Scoundrel's Honor (13 page)

The color visibly drained from the plump face. “Russian?”

The woman was obviously alarmed, but it was impossible to know if it was a mere reaction to being questioned by a supposed noblewoman. Emma considered her words.

“Well, most London domestic services only offer English or French servants. I had hoped you might be acquainted with a suitable girl.”

“I…”

“Have I said something wrong?”

Maggie abruptly ducked her head, concentrating furiously on sewing the ripped hem.

“No.”

“I would be willing to pay for your assistance, Maggie,” Emma urged softly.

“I'm sorry, my lady, I don't know any foreign girls.”

Emma bit her lip, studying the rigid line of the maid's shoulders and the tremble of her finger as she tied off the thread. The poor girl was truly frightened. Did she dare press her further?

“Then perhaps one of your friends would be able to recommend someone?” she at last asked.

The maid surged upright, a hectic glitter in her brown eyes. “There you are, as good as new.”

“Maggie?”

“I must be returning to my duties.” Without warning Maggie was turning to rush out of the room.

“Wait.”

Cursing her lack of finesse, Emma belatedly followed in the servant's wake, not entirely surprised to discover that the girl had already disappeared. She was certain Maggie must know something. But what? And how did she force the poor girl to confess?

Ten minutes later, Emma came to a halt and glanced about the warren of rooms and hallways that made up the servant's quarters. Maggie was nowhere to be found and the servants who scurried past her were sending her the sort of curious glances that inevitably led to gossip. The one thing that Emma was determined to avoid.

Accepting that she had done enough damage for one evening, she gave a shake of her head and turned to retrace her steps back to the ballroom. It was only then that she realized that an extremely large man with a dark complexion had crept up behind her. Her eyes widened as she realized he was oddly attired with a scarf on his head and a matching loose white robe wrapped with a black rope that held it in place.

Who was he? And more important, what was he doing creeping about the London town house?

Instinctively, her lips parted to scream, but before she could make a sound the man had clamped a hand over her mouth and firmly wrapped an arm around her waist, plucking her feet far enough off the ground so he could back toward a nearby door.

Emma struggled as a surge of fear exploded through her. She might be several pounds lighter and barely tall enough to reach the man's shoulder, but that did not keep her from scratching at the hand over her mouth or desperately swinging her legs in an attempt to connect a blow to his knee.

The brute flinched and muttered beneath his breath, but he never hesitated as he used his foot to kick open the door and hauled her down a narrow flight of stairs into the abandoned rose garden.

Emma stilled her futile struggles. The man was too powerful for her to battle. Her only hope was to conserve her strength and pray she would be offered the opportunity to escape once he released his painful grip.

She shivered as a breeze whipped around the side of the house, easily cutting through the thin fabric of her gown. English winters might not compare to the brutal ferocity of Russia, but this was no weather to be prancing about frozen gardens without so much as a cloak.

The stranger carried her down the narrow path, heading toward the small grotto in the center of the garden. Then, stepping through the opening, he roughly set her back on her feet, making no effort to assist her when she stumbled into the darkness.

A slender male hand grasped her arm, gently steadying her before she fell to her knees. Emma was aware of the potent scent of exotic spices and warm male skin before the hand was removed and the darkness was pierced by candlelight.

She blinked against the sudden change from dark to light, then as her eyes became accustomed, she studied the slender man standing directly in front of her.

Her first thought was that he was as exotically male as his scent had been.

Although attired in English clothing with a black jacket fobbed with gold and white satin pantaloons, there was no mistaking the foreign beauty of his finely carved features and the rich glow of his golden skin. His hair was as dark as the midnight sky and cut close to his head, emphasizing his wide brow and the black, deep-set eyes that smoldered with a restless intelligence.

She shivered. The stranger carried with him the lethal allure of the desert. Scorching days beneath the incandescent sun and cool nights by the oasis, wrapped in a man's arms.

Emma's heart slammed against her chest as the stranger studied her for a long, disturbing moment, then his dark gaze shifted over her shoulder and he spoke to a man still standing behind her in a strange language.

There was a shuffle as the robed man left the gazebo and Emma was alone with the strikingly handsome man who set aside the candle and strolled toward her.

“Forgive me,” he murmured, his smoky voice feathering down her spine. “I requested that my servant bring you to me and apparently he took my command quite literally.”

Emma licked her lips, not fooled by his polished manners. She did not doubt for a moment that the servant had been commanded to bring her to the garden by whatever means necessary.

“So it would seem.” She clutched her shaking hands together, glancing about the marble grotto with its pastoral scenes painted on the walls and benches set beneath the slotted windows. It was surprisingly spacious, but to
Emma's mind the stranger's presence seemed to overwhelm the circular space. “Who are you?”

He offered a half bow. “Just as you, I am a visitor to this country.”

Which told her precisely nothing.

“And you believe that gives you leave to have me hauled about as if I am a bit of rubbish?”

A small smile curved his lips, emphasizing his dark beauty. “I have apologized.”

Emma remained wary, but her panic eased. Surely if the man intended harm he would not be chatting with her in a grotto near enough for someone to hear her scream?

“But you have not yet introduced yourself, or told me why you have brought me to this excessively cold garden,” she pointed out.

The dark gaze swept over her upturned face. “For now I believe it is best that we both guard our true identities…” He deliberately paused. “Emma.”

“How did you know—”

“There are more dangers in London than you suspect,” he overrode her startled question.

She shivered at his odd words. Did he know why she was in London? Was he somehow involved with those who had taken her sister?

“Is that a threat?” she breathed.

“A warning for you to take care,” he corrected, his hand lifting to cup her chin in a gentle grip. “It would be tragic if you were to be harmed.”

Acutely aware of the warmth of his touch and the tantalizing brush of his breath on her cheek, Emma resisted the urge to struggle against him. Dimitri Tipova had taught her to recognize a predator when one had her cornered.

“What do you want of me?”

“I have told myself that we could be of assistance to one another, but now that you are so near I wonder if I was
not deceiving myself.” His voice roughened as his gaze deliberately rested on her lips. “You are quite beautiful.”

“Please…do not.”

He ignored her unsteady plea, his fingers tracing the delicate lines of her face.

“Such exquisite skin. And soft, silken hair. And eyes that are the precise shade of my beloved cat.” His head slowly lowered. “Fascinating.”

“No.” Emma pressed her hands against his chest, her cheeks flushed. “I will scream.”

With a rueful grimace, the man pulled back, the dark eyes glittering with a wicked promise that their kiss had merely been delayed.

“You have no need to fear me,” he promised. “I only wish to let you know that you are not alone in your search.”

Her heart skipped a beat. “My search?”

He frowned as he abruptly glanced toward the door. “Someone approaches.” He grasped her shoulders, his expression somber. “If you wish my help you will tell no one of this encounter.”

“Why not?”

“Because, like the scorpion, I prefer to remain in the shadows until the moment is ripe to strike at my enemies.”

Emma studied the proud golden features. This was a man accustomed to giving commands and having them obeyed. Not that a position of power made him trustworthy, of course. The men who had kidnapped her sister were supposed noblemen.

But she could not deny there was a part of her that was certain he was someone she could rely upon.

“And what if I have need of you?” she husked. “How can I contact you?”

The dark eyes flared with satisfaction and before
she could stop him, he had leaned down to steal a brief, possessive kiss.

“Do not worry, I shall always be near,” he whispered.

Not entirely reassured, Emma shivered as he silently slipped from the grotto and disappeared into the shadows of the garden.

She was not at all convinced he was a gentleman she wished to have keeping watch on her, she acknowledged as she followed him out of the grotto and headed back toward the town house. Then again, if he could provide assistance in rescuing her sister, then he could lurk in the shadows all he desired.

Avoiding the servant's door where she had been forced into the garden, Emma instead hurried toward the terrace at the far edge of the house. She climbed the steps and was headed for the French doors when a familiar form stepped into her path.

“Emma.” Dimitri glared down at her with obvious annoyance. “What are you doing out here?”

Emma jerked in surprise, her raw nerves not at all prepared to deal with yet another overbearing male. What had she done to be plagued with such creatures?

“I…I needed a breath of fresh air.”

“Fresh air?”

“Yes.”

The golden eyes narrowed with suspicion. “And you had no intention of attempting to overhear my conversation with Lord Sanderson?”

She breathed a soft sigh of relief at the realization he had presumed she had followed him onto the terrace. She might be a fool, but for now she had no intention of telling Dimitri of her encounter with the strange foreigner.

Not when he was certain to use the knowledge as an excuse to keep her locked in the Huntley town house, or worse, returned to his ship.

Besides, who knew whether the stranger might eventually be of service?

“There is nothing nefarious in my presence on the terrace, Dimitri. I took a brief stroll through the garden and now I am returning to the ballroom.”

“Alone?” he drawled in disbelief. “Where is Leonida?”

“No doubt in the company of her charming husband.”

“Ah.” His expression softened as he stepped close enough to wrap his arms around her waist. “And were you jealous,
milaya?
Did you perhaps wish to be in the company of a charming, clever, excessively handsome gentleman?”

She trembled at his familiar touch, her body tightening with a sharp-edged hunger. In the flickering torchlight, with his hair ruffled in the breeze and his eyes dark with desire, he appeared enticingly uncivilized.

The desire to have him sweep her off her feet and carry her into the shadows of the garden was terrifyingly potent. Instead, she forced herself to step back, meeting his smoldering gaze with a tilt of her chin.

She would not be manipulated. Not by Dimitri Tipova nor by the stranger in the grotto.

“Yes,” she admitted with a taunting smile. “Unfortunately, I have yet to discover such a man.”

D
ESPITE HIS BEST INTENTIONS,
Dimitri found his thoughts drifting as Huntley discussed the various political implications from the recent Congress of Verona. It was not that he did not comprehend the dangers inherent in Spain's current instability, or France's proposed intervention. The mere fact that Alexander Pavlovich was offering to send one hundred and fifty thousand troops to Piedmont to dampen the uprising of Jacobins meant that there was a very real potential for war.

But on this winter afternoon, the squabbling between Metternich and Wellington and Chateaubriand seemed thankfully distant.

Instead, he gazed down at the terraced garden shown to full advantage by the row of floor-to-ceiling windows, his mood as dark as the threatening clouds.

At last sensing Dimitri's tension, Huntley rose from the heavy walnut desk and crossed the white marble floor of the library.

“How does your hunt go?”

“Slowly.” Dimitri grimaced, reluctantly recalling the paltry entertainments he'd been forced to endure over the past days. Drunken boxing matches, seedy gambling halls, a dog fight and brothels that catered to any number of perversions. None, however, had offered the sort of young females he had demanded of Lord Sanderson. “I have hopes this evening I can convince my prey I am to be trusted with his secrets.”

“It has only been a fortnight.” The duke shrugged. “You cannot expect a miracle.”

Dimitri's humorless laugh echoed through the vast room. The elegant library was large enough to house an army battalion.

“I cannot, but I assure you that is precisely what Emma expects.”

“Understandable. It is obvious she is consumed with fear for her sister.”

Dimitri clenched his hands. He fully sympathized with Emma's concern. He better than anyone knew the guilt that tormented her at Anya's continued absence, and her relentless determination to rescue her. No matter what the cost to herself.

Or to him.

But he couldn't deny his frustration at the impenetrable barriers she had surrounded herself with since arriving in London.

“I sympathize with her impatience, but I cannot allow her emotions to lead her to foolishness,” he growled. “If she does not trust that I am capable of rescuing Anya, then she is most certain to take matters into her own hands.”

Huntley smiled wryly. “I could have warned you of the dangers of entangling yourself with a headstrong female.”

An icy dread gripped his heart as the haunting memory of his mother and her brutal death seared through his mind.

“There is no need for such warnings,” he replied. “I am painfully familiar with the dangers. You are certain Leonida is keeping a close guard on her?”

Huntley arched a dark brow. “Why do you ask?”

With a sharp motion, Dimitri turned to pace toward a towering bookcase.

“I suspect Emma is keeping a secret from me.”

“She is a woman. They are compelled by nature to keep a poor man baffled and suspicious.”

“Not all women,” Dimitri protested. And it was the truth. How many females had he taken into his care over the years? How many had eagerly allowed him to protect them from the cruel injustices that threatened them? “There are those who comprehend the need to depend on a man and to defer to him rather than constantly battling to assert her independence.”

“If you say.” Huntley at least made an effort to disguise his amusement. “Why do you believe she is keeping a secret from you?”

Dimitri continued his pacing, his brow furrowed with frustration. He had first assumed Emma's oddly furtive manner was caused by her annoyance at his refusal to allow her to chase about London in search of her sister. It was understandable she would desire to punish him.

But as the days passed, he was forced to accept that Emma was not a woman to harbor a grudge. If she were annoyed with him, then she would brazenly slap his face, not pout behind his back.

No. There was something occupying her mind. Something she was determined to keep hidden from him.

“It is those guilty glances when she thinks I am not looking,” he muttered, acutely aware that he sounded a fool. “And those tiny flinches of surprise when I enter a room unexpectedly.”

Huntley slowly smiled, crossing to regard Dimitri with an amused gaze.

“Have you considered her wariness in your presence is caused by the same affliction that has you pacing the floors and snapping at those foolish enough to cross your path?”

Dimitri tensed, not particularly pleased to be a source of entertainment for the duke.

“What affliction?”

“Desire.”

“That is none of your concern,” he growled, his voice edged with warning.

“I am not blind, Tipova,” the man persisted. “It is obvious that the two of you have been intimate. Perhaps if you would return Emma to your bed then both of you could collect your composure and concentrate on your purpose here.”

Dimitri gave a sharp crack of laughter. Did the duke believe that he was responsible for his enforced celibacy? Christ, he would sooner be tarred and feathered than spend another night alone in his bed.

“It was not my choice to have separate chambers,” he proclaimed.

A hint of pity darkened Huntley's expression. “Ah.”

Dimitri ignored the implication that it was his lack of talent that had driven Emma from his bed. He had no need to boast of his skill. Instead, he concentrated on making certain Huntley realized just how fragile Emma was beneath her facade of unshakable fortitude.

“Emma has been forced to take on responsibilities that would have crushed most women.”

Huntley nodded. “I suspected as much.”

“Then you must also have suspected that her unconventional choices have made her vulnerable to nasty gossip that has plagued her since her father's death. She would be deeply hurt if Leonida were to consider her less than a proper lady.”

Huntley stiffened, obviously outraged by the suggestion they would deliberately harm their guest.

“Leonida is already extremely fond of Emma, as am I. We would never think less of her.”

Dimitri shrugged. “Perhaps you could convince her. I have been unable to do so.”

Huntley paused, studying Dimitri's guarded expression. “Why do I sense you have not made the attempt?”

Dimitri swallowed a sigh. The duke was annoyingly perceptive.

“Emma was a virgin before becoming my lover,” he grudgingly confessed.

“You did not—”

“Force her? No,” he snapped. “But in her mind I did seduce her. It appeased her conscience to tell herself that I took advantage of her innocence.”

“And now?”

Dimitri shifted uneasily. What did the man want from him? A confession that his relationship with Emma had gone beyond a short tumble to ease his lust? That he needed her to be more than merely a reluctant lover?

“Now I wish her to accept her place in my bed because that is where she desires to be and not because I have lured her there,” he muttered.

Huntley reached to clap him on the back. “Take the word of a man who has made his fair share of mistakes, Tipova, pride is a cold companion.”

Dimitri headed toward the door, unwilling to discuss Emma and the baffling emotions that refused to leave him in peace.

“Sanderson will be waiting for me.”

 

U
PSTAIRS IN THE
D
UCHESS
of Huntley's private parlor, the two women might have been poised for a painting.

Leonida was prettily settled on a brocade settee, her lilac gown a perfect complement to her golden beauty. Across the room decorated with painted mural scenes and boasting a coved ceiling, stood Emma attired in a blue-and-silver-striped walking gown with a blue velvet pelisse fastened with large silver buttons as she glanced out the bow window.

Neither woman, however, was remotely aware of the charming vision they created.

In truth, Emma was aware of nothing beyond the sight
of Dimitri striding through the back garden to the mews. Even at a distance he appeared absurdly handsome with his caped greatcoat emphasizing the width of his shoulders and the pale light slanting over the savage beauty of his bronzed face.

Her teeth clenched with a combination of unwelcome appreciation and sheer annoyance that he was once again spending the day hunting for her sister, while she was expected to remain quietly at home, awaiting his return like a well-trained dog.

“If the tea is not to your taste I could order you whatever you desire,” Leonida murmured from behind.

Turning, Emma set aside her Wedgwood cup with a grimace. “Arsenic?”

“No man is worth dying for.”

“Oh, I did not intend the poison for me.”

Leonida tilted back her head to laugh with rich appreciation. “Oh, I do like you, Emma Linley-Kirov.”

“Why did he bother to bring me to London if he meant to forget my very existence?” she growled, pacing across the Persian carpet to absently toy with the jade figurines that lined the mantel.

“If the burning glances he has been sending in your direction is any indication, he has not been capable of forgetting your existence for even a moment.”

Emma could not contain her shiver. She was well aware of Dimitri's hot, lingering glances. How could she not be? The air itself seemed to catch fire the moment he entered the room. And she would be lying if she did not admit that she had spent more than one night aching for his touch.

But she had made her decision to bring an end to their affair. A decision that was only strengthened by the realization that she would never be capable of keeping her secrets hidden while sharing a bed with Dimitri Tipova.

How long would it be before the incorrigible man not only realized she was making her own inquiries throughout
London in an effort to locate Anya, but that there was a strange man supposedly keeping watch over her?

No. Whatever the temptation, she had to keep in mind that Dimitri had his own purpose in being in London. And if she, or Anya, had to be sacrificed to achieve that goal, then so be it.

“Desiring me in his bed and including me in his search for my sister is not at all the same,” she said, her voice bitter. “He refuses to admit I might have some value beyond my body.”

Leonida sighed. “Men are so sadly stupid.”

“I doubt you would include your husband in your condemnation of the opposite sex.”

“Of course I would,” the duchess corrected. “Until I managed to properly train him, Stefan was as arrogant, insensitive and incapable of accepting a woman's ability to make her own decisions as Dimitri.”

“Do you truly believe a man such as Dimitri Tipova could be trained by any woman?”

“You would not ask that question if you knew Stefan's brother, Edmond.” Leonida set aside her teacup and rose to her feet. “I do not envy Brianna for the torment that man put her through before they wed. Of course now she is excessively happy.”

Emma's heart twisted with an emotion perilously close to envy. She would be a fool to ever believe she shared more than a passing affair with Dimitri. Her destiny was a small coaching inn in Yabinsk. To yearn for more was only inviting disappointment.

“Enough of Dimitri Tipova,” she snapped. “I am here for Anya, no other purpose.”

“Certainly,” Leonida calmly agreed. “How can I be of service?”

Emma sucked in a deep breath, regaining her composure. “Your maid was kind enough to discover that Lady
Sanderson enjoys a late morning stroll through Green Park.”

“Good.” With brisk steps, the duchess moved toward the door. “Then we should be on our way.”

Emma hurried behind the woman as she headed down the long hall and then the marble sweep of stairs.

“There is no need for you to accompany me, Leonida,” she protested. “You have done enough as it is.”

“Nonsense.” Pausing in the foyer, Leonida waited for a maid to scurry forward with a fawn cloak lined with fur and matching bonnet she settled on her golden curls. “I am going with you and there will be no arguments.”

Hastily Emma pulled on a pair of warm gloves and a pretty bonnet trimmed with blue velvet ribbons.

“I cannot allow you to put yourself in danger.”

“What danger can there be in a morning stroll through Green Park with two burly footmen to keep guard?”

Emma studied her companion's resolute expression, then she heaved a sigh of resignation.

“You are very stubborn.”

Leonida chuckled. “So I have been told.”

There was a brief wait as the groom scurried to bring around a black carriage with the Duke of Huntley's insignia painted on the side. But soon enough they were settled on the leather seats with blankets swaddled around them and warmed bricks beneath their feet.

Emma instinctively shifted to peer out the window as they rattled over the cobblestones, a sigh of appreciation escaping her lips as they turned onto Park Lane. Her gaze lingered on the palatial Grosvenor House with its stuccoed exterior and two-story bays that overlooked Hyde Park with aloof grandeur. And the less flamboyant Londonderry House that had been originally designed with a formal simplicity by Stewart and was in the process of lavish restorations. Leonida had whispered that Lady Londonderry
was funding the alterations and desired to have a suitable setting to display her famous diamonds.

“London is perhaps not as elegant as St. Petersburg, but it has its own charm, do you not think?” Leonida murmured.

“I do,” Emma readily agreed, a wistful smile curving her lips. “It is just as my mother described it.”

“Yes, Dimitri mentioned your mother was English.”

Emma nodded. The memory of her mother holding her tightly on her lap as she spoke of her homeland caused a bittersweet ache in the center of her heart.

“She often spoke of her home that she left behind to travel to Russia as a nanny. It made me long to visit.” She grimaced. “Although not under such circumstances.”