Scoundrel's Honor (Russian Connection 3)

“Caliph,” he was saying, his thick French accent revealing his heritage. “Forgive my intrusion.”

Emma pressed against the door frame as Rajih appeared through an archway, a silver tray in his hands. A faint smile touched her lips. While the Frenchman was obviously dressed in the latest fashion, and possessed the air of a well-pampered nobleman, he was easily overshadowed by Rajih who was wearing what many men would consider little more than a dress and carrying a tray as if he were a common maid.

There was something harshly masculine about the Caliph that would cast any other man in the shade.

Well, any man but Dimitri Tipova.

She scrubbed the treacherous thought from her mind as she watched Rajih set the tray on a low table in front of the divan.

“My doors are always open to you, my friend,” he said, reaching for the crystal decanter. “Sherry?”

The stranger leaned forward to grasp a small glass, and then—to Emma’s shock—tucked a tidy pile of francs into the inner pocket of his jacket.

“You know my weaknesses too well,” he said with an oily smile.

Rajih shrugged, seemingly accustomed to offering money along with his sherry.

“Pleasures are not weaknesses and it is my honor to ensure your stay in my country is one of comfort.”

The man sipped his sherry. “So kind.”

“I presume that you have information for me?” Rajih prompted.

“Oui.” He set aside the empty glass. “You requested that I send you notice if I learned of any Russians arriving in Cairo.”

“And?” Rajih demanded.

“I have reason to believe the Russian ambassador has just welcomed a small party into his home.”

Emma frowned. Was it possible that the Russian ambassador was involved in the slave trade? And if he was, could he truly be so shameless as to have the girls brought to his home?

It seemed a needless risk when the pasha was so adamantly opposed to the barbaric practice.

“Do you have a name?” Rajih asked.

“Dimitri Tipova,” the Frenchman said, unaware as Emma pressed a hand over her mouth to muffle her shocked cry of disbelief. “So far as I can determine he has no title, but it seems as if he is being offered a gracious welcome so he must be a favorite of the Romanovs. Is that the man you seek?”

Rajih dipped his head, his expression resigned rather than astonished. Almost as if he had been expecting Dimitri to travel to Cairo.

“It is.”

The Frenchman grimaced. “It will not be an easy matter to have him removed from Cairo if he is under the protection of the ambassador.”

“Do not trouble yourself, Girard,” Rajih smoothly assured him. “I will deal with Dimitri Tipova.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

DIMITRI WAS WELL AWARE that his ability to blend into any surrounding was his greatest talent.

He could move as easily through the gutters of Moscow as across the glittering ballroom of the Winter Palace. And with the proper clothing, no one would suspect he was an imposter.

Such a skill had allowed him to rise from a lowly pick-pocket to the Beggar Czar.

Now, however, he felt distinctly disturbed.

It was not the Turkish robes he had donned in favor of his tailored clothing, or the small boys who stood at his side waving palm leaves in an effort to stir the stifling heat that filled the low brick house with its arched entryways and tiled floors. He had traveled through the near Orient on several occasions and had become accustomed to their traditions.

No, his unease was caused entirely by the fat gentleman sprawled on the low divan across from him.