Scoundrel's Honor. Rosemary Rogers

it most certainly is not for your charm.” Dimitri reached for the door of the carriage. It was obvious his hopes of discovering how his father and his associates kept the women they abducted hidden was doomed to failure. At least for today. “Return to your home, old friend.”

      Josef frowned as Dimitri stepped out of the carriage. “What of you?”

      “Alexander Pavlovich is unveiling his latest portrait at the Hermitage this afternoon.”

      “God almighty, another one?”

      Dimitri chuckled. Czar Alexander had avoided many of the Romanov’s tendencies, but he was as vainglorious as his grandmother.

      “Vanya Petrova is certain to attend and I do not doubt she will be brazen enough to bring her mysterious young maid with her.”

      Josef drained the last of the vodka, his expression sour. “You should be pleased. It is possible the female can be of service. People tend to be more willing to speak with a pretty young maid than a cutthroat.”

      “Pleased?” Dimitri clenched his fists, a dark fear churning through him. “If she has put herself in danger I intend to lock her in my cellar and never release her.”

      “You were right, Tipova,” the scarred servant jeered. “Emma Linley-Kirov is not daft, you are.”

      EMMA FELT AS IF SHE were in a dream when Vanya’s elegant carriage swept through the archway and halted in the courtyard before the vast Winter Palace.

      How often had she dreamed of traveling to St. Petersburg and encountering a charming prince when she had been young and still naive enough to believe in childish fancy? Or of being draped in rich satin as she entered the vast palaces and curtsied before Czar Alexander?

      Instead, she was dressed in the drab clothing of a proper maid and struggling not to stumble over her feet as Vanya led her into Jordan Hall with its grand columns and vaulted ceiling lavishly painted and rimmed with gilt moldings. She had a brief glimpse of the elegantly attired crowd sweeping toward the Jordan Staircase before Vanya pressed her toward a side hall, jolting her out of her brief moment of madness.

      Maids did not belong in the upper rooms.

      Which suited her perfectly, Emma sternly told herself, traveling through the spider web of corridors and shrugging off her sense of unreality.

      Her journey to St. Petersburg was more of a nightmare than dream, and the sooner she found Anya so she could return home the better.

      Besides, she was discovering that beneath the breathtaking beauty of the city and the grandeur of the nobility, there was a pervasive rot that lurked just beneath the surface. There was evil in shadows.

      Shuddering at the unpleasant thought, Emma hurried toward the servants’ quarters. The air was thick with a smothering heat that was no doubt necessary for the exotic plants she had glimpsed in the various salons and drawing rooms she passed, but hardly pleasant for the servants that scurried about their tasks. Ignoring the sweat that trickled down her spine, she followed the scent of baking bread, occasionally stopping to chat with the other maids that crowded into the kitchens.

      She would question as many of the servants as possible before returning to the vast entryway and finding the best place to hide and watch as the guests departed the palace. If the men who had abducted Anya were attending Czar Alexander then she would see them leave.

      But first…

      Reaching the far end of the kitchen that overlooked the small enclosure with a handful of cows, she was nibbling on a plum and almond tart when one of the palace maids cautiously sidled next to her, a wary expression on her plump face that was framed by a halo of red curls.

      “What is your interest in Count Fedor Tarvek?” she whispered, her gaze warily darting about the bustling room, as if terrified they might be overheard.

      Emma slowly set aside the tart, careful to hide her flare of hope. The woman was as skittish as a dormouse, clearly uneasy at the mention of the man’s name. She did not want to startle her into flight.

      “My younger sister is seeking a position in his kitchens,” she said, keeping her voice equally soft. “She is anxious for a job, but I have heard rumors—”

      “You should warn your sister to seek a position elsewhere,” the woman hissed.

      “What do you know of him?”

      The dark gaze again darted about the bustling kitchen, ensuring that no one had noticed them speaking.

      “Nothing.”

      “Please.” Emma reached to lightly touch the woman’s arm. “Anya is young and headstrong and unless I can offer her more than vague warnings she is certain to ignore my fears. Did you work for the count?”

      “No.” She bit her bottom lip. “It was my cousin.”

      “What happened to her?”

      “No one is certain. She told my Aunt that she was offered a position as parlor maid, but when she did not return home that night my uncle went in search of her.”

      A sick dread curled through Emma’s stomach. “What did he discover?”

      The woman’s freckled face hardened with an impotent anger that Emma easily recognized. It was the same helpless frustration that had plagued her since discovering Anya was missing.

      “She had simply disappeared. The count claimed that she had never arrived at his home, but my uncle was certain he found a ribbon belonging to my cousin in the hedge surrounding the estate.”

      “Dear Lord.” Emma pressed a hand to her stomach. “You never heard from her again?”

      “Nyet. And I have heard whispered she is not the only female to disappear.”

      “Do you…” Emma’s words were cut short as the maid abruptly grasped her hand and nodded toward the window.

      “The devil himself,” she whispered.

      Her breath was lodged in her throat as she leaned forward, staring at the two gentlemen who strolled past the window.

      They were both elegantly attired in dark tailored jackets and breeches with high glossy boots that she would bet her last quid were worth more than her cramped cottage. Beneath their tall hats she could catch a glimpse of gray hair and lined countenances. That, however, was where the resemblances ended.

      One man was short and stocky with a heavy jowl and an unmistakable paunch under his charcoal-gray jacket. The other was tall and lean with an autocratic profile and air of haughty superiority that annoyed her even from a distance.

      Her gaze lingered on the shorter man, her heart skipping a beat as she recognized the debauched face.

      “That is Tarvek?” she rasped.

      “Yes. Filthy murderer.”

      Emma clenched her hands at her side. So, Dimitri’s conjecture had proven right. Count Tarvek was the man who had stayed at her inn and snuck away with her sister.

      She had a name for the bastard, now what did she do with the information?

      “Who is that with him?”

      “Count Nevskaya,” the maid said, her eyes widening as Emma mouthed a startled curse as she realized she was staring at Dimitri’s father. “Is something the matter?”

      “I shall return in a moment,” she muttered, heading for the nearby door.

      The maid scurried behind her. “No, listen to me,” she pleaded softly. “They truly are dangerous men.”

      “They will never know I am near,” Emma promised, tossing the woman a reassuring smile before she slipped from the kitchen and headed for the back gate.

      Count Tarvek and Dimitri’s father. Two men who both possessed an evil lust for young girls.

      It could not be