Midnight Angel (Stokehurst #1)(83)

Luke smelled fish everywhere. In addition to the strong scent that drifted from the ocean and the fish rafts on the Neva River, the market was filled with every conceivable kind of catch. Salmon, pike, eel, perch, and huge sturgeon reposed in crates stuffed with melting ice. A half-dozen shades of caviar were sold in large casks. Tiny translucent fish were bought by the shovelful and carried away in sacks and buckets. In the heat, their odor was so rank that any self-respecting English cat would have turned its nose up at them. “Znitki,” one of the merchants explained, grinning at Luke's obvious repulsion.

The color and confusion of St. Petersburg were common to any large city—except that here it was more colorful and more confused than any place he'd been in his life. The streets were congested with people, animals, and vehicles. The river and canals were cluttered with boats of all sizes. There were churches of every denomination, ringing bells in a noisy cacophony. After ten minutes Luke gave up all attempts to make sense of it. He didn't intend to stay in St. Petersburg long enough to know anything more about it than he already did. All he wanted was to retrieve his wife, and never set eyes on Russia again.

Biddle, however, was not so easily daunted. He set about subduing the city, with an umbrella tucked firmly beneath one arm and a copy of the British Traveler's Handbook for Russia in the other hand. They wandered through the marketplace, past a row of stalls filled with a profusion of exotic flowers. A chattering tea seller came up to them, bearing a leather case filled with glasses and a pitcher full of brown liquid he called kvas, and thick slices of ginger cake. At Luke's curt nod, Biddle purchased two glasses of the stuff, and some cake. Kvas turned out to be a mild rye beer flavored with honey. Strange, but not unpleasant, Luke thought, finishing the drink.

The faces of the Russians interested him. Most of them were fair, with elegant features and blue eyes, but many had a more exotic Eastern appearance; broad faces and beautiful slanted eyes. Tasia's looks were a combination of both, melded into delicate and exquisite harmony. At the thought of his wife, his throat became tight, and the agonized fury that had been with him ever since her abduction began to build.

“Sir?” Biddle questioned nervously, apparently alarmed by his expression. “Was the beverage not to your liking?”

“The Kurkov Palace,” Luke muttered. That was where the English ambassador was lodged. It was all he could bring himself to say.

“Right away, my lord.” Gamely Biddle wandered to the streetside and began gesturing with his umbrella. “I will attempt to hire a hack. The book says these are called something like, er, drozhki, and not to be disturbed if the driver carries on a conversation with the horse. They talk to their horses here.”

They rented a tiny open carriage and told the driver to take them to the English embassy. In accord with Biddle's prediction, the driver kept up a running dialogue with his horse, named Osip. The vehicle moved through the city at an unholy pace, like every other contraption on the streets. Often the driver screamed to warn pedestrians of their approach. Twice they nearly mowed down people crossing the road. Whether it was in a rickety cart or a fine lacquered carriage, Russians drove exceptionally fast.

St. Petersburg was a city of stone, water, and bridges. Even Luke, with his predisposition to hate everything about the place, had to admit it was beautiful. According to Biddle's recitation from the British Traveler's Handbook, St. Petersburg had been willed into existence a little more than a century and a half ago by the desire of Peter the Great to bring Western culture to Russia. Peter had succeeded magnificently. Some parts of the city seemed almost more European than Europe itself. The carriage passed astonishing rows of sumptuous palaces set along the granite embankments of the river. There were lions everywhere, made of stone, bronze, and iron, placed to guard bridges and buildings with their frozen grimaces.

The English ambassador, Lord Bramwell, was lodged at the handsome Kurkov Palace. It was located on eastern Nevsky Prospekt, the central street of the city. The carriage stopped in front of the building, a classical structure with pediments and tall white columns. Luke climbed out and strode up the wide marble steps, leaving Biddle to struggle with the bags and pay the driver. Two huge cossacks dressed in scarlet tunics and high black boots guarded the doors of the palace.

“I've come to see Lord Bramwell,” Luke said brusquely.

The cossacks conferred with each other. One of them answered in broken English. “Is not possible,” he said with a threatening stare.

“Why?”

“Lord Bramvell giving banquet for governor of city. Come later. Tomorrow. Next veek, maybe.”

Luke glanced at Biddle in dismay. “Did you hear that? We're late for the banquet—” As he spoke, he turned and drove his fist deep into the cossack's stomach, causing him to double over. A blow to the back of the neck sent the man to a crumpled heap on the stairs. The other guard started for Luke, but froze with a gasp as Luke brandished his left arm. Luke smiled with patent menace, fully aware of the silver hook's shock value. “Come on,” he invited softly.

The cossack shook his head swiftly, staring at the hook. He backed away and eased down the stairs.

“Sir, I've never seen you like this,” Biddle murmured, looking at Luke in concern.

“You've seen me hit a man before.”

“Yes, but you didn't seem to enjoy it quite so much—”