Scoundrel's Honor (Russian Connection 3)

“Sanderson?” Emma tilted her head to the side, pretending to be deep in thought. “Why is the name so familiar? Ah, of course. Your husband has kindly offered to escort Dimitri about town.”

There was no mistaking the loathing that briefly flared through the older woman’s eyes before she managed a stiff smile. Emma shuddered in sympathy. As difficult as her life had been, she at least had not been bartered off to a man she held in disgust. Not all the money, or exclusive parties or grand houses in Mayfair could compensate for that misery.

“Did he?”

“I believe they were also discussing some business or another.”

“Business?” Lady Sanderson blinked in confusion. “I am sure you must be mistaken.”

Emma giggled, ignoring the small pang of guilt at deceiving the poor woman.

“That is quite possible. Dimitri is forever scolding me for making a muddle of what I am told.” She deliberately paused. “Still, I was quite certain that he mentioned Lord Sanderson was seeking a buyer for a piece of property that he wishes to sell.”

“That is impossible. My husband’s estate is entailed despite his efforts to have the will altered. He has no authority to dispose of his property.”

“I do not believe it was a part of the estate. Indeed, Dimitri implied it was a rarely used home or building,” Emma pressed. The men had to be holding her sister and the other girls somewhere in London. And if Lord Sanderson was as stupid as Dimitri had implied then he was quite likely to have hidden them in a place of convenience rather than ensuring their presence could not cause him scandal. “Or perhaps it was a shop.” She let loose another giggle. “There, you see? I am hopeless in recalling what I have been told.”

“My father owns several warehouses in Cutler Street, but I can assure you they are not for sale.” Obviously flustered by Emma’s probing, the woman managed an awkward curtsey. “If you will excuse me, it is time for Lancelot’s bath.”

They watched in silence as the woman scooped up her dog and scurried away with surprising speed for a woman of her considerable girth.

“She is in rather a hurry,” Emma said.

“So I noticed.” Leonida stepped directly in front of Emma, reaching to grasp her hands with a worried frown. “Emma.”

“Hmm?”

“I am willing to go to great lengths to assist you in your search for Anya, but you cannot search through warehouses on Cutler Street without protection.” She squeezed Emma’s fingers. “Do you understand?”

Emma forced a smile, silently apologizing to the woman who had offered her such kindness.

“Of course.”

DIMITRI’S INSTINCTS that had been honed in the gutters of St. Petersburg were on full alert as the carriage pulled to a halt in the dark, narrow street.

The large, uninhabited buildings and maze of alleys were a perfect refuge for criminals. And an even more perfect location for a trap.

Discreetly, he shifted on the leather seat, slipping his hand into the pocket of his greatcoat. His fingers curled with an easy familiarity around the handle of his loaded pistol. He had also tucked a knife in a sheath at his lower back and another in his high, glossy boot.

If Sanderson were stupid enough to assume he was the typical effete nobleman, he was bound to be unpleasantly surprised.

“Are you certain you have the correct address?”

The nobleman lifted a bottle of brandy to his mouth, taking a deep swig. Dimitri curled his lips in the darkness. Only a simpleton would allow his wits to be dulled in such a neighborhood.

“Quite certain,” Sanderson assured him, a hint of smug amusement in his voice as he shoved open the door to the carriage and blithely stepped onto the filthy street.

With a great deal more caution, Dimitri followed his gaze, searching the shadows even as he kept his fingers curled around the handle of his pistol. Sanderson might be stupid enough to get his throat slit, but Dimitri did not intend to be such a willing victim.

At last his gaze returned to the stark brick building, searching the narrow windows for an indication of danger.

“I have visited a number of brothels and none of them have resembled a warehouse that reeks of tobacco,” he rasped. “I shudder to think of what sort of female would ply her wares at such a location.”

Taking a last drink of the brandy, Sanderson casually tossed aside the bottle, swaying in the sharp breeze. Dimitri grimaced. He abhorred a man who could not hold his spirits.

“This is not precisely a brothel,” Sanderson slurred.

“Yes, I had managed to surmise as much,” Dimitri said dryly. “You promised this evening I should have the opportunity to taste of innocence. I do not appreciate being misled.”