Brianna’s words of comfort were abruptly cut off as a lean, dark-haired stranger stepped through the bedroom door, his arm raised to point a pistol directly at the older woman’s heart.
“Ah, Vanya Petrova, forgive my intrusion, but you have something I need.”
TOSSING CAUTION TO THE DEVIL, Edmond charged down the gallery, his mind so focused on reaching Brianna that he nearly missed
the tall form that stepped from the shadows as he darted toward the nearest door.
“Edmond, I was waiting…”
Herrick gave a startled grunt as Edmond swept past him, grabbing his arm and hauling him toward the narrow door that would lead to the long terrace.
“Come,” he barked, not surprised when the older man easily fell into step beside him. Herrick was a gentleman who adapted with a calm efficiency to any crisis.
“Where are we headed?”
“The stables.” He ignored the hovering servants who melted back into the shadows at the sight of Herrick, refusing to slow his mad dash as he burst through the door onto the icy terrace. “You must have Grigori Rimsky arrested. He is the leader of the conspirators.”
“Rimsky?” Herrick briefly stumbled, his expression shocked. “You are certain?”
Edmond leaped down the shallow marble steps to the frozen garden. “I overheard him with Fedor Dubov.”
Muttering curses beneath his breath, Herrick struggled to keep pace as Edmond angled a direct path to the stables.
“Does he have the military behind him?” the older man demanded, as always capable of distinguishing the most potent risk of having powerful officers in command of the rebellion.
“He must be convinced that he has some who will follow his lead.”
“Rimsky. Which regiment does he serve?” Herrick muttered, his breath creating an icy cloud in the moonlight as Edmond shoved open a wrought-iron gate set in the high hedge. Together, they stepped into the cobblestone stable yard, the older man sucking in a sharp breath as realization at last struck. “No. The Semyonoffski Regiment would never betray Alexander Pavlovich.” Without warning, Herrick grasped Edmond’s arm and forced him to a halt. “He is their chief.”
“A chief who has not set foot in St. Petersburg for months and who left his Regiment in the control of that brute Araktcheyeff,” Edmond rasped, shaking off Herrick’s hand as he continued toward the stables. At the moment, he was too concerned with reaching Brianna to spare much thought to the conspiracy. Or Alexander Pavlovich’s sense of betrayal if his Regiment were proved to be a part of it. “We both know that, as painful as it might be to admit, they are ripe for revolt.”
“Damn,” Herrick muttered, grimly waving away the anxious servants who watched as Edmond grabbed the reins of the nearest horse and vaulted into the saddle.
“Take enough men to capture Rimsky, but not enough to attract the attention of Araktcheyeff or, God forbid, Prince Michael. The more discreetly we can capture the conspirators the better,” Edmond commanded, his voice a mere whisper. The traitorous soldier could not be far away. “And send a few soldiers to Fedor Dubov’s house. They will find Boris being held captive in the cellar. You might warn them to take care when they untie him. He’s bound to be in a dangerous mood, and I would not wish any accidents.”
Herrick’s brows snapped together. “You are not joining me?”
“No. I must get to Vanya’s.”
“Why?”
“Viktor Kazakov intends to kidnap Brianna.”
“How did he know…” Herrick’s words were brought to a sharp halt, as he pulled a dagger from his jacket and turned toward the nearby door. At the same moment, Edmond had his pistol in his hand, his eyes narrowed as he watched the tall gentleman rush through the entrance.
Indifferent to the danger of forcing his way into Edmond’s private conversation, Richard Monroe did not halt until he was standing beside the horse Edmond was attempting to steal.
“What is happening?” he demanded, clearly having followed them from the Palace.
“Herrick will explain, I must reach Brianna.”
“Wait…I am coming with you.”
Ignoring Monroe’s hasty efforts to retrieve a horse, as well as Herrick’s shouted commands for the nearest guards, Edmond dug his heels into the flanks of his nervous mount and bolted from the stables to the biting wind that swirled through the frozen streets.
A distant part of him was aware of the passing guards who hurried toward the stables, the sharp clatter of horse hooves from behind as Monroe followed his trail, and even the flickering gas lanterns that spilled dashes of light over the thick snow. His mind, however, was focused solely on reaching Vanya’s before Viktor Kazakov could arrive.
Managing to traverse the slick streets without breaking his neck, Edmond halted before Vanya’s doorway, vaulting from the saddle without caring if the nervous horse bolted.