Midnight Angel (Stokehurst #1)(85)

Evidently the ambassador agreed. “I'll do everything I can to help you,” he said hastily.

“Good.” Luke smiled at him. “Let's go have a talk in private now.”

“Certainly, my lord.” Bramwell pushed back from the table and tried to assume the expression of genial host. “Please, everyone—Your Excellency—continue in my absence.”

Governor Shurikovsky nodded regally. There was no sound until the nervous ambassador had left the room with the large, sullen Englishman. Then the assemblage burst into excited chatters.

Luke followed Bramwell into a small, private drawing room. They closed the glass-paneled door. “I imagine you have many questions,” the ambassador said, regarding Luke with a mixture of dislike and fear.

“Just one for now. Where the hell is my wife?”

“You must understand. Public sentiment having been aroused against her, and threats coming from all quarters, there would be a great deal of risk in keeping her at the official prison. And then, of course, there is the matter of her previous escape—”

“Where is she?” Luke growled.

“A pr-prominent citizen of St. Petersburg has graciously offered to keep her in confinement at his private residence while the state provides all necessary security arrangements.”

“‘Prominent citizen’?” Luke stared at him in furious disbelief. “Angelovsky,” he said hoarsely. At Bramwell's bobbing nod, he couldn't hold back an explosion any longer. “Goddamned corrupt imperialist bastards—they've given her into Angelovsky's keeping? What next? Are they going to accept his gracious offer to officially execute her and save them the trouble? Is this a civilized country or something out of the Dark Ages? By God, I'm going to kill someone soon—”

“My lord, please calm yourself!” the ambassador exclaimed, backing away from him. “I'm not responsible for any of this!”

The blue eyes turned demonic. “If you don't do everything in your power—and then some—to get my wife out of this unholy mess, I'll grind your bones into powder beneath my heels.”

“Lord St-Stokehurst, I assure you—” Bramwell began, but Luke was already leaving.

Walking with quick, ground-covering strides, Luke nearly bumped into a pair of men passing through the hall. He recognized the tall gray-haired one as the man who had been seated at the head of the table. His young companion was evidently an aide, dressed in an immaculate imperial uniform.

“Governor Shurikovsky,” Bramwell said anxiously, “I hope you have not been too displeased by the interruption of our banquet.”

Shurikovsky's slanted eyes fastened on Luke. “I wanted to see the Englishman.”

Luke was silent, though his muscles tensed with challenge. God knew why the governor wanted to have a look at him. He felt an instinctive dislike for the man, whose eyes were as hard and dark as pebbles.

The aide spoke impudently, while the two men stared at each other. “What a strange tale this is! Prince Mikhail Angelovsky is murdered, the young woman who is responsible ‘dies’ in prison, several months later she is brought back to Russia very much alive, and now there is an English husband who wants to take her away again.”

“You will not succeed,” Shurikovsky said to Luke, his voice thin. “I speak for the government when I say that someone will pay for Angelovsky's death. Atonement must be made.”

“Not by my wife,” Luke replied softly. “Not in this life.”

Before another word could be said, Luke was gone in an instant, heading like a fast-moving storm to the Angelovsky Palace.

The Angelovsky residence was even more magnificent than the Kurkov Palace. The doors were decorated with gold, and the windows were bordered with strips of engraved silver. Works by painters such as Gainsborough and Van Dyck were framed in gold and precious gems. Chandeliers of crystal and enamel gave the impression of glittering floral arrangements hanging from the ceiling. Luke was privately astonished by the opulence around him. The queen of England didn't live in this kind of splendor. Or with this kind of security. Uniformed chevaliers, cossacks, and Circassian officers were everywhere, lining the entrance hall, the marble staircase, and every doorway.

To Luke's surprise, his demand to be taken to Prince Angelovsky was obeyed quickly and without question. Biddle was more than happy to be left waiting in the entrance hall, and Luke was led to a downstairs gentleman's room filled with tobacco smoke. The walls were covered with a collection of antique broadswords, rapiers, and Slavic axes with wickedly curved blades. In the center of the room was a turntable laden with decanters of liquor. A group of officers and aristocrats lounged in the room, sitting, standing, smoking, and talking. They all stared at the newcomer.

One of them disengaged himself from the group and stepped forward. He said something in Russian, saw that Luke didn't understand, and switched to lightly accented English. “What do you want?”

It had to be Angelovsky. He was younger than Luke had expected, a man in his early twenties. He had startling yellow-gold eyes, a face of stark masculine beauty, and the exotic animallike quality Alicia Ashbourne had described. Luke had never wanted to kill someone so badly. A tremor of bloodlust went through him, but somehow he controlled it.

“I want to see my wife,” he managed to say.

Angelovsky looked startled for a moment. He stared at Luke closely. “Stokehurst? Somehow I thought you'd be an old man.” The corner of his mouth twitched with insolent amusement. “Welcome to Russia, cousin.”