Scoundrel's Honor (Russian Connection 3)

His heart twisted in pain.

It had been three days since Emma had disappeared from Huntley’s town house. Three days of futile searches through London. Of sending dozens of servants into the surrounding countryside, as well as to Paris and beyond to St. Petersburg to seek out any information of her whereabouts.

Of sleepless nights and endless bottles of vodka in an effort to dull the self-recriminations.

Perhaps he should accept that Emma had made her choice. He had done everything in his power to prevent her from her ridiculous habit of leaping into danger, had he not? If she were determined to get her throat slit, then there was nothing he could do to stop her.

Instead, he moodily vacillated between blinding fury that she would leave his protection and put herself at risk and a torturous knowledge that it had been his obsession to destroy his father that had driven her from his side.

Where the hell had she gone?

Was she alone? Had she found the trail of Valik and her sister? Had she been captured…?

The sound of approaching footsteps was a welcome distraction. Dimitri turned to watch Huntley’s approach, hiding a smile as the duke irritably waved away the covey of servants attempting to straighten his caped greatcoat and wrap a cashmere scarf around his neck.

Dimitri had endured a similar battle when he had arrived at the castle, nearly forced to punch the aggressive footman determined to take his gloves and beaver hat. Thank God he would soon be back in St. Petersburg where he was never mistaken for a feeble nobleman incapable of putting on and taking off his own damned clothes.

Huntley’s long stride never slowed as he headed toward the stone steps leading to the street below. Dimitri easily fell into step beside him, as eager as his companion to be finished with their business in Windsor and on their way back to London.

“It is done?” he demanded.

Huntley snorted in disgust, his breath visible in the chilled air.

“Between his bouts of wailing and pathetic pleas for forgiveness, Sanderson managed to confess the details of his sordid business.”

“And Jergens?”

“He was equally forthcoming.” Huntley shook his head. “A pity the guards did not discover Timmons until he had managed to take the coward’s path.”

Dimitri shrugged. Mr. Timmons had been discovered in his bedchamber with a bullet hole in his temple, obviously unable to face the sordid scandal that was about to spread throughout London.

“Did they reveal Count Nevskaya’s participation in the nasty business?” he demanded.

“With glorious detail.” Huntley’s laugh echoed in the still air. “Indeed, they were both eager to claim that the count had approached them several years ago with the scheme and that they were no more than helpless dupes being manipulated by the evil Russian.”

Dimitri waited for the torrent of exhilaration to overwhelm him.

This was the moment he had waited for since he learned of his mother’s death.

The means to brand his father as a depraved fiend who preyed upon helpless children was in his hands. There would be none in society who would not turn their backs on him.

He would be an outcast. Alone in his shame.

Just as Dimitri had dreamed of for so long.

Any satisfaction he felt, however, was as cold and empty as his heart.

“I do not doubt the truth of his claim,” he

said, absently tapping his riding crop against his glossy riding boots as they moved down the steep incline toward the lower ward. “Sanderson does not possess enough wits to devise such a cunning plot. My father, however, has never suffered from a lack of intelligence.”

“No, only a lack of morality.”

“That is a rare commodity among noblemen.”

Huntley lifted his brows at the less than flattering accusation. “I could say the same of thieves and scoundrels.”

They followed the curve in the road, ignoring the snowflakes that drifted from the sullen clouds.