Prince of Dreams (Stokehurst #2)(77)

Silently Emelia slipped her hand in his. Their fingers clung in a hard, hurtful grip. Still retaining her hand, Nikolas picked up the valise and carried it as they went downstairs together.

Sidarov was waiting in the entranceway, his brown hair uncustomarily mussed, his face pale. In his arms he clutched one of Emelia's cloaks, a shade of plum wool so dark it looked black. “Everything is ready, Your Highness.”

“Good.” Nikolas leaned very close to the steward. “Don't let them have her,” he said, too quietly for Emelia to hear. “You know what they would do.” He drew back and stared hard at Sidarov, leaving the next thought unspoken, that he would rather have Emelia die quickly by Sidarov's hands than be tortured to death by someone else.

The steward nodded, understanding the silent message. “It won't come to that,” he said calmly, and Nikolas rested a hand on his shoulder, gripping hard.

“I'm trusting you with everything I value, Feodor.”

“I understand, Your Highness.”

Nikolas took the cloak from Sidarov and turned to fasten it around Emelia's shoulders. Carefully he pulled the hood over her head, and he tried to smile. The attempt failed, however, and he stared at her in bleak despair. He didn't know how to say good-bye. His throat ached from the strain of holding back his emotions. “I don't want to leave you,” he said humbly, reaching for her cold, stiff hands.

Emma lowered her head, her tears falling freely. “I'll never see you again, will I?”

He shook his head. “Not in this lifetime,” he said hoarsely.

She pulled her hands away and wrapped her arms around his neck. He felt her wet lashes brush his cheek. “Then I'll wait a hundred years,” she whispered. “Or a thousand, if I must. Remember that, Nikki. I'll be waiting for you to come to me.”

Nikolas stood at the door, watching as Sidarov took her to the sleigh. The vehicle vanished swiftly into the blue-black night. “God be with you,” he said quietly, gripping the doorframe. Eventually he asked one of the servants to bring some vodka to the sitting room. He waited near the tile stove, drinking in apparent leisure as he stared at a blank space on the wall.

After an hour had passed, a servant came to inform him that two agents of the Secret Office had arrived. The Secret Office, established by Peter, had been given jurisdiction over all crimes that threatened the stability of the tsar's government.

The agents had entered the house and followed the servant directly to Nikolas. One of them was quiet and deferential in manner, while the other, a blade-faced man with a shock of oily black hair, wore a trace of a taunting smile.

“Prince Nikolai,” the blade-faced man said, “I am Valentin Necherenkov, and my companion is Yermakov. We've been sent by the Secret Office because of an incident that was reported tonight—”

“Yes, I know.” Nikolas moved toward a silver tray and indicated the bottle of chilled vodka. “A refreshment, perhaps?”

Necherenkov nodded. “Thank you, Your Highness.”

Carefully Nikolas poured three glasses of the vodka, and joined them in a drink.

Necherenkov stared at Nikolas consideringly. “Your Highness, we've come to speak with Princess Emelia.”

“There's no need for you to see her.”

“Oh, there is,” Necherenkov assured him. “She was reported to have made treasonous speeches within earshot of the tsar tonight. And her background is by all accounts a suspicious one—”

“She's no threat to the tsar, or to anyone,” Nikolas broke in with a gently persuasive smile. “An attractive woman, but not too bright, you understand? A simple peasant girl, incapable of forming her own opinions. I'm afraid she was just repeating things she had overheard. In the interest of justice, you should hold the real culprit accountable.”

“And who is that, Your Highness?”

Nikolas's faint smile vanished. “Me,” he said bluntly. “Even the most casual investigation will reveal that I've had a falling-out with the tsar. Everyone knows it. The lifeblood of the country has been drained for the sake of Peter's self-image—I haven't hesitated to say this even in his presence.”

Necherenkov regarded him thoughtfully as he downed more vodka. “We'll still have to question your wife, Your Highness.”

“It will be a waste of your time.” Discreetly Nikolas fished a black velvet bag from his pocket, hefting its satisfying weight in his palm. “I'm sure you're a very influential man…I hope you can see fit to arrange things so that she is forgotten.”

Receiving the bag from Nikolas, Necherenkov opened it and tilted some of the contents into his palm. The bag was filled with a fortune in perfectly cut and faceted diamonds, most of them fifteen to twenty carats each, a few of them even larger. They glittered in Necherenkov's broad palm like a pool of white fire. Nikolas resisted the urge to smile grimly as he heard the breathing of the two agents quicken.

Necherenkov spoke quietly. “If she is, after all, a stupid peasant woman, there would seem to be no point in questioning her.”

“I'm glad we agree.”

Necherenkov met his gaze directly. “But in clearing your wife of suspicion, you've taken all the blame on yourself, and we're obligated to bring you to the Kremlin for interrogation.”