Midnight Angel (Stokehurst #1)(84)

“I'm just getting started,” Luke muttered, and pushed open the front doors.

The palace was filled with ivy, magnolias, and orchids. There were miles of polished wooden floors, with inlaid patterns of contrasting colors that gave them the appearance of Persian carpets. Liveried servants were positioned at every corner, standing as still as statues. Not a single pair of eyes lifted to Luke's face. “Where is Lord Bramwell?” he asked one of them. When that failed to provoke a response, he repeated impatiently, “Bramwell.”

Timidly the servant pointed down one of the shining halls. “Bramvell.”

“Sir,” came Biddle's worried voice behind him. Biddle detested scenes, and he clearly sensed that one was imminent. “Perhaps I should wait in the entrance hall with the bags?”

“Yes, stay here,” Luke replied, going in search of Lord Bramwell's banquet.

Biddle retreated to the entrance hall with obvious relief. “Thank you, my lord!”

Columns covered with gold and semiprecious stones lines the halls. The sounds of many conversations held in French—the language of diplomacy—poured from an open set of double doors decorated in a mosaic of gold tile and blue lapis. The sounds of a delicate stringed instrument, a zither or something similar, provided background music. Luke walked into the banquet hall, where at least two hundred foreign officials were seated at a long bronze table.

Servants dressed in gold and velvet paused in the act of pouring chilled champagne. The table was laden with meats, sweetbreads, cold salads, pies and dumplings, sour cream and caviar. Giant silver bowls filled with pickled mushrooms or salted cucumber were placed at measured intervals, in addition to enameled dishes of mustard and salt. A roasted peacock, feathers carefully spread in a brilliant fan, served as the centerpiece.

The distinguished guests fell silent at Luke's unexpected intrusion. The music stopped.

Luke recognized the ambassadorial insignias of Denmark, Poland, Austria, France, Germany, Sweden. He spared a brief glance at the guest of honor, who was seated at the head of the table. The governor was a lean, gray-haired man with aristocratic bone structure and dark, slanted Tartar eyes. His chest was laden with gold medals and jeweled buttons.

Noticing that the English ambassador was seated at the governor's right hand, Luke reached him in a few purposeful strides.

“Lord Bramwell,” he said, while all gazes turned to him.

The ambassador was plump and pink-faced, with porcine features and a pair of beady eyes staring out from beneath two sparse eyebrows. “I am Bramwell,” he said haughtily. “This interruption is most irregular—”

“I must speak with you.”

Soldiers on sentry duty came forward to apprehend Luke. He swiveled to face them with a menacing stare.

“No, it's all right,” Lord Bramwell said with imperious calm, holding up his pudgy hands to keep the sentries at bay. “This fellow has obviously gone to a great deal of trouble to see me. We'll let him speak. In spite of his lapse of manners, he has the appearance of a gentleman.”

Luke introduced himself. “Lucas, Lord Stokehurst.”

Bramwell regarded him thoughtfully. “Stokehurst…Stokehurst…if I'm not mistaken, you're the unfortunate husband of Anastasia Ivanovna Kaptereva.”

Whispers flew around the table.

“Yes, I'm the husband,” Luke said grimly. “I've come to discuss my wife's situation with you. If you'd care to conduct this in private—”

“No, no…that won't be necessary.” Bramwell gave Luke a patronizing smile and glanced at his guests as if to convey the difficulty of reasoning with a madman. “Regretfully, Lord Stokehurst, there's nothing I can do. It is my understanding that a date has already been set for your wife's hanging.”

Luke had expected that the government would act quickly, but to actually hear the words “your wife's hanging” was like a kick in the stomach. It was hard to keep from leaping on the ambassador and ripping his throat out. Somehow he managed to keep his voice cold and steady. “I have a list of official actions I want you to take on my wife's behalf. You have the power to delay the execution.”

“No, Lord Stokehurst, I cannot. In the first place, I am not disposed to risk my name and position in defense of a woman of questionable character. Moreover, I have no power to act until I receive instruction from my superiors in the foreign office in London. Now kindly remove your person from this gathering.” Bramwell smiled smugly, settling back to his plate, clearly relishing the use of his power.

Gently Luke picked up the plate of exquisitely arranged food, sniffing appreciatively. He tossed it to the floor. The costly Sèvres plate fell with a splintering crash, sending shards of priceless china and clumps of food everywhere.

The room was silent. No one dared move or speak. Luke reached inside his coat. “Hmm…I seem to recall…ah, yes. Here we are.” He slammed a thin folded sheaf of documents on the table in front of Bramwell. Several guests jumped at the sound. “Papers from the foreign minister in London, with detailed orders concerning the diplomatic actions you're to take in this matter. And if you don't convince your Russian counterparts that this is going to turn into an ugly international incident…” The gleaming arc of his hook slid over Bramwell's shoulder. “…I might lose my temper,” he finished softly. “We wouldn't want that.”