It was then that Stefan at last noticed the body sprawled on the carpet next to the stone fireplace.
His breath lodged in his lungs as his gaze slid over the stranger’s pale face surrounded by tangled brown hair and down the motionless body covered in rumpled evening clothes that were stained red by the blood leaking from the wound in the center of his chest.
His fear of flying bullets was forgotten as he reached for the handle of the French door, cursing as it refused to open.
“Go for assistance, Boris,” he gritted.
The servant laid a restraining hand on his arm. “It is too late, Huntley. The man is dead.”
It took a moment for Stefan to accept the truth. But as the man continued to lie frozen in a pool of his own blood, his sightless eyes staring at the ceiling, he heaved a resigned sigh.
“Is it Babevich?” he rasped.
“Yes.”
Stefan didn’t have to ask how Boris could be so certain. The dutiful servant would already have searched the house.
“Did you find anything…”
His words ended in a shocked hiss as his gaze strayed away from Babevich’s wounded chest and he belatedly noticed that there was nothing but a bloody stump sticking from the cuff of his jacket. Hellfire. Some sick bastard had chopped off Babevich’s hand.
Stefan swayed, his stomach heaving. No wonder Boris had been so grim.
“Christ.”
“Exactly.” Boris tightened his hand on Stefan’s shoulder. “We need to leave before the officials arrive.”
Stefan sucked in a deep breath. Could he just leave the man lying there like a bit of rubbish? It seemed…indecent.
But then again, what could he do? The man was dead and Stefan’s presence at the house would only involve him in a nasty scandal. After all, the authorities were bound to demand to know why he was lurking around the house. What could he say? The man had been blackmailing Countess Karkoff?
“Yes,” he at last muttered.
Wrenching his gaze from the macabre scene, Stefan followed in Boris’s path as they retraced their steps to the waiting carriage.
Distantly he was aware of the laughing chatter that drifted from the surrounding homes and the bark of a dog roaming the streets, but remained too consumed by the memory of Babevich’s bloody end to take notice.
It was not until they had retrieved the carriage and were swaying down the dark street that he managed to shake off his lingering sense of shock.
“I have never…” He shuddered, his mouth dry. “Sir Charles is no better than an animal.”
Boris kept the restless horses at a slow but steady pace, weaving his way through the thickening traffic.
“I fully agree, but I do not believe he was responsible for Babevich’s death.”
Stefan grunted in surprise. He had never considered the possibility that anyone else could have attacked Babevich.
“Who else would be so anxious to keep him quiet?” he demanded. “And do not imply the Countess Karkoff or Alexander Pavlovich. They would never be so indiscreet.”
“No, it was Tipova.”
“Tipova?”
“Dimitri Tipova. The Beggar Czar.” Boris flashed a hard smile. “Although you would have your tongue cut out if you called him that to his face.”
“A criminal?”
“He is far more dangerous than a mere criminal. There is nothing that occurs among the streets of St. Petersburg that he does not control. Alexander Pavlovich might be the Emperor of the nobles, but Tipova is the ruler of the peasants.”