Bound by Love (Russian Connection 2)

“Unless I come to my senses and return to England before I lose what wits I have left.”

“So you keep saying, but here we are. Have you asked yourself why?”

Stefan gritted his teeth. He should have learned not to discuss women with his companion. Boris was ridiculously happy in his marriage to Janet. What did he know of a female who tormented a man one moment with her willing kisses and the next treated him as if he were her long-sworn enemy?

“Are we headed to Babevich’s?”

Boris turned onto a narrow street. “Yes, it is not far.”

“Have you spoken with him?”

“No.”

Stefan heaved a sigh of impatience. “Boris, if this is some sort of jest it is not amusing.”

“This is no jest.” Boris’s features twisted with a sudden revulsion. “Trust me.”

Unease crept down Stefan’s spine as his companion slowed the bays and halted before a narrow house that had a crowd of guests spilling from the front terrace and a number of carriages blocking the street.

Boris was a stoic man who was rarely ruffled. If he had discovered something that could rattle his composure it had to be extraordinarily disturbing.

“It appears that he is entertaining,” he muttered, searching the house for some sign of trouble. “Is Sir Charles among the guests?”

Boris leaped from the carriage and tied off the reins next to a long line of vehicles.

“Babevich’s house is around the corner,” he corrected as Stefan joined him. “It is best we walk through the mews. I would prefer no one notice the carriage.”

Stefan did not protest as Boris led him through a dark alley despite the stench of rotting garbage and the nearby outhouse. In truth, he was far more concerned with what lay ahead than rubbish that threatened the gloss of his boots.

Whatever had spooked Boris was bound to be unpleasant, to say the least.

Tugging open a back gate, Boris held his finger to his lips, as if Stefan needed to be reminded to keep his mouth shut as they blatantly trespassed into a stranger’s garden. Perhaps not surprising. It was Edmond who had devoted himself to such dangerous games while Stefan was quite content to be a law-abiding citizen.

Of course, since meeting Leonida he seemed to make a habit of flouting all conventions.

How ironic would it be for him to be the brother who ended up in Alexander Pavlovich’s dungeon?

With a shake of his head at his ludicrous imaginings, Stefan managed to avoid breaking his knees on the low marble benches that dotted the garden, although his pants did not fare as well as he snagged them more than once on the overgrown roses. Clearly Babevich had not bothered to hire a gardener in a number of months.

Nor had he bothered with repairs to his house. Even in the moonlight, Stefan could detect several tiles missing from the roof and a gutter hanging at an odd angle. No doubt during the daylight the slow decay was even more apparent.

Which of course would explain why he was desperate enough to throw his lot in with Sir Charles. Only an idiot or a man on the edge of ruin would attempt to blackmail the Countess Karkoff.

Boris ignored the back door leading to the servants’ quarters and instead rounded the side of the house. Stefan’s steps slowed as the darkness was broken by a square of light that shimmered through the French windows.

Damn. He had expected the house to be empty. Intruding on a man in his own home was a dangerous business.

Seemingly unaware of Stefan’s unease, Boris climbed the flight of stairs that led to the narrow balcony in front of the French doors, his hand reaching into his coat to pull out a pistol. With no weapon, Stefan felt disturbingly vulnerable. A sensation that only worsened as Boris stepped directly before the light that spread across the balcony.

Was the man demented?

Far more cautiously, Stefan halted at the edge of the French doors and, craning his neck, peered inside. He had already been shot once during the course of his adventure. He wasn’t anxious to step in front of another bullet.

At first glance he could detect nothing out of the ordinary. The parlor was narrow with shabby furnishings arranged around a cheap carpet thrown over the worn floor. The walls had once been a green satin although they had faded to a muddy yellow and the light of the chandelier gleamed dully off the collection of dubious paintings.

Babevich not only needed a housekeeper, but a lesson in fine art.

Wondering why Boris would be gazing so intently at a seemingly empty room, Stefan shifted farther onto the balcony to study the far end of the room.