Page 18 of The Storybook Hero
“Wait!” cried Alex as he felt the serrated blade start to move against his skin. “You are mistaken! I can prove it!”
The steward gave a harsh laugh but the woman’s face betrayed a flicker of indecision. “Yes, wait, Yevgeny. Let us hear him out.” She put down the heavy iron frying pan that she had taken up from the stove. “Plenty of time to deal with him if he proves to be one of Rabatov’s men.”
The pressure of cold steel relaxed somewhat. “Very well. Explain yourself—and no more lies.”
Alex took a deep breath. “It is true that I am not what I said I was, but I come as no threat to Nicholas.” He gestured toward his shirt. “May I take out something that might help to convince you?”
Again the two of them exchanged glances. Riasanov growled an assent. “But slowly, and no tricks or they will be your last,” he added, giving a meaningful twitch of the blade.
Alex reached inside his shirt and removed a small oilskin packet that hung by a cord around his neck. First he unfolded several sheets of paper and pushed them to the center of the table. “I am Alexander Leigh, an English cousin of young Nicholas’s father. My late father, the Marquess of Wright, was married to the sister of Nicholas’s grandmother.”
The old woman eyed the gilt crest and elegant script in confusion. It was with some concern that Alex realized she couldnot read. “Yevgeny,” she said uncertainly, “Can you tell if what he says is … true?”
He fervently hoped that the steward could make sense of the letter of introduction from the Russian mission in London, verifying what he said.
Riasanov hesitated, then released his hold on Alex’s coat and reached for the papers. He studied them once, then again before laying them side. “Hmmph. Such things can be forged.” However, his fierce expression had tempered somewhat less. “Have you any other sort of proof that you are who you say you are?”
Alex removed another sheet from the pouch. It was a thin parchment, much wrinkled and stained from travel. “Are you familiar with the countess’s handwriting?” he asked. “This is the letter she sent to my uncle, the Earl of Chittenden, asking for our help in keeping Nicholas safe. That is why I am here. From what she said, I thought it best to be cautious and pass myself off as Russian until I could be sure of how things stood here.” He grimaced. “I see I was not very convincing.”
The steward put down the knife as well as the countess’s letter. “Not at all—we would have been suspicious of anyone.” He turned to the old woman. “I know the countess’s handwriting like my own. I am sure she wrote this, so what our friend here says must be the truth.”
She crossed herself as he turned back to Alex. With an awkward bow, he essayed a few words in heavily accented English. “Welcome to Polyananovosk, my lord.”
Alex breathed a sigh of relief at finding his neck was no longer in peril. “You needn’t bow as if I am the one with the title. I am merely a younger son, and it is best if you simply call me Alex.”
The steward shuffled his feet uncomfortably. “I hope you will forgive the rather rude welcome, Alex.”
“Yes, and you must be starving after all your travels,” added the old woman in a rush. Now that matters were cleared up, she was more than anxious to make up for the misunderstanding by plying their guest with food.
“Indeed I am, and judging by the heavenly aroma coming from your pots, I imagine I am a lucky man.” A note of anticipation crept into his voice. “But first, if you please, I should very much like to meet my young cousin.”
Riasanov cleared his throat. “Ah, I am afraid that is not possible, Alex. You see, Master Nicholas is not here.”
“Isit not one of the most fantastic buildings you have ever seen, Miss Hadley?” demanded Emma, straining to pull free from Octavia’s in her haste to get closer.
“Indeed,” she murmured, careful to keep her charge from dashing away across the vast cobbled square. “Do you know the interesting story behind its creation?”
That caught the young girl’s attention. She slowed her steps and looked up expectantly.
“St. Basil’s Cathedral was built by Ivan IV, known, I’m afraid, as Ivan the Terrible. On its completion, he was so pleased by its stunning beauty that he summoned the architect and asked the man if he could ever design anything as magnificent as the church again. Wanting to impress his Tsar, the man assured Ivan that of course he could, whereupon …” Octavia paused for dramatic effect. “Ivan the Terrible had the man’s eyes put out. To ensure that he never did.”
Emma’s own eyes widened, then crinkled in silent amusement. “Monarchs get to have all the fun.”
Octavia repressed a smile. In her experience, most children seemed to take a ghoulish delight in such stories rather than become frightened or upset. It was clear that Emma was no different.
“Henry VIII got to cut off the head of a wife that displeased him,” went on the girl, her expression conveying a touch of longing at being able to deal with unpleasant relatives in so decisive a manner.
“Oh, I doubt you would truly enjoy making heads roll,” said Octavia.
“Why not?” countered Emma.
“Too messy. I think I should make people walk the plank, like Bluebeard the Pirate.”
Emma stifled a giggle. “I like being with you, Miss Hadley. You never tell me I can’t think or say something because it is not the proper sentiment for a young lady. Miss Withers was forever telling me to hold my tongue. So does Aunt Renfrew.”
Octavia couldn’t help but be pleased with how far she had come in earning the young girl’s trust. Over the past several weeks, wary suspicion had turned into a cautious acceptance. In truth, she liked Emma as well. Her charge was bright, inquisitive, and eager to learn. And beneath the sullen, willful shell she had learned to affect in the face of a series of uncaring adults, she was a sensitive, vulnerable child, yearning for some real affection.
“People are always telling me the same thing, too. I’m afraid I never learned my lesson. But at least I have enjoyed the use of my brain, which is more than can be said for a vast majority of our sex.”
