that he had been sworn to defend the English crown as well as his own kind. Picking fights in taverns fell far short of that lofty vow.
“He belongs to a club,” Volkodav said. “A very old one, which was founded in Russia. A branch of it was established in London more than a hundred years ago.”
The captain seemed unimpressed. “What of it? Every man needs a place where he can gamble and fornicate in peace.”
“Yes. But this club exists for other reasons.”
Chichirikov guzzled the last of his ale and set his mug down on the table with a thump. “What is it called?”
“The Pack, I believe. Just the Pack.”
“Ah. Like a pack of dogs, eh? I suppose they are worthless dogs at that.”
Volkodav gave him a thin smile. “Mongrels.”
“I see. Well, I am sure this pack can be found. Most gentleman’s clubs are in Regent Street or near it. Or in—” He named several more streets, all in Mayfair.
“Our agents have been to all of those. There are more of us than the five who accompany me. They have already fanned out through London.”
Good God. Kyril had not picked them out from the crowd, which was now a faceless blur in his mind. Kyril remembered the ale he was supposed to be drinking and put the mug up to his face to hide his shock.
“Have they reported back?” the captain asked.
“Not yet,” Volkodav said calmly. “Finding the Pack has always been a problem.”
“But surely—”
“The men who belong to it are equally at home in the wilderness or cities. They have a maddening ability to vanish in either one.”
“I see. What are their names? The other ones.”
Again Volkodav gave the other man an unpleasant smile. “At the moment?”
“Yes.”
“Besides Kyril Taruskin, there is his cousin Lukian—a man to be reckoned with.”
Yes. He would cut your throat without a moment’s hesitation, Kyril thought.
“And Kyril has brothers, Semyon and Marko.”
The captain nodded. “Do you have pictures of any? Drawings or miniatures, perhaps? This fellow’s description”—he nodded at the Cossack—“was vague.”
“It is what I was told,” the Cossack said earnestly. “We have to kill him, you know, or risk the firing squad.”
The Cossack’s loyalty was admirable but stupid. He did not have to return to Russia to be shot. Kyril or his brothers could do the honors here in England.
“Taruskin is no better than an animal,” Volkodav said quietly. “He must die first. A degrading, painful death that his brothers will witness. Then it will be their turn. This is the wish of the Tsar.”
One of the other Cossacks spat on the floor. He might not be quite so loyal as the others. Kyril studied his face for as long as he dared. If he could turn one of the five against his comrades in time—
“And you are prepared to do this?” the captain was saying.
The Cossack who had spoken opened the front of his coat no more than an inch. Kyril glimpsed a flash of steel.
“At once. As soon as we find him.”
“London is a much bigger city than Moscow, my friend.”
The captain’s comment sparked a ruckus. The men shouted over each other as to which city was greater, claiming Moscow, the beating heart of their beloved motherland, as the fairest metropolis on earth. Anyone who disagreed should expect to be disemboweled, drawn, and quartered.
Sentimental and vicious, Kyril thought. Not an unusual combination.
He hated listening to their bluster. He could not pick them off in so public a place and he wanted to leave. But he had to stay with Volkodav as long as possible.
“Enough!” The captain held up his hand. “I will help you track down this animal—no, this man. Where does he take his pleasure? That is the easiest way to find a fellow.”
“He is often with a lady. Blast—I forget her name.”
“Brandy,” another said.
“That is not a name.”
“Of course not. I want more, you fool!” He snapped his fingers at the barmaid.
Another of the Cossacks withdrew a folded paper from his pocket. Kyril strained to see. He mispronounced the name he read aloud but Kyril understood him only too well.
He had said Vivienne Sheridan. Kyril was thunderstruck. How had they known of her? The imperial secret service had a long reach.
But the address the man read next was her old one, in Audley Street. Kyril was thankful for that.
Flooded with fear, he did not know whether to go to her and tell her to flee to the countryside or—it might be best to avoid her entirely. What if he was followed to the house in Cheyne Row?
She could be easily used to bait him. And as far as he knew, she was not in love with him. What if she turned against him—no, the thought was impossible. The secrets he sensed she was keeping were those of a gentle soul betrayed. She was a woman of the world but he truly believed in her essential purity of heart.
Lukian would have told him that he was a sentimental fool for thinking so.
So be it.
Somehow Kyril would protect her, at the cost of his own life if necessary.
You will have to. The thought flashed into his mind when he saw Volkodav come toward the table again.
“Where were you?” one of the men asked.
“I told you, you drunken idiot. I had to piss. But it is time we left. It is hot in here.”
The air in the tavern was humid and the windows were covered with mist. Streaks of water created clear spots here and there—Kyril spied a young whore peering in, looking at the new faces. Through the blurry window, she looked a little like Vivienne. Dark hair and dark eyes. Delicate features. His heart ached for her.
By and by, she sauntered in and the illusion of the resemblance vanished. Young as she was, she had been too long at her trade and her careworn face showed the strain of it. But she perched upon the knee of one of the Cossacks as if she were a new girl on the street, afraid of no man.
They roared with laughter, and the man she’d chosen put his arm around her waist. He fondled her bum, squeezing hard through her bedraggled skirts with his free hand. The girl looked nervous but she was game, smiling and joking though she understood not one word of their talk.
“Nice
