‘Now really isn’t the best time.’
Libby was by his side, watching the terse exchange, feeling Daniil’s hand tighten around her fingers.
‘It will only take a few moments.’
Richard gave a very stiff nod and as he walked off Daniil went to follow him. Given he was holding her hand, Libby walked with them, but as they reached the entrance hall Daniil seemed to remember she was there and let go.
‘I need to speak with my father.’
‘I could come with you.’
He shot her a look that told her she had overstepped the mark and she didn’t know her place here.
‘Go to sleep. I’ll be up later.’
‘Sleep?’ Libby said. ‘People are still dancing, the party hasn’t finished...’
‘It has for us.’ Already he had gone and she stood there, trying to comprehend such a dismissal. She gave a wide, though incredulous smile as Marcus the butler came over.
‘I think I’ve just been sent to bed.’ Libby shook her head in bewilderment. One moment they had been dancing and together, the next she had been packed off to bed.
* * *
Daniil stood there as Libby flounced up the stairs and then followed his father into the dark bowels of the house—Richard’s study. As they walked in and his father took a seat at his desk Daniil remembered standing here, handing over his report cards. But he wasn’t a teenager now and he stood taller than the man who had so badly bullied him.
‘I can guess what you’re here for,’ Richard said. ‘Your mother and I have spoken at length about the inheritance—’
‘I am not here about your estate,’ Daniil interrupted, and he watched his father press his lips together as his son’s public school voice fell away and Daniil stood, menacing, challenging and defiant. ‘What you do there is your business. I’ve never had an interest in your money.’
Air whistled out of Richard’s nostrils in frustration. One of the many things that irked him was that Daniil could buy and sell him several times over.
‘The letters.’ Daniil had known exactly what he planned to say, but in the courtroom of his father’s study for a moment he felt as if he was back to being a teenager and the words did not flow. ‘I want to know—’
‘Ah, yes.’ Richard went into his desk. ‘A deal’s a deal. Though there was only one.’
Daniil frowned as his father took out an envelope. He did everything not to display need but his hand was shaking as he took it from his father. The writing was in English but it had been written by a Russian, Daniil could tell that from the curve of the letters and the numbers.
It must be from Roman!
He wanted to rip it open there and then but he just stared at it, looking at the stamps from home and the faded writing and trying to read the postmark as hope started to rise in his chest—finally he had contact with his twin.
‘When did this come?’ Daniil asked.
‘Oh, it would be five or six years ago now.’
‘What?’ Daniil growled, glad he had asked his father about the letter now, rather than earlier in the evening. If they’d had this exchange then, the only speech he would have been capable of delivering would have been his statement to the police when they arrested him, such was the temptation to lash out.
Instead, he contained it.
He still had questions.
‘Why didn’t you give me this at the time?’ Daniil asked.
‘We didn’t want you raking up the past.’
‘It’s my past,’ he said. ‘You can’t take that from me. God knows, you’ve tried, though.’ A little of his temper unleashed. ‘Why did you give it to me now?’
‘I told Lindsey it might persuade you to come.’
Did Libby know?
It was irrelevant, Daniil knew. This letter had lain hidden in a desk for years. A few weeks made no difference; he just wasn’t thinking logically now.
He wanted out.
‘Will you answer one question?’ Daniil asked, and Richard gave a nod. ‘The letters I gave you to post to my brother—were they ever sent? I’d really appreciate the truth.’
Perhaps Richard knew it might well be the last time they came face-to-face, perhaps he accepted this man would never be his son because he tapped in the final nail.
‘They weren’t sent.’
‘Can I ask why?’
‘All the advice we got was that if you were to successfully integrate...’
‘No,’ Daniil said. ‘You disposed of the advice you were given and sought puppets who would tell you what you wanted to hear.’
‘You’d be on the streets without us, Daniel, or locked up. The temper you had—’
‘Richard,’ Daniil interrupted. He would never go through the farce of calling him Father again. ‘Otyebis ot menya.’
He told his father to get the hell away from him, though rather less politely than that, and then he told him, in Russian, to stay the hell away.
He could not stand to be in a room with him a moment longer. He wanted the door between himself and his family that Libby had alluded to, their privacy, but as he walked to the stairs, unable to resist, he tore open the letter. All he could see was that it wasn’t from Roman but Sev.
It said that he was in London for one day and could they meet?
The letter had been sent five years ago!
He saw the portrait of his so-called family on the turn of the stairs and felt like ripping the picture off the wall and putting his foot through it, or calling his pilot and leaving now, but then he remembered he’d told Libby to get some sleep and tearing her from her bed in some angry display didn’t appeal.
Instead, he walked out onto a balcony and watched the partygoers leave, staring out into the black countryside as he had done so many times growing up, and finally he took out the letter and read it properly.
Hey, shishka!
Daniil’s jaw still clenched when he read that name but there was a smile, too, at the memory and he read on painfully.
I met a woman who wanted me because I was Russian; she was hung up on a guy she once slept with—Daniel Thomas.
That didn’t sound very Russian to me and so I looked him up.
You’ve done well.
I am going to be in America for a month making some rich man richer but I will be in London on the twelfth of November. I don’t know where to suggest we meet, all I know there is a palace? Midday?
I hope my writing to you doesn’t cause you embarrassment.
Sev
There was nothing about Roman, or Nikolai, no hint about their lives, and he ached to know something, anything about the past he had been forced to leave behind.
He was, though, five years too late to find out.
He looked out at the sky that was black to match his mood.
There were no stars.
Despite the warmth of the day it was now one of those crisp nights that heralded the end of summer.
The end of them?
In the same selfish way that Daniil had wanted Libby here tonight he wanted to head back to his bedroom. He wanted it to be just the two of them and the uncomplicated world that was there, but he was more than aware of his own dark mood.
George’s comment was like a worm in his ear. He tried to shrug off his cousin’s words—he knew just how poisonous he could be—and yet, as always, there was an element of truth.
How long would Libby be happy for?
How much would he put her through before that perpetual smile disappeared from her face for good?
He had no experience with relationships, no hook to hang hope on, nothing to recall. There were vivid memories of yesteryear, and look how that had worked out.
Roman had made no effort to contact him.
Neither had Nikolai.
One letter five years ago from Sev was all he had from his past.
It wasn’t much to go on. It didn’t instil the necessary confidence it would take to tell her the hollow disappointment he felt tonight.
She was surely better out of it.
CHAPTER TEN
LIBBY WASN’T SLEEPING.
As she stepped into Daniil’s old bedroom it would seem that it wasn’t just helicopters that Libby was averse to because she had the strange feeling again of the floor coming up to meet her. She sat, a touch dizzy, on the bed and wondered if maybe she’d eaten something that hadn’t agreed with her.
Or drunk something, perhaps?’
But that didn’t work because even the glass of champagne she’d taken to toast his parents had tasted bitter and she’d struggled to swallow a sip down.
She was overtired, Libby decided.
Of course she was. After all, she’d been busy with her new business and rushing around with the banks and open nights and things.
That made no sense, either, because what might seem an exhausting few weeks to some felt like a holiday to Libby—she was used to being up at six and warming up, ready to start her first dance class at eight. Rehearsals had commenced at ten, then there had been matinee and evening productions, and, even if she’d been playing the smallest of roles, it had still been well after midnight before she’d got into bed. And as well as all that she’d had to rehearse for roles she’d been understudying.
So, no, despite feeling drained, there was no real reason to be tired, or was she simply in turmoil from falling head over heels for a man who had warned her from the get-go not to get too attached?
Perhaps he should have been more specific; perhaps he should have also told her not to go and do something as foolish as to get pregnant!
Libby voiced it for the first time in her head as she lay there, staring up at the intricate plasterwork on the ceiling, and then she chided herself for her complete overreaction.
She wasn’t even late.
Well, barely.
Amenorrhea was the dancer’s curse, Libby told herself.
It just didn’t ring true tonight.
She jumped when she heard a knock at the door, knowing Daniil would never knock and wondering if Richard or Katherine was about to burst in.
There was another knock on the door.
‘Come in,’ Libby said, and as the door opened she saw that it was Marcus with a tray. She let out a sigh of relief.
‘I thought you might like some tea.’
‘I would.’ Libby smiled. ‘That’s very kind of you.’
There wasn’t just tea, there were biscuits and a slice of cake, too, as well as a jug of iced water. It was rather nice to have supplies while she was shut away!
‘Is Daniil still speaking with his father?’
‘I’m not sure,’ Marcus said, as he poured her tea, and then he gave a tight smile that spoke volumes. ‘I expect they shan’t be too long.’
‘Is it always this tense when Daniil is home?’ Libby asked, as she took her cup. Oh, she knew she was talking out of turn but she simply couldn’t help herself. She expected to be chastised or for some vague, polite, dismissive answer but the cup rattled in the saucer as Marcus, far more directly than Libby was expecting, responded.
‘It’s always this tense.’
She looked up at Marcus’s kind lined face, surprised at his indiscretion, wondering if he would retract or attempt to cover up what he’d said. She saw that he was looking directly at her, almost inviting her to speak.
‘And yet you’re staying on after your retirement?’
‘Oh, no,’ Marcus replied. ‘Sometimes we just say things to appease, though, of course, Daniil has never mastered that art.’ He looked around the room. ‘I remember the day he arrived here. I was just about to hand in my notice—the last thing I needed was another spoiled pre-teen telling me what to do—but then he arrived and...’ He shook his head. ‘Well, there was so much damage...’
Libby swallowed and then opened her mouth to speak. It hurt to hear Daniil described as that but her protest died on her lips as Marcus carried on talking. ‘Far too much damage to leave a child to deal with, especially one who spoke no English.’
It was the biggest insight she had ever had.
‘So you stayed?’
‘Yes, I chose to stay for a few weeks to ease him in and that turned into a few months, then years. I decided to leave when Daniil started university.’
‘But you didn’t?’
‘A new cook started.’ Marcus smiled and he glanced at the tray he had brought up and saw that the cake was untouched. ‘Shirley. You have no idea how many times she tried to get that cake right...’ He didn’t elaborate. ‘Of course, we’ve never told the Thomases about us—they’d have had us moved to couples accommodation on half the wage.’
‘Why are you telling me this?’ Libby was as direct as ever with her questions.
‘You asked,’ Marcus said. ‘That’s very rare around here. Anyway, suffice it to say, in a few weeks’ time Shirley and I shall retire, and it can’t come a moment too soon.’
He said no more than that, just gave a smile and wished her goodnight.
After he had gone Libby undressed and climbed into the vast bed and flicked out the side lights. Noise filtered through and she longed for the thick double-glazed windows of her little flat, which kept the sound of the buses and cars out. Here the windows were old and allowed her to listen to the guests leaving and the crunch of cars on gravel and the sound of helicopters lifting into the sky and even, at one point, Sir Richard’s voice, laughing at something someone had said and then wishing them a safe journey home.
She heard George guffaw at something and, no, her straining ears told her that Daniil wasn’t locked in conversation with them.
And she lay there, alone, and as it edged towards three in the morning she wondered if he had gone already. She didn’t know if he’d simply upped and left. Maybe he’d forgotten she was there, like some discarded bag on a train that he’d suddenly recall at midday tomorrow, and make a few half-hearted calls to retrieve.
She remembered only too well how cautious she had been when she had accepted his invitation to dinner that first night. Then she had ensured that she’d had enough money in her purse to offer an escape route.
Tonight she had none.
All she could do was wonder why he would prefer to be alone than with her.
If he was alone.
Doubts were as long and black as the shadows that were cast in the room.
Fear that she could be pregnant did not foster restful sleep. There was a need to accelerate things, to know exactly what she was dealing with, so her eyes were wide-open when, well after four, the door opened and Daniil came in.
‘Where were you?’ she said, as she listened to him undress.
‘I’ve never answered that question in my life and I don’t intend to start now.’
‘So I’m supposed to just lie here, waiting...’
‘I never asked you to wait up for me.’
It disconcerted him that she had. Daniil had assumed that Libby would have been asleep long ago. He was used to operating on his own hours and he wasn’t used to accounting for his time.
‘I hope she was worth it.’ Libby closed her eyes in regret as soon as that sentence was out. It sounded jealous, suspicious, needy, but, hell, four hours waiting for the master to return and that was exactly how she felt. ‘Were you with Charlotte?’
‘Grow up!’ Daniil said. ‘Do you really think I’ve spent the past few hours flirting with some ghost from my past? Making out with Dr Stephenson’s daughter to get my kicks...?’ His voice trailed off and she listened to him undress.
‘Is that wha
t you used to do?’ Libby asked. ‘Was she a part of your rebellion?’
‘Yep.’ Daniil’s response was blithe.
‘Any other ex-lovers here tonight?’ she asked, as she lay there bristling.
‘Many,’ Daniil answered. ‘The village pub closes at eleven—which was far too early to come back to this hellhole.’ He climbed into bed and she could feel the cool come in under the sheets and it dawned on her that he had spent all that time outside.
Rather than be here with her.
‘All I know is...’ Libby started, but didn’t finish.
‘All you know is what?’ he said, pushing her to complete whatever it was she had been about to say.
‘Nothing,’ she admitted. ‘I have no idea where we are or where we’re going...’ She turned and looked at him. He was lying on his back, staring up at the ceiling, with his hands behind his head, and though sharing a bed he might just as well have been in another room.
‘Nowhere,’ Daniil said. ‘I told you the night we met—we’re going nowhere.’
‘Bastard.’
‘You have no idea the bastard I can be, Libby.’
‘I’m starting to find out,’ she said. ‘I don’t understand what’s happened. I know that something has, but rather than tell me you’d leave me lying here, wondering where the hell you were.’
‘I was out on the balcony, if you must know.’
‘I want to know.’
She was demanding. It was all or nothing with Libby—that was how she lived her life. With Daniil she felt she was supposed to hold back, to restrain herself, to feign nonchalance, but that wasn’t who she was.
‘Did you know anything about a letter for me?’
‘Yes, about your inheritance, I think...’ Libby was vague.
‘Actually, no, it was a letter to me.’
‘Well, how would I know that?’ she said.
‘Go to sleep,’ he said.
‘If only it were that easy. I’m sorry if I’m not laid-back enough for you. I apologise if I can’t sleep the sleep of the dead when I’ve no idea where you are.’
No one had ever waited up for him.
Occasionally Marcus had let him in if he’d had arrived home late minus his keys. That was the sum of concern in this place.
The Price of His Redemption Page 12
