by Eliza Lloyd
“You have my word. You can also be assured I will repay this debt to you.”
“Is that what you think it is?” Mark asked.
Dane pursed his lips for a moment. “What it is and what I think it is are very likely two different things. For me it is a debt of honor. You allowed me to redeem myself in Christina’s eyes, and with my child, which in turn allowed me to redeem myself to the world.”
“I give you leave to try then.”
Dane nodded and Mark departed, glad to be on his way. Why had he come? Did he still need forgiveness? Or had the matter resolved itself? Had karma actually balanced the bad decisions against the good outcome?
Was karma a punishment? Or just a balancing of forces? He felt the punishment keenly, with the loss of Katrina. In spite of Christina’s lack of help, she had hit a sensitive spot.
It was this particular mistress who’d set him adrift.
Katrina had become more than his mistress. She was a friend, one with whom Mark could reveal secrets, or reveal nothing and get a sense she understood even his silences.
There was nothing in front of him but emptiness. Even the thought of another mistress brought no comfort. He did not want another mistress. He wanted Katrina.
He reined his horse to a halt and turned toward Katrina’s townhouse. He owed her something—a proper goodbye or perhaps a parting gift. He owed himself to find out where she was and why she had departed without a word. And that she was in good health after the incident.
And he owed Katrina those few words that made partings easier.
When he arrived, Mark was welcomed inside by the servant and his card was whisked away on a salver. He hoped Katrina would receive him. He half expected Peter Klee, offering excuses.
There were several trunks stacked in the foyer, causing him further anxiety about Katrina’s intentions. He hadn’t really believed she’d left London. Was he wrong about this too?
Lord Klee entered the room and gave his bow. “Lord Compton,” he said. Ivan, Katrina’s oldest son, appeared in proper English attire but looked every inch a north man—lean and blond, with bones that would support a tall young man and features that would mature into a fierce-looking warrior. His gaze was a piercing dark purple, much like Katrina’s and the youngest boy, Sergei.
“Lord Klee, pleased to make your acquaintance.”
“And I yours. The footman said you wished to see my mother. I regret to tell you she is not in residence.”
Did he know? Or suspect?
“I’m sorry to hear that. May I ask where she is? I have business to conclude with her.”
“She will be in Russia until this spring.”
Mark straightened, his brows dropped in contemplation of such unexpected news. Six months? Was that spring in Russia? Or spring in England? Six months might be optimistic on his part.
He could scarce believe it. Katrina leaving her children? Not the Katrina he knew.
He hardened his emotions and his reactions. Evidently, Katrina meant it when she said their affair was over. If he could just speak to her, but alas, that small wish would be impossible to accomplish for many months. And so much could change in the meantime.
“And she left you in England? Alone?” Mark asked.
Ivan smiled, seemingly eager to please. The boy’s gaze was assessing, his head tilted in perusal. “Our guardian is here with us.”
“Peter Klee?” At Ivan’s nod, Mark said, “I see.”
“We leave for Surrey tomorrow, where we will spend the winter. Perhaps there is something with which I can help?” He stood with his hands behind his back. Katrina still saw him as a child, but the young boy in front of Mark had all the marks of manhood. When she got back in six months, she wouldn’t recognize her son.
Six months, Mark thought.
Would she recognize him in that length of time? What if she found another suitor? One with her history and family connections? Would Katrina have forgotten him?
He didn’t want to think about it. But was he not in the same position? One of freedom? Could another woman garner his attention? Another mistress? A wife?
“She is visiting family, as has been her plan for many months,” Ivan said, filling the uncomfortable emptiness between them. “I shouldn’t think there is a need to worry.”
“No. It’s just—Russia is a fair distance away,” Mark said.
“I told her the same thing.” Ivan smiled again, innocence suffusing his expression and reminding Mark of Katrina’s love and concern for her children.
“Well then.”
“She mentioned you. Before she left.” Ivan’s reserve was similar to his mother’s—not cold but deliberate. Mark was being weighed in the balances.
“Oh?”
“In the vaguest way. Mother believes I am naïve, but I saw the change in her. Perhaps she would like to receive correspondence from you.” He reached into his jacket and pulled out a folded note. One he had prepared beforehand? The boy knew.
Opening it in front of her son seemed a bit desperate, so he tucked it in his own jacket, to read later.
“My lord,” he said, and nodded. “Good day, and thank you.”
It was a strange thing in London, that rite of passage from man to noble. In Ivan Klee’s case, he’d been a noble long before he’d been a man and somehow, he’d transformed with grace and substance. Katrina would be proud.
Just as any parent would be of well-raised sons.
Chapter Eleven
A chord of longing plucked inside Katrina’s memory. She’d experienced it several times since she’d returned to Russia. Oh, and maybe memory was the wrong word. It was driven by the scent of certain meat spices or the tula gingerbread baking in the kitchen, and now, the faint breeze stirring behind the curtain, hinting at the sort of cold which froze one’s nostrils together.
Yes, if she closed her eyes she could see Papa laughing as he held both her small hands in his large gloved ones, skating backward over a frozen pond. Her nose must have been blood red for it protruded from beneath a woolen scarf, blue and white, she thought, while she screamed in combined terror and excitement. Her teeth had chattered and, yes, her nose seemed to freeze, stopping the cold air from reaching her lungs.
Aunt Raisa tcha’d as she knitted, a hint of displeasure over a missed pearl or stitch.
Katrina glanced over her shoulder. “Aunt, what is the word for pond in Russian?” When she heard the word, she muttered, “Yes,” and returned to her mulling.
Raisa Angerstein was Katrina’s closest relative in St. Petersburg, the only living sister of her father, and she’d welcomed Katrina with open arms, in spite of the lack of preparation for her arrival. She knew she’d be welcomed—wasn’t that a familial requirement?
She’d been six years old when they’d immigrated to England. She’d been allowed to stand at the ship’s rail, holding fast to her mother’s hand. Full of fear, chilled to the bone, she’d shaken uncontrollably. Had she shed tears? She didn’t remember. They’d made the journey to be with Grandfather, a man who lived only in stories and sketchy reminiscence.
Strange and sad, the recollections the cold pulled from her past.
There had been three brothers and a younger sister who’d all passed on—aunts and uncles who’d all lived without Katrina ever having known them well. Regular letters and occasional special gifts weren’t the same as residing with her family.
But seeing her father reflected in Raisa’s expression brought a new pain to Katrina’s heart that had nothing to do with memory and everything to do with home—and how she’d been torn between two worlds.
That certain place where everything felt warm and cozy, albeit a little unfamiliar. Her memories, those of a six-year-old, were hazy and full of recollections of her parents. It had been so long since she’d been in Russia. Had she allowed herself to paint a picture prettier than reality?
Was the strangling hold of ennui due to her forced return to Russia and her inevitable and painful separation from Ma
rk Turnbow? It must be.
It shouldn’t be.
She had hoped for this return trip for many years, well before knowing Mark. But thoughts of him lingered, tearing at her loyalties.
Katrina sighed, knowing what it was she wanted. She blew a quick breath against the cold glass and watched the fog spread in a circle. The fog turned crystalline, forming an odd shape. She could change her mood drastically if she stuck her tongue against the glass.
Ah, it was a distraction anyway. She smiled. At last.
The weather outside was anything but warm. Winter had fallen with a vengeance a week ago and the snow covered the streets to the knees in many places. Horses plodded along, straining against the added weight, plums of their hot breath spewed in great heaves; the powdery snow sprays launched even higher by their giant hooves. Two children stalked along in the broken track, shoulders hunched, burrowed inside their woolen coats, hats and gloves.
“Dearest, come away from the window. You’ll catch your death,” Aunt Raisa said.
Katrina pulled her shawl closer. Cold air stole through little cracks along the windowpane, showing her breath in heated little bursts. She reached out and scratched a capital M in the crusty glaze.
“It hasn’t snowed like this in England for nearly ten years. I’d forgotten how dramatic a scene it can make.”
“Return to Russia and you can enjoy such a scene every winter.”
Katrina laughed, then allowed the thick curtain to fall back in place. “No, I think the weather is only confirmation I should stay as far from Russia as possible.” After her penance was over, Peter Klee would have no further say in her destiny. Her being here was a way to prove to Peter she was outwardly sorry, but she wasn’t sorry. Not in the least.
But who besides Mark could understand the giddy lust that had burst between them?
“One gets used to it. It helps to have a roaring fire and a lavish library,” her aunt said.
Or three children to keep her entertained and watchful.
And a lover to keep her warm at night.
Katrina tried to think only of the day she was living and not about what she had left behind. Two months had passed with stunning swiftness, partly because she’d coldly and efficiently blocked Mark’s name, his face and his words. And his touch. Warm bricks in her bed weren’t the same as a passionate lover.
By the time she returned to London, would he have found another woman or possibly be married?
Did Mark think about her at all?
Aunt Raisa and Katrina heard the tap at the sitting room door, and a servant entered carrying a small, round salver. There were several letters and notes, which Raisa plucked up and fanned through.
“Dear, there is a letter for you.”
“From England?” She had received only a few letters from her sons, all short, uninformative missives that told her nothing of what she wanted to know. Ivan mentioned that he’d shot three brace of black grouse. Claud had signed his name. And dear Sergei said he loved her. Twice.
“No, no.” Raisa flipped it from side-to-side.
Katrina accepted it with a strange lack of curiosity, then tossed it to a mahogany sideboard. The only letters she wanted would be properly stamped from London.
“Do you think they will postpone the winter festival?” Katrina wasn’t sure she wanted to attend. Raisa had been shuffling her around St. Petersburg, to this ball and that musicale, all in the hopes of inducing Katrina to stay.
“My dear, it has stormed nearly every year on this day since my childhood, but it has never been cancelled. We will bundle in our best furs and dazzle every man who bothers to attend.” Aunt Raisa had never married, so it was rather humorous to hear her plotting to attract potential suitors. Or was she determined to see her niece ensnared into a marriage that would mean her permanent return to St. Petersburg? Katrina wondered what Peter Klee would do, if such a circumstance occurred.
She hadn’t thought of that! As their guardian, would Peter exercise control by demanding the children stay in England? No! She wasn’t going to fall prostrate at some man’s feet in the short time she was staying in Russia. She would remain single and alone the rest of her life if marriage meant being ripped from her children by a vindictive guardian.
Her Russian blood boiled at the thought.
Katrina was wildly torn, her emotions running roughshod over her intellect. She would be home soon. She must enjoy these days with her extended family. Who knew when she would ever return to Russia? Considering her longstanding plans, she was bemused by the state of weariness that gripped her. Perhaps it was only because she had been forced into this situation. Katrina’s real hope had been to share her country and her heritage with her boys. Peter had stolen that small gift from her.
She settled next to Raisa, tucking a thick, woolen lap robe over her legs. “I haven’t skated in years…maybe ten years now. It was on the Thames.” Samuel had taken them to the river, that year without a summer. Ivan was just old enough to skate on his own, but he clung to each of them in turn, laughing, red-cheeked and so sweet. “Hopefully I won’t embarrass myself.”
Going to the festival wasn’t going to reduce the longing to return to England, but Aunt Raisa insisted they attend. Well, it was one way to endure the passage of time and to quell the ache she experienced each day and explained away each night.
“It is impossible to forget how to skate. You are not to worry. Someone will be there to catch you if you stumble.” Aunt Raisa must have understood, because she patted Katrina’s hand in sympathy.
Later, she dressed for the evening, rolling on two layers of wool stockings instead of her usual silks. Over her stockings, she slipped on her leather boots and laced them tight. The green woolen skirt and jacket fit well and matched the coat with the black fur collar and cuffs. She carried her gloves, scarf and hat down the stairs, feeling stiff with all the layers. And she was supposed to ice skate, trapped as she was?
If she could keep to her feet, perhaps some dashing Cossack could push her around the ice while her arms flailed. Or maybe she would remember how to skate, light of foot and elegant, whirling around enticing men willy-nilly.
However, it was more likely her second cousin twice removed, Stephan, would be there to bother her. He believed his antics were enduring and affectionate. In truth, he was far too insistent about certain intimate matters, her being a widow and all; he being a jackass, claiming the right of kinship.
She tolerated his overzealous attentions, because he treated every unmarried woman the same way. Not the virgins and marriage-minded, heaven forbid—those he assiduously avoided. However, had any woman turned to him and said yes, Stephan would have disappeared to Siberia.
He’d tried to kiss her in a darkened hallway at their last meeting. She’d dodged his advance by ducking under his arm and hurrying to the end of the hallway where there was light and safety. Stephan had laughed, the echo following her. Perhaps it was just a Russian mannerism, overtly affectionate and suggestive.
At the bottom of the carved staircase, a footman appeared, carrying a wooden box. Metal skates with leather straps poked out. While they were undoubtedly serviceable, Katrina already imagined the sinister toe-points and thin blades conspiring to embarrass her.
“Madam, the carriage will be ready in a few minutes.”
“Is it still snowing?”
“Only a bit.”
“And Aunt Raisa?” Just as Katrina mentioned her name, Raisa appeared at the top of the stairs dressed in a bright blue wool and a priceless white Crown sable outer coat. She held white leather gloves and a matching sable hat. She might yet trap an eligible suitor. “Oh, there you are.”
“And where else would I be?” At the bottom of the stairs, Raisa patted Katrina’s cheek. “You will be the belle of the ball tonight.”
“The ball? I thought we were just skating.”
Raise clucked her tongue. “Oh, no, my dear. Skating will be the least of what will happen tonight. You will see.”
St. Petersburg was built around a maze of natural lakes, rivers and ponds that drained into the Neva River and filled the Baltic Sea. Alexander’s Pond, located in a spacious and groomed private park near the edge of the city, was layered with ice, while patches of snow filled the rounded edges and an occasional puff of flakes skittered across the center. Bonfires were lit here and there, but already the ice held numerous skaters from the youngest child to the oldest grandparent, all seemingly impervious to the cold.
Katrina shuddered, then stomped her feet to keep her blood from congealing in her veins.
Aunt Raisa had already found a bench and a servant assisted with the fastening of her skates. For all of Raisa’s bluster about the hardiness of Russian stock, Katrina had noticed the crate of survival supplies that another servant had packed for the evening. Inside, copper hot water bottles covered with knitted warmers, two vessels of steaming black coffee and another of hot chocolate along with a flask containing vodka. Warm knishes, blini and pelmeni were wrapped in a linen cloth. They would not freeze or starve.
“Come, Katrina. There is no time to dawdle,” Raisa said.
“We have all night.”
“Start as you mean to go on. Wait much longer and you will convince yourself you cannot skate and the weather is too bitter.”
The wooden benches were already filled with young men tying on their skates and then boisterously pushing and shoving as they leapt on to the solid, cold surface and skillfully circled the slow and less confident. It was all done in an effort to impress the young ladies who skated arm-in-arm with circumspect enthusiasm. Of course, they noticed the boys.
As Katrina took a seat near her aunt, one near a burning fire, she noticed many of her new friends and her aunt’s confidantes also enjoying the cold, dark evening. She may as well skate. It would keep her warm and busy.
“Good eve, ladies.” Stephan had found them and reached for Raisa, kissing her gloved hand with some chivalry, somehow not sneezing from the burst of fur tickling at his nose.
“Where is your father, pup?” Raisa asked.
