Scoundrel's Honor (Russian Connection 3)

Sanderson backed away, wringing his pudgy hands. “Do not be absurd. There must be some mistake.”

“There is no mistake. Your fine Russian nobleman is Dimitri Tipova, the czar of St. Petersburg’s criminals and sworn enemy of my employer.”

Accepting that his charade was at an end, Dimitri held his gun steady as he calculated the best means of escaping the cellars that did not include a coffin.

“Sworn enemy?” he taunted, hoping that the temperamental servant could be prodded into recklessness. “Very dramatic.”

“Lord almighty,” Sanderson wailed. “We must do something.”

“You will collect the girls and transport them out of England,” Valik commanded with a composure at complete odds with his employer.

Dimitri was under no illusion which of the two was more dangerous. Which was precisely why his gun remained trained on the Russian even as he cursed the possibility of Sanderson slipping from his grasp.

“Now?” the nobleman rasped.

“Of course now, you idiot.”

“But surely there is no need to panic? If you—” Sanderson waved his hands in Dimitri’s direction. “Properly dispose of the threat then we can continue with the auction as planned. We are all interested in ensuring we gain a measure of profit before we ship the cargo.”

Dimitri laughed with mocking amusement. “My father must have been desperate to have entered into business with such a buffoon.”

The Russian grimaced. “I did warn him that his English partners were fools destined to ruin our scheme.”

“How dare you speak of your betters in such a fashion?” Emboldened by his greed, Sanderson took a step forward, his double chins quivering with outrage. “Valik, you will kill this traitor and be rid of his body. I will continue with the auction as originally planned. Do you hear me?”

Fury tightened Valik’s brutish face, his eyes glittering with a deadly hatred.

“All I hear is a braying ass who is determined to destroy us all,” he snapped. “Do you believe that Tipova told no one he suspected you were involved in selling children?”

“Who would he—bloody hell,” Sanderson gasped, pulling a lacy handkerchief from his pocket to dab at the sweat beading his upper lip. “The Duke of Huntley. I am ruined.”

“It is not only Huntley who is aware of your debauchery, but the prime minister,” Dimitri admitted with a cold smile. He had met with the gentleman only days after his arrival in London, thanks to Huntley’s insistence.

Sanderson turned a pasty gray, setting aside the gas lantern as he swayed in horror.

“Liverpool?”

“To be honest I was taken aback by his eagerness to have you arrested. But then I realized a public trial at the Old Bailey might be a perfect means of assuring the unsettled populace that the nobles are not above the law.” Dimitri ruthlessly pressed. “Perhaps your worthless existence might have some purpose after all.”

“Oh, my God. Liverpool has hated me since we were at Oxford together. A damned shame those Cato Street conspirators did not manage to kill the humorless prude,” the distraught Sanderson muttered, clearly too ignorant to realize that had the radicals managed to assassinate the cabinet members as they had planned, they intended to overthrow the entire government, as well. And to be rid of noblemen such as Sanderson and his chums. “What the devil am I to do?”

“You will take the women from this warehouse and find some means to get them out of the country,” Valik demanded.

Sanderson shook his head in panic. “No, I cannot.”

There was a tense pause as Valik considered his limited choices. Then, catching both Dimitri and Sanderson by surprise, he withdrew a matching pistol from the pocket of his dark wool coat and shoved it into Sanderson’s hand.

“Here.”

Sanderson cursed, fumbling to point the gun in Dimitri’s direction.

“What the devil are you doing?”

“Attempting to

keep my head attached to my body,” Valik admitted, backing toward the door that led deeper into the catacombs. “I will see to the girls.”

Dimitri’s teeth clenched as Sanderson’s fingers tensed on the pistol. It was doubtful the damned nobleman could hit a target at ten paces if he were aiming, but it would be just Dimitri’s luck that the bastard would kill him by accident.