during the raid to free Il Duce. Here was the cutlass he had carried when he sailed under the freebooter, Sir Henry Morgan. And here was the most significant memento of them all—a lock of raven black hair kept in a tiny enameled box.
It was the one item not prominently displayed. He kept it in the left-hand drawer of the ancient rosewood writing table at which Lord Byron penned his poems. He never took it out. Now, for the first time in many years, he took out the tiny box, holding it in his hand as if it were a sacred object. His eyes softened as he thought of the woman it betokened. She was long dead, her dust stirred by the passage of some eight hundred years. It had been one of only two times in an incredibly long life, even by the life-extended standards of the 27th century, that he had ever been in love. Both loves had been ill-fated.
Both were part of a past he had tried hard to forget, never with complete success. Those memories were very fresh now. Painfully so. He held the tiny box in one hand and a letter in the other. Each represented one of those two loves. One woman was long dead; the other, whom he had thought dead, was still very much alive. She had reached out across the centuries to unite them all and twist the knife.
He had received the letter earlier that evening, delivered by a bonded courier from New York.
However, it had been written in another city, in another country, in another time. He sat down at the rosewood writing table, placing his elbows on it, pressing the letter in one hand and the enameled box in the other against his temples. He sat that way for a long, long time, his eyes shut, his breathing laborious.
The past had finally caught up to him and this time, there was no escape.
Chapter 1
As the train pulled out of the Dresden station in a cloud of steam and early morning mist, Rudolf Rassendyll sat in the dining car over a light breakfast, trying to recall where he had seen the scar-faced man before. The object of his ruminations sat several tables away from him, drinking coffee. They had exchanged several glances and Rassendyll found the situation somewhat embarrassing. Clearly, the man remembered him from somewhere and was awaiting some sign of recognition. With none forthcoming, he must have thought that Rassendyll was slighting him. To stall for time while he racked his brain for some clue as to the man’s identity, Rassendyll hid behind his copy of
The Strand Magazine,
pretending to read while he kept glancing furtively at the scar-faced man, hoping to jog his memory into remembering where they had met.
He was an unusually large man with the broad shoulders of a laborer and big, muscular arms.
However, he was quite obviously not of the working class. The large ruby ring he wore on his left hand indicated that he was a gentleman of some means, as did the diamond stickpin, the gold watch chain, and the elegant, gold-headed ebony walking stick he carried. His suit was the height of Parisian fashion, but the man did not look French. His dark complexion and curly black hair gave him a Slavic aspect that was further borne out by the high forehead, the strong nose, the prominent jawline, and the square chin. His eyes, which one might have expected to be dark, were a surprisingly brilliant shade of emerald green.
Their bright hue, combined with his dark complexion, gave his gaze a piercing, magnetic quality. His striking good looks were marred only by the scar that ran from beneath his left eye, across the high cheekbone to just above the corner of his mouth. It was arrow-straight, quite likely a dueling scar. Hardly anyone dueled anymore, especially with sabres, except for the young Prussians and the Central Europeans, who were known to drop a glove at the slightest provocation.
The man’s posture, the quality of his dress, and his impeccable grooming all spoke of wealth and breeding. Taking into account his Slavic features, the dueling scar, the expensive clothing and the man’s
It was the one item not prominently displayed. He kept it in the left-hand drawer of the ancient rosewood writing table at which Lord Byron penned his poems. He never took it out. Now, for the first time in many years, he took out the tiny box, holding it in his hand as if it were a sacred object. His eyes softened as he thought of the woman it betokened. She was long dead, her dust stirred by the passage of some eight hundred years. It had been one of only two times in an incredibly long life, even by the life-extended standards of the 27th century, that he had ever been in love. Both loves had been ill-fated.
Both were part of a past he had tried hard to forget, never with complete success. Those memories were very fresh now. Painfully so. He held the tiny box in one hand and a letter in the other. Each represented one of those two loves. One woman was long dead; the other, whom he had thought dead, was still very much alive. She had reached out across the centuries to unite them all and twist the knife.
He had received the letter earlier that evening, delivered by a bonded courier from New York.
However, it had been written in another city, in another country, in another time. He sat down at the rosewood writing table, placing his elbows on it, pressing the letter in one hand and the enameled box in the other against his temples. He sat that way for a long, long time, his eyes shut, his breathing laborious.
The past had finally caught up to him and this time, there was no escape.
Chapter 1
As the train pulled out of the Dresden station in a cloud of steam and early morning mist, Rudolf Rassendyll sat in the dining car over a light breakfast, trying to recall where he had seen the scar-faced man before. The object of his ruminations sat several tables away from him, drinking coffee. They had exchanged several glances and Rassendyll found the situation somewhat embarrassing. Clearly, the man remembered him from somewhere and was awaiting some sign of recognition. With none forthcoming, he must have thought that Rassendyll was slighting him. To stall for time while he racked his brain for some clue as to the man’s identity, Rassendyll hid behind his copy of
The Strand Magazine,
pretending to read while he kept glancing furtively at the scar-faced man, hoping to jog his memory into remembering where they had met.
He was an unusually large man with the broad shoulders of a laborer and big, muscular arms.
However, he was quite obviously not of the working class. The large ruby ring he wore on his left hand indicated that he was a gentleman of some means, as did the diamond stickpin, the gold watch chain, and the elegant, gold-headed ebony walking stick he carried. His suit was the height of Parisian fashion, but the man did not look French. His dark complexion and curly black hair gave him a Slavic aspect that was further borne out by the high forehead, the strong nose, the prominent jawline, and the square chin. His eyes, which one might have expected to be dark, were a surprisingly brilliant shade of emerald green.
Their bright hue, combined with his dark complexion, gave his gaze a piercing, magnetic quality. His striking good looks were marred only by the scar that ran from beneath his left eye, across the high cheekbone to just above the corner of his mouth. It was arrow-straight, quite likely a dueling scar. Hardly anyone dueled anymore, especially with sabres, except for the young Prussians and the Central Europeans, who were known to drop a glove at the slightest provocation.
The man’s posture, the quality of his dress, and his impeccable grooming all spoke of wealth and breeding. Taking into account his Slavic features, the dueling scar, the expensive clothing and the man’s
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