Scandalous Deception (Russian Connection 1)

The well-seasoned soldier tightened the woolen scarf that was tied about his lower face.

“Viktor’s carriage was seen passing this way less than an hour ago. The servant is certain it turned to the left at the fork in the road. He remembers, because it nearly slid into the ditch and he had visions of a tidy reward for helping pull them free.”

“Then he intends to head for Novgorod, not Moscow,” Edmond muttered.

“Always presuming it is not merely a ruse.” Boris cast a jaundiced glance toward the road nearly hidden beneath the thickening snowdrifts. “You do know that it is quite likely that Viktor Kazakov deliberately allowed his carriage to be seen fleeing St. Petersburg in a reckless enough fashion, precisely to attract attention?” he growled. “No doubt the bastard is even now hidden in some hired vehicle as he sneaks away.”

Edmond was shaking his head before Boris finished speaking. “No, his entire purpose is taunting me into following him, so that I am unable to interfere in Grigori’s plans. He will not risk trickery until he can be certain I am well away from St. Petersburg.”

“You had best be right. If Viktor eludes us…”

“Enough! We will find Miss Quinn, make no mistake of that.”

With a sharp jerk on the reins, Edmond urged his horse from the shelter of the trees and onto the road. Boris was swiftly at his side, his large body deliberately placed to offer as much protection as possible.

“As you say,” he agreed, knowing better than to pursue his doubts.

Waiting until they were past the posting inn and the servants were busily attempting to sweep the gathering snow from the dirt road, Edmond cast a glance toward his companion.

“I must admit that you surprise me, Boris.”

“Why?”

“I would have expected you to attempt to convince me to remain in St. Petersburg, so that you could assist in halting the traitors and be hailed a hero.”

Boris snorted, his eyes darting from one side of the road to the other in constant vigilance.

“We have halted any number of revolutions, and I have yet to be hailed a hero. Damnation, I do not even recall a thank-you on most occasions.”

That was certainly true enough. More often than not, only a handful of individuals ever knew that a looming disaster had been averted. Still, Boris had always been fiercely dedicated to hunting down conspirators and bringing them to justice. Perhaps even more dedicated than Edmond.

It was unlike him not to at least complain at being denied the pleasure of his favorite sport.

“I suppose I can always request that Alexander Pavlovich pin a medal upon your chest,” Edmond said dryly. “He enjoys such formal ceremonies.”

Boris did not have to pretend his horror. “God forbid.”

Edmond carefully skirted a thickening snowdrift, recalling his companion’s adamant refusal to be left behind when Edmond had announced his intention to follow Viktor Kazakov.

“You have not answered my question, Boris. Why are you so anxious to rescue Miss Quinn, rather than battling the traitors?”

Boris sent him an aggravated glare before grudgingly accepting that Edmond would not be diverted.

“Viktor Kazakov sent a thug to knock me over the head and then tie me in a cellar—is that

not reason enough to pursue him to the gates of hell?”

“I did promise to return him to St. Petersburg, so you could enact your retribution.”

“I prefer not to wait. The sooner I have my hands about his rotter of a neck, the better.”

“Could it be that you did not trust my ability to capture the traitor?”

“Don’t be a fool, Summerville.”

“Then give me the truth.”

The man heaved an aggravated sigh.