“Yes, your Grace?”
“Can you think of any reason Countess Karkoff would have sent her daughter to England?”
Boris thought a long moment. As Edmond’s servant and confidant, the man probably knew more about the workings of the Russian court than most so-called nobles.
“Countess Karkoff has always harbored great ambition for her daughter, but is also known to be excessively protective of her,” he said slowly. “There is only one reason I can imagine she would be willing to put her at risk.”
“And what is that?”
“Alexander Pavlovich,” he grudgingly admitted. “The Countess has devoted her life to protecting his throne. I don’t think she would consider any sacrifice too great.”
Without warning a blistering anger ran through Stefan’s blood.
The selfish bitch. If it were true, the woman had not only sent her innocent daughter to a foreign land to commit who knew what sort of thievery, but she had put Leonida’s life in genuine peril.
If not for him, she might very well be lying dead in this Paris hotel.
“She would sacrifice anything to protect Alexander Pavlovich’s throne or her own position of power among the court?” he rasped.
Boris acknowledged the truth of his words with a faint dip of his head. “As you say.”
“Damn the woman.”
MERE STREETS AWAY, Sir Charles Richards was in a mood as foul as that of the Duke of Huntley.
Granted his hotel apartments were far superior and included a bedchamber as well as an elegant salle that was furbished with a great deal of damask and gilt, but he took little pleasure in his surroundings.
Only this morning one of his servants had arrived from St. Petersburg to warn that Dimitri Tipova was growing tired of waiting for his money. Either Sir Charles returned to pay the vast sum or the entire world would discover his nasty little secret.
It was the only reason he had been provoked into such an outrageous scheme.
He had to get his hands on those letters before that filthy bandit began spreading word of the missing whores, or worse, decided to have an English nobleman’s head mounted on his wall.
Of course, it had been nothing less than a disaster.
Now, he was standing in the center of the salle, glaring with icy displeasure at the mammoth servant currently perched uncomfortably on the edge of a delicate chair.
“So, what you are telling me is that after having failed to prevent Miss Karkoff from discovering the letters hidden at Meadowland and allowing her to slip away from England, you have now failed in your task to put a bullet through her heart and instead wounded the Duke of Huntley.” His soft voice held a lethal edge that made the servant pale in prudent fear. “A gentleman who is not only wealthy and powerful, but a particular favorite of the King of England.”
“It was not my fault.”
“No, it never is, is it, Yuri?”
Yuri clenched his meaty hands around the scrolled arms of the chair. “You told me she would be alone.”
“And so, instead of waiting until she actually was alone, you risked leading every King’s Guard in Paris directly to my door?” Charles purred.
“There were no guards called.”
Charles narrowed his gaze. The Duke of Huntley had been shot and the authorities had not been notified? Unheard of.
“You are certain?”
“Yes.”
“Why the bloody hell would Huntley allow himself to be shot without demanding justice?” Charles paced the floor, contemplating the strange puzzle. He had been so furious when Yuri confessed that he’d failed to shoot the Karkoff bitch and retrieve the letters that he had not given much thought to the presence of Huntley. Now he realized that the Duke must have followed Miss Karkoff from England. The damnable brat had obviously made a conquest. “He must be protecting the female.”
“It would seem so.”