“You commanded me to make Lord Edmond believe his brother is in danger. How better than to lodge a bullet in the Duke of Huntley’s heart? And besides, the servant could have been approaching me for any number of reasons,” the unknown man grumbled. “Most likely, he wanted to invite me for a pint of that swill that they call ale in this country.”
“We are too close to the end of Alexander Pavlovich’s reign to make foolish mistakes. Lord Edmond must continue to believe that his brother is in danger.”
Edmond clenched his fists as his sickening suspicions became a hard reality. Mon dieu. He was an idiot. A dim-witted, thick-skulled lobcock who deserved to be shot.
“And does he believe it?” the irate man demanded, his tone surly.
“He is in England, is he not?” Viktor snapped.
Even in the darkness, Edmond could sense the tension building between the two men. Viktor Kazakov had a brewing revolt on his hands. The treacherous bastard.
“England, but not in London,” his companion pointed out, thankfully unaware that it was Edmond posing as the Duke of Huntley. A small mercy. “Perhaps he remains in Surrey because he suspects that something is amiss.”
Viktor stepped closer to the other man, his hand in his pocket where he no doubt had a gun hidden.
“So long as he is away from St. Petersburg and the Czar, he can suspect all he likes.”
There was a momentary silence as violence trembled between the two. Then, with a grudging gesture of defeat, the unknown man stepped back from Viktor’s taller form.
“The Commander will not be pleased to have me sent from London,” he muttered. “I was under strict instructions to keep him informed of your progress here.”
Edmond smiled grimly, as he could sense Viktor’s fury. The conceited, ridiculously pompous fool had always considered himself superior to others. Including his own Czar.
“I am in charge, not the Commander, and if he desires to be kept informed of my progress, then he should leave the comfort and obscurity of the Winter Palace and travel to London.” Viktor spat the words in obvious disgust.
“He cannot risk such exposure,” he companion argued.
“And why not? He readily demands that we risk far more than mere exposure. Why should he be allowed to skulk in the shadows and demand that others do the dangerous work?”
“Perhaps you should ask him yourself.”
“Perhaps I will,” Viktor warned, icily. “Now be on your way, fool.”
The man muttered beneath his breath, but obviously trained to obey orders, he at last hunched his shoulders and slunk down the street. Viktor watched his companion’s retreat until he was swallowed by the darkness. Only then did he turn to enter the hotel behind him.
EDMOND AND BORIS RETRACED their path toward the stables, waiting until they were well away from the hotel before Boris at last broke the tense silence.
“Viktor Kazakov.” The name came out as a curse. Boris, like most of those in Alexander Pavlovich’s inner circle, was well aware that the nobleman mouthed the appropriate words in public, even as he stirred the seeds of discontent in private. “He was banished to Siberia. What the hell is he doing in London?”
Edmond struggled to maintain his composure as they slid down the dark street.
“Clearly laying a false trail that was so obvious that the veriest greenhorn should have realized it was nothing more than a trap,” he said, his voice raw with self-disgust. “And yet I, who pride myself on being so terribly clever, followed it as if I did not possess the least amount of wits. Mon dieu. How could I ever have been so stupid? I should have suspected from the beginning that I was being lured from St. Petersburg.”
Boris sent him a worried frown. “You were worried for your brother.”
“And we both know that the best distractions are those that touch a person’s deepest vulnerability.” Edmond smacked a fist in his open palm. He wished to God that it was Viktor Kazakov’s smug face. “Christ, I have used them often enough.”
“You had no choice but to return to England and ensure the Duke’s safety, Summerville. No one could hold you to blame for your concern.”
“I hold me to blame, as I well should. I allowed emotions to overcome my common sense.”
“It is impossible to change the past,” Boris said with the philosophical acceptance that was purely Russian. “What do we do now? Kill Viktor Kazakov?”
Edmond’s lips twitched into a grudging smile at Boris’s eager desire to put an end to the nobleman.
“Not yet.”
“He is plotting against the Czar.”