Bound by Love (17 page)

The man snorted. “The master prefers to dispose of his enemies with a great deal more decorum. Only bungling fools leave the bodies to be found.”

“Vastly reassuring,” Herrick commented dryly. “Remain here, Gregor.”

The younger man flashed him a sour frown. “You play with fire.”

“It will not be the first occasion.”

Opening the door wider, the stranger waved a hand. “This way.”

Despite the small pistol tucked in a hidden pocket of his black coat and a dagger tucked in his boot, Herrick could not deny a faint unease as he crossed the plank floor. With nothing but moonlight slanting through the broken windows to provide illumination the vast room was shrouded in a darkness that could hide any number of nasty surprises.

Without a word, the man led Herrick to a door that was guarded by two slender men who regarded Herrick with the experienced eye of hardened thieves. They stood aside, but Herrick was thankful he had possessed the foresight to leave his purse and valuables at home.

The door led to a narrow staircase that in turn led to the upper floors of the warehouse and after being scrutinized by two more armed guards, Herrick was led into Dimitri Tipova’s private lair.

Herrick was not entirely certain what he expected to find.

Perhaps a huddle of desperate criminals hovering around a fire in some hovel. Or a hidden cellar with rats.

He most definitely had not expected a company of well-trained sentries who possessed the bearing of seasoned soldiers or a shabby warehouse that had been transformed into an exquisite apartment that included a formal parlor, a small dining room, and a library with a collection of books that would be the envy of most Russian nobles.

Thoroughly astonished, Herrick paid no heed as his guide retreated from the room and closed the door behind him. Instead he moved to study the unmistakable Rembrandt hung over a carved marble fireplace.

“Good…God,” he breathed.

“I shall take that as a compliment, Mr. Gerhardt,” a low voice drawled. “I am quite certain that you are a gentleman who is rarely taken by surprise.”

Turning, Herrick studied the man who stepped from a door hidden behind the polished wood paneling.

He was a slender, remarkably handsome gentleman with long raven-black hair that was untouched by gray and pulled into a queue at his nape with a velvet ribbon. His face was thin with aristocratic features and heavy-lidded golden eyes that shimmered with a restless intelligence in the light from the crystal chandeliers.

Attired in a blue velvet jacket with a waistcoat stitched with silver threads and black breeches, he could easily have mixed among the highest of society. In truth, Herrick would swear he had seen nearly identical features on a powerful nobleman just last eve at the Summer Palace.

Perhaps the resemblance should not be unexpected.

Many gentlemen littered the streets of St. Petersburg with offspring born on the wrong side of the blanket.

Still, Herrick could not help but accept that his preconceived notions of Dimitri Tipova and how this evening would unfold could not have been more wrong.

The gentleman moved with languid grace to stand beside a mahogany and gilt wood settee covered in Imperial brocaded silk, a faint smile hovering about his finely molded lips.

Accepting that he had been nicely outwitted, Herrick offered a bow of respect.

“Dimitri Tipova, I presume?” he murmured.

“At your service.”

Straightening, Herrick discovered himself under inspection from that unnerving golden gaze.

“Thank you for agreeing to meet with me.”

“Please, be seated.” Waiting for Herrick to settle on a carved mahogany chair with gilded serpents on the back, Tipova toyed with a large diamond stickpin tucked in the folds of his cravat. “I fear my besetting sin has always been my curiosity. My mother swore it would be my downfall.”

“And your father?”

The man did not so much as blink at Herrick’s smooth thrust. “My father quite wisely suggested that I be drowned at birth.”

“But he was willing to pay for your education?” Herrick countered. No Russian serf, no matter how intelligent, was capable of speaking such fluent French without a tutor.

“Willing, no.” A sardonic glint entered the golden eyes. “My mother, however, was a formidable lady who harbored great ambition for her son.”

“She must be quite proud.”

“She is dead.”

“Ah.” Impossible to know if he grieved beneath that smooth charm. Herrick sensed that few people were ever allowed to see the true Dimitri Tipova. “My sympathies.”

“Brandy?” Moving an ebony sideboard, Tipova waved a slender hand. “Or do you prefer tea?”

“Brandy.”

Pouring two glasses of the amber spirit, Tipova moved to press one into Herrick’s hand before taking his own seat on the nearby settee. Lifting his glass, he flashed Herrick a mocking smile.

“A votre santé!”

Herrick lifted his glass. “To your health.”

They sipped the perfectly aged brandy, then, setting aside his glass, Tipova stretched out his legs and crossed them at the ankles.

“Now perhaps you will be good enough to tell me what brings you to my modest corner of the empire?”

“It is my belief that we possess a common enemy.”

“Actually, I should say we possess any number of common enemies.”

Herrick narrowed his gaze, instantly intrigued by the notion of just how valuable an agent among the underworld could prove to be.

“Indeed?”

Tipova waved a slender hand, clearly satisfied by having planted his seed in Herrick’s mind.

“A conversation for another day.”

“Very well,” Herrick graciously conceded, already determined this would not be his last visit with the astonishing criminal.

“Does this common enemy have a name?”

“Sir Charles Richards.”

For the first time, Tipova appeared disconcerted. Then, tilting back his head, he laughed with rich enjoyment.

“I knew you would not disappoint me, Gerhardt.”

“You know him?”

Pulling a thin cheroot from his pocket, Tipova lit it from a candle set on the jade inlaid table.

“First I desire you to tell me what interest you have in the Englishman.”

“Can I have your assurance of discretion?”

A dark brow arched. “Would you trust me if I gave you my word?”

Herrick did not hesitate. His true talent had always lain in reading a person’s character.

“Yes.”

The golden eyes flared with an indefinable emotion. “Then you have it.”

Herrick came straight to the point. “It is possible that Sir Charles is currently blackmailing a prominent member of the Russian court.”

“I see.”

“You do not appear particularly surprised.”

“I will admit that I am occasionally a wicked man,
mon ami
. I am ruthless, fond of luxury and beautiful women, and not overly concerned with the morals that plague others.” He paused, his jaw tightening. “But I am not evil. There is nothing you could tell me regarding Sir Charles that would come as a surprise.”

“Evil.” Herrick felt an answering revulsion toward Sir
Charles. If the rumors were true the Englishman deserved to be skinned and left for the rats to gnaw on. “Yes, a perfect description.”

The brief display of anger was swiftly hidden behind Tipova’s engaging smile.

“Besides, I suspected he must be doing something of the sort.”

“And why would you suspect such a thing?”

“Because, my dear Gerhardt, I am blackmailing
him
.”

Herrick did not bother to act surprised. It was precisely what he had assumed and why he had sought out this meeting in the first place.

“Would you be willing to share the details of what you hold over the man?”

“Only if you are willing to be equally forthcoming.”

A flare of insight prevented Herrick from uttering the threat that hovered on his lips. Dimitri Tipova devoted his life to flouting the rules and daring the authorities to try and toss him into prison.

No. He would never be intimidated.

“You know that is not possible,” Herrick retorted.

“Then it would appear we are at a tragic impasse.”

Herrick drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair, easily shifting tactics.

“Are you are aware that Sir Charles has left St. Petersburg?”

“I had surmised as much.”

“Do you happen to know where he has gone?”

“I have a fair notion.”

“Will you share the information with me?”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

With a smooth motion Tipova was on his feet, moving to toss his cheroot into the fire. When he turned back, Herrick was offered a glimpse of the brutal ambitions that drove this unique man.

“Sir Charles offered me a grave insult. The kind of insult that demands retribution.” His lips twisted. “Since you have become involved I must conclude that I have no hope of acquiring the money I requested.”

“None whatsoever.”

“Then I must have some means to have my justice.”

“What do you want?”

A chilling smile curved his lips. “Sir Charles.”

“You wish to teach him a lesson?”

“No, Sir Charles is incapable of learning. His impulses cannot be resisted even if he wished to do so, which I assure you he does not.” He met and held Herrick’s gaze. “The lesson is for any other gentleman foolish enough to flout my rules.”

Herrick rose to his feet. “Do you truly believe I will hand over an English nobleman to his certain death?”

“You understand duty, Gerhardt. You have devoted your life to protecting the interests of the Romanovs.” Tipova’s voice held an edge of cynicism. “An admirable goal perhaps, but who is to protect those poor souls who do not fall beneath the shelter of your fine officials?”

“You?”

The handsome villain shrugged. “Mock if you will, but I do not allow my children to be harmed by anyone.”

In a peculiar way, Herrick found himself greatly admiring Tipova. Indeed, it was a great pity the man could not claim his noble blood. He possessed a great deal more courage and intelligence than the majority of the aristocrats who littered the Russian court.

Strolling toward a satinwood desk that held a varied collection of enamel snuff boxes, Herrick absently considered the outrageous request.

On the one hand, he was naturally reluctant to hand over an English blue blood to a self-proclaimed criminal. The relationship between Alexander Pavlovich and George IV
was strained at best. Who knew if the fat British monarch would decide to make an unpleasant fuss?

On the other hand, Herrick was swiftly reaching a point of unpleasant desperation.

For the past few weeks Nadia had been besieged by the nasty Nikolas Babevich demanding that she either pay or have her letters exposed to the world. Herrick had attempted to reassure the nervous Countess that there was nothing to fear. Clearly Babevich did not possess the letters or he would have offered proof. Nadia, however, refused to be comforted and since her distress was becoming obvious to the Emperor, Herrick had been forced to follow even the most remote clues to the true master behind the threat.

Which meant he had to get his hands on Sir Charles Richards.

Slowly turning, he offered his host a small dip of his head. “Very well.”

The golden eyes blazed with triumph. “You will give me Sir Charles?”

“Yes.”

“Your word?”

Herrick smiled. “Will you trust my word?”

“Oddly enough, I will. Most peculiar.”

“My thought exactly.”

They shared a glance of mutual understanding, then clasping his hands behind his back, Tipova strolled to the center of the delicate Persian carpet.

“Sir Charles was in Paris.”

“Paris?” Herrick’s brows snapped together. “What business does he have in France?”

“It could be he is attempting to avoid my wrath. A foolish mistake.” The criminal deliberately paused. “Or perhaps he was drawn there by the rumors that the charming Miss Karkoff is currently staying in England and desires to keep a close, but secretive, eye upon her.”

Herrick froze in unpleasant shock. It did not seem
possible that anyone, let alone a lawless rogue, could know his closest held secrets. It was not only a blow to his considerable pride, but it was a potential threat he would not endure.

“You are not entirely impervious to being hauled before a firing squad, Tipova,” he said, his cold warning unmistakable.

“I am rarely stupid,
mon ami
. For me, information is like my priceless treasures.” Tipova stroked a finger along an ancient Chinese vase on the mantle. “I collect them for my own pleasure, and only when I am certain of a profit that offers no risk to me do I agree to sell them.”