Scoundrel's Honor (Russian Connection 3)

“Vanya Petrova was kind enough to offer her hospitality.”

Dimitri nodded, already having suspected tha

t Herrick would turn to his dear friend to provide Emma a home.

“Then I will collect you at nine this evening.”

“Very well.” With a stiff nod, the woman headed for the door.

“Emma,” he called softly.

She froze, her hands clenching before she forced herself to turn and meet his brooding gaze.

“Yes?”

“Staid spinsters do not visit gambling clubs. If you wish to avoid unwanted attention you might consider a gown that does not smother you in wool.”

Her eyes flashed with the sort of fury that made Dimitri relieved that there was no knife at hand.

“I am not the one who needs to fear being smothered.”

EMMA PEERED OUT THE window of the carriage, allowing her maid’s incessant lecture on what happens to females who spend an entire afternoon in the company of known criminals to flow past her. She did not need to be reminded she had been a fool to meet with Dimitri Tipova. Or that she was an even greater fool to have agreed to his outrageous suggestion that she allow him to escort her to his gambling clubs.

For goodness’ sake, if she were recognized she would never overcome the scandal.

Whatever the dangers she fully intended to travel from one den of iniquity to another until she located the men who had abducted her sister. There was no point in dwelling on the insanity of her behavior.

Instead, she studied the overwhelming beauty of the city around her.

Over the past two days she had been too occupied with her troubles to truly notice its magnificence. Now she allowed herself to appreciate the stunning palaces that lined the narrow canals.

How odd to realize that such glory could rise from such brutality.

Her lips twisted as she recalled her history lessons. The cold-hearted Ivan and his private army, the oprichniki, who had terrorized the boyars until the Tatars attacked Moscow. Ivan had ordered any number of bloodbaths to maintain his ruthless rule until he had tumbled into utter madness and he was at last murdered by his own heir.

As much a monster as Ivan had been, however, the period of chaos that followed his death had proven the need for a strong leader to rule the vast empire. It had been the desperate Cossacks and outspoken Streltsi, and even a group of more prosperous peasants, that had demanded the zemsky sobor be called to name a new czar.

Eventually, Peter had come to the throne, his life already scarred by being forced to witness his closest family butchered when he was just ten years of age. Not that his years of being condemned to the remote hunting lodge on the Yauza River had been wasted. Indeed, they had offered him a rare opportunity for self-education.

Left to entertain himself, he studied with the local craftsmen to acquire skills in everything from blacksmithing to carpentry. He also gathered devoted friends who assisted him in mock battles and discovering the best means of drilling an infantry. Long before acquiring an army he had practiced besieging a scale-sized fortress and could calculate the ranges for his artillery.

Perhaps most important, he developed an obsessive fascination with sailing.

With remarkable foresight he had realized the future of his country depended upon opening itself to the world, and with a cruel efficiency he conquered a path to the Baltic Sea and then set about building a city that would rival Versailles.

There was a clatter of hooves as the carriage crossed the Fontanka River over the Semyonovsky Bridge and Emma realized they were nearing Vanya’s home.

Tugging the scarf more tightly around her neck, she was prepared as the carriage halted in front of the imposing mansion with its columned balcony and massive jade lions that guarded the double doors. Leaving the carriage she climbed the steps and entered the marble foyer.

There was an awkward moment as the uniformed servants scurried about her, attempting to perform small services before Emma waved them away. She would never become accustomed to having others wait on her.

Hovering uncertainly by a rosewood table that held a delicate Chinese vase,