Scoundrel's Honor (17 page)

“You consider this a modest home?” she demanded.

“It once belonged to my grandfather.”

There was a sound overhead and she glanced up to discover birds of prey silhouetted against the brilliant blue sky. A small shiver feathered down her spine.

“Is there a harem?” she asked.

“Of course.” His lips twitched as he deliberately stepped closer, his slender hand waving toward the profusion of brilliant blooms. “These gardens are a part of the seraglio. I believe you will find them suitably comfortable.”

She licked her lips, belatedly aware that they were very much alone in the courtyard.

“Perhaps it would be best if I were to find rooms at a hotel—”

Rajih reached to tug off her bonnet, a heat flaring in his eyes as her honey curls tumbled about her shoulders.

“Do you fear I might lock you away as my concubine?”

“I would be a fool not to be concerned.”

“Undoubtedly.” He chuckled, brushing a light kiss over her lips before straightening to regard her with a steady gaze. “And I am a brute to tease you. Yes, Emma, during your stay our tradition demands that you remain in the women's quarters. It is for your own protection. But be assured that you will never be my prisoner.”

 

D
IMITRI PACED THE NORTH
terrace of Windsor Castle, his gaze absently studying the frozen countryside spread beneath him. A servant had pointed out the Thames churning a path through the meadows, as well as the cluster of distant buildings he had proclaimed to be Eton College. He had also attempted to interest Dimitri in the history of the Round Tower standing in the middle ward that had been built by Henry II and the fine architecture of St. George's Chapel that he was assured possessed a fine stone-vaulted ceiling and a stained-glass window that was the finest in all the world.

At last accepting that the grim-faced Russian would not be coaxed into the warmth of the Grand Vestibule, nor impressed by the grand English castle, the servant had returned to his duties, leaving Dimitri alone with his dark thoughts.

He had not been offered an explanation as to why George IV had insisted that Lord Sanderson and Sir Jergens be brought to this castle to be held and questioned, although he suspected the portly king was anxious to suppress the revelation that proper English nobles were involved in the tawdry sex slave business. Such things were meant to be kept hidden from society.

But while Dimitri was anxious to be done with the royal formalities so that the men could be taken to Russia and their confessions heard by Alexander Pavlovich, that was not the reason he was restlessly pacing the frozen terrace.

No. The raw, gnawing fear that plagued him could be placed entirely at the feet of Emma Linley-Kirov.

His heart twisted in pain.

It had been three days since Emma had disappeared from Huntley's town house. Three days of futile searches through London. Of sending dozens of servants into the surrounding countryside, as well as to Paris and beyond to St. Petersburg to seek out any information of her whereabouts.

Of sleepless nights and endless bottles of vodka in an effort to dull the self-recriminations.

Perhaps he should accept that Emma had made her choice. He had done everything in his power to prevent her from her ridiculous habit of leaping into danger, had he not? If she were determined to get her throat slit, then there was nothing he could do to stop her.

Instead, he moodily vacillated between blinding fury that she would leave his protection and put herself at risk and a torturous knowledge that it had been his obsession to destroy his father that had driven her from his side.

Where the hell had she gone?

Was she alone? Had she found the trail of Valik and her sister? Had she been captured…?

The sound of approaching footsteps was a welcome distraction. Dimitri turned to watch Huntley's approach, hiding a smile as the duke irritably waved away the covey of servants attempting to straighten his caped greatcoat and wrap a cashmere scarf around his neck.

Dimitri had endured a similar battle when he had arrived at the castle, nearly forced to punch the aggressive footman determined to take his gloves and beaver hat. Thank God
he would soon be back in St. Petersburg where he was never mistaken for a feeble nobleman incapable of putting on and taking off his own damned clothes.

Huntley's long stride never slowed as he headed toward the stone steps leading to the street below. Dimitri easily fell into step beside him, as eager as his companion to be finished with their business in Windsor and on their way back to London.

“It is done?” he demanded.

Huntley snorted in disgust, his breath visible in the chilled air.

“Between his bouts of wailing and pathetic pleas for forgiveness, Sanderson managed to confess the details of his sordid business.”

“And Jergens?”

“He was equally forthcoming.” Huntley shook his head. “A pity the guards did not discover Timmons until he had managed to take the coward's path.”

Dimitri shrugged. Mr. Timmons had been discovered in his bedchamber with a bullet hole in his temple, obviously unable to face the sordid scandal that was about to spread throughout London.

“Did they reveal Count Nevskaya's participation in the nasty business?” he demanded.

“With glorious detail.” Huntley's laugh echoed in the still air. “Indeed, they were both eager to claim that the count had approached them several years ago with the scheme and that they were no more than helpless dupes being manipulated by the evil Russian.”

Dimitri waited for the torrent of exhilaration to overwhelm him.

This was the moment he had waited for since he learned of his mother's death.

The means to brand his father as a depraved fiend who preyed upon helpless children was in his hands. There
would be none in society who would not turn their backs on him.

He would be an outcast. Alone in his shame.

Just as Dimitri had dreamed of for so long.

Any satisfaction he felt, however, was as cold and empty as his heart.

“I do not doubt the truth of his claim,” he said, absently tapping his riding crop against his glossy riding boots as they moved down the steep incline toward the lower ward. “Sanderson does not possess enough wits to devise such a cunning plot. My father, however, has never suffered from a lack of intelligence.”

“No, only a lack of morality.”

“That is a rare commodity among noblemen.”

Huntley lifted his brows at the less than flattering accusation. “I could say the same of thieves and scoundrels.”

They followed the curve in the road, ignoring the snowflakes that drifted from the sullen clouds.

“Have you arranged with the king to have the men sent to Russia?”

“We are in…” Huntley paused, as if seeking the appropriate word. “Negotiations.”

Dimitri muttered a Russian curse, his face hard with warning. “Huntley.”

“Be patient, Tipova.” Huntley slapped Dimitri on the back. “The king still harbors a bitterness at the perceived insults Alexander Pavlovich offered during his visit to England.”

Dimitri's temper flared. He had not sacrificed so much only to have his opportunity for revenge threatened by a petulant peacock sitting on a throne.

“That was years ago,” he growled.

Huntley lowered his voice, as aware as Dimitri of the numerous servants who scurried about the castle grounds. It never failed to astonish Dimitri how many nobles were
blind to the people who served them. Such stupidity ensured that he was easily capable of discovering whatever information he desired.

And information was power.

“George might be king of England now that his father has died but that has not cured his unfortunate tendency to spiteful pettiness.” Huntley grimaced. “As poor Brummell has learned to his regret.”

“I do not care if Alexander Pavlovich pissed on your fat king's throne. I will not be denied my justice.”

The duke grasped his arm and roughly hurried them both down the road to where their horses awaited them.

“Do not be a fool, Tipova,” he muttered. “With a measure of diplomacy I will soon have the king convinced that the best means for him to be rid of a potential scandal is to send the men to Russia and lay the entire blame on Count Nevskaya. But not if you rile his temper. Be sensible.”

Dimitri shook off the duke's hand, his expression sour. “I am in no mood to be sensible.”

“Then be patient. It will be no more than a few days and you will have your revenge.”

Dimitri gave a short laugh. “My revenge.”

Huntley regarded him with a curious gaze. “It is what you desire, is it not?”

“So I have always believed.” Dimitri glanced toward the moat that was filled with gardens rather than water. “For the past twenty years I have devoted my life to one purpose. The destruction of my father.”

“No one can blame you for your hatred of the man who ruined your mother.”

Dimitri winced. Would he ever be able to think of his mother without tormenting regret?

Regret that she had ever caught the vile attention of Count Nevskaya. Regret that she had been so stubbornly foolish as to attempt blackmailing him.

Regret that she had left him when he had needed her the most.

His heart gave another painful squeeze as he thought of another woman who had abandoned him when he needed her.

“No one but Emma.”

“Ah.”

“She holds me responsible for the loss of her sister.”

The duke offered a sympathetic smile. “She was angry and not thinking clearly that evening. She is fully aware that you had no hand in the kidnapping of her sister.”

“She might not hold me responsible for her sister's kidnapping, but she believes I allowed Anya to be shipped away beneath my nose.” Dimitri's thoughts were jerked back to the night in the warehouse and his burning need to chase after Lord Sanderson before the fat fool could escape. “And she would not be wrong.”

“They will be caught the moment they return to Russia,” Huntley assured him, his imperious tone making Dimitri smile with wry humor. Huntley was one of the few noblemen that Dimitri did not wish had been drowned at birth, but the duke possessed the innate arrogance that allowed him to assume that his every wish would be granted. “Between Alexander Pavlovich's soldiers and your own servants there is nowhere they can hide.”

“But they are not returning to Russia,” a rough English voice broke into their conversation. With lethal ease, both Dimitri and the duke pulled their loaded pistols from the pockets of their coats and pointed at the man leaning against a low, stone wall. Swiftly, the stranger lifted his hands to reveal he was unharmed. “Here now, no need for guns and such. I'm a peaceable man.”

Dimitri's aim never wavered. The man was small and wiry with the rough woolen clothing of a servant, but there was a cunning etched on the lean face and a hard glimmer
of warning in the pale blue eyes that the man had lived the sort of life that made him dangerous. Dimitri had many such men in his employ—cold-blooded, ruthless and loyal to whoever was paying his salary.

“Who are you?” he rasped.

“Mr. Thomas Stroutt.” He plucked the worn hat from his head and performed an awkward bow. “At yer service.”

Huntley stepped forward, his pistol pointed directly between the man's eyes.

“I suggest you offer a compelling reason for eavesdropping upon a private conversation.”

Thomas cleared his throat. “I believe I have information that will be of service to you fine gentlemen.”

Dimitri sent his companion a glance that urged they hear the man out. He sensed Thomas Stroutt was too intelligent to approach the Duke of Huntley without a compelling reason.

“Speak quickly,” Dimitri warned.

“I was hired by Mr. Peter Abrahams,” the man said. “Hired?”

“I am a man with a certain skill in discovering information others attempt to keep hidden.”

Dimitri arched a brow. The man was a Bow Street Runner or a thief-taker.

In either case he was a man that Dimitri would wager missed very little.

“Who is Peter Abrahams?”

“He is the father of Lady Sanderson.” Thomas replaced the hat on his dark hair. “A most powerful gentleman who is fiercely devoted to his daughter and her welfare.”

“Why would Abrahams hire you?”

“The gentleman has become increasingly concerned that Lord Sanderson is connected to an unfortunate collection of shady characters.”

“Shady is not the description I would have chosen,” Huntley muttered in disgust.

Thomas turned to spit on the cobblestones, his expression dark.

“So we have discovered. Unfortunately, the information came too late to prevent poor Lady Sanderson from becoming a victim of the man's treachery.”

Huntley gave a warning wave of his pistol. “You have yet to offer a reason I should not put a bullet in your brain.”

The man shifted warily, wise enough to sense that the duke was not the usual coxcomb littering society.

“During my investigations I found that you were not the only men apart from Mr. Abrahams seeking the truth of Lord Sanderson's business.”

Dimitri stiffened, far from pleased. He had spent a number of irksome hours in the company of Lord Sanderson. How was it possible he had been unaware there were others spying on the nobleman?

He was growing old and careless, he wryly concluded. Perhaps it was time he retired to his private estate and learn how to fish. Or were aging criminals expected to tend to their rose gardens?

With a shake of his head, he returned his attention to the man standing before him.

“Who else?”

“One of them Oriental sorts.”

“Chinese?”

Thomas shrugged, revealing the predictable English contempt for foreigners.

“No, one of them Turks, I think.”

“Do you have a name?”