“I will request that Huntley introduce me to society.”
She dropped the stockings she was folding into a neat square. “I beg your pardon?”
He reached to pluck the silk stocking from the bed, absently sliding it through his slender fingers.
“It would be impossible to search all of London for your sister. I must attempt to bring her to us.”
“And you intend to do that by prancing through society?” she accused. “What I intend is to make it known that I am a gentleman of wealth who is in England for a short visit and willing to pay an extravagant sum to sate my particular lust for young females.”
She paused to consider his words. “You think the men who are holding Anya captive will approach you?”
“If I offer the proper temptation.”
“But it could be days before they approach you.”
He nodded, his rigid expression easing with regret. “I am sorry, Emma, we must be patient.”
Her jaw clenched. How could he say such a thing? She had been patient for weeks.
She wanted to rant and rage and curse in frustration at her inability to rescue her sister.
“And what of me?” she asked instead.
“You will be my wife.”
“Wife?” Her heart came to a sharp, painful halt. “Have you taken leave of your senses?”
He shrugged. “I assumed you would wish to be included in the search.”
“I do, but…” She stopped, licking her suddenly dry lips.
“Yes?”
“I could be a maid,” she desperately offered. “In fact, it would be far easier if I could travel about unnoticed.”
An unexpected anger flared over his bronzed features, and, tossing aside her stocking, he reached to frame her face in his hands.
“You could never be unnoticed,” he rasped. “And listen well, Emma, you will not be traveling anywhere without me.”
“It is not your decision to make.”
“Do not be a fool, there will be far more doors opened to the wife of a wealthy Russian aristocrat than a foreign maid.”
It was true. Certainly she could move about the seedier parts of London as a servant, but the elegant drawing rooms where the gentlemen who bought and sold young girls traveled would be closed to her. The knowledge, however, did nothing to ease the fluttering alarm at playing the role of Dimitri’s wife.
“Even if I agreed to such a ridiculous notion, no one would believe I am a refined lady,” she argued.
“There is no need for modesty. Whatever your father’s occupation, it is obvious you were well educated and tutored in the manners of society.” His thumb absently outlined the unsteady curve of her lower lip. “With the proper clothing there would be no one to question your disguise.”
“Unfortunately I do not possess your acting skills.”
“Very well. You can remain upon the ship if you prefer.” His voice thickened with a wicked promise. “I vow to visit each night to keep the chill away.”
She grasped the lapels of his jacket as her knees threatened to buckle.
“Absolutely not.”
He smiled with insolent satisfaction. “Then let us be on our way, Huntley is waiting for us.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
IN THE TRADITION OF MOST gambling halls, the Bacchus Club was a combination of opulence and depravity.
Tucked in a tiny cul-de-sac near Brook Street, the three-storied brick building was hidden behind a high fence guarded by two burly footmen. Inside, the tiny foyer led to a sweep of marble steps opening to a large, cavernous hall that was most notable for the floor-to-ceiling mirrors that reflected the light of the overhead chandeliers with dazzling zeal. A dozen small tables were scattered across the Italian marble floor, most of them already crowded with gentlemen who possessed the tense, hunted expressions that Dimitri easily recognized.
Addicts.
He had taught his servants to turn away such men. They inevitably caused trouble for his establishments, not to mention their poor families.
The Bacchus Club, on the other hand, was renowned for the debauchery of its clientele. It readily catered whatever sin might be desired.
He hid his grimace as the small steward scurried toward them. Beneath the scent of roast beef and cigar smoke was the unmistakable stench of desperation.
“Your Grace, such an honor,” the man said with a deep bow. “Can I offer you a drink?”
At Dimitri’s side, Stefan, the Duke of Huntley, peered about his surroundings in barely concealed disgust, seemingly unaware of the stir he was creating by his entrance. Of course, Huntley had been creating a stir since leaving the cradle.
It was obscenely unfair that a gentleman who was born into wealth and power should also have been blessed with a tall, magnificent form and the finely chiseled features of his Russian-born mother. Combined with his dark hair and shocking blue eyes, he was a gentleman who commanded attention wherever he went.
Dimitri had become acquainted with the reclusive duke when the nobleman had been chasing his stubborn wife, Leonida, across Russia. It had only been with Dimitri’s assistance that they had captured the villain who had been attempting to blackmail Leonida’s mother.
“Cognac,” the duke murmured.
“At once.” The steward waved a hovering waiter forward and whispered in his ear before returning his avid attention to Stefan. Dimitri could appreciate the poor man’s excitement. Stefan made no secret of his distaste for London society as well as the numerous gentlemen’s clubs that had vied for his membership. If the Bacchus Club could claim him as a patron it would offer them an image of respectability that had been sadly lacking with their current members. “You will discover we offer whatever distraction that might strike your fancy, Your Grace. There is a light supper laid out in the hazard room and billiard tables down the hall. The cock fighting will not begin until later, but if you desire entertainment you are welcome to sample our delightful wares that await your pleasure upstairs.”
Stefan waved a dismissive hand. “That will be all.”
“Of course.”
The servant bent low enough his pointed nose was in danger of brushing the marble floor before backing slowly away. Huntley watched the retreat, then turned to regard Dimitri with a jaundiced gaze.
“I did warn you the establishment was a sordid collection of reprobates,” he muttered.
Dimitri chuckled, not nearly so fastidious as his companion.
“Did you expect a gentleman willing to rape young girls for enjoyment would choose a quiet evening at White’s or Boodles reading the evening paper?”
“True.” Huntley’s expression hardened. He had not hesitated to offer his assistance once he discovered Dimitri’s reason for being in London. “Where do you wish to begin?”
Dimitri glanced toward the curved staircase. “You mingle among the natives, I will return shortly.”
Huntley arched a mocking brow, his gaze deliberately shifting to the buxom blonde who leaned over the wrought-iron railing with a provocative smile.
“I am not certain your wife would approve of such a tête-à-tête.”
His hands fisted. Wife. It was a word that made most men shiver in fear.
Who desired to be forever tied to the same female who would no doubt consider it her duty to nag him into an early grave?
It was not fear, however, that made Dimitri shiver when he thought of Emma Linley-Kirov. Instead, it was an emotion that he refused to name.
“Then perhaps it would be best if she did not learn of it,” he warned, already having endured a savage argument when Emma was forced to remain at the Huntley town house preparing for her introduction to London society.
“Women always have a means of discovering such things,” Huntley drawled.
“There is nothing to discover. I am merely asking a few questions.” His gaze narrowed. Huntley might be a powerful duke, but Dimitri had rightly earned his reputation as a ruthless bastard. “And Emma will have no means of knowi
ng unless you are incapable of guarding your tongue.”
There was no mistaking the glint of humor in Huntley’s blue eyes. “As you say.”
“You find something amusing?”
“I do indeed,” the man admitted without apology.
Dimitri bit back his sharp words and instead heaved a rueful sigh. Weeks ago Dimitri had taken a great deal of enjoyment in watching Huntley being driven to distraction by Leonida. Perhaps it was not so surprising the man would appreciate witnessing Dimitri’s bafflement when Emma was near.
“You are a vindictive bastard, Huntley.”
“And you are quite deserving of your inevitable fate.”
Dimitri shook his head. “We are wasting time.”
“I shall make a few discreet inquires among the guests, but I prefer not to linger longer than necessary.”
“I shall be swift.”
“A wise decision,” Huntley drawled as Dimitri headed toward the stairs.
Dimitri ignored the taunt. He intended to question the whores, not make use of their services.
Not that Emma could complain if he did, he told himself as he climbed the polished steps. Had she not been the one to claim their affair was at an end? As if their passion could be so easily dismissed.
Perhaps she should be forced to consider the notion that he had no need to beg for a woman in his bed. There were always females anxious to enjoy his seduction.
Thrusting aside his lingering annoyance, Dimitri forced himself to concentrate on the task at hand. He would deal with Emma Linley-Kirov later.
He reached the top of the stairs, prepared for the garish crimson sofas and crude paintings of naked women that lined the walls of the saloon. The main focus was expected to be the women sprawled upon the velvet cushions in varying degrees of undress.
His gaze skimmed over the females, barely noting the sheer gauze that revealed more of their lush bodies than it concealed or the sudden interest that brightened the heavily painted faces.
“Well, well.” The blonde who had been leaning over the railing sashayed across the carpet, licking her lips as she studied the manner Dimitri’s garnet jacket molded to his wide shoulders and the hard length of his legs in the black satin breeches. Or perhaps it was the emerald stickpin nestled in his cravat and the diamond on his ear that had captured her attention, he cynically acknowledged. “Ain’t you the lovely one?”
“Here now, it be my turn, Edwina,” a slender brunette protested, sidling next to Dimitri to thrust her bosom into prominent view.
“You never minded sharing afore,” Edwina snapped.
“Be quiet.” A commanding voice had both women hastily stepping back, revealing an imposing matron with her auburn hair piled high on her head and her lush curves encased in a jade satin gown striding in their direction. “The gentleman will decide which one of you he fancies.” The brown eyes regarded him with a shrewd gaze. “Perhaps you would like a small sampling before you choose?”
“That will not be necessary. I prefer a few moments alone with you, Mrs….?”
The woman’s expression hardened with suspicion. “Pickford,” she grudgingly supplied. “Surely you would prefer one of the younger girls?”
He conjured his most charming smile. “Not this evening.”
There was a long pause as she considered the lethal danger etched onto his features. She was a woman who had seen enough of the world to sense Dimitri’s feral nature. At last she gave a shrug.
“Very well.”
Waving away the curious cluster of females, the older woman led him down the long corridor, pushing open the last door to escort him into a sitting room that was filled with solid English furniture and gingham curtains that were distinctly out of place in a brothel. Dimitri felt a pang of regret at his insistence. This was Mrs. Pickford’s home and he was an unwelcome intruder.
“This way,” she stiffly urged, waving her hand toward the connecting door.
“Actually this will do,” he said gently.
The woman turned to face him, her expression wary. “What is it you’re wanting from me?”
“Nothing more than information.”
“A dangerous commodity.”
“I assure you that whatever you tell me in this room will go no further.”
She snorted at his smooth promise. “And why should I trust you?”
“Because my mother shared your profession.”
Mrs. Pickford sucked in a shocked breath at Dimitri’s blunt confession, her suspicions slowly transforming into a shared understanding.
“What do you want to know?”
“A number of young girls were taken from St. Petersburg and brought to London. I intend to find them and take them home.”
The brown eyes flashed in outrage. “If someone told you that they was here, then you’ve been taken for a fool. Nothing but good English girls here and none of them being held against their will.”
Dimitri held up his hand in a gesture of peace. “Be at ease, Mrs. Pickford, I do not suspect you of dabbling in the slave trade, but you are a woman of the world.”
Her ruffled feathers soothed, the older woman allowed a faint smile to curve her lips.
“I suppose that’s a fancy name for it.”
“You, better than anyone, would hear rumors of those gentlemen who possess a taste for children.”
Her smile faded. “Such gentlemen prefer to keep their tastes a secret.”
“And yet these things have a way of becoming known to those in the business.”
“If your mother truly was one of us then you should know that those who don’t learn to keep their mouth shut find themselves floating in the Thames.” Her lips tightened. “The Bow Street magistrate can claim to have made the streets of London safe, but a nobleman can do whatever he pleases with us lesser folk.”
Dimitri sympathized with her concern. Hell, he better than anyone knew what happened to whores who spoke out of turn.
“I have promised that no one will ever know we have spoken,” he gently reminded her. “You have my word.”
With a shiver she paced toward the sideboard, pouring herself a whiskey that she downed in one swallow.
“It’s too dangerous.”
Regretting the necessity of pressing the older woman, Dimitri crossed the room to turn her to face him.
“Mrs. Pickford, it is obvious you are very protective of the girls in your care.”
“Someone has to keep an eye on the foolish chits. They haven’t the sense that God gave a goose.”
“Precisely.” He caught and held her wary gaze. “So you understand my desire to protect those I consider under my care.”
For a tense moment, Dimitri feared that the woman would refuse to help, then with a shudder, she determinedly squared her shoulders.
“I can offer nothing more than rumors,” she warned.
“That is enough.”
“It is said that Lord Sanderson has an unhealthy interest in young girls as well as boys.”
“Does he live in London?”
“He has a town house in Mayfair.”
Dimitri tucked away the information. Not that he expected to discover the girls being held captive in an elegant Mayfair town house. But Sanderson was unlikely to have developed his own father’s caution. There might very well be something in the Sandersons’ home that would reveal his secrets.
“What of his acquaintances?” he pressed.
Mrs. Pickford wrinkled her nose in distaste. “A Mr. Timmons and Sir Jergens.”
“Do they possess similar tastes?”
“So it is said.”
“Is there a particular location they could indulge their fantasies?”
“It is whispered there are…” The woman gave a nervous gasp as a log popped in the stone fireplace.
He grasped her hands, attempting to ease her distress. “What is it?”
The brown eyes darkened with a futile anger. “Secret auctions where the girls are offered to the guests who can pay
the entrance fee.”
An answering anger echoed in Dimitri. He was rarely shocked by the depravity that some men could sink to, but that did not lessen his desire to shoot them in the heart and leave them bleeding to death in a gutter.
“Do you know where the auctions are held?”
“It’s never held in the same location.” Her harsh laugh filled the room. “Such men are too crafty to risk being caught.”
“Not crafty enough.” Reaching in the inner pocket of his jacket, Dimitri withdrew several coins and pressed them into her hand. “For your time.”
Anxious to return to the Huntley town house and Emma, he had nearly reached the door when her soft voice halted him.
“Sir.”
“Yes?”
He halted and turned to watch as Mrs. Pickford moved forward and quite unexpectedly tossed her arms around him in a fierce hug.
“I’ve been knocked about enough to figure most men ain’t worth a bucket of spit, but I believe you might just prove me wrong.”
A wry smile curved his lips. “Ah, if only everyone shared your kind opinion.”
EMMA STUDIED HER reflection in the full-length mirror with a jolt of astonishment.
She had protested violently when Leonida, the Duchess of Huntley, had insisted she would have her dresser alter several of her gowns to fit Emma, but the beautiful woman with golden curls and blue eyes that were extraordinarily similar to those of Czar Alexander had insisted that it would take days, if not weeks, for a seamstress to create the proper wardrobe for Emma. And as for her determination to play the role of a maid…well, that been overridden with a gracious, but ruthless force by both Stefan and Leonida.
She smiled wryly. She had been initially overwhelmed when Dimitri had led her into the foyer of the Mayfair town house. Not even Vanya’s beautiful home had prepared her for the double staircases that elegantly curved toward the formal landing with marble pillars and a Venetian chandelier that spilled light over the collection of Grecian statues.
The imposing entrance was only a taste of the luxury to be discovered in the vast house, and Emma had swiftly given up the effort to estimate what the oil masterpieces framed on the walls and the various objects of art spread throughout the home might be worth.
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