Scoundrel's Honor. Rosemary Rogers

among the fine citizens of St. Petersburg.”

      She muttered something beneath her breath that Dimitri suspected was comparing him to midden heap and glanced out the window, her brows drawing together at the elegant shops of the Gostiny Dvor they passed at a shocking speed.

      “Where are you taking me?”

      “I merely wished to speak with you in private.” He diverted her question.

      “Why?”

      “What did you overhear between Tarvek and my father?”

      She jerked, her eyes widening at his abrupt question. “You lecture me for being a reckless fool and now you desire me to share the information I have discovered?”

      A slow smile curved his lips. “I do admire your intelligence.”

      With a snort she folded her arms over her chest. “I have no intention of telling you anything.”

      He leaned forward to whisper directly in her ear. “You will if you truly desire to find your sister.”

      Her hands lifted to press against his chest, but Dimitri didn’t miss her revealing shiver. Or the leap of her pulse that fluttered at the base of her neck.

      “Fine,” she rasped. “I very much fear that Anya has been sent to England.”

      Dimitri reared back, his breath hissing between his clenched teeth.

      “What did you say?”

      Emma hesitantly repeated the conversation she had overheard, her wary gaze never straying from his grim expression.

      A heavy silence filled the carriage as he considered the shocking information. How many years had he searched to find a trace of the women he suspected were being abused by his father and his associates? Christ, he had spent countless hours hidden in frozen gardens and dark alleys attempting to discover the truth. And worse, he had stumbled across the truth and he had been too blind to realize he held it in his hands.

      “Dimitri?”

      Shaken out of his dark thoughts, he clenched his hands with self-disgust.

      “I have been unforgivably stupid,” he gritted. “The Katherine Marie. I should have recognized the name.”

      “Who is she?”

      “Not who. What,” he corrected. “The Katherine Marie is my father’s private ship.”

      “My God,” she breathed, her face pale and her hands trembling as she folded them in her lap. “Then it’s true. They have taken Anya away from St. Petersburg.”

      Dimitri resisted the peculiar desire to cradle her in his arms and offer her comfort. He protected women. He bedded them. He even supported a few. But there was something unnerving in the tug of tenderness Emma Linley-Kirov inspired.

      Besides, she was as likely to slap him as to thank him for his effort. Emma was not a woman who appreciated having others witness her vulnerabilities.

      “It would explain a great deal,” he admitted.

      He heard her draw in a deep, steadying breath, her chin tilting with the stubborn determination that was certain to give him nightmares.

      “Such as?”

      “I hire a vast number of people to keep me well informed. It seemed impossible that I was unable to discover more than vague rumors that young girls, and occasionally boys, were disappearing. I assumed they must take them from St. Petersburg, but it never occurred to me they would actually ship them abroad.”

      “I do not understand. If they—” she faltered, a flare of color staining her cheeks “—desire these girls, then why would they send them to England?”

      He scowled, cursing the missing Anya for dragging her elder sister into the muck. For all her courage and tenacious strength, Emma possessed an innocence that was remarkably rare.

      “Leave it be, Emma,” he said roughly. “You have been forced deep enough into this sordid business—”

      “I need to know.”

      “Emma.”

      She laid a pleading hand on his arm. “Please, Dimitri.”

      His gaze shifted to the window, absently noticing the aging palaces were being replaced by the classically designed homes preferred by Alexander Pavlovich’s architect, Carlo Rossi.

      “It would be my guess they transport the women to a select group of gentlemen in England who, in return, send back the females they have lured into their trap,” he grudgingly revealed his suspicion. Now that he understood how his father had rid himself of the local females, it was a simple matter to deduce the remainder of his nefarious scheme.

      Her brow wrinkled in confusion. “But why go to such a bother?”

      “They did not in the beginning, as my presence in St. Petersburg is ample proof.” He restlessly tugged off his hat and muffler, tossing them into the opposite seat. His gloves followed. “But Alexander Pavlovich has become remarkably pious as the years have passed and while he is not foolish enough to truly believe he can command his court to put aside their wicked pleasures, he has insisted they become more discreet.”

      “I still do not understand.”

      He reached to take her hand, not surprised to find her fingers were stiff with cold. Where the hell were her gloves? And her scarf? The foolish wench. She could shoulder the responsibilities of her business and her sister, but she was stunningly incapable of caring for herself.

      Clearly she was in need of someone to protect her, regardless of her prickly independence.

      “Allow yourself to imagine a very young and frightened English girl being smuggled into St. Petersburg,” he said, studying the shadows that darkened her beautiful eyes. “She would be a world away from her family and friends, she would have no money and no ability to speak the language. She would be utterly at the mercy of her captors.”

      “She would not dare try to escape.”

      “Precisely.”

      She worried her lower lip with her teeth, too intelligent not to realize the dire fate awaiting such women.

      “They cannot hold them captive forever.”

      “No. Once they…” He rubbed a hand over his face, hating the necessity of discussing such a repugnant subject with Emma. “Wearied of the girls, they no doubt sell them to brothels in Novgorod or Moscow.”

      She swayed, her face ashen. “Anya,” she breathed. “I have to find her.”

      “Emma, we cannot be certain she was on the ship.”

      She met his gaze with an implacable expression that made Dimitri’s gut twist with dread.

      “There is only one means to discover.”

      HER WORDS WERE STILL ringing through the air when the carriage was pulled to a halt in front of a newly constructed house.

      It was a home any gentleman would be proud to claim.

      Built of pale stone, it boasted five bays with a central bowed projection that was most notable for the Venetian glass he had imported for the windows that flanked the double doorway. A sweep of stairs led to the wraparound terrace that overlooked the sunken garden arranged on both sides and the high brick fencing that offered a rare privacy.

      For once, Dimitri did not experience the flare of pride at his creation. He was far more intent on scooping the startled Emma into his arms and climbing out of the carriage.

      Predictably outraged at being carried through the gate and up the stairs, Emma smacked his chest, a stormy flush bringing welcome color to her cheeks.

      “Have you taken leave of your senses?” She continued with her futile assault. “Put me down.”

      Dimitri