Scandalous Deception

by Rosemary Rogers

“Ah, if only such a creature truly existed,” he drawled, his hand firmly propelling her away from the crowd. “This way, my love.”

  With no choice but to follow his lead or put up a ridiculous struggle, Brianna waited until they were standing near the refreshment table, which offered a selection of lobster patties, potted pigeon, stuffed mushrooms and various custards, before turning.

  “What is it you want?”

  “To throttle you, for a start,” he growled.

  “Go right ahead.” Her chin tilted. “I doubt anyone would be willing to dare the wrath of the Duke of Huntley to halt you.”

  For a moment, Brianna feared he might actually wrap his hands around her throat. His anger was a palpable heat that crawled over her skin, making it prickle with unmistakable warning.

  In the end, his fierce restraint overcame his temper, and muttering a foul curse, he contented himself with a warning glare.

  “I do not have time for this nonsense. We must leave immediately.”

  “Leave? Why?”

  “I have information that the villain who shot you has been discovered.”

  Brianna accepted the news with a shrug. The small wound on her forehead had induced a great deal of sympathetic interest when she arrived tonight, but she was remarkably indifferent to the knowledge she had very nearly died on that foggy balcony.

  Perhaps not so surprising. She had swooned so swiftly that she had little memory of the actual chaos after being shot. And those few memories had been easily burned away by Edmond’s intense lovemaking.

  And of course, the agonizing sight of Edmond’s carriage waiting in front of La Russa’s town house.

  That was far more painful than any mere bullet.

  “So you have not entirely forgotten the reason you are in London?”

  “What?” His teeth snapped together as he savagely contained his anger. “Never mind. Very soon, Brianna Quinn, we are going to discuss my dislike for sulky women.”

  “As if I give a bloody damn.”

  “You will.” Taking her arm in a grip that was a breath away from painful, he began towing her toward the nearby door. “Now, sheathe that lethal tongue and smile while we make our apologies to our hostess for leaving so early.”

  “There is no need to drag me, for God’s sakes,” she muttered.

  He cast a warning frown. “Just be glad that Aunt Letty convinced me not to toss you over my shoulder and haul you away.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  THE NOTE THAT EDMOND HAD received from Chesterfield had been brief. Just a scribbled warning that his employee had spotted the carriage used by the villain who had shot Brianna and tracked him to the stables on Piccadilly.

  It was enough, however, to make Edmond take the precaution of gathering Boris and three other guards before mounting his horse and heading out of Mayfair. He was not taking any chances of having the mysterious attacker slip through his grasp again.

  The sooner he managed to put an end to the threat to his brother, the better.

  Perhaps then he could return to St. Petersburg and to the lavish, exotic existence he had always enjoyed. It was far preferable to meddle in others’ lives than to have his own bedeviled.

  He ignored the sharp clench of his heart as he slowed his mount and regarded the shadowed stables that were conveniently situated near the hotels located on Piccadilly. He hoped the assailant would put up a fight. He was in a perfect mood to beat the villain within an inch of his life.

  “Those are the stables just ahead,” he said, his gaze scanning the gas-lit street.

  Boris moved to his side, his expression hard with anticipation. He was eager for violence, as well.

  “Where are you to meet Chesterfield?”

  “At the back entrance.”

  “Wait here while the guards search for any unwanted surprises. Once we are sure there are no traps, we will move into position and I will whistle.”

  “That is not…”

  Boris leaned forward, his considerable bulk hard and threatening beneath his heavy coat.

  “Do not move until then.”

  Edmond lifted a hand of defeat. Boris might be in his employ, but the trained soldier would willingly knock Edmond unconscious, if he thought it necessary to keep him safe.

  “Go, Boris, I will wait for your signal,” he grudgingly conceded.

  Remaining in the cloaking shadows of a nearby building, Edmond absorbed the sounds of the night. The click of horseshoes on the cobblestone streets, the shout of vendors peddling their wares to the passing pedestrians, the muffled voices of grooms as they passed the evening awaiting the return of their employers.

  The predictable sounds of a city.

  And the predictable odors.

  Edmond grimaced at the scent of rotting garbage and sewage that wafted from the gutters. There were certainly times when he understood his brother’s violent loathing for London.

  His patience was at a snapping point when at last the low whistle filled the air, and Edmond urged his horse into a trot toward the back of the stables. He had barely entered the yard, when a slender form detached from the shadows.

  Pulling to a halt, Edmond slid from his horse and tied the reins to a nearby post.

  “Chesterfield.”

  The Runner was attired in the rough clothing of a groom, his face smudged with dirt. A perfect disguise to move about the London streets unnoted, but it was the speculative smile that captured Edmond’s attention.

  “Now, I wonder why a Duke would hire servants that not only have obvious military training, but the skills more suitable for a master thief than a footman?”

  Edmond shrugged, inanely acknowledging it was a stroke of fortune that Chesterfield was on his payroll rather than that of his enemy. The man missed nothing.

  “It would be healthier not to wonder about such meaningless things,” he said, his voice soft with warning.

  Chesterfield shrugged. “Just so long as the Crown Jewels do not go missing.”

  “Your message said the carriage was discovered?”

  “My employee noticed it outside Lord Milbank’s mews, but when he tried to slip closer, the carriage took off,” the Runner explained. “Thankfully London traffic is such a nasty tangle, it was easy enough to follow it to these stables.”

  “And the driver?”

  “Disappeared into Pultney’s Hotel.” Chesterfield jutted his chin toward the nearby hotel. “The back suite on the second floor.”

  “Mon dieu.”

  Chesterfield frowned. “Does it make sense to you, your Grace? Because it bloody well makes none to me. In my experience, murderers do not take rooms at Pultney’s.”

  “No. But there is something…”

  Edmond furrowed his brow in concentration. He was desperate to capture that elusive knowledge that he had been thinking of Pultney’s Hotel only days ago. But why? He had been sitting at the morning table, had he not? And he was…ah yes, reading the morning paper. There had been something that had captured his attention. Some ridiculous tidbit of gossip that had seemed out of place.

  Viktor Kazakov! The Russian who Alexander Pavlovich had commanded to Siberia and who should never have been in London. Edmond had sent a note to the Russian ambassador, but then had put the man completely from his mind.

  A lapse in judgment that had very nearly cost Brianna her life.

  With a sharp curse, he turned to gesture toward his watchful servant.

  “Boris.”

  Chesterfield cleared his throat as the man hurried forward. “Do you have a plan?”

  “Boris and I are going to call upon the gentleman.”

  “Do you think that is wise, considering that he wants you dead?” the Runner carefully pointed out.

  “It certainly is preferable to having him shadow me through London, taking shots whenever it pleases him,” Edmond growled. “Or worse, leading me about by the nose.”

  “Understandable. But why not allow me to accompany your servant—”

  “No.�
�

  “Your Grace, have you forgotten that you were nearly killed only a few nights ago?”

  “I will never forget, Chesterfield, that much I can assure you.”

  “Then why take such a risk, when I am willing to offer my protection?”

  Edmond’s expression hardened. “Because I have duties that demand secrecy.”

  “I have assured you of my discretion—”

  “You might as well give way, Chesterfield,” Boris interrupted the Runner’s pleading words. “There is no swaying the man, once he has set his mind on a course. No doubt it has something to do with all that blue blood that runs through his veins. It rots his brain.”

  Edmond cast his companion a jaundiced glare. “Thank you, Boris.”

  The soldier smiled. “Think nothing of it.”

  With a shake of his head, Edmond returned his attention to the Runner. “Remain here with your men. I will call if I need you.”

  Chesterfield gave in with a small grunt. “Very well.”

  Reaching into the pocket of his greatcoat, Edmond pulled out his dueling pistol and gestured to Boris to follow him down the street to the corner. He would approach the hotel from the servants’ entrance.

  Boris remained at his side, his gaze darting from side to side.

  “Did you discover anything?”

  “That I am a fool,” Edmond muttered, coming to an abrupt halt at the sight of the two gentlemen standing at the opening of the alley.

  It was too dark to make out the features of the men, but there was no mistaking that the low conversation they were sharing was in Russian.

  Edmond flattened himself against the wall of the building, tugging Boris beside him. He was not at all shocked when he recognized the deep voice of Viktor Kazakov.

  “You understand my orders?” Viktor was demanding.

  “I am not stupid,” his companion rasped. “I am to leave London by dawn and travel straight to Dover where I am to take the first available packet to France. From there I am to make my way to Moscow.”

  “Do not return to your rooms here in London and do not speak with anyone,” Viktor commanded in cold tones. “And that includes your mistress.”

  The other man made a sound of disgust. “This is foolishness. I tell you that I was not recognized.”

  “You said that the servant attempted to approach you. The same servant who tried to follow you after you were stupid enough to take a shot at Huntley on the balcony.”

  Boris stiffened next to Edmond. He was too well-trained, however, to jump from the shadows and break Viktor’s neck. Not without a direct order from Edmond.

  A tempting thought, but one that would have to wait until Edmond had the information he needed.

  “You commanded me to make Lord Edmond believe his brother is in danger. How better than to lodge a bullet in the Duke of Huntley’s heart? And besides, the servant could have been approaching me for any number of reasons,” the unknown man grumbled. “Most likely, he wanted to invite me for a pint of that swill that they call ale in this country.”

  “We are too close to the end of Alexander Pavlovich’s reign to make foolish mistakes. Lord Edmond must continue to believe that his brother is in danger.”

  Edmond clenched his fists as his sickening suspicions became a hard reality. Mon dieu. He was an idiot. A dim-witted, thick-skulled lobcock who deserved to be shot.

  “And does he believe it?” the irate man demanded, his tone surly.

  “He is in England, is he not?” Viktor snapped.

  Even in the darkness, Edmond could sense the tension building between the two men. Viktor Kazakov had a brewing revolt on his hands. The treacherous bastard.

  “England, but not in London,” his companion pointed out, thankfully unaware that it was Edmond posing as the Duke of Huntley. A small mercy. “Perhaps he remains in Surrey because he suspects that something is amiss.”

  Viktor stepped closer to the other man, his hand in his pocket where he no doubt had a gun hidden.

  “So long as he is away from St. Petersburg and the Czar, he can suspect all he likes.”

  There was a momentary silence as violence trembled between the two. Then, with a grudging gesture of defeat, the unknown man stepped back from Viktor’s taller form.

  “The Commander will not be pleased to have me sent from London,” he muttered. “I was under strict instructions to keep him informed of your progress here.”

  Edmond smiled grimly, as he could sense Viktor’s fury. The conceited, ridiculously pompous fool had always considered himself superior to others. Including his own Czar.

  “I am in charge, not the Commander, and if he desires to be kept informed of my progress, then he should leave the comfort and obscurity of the Winter Palace and travel to London.” Viktor spat the words in obvious disgust.

  “He cannot risk such exposure,” he companion argued.

  “And why not? He readily demands that we risk far more than mere exposure. Why should he be allowed to skulk in the shadows and demand that others do the dangerous work?”

  “Perhaps you should ask him yourself.”

  “Perhaps I will,” Viktor warned, icily. “Now be on your way, fool.”

  The man muttered beneath his breath, but obviously trained to obey orders, he at last hunched his shoulders and slunk down the street. Viktor watched his companion’s retreat until he was swallowed by the darkness. Only then did he turn to enter the hotel behind him.

  EDMOND AND BORIS RETRACED their path toward the stables, waiting until they were well away from the hotel before Boris at last broke the tense silence.

  “Viktor Kazakov.” The name came out as a curse. Boris, like most of those in Alexander Pavlovich’s inner circle, was well aware that the nobleman mouthed the appropriate words in public, even as he stirred the seeds of discontent in private. “He was banished to Siberia. What the hell is he doing in London?”

  Edmond struggled to maintain his composure as they slid down the dark street.

  “Clearly laying a false trail that was so obvious that the veriest greenhorn should have realized it was nothing more than a trap,” he said, his voice raw with self-disgust. “And yet I, who pride myself on being so terribly clever, followed it as if I did not possess the least amount of wits. Mon dieu. How could I ever have been so stupid? I should have suspected from the beginning that I was being lured from St. Petersburg.”

  Boris sent him a worried frown. “You were worried for your brother.”

  “And we both know that the best distractions are those that touch a person’s deepest vulnerability.” Edmond smacked a fist in his open palm. He wished to God that it was Viktor Kazakov’s smug face. “Christ, I have used them often enough.”

  “You had no choice but to return to England and ensure the Duke’s safety, Summerville. No one could hold you to blame for your concern.”

  “I hold me to blame, as I well should. I allowed emotions to overcome my common sense.”

  “It is impossible to change the past,” Boris said with the philosophical acceptance that was purely Russian. “What do we do now? Kill Viktor Kazakov?”

  Edmond’s lips twitched into a grudging smile at Boris’s eager desire to put an end to the nobleman.

  “Not yet.”

  “He is plotting against the Czar.”

  That much was obvious, even from what little they had overheard. Unfortunately, Edmond knew Viktor Kazakov well enough to realize that he would prefer death to confessing the truth. He was a true zealot in his determination to reform Russia. Something that Alexander Pavlovich had once promised, only to return to the heavy hand of his ancestors when he became disillusioned and weary of battling his countrymen’s fear of progress.

  “Yes, but we still do not know who his contact in Russia is. The Commander must be a man of importance if he is a guest at the Winter Palace,” he pointed out. “We cannot reveal that we are aware of the threat until we know who is involved. Otherwise, the traitors will simply melt into the shadows u
ntil they feel it is safe to try with a new plot.”

  Boris shook his head in disgust. “Bastards.”

  “My feelings exactly.” Nearing the stables, Edmond placed a hand on his companion’s arm as he came to a sudden halt. “I want Viktor Kazakov watched day and night. Hire as many men as you need—he is not to visit the outhouse without you keeping me informed. Is that understood?”

  “Of course.”

  “And send one of the guards after the stranger. He should be able to catch up with him on the Dover Road. Tell him to befriend the man, if at all possible, on the ferry to France. It might be that the traitor will reveal some sort of useful information.”

  Boris nodded, his eyes narrowed. “What will you be doing?”

  Edmond grimaced. His loyalty toward Alexander Pavlovich demanded that he remain in London and monitor Viktor. The man had to be in contact with his Russian cohorts by some means, and no one was better at discovering those means than Edmond.

  But for once, Edmond had a more pressing concern than the welfare of his Czar. Viktor had already proven he was willing to murder the powerful Duke of Huntley to further his goals. Who was to say he would not consider Brianna a suitable sacrifice as well?

  Besides, there was always Thomas Wade lurking in the shadows. If Edmond were concentrating upon Viktor, he would be unable to protect Brianna from the desperate animal.

  “I must return to Surrey for a short time,” he said, his words clipped.

  Boris lifted his brows before an annoying smile curved his lips. “You intend to take the woman to your brother.”

  Edmond did not bother to confirm the man’s astute supposition.

  “Do not fail me.”

  “Have I ever?”

  “Never.”

  Turning away, Edmond was halted as Boris called out softly.

  “Edmond.”

  He glanced over his shoulder, managing to hide his impatience.

  “Yes?”

  “Take Janet with you as well. If there is danger, then she is certain to do something foolish to try and protect Miss Quinn.”

  Edmond gave a bark of laughter. “As if I could pry her away from her mistress.” He paused, his expression somber. “Be careful, Boris. Kazakov plays the part of an arrogant buffoon, but he is a dangerous opponent who would not hesitate to kill you if he realized you are tracking him.”