As the fine summer evening deepened into night, a fog drifted in upon the city from the Neva. Wraithlike, it clung to the cobbled streets and sidewalks and wove through the alleys, so that a man venturing out at that late hour appeared like some grotesque caricature from a dream, his hands and feet shrouded in the mist.
Basil Anickin, leaving the Fedorcenko’s family at their home after the party, had availed himself of the offer of their coach and had the driver take him to a tea shop on Nevsky Prospect. There he thanked the driver, entered the building, waited until the coach had driven from sight, and then exited again. He walked the remainder of the distance to his true destination.
He stood in the shadows across the street from the barracks of the Royal Guard. Ignoring the mist and the cold, he waited.
He should have felt ecstatic over Katrina’s declaration. And to be sure, he did feel a certain euphoria that the beautiful daughter of the powerful Fedorcenko clan should want him.
The moment he had laid eyes on her he realized he wanted her more than his very soul. In fact, some of his acquaintances would accuse him of selling his soul for the sake of this aristocratic woman. And he could not help despising himself for it. But the passion, the love he felt could not be denied or ignored. He would have Katrina Fedorcenko, and he would not sacrifice his only other passion—the destruction of the hated Romanov regime and the government it fostered.
But whatever elation Basil Anickin might have felt at Katrina’s avowal of love was dulled by the nagging interference of one man.
Scant though his experience may have been in matters of the heart, Basil was nobody’s fool. He had seen Katrina’s eyes stray to Count Remizov whenever he was present. The night of her coming out, he had noticed her eyes scanning the crowd, and he had seen the light in them when they fell on the count!
A more secure man might not have given such trivialities a second thought. Her attentiveness should have been satisfying enough.
But Basil was no such man. Katrina’s hidden glances in the count’s direction had disturbed and nagged at him. And the scene he had witnessed in the garden tonight added fuel to the fires of his passion. True, he had caught only the tail end of their conversation. But if it was not a lover’s quarrel, it was something very close. When he had come upon Dmitri unexpectedly, he saw the unguarded look in the count’s eyes—the look of pain that comes only from love. Basil had worn such a look himself a time or two.
Whether Katrina denied it or not, Count Remizov stood in the way of whatever Basil and Katrina might have together. And thus, Remizov must be dealt with.
Basil knew Dmitri by reputation only, for the count traveled in different circles and lived a different lifestyle than the intense young lawyer. In many ways Dmitri represented most of what Basil hated in life. His aristocracy, his social connections, his military commitment tying him to the crown . . . and that was just on a political level.
On a more personal level, Count Remizov’s winning, charismatic personality was in every way the antithesis of Basil’s. His reputation with women ignited Basil’s ire. Although the prestige of his family name, along with the family fortune, had waned considerably since his father’s death several years ago, Dmitri had been counted as one of the most eligible and sought-after bachelors in St. Petersburg—that is, until his recent engagement. Basil knew Dmitri’s type; his amorous ways would not be restrained by marriage.
And it infuriated Basil that this man, who could have a dozen other women, would toy with the affections of the one woman Basil loved. He had barely been able to contain his seething rage when he had seen the two of them together that evening. It did not matter that moments later Katrina had declared her love for him. It did not matter that soon enough Remizov would be safely married to another. What mattered was that Basil’s place in Katrina’s heart be ever secure. He could never be sure of it as long as a rival such as Dmitri Remizov remained in the way.
As Basil stood within sight of the barracks, he pondered what benefit would come of a confrontation with the count. He had no solid idea, and, moreover, he had no idea what kind of confrontation this would in fact turn out to be. Would he kill Remizov? The idea was not altogether repugnant. He had killed before. But those incidents had been crimes of honor, or principle. Could he kill for passion, for jealousy? Motive hardly mattered if he became ruled by that inner demon of rage that sometimes overwhelmed him. He had also killed under the influence of that unpredictable creature.
More than likely it would be enough simply to thrash the count about a bit—to batter those good looks, and let him know how unwise it would be for him to pursue Princess Katrina in the future.
He rubbed his hands together, blew in them once or twice, and waited.
Basil was fairly certain he had arrived here before the count, for the Fedorcenkos had been among the first guests to depart. As guest of honor, it was not likely that Remizov would leave until the party was over. But if for some reason he missed the count tonight, there would definitely come another time.
The time went by slowly. Basil let his thoughts trail back to the ride home with the Fedorcenkos. He was certain Katrina had said nothing to her parents about the seriousness of their love. After their mutual pledge of this evening, marriage was the next natural step. He and Katrina would have to choose the most opportune time to make such an announcement to the prince and princess. He doubted they would greet the news with joy. Prince Fedorcenko had been obviously perturbed with his daughter during the coach ride to their home. The look in his eye said more than his few words, which he had likely restrained in deference to Basil’s presence. One reference only had he made about his daughter’s “brassy behavior.” And it was not exactly an idle observation, for Katrina had been more than demonstrative during the evening, laughing and dancing almost wildly, and clinging to Basil in a fashion that, had he not been the delighted object of her attention, would have raised even his own eyebrows.
Basil knew Prince Fedorcenko would not be quick to give willing blessing to a proposed marriage between his daughter and Basil Anickin, regardless of his own esteem for his father the doctor. The man was an ex-serf, and that alone was far more than sufficient cause to oppose the union.
Fedorcenko, however, may well cease to be a force to be reckoned with at all, thought Basil with a grim smile. He was too close to the crown for his own good. Sooner or later he might well fall prey to the uncontrollable political forces now flooding through St. Petersburg. With both Remizov and Fedorcenko out of the way, there would be no one to stand in opposition to his future with the princess.
Suddenly the noise of an approaching coach echoed with a heavy dullness through the still night air. Iron wheels clattered over the cobbles accompanied by the creaking of leather and harness, an intrusion into the eerie, fog-shrouded night. As the carriage pulled to a stop in front of the barracks, Basil’s heart began to pound wildly. Perspiration beaded on his forehead, and his palms grew damp.
His quarry had arrived . . . it was Remizov!
Dmitri Gregorovich was a symbol of all that inspired Basil Anickin’s deepest hatred and passion. This aristocratic scion of injustice, of lust for power, of all that brought misery to Russia—such a man deserved to die! They all deserved to die!
Slowly Basil’s lips parted in a smile. The idea brought intense pleasure—perhaps even more pleasure than the thought of resting in Katrina Fedorcenko’s arms.
With difficulty he remained in his hiding place until the coach rattled away. He could almost feel the fool’s arrogant neck strangling and collapsing beneath the strength of his fingers. Basil was a strong man, although his physical power was well hidden under the scholarly facade he presented to society. He could kill a man with his bare hands, and he knew it!
His mouth gone dry with anticipation, Basil began to step forward. But just as he did so, the door of the barracks flew open. Four soldiers, laughing and swaggering, trooped down the wooden steps with heavy feet.
“Remizov!” bellowed one. “We thought you would never show up.”
“And why were you malcontents not at my engagement party, I would like to know?” Dmitri shouted up to them with mock consternation.
“We cannot stand wakes!” laughed another.
“Why you no-good, fair-weather friends!”
“We’ll make it up to you by allowing you to join us for an evening at Dauphin’s.”
“Allowing me!” repeated Dmitri. “Ha, ha! The question is only if I will grant you the pleasure of my company!”
They all laughed and went on with their inane banter. Basil grimaced, retreating back into the shadows. He was a strong man, yes, but not against five trained soldiers.
“Come along then,” said one of the soldiers. “But you must promise that now that you are tied down to one woman you will not be a wet blanket.”
“On my honor,” replied Dmitri.
“We want no lethargic dullards in our company.”
“Anyway, I am not married yet!”
“Well said! We knew we could count on you, Remizov.”
The banter and laughter continued as the group ambled down the street in search of a cab. Basil spat on the ground. He had been foiled, and he hated them all for it!
They were a shallow, self-absorbed, self-seeking lot. But one day they would all be repaid for their lust and arrogance!
In the meantime, Basil’s present intent thwarted, he fell back limply against the brick wall. His emotions were spent, although he had actually done nothing. He mopped his brow with a handkerchief. He was disappointed, but not disheartened. His moment would yet come.