Written on the Wind (The Blackstone Legacy #2)(64)
Johann leaned in close to whisper in Dimitri’s ear. “Let’s wait to see if he can make that bird sing. He’s been trying for the last ten minutes.”
A dozen guests dressed in silks and glittering with diamonds watched the king try a variety of whistles and chirps while the mockingbird looked curiously at them. The bird flicked its tail feathers from side to side and finally let out a single warbling chirp.
The guests cheered in approval, causing the mockingbird to take flight, but the king was flushed with pride and accepted hearty congratulations from the onlookers. Dimitri proffered his arm to Natalia as they made their way toward the group. Johann performed the introductions, and Natalia was the epitome of elegance as she dropped into a gorgeous curtsy before the king.
King Christian nodded with approval, then turned his attention to Johann. “It looks like you’ve collected a few more medals since last we met.”
Johann grinned and laid a hand over the bronze star dangling from a ribbon. “This one caused the gray hair you see at my temples.”
He proceeded to tell how an avalanche in the Swiss alps crashed into a school, shoving the schoolhouse and the people inside down the mountain. Johann risked his life to rappel down a cliff three times to bring emergency supplies to the stranded survivors. Even the king was riveted as Johann recounted the tale.
“The teacher had two broken legs, and nightfall was nearly upon us, so it looked like she was going to have to endure the night down there. Luckily for her, I knew someone from a village downstream who had a sledge, and I thought we might be able to get her to a warmer place. I didn’t have much time—”
Johann was interrupted by Countess Cassini, who boldly injected herself into the group with a brisk clap of her hands to command attention.
Her attire stunned them all into silence. She wore a Byzantine-inspired tunic in shimmering bronze fabric. It was a sleeveless gown with a plunging neckline, and she had added bands of golden snakes coiled around both her arms. A stole of leopard’s fur was thrown over one shoulder.
“Welcome to the Russian embassy,” she announced. “Please follow me to the back garden, where the evening will commence.”
The eighteen-year-old girl’s demeanor did not sit well with the older ladies gathered on the portico.
A German matron with a scarlet sash across her hefty bosom lifted her chin. “The Swiss envoy was telling us how he saved some villagers caught in an avalanche.” She turned her attention back to Johann. “Please continue.”
Countess Cassini would not permit it. “The hors d’oeuvres are getting cold, and the evening is planned to begin on the back terrace. If you will all follow me.” Her smile was tight as she lifted her bangle-covered arm to gesture the guests toward the interior of the embassy.
Disapproval crackled in the air as the matrons and dignitaries followed the young hostess through the winding hallways until they arrived at the courtyard, where a splashing fountain sat amid potted trees and rosebushes. The evening air was fragrant with roses and wisteria. Tiny lights were strung through the trees, and uniformed footmen circulated with flutes of champagne. Most impressive was the collection of white doves nesting in the trees. Their wings must have been clipped to prevent them from flying off, but the effect was spectacular.
A handful of guests were already here, including the Russian orthodox bishop in full regalia. Bishop Raphael’s cassock robes were trimmed with gold, and a black veil trailed from his towering, tube-shaped hat. With his bushy black beard and piercing eyes, the bishop was striking, but Natalia’s attention was riveted by the older man chatting with the bishop.
“That’s Mark Twain,” she whispered, gesturing to the man with shaggy white hair and a full mustache. “I once sent you his novel Huckleberry Finn. Do you remember?”
“I remember.” How could he forget? It was a good story but far too American for his taste.
Before he could say more, both the bishop and Mr. Twain noticed him staring and began heading their way. Bishop Raphael cut an imposing figure as he closed the distance between them, his robes swaying majestically as he walked.
“Count Sokolov, you are to be commended for your bravery in the face of an inhuman ordeal,” the bishop said. “Your courage is a worthy example for us all.”
The bishop then provided an introduction for Mr. Twain. Apparently, Twain and the bishop were old friends, having toured Sevastopol and Yalta together many years earlier. The two men reminisced about searching the rocky shores of the seaside town for relics of the Crimean War. They found nothing but had a marvelous time. They seemed an odd pair. Mr. Twain constantly smiled, while the bishop listened with a gloomy air. Then again, Dimitri and Natalia were an odd pair too.
Everyone breathed a sigh of relief when the bishop excused himself to speak with the Danish king on the far side of the courtyard. Mr. Twain launched into another rousing story of his travels in Russia. Any time a man as colorful as Mark Twain spun tales, he attracted a crowd, and soon the wives of the German diplomats congregated around them.
“I lost my passport somewhere along the way,” Mr. Twain said. “For the rest of the trip I lived in a state of trembling anxiety, worried I was about to be found out and condemned to join the nameless hordes destined for oblivion in Siberia.” Mr. Twain raised his glass to Dimitri. “And I would not have had the wily Count Sokolov to lead me out of perdition.”