Bound by Love (33 page)

S
TEFAN WATCHED
L
EONIDA
disappear from the terrace, his hands clenched at his side.

He could easily have halted her retreat. Just a few swift steps and he could have her tossed over his shoulder and headed into the privacy of the orchard. He had no doubt once he had her alone he could prove she was just as eager for his touch as she had been earlier in the day.

Instead he remained frozen in place, his anger a tangible force that swirled through his body.

At least, he told himself it was anger. Otherwise he would have to admit that the searing emotion was…anguish.

Because I need more than you can offer.

His jaw clenched as her low, cutting words continued to echo through his mind.

What the devil was wrong with the woman?

There was no man who could offer a woman more than he could.

He possessed an enviable position among society, excessive wealth he was delighted to squander on his lovers, a rather handsome countenance and a steady temperament.

Most certainly his previous mistresses had never complained. Hell, they had used every feminine trick available to keep his interest.

Obviously Leonida envisioned some paragon of male perfection that no gentleman could hope to achieve.

Damn the aggravating wench.

Standing alone in the dark, Stefan sucked in deep breaths as he attempted to calm his churning emotions. Leonida alone could create such havoc. Usually without even trying.

So why did he not simply leave?

Stefan shook his head. The question had plagued him since leaving Meadowland, and he was still no closer to an answer. Perhaps he never would be.

“Huntley.”

Lost in his dark thoughts, Stefan jerked in surprise as the voice sounded from below the railing.

With a frown he moved to the edge of the terrace, peering over to discover Boris standing in the shadows.

“What are you doing here?”

Stepping back, Boris allowed the torchlight to fall across his face, revealing his grim expression.

“I think there is something you need to see for yourself.”

“Now?”

“Yes.”

Stefan hesitated. He knew that Boris would never have traveled to the palace unless he had discovered something he considered urgent, but then again, the thought of leaving at this precise moment was far from appealing.

Even now Leonida would have returned to the ballroom, her devoted suitors swarming around her.

What if her unreasonable annoyance toward him led her into some sort of foolish behavior? Women were always unpredictable. An angry woman…well, there was simply no telling what she might take it into her mind to do.

“Does this have anything to do with Sir Charles?” he demanded.

“Only in part.” Boris waved a hand toward the far side of the orchard. “I have a carriage waiting behind the stables.”

“You are certain this cannot wait until tomorrow?”

“Quite certain,” the servant retorted, his voice bleak.

Stefan cast one last glance toward the palace before
heaving a sigh. Perhaps it was just as well he could not return to the ballroom. In his current mood he was bound to do something he would later regret.

“Very well.”

Without bothering to return for his hat and gloves, Stefan angled across the terrace to the broad steps that led to the orchards.

In silence Boris joined him, leading him along a dark path to the elegant stables that were as elaborately constructed as the palace. As they neared, however, Boris circled away from the splashes of torchlight that filled the cobblestone yard and the milling grooms that were playing cards or throwing dice as they waited for their employers to return home for the evening. Only when they were once again cloaked in darkness did he approach the back of the sprawling stone buildings.

Wondering if Boris’s secretive behavior was simply a symptom of his long years of playing spy for his brother, or if something more nefarious was troubling him, Stefan wisely held his tongue as he climbed next to Boris onto the high bench of the carriage. With a crack of the whip, Boris sent the restless bays into motion, traveling down a narrow path that led to a side entrance to the grounds.

Once they were through the gate and headed toward the outer fringe of St. Petersburg, Stefan turned toward his companion, determined to have his answers.

“Can you tell me where we are headed, or is it to remain a mystery?”

“No mystery. I received your note and decided to discover what I could of Nikolas Babevich.”

Stefan arched his brows. “Without me?”

Boris shrugged. “I presumed you would be more pleasantly occupied.”

“As did I,” Stefan curtly admitted.

“Ah.” Boris shot him a knowing glance. “Troubles with Miss Karkoff?”

“Miss Karkoff is nothing but trouble.”

“You didn’t seem to think so earlier this evening,” the servant reminded him. “Course, a woman can steal a smile from a man’s face just as quick as she can put it on.”

Stefan snorted, turning his head to regard the brightly lit homes that they rushed past. Most of the houses were still built of stone and boasted gardens with marble fountains, but they were noticeably smaller than those closer to the palace and the facades without the ornate decorations.

“Truer words were never spoken,” he muttered.

“Tomorrow no doubt your smile will be back,” Boris said, slowing the carriage as they rattled over one of the numerous bridges that connected the sprawling city.

“Unless I come to my senses and return to England before I lose what wits I have left.”

“So you keep saying, but here we are. Have you asked yourself why?”

Stefan gritted his teeth. He should have learned not to discuss women with his companion. Boris was ridiculously happy in his marriage to Janet. What did he know of a female who tormented a man one moment with her willing kisses and the next treated him as if he were her long-sworn enemy?

“Are we headed to Babevich’s?”

Boris turned onto a narrow street. “Yes, it is not far.”

“Have you spoken with him?”

“No.”

Stefan heaved a sigh of impatience. “Boris, if this is some sort of jest it is not amusing.”

“This is no jest.” Boris’s features twisted with a sudden revulsion. “Trust me.”

Unease crept down Stefan’s spine as his companion slowed the bays and halted before a narrow house that had a crowd of guests spilling from the front terrace and a number of carriages blocking the street.

Boris was a stoic man who was rarely ruffled. If he had
discovered something that could rattle his composure it had to be extraordinarily disturbing.

“It appears that he is entertaining,” he muttered, searching the house for some sign of trouble. “Is Sir Charles among the guests?”

Boris leaped from the carriage and tied off the reins next to a long line of vehicles.

“Babevich’s house is around the corner,” he corrected as Stefan joined him. “It is best we walk through the mews. I would prefer no one notice the carriage.”

Stefan did not protest as Boris led him through a dark alley despite the stench of rotting garbage and the nearby outhouse. In truth, he was far more concerned with what lay ahead than rubbish that threatened the gloss of his boots.

Whatever had spooked Boris was bound to be unpleasant, to say the least.

Tugging open a back gate, Boris held his finger to his lips, as if Stefan needed to be reminded to keep his mouth shut as they blatantly trespassed into a stranger’s garden. Perhaps not surprising. It was Edmond who had devoted himself to such dangerous games while Stefan was quite content to be a law-abiding citizen.

Of course, since meeting Leonida he seemed to make a habit of flouting all conventions.

How ironic would it be for him to be the brother who ended up in Alexander Pavlovich’s dungeon?

With a shake of his head at his ludicrous imaginings, Stefan managed to avoid breaking his knees on the low marble benches that dotted the garden, although his pants did not fare as well as he snagged them more than once on the overgrown roses. Clearly Babevich had not bothered to hire a gardener in a number of months.

Nor had he bothered with repairs to his house. Even in the moonlight, Stefan could detect several tiles missing from the roof and a gutter hanging at an odd angle. No doubt during the daylight the slow decay was even more apparent.

Which of course would explain why he was desperate enough to throw his lot in with Sir Charles. Only an idiot or a man on the edge of ruin would attempt to blackmail the Countess Karkoff.

Boris ignored the back door leading to the servants’ quarters and instead rounded the side of the house. Stefan’s steps slowed as the darkness was broken by a square of light that shimmered through the French windows.

Damn. He had expected the house to be empty. Intruding on a man in his own home was a dangerous business.

Seemingly unaware of Stefan’s unease, Boris climbed the flight of stairs that led to the narrow balcony in front of the French doors, his hand reaching into his coat to pull out a pistol. With no weapon, Stefan felt disturbingly vulnerable. A sensation that only worsened as Boris stepped directly before the light that spread across the balcony.

Was the man demented?

Far more cautiously, Stefan halted at the edge of the French doors and, craning his neck, peered inside. He had already been shot once during the course of his adventure. He wasn’t anxious to step in front of another bullet.

At first glance he could detect nothing out of the ordinary. The parlor was narrow with shabby furnishings arranged around a cheap carpet thrown over the worn floor. The walls had once been a green satin although they had faded to a muddy yellow and the light of the chandelier gleamed dully off the collection of dubious paintings.

Babevich not only needed a housekeeper, but a lesson in fine art.

Wondering why Boris would be gazing so intently at a seemingly empty room, Stefan shifted farther onto the balcony to study the far end of the room.

It was then that Stefan at last noticed the body sprawled on the carpet next to the stone fireplace.

His breath lodged in his lungs as his gaze slid over the stranger’s pale face surrounded by tangled brown hair and
down the motionless body covered in rumpled evening clothes that were stained red by the blood leaking from the wound in the center of his chest.

His fear of flying bullets was forgotten as he reached for the handle of the French door, cursing as it refused to open.

“Go for assistance, Boris,” he gritted.

The servant laid a restraining hand on his arm. “It is too late, Huntley. The man is dead.”

It took a moment for Stefan to accept the truth. But as the man continued to lie frozen in a pool of his own blood, his sightless eyes staring at the ceiling, he heaved a resigned sigh.

“Is it Babevich?” he rasped.

“Yes.”

Stefan didn’t have to ask how Boris could be so certain. The dutiful servant would already have searched the house.

“Did you find anything…”

His words ended in a shocked hiss as his gaze strayed away from Babevich’s wounded chest and he belatedly noticed that there was nothing but a bloody stump sticking from the cuff of his jacket. Hellfire. Some sick bastard had chopped off Babevich’s hand.

Stefan swayed, his stomach heaving. No wonder Boris had been so grim.

“Christ.”

“Exactly.” Boris tightened his hand on Stefan’s shoulder. “We need to leave before the officials arrive.”

Stefan sucked in a deep breath. Could he just leave the man lying there like a bit of rubbish? It seemed…indecent.

But then again, what could he do? The man was dead and Stefan’s presence at the house would only involve him in a nasty scandal. After all, the authorities were bound to demand to know why he was lurking around the house. What could he say? The man had been blackmailing Countess Karkoff?

“Yes,” he at last muttered.

Wrenching his gaze from the macabre scene, Stefan followed in Boris’s path as they retraced their steps to the waiting carriage.

Distantly he was aware of the laughing chatter that drifted from the surrounding homes and the bark of a dog roaming the streets, but remained too consumed by the memory of Babevich’s bloody end to take notice.

It was not until they had retrieved the carriage and were swaying down the dark street that he managed to shake off his lingering sense of shock.

“I have never…” He shuddered, his mouth dry. “Sir Charles is no better than an animal.”

Boris kept the restless horses at a slow but steady pace, weaving his way through the thickening traffic.

“I fully agree, but I do not believe he was responsible for Babevich’s death.”

Stefan grunted in surprise. He had never considered the possibility that anyone else could have attacked Babevich.