The Jewel of St Petersburg (47 page)

She didn’t blink.

“You are afraid for me, aren’t you?”

She nodded.

“There is no need to be. I kill every man I duel with.”

A sound escaped her.

“No need to be so surprised, my dear. I am a first-class shot, and I intend to teach that engineer what happens to anyone who attempts to steal what is mine.”

“Stepan, I told you last night at the ball that I will refuse to marry you if you insist on the duel.”

He laughed and drew her closer by the hand he still held. “Another of your little games.” The laugh stopped abruptly. “No games now. The duel will take place. I have challenged Friis and that is the end of it. And the end of him.”

“Stepan! No!”

He regarded her with surprise. “What now?”

“If you abandon the duel, I will marry you.”

The words were out. Instantly his mouth was on hers, his tongue probing and tasting of beer. His breath was hot on her face and his hands squeezed her breast, but she didn’t flinch. When she could stand no more of him, she drew back her head and stared up into his face. It was flushed, his pupils greedy black holes.

“Agreed?” she asked.

“Agreed.” He pulled her back to him and kissed her once more. “Wait here.”

He vanished from the room. She clasped a hand over her mouth to hold in any sound and within minutes he was back with a flat velvet box. With a flourish he dropped to one knee in front of her, presenting her with it.

“An engagement gift.” He didn’t smile.

She took it, opened it, and her heart sank. She was staring at a necklace on a bed of white silk, a solitary diamond set in a chased gold cradle on a heavy gold chain. The diamond was the size of a walnut. Beside it nestled a pair of matching diamond earrings. Her chest burned as if she’d swallowed acid. So this was her whoring price.

“It’s beautiful.”

He leapt to his feet and solemnly clasped the necklace around her neck, undoing the top button of her coat. Only when it was secured did he smile, the same way a man smiles at his dog when he’s attached a collar and lead.

“It belonged to my grandmother when she was your age,” he said. He rested a finger on the diamond, then on her pale skin. “Exquisite,” he murmured.

She was bought and paid for.

“Thank you, Stepan.”

“Is that all?” He moved to kiss her again.

“So you’ll not fight the duel?”

“Don’t worry, my angel, I shall not receive a scratch.” His lips were almost on hers.

“But you agreed not to fight.”

“I agreed to marry you, that’s all.” He pulled back and shrugged. “Of course I must fight the duel. It’s a matter of honor.”

“No!” She shook herself free of him and glared angrily. “I will not marry you if you continue with this absurd duel.”

“Valentina, don’t be foolish. We are engaged.”

“No!”

Her hands struggled with the clasp at the back of her neck to rid herself of his chain, but he stepped forward and seized both her wrists. He lowered his face close to hers.

“We are engaged,” he repeated coldly. “You cannot alter that.”

She stopped struggling and rested her head on his shoulder. “Please, Stepan,” she said in a low voice. “No duel.”

He released one hand and lifted her chin so that his eyes were looking into hers. His grip hurt. “It’s that damn engineer, isn’t it? You want the bastard spared.”

“Please, don’t fight this duel. Don’t kill him, Stepan. I said I’ll marry you, isn’t that enough?”

He kissed her roughly on the mouth. “I promise you, Valentina, I shall take great pleasure in putting a bullet straight through his heart.”

V
ALENTINA SWORE AT HERSELF. CURSED THAT SHE HAD for too long ignored
Number 9
on her list:
Buy a gun.
Instead she was forced to slink into her father’s empty study and steal the hunting rifle that hung on the wall. From a drawer she pocketed a handful of ammunition and ran with them to the stables.

“Here.” Valentina threw the rifle down on Liev Popkov’s bed. “Teach me how to use it.”

He was slumped in the chair, tobacco smoke hanging like mist in the air. He rubbed the back of one hand over the spiky stubble on his jaw.

“Ever used one?”

“Liev, if I’d ever used one I wouldn’t be asking you to teach me, would I?”

“A rifle that size would kick a hole clean through your puny shoulder. You need a smaller one.”

“It’s the only one I could get. Please, Liev, teach me fast. How to load it and to hit a target.”

But the Cossack didn’t move from his seat. Just reached out, plucked the rifle off the bed as though it were no heavier than a whisker, and rested it across his knees. “It’s English,” he said. With reverent strokes he ran his hand along the length of it, from the base of its smooth stock along the blue metal to the tip of its gleaming barrel. He nodded while he did so, as if it were talking to him.

He took another noisy swig from the half-empty bottle on the floor. “I have a better idea.”

V
ALENTINA FLICKED THE REINS AND THE DUMPY LITTLE mare sprang forward, ears pricked. It was the first time she had ever driven a carriage. The horse was steady but quick to respond and to forgive her mistakes as she set it to a brisk trot along Bolshaya Morskaya.

Thank you, Liev. You chose well for me
.

The carriage was old and creaky, a small two-seater with a curved hood and an open front. Where he’d dug it up from, she had no idea, but it served their purpose well. It was light and fast, and easy for her to maneuver. It had taken her by surprise when they both climbed onto the narrow bench seat inside the carriage and Popkov had handed her the reins.

“You drive,” he’d growled.

She’d looked at his battered face and, taking the reins, clicked her tongue at the little mare. Popkov had hunched himself on his hip, twisting his body so that as little as possible of his buttocks touched the seat.

“Liev, you’re in pain. You must stop this. I can do it alone. Go back to bed until you are well.”

His black eyes had narrowed at her. “Don’t spoil my fun,” he’d grunted, and she had not argued.

T
HE FOREST WAS COMING TO LIFE. THE FRAIL SKELETONS of silver birch trees shimmered in the last shreds of sunlight and an evening mist rose from the ground, wrapping itself around the slender trunks. Rustlings in the undergrowth marked the spots where nocturnal creatures were scenting the air, preparing for the night ahead. Valentina and Popkov had remained still for so long that they had become part of the undergrowth themselves. Valentina inhaled the musty smell of the forest floor and watched a pine marten rake its sharp claws along the bark of a fallen tree not ten feet away, digging out beetles.

The air grew so chill that her breath froze on the dead leaves in front of her face where she lay on the ground. She had tethered the horse and carriage a long way back in the forest and had unloaded the two heavy fur rugs. Liev carried the rifle. He walked so slowly it pained her to see it, but he refused help and she didn’t offer sympathy because she knew he would hate it. When they reached the clearing at the top of a slight rise, Liev spoke for the first time.

“This is it.”

“Pistol Ridge?”

“Da.”

How he had discovered that this was where the duel was to take place, she couldn’t imagine. He had disappeared for a couple of hours, limped away dosed on vodka, and returned to announce, “Pistol Ridge. That’s where we head for.” She could only guess that he had gone drinking in the bars frequented by Hussars and oiled a few tongues with beer and vodka. She’d offered him morphine from Katya’s medicine cabinet, but he’d refused it point-blank. She knew better than to insist.

He informed her this was a favorite spot for dueling, hence its name. It lay conveniently close to the city, yet private and safe from prying eyes, tucked away just on the edge of the forest. Valentina could not stop thinking about how many young men’s blood had been spilled here, all in the pursuit of so-called
honor.

Wrapped in the furs pulled right over their heads, she lay flat on her stomach next to Popkov among the undergrowth at the base of the birches. They had a good view of the clearing. It lay no more than forty paces away, sliced into strips by the shadows of the trunks as the last rays of the sun slid behind the trees. Fingers of mist crept closer. One hour passed, then two. Popkov was so still Valentina was convinced he had fallen asleep. Her own arms ached but she didn’t move, not even when she heard the muted swish of carriage wheels on the dirt track. She whispered, “They’re here.”

“I hear them.”

The pulse at the base of her throat jerked. “Don’t kill him, Liev.”

She’d said it before and he’d only shrugged, but this time he didn’t even bother to respond. He was unwrapping the rifle from its pillowcase and sliding it into position against his shoulder. She was startled by her desire to use it.

First one black carriage swung up to the edge of the clearing, then within minutes of it, another. Out of the first one sprang four men, all in scarlet Hussar jackets, all full of nervous energy, but the front one was Chernov. She knew him instantly, by the way he walked, chest first. Out of the second carriage stepped three men, two in heavy coats, the third in a black cape. They spoke briefly in a huddle, then one of them, the one in the cape, detached himself and walked over to the men in red. To Valentina’s horror she saw it was Dr. Fedorin. The sight of him, this man of medicine, brought the reality of what these men were doing, of the pain about to be inflicted, crashing into her head, and she couldn’t swallow.

Popkov elbowed her in the ribs. She had uttered a moan because she had seen Jens. He was standing quietly in one of the last patches of sunlight, and it cut across his neck like a blade. She could make out his steady breath even from this distance, a billow of white in the graying air, no sign of panic. She wanted to scream at him, to beg him to give up this suicidal notion of male honor and reputation, but she didn’t; it was far too late for that. Part of her believed deep down that Jens wanted to kill Chernov, truly wanted to kill him, and that was the reason he was here. She touched Popkov’s hand on the rifle.

“Just wound the Hussar,” she reminded him.

He stroked the engraved metal plate on the weapon with his thumb as fondly as if it were a horse’s ear. “Which part,” he hissed, “do you want me to stick a hole in? That strong black thigh of his?” He gave a low chuckle. “Thighs are good bleeders.”

“No, please. His right shoulder, so that he cannot hold a gun.”

He nodded his shaggy head.

Valentina couldn’t believe she was having such a conversation. What kind of person was she turning into? All the figures in the clearing were standing in a circle around one of the Hussars, who was holding out a polished mahogany box, and she saw Jens reach in to remove something from inside. It was his choice of pistol. The sun suddenly ducked down as the two men took up their positions back to back in the center of the clearing, pistols in front of them, and the remaining men retreated to the far side. Jens was the taller, but Chernov made the process look as easy as a child’s game, his confidence reaching out across the swirling mist to Valentina.