Scoundrel's Honor (Russian Connection 3)

“Remain here.”

Yelena frowned. “Emma—”

“We have been through this,” Emma interrupted. “The message was quite clear that I come alone. Besides, if I do not reappear then I shall need you to storm the fortress and rescue me.”

The maid pressed a shaking hand to her bosom. “Dear Lord.”

“I am merely teasing, Yelena. All will be well.” Keeping the strained smile intact, Emma allowed herself to be assisted from the carriage and headed for the door of the coffee shop. “Please God, let all be well,” she muttered beneath her breath.

Entering the coffee shop, she took the seat closest the window as the message had demanded. Thank goodness she had wrapped herself in a sturdy gown of dark gray that buttoned to her chin and brushed the wooden floor past her sensible leather boots. And that her honey hair was covered by a wool scarf her mother had knit. There was a roaring fire across the room, but so close to the door there was a distinct chill in the air.

Settling uncomfortably in the wooden chair, Emma cast a swift glance about the wide room, relieved that many of the tables were empty. There were two elegantly attired gentlemen playing chess by the fire, and a group of more roughly dressed men at a table that ran the length of the far wall, but she was quite alone in her corner.

Her appreciation for her solitude, however, began to wane as an hour passed, and then another. Where the devil was Dimitri Tipova? Had he invited her here just to see if she would risk her reputation by meeting with a notorious criminal? Was this a mere hoax at her expense? Or were Beggar Czars so busy they found it impossible to keep their appointments?

Tapping an impatient finger on the table, Emma found her anxiety hardening to a simmering anger.

She was accustomed to being treated with disrespect. She was even accustomed to being ignored by others who thought themselves above her. But she could not afford to waste an entire day on some ridiculous game. If Dimitri Tipova did not wish to be of service then he should at least have the decency to send his regrets.

On the point of rising to her feet, Emma was caught off guard when a large man approached her table and settled in a chair at her side.

“Well, well. Such a tender little morsel,” he husked, his face with its heavy jowls and beady blue eyes far too close. “I wonder if you taste as sweet as you look.”

Emma tilted her chin, shifting away from the hulking body attired in a faded green coat and the heavy boots of a laborer.

“Please move along.”

A cruel smiled curved his lips. “Perhaps I do not want to move along. Perhaps I intend to take you to the back room and sample your wares.”

Emma should no doubt have been terrified, but at the moment her temper was fully aroused and in no mood to endure the man’s rude behavior. Even if he was twice her size.

Grasping the cup of coffee she had bought in an effort to pass the time, she narrowed her gaze.

“Either you leave me in peace or I will pour this exceedingly hot coffee into your lap,” she warned. “Perhaps that will teach you not to impose your vile presence on unfortunate maidens who might cross your path.”

The intruder blinked, as if stupefied by her threat. “You…”

His lips had barely parted when another man joined them, this one far more slender, although the scar running down his cheek from his eyebrow to the edge of his mouth made him appear far more sinister. Her companion seemed to think so as well, as his face paled and sweat beaded his forehead.

“Semyon, return to the docks and make certain that the ship that arrived this morning is properly unloaded. You know how our employer dislikes unnecessary attention to our business.”

“Yes…of course.”

Stumbling to his feet, the man performed an awkward bow and headed for the door. Emma straightened from her seat as well, her temper not appeased.

She had been ignored for hours, and then rudely insulted by that brute. She had endured enough.

“Emma Linley-Kirov?” the man demanded.

“And you are?”

“Josef. I am here to escort you.”

Her lips tightened. So, Dimitri Tipova could not be bothered to greet her in person.

“Escort me to where?” she demanded.

The servant waved an indifferent hand toward a door at the back of the room, clearly unimpressed with his current duties.