Scoundrel's Honor (Russian Connection 3)

“Have you arranged with the king to have the men sent to Russia?”

“We are in…” Huntley paused, as if seeking the appropriate word. “Negotiations.”

Dimitri muttered a Russian curse, his face hard with warning. “Huntley.”

“Be patient, Tipova.” Huntley slapped Dimitri on the back. “The king still harbors a bitterness at the perceived insults Alexander Pavlovich offered during his visit to England.”

Dimitri’s temper flared. He had not sacrificed so much only to have his opportunity for revenge threatened by a petulant peacock sitting on a throne.

“That was years ago,” he growled.

Huntley lowered his voice, as aware as Dimitri of the numerous servants who scurried about the castle grounds. It never failed to astonish Dimitri how many nobles were blind to the people who served them. Such stupidity ensured that he was easily capable of discovering whatever information he desired.

And information was power.

“George might be king of England now that his father has died but that has not cured his unfortunate tendency to spiteful pettiness.” Huntley grimaced. “As poor Brummell has learned to his regret.”

“I do not care if Alexander Pavlovich pissed on your fat king’s throne. I will not be denied my justice.”

The duke grasped his arm and roughly hurried them both down the road to where their horses awaited them.

“Do not be a fool, Tipova,” he muttered. “With a measure of diplomacy I will soon have the king convinced that the best means for him to be rid of a potential scandal is to send the men to Russia and lay the entire blame on Count Nevskaya. But not if you rile his temper. Be sensible.”

Dimitri shook off the duke’s hand, his expression sour. “I am in no mood to be sensible.”

“Then be patient. It will be no more than a few days and you will have your revenge.”

Dimitri gave a short laugh. “My revenge.”

Huntley regarded him with a curious gaze. “It is what you desire, is it not?”

“So I have always believed.” Dimitri glanced toward the moat that was filled with gardens rather than water. “For the past twenty years I have devoted my life to one purpose. The destruction of my father.”

“No one can blame you for your hatred of the man who ruined your mother.”

Dimitri winced. Would he ever be able to think of his mother without tormenting regret?

Regret that she had ever caught the vile attention of Count Nevskaya. Regret that she had been so stubbornly foolish as to attempt blackmailing him.

Regret that she had left him when he had needed her the most.

His heart gave another painful squeeze as he thought of another woman who had abandoned him when he needed her.

“No one but Emma.”

“Ah.”

“She holds me responsible for the loss of her sister.”

The duke offered a sympathetic smile. “She was angry and not thinking clearly that evening. She is fully aware that you had no hand in the kidnapping of her sister.”

“She might not hold me responsible for her sister’s kidnapping, but she believes I allowed Anya to be shipped away beneath my nose.” Dimitri’s thoughts were jerked back to the night in the warehouse and his burning need to chase after Lord Sanderson before the fat fool could escape. “And she would not be wrong.”

“They will be caught the moment they return to Russia,” Huntley assured him, his imperious tone making Dimitri smile with wry humor. Huntley was one of the few noblemen that Dimitri did not wish had been drowned at birth, but the duke possessed the innate arrogance that allowed him to assume that his every wish would be granted. “Between Alexander Pavlovich’s soldiers and your own servants there is nowhere they can hide.”

“But they are not returning to Russia,” a rough English voice broke into their conversation. With lethal ease, both Dimitri and the duke pulled their loaded pistols from the pockets of their coats and pointed at the man leaning against a low, stone wall. Swiftly, the stranger lifted his hands to reveal he was unharmed. “Here now, no need for guns and such. I’m a peaceable man.”

Dimitri’s aim never wavered. The man was small and wiry with the rough woolen clothing of a servant, but there was a cunning etched on the lean face and a hard glimmer of warning in the pale blue eyes that the man had lived the sort of life that made him dangerous. Dimitri had many such men in his employ—cold-blooded, ruthless and loyal to whoever was paying his salary.