Scoundrel's Honor (15 page)

So did his presence mean that her desperate hope that Anya and the other girls might be hidden in the warehouse was not utter insanity?

Gathering her ebbing courage, Emma silently crept forward as the men entered, waiting until she heard them crossing the wooden planks of the floor before slipping through the door. Her heart thundered in her chest, her mouth dry with fear. Whether it was the terror of being murdered by a ruffian, or of being caught by Dimitri was impossible to say.

Either posed a fate she intended to avoid.

She stepped into the large storage room, her nose wrinkling at the overwhelming scent of dried tobacco and spices. In the darkness she could make out the silhouettes of wooden crates stacked in neat rows, and in the distance the unmistakable glow of a gas light that was rapidly disappearing down a flight of stairs.

Not giving herself time to consider the countless reasons
she should be fleeing the warehouse with all possible speed, Emma cautiously crept past the crates, lingering at the opening to the stairs. She paused, ensuring that the men were not about to make a sudden reappearance. Then praying the wooden steps did not squeak and reveal her presence, she forced herself into the narrow stairwell.

She stumbled as she reached the bottom, startled by the black shroud of darkness that surrounded her. Not that she should have been surprised. Underground tunnels were as a rule dark and damp.

Reaching out her hand, she hesitantly made her way over the uneven ground, her rasping breath the only sound to break the thick silence.

Then, just as she began to fear that she was hopelessly lost in the dark, she heard distant voices. She shuffled forward, relieved by the dim glow of light that spilled from an open door into the tunnel.

Reaching the edge of the pool of light, she paused and pressed herself against the wall of the tunnel, clearly able to hear the raised voices of the men. For a moment she struggled to understand the argument, then her heart gave a violent leap.

Dear God, Lord Sanderson was holding Dimitri at gunpoint. And just as alarming, Anya was hidden somewhere nearby and that horrid Valik was rushing off to take her away.

Emma knew she had to do something. She had to…

Her shocked mind was still struggling to decide on a course of action when the air was shattered by the sound of a gunshot.

“Dimitri,” she whispered, sheer terror holding her prisoner as Lord Sanderson suddenly stumbled past her and disappeared down the tunnel. But as Dimitri's low moan reached her, she thrust aside her fear and rushed into the room, discovering Dimitri lying on the floor, his beautiful
face twisted in pain. With a small cry she sank onto her knees, her hand reaching to cup his cheek. “Dimitri, can you hear me?”

“Emma?” The thick curtain of his lashes lifted, revealing golden eyes that were shockingly lucid considering he had just been shot. And smoldering with fury. “What are you doing here?”

“It does not matter.” She ran a frantic gaze over his body, spotting the torn coat sleeve and the blood already staining the fabric. “You have been hurt, we must get you to a surgeon.”

Muttering under his breath, Dimitri sat upright, studying the wound beneath the heavy layers of clothing.

“It is no more than a scratch,” he concluded, forcing himself to his feet.

Emma straightened, reaching to grasp his arm as he swayed. “Must you be so stubborn?”

He cast a smoldering glance over her wool coat and male breeches.

“Be assured we will have a thorough discussion regarding who is the more stubborn later,
milaya,
but for now I have to capture Sanderson before he can escape.”

Emma frowned in puzzlement. For a moment the thought that Dimitri had been seriously wounded had driven everything from her mind. Now, the memory of the argument she had overheard seared through her mind.

“Sanderson?”

“He cannot have gone far.”

“What does it matter where he has gone?”

“With his confession to Alexander Pavlovich, my father will at last be exposed to society as a monster.”

“But we must go after that horrible Valik. He said he was taking the girls out of England,” she argued.

Dimitri made a sound of impatience. “They will not be allowed to escape.”

Emma's lips parted to inform him that she would go after the man alone if necessary when they both turned toward the door and the unmistakable sound of approaching footsteps.

“Emma?” a familiar male voice called.

Dimitri sent her a startled frown. “You brought Huntley with you?”

“Nothing so polite,” the duke drawled, appearing ridiculously out of place in his elegant black coat and glossy Hessians. His stark expression, however, perfectly mirrored Dimitri's. “She snuck away the moment my back was turned.”

Indifferent to the nobleman's fierce displeasure, Emma regarded him with a pleading expression.

“Please, you must help me, Your Grace. My sister—”

Her words were rudely interrupted as Dimitri firmly shoved her into the grasp of the duke.

“Return Emma to your town house and have her locked in her rooms.”

Stefan had her arm in a vice grip before Emma could escape. “Very well.”

“No!” Emma futilely struggled to free herself. “I am going to find Anya.”

The two men ignored her.

“What of you?” the duke inquired.

“I must stop Sanderson from fleeing.” His golden gaze shifted to Emma's mutinous expression. “Then I will make certain the girls are found and taken to my ship. They will be safe there.”

Stefan dipped his head in agreement. “My servants will assist you.”

“Thank you.” His gaze never shifted from Emma's face, his own expression bleak. “Do not let her out of your sight.”

In disbelief, Emma felt herself being ruthlessly urged
toward the door she had so recently charged through. Precisely the opposite direction she was desperate to go.

“Let go of me.” She glared at Dimitri as she was overpowered by the large Englishman. “I will never forgive you for this, Dimitri Tipova.”

His jaw tightened. “Emma, these men are vicious. They will kill anyone they believe threatens them.”

“I do not care,” she shouted. “Anya is here. I will not leave without her.”

Dimitri turned his attention to the duke. “Huntley.”

“You are certain?” the duke demanded.

“Yes.”

“Forgive me,” Stefan muttered, then with one powerful motion he had Emma tossed over his shoulder and was rapidly heading back down the tunnel.

Emma cursed and screamed and kicked, but her efforts to escape were ignored as she was hauled away like a bit of unwanted rubbish.

Why had she halted to see if Dimitri were alive or dead, she bitterly wondered?

Had she continued across the room and into the darkness beyond she might even now be rescuing Anya from harm. Instead, she had allowed her weakness for the captivating criminal to make her hesitate. And as punishment for her vulnerability she was once again unable to save her sister.

It was a mistake she would not make again, she swore.

Attempting to gather her badly shredded dignity, Emma ceased her struggles and allowed herself to be carried from the warehouse and bundled into the elegant black carriage. Stefan followed behind, settling his large body on the leather bench opposite her.

“This is for the best, Emma,” he assured her as the carriage jerked into motion.

She clenched her hands in her lap, cursing the day she had ever encountered Dimitri Tipova.

“And what if it were your sister being held captive by ruthless beasts who intend to auction her to the highest bidder? Would you meekly return to your home and hope she be rescued?”

Stefan's expression gentled in understanding.

“I have been forced to swallow my pride and accept that another might possess the skills I lacked to confront a particular danger.” He reached across to lightly touch her cheek. “You must trust Dimitri.”

She turned to glare out the window, her heart aching with disappointment.

She had already put her trust in Dimitri. Naive fool that she was. Even when she had sensed that his lust for revenge was greater than his affection for her.

“Dimitri is driven by his need to punish his father,” she said tightly. “He will sacrifice Anya if it ensures the humiliation of Count Nevskaya.”

Unable to deny the truth of her words, Stefan heaved a sigh.

“Then trust my servants. They will not allow the girls to be taken from London.”

“I trust no one but myself.”

“Emma—”

“Please, no more lectures, Your Grace,” she warned in raw tones.

A tense silence filled the air as they rumbled their way through the London streets to Mayfair. More than once Emma considered the desperate notion of trying to leap from the carriage and make her way back to the warehouse only to dismiss such foolishness.

Not only was it quite likely that the fall would break her neck, but she would not be allowed to go more than
a few steps before Stefan's burly grooms would have her captured.

Arriving at the imposing town house, Stefan kept a tight grip on her arm as he escorted her into the elegant vestibule.

“My staff will be warned that you are not to leave the grounds,” he declared in rueful tones.

Emma tilted her chin. “Then I am your prisoner?”

“My guest who I intend to protect, with or without your blessing.”

“You must do as you think best.” Turning on her heel, she headed for the nearby stairs. “As will I.”

T
HE BLUSH OF DAWN BARELY
painted the sky when Emma heard the key being turned in her lock.

After being imprisoned in her bedchamber by the Duke of Huntley, she had spent the long night pacing the floor, dividing her time between cursing Dimitri Tipova for treating her as if she were a blundering idiot and praying that he swiftly returned with her sister.

How dare he send her away when she had traveled halfway around the world to find Anya? And how dare he put his need for revenge before the young girls who were at the mercy of those despicable animals?

As the hours had passed, her anger had swelled until she was trembling with the need to escape from her lavish prison. She had been taking care of herself for a number of years and she did not appreciate having her hard-earned independence snatched away.

So perhaps it was understandable that when the door slid open to reveal the foreign gentleman who had kidnapped her during Sir Jergens's soiree she did not scream. Or even attempt to race past him into the hall. Instead, she watched in weary curiosity as he offered a smooth bow.

“May I enter?”

“I…” She licked her lips, struggling to force her foggy brain to think clearly. A voice in the back of her mind warned that honest gentlemen did not sneak through a duke's town house and approach a maiden in her private chambers. But it was a voice she ignored as she met his steady black gaze. “Yes.”

He hovered in the doorway, a faint smile curving his lips. “If you would be so kind as to close the curtains?”

“Why?”

“There are an inordinate number of servants lurking about the grounds. If they were to notice the shadow of a gentleman in your private chamber they would be certain to investigate.”

Emma bit her lip, then gave a jerky nod. She understood the danger of allowing a strange man into her rooms, but she also knew that one scream and a dozen servants would rush to her rescue. The man had risked his life to seek her out in such an unconventional manner. Whatever he desired of her it had to be important.

“Of course.”

She moved to pull shut the heavy curtains, inanely aware she was still attired in the rough breeches and linen shirt of a stable boy, her hair hanging in tangles and her face smudged from her adventure in the warehouse. The stranger, on the other hand, was elegantly dressed in a black jacket and satin pantaloons with a huge ruby twinkling in the depths of his cravat. As if he had just stepped out of an elegant ballroom.

Wrapping her arms around her waist, she watched as the darkly beautiful man entered the room and closed the door behind his slender form.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded.

Holding out his hands in a gesture of peace, he slowly approached her.

“As I suggested during our first encounter we have a mutual purpose in traveling to London.”

“Surely it is past time for allusion and innuendo?” she snapped, her temper frayed and her nerves raw with concern for her sister. “If you have something to say, then please do so.”

“Plain speech? Very well.” He halted directly before
her, his exotic scent tantalizing her. “I know why you have traveled to England.”

She stilled, wary he could be hoping to trick her into confessing her secrets.

“How could you possibly know?”

He reached up to pluck the hat off his head and tossed it onto a low table, the sable darkness of his hair glinting in the flames of the fireplace.

“With the proper enticement and enough patience a man can discover any information he desires.”

She shivered, unable to believe that Dimitri's crew would be disloyal, no matter what the temptation. But then again, Dimitri had been forced to confide his purpose in coming to England to a number of government officials, including the prime minister. She doubted that their staffs would be above suspicion.

“And why would you be interested in my reason for traveling to England?”

His black gaze swept over her face, lingering on the lush curve of her lips.

“Beyond my fascination with your beauty?”

Her heart gave a nervous flutter.

“Please, do not,” she breathed.

“Allow me to begin at the beginning.” Pressing his hands together in a formal gesture, he offered a solemn dip of his head. “I am Caliph Rajih.”

“Caliph?” Emma frowned, attempting to recall her studies of the near Orient—lessons that had been sadly vague when it came to foreign royalty. “You are a prince?”

“I am a leader of my people,” he agreed.

The knowledge should perhaps have been shocking. After all, what sort of prince lurked in the shadows rather than take his place among the finest of London society? But Emma was more resigned than shocked. Had she not already suspected that he was accustomed to giving commands and having them obeyed? It was etched in the
proud lines of his face and the arrogant carriage of his slender body.

“Where?” she demanded.

“Egypt.”

Again, she was struck by thoughts of sunlight blazing over golden dunes and tents crowded about a small oasis. Men forged in the merciless desert were rumored to be as hard and unforgiving as the land that birthed them.

“You are a very long way from your home.”

“As are you.” His hand lifted to caress a stray curl resting against her cheek. “We are similar in many ways.”

She hastily stepped away from his disturbing touch. “Why have you come to London?”

He studied her for a long moment, the dark eyes glittering with a wicked anticipation that sent a shiver of unease down her spine. Then, with a shrug, he paced toward the fireplace and leaned against the marble mantel.

“I will not bore you with the long and ofttimes tragic history of my country, but suffice it to say that we at last possess a powerful viceroy who is prepared to embrace the future rather than to smother us in the past,” he said, reaching beneath his jacket to pull out a lacquered snuff box. His brows lifted as he caught Emma's sudden flare of amusement. “Why do you smile?”

Emma sank onto one of the sofas, weary after her endless night of pacing.

“You are obviously of the desert and yet there is something oddly English about you.”

“Ah.” With a practiced motion he flipped open the box and took a small pinch of the snuff, placing it neatly on his wrist before bending his head to inhale the perfumed tobacco. He returned the box to his pocket and met Emma's small smile. “My father sent me to school here when I was just twelve. He believed, as the pasha does, that a closer connection to the West is vital for our survival. I lived in this country until my father's death six years ago.”

That certainly explained his ease with the English language.

“Then you are a diplomat?”

“When the occasion demands.” He shrugged, his expression somber. “On this journey, however, my purpose is to bring to an end an ancient practice that has been a blight on my country's reputation.”

“I fear I do not comprehend.”

“The slave trade.”

“Oh.” She shook her head in confusion. “I thought…”

His eyes narrowed as she broke off her hasty words.

“You thought we were all savages who were so desperate for soft white flesh that we encourage the infidels to peddle their females in our markets?”

She wrinkled her nose, accepting she was very much in the wrong. How often she had to hide her outrage when she had overheard herself being referred to as a Russian savage? It was shameful that she would offer the same obtuse assumption.

“Forgive me.”

He held up a slender hand, his expression rueful. “No, it is I who begs your forgiveness, Emma. For too long our corrupt officials have turned a blind eye to the traffickers. The pasha, however, seeks to improve our relationship with England as well as the Continent and he has made a vow to bar the peddling of females in our markets.”

She nodded in sympathy. Despite the best efforts of the Romanovs, much of Russia still remained mired in the past. Change was never a simple matter for people to embrace, even when it might be for their own good.

“Does this have something to do with my sister?”

“I believe so. During the past few years I have noticed a number of Russian whores in the brothels of Cairo. I, of course, began my search for those responsible in Russia. You can imagine my frustration when I could discover no evidence of ships carrying unwilling females to Cairo.”

Emma was quick to realize the truth. “Because they were traveling to England.”

A pleased smile curved his lips, as if she had somehow fulfilled his expectation.

“You are intelligent as well as beautiful,” he murmured. “Yes, the girls are taken from Russia to London and sold for the private pleasure of wealthy Englishmen. Eventually the men become weary of their trinket and wish to be rid of her with as little fuss as possible.”

She ignored the sick dread in her stomach. If she allowed herself to dwell on all the horrible tortures that Anya might be enduring she would go stark raving mad.

Instead, she concentrated on the caliph's unexpected information.

It appeared that Dimitri had underestimated his father once again. They had assumed that once the Russian girls had been sold to the English roués that they would eventually be left in a local brothel. But if the caliph was right…

Dear Lord, she had to find Anya.

Emma surged to her feet, her hands trembling as she pushed back the thick curls that tumbled about her shoulders.

“You suspect they are taken to Cairo?”

His hooded gaze seared over her pale face before lowering to her slender body.

“They are no longer innocent, but there are a great many of my countrymen who harbor a lust for such pale, perfect beauty,” he admitted, his voice low and husky.

Emma shivered, sternly refusing to allow her thoughts to stray from Anya and the beasts who held her captive.

“Do you believe the same men who have brought them to England also arrange to have them taken to Cairo?”

“Yes.”

She pressed a hand to her heaving stomach. “Is there no limit to their depravity?”

“It would seem not.” His dark features hardened, a lethal fury flaring through his eyes. “From what I have managed to discover, Count Nevskaya's servants remain in London until they collect the Russian females that have been returned to them, as well as the English girls that are their payment, and travel to Egypt. Once there, they sell the Russians in the markets before continuing back to St. Petersburg with the English maidens to pleasure the count and his friends.”

“There is little wonder Dimitri was incapable of untangling their sordid business.”

“Tipova,” the caliph growled. “Do not speak his name in my presence.”

She blinked at his fierce response. “Why?”

“I went to great trouble to prepare my trap only to have Tipova blunder into my snare and send my prey fleeing into the night.” He straightened from the mantel and crossed to stand before her. “Along with your sister.”

“Anya.” Emma instinctively grasped his arm. “You know where she is?”

His warm hand covered her fingers, his male scent cloaking her in a musky spice.

“If she was among the females taken from the warehouse, then she is currently aboard a ship called the
Katherine Marie
and headed for Cairo.” The
Katherine Marie?
Emma would have fallen to her knees if he had not grasped her arms to keep her upright.

“Dear God, I failed her,” she breathed, barely aware of being pulled into the caliph's arms and held against his chest. “It does not matter how I try, I always fail her.”

Still holding her close, he bent his head to whisper in her ear.

“It is not too late, Emma.”

She pulled back to meet the dark glitter of his gaze. “What do you mean?”

“My ship is being prepared as we speak. I intend to
sail for Cairo within the hour.” He smiled with a blatant challenge. “Will you join me?”

 

A
PRISTINE LAYER OF WHITE
snow draped London as Dimitri wearily entered the Huntley town house.

In the distance a church bell tolled and the sound of the coal wagon rattled over the cobblestones, but a sleepy silence remained settled over the elegant neighborhood. It might be near ten in the morning, but society remained snuggled in their warm beds. It would be hours before they were primped and prepared to meet the day.

Worthless nitwits.

Allowing the waiting butler to take his outer garments, Dimitri shoved his fingers through his damp hair and climbed the steps.

His every instinct urged him to travel directly to Emma's chambers. The sight of the wounded fury burning in her eyes as Huntley had carried her away had plagued him the entire morning.

It was infuriating. He had only been protecting the stubborn minx despite her determination to get herself killed. God almighty, what sort of female would disguise herself as a stable boy and sneak about a neighborhood that would terrify the most hardened criminal? And then to attempt to charge after the Russian brute as if she were indestructible…

Obviously, Emma Linley-Kirov was in dire need of a man willing and able to restrain her dangerous impulses.

So why did he feel an overwhelming compulsion to seek her out and banish the shadow of betrayal from her eyes?

Climbing the marble steps, he was jerked out of his thoughts as Huntley appeared on the landing above him, clearly having lain in wait for his return.

“Tipova. At last.” The duke wore a brocade gown with his dark hair tousled and his face unshaven, but his casual appearance did not lessen his imperious manner as he
gestured for Dimitri to follow him into the book-lined study. He waved a slender hand toward the walnut desk as he crossed to toss another log into the fireplace. “The brandy is on the desk.”

“I prefer my vodka,” Dimitri said, pulling out his silver flask as he strolled to stand beside the bay window that offered a view of the snowy street below.