Scoundrel's Honor. Rosemary RogersЧитать онлайн книгу.
is certain she would recognize them if she were to see them again?”
“Yes.”
Dimitri casually glanced out the window, not surprised to discover they had made a circuit of the Upper Nevsky and were nearly back to Pytor Burdzecki’s palatial home. There was never a moment when he was not acutely aware of his surroundings.
“What made you believe that I would have interest in your tragic, though not uncommon, tale?”
“It has not escaped my notice that you keep a very close watch upon Count Nevskaya and his associates.”
Dimitri absently studied the Anichkov Palace that had once housed Catherine’s favorite lover, Prince Potyomkin, and had been recently refurbished by Giacomo Quarenghi to house the Imperial Cabinet. Unlike many, he preferred the classical colonnade to the earlier, more flamboyant style.
Not that Czar Alexander had requested his opinion.
Grudgingly he turned his attention back to his companion.
“As you have no doubt surmised, the count is my father.”
A smile touched the older man’s lips as his gaze deliberately studied the elegant lines of Dimitri’s features, lingering on the aristocratic thrust of his nose and high, Slavic cheekbones.
“It is difficult to overlook the resemblance.”
Dimitri’s jaw hardened. He often used his considerable male beauty to his advantage, but he cursed the resemblance to the man who had brutally forced himself on a young, defenseless female.
“We share the same countenance, but make no mistake that is where the similarities end,” he said, his voice colder than a Siberian winter.
Herrick dipped his head in acknowledgment. “That is difficult to overlook as well, which is why your constant surveillance of the count piqued my interest. It was obvious you were searching for particular information.”
Dimitri was not pleased. He spied on others, they did not spy on him.
“You have an annoying habit of meddling in my private business.”
“It is my duty to meddle in the business of others.”
“You play a dangerous game, Gerhardt.”
Herrick shrugged, unperturbed by the threat in Dimitri’s soft voice.
“And you are intimately familiar with dangerous games, are you not, Tipova?” he asked. “The count would be most displeased to realize his bastard son suspects he is involved in illegal activities.”
Dimitri briefly considered the pleasure of tossing the older man into the nearby Fontanka Canal, then disregarded the notion. As pleasant as it might be to see Herrick’s impervious calm rattled, it was not worth the loss of his head.
Besides, there were more important matters to consider at the moment.
“What would you have of me?”
Herrick leaned forward, his dark eyes glittering in the moonlight.
“Meet with Emma Linley-Kirov. I truly believe the two of you are searching for the same answers.”
“I knew I was going to regret this meeting.”
PEERING OUT OF THE carriage window, Emma studied the pale stone building built with a columned portico in the center and two wings that spread along the canal. Although newly arrived in St. Petersburg, she would presume that the far side of the building was devoted to gentlemen lodgers. Why else would the small cluster of men be standing on the paved walk and keeping such a close watch on the passing traffic? On the other side was a more familiar coffee shop with several small tables and a back counter that held trays of tempting pastry that made Emma’s mouth water even at a distance.
“There it is,” she said, turning her head to meet her maid’s sour expression.
Yelena had firmly disapproved of Emma’s decision to meet with the Beggar Czar, Dimitri Tipova.
Of course, the elderly maid with a thatch of gray hair and slender body wrapped in a black cloak had disapproved of traveling to St. Petersburg, of accepting Herrick Gerhardt’s surprisingly warm welcome, and even of being sheltered by Herrick’s dear friend, Vanya Petrova in her beautiful mansion beside the Fontanka Canal.
Emma, on the other hand, was deeply grateful to the older man who had greeted her without a word of condemnation of her forward behavior and had promised he would do whatever possible to help her locate Anya.
“It does not appear to be a den of iniquity,” Yelena at last muttered. “Are you certain this is the proper address?”
Emma wrinkled her nose. “Appearances are too often deceptive, as I have so painfully discovered. It is rather public, however.”
“I should think it is public.” Yelena folded her gnarled fingers in her lap, her lips pinched together. “You cannot meet with a strange gentleman in private without so much as a proper introduction.”
Despite her raw nerves, Emma couldn’t contain her sudden chuckle. “I am about to request the assistance of the most renowned criminal in all of Russia and your concern is our lack of a proper introduction?”
The older woman sniffed. “I have a great number of concerns.”
Instantly contrite, Emma reached across the elegant carriage that Vanya had kindly insisted she use during her time in St. Petersburg, and patted her companion’s hand. Yelena was one of the very few people who had stood by her through the years.
“Forgive me, Yelena. I fear my nerves are in tatters. I did not mean to snap.”
Yelena’s expression immediately softened. “The past week would try the patience of a saint.”
Surely truer words had not been spoken, Emma acknowledged with a sigh. She did not wish to recall the grueling journey to St. Petersburg, or her sick trepidation as she had approached Herrick Gerhardt’s beautiful home to beg for his assistance.
It was enough to concentrate on today’s troubles.
Perhaps more than enough.
Pretending that her stomach was not cramped with fear, Emma managed a smile as the uniformed groom pulled open the carriage door.
“Remain here.”
Yelena frowned. “Emma—”
“We have been through this,” Emma interrupted. “The message was quite clear that I come alone. Besides, if I do not reappear then I shall need you to storm the fortress and rescue me.”
The maid pressed a shaking hand to her bosom. “Dear Lord.”
“I am merely teasing, Yelena. All will be well.” Keeping the strained smile intact, Emma allowed herself to be assisted from the carriage and headed for the door of the coffee shop. “Please God, let all be well,” she muttered beneath her breath.
Entering the coffee shop, she took the seat closest the window as the message had demanded. Thank goodness she had wrapped herself in a sturdy gown of dark gray that buttoned to her chin and brushed the wooden floor past her sensible leather boots. And that her honey hair was covered by a wool scarf her mother had knit. There was a roaring fire across the room, but so close to the door there was a distinct chill in the air.
Settling uncomfortably in the wooden chair, Emma cast a swift glance about the wide room, relieved that many of the tables were empty. There were two elegantly attired gentlemen playing chess by the fire, and a group of more roughly dressed men at a table that ran the length of the far wall, but she was quite alone in her corner.
Her appreciation for her solitude, however, began to wane as an hour passed, and then another. Where the devil was Dimitri Tipova? Had he invited her here just to see if she would risk her reputation by meeting with a notorious criminal? Was this a mere hoax at her expense? Or were Beggar Czars so busy they found it impossible to keep their