Written on the Wind (The Blackstone Legacy #2)(4)
Dimitri flinched. Tobolsk was where they sent all convicts destined for exile in the Siberian penal colonies. A pillar of stuccoed brick stood in Tobolsk, and convicts were allowed to lay their hands on it, press their faces to the ground, and say farewell to civilization before being funneled to one of the dozens of penal colonies scattered across the vast wasteland. Prisoners were encouraged to take a handful of soil with them, a reminder of the land they left behind as they headed into exile. No other spot in Russia had witnessed as much human misery as the pillar in Tobolsk.
Panic clouded the edges of his vision, and it was hard to comprehend anything the judge said in that awful, droning voice. All he could hear was his mother, who began weeping in terrible, keening sobs.
The judge’s censorious voice continued. “You are hereby sentenced to the penal colony on Sakhalin Island, where you will serve seven years in the iron mines of the czar.”
Dimitri should have expected it. Sakhalin Island was where most political prisoners were exiled, since it was the farthest outpost within the empire. Still, it was hard to keep standing upright as realization of his fate sank in.
If he could go back in time, would he have done anything differently that terrible morning three weeks ago? His refusal to participate in the massacre had saved no lives. All it did was destroy his own.
The lowering of the gavel sounded like a gunshot. Dimitri turned to walk down the aisle of the courtroom, maintaining a ramrod-straight posture but feeling the world crumble around him.
There was only one thing of which he could be certain: He was not going to Sakhalin Island. The icy, windswept island made escape impossible. Work in the iron mines was brutal, and few people survived their sentence.
God would not have sent Dimitri to witness the massacre of innocent people if he was meant to meekly accept his punishment. The world needed to know what he had seen. He had been silenced from the moment he was taken into custody, but he was not completely without resources. He had one bank account left to his name. It was in New York City, controlled by his last remaining friend in the world.
He must now find a way to reach Natalia Blackstone or die in the attempt.
3
It was no secret that Natalia and her stepmother did not like each other, but that didn’t stop Natalia from doting on the child Poppy had given birth to last month. Alexander was a tiny infant for such a weighty name. He occupied the center of his princely crib, wearing handmade gowns stitched by nuns in Corsica and clutching a sterling silver baby rattle. Natalia loved the way he opened his huge, dark eyes and stared at the world around him, slowly blinking in baffled wonder. Then he’d let out a terrific yawn that seemed to consume his entire body until he released it with a look of contented exhaustion. How she adored this little scrap of humanity!
Nevertheless, the gossip columns loved claiming that Natalia was jealous of her baby brother, and that after twenty-eight years as Oscar Blackstone’s only child, she resented the arrival of the long-hoped-for male heir who would oust Natalia from the bank and her father’s inheritance.
It was all rubbish.
Well, mostly rubbish. The bylaws of the bank precluded women from having voting shares in the management of the bank’s investments, meaning that Alexander would someday inherit her father’s control of the bank while Natalia would forever remain a business analyst on the third floor. But that was all right. She was paid a generous salary for her work and had nothing but love for little Alexander.
Her stepmother was another story. Her father had long craved a male heir and married Poppy shortly after his first wife died. Poppy saw the close relationship between Oscar and Natalia as a threat and never missed an opportunity to subtly belittle Natalia.
The morning of Alexander’s christening was turning into a classic example. Poppy wore a pale pink gown that perfectly offset her golden-blond hair. Her father was also formally attired in a black frock coat, white satin waistcoat, and gray trousers.
“Natalia, I can’t believe you’re wearing that gown,” Poppy said, frowning at the lavender moiré silk that clung to Natalia’s figure as she descended into the foyer of their home. The gown featured a slight bustle and a frothy spill of ivory lace from the neckline.
“I love this dress,” she defended. It was custom-made in Paris, and unlike the typical suits she wore to the bank each day, it was highly feminine and entirely appropriate for a society christening. She even had a cluster of violets pinned into her upswept black hair.
“It looks like you are in half-mourning, and that is bound to delight the journalists eager to see your disdain for my child.”
“You’re being ridiculous,” Natalia said. “No one could mistake this for a mourning gown.”
Her father adjusted his cufflinks and frowned at his wife. “No backbiting, ladies,” he said. “My son is being introduced to the world today, and I won’t have the two most important women in my life caterwauling at each other.”
Natalia itched to point out that Poppy’s attack was entirely unprovoked, but Oscar was right. This wasn’t the day to let Poppy’s barbs annoy her. A police escort had already arrived to lead their carriage to the church, where prominent socialites, politicians, and businessmen would be attending the celebrated christening.
But not quite all of high society. The Blackstones were among the richest families in America, but the stink of new money still trailed in their wake, and it infuriated Poppy. The success of the Blackstone banking empire lacked the heritage and prestige of old-world money, which was why Poppy bent over backward to host lavish parties and imitate the trappings of European aristocracy. The fortune spent on today’s christening and reception was an excuse for Poppy to flaunt her wealth before the old-money matriarchs she envied.