Scandalous Deception

by Rosemary Rogers

  Edmond heard the sharp crack of the pistol firing, the reverberation stabbing through his heart like a dagger. Across the church, he watched in helpless horror as Brianna halted and then, with a slow, graceful motion, slid onto the stone floor.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  NO!

  Edmond stumbled toward the tiny body, needing only to be at her side, so he could pull her into his arms and never let her go.

  It wasn’t until he was nearly upon her that he realized that Viktor was already standing next to her, his spent pistol tossed aside in favor of a lethal dagger.

  “She lives, my lord, but stay back or I will finish my task.”

  “You bastard!” Edmond forced himself to come to a halt, a cold fury replacing his pounding fear. She was not dead. “Step away from her, Kazokov, or I will skin you alive and feed you to the wolves.”

  Viktor blanched at the stark sincerity of Edmond’s threat, but with a determined bluster, he deliberately glanced toward the unconscious woman at his feet.

  “I knew you would follow her.”

  “Really?” Edmond narrowed his gaze, his hand slipping into his pocket to clutch the handle of his loaded pistol. “And how were you so bloody certain?”

  “I witnessed the two of you together in Vanya Petrova’s garden.” Viktor forced a mocking laugh that echoed uneasily through the shadows. “I must say that I have rarely taken such pleasure as I did in watching you regard Miss Quinn with such pathetic longing.”

  “Then you know that I will kill you for having dared to lay a hand upon her.”

  Viktor swallowed heavily, a thin sheen of perspiration upon his brow despite the frigid air. “Toss me that pistol you have hidden in your pocket.” He pointed the dagger toward the woman at his feet. “Carefully.”

  Gritting his teeth, Edmond removed the pistol and, bending downward, slid the weapon across the floor to his enemy.

  “There.”

  “Very good.” Clearly presuming he had managed to grasp the upper hand, Kazakov reached down to retrieve the pistol, pointing it directly at Edmond’s heart as a smirk touched the thin features. “Do you know, Lord Edmond, I could become quite accustomed to giving you orders. Once I am settled in the Winter Palace, I may keep you near at hand to perform as my jester.”

  “The Winter Palace.” Edmond did not have to feign his amusement. The only thing more pleasurable than strangling the life from Viktor Kazakov was revealing that his pathetic hopes to gain command of Russia were doomed to failure. “Do you truly believe that Grigori Rimsky will offer you rooms in the stables once he has grasped control?”

  “How did you…” Viktor swayed in shock, his face ashen as he realized that Edmond had discovered the identity of the secret leader of the revolution. Then, with an obvious effort, he attempted to regain command of his shattered composure. “No, it does not matter. It is too late for you to halt the inevitable uprising. By morning, all of Russia will be throwing off the yoke of Romanov oppression.”

  A cold, mirthless smile twisted Edmond’s lips. “There was no need for me to personally do the honors, Viktor. Herrick was quite pleased to take command of the situation. By morning, Grigori, your cousin, and any soldiers of the Semyonoffski Regiment who are foolish enough to join in your treacherous cause will be locked in the barracks to await Alexander Pavlovich’s return.”

  “How?” Kazakov rasped, his usual conceit replaced with a growing air of desperation. “How did you know?”

  “Fedor Dubov is an imbecile.”

  “I knew better than to trust the slack-witted fool.”

  Edmond shrugged, covertly glancing toward Brianna as she stirred on the floor.

  “You have rolled the dice and lost, Viktor,” he said, darkly. “There is nothing left but to accept defeat with a measure of dignity.”

  “Dignity?” Viktor stared at Edmond with undisguised loathing. “Oh, Summerville, you know better than to believe I shall go to hell with my head held high. I am quite willing to sacrifice anything and anyone to save my own hide.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I want to escape this godforsaken country with my head intact,” he said, his eyes darting about the shadows, as if the walls were beginning to close in on him.

  Edmond arched his brows. “Surely you cannot be serious? You have committed treason. There is no place you can hide from justice.”

  “Oh, I will escape.” Viktor licked his lips. “Because you are going to assist me.”

  “Am I?”

  “You will, unless Miss Quinn was correct and you care more for your precious Czar than for your lover’s continued survival.”

  Mon dieu. Did Brianna truly believe that he would allow her to die? That he would willingly sacrifice her out of duty to Alexander Pavlovich?

  Then again, why would she not believe such a thing?

  On the point of agreeing to whatever outrageous demand Viktor was about to make, Edmond stiffened as he realized that Brianna had managed to shift onto her side and was watching him with eyes that appeared far too large in her wan face. It was not the pain in those eyes, however, that made his heart lodge in his throat.

  Instead, it was the sight of her hand reaching toward the dagger Viktor had left near his feet when he had replaced it with Edmond’s pistol.

  Christ. She was going to try to distract the man. And quite likely going to get both of them killed in the absurd attempt.

  “Well, my lord, are you going to…” Viktor bit off his words with a sharp cry as Brianna managed to lift her arm high enough to stab the dagger into the back of his leg, just above his leather boot.

  Not waiting for Viktor to realize who was attacking him, Edmond rushed forward. Wrapping his arms around Viktor, he drove them both to the stone floor.

  They hit with enough force to crack Viktor’s head against the floor, and levering himself upright, Edmond discovered that the blow had knocked Viktor senseless.

  With a curse of disgust, Edmond rose to his feet and rushed to Brianna’s side.

  Kneeling beside her, Edmond’s heart slammed against his chest at the sight of the blood that marred her night robe. She looked like a wounded flower with her vibrant curls spread over the floor and her skin so pale it appeared translucent in the flickering candlelight. It was the tightness of her fragile features, however, that spoke of the pain she must be enduring.

  He hesitated in the act of reaching to draw her into his arms. Having been shot on more than one occasion, he knew the wound must feel like a hot poker being thrust through her shoulder. The last thing she needed was to be unnecessarily jostled.

  He settled for gently brushing a stray curl from her ashen cheek.

  “Is he dead?” she demanded, her voice strained.

  “Not yet.” He muttered a curse as she attempted to lift herself off the ground. “No, Brianna, do not move. Viktor Kazakov will never hurt you again. That much I promise.”

  With a groan she sank back onto the floor.

  “Edmond…” She was forced to halt and clear her throat. “You should not be here.”

  Refusing to be offended by her rasping words, he shrugged off his greatcoat and carefully draped it over her shivering body.

  “That is a fine thing to say to the gentleman who risked freezing his most priceless possessions, not to mention ruining a fine pair of boots, to ride to the rescue of his damsel in distress,” he retorted, his tone deliberately light.

  A hint of desperation rippled over her countenance. “No, you must return to St. Petersburg.”

  “I have every intention of returning, just as soon as I can arrange our carriage.” He brushed a stray curl from her cheek. “For now, I beg you to be patient.”

  “No.” She gave a shake of her head, wincing as the movement jarred her wounded shoulder. “I was only taken to lure you from the city. They are planning the revolt tonight.”

  “Shh.” He pressed a gentle finger to her lips. “I know of their plans.”

  “Then you know that you must
be there to halt them.”

  “That duty falls to another.” He cupped her chin in his hand, capturing and holding her fretful gaze. “On this night, you are all that matters.”

  “But…”

  Edmond placed his hand over her mouth at the screech of a door opening behind him. Still on his knees he turned, his pistol pointed at the dark figure that stepped through the side door.

  “Bloody hell, do not shoot, Edmond,” Boris muttered, shaking his head to rid himself of the clinging snow. “Although I would prefer a bullet in my arse to returning to that damnable blizzard.”

  “Are you not supposed to be keeping a watch upon Viktor’s riders?”

  With an encompassing glance that took in Viktor Kazakov’s unconscious form and the wounded woman, Boris grimaced.

  “I foolishly thought you might wish to know that they are currently standing near the front entrance arguing over whether they should enter the church to ensure that their master is well and hearty.”

  “Damn.”

  Edmond glanced down at Brianna’s pale face and thick crescent of lashes that had lowered to lie against her cheeks, as if she were too weary to keep them lifted.

  Realizing they could not simply flee with Brianna so gravely injured, Boris drew his pistol and glanced toward the empty nave.

  “How many times have I told you that a proper church should have pews?” he muttered. “Who knows when a gentleman might have need of blocking the doors?”

  “I thought you wanted pews so that you could doze through the service.”

  “Well, there is that.” Boris turned toward the sanctuary. “What of the altar? Is there anything there we can use to obstruct the door?”

  “Not unless there is a key hidden among the gold and incense.”

  “So be it. Then we clearly have to kill them.”

  “I believe I have another suggestion.” He glanced toward his loyal companion, even as his fingers unconsciously stroked through Brianna’s curls.

  “Well?” Boris prompted when Edmond hesitated. “What is this suggestion?”

  “I need a distraction.”

  Boris frowned. “I can lure a few away from the church, but I doubt that I can convince all of them to follow me.”

  “They will if they believe that Viktor is commanding them to follow you.”

  “Perhaps. Unfortunately, he does not appear to be in the most cooperative mood at the moment.”

  “We shall see.”

  Boris watched in silence as Edmond moved to Viktor Kazakov and roughly jerked the heavy greatcoat from his body and tugged it on. He could not keep his skepticism to himself, however, as Edmond placed Viktor’s hat on his head and wrapped the muffler around his neck.

  “You believe a coat and hat will disguise you as Viktor Kazakov?”

  “Trust me,” Edmond murmured, gathering the blanket that Brianna had dropped during her mad rush. With exquisite care, he wrapped it about her shivering body, careful to keep his own coat wrapped about her.

  She moaned in agony as Edmond lifted her off the floor and cradled her against his chest with one smooth motion.

  “Hold on, ma souris,” he whispered.

  Boris stepped forward. “What do you need from me?”

  “I want you to return to your horse. When I pull open the door and begin to shout, I want you to charge down the road making as much noise as possible.”

  Boris narrowed his gaze. “And you?”

  “Once the outriders are in pursuit of you, I will carry Brianna to the carriage and command the driver to return us to St. Petersburg.” Edmond lifted his head to halt Boris’s words of protest with a fierce glare. “Among the confusion and the blizzard, the servants will easily mistake me for their master.”

  Swift to hide his doubt behind a wry smile, Boris pocketed his pistol and turned toward the side door.

  “I suppose that it is just absurd enough that it might succeed.”

  “Or get us all killed,” Edmond spoke the words they were both thinking.

  “Then the sooner we discover our fate, the better. Give me ten minutes to slip back to my horse before you start your shouting.”

  “Boris,” Edmond called softly. “As soon as you are away from the church I wish you to rid yourself of your pursuers and return to St. Petersburg.”

  A smile of anticipation touched the soldier’s face. “You fuss over Miss Quinn and allow me to take care of myself.”

  “Boris…”

  The door snapped shut, and Edmond carried Brianna through the nave to the front entrance.

  Counting beneath his breath, he forced himself to wait until he was certain Boris had enough time to reach his horse. Then, pulling open the heavy wooden door, he swiftly stepped into the swirling snow, keeping his head bent downward.

  “It is Summerville,” he bellowed at the milling servants as Boris thundered past, his horse sending a spray of ice and snow in his wake. “Do not allow him to escape. After him, you fools. All of you.”

  A heartbeat passed during which Edmond barely dared to breathe. What if they suspected he was not Viktor Kazakov? What if…

  The outriders scrambled as one for their horses and hurried after the fleeing Boris. Swift to take advantage of the chaos, Edmond waded through the drifting snow and, with an effort, managed to open the door to the carriage without dropping his precious burden.

  “Return me to St. Petersburg,” he barked at the driver who sat huddled on top the vehicle.

  “What of Summerville?”

  “Do not question me.”

  “I…Yes, sire.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  THEY ARRIVED BACK IN St. Petersburg without incident, and after a short, brutal battle with Viktor’s driver, he had arrived at Vanya’s town house to discover that the older woman was wisely prepared for his return.

  With a minimum of fuss, Brianna was whisked to her bedchamber where the Czar’s personal surgeon awaited her. There were a few awkward moments when the doctor had foolishly attempted to demand that Edmond leave while he treated his patient, but once he understood that he was more likely to be tossed headfirst from the window than to rid himself of the anxious nobleman, he had efficiently pulled the bullet from Brianna’s shoulder and carefully cleaned the wound.

  His deft fingers had lingered on the healing scar from Brianna’s previous shooting, but contenting himself to a chiding gaze toward the hovering Edmond, the doctor had at last gathered his belongings and gone in search of Vanya.

  Over the next hours, Edmond kept a constant guard on the slumbering maiden.

  It was not guilt that made him unable to stray more than a few steps from her unconscious form, although he knew he would have to live with his aching regrets for all eternity. Or even concern that she would not recover. Already, a healthy flush was returning to her cheeks, and her breathing stirred the air with a steady rhythm.

  No, it was quite simply an unbearable need to have her within his reach. If she were out of his sight, he feared she might disappear into the icy fog that cloaked the city.

  On some level, he understood his fear was illogical. The doctor had warned that Brianna might sleep straight through until morning. And even if she were awake, she was far too weak to leave the bed.

  That, however, could not ease the panic clutching his heart.

  There was the sound of someone entering the outer chamber and the unmistakable scent of freshly baked bread filled the air, making Edmond’s stomach clench with hunger. Throughout the day, Vanya had sent an endless parade of servants with trays to try and tempt him, even going so far as to personally deliver a warm plate of his favorite plum pudding; it had grown cold on the bedside table.

  Now he waited in resignation for yet another lecture, his brows arching in exhausted surprise when a gaunt, silver-haired gentleman, rather than his concerned hostess, appeared in the doorway.

  “How is she?” Herrick Gerhardt inquired.

  Edmond’s gaze skimmed over Brianna’s pale profile, lingering
on the thick sweep of lashes that lay against her cheek.

  “So long as there is no infection, the doctor is confident that the wound will heal within a few weeks.”

  “Did he also claim that she cannot heal unless you are hovering about her like a mother hen?” Herrick demanded dryly.

  Rising to his feet, Edmond rubbed the knotted muscles of his neck. “What do you want, Herrick?”

  “I thought you might be anxious to know what occurred with Grigori and the others.”

  “Considering there are no pitched battles in the streets, I presume you managed to halt the revolution.”

  “Ah, well, if you have no interest…”

  “Wait.”

  With a deep sigh, Edmond bent downward to place a gentle kiss on Brianna’s brow. Straightening, he moved to steer Herrick back into the sitting room. Bypassing the tray that was set on a table near the porcelain stove, Edmond instead poured himself a large measure of brandy and tossed it down his throat.

  “Tell me what happened,” he commanded.

  With a faint smile, Herrick moved to pluck the glass from Edmond’s hand and firmly pressed him into the chair beside the tray.

  “Eat.”

  “I am not hungry.”

  “Perhaps not, but you will do Miss Quinn no good if you collapse from starvation.” Herrick pointed a finger toward the bowl of savory stew. “Now eat.”

  “Now who is behaving like a mother hen?” he muttered, even as he reached for the spoon.

  He methodically consumed the savory stew and thickly sliced bread spread with honey, which did not offer the numbing warmth of the brandy, but did help to clear the thick fog from his mind.

  At last pushing away the tray, he leaned back in his chair and regarded Herrick with a narrowed gaze.

  “Tell me what happened.”

  The older gentleman allowed a grim smile to curve his lips. “Thanks to your warning, I managed to capture Grigori Rimsky before he reached his barracks.”

  “Does he still live?”

  “There was a rather ugly brawl that included a busted nose and several broken bones, but he still breathes.” The smile widened with anticipation. “At least until Alexander Pavlovich returns.”