“Verynice,” she said simply. Coming from one of the wealthiest families in America meant Natalia never had to scrimp. She would give almost anything to learn what had happened to Dimitri, because his abrupt disappearance did not bode well.
2
SAINT PETERSBURG, RUSSIA
Count Dimitri Sokolov drew a sobering breath as he adjusted the high stand collar of his dress coat, examining his image in the mirror. There was no visible sign of the gold coins he had stitched into the lapels of his coat, but the lump of three diamonds hidden beneath the lining of his shoe could be felt with every step he took. The authorities might seize his clothing and thus his hidden treasures, but they would never find his last diamond.
His light brown hair was long enough to cover the scar he had cut into the back of his head, where he had inserted a diamond beneath his scalp. The scab still throbbed, but that last, precious diamond was beyond detection. With luck he’d never have to dig it back out, but knowing it was there kept a spark of defiance smoldering within him.
He was a son of Russia, the last of a proud and noble line, and he would present himself with dignity when he faced the judge in the courtroom. He straightened the braided tassels hanging from the epaulettes on his shoulders. It was time to face his sentencing, even though his fate was a foregone conclusion.
He was going to lose everything. His fortune, his lands, his title. But losing Mirosa would hurt most of all. The estate hadbeen in his family for three centuries. During his years in Siberia, it was dreams of Mirosa that kept him going. Memories of long summer evenings on the porch overlooking his valley had sustained him for years. That dream was gone. Mirosa and everything he owned had already been seized by the state, a harsh lesson to other aristocrats who dared to defy the czar.
He had no lawyer or defense counsel. There was no longer any need after yesterday’s brief show trial. His entire life was going to change because of the split-second decision he’d made three weeks earlier.
Dimitri looked straight ahead as he entered the courtroom, wishing his mother wasn’t here to witness his humiliation. He’d begged her to stay away, but Anna Sokolova was a stubborn woman, and she sat in the front row, her face a mask of stone. To make it worse, Olga was here too, triggering another dart of sorrow. Olga wore her widow’s weeds, a painful reminder that at last he and Olga were free to marry. Everyone assumed they would, but it could never happen now.
At least he was spared the humiliation of wearing irons and fetters, but those might come soon. The skirt of his mother’s sunny yellow gown caught his eye as he headed toward the front of the courtroom, but he couldn’t look at her. She was about to lose everything too.
“Count Dimitri Mikhailovich Sokolov,” the judge said in a slow, ominous tone. “Having been found guilty of cowardice and dereliction of duty, you are hereby stripped of your title and all your estates. Any bank accounts in your name are now forfeited to the state. Upon leaving this courtroom, you will be transported to the town of Tobolsk.”
Dimitri flinched. Tobolsk was where they sent all convicts destined for exile in the Siberian penal colonies. A pillar of stuccoed brick stood in Tobolsk, and convicts were allowed to lay their hands on it, press their faces to the ground, and say farewell to civilization before being funneled to one of the dozens of penal colonies scattered across the vast wasteland. Prisoners were encouraged to take a handful of soil with them,a reminder of the land they left behind as they headed into exile. No other spot in Russia had witnessed as much human misery as the pillar in Tobolsk.
Panic clouded the edges of his vision, and it was hard to comprehend anything the judge said in that awful, droning voice. All he could hear was his mother, who began weeping in terrible, keening sobs.
The judge’s censorious voice continued. “You are hereby sentenced to the penal colony on Sakhalin Island, where you will serve seven years in the iron mines of the czar.”
Dimitri should have expected it. Sakhalin Island was where most political prisoners were exiled, since it was the farthest outpost within the empire. Still, it was hard to keep standing upright as realization of his fate sank in.
If he could go back in time, would he have done anything differently that terrible morning three weeks ago? His refusal to participate in the massacre had saved no lives. All it did was destroy his own.
The lowering of the gavel sounded like a gunshot. Dimitri turned to walk down the aisle of the courtroom, maintaining a ramrod-straight posture but feeling the world crumble around him.
There was only one thing of which he could be certain: He was not going to Sakhalin Island. The icy, windswept island made escape impossible. Work in the iron mines was brutal, and few people survived their sentence.
God would not have sent Dimitri to witness the massacre of innocent people if he was meant to meekly accept his punishment. The world needed to know what he had seen. He had been silenced from the moment he was taken into custody, but he was not completely without resources. He had one bank account left to his name. It was in New York City, controlled by his last remaining friend in the world.
He must now find a way to reach Natalia Blackstone or die in the attempt.
3
It was no secret that Natalia and her stepmother did not like each other, but that didn’t stop Natalia from doting on the child Poppy had given birth to last month. Alexander was a tiny infant for such a weighty name. He occupied the center of his princely crib, wearing handmade gowns stitched by nuns in Corsica and clutching a sterling silver baby rattle. Natalia loved the way he opened his huge, dark eyes and stared at the world around him, slowly blinking in baffled wonder. Then he’d let out a terrific yawn that seemed to consume his entire body until he released it with a look of contented exhaustion. How she adored this little scrap of humanity!
Nevertheless, the gossip columns loved claiming that Natalia was jealous of her baby brother, and that after twenty-eight years as Oscar Blackstone’s only child, she resented the arrival of the long-hoped-for male heir who would oust Natalia from the bank and her father’s inheritance.
It was all rubbish.
Well, mostly rubbish. The bylaws of the bank precluded women from having voting shares in the management of the bank’s investments, meaning that Alexander would someday inherit her father’s control of the bank while Natalia would forever remain a business analyst on the third floor. But thatwas all right. She was paid a generous salary for her work and had nothing but love for little Alexander.
Her stepmother was another story. Her father had long craved a male heir and married Poppy shortly after his first wife died. Poppy saw the close relationship between Oscar and Natalia as a threat and never missed an opportunity to subtly belittle Natalia.
The morning of Alexander’s christening was turning into a classic example. Poppy wore a pale pink gown that perfectly offset her golden-blond hair. Her father was also formally attired in a black frock coat, white satin waistcoat, and gray trousers.
“Natalia, I can’t believe you’re wearing that gown,” Poppy said, frowning at the lavender moiré silk that clung to Natalia’s figure as she descended into the foyer of their home. The gown featured a slight bustle and a frothy spill of ivory lace from the neckline.
“I love this dress,” she defended. It was custom-made in Paris, and unlike the typical suits she wore to the bank each day, it was highly feminine and entirely appropriate for a society christening. She even had a cluster of violets pinned into her upswept black hair.
“It looks like you are in half-mourning, and that is bound to delight the journalists eager to see your disdain for my child.”
