Written on the Wind (The Blackstone Legacy #2)(3)

As always, customers filled the stools at the service counter of the crowded shop. Tightly packed shelves covered the walls, weighed down with jars of pickles, herring, and sauerkraut. Ropes of garlic and dried sausages hung from hooks near the ceiling, and barrels of imported spices filled the remaining floor space.

“Has Officer Kozlov been through recently?” Natalia asked the young waitress in Russian.

“Not yet,” the woman replied, also in Russian. “He’ll probably come by soon.”

It was a rough neighborhood, and the owners of The Samovar usually slipped Officer Kozlov a pastry or a mug of something hot in exchange for regularly stopping in.

Natalia took a seat at the counter and ordered a pirozhki, a fried yeasty bun filled with cabbage and onions. This sort of peasant food would never be served at her father’s Fifth Avenue mansion, but when Natalia’s mother was alive, they came here often, and Galina delighted in sharing the comforting food of her youth and filling Natalia with tales of her faraway homeland.

Natalia had just finished her pirozhki when Officer Kozlov entered the shop. The police officer’s uniform did little to disguise his rough edges. Everything from Boris’s bulldog expression and thick mustache to his barrel chest made him seem tough and intimidating. He’d been walking the beat for years but aspired to become a detective and thus sought investigative work on the side to prove himself to the police hierarchy.

Natalia waved for him to join her at the last remaining seat at the counter and ordered him a pirozhki. “I need information about a man in Russia,” she said.

“Name?” Boris asked.

“Dimitri Sokolov. Count Dimitri Sokolov.”

Boris looked surprised by the lofty title, but only for a moment. “I’ve never heard of him. Where does he live?”

“He’s originally from Saint Petersburg but has been posted to the far eastern provinces for the past three years, working on the railroad. He left his post a few weeks ago. He may have returned to Saint Petersburg, but I can’t be sure.”

“This one is going to cost you,” he said.

Anything Boris did for her always cost plenty. She slipped him a few bills, which was probably more than he earned in a week.

“That should get you started,” she said. “There may be fees for wires or informants in Russia. I’ll pay for those too. And if you find him, there will be a nice reward.”

“How nice?” Boris asked, his eyes gleaming.

“Very nice,” she said simply. Coming from one of the wealthiest families in America meant Natalia never had to scrimp. She would give almost anything to learn what had happened to Dimitri, because his abrupt disappearance did not bode well.





2





SAINT PETERSBURG, RUSSIA

Count Dimitri Sokolov drew a sobering breath as he adjusted the high stand collar of his dress coat, examining his image in the mirror. There was no visible sign of the gold coins he had stitched into the lapels of his coat, but the lump of three diamonds hidden beneath the lining of his shoe could be felt with every step he took. The authorities might seize his clothing and thus his hidden treasures, but they would never find his last diamond.

His light brown hair was long enough to cover the scar he had cut into the back of his head, where he had inserted a diamond beneath his scalp. The scab still throbbed, but that last, precious diamond was beyond detection. With luck he’d never have to dig it back out, but knowing it was there kept a spark of defiance smoldering within him.

He was a son of Russia, the last of a proud and noble line, and he would present himself with dignity when he faced the judge in the courtroom. He straightened the braided tassels hanging from the epaulettes on his shoulders. It was time to face his sentencing, even though his fate was a foregone conclusion.

He was going to lose everything. His fortune, his lands, his title. But losing Mirosa would hurt most of all. The estate had been in his family for three centuries. During his years in Siberia, it was dreams of Mirosa that kept him going. Memories of long summer evenings on the porch overlooking his valley had sustained him for years. That dream was gone. Mirosa and everything he owned had already been seized by the state, a harsh lesson to other aristocrats who dared to defy the czar.

He had no lawyer or defense counsel. There was no longer any need after yesterday’s brief show trial. His entire life was going to change because of the split-second decision he’d made three weeks earlier.

Dimitri looked straight ahead as he entered the courtroom, wishing his mother wasn’t here to witness his humiliation. He’d begged her to stay away, but Anna Sokolova was a stubborn woman, and she sat in the front row, her face a mask of stone. To make it worse, Olga was here too, triggering another dart of sorrow. Olga wore her widow’s weeds, a painful reminder that at last he and Olga were free to marry. Everyone assumed they would, but it could never happen now.

At least he was spared the humiliation of wearing irons and fetters, but those might come soon. The skirt of his mother’s sunny yellow gown caught his eye as he headed toward the front of the courtroom, but he couldn’t look at her. She was about to lose everything too.

“Count Dimitri Mikhailovich Sokolov,” the judge said in a slow, ominous tone. “Having been found guilty of cowardice and dereliction of duty, you are hereby stripped of your title and all your estates. Any bank accounts in your name are now forfeited to the state. Upon leaving this courtroom, you will be transported to the town of Tobolsk.”