Rosemary Rogers - Bound By Love

“Well?” Stefan demanded abruptly. Sensing his employer’s tension, Goodson came straight to the point.

“I could not approach as close as I would like since Miss Karkoff’s maid was standing guard as if she were one of those savage Cossack soldiers.”

“Yes, a most formidable woman,” Stefan agreed dryly. He had thought when he entered Leonida’s rooms he might have to physically toss the protective Sophy out of his path. “What did you manage to see?”

Goodson cleared his throat. “Miss Karkoff left her chamber shortly after you could be heard going downstairs and went directly to the Duchess’s rooms. She remained in there until the maid rushed to warn her of your approach.”

Stefan clenched his teeth, leashing his wave of disappointed fury.

He had already suspected that Leonida had some purpose in suggesting that she and Brianna come to Meadowland. And he was not vain enough to suppose it was an overwhelming desire to be closer to him.

Now his only purpose was to discover her nefarious plot.

“Did she take anything from the room?”

Goodson shrugged. “There was nothing in her hands.”

“Have her room searched while she is at dinner.”

“Of course, sir.”

The butler was turning away when Stefan halted him. “Goodson.”

“Yes, your Grace?”

“Did Benjamin track down the strangers he caught on the grounds?”

“I fear not.” The butler’s stoic expression hardened with frustration. “The innkeeper claimed that he has not had any foreign guests for months and no one in the village recognized the description of the villains.”

“Have him continue to search through the neighborhood, but request that he be discreet. I would prefer no one realize that I am suspicious of their presence.”

“Very good.”

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.

“My congratulations. Now, if you do not mind, I came here for a specific entertainment that does not include spectators.”

“Your entertainment will have to wait until after our little chat,” Sir Charles sneered, twirling the whip in his hand.

“I told you that the Karkoff bitch refuses to give me the money without proof of the letters. What would you have me do?”

“Did you know the Countess sent her daughter to England? Surrey to be precise.”

Nikolas frowned. The Countess Karkoff could rot in hell as far as he was concerned.

“Why should I care?”

“For one thing, it proves there is something in those letters worth discovering. The Countess would never send her daughter on such a journey otherwise.”

“Wait,” Nikolas growled. “I thought you knew what was in those letters.”

“Howard Summerville claimed they must hold nefarious secrets since they were not only written in a mysterious code, but the Duke of Huntley had nearly beaten him to death when he caught him with them in his hands. It was worth taking the chance to discover if the boorish imbecile had truly stumbled across the means of acquiring a fortune or was making his usual empty boasts.”