by Anita Mills
“Oh, ’tis you,” he murmured.
“One would almost think you wished me at Jericho,” Jack Bangston observed.
“No,” he lied.
Bangston, another exile, was younger than Bell, still caught up in the heady throes of his salad days, and to him Bell was the epitome of all he wished to be. His fawning admiration was fast becoming onerous. Nonetheless, Bell stepped back to let him inside.
“Missed the Borodino affair,” Jack said, dropping into a chair. “Dashed nice little piece there, I can tell you. Actually, I’m glad you wasn’t in attendance. Got pretty feet and hands—and the face of an angel.”
“A paragon, I am sure,” Bell muttered.
“God, I hope not. Perfect though—her husband must be fifty, if he’s a day. I can tell by her eyes she’s bored beyond belief.”
“You’d better watch yourself. I expect her family wouldn’t approve.”
“Got to be discreet—learned that from you, you know.”
“Discretion, my dear Jack, was not invented by me.”
“You know what I mean.”
“No.”
“Dash it, you’ve got to. Bell Townsend, ain’t you?”
It was obvious that Bangston had been drinking, and Bell was in no mood for maudlin admiration. “Take my advice, and leave the girl alone,” he said coldly.
“Odd—coming from you. Always wanted to be just like you, you know.”
“Then you are a bloody fool.”
The younger man blinked. “Coming it too strong,” he protested weakly. “Every man wants to be what you are.”
“Then they are all fools also.” Bell turned away and walked to the window. “You want to know what I am, Jack?” he asked rhetorically. “I am a man corrupted by his face. I have been given so much in this life that I am utterly empty.”
“But you are Bellamy Townsend. Dash it, but—”
Bell swung around at that. “Maybe I am tired of being Townsend,” he said almost angrily. “Maybe I am sick of what I did—did you never think of that? What do you see, Jack? Look at me—I am thirty years old, and I am a sot—an utter sot!” He ran his fingers through his disordered hair, then fixed the young man with sober gray eyes. “And I am a coward.”
“Huh? But—”
“A coward, Jack—a complete coward. You behold a man who has run from everything.”
“I say, but you are being deuced hard on yourself, ain’t you?”
“No. I am not nearly hard enough. If I had any spine, any nerve at all, I should be in England right now.” And as he said it, he knew it for the truth. “Even the worst of rakes must reform sometime, or they die with nothing. And you know what, Jack? I don’t want any of it anymore. I don’t want any more faithless beauties. I don’t want to take anything that’s not mine anymore.”
“You in some sort of queer mood?” Bangston asked, bewildered.
“Maybe. But I am going home.”
“What?”
“Home. England.”
“But you cannot!” Bangston caught himself. “That is, well, I always knew you wasn’t hanging out after the likes of Lady Volsky, but—”
Bell walked to where a decanter of wine sat on a sideboard. Unstoppering it, he poured a glass, then handed it to Jack Bangston.
“Ain’t you joining me?” the younger man asked curiously.
“No. My salad days are over, Jack.”
“Now I know you are in some sort of queer start—I know it.” He gulped from the glass. “Damme, but what are you going to do in England?”
“Pay the piper.” Bell’s gray eyes rested on Bangston for a long moment before he added evenly, “And then I shall hope to wed Katherine Volsky, if she will have me.”
She took her seat at the table and wiped her damp hands on the skirt of her demure dark blue dress. Hamilton had insisted on examining her wardrobe himself, and he’d chosen it, not knowing it was a reminder of Bell Townsend and her flight into Poland. He only knew that it made her look like an incredibly improbable siren. He’d even insisted she wear no rouge, that her hair be pulled back severely, making her look even older than she was. Finally, she’d had enough and retorted that if she looked too awful, they would not blame Alexei for anything.
Three churchmen, all in robes, filed in to sit across from her. It was to be a preliminary, informal meeting to determine how the charges would be presented to the bishop—or in this case, to the Archbishop of Canterbury, given that Alexei Volsky was a Russian count. The clergyman across from her, a cathedral dean, studied her critically for a moment, and she wondered if he thought it a miracle that Volsky had noted her at all.
Papers were shuffled, and throats were cleared. On one side of her, her brother reached to squeeze her hand. On the other, the Honorable Patrick Hamilton, a renowned younger son, sat, his face utterly inscrutable. If a man ever played his cards close, as her father used to advise, it was Mr. Hamilton.
The dean read for a moment, then coughed. “I collect this is Katherine, Countess Volsky?”
“Yes.”
“Are you represented here?” he inquired, knowing she was. Patrick Hamilton did not show up for anything as a spectator, that she had ever heard.
“Yes. Mr. Hamilton is with me,” she answered. “And my brother, Baron Winstead also.”
“An irregular business—very irregular,” he murmured, turning his attention down the table. “Is Count Volsky in attendance?”
“Reverend, he remains in Russia—at the czar’s court, but he is represented by myself,” a gentleman in a dark green coat said.
“And you are? For my records, you understand.”
“William Berry, Reverend.”
“Yes, I see.” He looked again to Katherine. “And you do not believe there is the possibility of a reconciliation to be effected?”
“No, Reverend,” she murmured, keeping her eyes down. “I am seeking a divorce from my husband.”
“Most irregular,” another of the clergy mumbled.
“Reverend sir, it should be noted that Count Volsky is desirous of a divorce also,” Berry spoke up. “On the grounds of adultery. And,” he added, “he sees no possibility of reconciliation.”
He said it as though he had dropped a cannonball on the table. Hamilton sat silently, his expression benign, making no objection on her behalf.
“Yes, I see that,” the dean, a Peter Hervey, said. “Very well, gentlemen, as it is to be determined which grounds will be presented for the archbishop’s consideration, I should like to ask that you state your cases as effectively as possible. Er—is there a determination as to who shall speak first?”
Patrick Hamilton looked down the table, then addressed the panel, “Reverend Hervey and members of the panel, I have not the least objection to listening to Mr. Berry.”
Berry appeared almost gleeful to hear it. “I am prepared,” he declared importantly. “I shall show that Countess Volsky has committed adultery on numerous occasions, both at the count’s ancestral home of Domnya and other places.”
Hamilton set out his ink pot and a freshly sharpened pen. “Would you care to enumerate the other places, that I may write them down?”
“In due time,” Berry snapped. “But first we shall deal with Domnya.” He looked across to the dean. “You will note several sworn affidavits from Countess Volsky’s co-participants in this delicate matter.”
“May I see them?” Hamilton asked.
“Reverend Hervey, I cannot speak if I am to be continually interrupted.”
“But it is counsel’s right to see specific documents pertaining to Katherine Volsky’s guilt or innocence, is it not?” Hamilton said mildly.
“He can look at them later,” Berry protested.
“Very well, but I shall stipulate that each be noted singly and brought to the attention of all present.”
“Yes. Certainly,” Hervey agreed. “Mr. Berry?”
The man appeared peeved, but he nodded. “Very well. It is determined that on October 30,
the countess engaged in a furtive liaison of improper nature with one Boris Petrovsky, footman to Count Alexei Volsky.”
“It is alleged,” Hamilton murmured. “I pray you will note that stipulation, sirs.” He turned to Katherine. “Madame, do you know a Boris Petrovsky?”
“I didn’t know that was his name, sir. He was always called Boris, although I assume the Petrovsky must come from Alexei’s father, Count Peter Volsky.”
“Why that assumption?”
“Because it comes from a patronymic—I daresay he was born at Domnya when Alexei’s father was count,” she answered. “And as he is a serf, and therefore owned, I expect he was so named.”
“Really,” Berry complained, “this is most irregular.”
“For the court’s edification only,” Hamilton inserted smoothly.
“This is not a court!”
“But surely protocols must remain the same?” Hamilton addressed the dean.
“It would perhaps be practical, particularly since we do not entirely understand the significance of Russian names. Er—Countess, you say this Boris is a serf?”
“Yes. And a serf is a slave.”
“A formidable slave to cuckold his master,” Hamilton murmured.
“Reverend Hervey, I object most strenuously!”
“Very well. Point taken,” Patrick Hamilton told him. “Proceed. I collect you have other supporting documents?”
“There is the matter of one Bran Petrovsky, a groom, I believe.” Looking again to the dean, Berry added, “The translation of his statement indicates that this was a continuing relationship until the countess chose to desert the bed and board of her husband.”
“Did he sign the translation—or the original?”
“Both. Really—”
“May I see it?”
Hervey nodded, and one of the other men passed it to Katherine, who gave it to her solicitor. He handed it back to her without looking at it at all. “Is that Bran Petrovsky’s signature, so far as you can determine it?”
“He cannot write.”
“He cannot write?”
“No. He is a serf also, and Alexei does not allow them to be taught.”
“If he cannot write, he cannot read, I would suppose.”
Nearly apoplectic, Berry stood up. “I cannot proceed with this farce, sirs! Either I present my evidence or I leave!”
“You are presenting it,” Hamilton reminded him. “We are merely ascertaining its authenticity. “Surely this panel must agree that if a serf cannot read, he cannot know what he has signed, and if he cannot write, he cannot sign it at all.”
“Most irregular,” Dean Hervey agreed. “But that is not to say he is lying, is it? Perhaps Lady Volsky is merely saying that none of them read to serve her own interest.”
At that, Hamilton drew out a lengthy document. “You will please note this report, which was prepared for Catherine the Great, stating the deplorable conditions of the serfs. I believe you will find on page 22, approximately two inches from the bottom, where it is stated that illiteracy among the serfs is nearly universal.”
“This is preposterous! The woman’s been dead for years!”
“And, gentlemen,” Hamilton continued, unperturbed, “here is a similar report commissioned by Czar Alexander I, autocrat of all the Russias. As you will read, the conditions of the serfs are said to have worsened.”
“It does not matter what the conditions are!” Berry retorted angrily.
“It matters very much if every deposition concerning the alleged adulterous activities is taken from serfs, whose very lives depend on the whim of their master, in this case, Count Volsky himself.” Hamilton passed the second report across the table. “In a court of law, this evidence would be considered tainted by the manner of its inception.”
“Dean Hervey, I must protest!”
“Very well. Are there other, less—er—tainted documents?” Hervey inquired mildly.
“There is a statement concerning Viscount Townsend. I have a letter obtained from our embassy in Warsaw, stating that Townsend brought Lady Volsky there—nearly two and one-half months after she left her husband, sirs!” Berry declared thunderously. “Now, if that is not adultery, I am sure I do not know what is! Everyone is aware of Bellamy Townsend’s reputation, I assure you!”
There was a brief pause as Hervey read the letter, then shared it with the other two clergymen. Clearing his throat, he looked at Katherine.
“Countess, you arrived in Warsaw with Viscount Townsend?”
“Yes.”
“A considerable length of time after you left your husband?”
“Yes.”
“Were you with him all the time?”
“No. I left Domnya to flee to Alexei’s brother and sister-in-law at Omborosloe.” She had to be careful, for Hamilton had said she must not confuse the issue by discussing the Narranskys. “I was ill—I was increasing, you see—and Paul Volsky took me to Moscow to see a doctor. There was considerable swelling in my face, hands, and feet.” Looking directly at the panel across from her, she said softly, “I elected to stay in Moscow, and Paul did not object.”
“You were increasing?”
“Reverend Hervey, it is in our documents also,” Berry insisted. “If you will but look—”
“What happened to your child?” the dean asked gently.
“It was stillborn.” Tears welled in her dark eyes, making them bright. “That—and the deep snow and bad roads—is why I did not get to Warsaw until April,” she said, her voice breaking. “I’m sorry.”
“And you were with Bellamy Townsend the entire time,” Berry pointed out.
“Yes. And I should have died without him. Twice I nearly froze to death—and once I nearly bled to death.”
“Lady Volsky, my condolences,” Dean Hervey said quietly.
Hamilton was ready to make his move. “If that is all he has to present, I am prepared to speak for Countess Volsky,” he said.
“She has not explained Townsend! She cannot explain Townsend away!”
“Nor does she make the attempt. We concede that Lady Volsky fled from her husband to his brother to Moscow, and that once in Moscow, she applied to Viscount Townsend for his assistance.”
Hamilton rose to walk behind Katherine. “And because of a long-standing friendship with her brother, one which dates back to his childhood, Bellamy Townsend could not turn her away. I submit to you that, yes, Townsend’s reputation is not unspotted, sirs, but I would ask that you look at Countess Volsky, that you use your powers of imagination, if you will, and see this woman, her face swollen until her eyes nearly disappeared, her hands swollen until her wedding ring disappeared in the folds of the flesh, her feet so bloated that she could wear no shoes—” He paused dramatically. “And I would have you tell me that this woman could possibly be the object of his affection—or that she would be seeking an adulterous liaison in that condition!”
It was clearly a daunting picture.
“Gentlemen, you have only the word of a vengeful husband and his illiterate slaves to support the accusation of adultery,” he said, his voice dropping.
Berry rose at his end of the table. “We have considerably more to support our contention than Lady Volsky can present to support hers. Dean Hervey, distinguished clergy, I submit to you that the only person here or anywhere to give any evidence against Count Volsky is his wife. It is a case of her word, which Alexei Volsky emphatically denies.”
“Mr. Berry, while we have not yet deliberated, I must tell you that I do not personally see substantiation of your assertions of adultery. I would expect the archbishop to refuse to take these charges to ecclesiastical court, the dean declared.”
They were not going to give Alexei Volsky a divorce. She was not publicly an adulteress. But Hervey’s next words sent a new chill through her.
“I do not believe there are sufficient grounds for a divorce. Under the circumstances, perhaps a separation may be negotiated.”
“Count Vols
ky is prepared to accept a separation—on condition that Lady Volsky produce the child.”
“If it was stillborn—”
“Then he wishes her to prove that.”
“I suppose that is not without merit. Lady Volsky?”
“I do not want my son’s body returned to Domnya.”
The three men looked at each other, and she could sense she was losing again. She turned to appeal to Patrick Hamilton. “Please—if you could go on. Tell them I do not wish a separation. I want a divorce from Alexei Volsky.”
“As there is no evidence of the heinous charges she has made against a member of one of Russia’s finest families, I must object deeply to any presentation of lies,” Berry said. “Before I listen to anything further, I must demand to know where Alexei Volsky’s legal heir is.”
“And I cannot tell. I do not want my son buried at Domnya.”
Hamilton opened a leather folder and extricated the two pieces of paper. “In England,” he said, “the only avenue of divorce open to a woman of any class is that of incest committed by the husband. It would be very easy to believe that Lady Volsky, in a desperate attempt to leave Alexei Volsky, would use this charge to gain her freedom. However, if it please you, I would like to submit these two letters, which were sent to her, for your consideration.”
“Dean Hervey—”
But the dean had already read Viktor Volsky’s letter, and the priest beside him had Tatiana’s. Hervey looked up, his sympathy now evident in his expression.
“You will see that these are authentic—sent from Moscow to the Winstead town house in London,” Hamilton pointed out.
“Lady Volsky, who is Viktor Volsky?” Hervey asked.
“My husband’s youngest brother.”
“And Tatiana?”
“His youngest sister.”
“And who are Lexy and Lena?”
“My husband and his oldest sister.”
“Lady Volsky, I know this must be repugnant to you in the extreme, but I must ask you—Did you in truth see your husband in an indelicate situation with his own sister?”
“Yes.” She knew he wanted more than that. Sucking in her breath, she let it out slowly, before she spoke, her voice low, husky almost. “I thought I loved Alexei, and I thought he loved me. But we were wed on short acquaintance, and when I followed him to Russia, I soon discovered that it was Galena—his sister—who determined everything. She even determined whether or not he came to my bed. Everyone knew it but me. Then Tatiana told me to go to his bed. When I did, they—Alexei and Galena—were together, and they were unclothed.”
