With a smooth motion Tipova was on his feet, moving to toss his cheroot into the fire. When he turned back, Herrick was offered a glimpse of the brutal ambitions that drove this unique man.
“Sir Charles offered me a grave insult. The kind of insult that demands retribution.” His lips twisted. “Since you have become involved I must conclude that I have no hope of acquiring the money I requested.”
“None whatsoever.”
“Then I must have some means to have my justice.”
“What do you want?”
A chilling smile curved his lips. “Sir Charles.”
“You wish to teach him a lesson?”
“No, Sir Charles is incapable of learning. His impulses cannot be resisted even if he wished to do so, which I assure you he does not.” He met and held Herrick’s gaze. “The lesson is for any other gentleman foolish enough to flout my rules.”
Herrick rose to his feet. “Do you truly believe I will hand over an English nobleman to his certain death?”
“You understand duty, Gerhardt. You have devoted your life to protecting the interests of the Romanovs.” Tipova’s voice held an edge of cynicism. “An admirable goal perhaps, but who is to protect those poor souls who do not fall beneath the shelter of your fine officials?”
“You?”
The handsome villain shrugged. “Mock if you will, but I do not allow my children to be harmed by anyone.”
In a peculiar way, Herrick found himself greatly admiring Tipova. Indeed, it was a great pity the man could not claim his noble blood. He possessed a great deal more courage and intelligence than the majority of the aristocrats who littered the Russian court.
Strolling toward a satinwood desk that held a varied collection of enamel snuff boxes, Herrick absently considered the outrageous request.
On the one hand, he was naturally reluctant to hand over an English blue blood to a self-proclaimed criminal. The relationship between Alexander Pavlovich and George IV was strained at best. Who knew if the fat British monarch would decide to make an unpleasant fuss?
On the other hand, Herrick was swiftly reaching a point of unpleasant desperation.
For the past few weeks Nadia had been besieged by the nasty Nikolas Babevich demanding that she either pay or have her letters exposed to the world. Herrick had attempted to reassure the nervous Countess that there was nothing to fear. Clearly Babevich did not possess the letters or he would have offered proof. Nadia, however, refused to be comforted and since her distress was becoming obvious to the Emperor, Herrick had been forced to follow even the most remote clues to the true master behind the threat.
Which meant he had to get his hands on Sir Charles Richards.
Slowly turning, he offered his host a small dip of his head. “Very well.”
The golden eyes blazed with triumph. “You will give me Sir Charles?”
“Yes.”
“Your word?”
Herrick smiled. “Will you trust my word?”
“Oddly enough, I will. Most peculiar.”
“My thought exactly.”
They shared a glance of mutual understanding, then clasping his hands behind his back, Tipova strolled to the center of the delicate Persian carpet.
“Sir Charles was in Paris.”
“Paris?” Herrick’s brows snapped together. “What business does he have in France?”
“It could be he is attempting to avoid my wrath. A foolish mistake.” The criminal deliberately paused. “Or perhaps he was drawn there by the rumors that the charming Miss Karkoff is currently staying in England and desires to keep a close, but secretive, eye upon her.”
Herrick froze in unpleasant shock. It did not seem possible that anyone, let alone a lawless rogue, could know his closest held secrets. It was not only a blow to his considerable pride, but it was a potential threat he would not endure.