Scoundrel's Honor (Russian Connection 3)

“Who are you?” he rasped.

“Mr. Thomas Stroutt.” He plucked the worn hat from his head and performed an awkward bow. “At yer service.”

Huntley stepped forward, his pistol pointed directly between the man’s eyes.

“I suggest you offer a compelling reason for eavesdropping upon a private conversation.”

Thomas cleared his throat. “I believe I have information that will be of service to you fine gentlemen.”

Dimitri sent his companion a glance that urged they hear the man out. He sensed Thomas Stroutt was too intelligent to approach the Duke of Huntley without a compelling reason.

“Speak quickly,” Dimitri warned.

“I was hired by Mr. Peter Abrahams,” the man said. “Hired?”

“I am a man with a certain skill in discovering information others attempt to keep hidden.”

Dimitri arched a brow. The man was a Bow Street Runner or a thief-taker.

In either case he was a man that Dimitri would wager missed very little.

“Who is Peter Abrahams?”

“He is the father of Lady Sanderson.” Thomas replaced the hat on his dark hair. “A most powerful gentleman who is fiercely devoted to his daughter and her welfare.”

“Why would Abrahams hire you?”

“The gentleman has become increasingly concerned that Lord Sanderson is connected to an unfortunate collection of shady characters.”

“Shady is not the description I would have chosen,” Huntley muttered in disgust.

Thomas turned to spit on the cobblestones, his expression dark.

“So we have discovered. Unfortunately, the information came too late to prevent poor Lady Sanderson from becoming a victim of the man’s treachery.”

Huntley gave a warning wave of his pistol. “You have yet to offer a reason I should not put a bullet in your brain.”

The man shifted warily, wise enough to sense that the duke was not the usual coxcomb littering society.

“During my investigations I found that you were not the only men apart from Mr. Abrahams seeking the truth of Lord Sanderson’s business.”

Dimitri stiffened, far from pleased. He had spent a number of irksome hours in the company of Lord Sanderson. How was it possible he had been unaware there were others spying on the nobleman?

He was growing old and careless, he wryly concluded. Perhaps it was time he retired to his private estate and learn how to fish. Or were aging criminals expected to tend to their rose gardens?

With a shake of his head, he returned his attention to the man standing before him.

“Who else?”

“One of them Oriental sorts.”

“Chinese?”

Thomas shrugged, revealing the predictable English contempt for foreigners.

“No, one of them Turks, I think.”

“Do you have a name?”