Scoundrel's Honor (Russian Connection 3)

“Dimitri?”

Shaken out of his dark thoughts, he clenched his hands with self-disgust.

“I have been unforgivably stupid,” he gritted. “The Katherine Marie. I should have recognized the name.”

“Who is she?”

“Not who. What,” he corrected. “The Katherine Marie is my father’s private ship.”

“My God,” she breathed, her face pale and her hands trembling as she folded them in her lap. “Then it’s true. They have taken Anya away from St. Petersburg.”

Dimitri resisted the peculiar desire to cradle her in his arms and offer her comfort. He protected women. He bedded them. He even supported a few. But there was something unnerving in the tug of tenderness Emma Linley-Kirov inspired.

Besides, she was as likely to slap him as to thank him for his effort. Emma was not a woman who appreciated having others witness her vulnerabilities.

“It would explain a great deal,” he admitted.

He heard her draw in a deep, steadying breath, her chin tilting with the stubborn determination that was certain to give him nightmares.

“Such as?”

“I hire a vast number of people to keep me well informed. It seemed impossible that I was unable to discover more than vague rumors that young girls, and occasionally boys, were disappearing. I assumed they must take them from St. Petersburg, but it never occurred to me they would actually ship them abroad.”

“I do not understand. If they—” she faltered, a flare of color staining her cheeks “—desire these girls, then why would they send them to England?”

He scowled, cursing the missing Anya for dragging her elder sister into the muck. For all her courage and tenacious strength, Emma possessed an innocence that was remarkably rare.

“Leave it be, Emma,” he said roughly. “You have been forced deep enough into this sordid business—”

“I need to know.”

“Emma.”

She laid a pleading hand on his arm. “Please, Dimitri.”

His gaze shifted to the window, absently noticing the aging palaces were being replaced by the classically designed homes preferred by Alexander Pavlovich’s architect, Carlo Rossi.

“It would be my guess they transport the women to a select group of gentlemen in England who, in return, send back the females they have lured into their trap,” he grudgingly revealed his suspicion. Now that he understood how his father had rid himself of the local females, it was a simple matter to deduce the remainder of his nefarious scheme.

Her brow wrinkled in confusion. “But why go to such a bother?”

“They did not in the beginning, as my presence in St. Petersburg is ample proof.” He restlessly tugged off his hat and muffler, tossing them into the opposite seat. His gloves followed. “But Alexander Pavlovich has become remarkably pious as the years have passed and while he is not foolish enough to truly believe he can command his court to put aside their wicked pleasures, he has insisted they become more discreet.”

“I still do not understand.”

He reached to take her hand, not surprised to find her fingers were stiff with cold. Where the hell were her gloves? And her scarf? The foolish wench. She could shoulder the responsibilities of her business and her sister, but she was stunningly incapable of caring for herself.

Clearly she was in need of someone to protect her, regardless of her prickly independence.

“Allow yourself to imagine a very young and frightened English girl being smuggled into St. Petersburg,” he said, studying the shadows that darkened her beautiful eyes. “She would be a world away from her family and friends, she would have no money and no ability to speak the language. She would be utterly at the mercy of her captors.”

“She would not dare try to escape.”

“Precisely.”

She worried her lower lip with her teeth, too intelligent not to realize the dire fate awaiting such women.

“They cannot hold them captive forever.”