Written on the Wind (The Blackstone Legacy #2)(70)
Poppy worked her magic. She glided through the crowd like a figurehead on the prow of a ship, slicing through water with his hand clasped in hers as she introduced him to dozens of people. Dimitri smiled and nodded, but his soul longed to escape back to Natalia’s townhouse and tell her about Tachenko’s performance. She loved gloomy Russian music as much as he did and would understand its characteristic blend of melancholy and joy.
A stout woman who looked like a bulldog swathed in diamonds gestured to Poppy. “That’s Mrs. Astor!” Poppy said, dazzled to be invited to join the famed socialite’s corner.
Dimitri did not follow because he’d just spotted Senator Lansing angling through the crowd, reaching out to shake his hand.
“When we met last month, I had no idea of the hazards you’d endured,” Senator Lansing said. “With a few more evenings such as this, you can have the whole nation eating out of your palm.”
“I am not interested in anyone eating from my palm,” Dimitri said. “I merely want to draw attention to the atrocity so that such a thing can never be hidden from the world again.”
“I can help with that,” Senator Lansing said. “People like seeing David trounce Goliath, and you’ve got all the makings of a David, while the czar is Goliath.”
Dimitri held up his hand. “No, no. I do not believe the czar was personally involved in the atrocity. The army is to blame. It was all a miscommunication.”
At all costs, Dimitri would not endanger Natalia by arousing Count Cassini’s ire. The most important thing was to get the czar to reaffirm the Treaty of Aigun. Only then could Dimitri rest easy.
Senator Lansing amiably nodded his head, but then he said the strangest thing. “Have you given any thought to how you will handle the Blackstone affair? Especially the Natalia Blackstone issue.”
Dimitri blinked. His understanding of English was not perfect, but he didn’t consider Natalia to be an issue. Especially not in the distasteful way Senator Lansing spoke the word.
“I do not understand your meaning,” he said.
“Well, Miss Blackstone’s failure to spot trouble looming along the Amur is partly what caused this whole mess,” he said. “I understand you are associated with the family, but you may want to distance yourself from that woman for a while.”
“I will do no such thing,” he sputtered. “Miss Blackstone is entirely blameless regarding what happened. Where did you get such a foul impression of her?”
His mind reeled as Senator Lansing recounted the flurry of newspaper articles that resurrected old resentment about callous Blackstone financial practices of the past and described an incompetent woman who had been given oversight of a massive investment by her indulgent father.
“Stay away from her,” Senator Lansing warned. “No one understands the sort of long-distance financing she was doing, nor do they care. The press wants villains. You carry a shine of heroism, but don’t risk it by associating with her.”
Dimitri braced his hand on a column, his thoughts reeling. This was Natalia’s worst fear, and once again, it was his doing.
“Count Sokolov?” the senator asked curiously. “Are you well?”
He forced himself to stand up straight. It wasn’t the time to defend Natalia but to capitalize on this fleeting moment of fame to fight for the people of the Amur. They deserved nothing less.
He raised his champagne glass. “Quite well.”
But inside, he despaired.
27
New York had three newspapers that came out each morning, and Liam sent a crewmember to collect all three. Natalia sat on the deck of the Black Rose, skimming them with a sinking spirit.
The news was bad. It was based on speculation rather than actual facts, and almost all of it centered squarely on her. Unlike Poppy, Natalia avoided society events, and few people knew her, giving journalists free rein to fill in the blanks of her life with their own speculation. They dwelled on her youth and lack of experience at other banks that would have given her a broader perspective to understand overseas investments.
One of the newspapers had a photograph of her taken at Alexander’s christening last year.
“It’s a good picture,” Liam said.
It was flattering, but the photograph showed her in the worst possible light to be taken seriously as a businesswoman. The ultrafeminine gown was of expensive silk, and a cluster of violets had been artfully arranged in her hair. The amethyst drop earrings emphasized her wealth. She looked frilly, feminine, and pampered—not the sort of woman to be trusted with a major investment.
Today was going to be difficult. Normally she enjoyed working with her father, but he was an iron-hard man of business. His wrath was notorious. Tightly leashed fury was her father’s normal reaction when angered, but when supremely provoked, he withdrew behind a wall of ice. On such occasions, he skewered the target of his ire through his one good eye, fist tightened on the top of his cane as he spoke with whisper-soft rage. Both versions of his anger were terrible, and she had no idea which one she would confront this morning.
She hired a carriage to drive her through the early morning drizzle to the bank, where she asked Mr. Asher, her father’s long-time secretary, to make an appointment to see him.
“Your father is already expecting you,” Mr. Asher said. “He said to go inside as soon as you arrive.”