zofia pressed her lips together but said nothing. She waited rebelliously until April shrugged out of the fur on her own. Only then did she deign to accept the ensemble, smoothing it carefully over her arms as if searching for damage.

“You do not like me, Zofia,” April said. “Is it because I am Romany?”

The maid’s mouth trembled but she would not speak. Her eyes, however, spoke volumes. It was not a matter of dislike. It was a matter of hatred.

Startled by the realization, April did not understand. It was as if the woman actually loathed her, though Zofia did not know anything about her. Tentatively, she reminded the maid of that.

“I know that you look exactly like
her
, and I know what
she
was,” Zofia spat at last, turning to leave.

“Her? Who?”

But April’s voice only echoed off the stone walls back at her, as Zofia left and the door to the Gold Room slammed resoundingly in her face.

D
AMIEN KNEW BY THE
time he reached Moscow that someone was following him. His movements had been casual, but several times he had caught a distant glimpse of a dark sleigh lingering just out of clear view a mile behind him.

Had anyone wished to pass him, they could have done so easily. Thoughtfully, he chose to relinquish Ivanov’s sleigh in the city limits and struck out on foot. He could move easier without the conveyance which attracted undue attention.

Though the streets were busy and crowded, and people surged in every direction, Damien’s senses were keen enough to soon detect the sensation of being watched. He had learned a long time ago to trust his instincts, and moved covertly around the side of a building to wait for his stalker to pass by.

Minutes passed but other than gaining strange looks from passersby, Damien did not see anyone who could possibly be tailing him. Puzzled that his instincts could be wrong, he cautiously stepped out into the street again and went on his way.

He started to cross an intersection in front of an elegant golden sleigh when sudden shots rang out. Hitting the pavement and rolling on his shoulder, Damien narrowly missed being grazed by one of the bullets being pumped out by a hidden assassin.

The stopped carriage was not so lucky. Inside, Damien heard a woman scream as the bullets chewed up the finely scrolled wood paneling inside the coach. Tracing the source of the gunshots with sharp eyes, Damien finally spotted a fur-bundled figure shooting from around the nearest corner.

With an oath, he leapt behind the sleigh for protection, shouting through the open window to the unknown woman, “Get down on the floor and stay there.”

He didn’t know if she heard him, or if she was alive, for the screams had stopped. But then he heard the thump of a body inside the coach and trusted that was enough.

The street was empty now as other people had fled into shops or around corners. Only Damien was foolish enough to run after the gunman, but then he had a desperate need to know who it was.

Had he been found out after all? He had just released his second pigeon to Lord Raglan, and although he had taken care to be discreet, there was always the possibility that he had been seen. Unknown enemies were the worst kind.

Damien moved toward the hidden gunman, carefully edging around corners, tasting the sour taste of fear in his mouth. He had no weapon, and right now the allies depended heavily on his reports.

Prepared for confrontation, Damien pressed flat against the cold stone of a building as he inched slowly toward his attacker. Finally he heard the man’s harsh breathing just around the next corner. His only hope was to grab and disarm him in one smooth move. Taking a deep breath of his own, Damien plunged into action.

A startled grunt was all the man managed to get out before Damien knocked the gun from his hands and then, in turn, dashed the fellow against a glass window that shattered explosively. The gunman’s form was buried in bulky fur, his face covered so that only his eyes showed. He slid down in a sorry heap at the earl’s feet, moaning painfully.

As Damien bent to uncover the unconscious man’s face, a sudden outcry caught his attention. The sleigh that had been shot at was now open and a woman wearing rich red fox that matched her Titian hair was striding toward him now.

“Get him,” she ordered her footmen, and they sheepishly rushed to grab the fellow passed out at Damien’s feet. As the woman came closer, Damien felt memories clutch him like a vise.

Dear God. He instantly recognized that lovely, brittle face, though the years had not been kind to it. Princess Tatiana Menshikov had first initiated him into the ways of love when Damien had been only seventeen, on a tour of Moscow with his father. Tatiana was still regal, still arrogant, and obviously still vain. She eyed him boldly, but there was no trace of recognition in her eyes — yet.

“I must thank you,” Tatiana said softly as the footmen hauled the gunman off between them. Damien could hardly quell his frustration, wanting to tear from her probing gaze as much as he needed to tear the face cover from his attacker.

“Don’t worry about him,” the princess said as she followed Damien’s gaze, “I can assure you the filthy Cossack will never see the light of day again. This is twice this month that there has been an attempt on my life.” She shrugged philosophically. “Such is the price one pays for being rich and beautiful, I suppose.”

One thing had certainly not changed: Tatiana’s supreme conceit. Damien found it hard to believe that he had ever found her attractive. He was trying to figure out how he could gracefully exit her attentions, but she was examining him closely and apparently liked what she saw. He could only hope she was jaded from enough lovers that she wouldn’t recognize him after so many years. Still, he held his breath.

Then Tatiana said, “You don’t look Russian. Are you visiting Moscow?”

He nodded, trying to disguise his voice when he replied. “I am Romany. A roving musician looking for work.”

She said thoughtfully, “You saved my life, you know. I owe you something …”

Tatiana licked her lips in anticipation. He was a handsome, if crudely garbed fellow, and she was always one to spot potential a mile away. “What would you say to a hundred rubles?”

He raised a brow, considering. Yes, Princess Menshikov had the power to give him that and more, and Damien would be mad to let this incredible chance slip through his fingers. He knew that, yet the cool touch of her fingers on his hand made him uncomfortable, and he had to think of April instead when he gave his reply.

“I say you can keep the money if you can give me an audience at the Kremlin,” he stated boldly.

Tatiana’s arched brows raised, and her red lips pursed on the verge of rebuke. He was terribly insolent, this one, not knowing what an honor she paid him by merely deigning to speak to him at all. But he had the most beautiful blue eyes, seductive under those long dark lashes, and she had always had a weakness for blue eyes.

“I’ll see what I can do,” she began hesitantly, but Damien started to turn away, suspecting that would force the decision. Suddenly she was grabbing his coat sleeve.

“All right. But there are conditions attached … I must have a private audition first, just you and me.” Tatiana smiled like a hungry cat and pressed against his side as she led Damien to her waiting sleigh.

Damien had no time to demur, nor to curse when he saw the gunman break free from the lax footmen and sprint off running down the street. Now he would never know who wanted him dead. That, coupled with Tatiana clutching him in her claws, made Damien wonder if the odds against his success now were getting too high.

“S
O IT’S TRUE THEN.”

A familiar voice spoke from behind April as she stood gazing at her reflection in the golden pier glass. She whirled and gasped, dropping the heavy white satin skirts looped with tiny golden bows. She had been holding them up in order to admire the matching embroidered silk stockings and white satin shoes.

“Damien!” Her cry was one of joy and relief, but something in his look stopped her. He stood at the entrance of the Gold Room, gazing at her with the coldest blue eyes she had ever seen. Then, faltering, she asked, “When did you get back? And what is true?”

He smiled a humorless smile. “I came back here only to get my violin. The truth I speak is obvious. You are Ivanov’s whore.”

He saw hot color rush up April’s cheeks, and she pushed back her mass of golden hair with an angry gesture. “Why would you say such a terrible thing to me?”

“Because it is true, even if you don’t know it yourself yet. Why else did you show yourself on his elbow all about town yesterday?”

So he had seen them. April’s admittance caused Damien’s mood to plummet further. “There was nothing wrong with sightseeing,” she said. “I was not on his elbow. We were in the sleigh the entire time. Nobody noticed us or spoke to us.”

“No doubt they were too busy gaping at Ivanov’s latest doxy to find their tongues,” Damien sneered, hating himself as the poisonous words poured out and now April grew paler and paler. “Look at yourself. Draped in all this finery.” As he spoke his hand swept up a flowered brocaded silk dress draped across a chair, and he tossed it angrily at her. It fluttered to the floor like a broken butterfly, and her green eyes filled with tears.