Midnight Angel (Stokehurst #1)(97)

“I've never seen anything so beautiful,” he had murmured one afternoon, admiring her rounding abdomen.

“It's going to be a boy,” she said.

“It doesn't matter,” Luke had replied, spreading kisses over the tender skin of her stomach. “Boy or girl…it's part of you.”

“Of us,” she said with a smile, idly playing with his black hair.

Since Tasia was able to conceal her condition with high-waisted gowns, she was able to attend parties, theater productions, and other social gatherings. Later, when her stomach became too large to hide with loose gowns and silk shawls, propriety would dictate that she confine herself at home. “As slight as you are, I don't believe you'll show until you're quite far along,” Mrs. Knaggs predicted. Tasia hoped she was right. After a lifetime of shelter and confinement, she intended to enjoy her freedom.

In the meantime she was busy making friends with other young matrons, involving herself in various charity concerns, and fulfilling her responsibilities as Luke's wife. She was also making progress in her campaign to push Emma into friendships with girls her own age. Emma seemed to be growing out of her shyness, and she had actually begun to enjoy going to children's parties. When the dreaded day of her first monthly bleeding arrived, she told Tasia about it with a mixture of embarrassment and pride. “Does this mean I can't have doll parties anymore?” she asked, and was relieved by Tasia's emphatic assurance that she could.

As autumn swept over England, crisp and cool, abundant with color, a shipment of crates and trunks arrived from Russia. Alicia Ashbourne came to help unpack them. “More presents from Maman,” Tasia read aloud. She was seated on the sofa, scanning the letter from her mother, while Alicia and Emma lifted priceless ornaments from the well-stuffed crates. Tasia was glad to receive further news of her mother's wellbeing, and especially to read that there had been no repercussions for her. Nikolas's expert bribery had ensured that Marie had been questioned only briefly and then released by the authorities after Tasia's escape from the Kurkov Palace. Since then Marie had sent letters and a collection of family heirlooms to the London villa. So far they had unearthed treasures of porcelain and crystal, a stack of icons, a lace christening gown, and a case of silver tea-glass holders studded with precious stones.

A chorus of delight erupted as a huge silver samovar was unwrapped. “From Tula, I think,” Alicia said as she inspected the elaborate engraving. “The best ones are always made in Tula.”

“Now if only we could get the proper tea to brew in it,” Tasia lamented.

Emma looked at her in surprise. “Isn't English tea the best, Belle-mère?”

“No, indeed. Russians brew the most precious Chinese caravan tea.” Tasia sighed wistfully. “It's more fragrant and delicious than any other kind. Many people like to drink it through a lump of sugar held in their front teeth.”

“How odd!” Emma exclaimed, examining the samovar with great interest.

Alicia pulled out a length of shimmering Russian golden lace and held it up to the light. “What else does Marie say in the letter, Tasia?”

Tasia turned a page and continued reading. “Oh,” she said softly, her fingers trembling a little.

Alerted by the strange note in her voice, the women looked up at her. “What is it?” Alicia asked.

Tasia answered slowly, staring at the thin sheaf of letter paper in her hand. “Governor Shurikovsky was recently found dead in his palace. ‘He took poison,’ Maman writes…'and it is commonly believed that he committed suicide.’” Her voice faded, and she exchanged a grim glance with Alicia. Regardless of appearances, there could be no doubt that Nikolas had finally taken his revenge. Tasia looked back at the letter. “‘The tsar is distraught,’” she continued, “‘and his health and state of mind have been severely affected by the loss of his favorite adviser. He has withdrawn to such a degree that all his ministers and high officials are squabbling for power.’”

“Does it say anything about Prince Angelovsky?” Alicia prompted.

Tasia nodded, her forehead wrinkling. “‘Nikolas is suspected of treasonous activities,’” she read, “‘and he has been arrested and held for questioning for many weeks now. There is a rumor that he may be reprieved and exiled soon. If he's still alive.’”

A heavy silence fell over the room. “They've done far more than question him,” Alicia said softly. “Poor Nikolas. I wouldn't wish such a fate on my worst enemy.”

“Why? What have they done to him?” Emma asked curiously.

Tasia was quiet, thinking of the hideous tortures that were sometimes whispered about in St. Petersburg, used for punishment or as a way to ferret out enemies of the imperial government. The torturers most often used the knout, a whip that could lay open flesh to the bone, and they plied it in conjunction with hot pokers and other fiendish methods of applying pain that could separate a man from his sanity. She wondered what they had done to Nikolas, and how badly he was hurt.

Suddenly all the pleasure in the gifts from her mother was gone, and Tasia was flooded with pity. “I wonder if there's something that could be done for Nikolas.”

“Why would you want to help him?” Emma asked. “He's a bad man. He deserves everything he gets.”