Written on the Wind (The Blackstone Legacy #2)(6)
Natalia excused herself and followed Tyson into the house. “What’s wrong?” she asked as soon as they were out of earshot of the guests.
“The man is not an invited guest,” the butler said tersely. “He was very forceful and flashed the badge of a policeman, so we dared not throw him out. He insists on seeing you.”
Natalia hurried through the main hall, the vestibule, and the banquet hall, where Poppy still sat on her throne, showing off the baby. Natalia dared not slow down to chat but couldn’t miss her stepmother’s poisonous glare as she hurried after Tyson toward the billiard room, where the insistent police officer awaited her. The only person who fit Tyson’s description was Boris Kozlov, but it was too early to expect news of Dimitri yet. She’d only spoken with Boris three days ago.
Sure enough, Boris was pacing in the billiard room in a rumpled suit. His rugged face was swathed in amazement as he gaped at the room’s mahogany paneling and garnet drapes of crushed velvet that pooled on the floor.
“I always figured you lived fancy, but I never expected anything like this,” he said. “I’ll bet people like you probably stuff your mattresses with hundred-dollar bills.”
“Have you learned anything?” she asked, eager to get him out of the house before Poppy discovered him and had palpitations. She spoke in Russian, because her request for information about Count Sokolov wasn’t something she wanted overheard by others in the house.
Boris nodded. “It wasn’t a hard case,” he said. “Your count has landed himself in a world of trouble.”
“How so?”
“He’s been convicted of cowardice and dereliction of duty. They stripped him of his title and everything he owns.”
Natalia braced a hand against the cool wood of the billiard table and listened in growing dismay as Boris outlined how he’d wired an old friend in Saint Petersburg, where the scandal of Count Sokolov’s disgrace was trumpeted across the newspapers. Count Sokolov had refused to assist the army in defending the river that marked the dividing line between Russia and China. His title had been revoked, and he had been exiled to a penal colony.
Natalia shook her head in confusion. Russia wasn’t at war with China, and Dimitri wasn’t in the army, but whatever he did must have been awful if he’d been condemned to a penal colony. A chill raced through her, and she gaped at Boris.
“Are you certain?” she asked.
Boris smirked in satisfaction. “Your fancy aristocrat is about to get a swift lesson in how the rest of the world lives.”
“Don’t be so disrespectful,” she instinctively lashed out.
Boris looked insulted, straightening to his formidable full height as he adjusted his coat. “We’re all equals in America, and I can be disrespectful if I want,” he said, loud enough for his voice to carry. “It’s why I got out from under the czar’s boot, but it looks like you’ve still got a toffee nose. Your mother wasn’t like that. She was one of the richest women in the country, but she never forgot that she was a woman of the Russian heartland.”
“Don’t talk about my mother,” she snapped. Thinking about her gentle mother threatened to weaken her resolve when all Natalia wanted was to understand what Dimitri had done to cause this catastrophe. “Which penal colony has he been sent to?”
“Sakhalin Island,” Boris said. “They must really hate him. That’s where they send the people who personally offended the czar. Most are never seen again.”
The double doors to the billiard room banged open, and Poppy filled the entrance, her face white with anger.
“Natalia, must you consort with Russian riffraff?” she asked stiffly.
Natalia stepped in front of Boris, fearing the tough cop might lash out at Poppy, and that would be a disaster. “Officer Kozlov kindly brought me news of a friend in Russia.”
“And I need to be paid for it,” Boris said in English. “I didn’t come across town to be spit on by the likes of you toplofty snobs. I want my money, and I want it now.”
To Natalia’s dread, her father appeared behind Poppy, glaring at Boris through his one good eye. With his other eye covered by a black patch, her father was a master at projecting a coldly sinister appearance.
“What’s all this?” Oscar asked in a steely voice. That voice could make robber barons wilt, and Boris must have sensed the danger. He immediately corrected his posture and lowered his voice.
“I carried out an errand for Miss Blackstone, sir. I came across town as soon as I could to deliver the results personally.” He gave her father a slight bow, but Oscar’s icy demeanor did not thaw.
“Then accept my daughter’s payment, and don’t ever come to this house again. Is that understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
Most men feared her father, and Boris proved true to form. Someday it might be nice to meet a man who could stand up to her father, but Natalia doubted it would ever happen.
Natalia was too upset about Dimitri’s fate to return to the reception. The cream pastries she’d eaten felt sickeningly sweet in her stomach. While she’d been sampling champagne and pastries, Dimitri was suffering torments she could not begin to imagine.
What had he done to deserve such a fate? She headed upstairs, then down the corridor to her mother’s private chapel on the second floor. The sanctuary was covered in Russian icons and looked nothing like the rest of the house. She quickly lit a dozen votive candles, then sank onto the kneeler to pray for the man she cared for but did not truly know.