Scoundrel's Honor (Russian Connection 3)

Huntley shrugged. “Please yourself.”

“I always do.” Dimitri stiffened as he watched Sanderson head toward the doors leading onto the terrace. On the point of following the rotund nobleman, he abruptly turned to stab his companion with a flat glare. “Huntley.”

“Yes?”

“My thespian skills are without equal, but I will kill any man who dares to be overly forward with Emma.” There was no mistaking the lethal intent in his voice. “You might wish to stay close enough to ensure I have no need to demonstrate just how barbaric this Russian can truly be.”

Expecting a mocking smile, Dimitri was relieved when Huntley instead nodded with understanding.

“Do not worry, Tipova. No one will trouble her.”

With a last glance toward Emma, Dimitri strolled with seeming nonchalance across the gallery, his lean body shown to advantage in the black jacket and silver waistcoat. He ignored open smiles of invitation from the women and wary suspicion of the men. His attention was solely focused on the gentleman disappearing through the French doors.

Stepping onto the wide terrace, Dimitri searched the darkness, a predatory smile curving his lips as he watched the flabby nobleman lean against the stone balustrade and pour the contents of his crystal glass into the garden below.

“It would seem that I am not alone in my distaste for inferior champagne,” he murmured, striding across the terrace as he withdrew a silver flask from the inner pocket of his jacket. “Allow me.”

The round face with heavy jowls and a protruding nose already turning red in the chill night air turned in his direction, Sanderson’s deep-set eyes lingering on the diamond stickpin the size of a quail egg Dimitri had tucked in his cravat before shifting to the extended flask.

“What is it?”

“The finest vodka to be found in all of London.”

Taking the flask, the nobleman drank deeply of the potent spirits before handing it back to Dimitri.

“So you’re the Cossack?” he sneered.

Dimitri peered down the length of his nose, deliberately sweeping a frigid gaze over the burgundy jacket stretched painfully tight over the man’s expanding stomach and the hint of wear on the leather pumps.

“I am Russian, yes.”

The sneer faltered, and Sanderson nervously cleared his throat.

“What brings you to England?”

“Huntley invited me for a visit during his stay in St. Petersburg. He assured me that I would discover a number of diversions. Unfortunately…”

“Unfortunately?”

Dimitri leaned casually against the railing, stifling a yawn as he cunningly dropped the bait to lure his prey into the waiting trap.

“I have discovered the pious duke and I have very differing notions of entertainment,” he mocked. “If I wished to devote my days to stuffy gentlemen’s clubs and my evenings to tediously escorting my wife from one ballroom to another I could have remained in Russia.”

Sanderson inched closer, a gleam of interest in his pale brown eyes.

“You have my utmost sympathy. Huntley has always been a self-righteous prig.”

Dimitri hid a smile. He had depended upon the lesser man’s predictable envy of Huntley.

“A pity.” He adjusted the cuff of his jacket, ensuring the large ruby in his ring caught and reflected the moonlight. “A gentleman is offered such a wide variety of opportunities it is nothing less than a sin to deny himself the full bounty of pleasures.”

His covert glance witnessed Sanderson licking his thick lips, an unmistakable greed tightening his expression.

“Such pleasures can often be quite expensive.”

“What is the purpose of possessing money if it is not to enjoy life?”

“It would seem we are gentlemen of a like mind.”