Bound by Love (Russian Connection 2)

This time Stefan allowed the butler to disappear toward the back of the house, slowly turning to study the closed door to Leonida’s chambers.

For a moment he brooded on charging back down the hall and bluntly confronting the deceitful woman.

Unlike Edmond, he did not enjoy political intrigue or pitting his wits against a cunning foe. He was a forthright gentleman who expected the same from others. Which was, no doubt, why King George and Alexander Pavlovich rarely called upon him when they had need of guile rather than practical assistance.

It was only the knowledge that Leonida could not be bullied or coerced into revealing the truth that kept him standing in the shadows, his hands clenched at his sides.

“What the devil is your scheme, Leonida Karkoff?” he muttered.

St. Petersburg

THE BORDELLO TUCKED BETWEEN a coffeehouse and furniture warehouse was like many others spread throughout St. Petersburg.

The building was a nondescript brick structure that was surrounded by a wrought-iron fence and guarded by a brute of a man who frightened even hardened soldiers. Inside the front parlor the furnishings were a gaudy, overly opulent combination of plush velvet sofas and fur rugs where a gentleman could wait in comfort for his particular whore to become available. Or, if he preferred, he could join the high-stakes gambling that was offered in the back rooms. Upstairs, the private rooms were individually created to indulge in whatever vice might tempt the jaded members of Russian society.

But it was not the dubious taste in furnishings, or the lovely, well-trained whores that plied their trade that attracted the rich and powerful.

It was instead the absolute discretion that Madam Ivanna demanded of her guests and servants.

A gentleman who stepped through the door could be assured that his presence or his…unusual sexual appetites would never be revealed.

Such a promise of privacy was worth the outrageous sums that Ivanna charged.

Heading up the narrow flight of stairs, Nikolas Babevich was already hard with anticipation at the thought of Celeste and her wicked chains and whips. Such sweet pain was expensive, but well worth every ruble.

Not that he possessed an overabundance of rubles, he acknowledged, a bitter anger burning in the pit of his stomach.

Damn the Countess Karkoff.

It was entirely her fault that he was now reduced to borrowing funds from his nagging sister and dodging the bill collectors who refused to offer him credit for so much as a new pair of boots.

Thankfully he had managed to relieve a drunken Prussian of his purse outside the Opera House last eve or he would have been forced to cancel his standing appointment at this brothel. A near unbearable notion.

Pushing open the door at the end of the long, candlelit hallway, Nikolas licked his lips, expecting to discover Celeste standing in the center of the room, whip in hand.

What he discovered instead was a tall, distinguished gentleman with silver hair and a handsome countenance that was barely lined despite his fifty-odd years.

Sir Charles Richards had arrived in St. Petersburg from England only a few months ago, but had swiftly become a favorite of Prince Michael, younger brother of Alexander Pavlovich.

To most in society he was a charming, intelligent foreigner who was renowned for his impeccable manners and simple elegance, tonight displayed by his plain but exquisitely tailored black coat and dove-gray breeches that were at such odds with the Russian love for flamboyance.

Nikolas was one of the few who suspected that behind his affable smile was a merciless soul that was capable of great evil.

“Good evening, Nikolas Babevich,” Richards drawled, his elegant fingers holding one of the small whips that was always so appealing in Celeste’s hands, but was nothing less than terrifying when held by the Englishman.

Licking his dry lips, Nikolas cast a covert glance about the barren room, barely noting the various

tools of torture that were hung on the walls or the wide bed that was covered in black satin and shackles. Ridiculously he had hoped that Celeste or one of the numerous servants might be lurking in a dark corner.

As if their presence would protect him from the malevolence that filled the thick air.

“How…” Nikolas was forced to halt and clear his throat. “How did you get in here?”

The nobleman’s lips curled as he flicked a dismissive gaze over Nikolas’s short, unfortunately pudgy figure that was attired in a growingly threadbare jacket in moss green and the too-tight tan breeches.

“There are few doors closed to me,” he drawled.

Nikolas clenched his hands into fists. Despite his fear, he wouldn’t be mocked by a damned foreigner.