Scoundrel's Honor (14 page)

“Do you intend to contact your relatives while you are here?”

Emma shrugged. She had hesitated to contact her distant relatives after the death of her father. The last thing she desired was to be seen as a pathetic orphan in search of charity. And perhaps, if she were perfectly honest, she would have to admit that a small voice in the back of her head warned that there might be those among their relatives that might not consider her a suitable guardian for Anya. She would not take the risk her sister might be taken from her.

Utterly selfish of her, of course. And as she was discovering, utterly stupid.

Perhaps if she had allowed Anya to go to a traditional family with a stable home and a mother capable of devoting her time to her children, Anya might have outgrown her impulsive lust for attention.

“I might consider seeking them out once Anya is safe,” she said, refusing to imagine the possibility that she would not find her sister. “It would be nice to meet our family. We have been alone a long time.”

“You are not alone, Emma.” Without warning, Leonida leaned forward to grip her hand. “Never again.”

The warmth of Leonida's generous kindness helped to ease the icy dread that was lodged in the pit of Emma's stomach. It was odd. How often did the common folk in her tiny village complain of the cold disdain of the aristocrats, and how they cared for no one but themselves? And yet, her neighbors had done nothing to assist her when she needed help, while this woman who had been born into lavish luxury had not hesitated to extend a hand of friendship and to open her home to a perfect stranger.

“Thank you,” she said, her voice brimming with sincerity.

The carriage rolled to a halt, a handful of grooms scrambling to open the door and pull out the steps.

“Here we are,” Leonida announced, offering Emma a wink as they were carefully assisted from the coach and then discreetly followed by the burly guards as they passed through the gates.

A frown formed on Emma's brow as they strolled along across the frozen ground, her gaze skimming over the flat expanse of parkland that was surprisingly bustling with elegant pedestrians.

“Heavens! I had no notion it would be so vast,” she murmured. “How will we ever find Lady Sanderson?”

“There are only a few paths that attract a lady of fashion.” Leonida threaded her arm through Emma's and tugged her toward a line of trees. “This way.”

“Where are we going?”

“The Queen's Walk. It passes by the basin.” They walked in silence, both enjoying the sense of peace that was so rare in the bustling city, then Leonida turned to catch Emma's small smile. “What are you thinking?”

Emma sucked in a deep breath, acutely aware of the history that surrounded her. As beautiful as St. Petersburg
might be, it had not yet acquired the centuries of stories and memories that shrouded London in mystery.

“My mother told me that Green Park was created by King Charles II and that it never was allowed to have flowers since his queen discovered him offering blooms to another lady while they strolled among the deer and temples.”

Leonida chuckled. “Who is to say if it is true or not? I do know the temples were destroyed during the various celebrations over the years and, of course, there was a fireworks accident that caused a dreadful fire. Not that I am complaining. There is something very appealing in simple nature unmarred by man.” Leonida leaned close to Emma's ear. “I believe the woman in the burgundy cloak with the yapping dog is Lady Sanderson.”

Emma covertly glanced toward the woman who was struggling to maintain her grip on the leash holding a small, ill-trained dog. She stumbled in shock. Could that dumpy woman in a garish velvet cloak and matching bonnet be a lady of society? She looked more like the butcher's wife with her plump, ruddy cheeks and brown curls that escaped the limp bun at the nape of her neck.

“Truly?” she breathed.

“It is rumored she brought with her a considerable dowry, although Lord Sanderson has swiftly squandered her fortune. How do you intend to approach her?”

“I haven't the least notion.” Emma ignored her companion's speculative gaze as they headed directly toward the woman who had halted to untangle her leash from a bush. It was not until Lady Sanderson had straightened and was watching their approach with astonishment that inspiration struck. “What a darling puppy,” she cooed, squeezing Leonida's arm. “Is he not a darling, Your Grace?”

“Most handsome,” Leonida readily agreed, managing to hide her grimace as the dog rolled in a patch of mud. “Wherever did you find him?”

The woman's mud-brown eyes widened with terrified shock at being approached by the elusive Duchess of Huntley.

“Your Grace, this is such a…” Lady Sanderson paused, making a visible effort to regain command of her shattered composure. “Lancelot was a gift from my father.”

Leonida smiled graciously. “Lady Sanderson, is it not?”

“Yes. Yes, it is indeed.”

“Sanderson?” Emma tilted her head to the side, pretending to be deep in thought. “Why is the name so familiar? Ah, of course. Your husband has kindly offered to escort Dimitri about town.”

There was no mistaking the loathing that briefly flared through the older woman's eyes before she managed a stiff smile. Emma shuddered in sympathy. As difficult as her life had been, she at least had not been bartered off to a man she held in disgust. Not all the money, or exclusive parties or grand houses in Mayfair could compensate for that misery.

“Did he?”

“I believe they were also discussing some business or another.”

“Business?” Lady Sanderson blinked in confusion. “I am sure you must be mistaken.”

Emma giggled, ignoring the small pang of guilt at deceiving the poor woman.

“That is quite possible. Dimitri is forever scolding me for making a muddle of what I am told.” She deliberately paused. “Still, I was quite certain that he mentioned Lord Sanderson was seeking a buyer for a piece of property that he wishes to sell.”

“That is impossible. My husband's estate is entailed despite his efforts to have the will altered. He has no authority to dispose of his property.”

“I do not believe it was a part of the estate. Indeed,
Dimitri implied it was a rarely used home or building,” Emma pressed. The men had to be holding her sister and the other girls somewhere in London. And if Lord Sanderson was as stupid as Dimitri had implied then he was quite likely to have hidden them in a place of convenience rather than ensuring their presence could not cause him scandal. “Or perhaps it was a shop.” She let loose another giggle. “There, you see? I am hopeless in recalling what I have been told.”

“My father owns several warehouses in Cutler Street, but I can assure you they are not for sale.” Obviously flustered by Emma's probing, the woman managed an awkward curtsey. “If you will excuse me, it is time for Lancelot's bath.”

They watched in silence as the woman scooped up her dog and scurried away with surprising speed for a woman of her considerable girth.

“She is in rather a hurry,” Emma said.

“So I noticed.” Leonida stepped directly in front of Emma, reaching to grasp her hands with a worried frown. “Emma.”

“Hmm?”

“I am willing to go to great lengths to assist you in your search for Anya, but you cannot search through warehouses on Cutler Street without protection.” She squeezed Emma's fingers. “Do you understand?”

Emma forced a smile, silently apologizing to the woman who had offered her such kindness.

“Of course.”

 

D
IMITRI'S INSTINCTS
that had been honed in the gutters of St. Petersburg were on full alert as the carriage pulled to a halt in the dark, narrow street.

The large, uninhabited buildings and maze of alleys were a perfect refuge for criminals. And an even more perfect location for a trap.

Discreetly, he shifted on the leather seat, slipping his hand into the pocket of his greatcoat. His fingers curled with an easy familiarity around the handle of his loaded pistol. He had also tucked a knife in a sheath at his lower back and another in his high, glossy boot.

If Sanderson were stupid enough to assume he was the typical effete nobleman, he was bound to be unpleasantly surprised.

“Are you certain you have the correct address?”

The nobleman lifted a bottle of brandy to his mouth, taking a deep swig. Dimitri curled his lips in the darkness. Only a simpleton would allow his wits to be dulled in such a neighborhood.

“Quite certain,” Sanderson assured him, a hint of smug amusement in his voice as he shoved open the door to the carriage and blithely stepped onto the filthy street.

With a great deal more caution, Dimitri followed his gaze, searching the shadows even as he kept his fingers curled around the handle of his pistol. Sanderson might be stupid enough to get his throat slit, but Dimitri did not intend to be such a willing victim.

At last his gaze returned to the stark brick building, searching the narrow windows for an indication of danger.

“I have visited a number of brothels and none of them have resembled a warehouse that reeks of tobacco,” he rasped. “I shudder to think of what sort of female would ply her wares at such a location.”

Taking a last drink of the brandy, Sanderson casually tossed aside the bottle, swaying in the sharp breeze. Dimitri grimaced. He abhorred a man who could not hold his spirits.

“This is not precisely a brothel,” Sanderson slurred.

“Yes, I had managed to surmise as much,” Dimitri said dryly. “You promised this evening I should have the op
portunity to taste of innocence. I do not appreciate being misled.”

Sanderson wagged a fat finger moving to unlock a heavy wooden door.

“Have patience.”

“Patience will not transform this decrepit building into an establishment worthy of my patronage. Nor will it offer me the sort of female I had hoped to ease my hunger.”

Stepping through the doorway, Sanderson waited for Dimitri to join him before closing the door and lighting a gas lantern that had been set on a low bench. The dull glow revealed precisely what Dimitri had anticipated. A cavernous room filled with crates that had recently been unloaded at the East India Docks. The only thing that appeared to be missing was the guard that must surely keep watch on such valuable property.

Sanderson weaved a path through the stacked crates. “Now that is where you are mistaken.”

“What do you mean?” Dimitri demanded, warily following in his wake.

“First I must swear you to absolute secrecy.”

Dimitri snorted, coming to an abrupt stop at the man's ridiculous theatrical manner.

“There are gentlemen who might enjoy this pretense of mystery, but I am not one.” An explosion of fury raced through him. He had wasted endless nights being led about London by this stupid clod. Nights that he could have devoted to Emma and returning her to her rightful place in his bed. And for what? To be dangled by vague promises of young girls just ripe for the plucking? “Nor am I foolish enough to be led into so obvious a trap.”

Sanderson blinked, as if surprised by Dimitri's suspicions.

“'Tis no trap, I assure you.”

“Then why are we here?”

Sanderson allowed a sly smile to curve his lips. “You
are not alone in your preference for tender young creatures. The more tender the better, eh?”

“As you say.”

“Unfortunately, there are those in society who do not fully appreciate our choice of entertainment, so we must hide in the shadows.”

“Understandable.” Dimitri grimly squashed his surge of hope. The man had been making vague references to his ability to procure young girls for days. “It is best not to attract unwanted attention.”

“Precisely.” Sanderson leaned toward Dimitri, oblivious to the gas lantern that swayed dangerously close to a nearby crate. Ridiculous twit. “Which is why we have a number of young females transported from Russia to be auctioned for your pleasure.”

Dimitri tensed. “They are Russian?”

“An odd coincidence, is it not?”

“Odd indeed.” Dimitri's voice was hoarse, his mouth dry. Russian females? Could he at last be on the threshold of destroying Count Nevskaya and his accomplices? It seemed impossible after so many years of futile effort. “And they are to be auctioned tonight?”

“Actually, the auction is not until tomorrow eve, but with a generous offer I am certain I can convince my partners to give you first choice of the wenches.”

“The females are in the warehouse?”

“They are.” Sanderson offered a leering smile. “Would you care to meet them?”

“More than you could imagine.”

U
NAWARE OF HIS COMPANION'S
tense anticipation, Sanderson led Dimitri through a series of locked doors, then down a set of stone steps to a narrow tunnel below. Dimitri was not surprised by the secret passage. In fact, he was intimately familiar with such hidden cellars. Any gentleman who imported goods knew that it was vital to possess a public warehouse where the officials could inspect your legally transported cargo, and a separate location for those goods you prefer to keep away from prying eyes. He had several such places scattered throughout St. Petersburg.

“Follow me,” Sanderson whispered, weaving his way through the damp tunnel.

Still conscious that he might very well be entering a trap, Dimitri remained on guard.

“I must admit I am curious how you managed to acquire Russian maidens,” he prompted.

“It is a profitable exchange,” the nobleman readily answered, the top of his high beaver hat nearly brushing the wooden beams that lined the ceiling and his glossy boots splashing through the occasional puddles. “We provide suitable English virgins to be sent to Russia and in return we are offered the tastiest of Russian fruits.”

Dimitri hid a grimace, wondering how much of the business his father kept hidden from Sanderson. Count Nevskaya could not be so stupid as to offer more than the barest information to the babbling buffoon.

He could only hope it would be enough to convince Alexander Pavlovich to prosecute the nobleman.

“Very clever,” he murmured. “I presume you have a colleague in Russia, so you need not make such a journey yourself?”

“We do, but of course, we are sworn to keep our identities in the deepest confidence.”

“Granted a certain measure of caution is required, but surely there is no need for secrets among friends?” he urged with a chuckle.

“I doubt Count Nevskaya would agree,” Sanderson grumbled, drunkenly unaware he had just revealed what Dimitri desired to hear. “He is obsessed with disguising his participation in our little scheme. There is a rumor he possesses an enemy that has pledged to destroy him. It has no doubt made him a tad skittish.”

Dimitri smiled with cold satisfaction. “No doubt.”

They had nearly reached the end of the tunnel where a heavy wooden door blocked their path when Sanderson abruptly turned to face Dimitri.

“A moment, sir.”

Dimitri scowled with impatience. “Why are we stopping?”

Sanderson awkwardly cleared his throat. “Forgive me, but I wish to be assured you have recalled to bring along your purse. We are forced to hire rather dangerous ruffians to ensure the women maintain their innocence during the long voyage and they would not take kindly to a gentleman seeking to despoil a maid unless he had paid for the pleasure.”

“I have come prepared.” Dimitri reached beneath his coat to pull out the folded bills from his pocket, then he pulled his other hand out of his pocket just far enough to reveal the ivory handle of his pistol. “Fully prepared.”

“So I see.” Sanderson blanched, his hands unsteady as he turned to pound on the wooden door. “Valik, it is Sanderson. Open the door.”

The door cracked open a sliver. “First I will see the money,” a male voice thick with a Russian accent demanded.

A flush stained Sanderson's fat cheeks. He might be slow-witted, but he knew when he was being humiliated.

“Do not seek to rise above yourself, Valik,” he growled. “The women are my property to dispose of as I wish.”

“It is my duty to protect my employer's investment.”

“Stand aside or I will have you hauled to Newgate prison and left to rot.”

There was the sound of foul Russian curses, then with obvious reluctance the man pulled open the door and stepped back.

“Bring the females,” Sanderson commanded as he swept regally into the cramped cellar.

Dimitri made use of the man's generous girth to covertly slide into the shadowed chamber unnoticed. A swift glance assured him that the room was empty beyond the hovering servant, but his tension did not lessen.

There was something oddly familiar about the Russian's bluntly carved features and small, deep-set eyes that glittered with cold intelligence. Dimitri's gaze lowered to take in the man's rough clothing that did nothing to hide the thick muscles and the pistol he held with ease.

He silently slid his own pistol out of his pocket, his body coiled and prepared to attack as the man approached Sanderson with a fierce scowl.

“First I will have payment…” He began, only to cease in shock as he caught sight of Dimitri over the nobleman's shoulder. Using his sharp instincts, he had his gun lifted and pointed at Dimitri's heart. “You.”

Sanderson squeaked in terror as Dimitri roughly shoved him out of his way, his gun aimed at the Russian's head. He had discovered when he was a youth trying to survive on
the streets that a shot to the heart was not always a killing blow. A hole in the head, however, was deadly.

“Bloody hell, have you taken leave of your senses?” Sanderson shouted.

“Stupid bastard,” the servant growled, his gaze never wavering from Dimitri's grim expression.

“What are you doing?”

“Attempting to keep us from the gallows,” Valik hissed. “Unless it was your intention to betray the count?”

Sanderson backed away, wringing his pudgy hands. “Do not be absurd. There must be some mistake.”

“There is no mistake. Your fine Russian nobleman is Dimitri Tipova, the czar of St. Petersburg's criminals and sworn enemy of my employer.”

Accepting that his charade was at an end, Dimitri held his gun steady as he calculated the best means of escaping the cellars that did not include a coffin.

“Sworn enemy?” he taunted, hoping that the temperamental servant could be prodded into recklessness. “Very dramatic.”

“Lord almighty,” Sanderson wailed. “We must do something.”

“You will collect the girls and transport them out of England,” Valik commanded with a composure at complete odds with his employer.

Dimitri was under no illusion which of the two was more dangerous. Which was precisely why his gun remained trained on the Russian even as he cursed the possibility of Sanderson slipping from his grasp.

“Now?” the nobleman rasped.

“Of course now, you idiot.”

“But surely there is no need to panic? If you—” Sanderson waved his hands in Dimitri's direction. “Properly dispose of the threat then we can continue with the auction
as planned. We are all interested in ensuring we gain a measure of profit before we ship the cargo.”

Dimitri laughed with mocking amusement. “My father must have been desperate to have entered into business with such a buffoon.”

The Russian grimaced. “I did warn him that his English partners were fools destined to ruin our scheme.”

“How dare you speak of your betters in such a fashion?” Emboldened by his greed, Sanderson took a step forward, his double chins quivering with outrage. “Valik, you will kill this traitor and be rid of his body. I will continue with the auction as originally planned. Do you hear me?”

Fury tightened Valik's brutish face, his eyes glittering with a deadly hatred.

“All I hear is a braying ass who is determined to destroy us all,” he snapped. “Do you believe that Tipova told no one he suspected you were involved in selling children?”

“Who would he—bloody hell,” Sanderson gasped, pulling a lacy handkerchief from his pocket to dab at the sweat beading his upper lip. “The Duke of Huntley. I am ruined.”

“It is not only Huntley who is aware of your debauchery, but the prime minister,” Dimitri admitted with a cold smile. He had met with the gentleman only days after his arrival in London, thanks to Huntley's insistence.

Sanderson turned a pasty gray, setting aside the gas lantern as he swayed in horror.

“Liverpool?”

“To be honest I was taken aback by his eagerness to have you arrested. But then I realized a public trial at the Old Bailey might be a perfect means of assuring the unsettled populace that the nobles are not above the law.” Dimitri ruthlessly pressed. “Perhaps your worthless existence might have some purpose after all.”

“Oh, my God. Liverpool has hated me since we were
at Oxford together. A damned shame those Cato Street conspirators did not manage to kill the humorless prude,” the distraught Sanderson muttered, clearly too ignorant to realize that had the radicals managed to assassinate the cabinet members as they had planned, they intended to overthrow the entire government, as well. And to be rid of noblemen such as Sanderson and his chums. “What the devil am I to do?”

“You will take the women from this warehouse and find some means to get them out of the country,” Valik demanded.

Sanderson shook his head in panic. “No, I cannot.”

There was a tense pause as Valik considered his limited choices. Then, catching both Dimitri and Sanderson by surprise, he withdrew a matching pistol from the pocket of his dark wool coat and shoved it into Sanderson's hand.

“Here.”

Sanderson cursed, fumbling to point the gun in Dimitri's direction.

“What the devil are you doing?”

“Attempting to keep my head attached to my body,” Valik admitted, backing toward the door that led deeper into the catacombs. “I will see to the girls.”

Dimitri's teeth clenched as Sanderson's fingers tensed on the pistol. It was doubtful the damned nobleman could hit a target at ten paces if he were aiming, but it would be just Dimitri's luck that the bastard would kill him by accident.

“What of me?” Sanderson shrilled.

“You will…” Valik paused with a cruel smile. “Dispose of the problem you have caused.”

“Wait…”

The servant disappeared into the shadows, leaving behind a tense silence.

Dimitri covertly shifted forward. If he could distract
the nobleman, he might be able to overpower him before the dolt could squeeze off a shot.

“Well, Sanderson, it appears that you have been left to bear the punishment for the sins of others.”

“I will not—” Sanderson gave a dangerous wave of the gun as he noticed Dimitri's slow advance. “Stay back.”

“I could be of assistance.”

“Aye, you truly do believe me to be an idiot.”

“I have no interest in you or your lack of intelligence, Sanderson,” Dimitri soothed. “My purpose in coming to England was solely to destroy Count Nevskaya. If you cooperate, I will speak to Alexander Pavlovich in your defense.”

Sanderson licked his lips. “What would you have me do?”

“Return with me to Russia.”

“Russia? Why?”

Dimitri took another sly step forward. Still too far away to strike, but ever closer.

“I want you to confess all you know of the count's involvement in the slave trade.”

The man jerked, his eyes wide. “We have never been involved with slaves.”

Dimitri could not hide his revulsion at the ridiculous protest.

“Did I offend your delicate sensibilities?” he mocked. “Do you perhaps choose to refer to your sordid business as kidnapping defenseless children and selling them to be abused by disgusting lechers?”

Sanderson frowned in puzzlement. “They are just peasants. What good are they except to become whores?”

Dimitri stilled, his finger twitching on the trigger of his pistol. Unlike his companion, he was a deadly shot. One bullet and the twit would be a rotting corpse.

Then, he sucked in a steadying breath, reminding himself
that the only means to bring an end to the trafficking of Russian girls was to ensure his father was exposed as a monster and driven from society. And for that he needed Sanderson alive.

“I doubt the good citizens of England would so readily agree,” he warned. “In their current mood they might very well stir up a riot if they are not satisfied with your punishment. Have you ever witnessed a man ravaged by a mob? It is a nasty means to die.”

Sanderson trembled, the sweat dripping from his ruddy face.

“And what would traveling to Russia achieve?”

“If you confess to the czar, he might be willing to offer you sanctuary in Russia.”

“So I can live like a heathen in some frozen village far from decent society?” Sanderson looked as if Dimitri had threatened to geld him. “Never.”

“So you would rather be the source of scandalous ridicule as you are paraded through the streets on the way to the gallows?”

“No.”

Overcome with his terror, Sanderson stumbled backward, his hand tightening on the pistol. Dimitri leaped to the side as the deafening sound of a gunshot filled the small chamber, but it was a heartbeat too late as the bullet sliced through his upper arm.

Landing on the hard ground, he struggled against a tide of blackness as the shocking pain ripped through his body.

 

E
MMA WAS FULLY AWARE
of the foolishness of sneaking from the Huntley town house dressed in the rough clothing of a stable hand that she had stolen from the laundry room. And for taking a hack to the nasty warren of streets where the Sanderson warehouses were located. And for
hiding in a narrow alley as the elegant carriage came to a halt in the dark street and two gentlemen stepped onto the damp cobblestones.

It would no doubt serve her right if she were to have her throat cut and her body tossed into the gutter, she had ruefully admitted. But she had made the decision that she would do whatever necessary to rescue Anya when she had left Yabinsk. Even if that meant putting her life at risk.

Remaining in the shadows, her heart gave a sharp lurch as she easily recognized Dimitri standing in front of the warehouse. Despite the darkness she would know the broad set of his shoulders and the proud, perfect lines of his profile anywhere. There was no other gentleman in England who could match his dark, ruthless beauty.

And, of course, there was that disturbing awareness that swept through her body like a tidal wave. She would know Dimitri was near even if she were blindfolded.