Written on the Wind (The Blackstone Legacy #2)(37)
“And you think there may have been such a man near the Amur River?” Dimitri looked skeptical, and she had to admit it seemed improbable. The southern area of Russia was remote, rural, and at peace before this incident. It would not have been a region of interest to military observers, but what about the Chinese side of the border?
“The Boxer Rebellion is one of the most turbulent upheavals in a decade,” she said. “My godfather used to be up to his neck in foreign intrigue, and he will know how to sniff out allies. If you break the story on your own, people might think you have a grudge against the czar because of losing your title. We need an impartial witness who can confirm your account.”
Then they could go on the offense and trumpet news of what happened to the world. She could frame the bank’s role as trying to solve the problem rather than being complicit in it.
But first they needed to seek out her godfather.
A hint of a smile tugged at Dimitri’s mouth. “I am willing to join you in seeking out this man,” he said, and for the first time since hearing of the catastrophe, Natalia felt a seed of hope take root.
17
Dimitri remained mildly skeptical of Natalia’s plan to sniff out witnesses of the massacre along the Amur River, but he readily embraced the thaw in her temper, delighted to have his dearest friend back.
That evening he tipped a porter an outrageous sum so he and Natalia could enjoy a private table in the dining car. It let him pelt her with all sorts of questions about her life, and she freely answered. He loved listening to Natalia speak of her mother and how Galina grew up in the tenements of Moscow but was saved from a life of drudgery when she earned a spot in the Bolshoi ballet. The ballet took Galina to London, where her beauty brought her to the attention of Oscar Blackstone. Galina gladly left the world of ballet to marry the man who took her to America.
“My mother wasn’t able to stand up to my father,” Natalia said. “He treated her well, of course. He bought her whatever she wished for, but all they really wanted was a son. She miscarried over and over, and it took a toll on her. So did her longing for Russia, because she never truly felt at ease in New York. When we were alone, she used to wear the most beautiful sarafans. I’m embarrassed to admit it, but my interest in Russia started because I wanted to wear a sarafan too.”
He beamed at her over his mug of hot tea. “And did you?” Imagining the prim Natalia in one of those riotously patterned folk gowns that blended Nordic and tribal patterns was delightful.
“Oh yes! I still wear them when I’m alone at home. Stop laughing! You have no idea how uncomfortable a corset can be, and in a sarafan I feel like I can float.”
He would love to see Natalia wearing a sarafan at Mirosa. He lived informally out at the lake, and she would look entrancing in a traditional sarafan, gazing out over the water on a long summer evening.
But that vision could never happen, and the longing for home became a physical ache in the center of his chest. He forced himself to think brighter thoughts.
“Enough about Russia. Where do you suggest I live once we arrive in New York?”
“My stepmother would be over the moon if an actual aristocrat stayed at her house. Poppy knows the old-money society matrons look down their nose at her, so she will want to show you off like a prize pony.”
“But I am no longer an aristocrat,” he pointed out. “The czar took my title away.”
“What’s he going to do, come over here and arrest you?” Natalia assured him there had been no news of Count Sokolov’s disgrace in the American newspapers, probably because it wasn’t in the czar’s interest to publicize the incident overseas. That would change if Natalia’s plan to expose the massacre succeeded, but until they had collected allies supplied by Admiral McNally, they would keep quiet about Dimitri’s humiliation.
The water in their glasses sloshed. He and Natalia both listed as the train abruptly began slowing down.
Dimitri looked outside. The silhouettes of passing trees outside the window slowed, then stopped altogether. A hiss of steam and the clicking of metal sounded as the train settled into place on the tracks. Bewildered diners glanced at one another, and he rose to put a protective arm around Natalia.
Within moments a porter arrived with news. “No cause for concern,” he announced. “There’s a washout on the tracks a mile ahead. We need to wait a few minutes until it is cleared.”
There was no such thing as a washout that could be cleared in “a few minutes.” It would more likely be hours, but Dimitri and Natalia were finished with their meal, and others were waiting for a table. With the train at a standstill, they could take advantage of the opportunity for some fresh air.
He offered Natalia his arm. “Shall we go outside to enjoy the night sky?”
They fetched their coats and soon stood on the platform on the back of the caboose, alone except for the stars and a sliver of moon. The train had come to a standstill in a field of winter wheat. The cold air was invigorating, but Natalia shivered and shrank deeper into her coat.
“What sort of gentleman would I be if I let you suffer in the cold?” Dimitri slid behind her and wrapped the edges of his coat around her, sharing his warmth. They both faced the field lit by the silvery moon. Satisfaction coursed through him, for he had been wanting for days to savor a full-bodied embrace with Natalia. It was a shocking intimacy, but he didn’t care. It had been four years since he’d held a woman like this. “Better?”