The Diamond Secret (18 page)

Sergei and he had agreed that if by some chance the empress didn't believe she was Anastasia, they'd give Nadya what was left of Sergei's money. It was at least enough to buy a train ticket back to Yekaterinburg and for her to rent an apartment, though she'd probably do better to stay in Paris and look for work as a waitress or a maid since she had experience in those jobs.

What a choice that would be, he thought,
to be either a grand duchess or a maid.
There was nothing wrong with being a maid or a waitress; it was honest work. Nadya had worked hard before. She could do it again. But still...

The brilliant lights of Paris were illuminating the night sky by the time Ivan neared the center of town. The famed Eiffel Tower, fully lit, dominated the view. How romantic it would be to share this sight
183
with Nadya, he thought and then quickly upbraided himself.
Be done with it once and for all. Stop thinking of her! You'll never again share anything together.

Ivan was traveling along the Seine's stone-paved embankments. On his left was the black river with its shimmering reflections. On his right was a stone wall with steps that appeared at intervals, leading up to the sidewalk and street overhead. These steps also led to bridges that crossed the river, connecting the formal and expensive Right Bank, which he was on, with the more Bohemian, arty Left Bank, where he was headed.

Ever-quickening footsteps sounded an alert that someone was walking behind him. Glancing over his shoulder, Ivan saw no one--which meant someone had ducked into the shadow of the wall or was in the darkness under the last bridge he'd passed.

With every sense now hyperalert, Ivan continued on. Once again he detected footsteps. Was he about to be robbed?

If Ivan could make it up a staircase to the street, it would be more public and safe. But he'd have to pass under another bridge before he got to the next set of steps. There he'd be hidden from the city's glowing lights: a perfect spot for a mugger to overtake him. Ivan could defend himself well enough if the attacker wasn't carrying a weapon, but that was a risk he preferred not to take. Better to stay in the illumination of the street lamps where, if he were attacked, he might be seen and receive some help from the street above.

Ivan walked on, slowing his steps. Then, abruptly, he stopped and turned quickly.

The man with the twisted scar faced him, a bowler hat pulled low over his eyes, his long black coat unnecessary in the warm night.

Ivan advanced aggressively toward him. "What do you want?" he demanded. "Why are you following me?"

"I want what was promised to me," the man growled. "I want the necklace."

"What necklace?"

"You know the one."

"I don't. You've followed me all the way from Russia for a necklace? Why would you think I have some necklace?"

"Because you have the girl," he snarled.

"Nadya?"

The scarred man's sniggering laugh reminded Ivan of every unsavory thing he'd ever known. "You know that's not her name," the scarred man insisted. He drew a small revolver from beneath his coat and pointed it at Ivan. "I was about to grab her myself, but you beat me to it. Hand over the necklace. I saw you come from the estate. I know you've collected the reward."

Ivan was curious as to what necklace the man was talking about, but the gun pointing at his chest made him disinclined to stand around discussing it. Instead, Ivan's instinct to survive trumped all other concerns.

Lowering his head, Ivan charged the man, butting him hard in the stomach with the crown of his own forehead.

The man grunted as the air was knocked from his lungs. With arms windmilling for balance, he staggered backward toward the Seine.

The earsplitting blast of his revolver cracked the night as the man toppled into the black golden-flecked river.

Ivan was thrown back against the wall by the force of the gunshot. Sliding down the wall, he rammed the palm of his hand into the wound in his chest to stem the gushing blood. With peering eyes, he tried to locate the man in the river, but he couldn't see anything but black and red before he lost consciousness.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
  

Revelations in the Night

Nadya sat with Empress Marie in her box seat in the balcony of the Paris Opera House. She leaned over and tapped the old woman's ring-laden hand to get her attention. "This music is so familiar," she whispered. "Would Anastasia have known it?"

The empress eyed her without emotion. "What do
you
think?"

"I don't know. But I've heard this before and not at The Happy Comrades."

"I daresay not," the empress said drily.

Turning to face front again, Nadya was aware that there was a buzz of interest sweeping the audience. With increasing frequency, heads turned around as people tried to steal a glimpse of her in the box. Several handsome young men caught her eye and waved. One even winked at her!

For the evening's event, Nadya had selected a gown that was not as fancy as the one she'd worn to the previous night's party but that was elegant just the same. It was a floor-length, strapless black dress with a sheer black ruffle running across the top. She'd swept back her short hair with a jeweled hair band that the empress had loaned her for the evening, along with a fringed black shawl, to keep off any evening breeze, and elbow-length black gloves. Attired like this, Nadya felt beautiful and worldly.

What would the patrons of The Happy Comrades think if they could see her now? What would Mrs. Zolokov think? Oddly enough, Nadya's new role as an elegant lady did not feel alien to her. In fact, she felt strangely comfortable with her surroundings and her new appearance. When these flirty young men tried to get her attention, she felt confident enough to smile politely and then look away, knowing they would still be staring at her.

Nadya already had met a few of the men at dinner, where they had vied to sit near her. Finding a replacement for Ivan would be no problem among this group of exiled Russian aristocrats. They mostly were the sons of counts, dukes, barons, and princes.

At dinner she had sat between the empress and a plump Russian woman in a red dress, Baroness Kakofsky. "I heard from Irina Dubinsky that Count Kremnikov and a friend of his escorted your relative from Moscow," she'd said.

The empress had nodded. "Tell me, Baroness Kakofsky, what is it I have heard about Count Kremnikov lately? I simply can't remember. Can you?"

Baroness Kakofsky had thought but shook her head. "He
was
the subject of recent conversation, but I no longer can recall why," she'd replied and then twittered with laughter. "Last week's gossip always goes right out of my head. The new gossip simply sweeps it away." Tilting her head, she'd thought again. "Kremnikov was thought to be dead, wasn't he?"

"Was he?" the empress had countered, raising an eyebrow with interest.

"Someone named Kremnikov was supposedly dead, I seem to recall," the baroness had said with a shrug. "Oh well. I'll make inquiries and let you know."

Now Nadya sat at the opera, letting the strangely familiar music wash over her without really paying attention to the story. Instead, she focused on what life would be like as Anastasia Romanov, allowing herself to feel how good it all would be.

At intermission, Baroness Kakofsky hurried over to Nadya and the empress. "I've found the answer to your query," she reported excitedly. "Kremnikov's wife, Elana, and their son were spotted by someone over at the Cluny medieval monastery. I don't know who reported it, but the person said Elana believes Kremnikov is dead. She's quite penniless now, you know, but she's working for her keep over there."

"Elana is alive!" Nadya cried, gasping and staggering back a step. "I have to let Sergei know. Is there a telephone in this theater?"

"In the ticket office, perhaps," the empress suggested. "Is their hotel here on the Right Bank?"

Nadya shook her head. "I'm not sure." All she knew was that Ivan had said they would be staying at a hotel across from the Luxembourg Gardens.

"That's the Left Bank," said the baroness, "and it's not wired for telephone yet."

"Then I have to go there!"

"You don't even know where you're going," the empress pointed out.

"How many hotels can there be across from the Gardens?" Nadya asked.

"Quite a few," Baroness Kakofsky assured her.

Nadya already was backing away from them, heading for the door. "I'll find him. Don't worry."

"Have you cab fare?" Empress Marie asked, digging into her clutch bag.

"No, thank you," Nadya said, accepting the French francs. With the money bunched in her hand, she ran out front, where she found several idling taxis waiting to transport the operagoers. "Luxembourg Gardens, please," she requested as she slid into one of them.

"At this time of night?" the driver questioned.

"Please, just hurry," she urged him. All her anger and feelings of betrayal had flown when she heard this news about Sergei's wife and son. How could she stay angry with Sergei when he had been so kind? She could be indignant again tomorrow if she chose, but now it was more important that he know his family was close. If anyone knew the ache of being without one's family, it was Nadya.

It wasn't long before the driver pulled up to the Gardens. Paying him quickly, she hurried from the taxi into the nearest hotel. At the third hotel where she inquired, Nadya found Count Kremnikov and Ivan Navgorny listed in the register.

Hurrying into the wrought-iron lift, she took it to the fourth floor and was soon banging on Sergei and Ivan's door. "Hold on, Ivan," Sergei called from within. When Sergei opened the door, his face lit up with delighted surprise. "Nadya! How beautiful you look! I'm so happy to--"

She rushed in, grabbing his arm. "The Monastery de Cluny. The driver told me it's not very far from here." She pulled a scrap of paper from her glove on which she'd scribbled the directions the driver had given her. "Here, go here. Right now!"

"What's going on?" he asked, confused. "Is Ivan with you?"

"He came to see me but left at dusk," she replied, not wanting to relate the details of their bitter meeting.

"I hope nothing's happened to him," Sergei fretted.

"Oh, he's fine, just rude and thoughtless. No doubt he's out prowling the Parisian nightlife in search of a good time," she said.

"Possibly," Sergei allowed.

"But listen," she said. "You must go. I heard a rumor tonight. Elana and your son may be at the Cluny."

Sergei drew a sharp breath. "Who told you this?"

"A Russian woman named Baroness Kakofsky."

"That horrible old harpy! How does she know?"

"She heard it somewhere. That's the news that Empress Marie was trying to recall."

Sergei moved around the room as though not sure which way to head first. Nadya's words had thrown him off balance, as she had thought they might.

"Be careful not to come upon her too suddenly. Elana thinks you're dead," she warned him.

"I'm dead?"

"Go! Go to them," Nadya urged impatiently.

"I don't know if I'm ready," he fretted, raking his hands through his short hair in a frantic attempt to comb it.

Nadya scooped his velvet jacket off a chair and put it in his hands. "You're just nervous. Now go!" she said, pulling him toward the open door.

"Leave Ivan a note. Tell him where I've gone," Sergei called over his shoulder as he hurried down the hall, his pace increasing with every step.

"I will. Good luck!" Nadya shouted after him.

That's the difference between them, she thought with a sigh, watching Sergei disappear into the lift.
He doesn't want Ivan to worry, while Ivan couldn't care less about anyone but himself.

Turning back to the room, Nadya searched for something to write with. The nearly dry jar of ink was on the desk, but she saw no paper. Surely the front desk would have some. Closing the door behind her, Nadya went down in the lift to ask. "I need some paper to write a note, please," she requested of the young clerk at the desk. "The note's to Mr. Navgorny in Room 410. If I leave it with you, would you give it to him when he comes in?"

The man's eyes darted to a paper on the desk in front of him. He said something to her in French.

"Pardon?" she inquired. "I don't speak your language."

He handed the paper he'd been looking at to Nadya. "La police a apporté cet article," he said. "Elle regarde n'ce importe qui qui pourrait connaître cet homme. Je pense que c'est Monsieur Navgorny."

Nadya looked down at the paper and gripped the desk in shock. It showed a sketch of a badly injured man lying on a table. Below it someone had quickly printed the name Ivan Navgorny.