Kiss of Scandal

Chapter One

St. Petersburg, Russia
February 5, 1855
Georgian Calendar

Bastard.
Count Peter Andreiovitch Orlov pounded his silver-tipped walking stick on the roof of the carriage. His heart pounded in time to the quick clatter of the horses’ hooves, which moved too slowly.
“Faster!” he bellowed to the driver. Gusts of wind and snow howled around the carriage, impeding their rapid movement.
His hand drifted to the case on the seat beside him, checking once again that his proof lay safe. He’d long suspected something these past years, perhaps a bit of smuggling or tidbits of information passed to the enemy. But nothing as deep-rooted as he’d found.
The tsar will crush his family.
The metal sled suspending the carriage tore through the heavy snow blanketing the streets. Jerking the curtain back to check their progress, Peter stared past the frost as the glowing lampposts blinked by. At this speed, they should reach the Winter Palace within minutes. With impatient fingers, he opened his pocket watch and noticed it was almost two in the morning. There’d be a delay in waking the tsar, and the attendants would try to block his visit. Hell, they’d commit murder before waking the emperor.
Tapping the case once again, though it could not have disappeared, Peter nodded to himself. “He has to know now.”
Leaning forward, as if by sheer will he could move the carriage faster, Peter thought of his family and the politics of this untenable situation. The tsar’s temper would flare uncontrollably, but they’d have to consider the nobility. This must be handled with utmost caution.
Peter’s head jerked up; he’d heard a distinctive sound through the howl. A pistol shot. Wiping the fog off the window, he peered out once more.
The carriage veered sharply to the right, away from the Palace route. “Driver!” he yelled. “Stay on course!”
Looking out the window, he saw two other horses, each with a rider, racing alongside the carriage. His driver screamed something he couldn’t make out as the carriage rocked violently from the sharp turn.
Opening his case, Peter removed several of the more important papers: detailed expenses, a travel itinerary, and a small leather book listing accounts. Without a second thought, he knelt on the floor and separated the seat from its frame with a hard yank. Stuffing the papers into the hollow gap, he pushed it back. Sitting down again and bracing his feet on the opposite bench for more leverage, Peter pushed the edge with his walking stick, wedging the frame into place. Glancing around the interior to make sure nothing was amiss, he snapped the lid of his case shut.
Peter pulled out his revolver. With the erratic rocking of the carriage slowing, he opened the door just in time to see one of the riders throw something at his driver. He tried to block the onslaught of snow hitting his face with his left hand, and leaned his shoulder against the door frame to steady himself.
Over the howl of the winter storm, the horses cried and the carriage came to a jolting stop. Peter jumped from the velvet interior into the whipping snow, gun held high before him. With a steady pace, he approached the rider he could see. There had been two, but he dared not look for the second man.
“Who are you?” he demanded. “Dismount immediately!”
The man jumped off his horse, face covered with heavy winter garb. Peter noticed, in the dim light from the lamppost, that he was dressed as a gentleman.
“I was trying to help,” the rider screamed through the biting wind. “You were about to race into an overturned carriage. There is an accident down Nevsky Prospekt, near the Palace.”
“Where’s my driver?” Peter kept the revolver aimed squarely at the stranger’s chest.
Looking around as if the driver lay buried in the snow bank, the man gestured for Peter to lower his weapon. “He must have dismounted from the other side.” The stranger pointed. “There, behind you—your driver.”
Keeping aim on the stranger, Peter turned his head and was met with a strike to the temple. He collapsed, but didn’t lose consciousness. He felt groggy, as if struggling to wake from a dream. Blinking, he searched for his pistol, his bleary eyes focusing enough to see someone snatch it from the cushions of snow.
“Don’t leave any blood on the ground,” he heard one of them yell as they picked him up to move him back into the carriage.
Once inside the velvet box, the relative warmth seeped into his bones and he struggled to clear his head. Instinct told him this was no simple robbery. Without the screeching wind drowning everything out, he found he could hear them more clearly.
“Get the papers from the case. Hurry.”
Peter tried to move but found he’d lost control of his limbs. Pain spiked through him, momentarily blinding him as he struggled not to moan aloud.
“Give me those and take these,” the stranger commanded. That voice, Peter thought as his vision cleared. He knew that damn voice.
“Good. Done.” One of the men opened the door. “Finish it.”
The last thing Count Peter Andreiovitch Orlov saw was the metal base of the carriage’s light fixture before he felt it crash against his head.