Bound by Love (Russian Connection 2)

The man shifted his attention to Gregor. “You were told to come alone.”

“This is my guard. He can be trusted.”

“You can come with me.” The man pointed a finger at Gregor. “He stays here.”

Gregor stiffened. “No.”

“Be at ease, old friend,” Herrick soothed his companion, his gaze never leaving the dangerous stranger. “If Dimitri Tipova desired me dead I do not doubt I would already be lying in a filthy gutter.”

The man snorted. “The master prefers to dispose of his enemies with a great deal more decorum. Only bungling fools leave the bodies to be found.”

“Vastly reassuring,” Herrick commented dryly. “Remain here, Gregor.”

The younger man flashed him a sour frown. “You play with fire.”

“It will not be the first occasion.”

Opening the door wider, the stranger waved a hand. “This way.”

Despite the small pistol tucked in a hidden pocket of his black coat and a dagger tucked in his boot, Herrick could not deny a faint unease as he crossed the plank floor. With nothing but moonlight slanting through the broken windows to provide illumination the vast room was shrouded in a darkness that could hide any number of nasty surprises.

Without a word, the man led Herrick to a door that was guarded by two slender men who regarded Herrick with the experienced eye of hardened thieves. They stood aside, but Herrick was thankful he had possessed the foresight to leave his purse and valuables at home.

The door led to a narrow staircase that in turn led to the upper floors of the warehouse and after being scrutinized by two more armed guards, Herrick was led into Dimitri Tipova’s private lair.

Herrick was not entirely certain what he expected to find.

Perhaps a huddle of desperate criminals hovering around a fire in some hovel. Or a hidden cellar with rats.

He most definitely had not expected a company of well-trained sentries who possessed the bearing of seasoned soldiers or a shabby warehouse that had been transformed into an exquisite apartment that included a formal parlor, a small dining room, and a library with a collection of books that would be the envy of most Russian nobles.

Thoroughly astonished, Herrick paid no heed as his guide retreated from the room and closed the door behind him. Instead he moved to study the unmistakable Rembrandt hung over a carved marble fireplace.

“Good…God,” he breathed.

“I shall take that as a compliment, Mr. Gerhardt,” a low voice drawled. “I am quite certain that you are a gentleman who is rarely taken by surprise.”

Turning, Herrick studied the man who stepped from a door hidden behind the polished wood paneling.

He was a slender, remarkably handsome gentleman with long raven-black hair that was untouched by gray and pulled into a queue at his nape with a velvet ribbon. His face was thin with aristocratic features and heavy-lidded golden eyes that shimmered with a restless intelligence in the light from the crystal chandeliers.

Attired in a blue velvet jacket with a waistcoat stitched with silver threads and black breeches, he could easily have mixed among the highest of society. In truth, Herrick would swear he had seen nearly identical features on a powerful nobleman just last eve at the Summer Palace.

Perhaps the resemblance should not be unexpected.

Many gentlemen littered the streets of St. Petersburg with offspring born on the wrong side of the blanket.

Still, Herrick could not help but accept that his preconceived notions of Dimitri Tipova and how this evening would unfold could not have been more wrong.

The gentleman moved with languid grace to stand beside a mahogany and gilt wood settee covered in Imperial brocaded silk, a faint smile hovering about his finely molded lips.

Accepting that he had been nicely outwitted, Herrick offered a bow of respect.

“Dimitri Tipova, I presume?” he murmured.

“At your service.”

Straightening, Herrick discovered himself under inspection from that unnerving golden gaze.