To Wed a Wicked Prince (17 page)

Nothing in Alex’s expression gave an inkling of his thoughts. “It seemed a practical step, sir. I rent lodgings in London at present, and I had been intending to buy a property when one suitable came on the market. However, as you must be aware, such opportunities are few and far between, and the house in Cavendish Square is a very fine property.”

He paused, then said, “I am not asking for a dowry, Lord Harford, and I will settle on Livia sufficient funds to keep her in comfort in the event of my death. The house in Cavendish Square will kill two birds with one stone. It will serve as a dowry that would of course revert to Livia on my death, and for the present will save me the time and expense of buying a suitable house.”

Lord Harford nodded slowly. “I applaud your reasoning. Why buy another property when there’s a perfectly suitable one to hand.” He looked across at his daughter. “What think you, Livia? Are you willing to offer your house as your contribution to the marriage settlements?”

“I would be very happy to continue living in Cavendish Square,” Livia said. “I can’t see why in all reason I should have the slightest objection.” And she didn’t think she had. But a niggle of unease disturbed her. The house was hers. Oh, she was willing to share it with her friends, but she had developed an extraordinarily strong bond with it. Whether it was because of the spirit of Sophia Lacey, who seemed to inhabit every nook and cranny, or just the fact that the house had rescued her from a drab future, she didn’t know. But she wasn’t sure how she felt about joint ownership. In fact, it wouldn’t even be joint ownership. She would be bringing it into the marriage, and like all marital property it would legally belong to her husband unless he predeceased her.

But that was a selfish and nonsensical reaction. If her father considered that Alex was being more than generous with his settlements, surely she could share the one thing she had with a good grace? And be glad she had something to contribute to this marriage.

“Of course, any refurbishments that you wish to do, Livia, will be entirely your business,” Alex said, watching her face, puzzled by the reluctance he could read there.
What did the house mean to her?
“I won’t interfere in any way.”

Livia thought of what needed to be done to the old house. She had barely touched the surface of neglect in the months since she’d inherited it. Sophia’s legacy of five thousand guineas hadn’t gone very far, but with money and imagination the house
could
be magnificent again. She could imagine the pleasure she would have restoring it to its former glory. It was a mouthwatering prospect.

“It does need some work,” she said. “But I don’t believe it could be ready by Christmas.”

“Oh, you’d be surprised,” Alex said, suddenly brisk. “I’ll bring an architect to talk with you, and when decisions have been made we’ll leave the business in his hands while you prepare for the wedding.”

“One further point, Prince Prokov?” The vicar was frowning. “I’m an old man, and I’d be sorry to lose my daughter. I understand that you are intent on remaining in England for the duration of the war, at least.”

“Yes, sir, that is so. While Europe is at war, I can safely promise that I intend to remain in London for the foreseeable future. When peace comes, who knows?” He shrugged expressively. “But I will make no decision without consulting Livia.”

The vicar’s frown deepened and his eyes were shadowed. “Damnable war…there’s no peace in sight. Indeed it’s hard to envisage the circumstances that would allow for it. Fools, greedy, godless fools, the lot of them.”

It was an extraordinarily vehement speech from the normally mild-mannered man of God, and Livia sat up in surprise. “It can’t go on forever,” she protested softly.

Alex looked at her, and his own expression was now bleak, no sign of the easygoing, untroubled dilettante she was used to. “Your father’s right, Livia. There’s no end in sight.”

Not unless he and his associates could hasten it along. But the step they would have to take filled them all with misgivings even as they knew they would be following in the ancient traditions of their land and society.

How many despots and idiots had been assassinated in the long history of the bloody murk that was Mother Russia?

Too many to count. And if necessary there would be one more.

Livia, watching his face, shivered as if she was in a draught and looked over her shoulder, expecting to see an open window. But no breeze stirred the curtains at the firmly closed casement.

T
HE AUDIENCE CHAMBER IN THE
Hermitage Palace in St. Petersburg was chilly, and it wasn’t just the temperature. The atmosphere, as always at the czar’s rare receptions, was as cold as the waters of the River Neva that flowed beneath the palace windows. The line of diplomats stood rigidly at attention, staring straight ahead across to the line of Grand Dukes and Duchesses facing them. The silence was heavy as the czar in his emblazoned imperial uniform, his sumptuously clad mother on his arm, his more somberly dressed wife walking alone a few paces behind, progressed slowly between the lines, offering only a silent nod until they reached the French ambassador, General de Caulaincourt.

Czar Alexander stopped in front of the general. The Empress Mother and her daughter-in-law halted. Alexander smiled a thin smile. “Good evening, Ambassador. I trust you are well.”

“Yes, indeed, thank you, sir.” The general bowed stiffly. “And honored to be here. I trust your majesties will grace my reception at the embassy next week.”

“If time permits us to indulge in such frivolity, Ambassador, we shall be pleased to attend.” The thin smile flickered again and the emperor and his ladies passed on down the line. At the end of the line they passed through double doors flung open by liveried footmen, and within the audience chamber there was a collective shuffle of relief.

“Thank God that’s over,” muttered a senior French diplomat to his ambassador. “Give me a reception at the Empress Mother’s palace any day. Now, there’s a lady who knows there’s more due to the monarchy than dreary exercises in protocol.”

Caulaincourt looked sour. “The empress lives in grand style, certainly…but she can afford to do so,” he added grimly, his voice barely above a whisper. “Soon I’ll be forced to sell my shirt. These damn Russians are so haughty, they’re all smiles and sugary compliments as they grab anything you offer, and then turn around and spit in your face.”

His companion nodded in sympathy. It was well known that the ambassador, in his attempts to win over hostile Russian society, was close to bankrupting himself with the lavishness of his hospitality. “They certainly don’t care for us,” he said in the same low voice. One could never be sure who was listening in the halls and antechambers of the palaces of St. Petersburg.

The ambassador frowned and murmured, “I tell you, Alain, I grow tired of wasting time and money on such ingratitude. They’ll never be reconciled to us, to Bonaparte…and quite frankly I fear for the czar. This is not a ruling class that tolerates despotic sovereigns who don’t please them.” He drew a finger across his throat in an expressive gesture. “I don’t know whether Alexander understands the precipice he’s on. I doubt he even listens to the whispers.”

Alexander, at this moment, was wearily but courteously listening to his mother. “I trust you will not be attending Caulaincourt’s reception,” she declared. “The man’s as much a parvenu as the emperor he serves.”

“His lineage is impeccable, madam,” her son pointed out mildly.

“Which is more than you can say for the Corsican,” the lady stated, accepting the correction with a vaguely dismissive gesture. “You are in danger of becoming a lackey of Napoleon’s, Alexander. And I don’t know whether you realize it.”

Alexander sighed. “Of course I respect your opinion, madam. But in this I must follow my own way. Alliance with the French will bring our country honor and glory.”

“Oh, the Corsican has bewitched you,” the Dowager Empress stated disgustedly. “Do you not hear what everyone’s saying? They’re saying that Napoleon runs the affairs of Russia as if it was a French province and you, its emperor, are in reality no more than a provincial prefect.”

“They may say what they please,” Alexander said, still patiently. “But I am czar of all the Russias, madam, and I will rule as I see fit.”

The Empress Mother took an angry turn around the room, her richly embroidered taffeta skirts swishing around her ankles with the impatience of her stride. “And what of the plots against you?” She spun back to face him. “Can you ignore those, Alexander? Think of your father…would you have the same fate befall you?”

Her son shook his head with a faint smile. “I know that people are plotting. I know about the intrigues, both here and overseas, England in particular, and I am not afraid of them. I have my own plots, my own intrigues, madam, which I believe are more than a match for my enemies.”

His mother looked at him, her eyes suddenly narrowed. “Prokov is in London,” she said. “Are you relying on him to nip sedition over there in the bud?”

“Can you think of anyone better qualified, madam? A better friend? A cleverer, wiser friend?”

The empress frowned in thought. “No,” she conceded after a minute. “If there is an assassination plot originating in London, Alex will discover it.”

“Exactly,” the czar said with a decisive nod. “And Arakcheyev’s secret police will deal discreetly with the plotters.” His smile widened and he said, “Have faith, Madam Mother. There’ll be no palace revolution either. I have ears to the ground everywhere. I know what’s said, and I know what’s planned. But rest assured, at present there are only grumbles…no assassination plots in the wind.”

The Dowager Empress said only, “I hope you’re right, my son.”

“Stand still, Lady Livia.” The dressmaker fussed through her mouthful of pins. “I’m sure I had the waist measurement perfect last week, but now it seems too loose.”

“I’m too excited to eat,” Livia offered apologetically, casting a pleading glance towards Aurelia and Cornelia, who were critically watching the proceedings in Livia’s borrowed bedchamber in Mount Street. Livia and Aurelia had moved out of Cavendish Square, which was crawling with painters, builders, and the like, and taken up residence with the Bonhams until the wedding. “You’d think I’d be too old to be excited, wouldn’t you?”

Aurelia shook her head with a smile. “You’re getting married, love.”

“And more to the point, you’re lusting after the groom,” Cornelia put in with a ribald chuckle. “It’s enough to make anyone excited.”

“Now, now, ladies,” the seamstress protested, but only mildly. Miss Claire had been dressing the three women since they’d first arrived in London and was used to their free and easy manners.

“It may be indecorous, Claire, but it’s God’s own truth,” Cornelia said with another chuckle. “In two weeks, our virgin friend will be initiated into the joys of the marital bed.”

“Oh, do be quiet, Nell.” It was Livia who protested this time, her cheeks a little pink. “Now, tell me what you think of the gown?” She put her hands on her waist and examined her reflection in the long glass.

“It’s beautiful,” Cornelia said, serious again. “That old ivory really looks enchanting on you. It complements your hair and eyes beautifully.”

“I love the embroidery,” Livia said, smoothing the skirts with a loving hand. “It’s so incredibly delicate.”

“Exquisite,” Aurelia agreed. “And the fine wool and silk blend should keep you from freezing to death in the church.”

“Yes, a practical but necessary consideration, Lady Livia,” the seamstress said, tucking and pinning the full puff sleeves that finished just above the elbow. “The long gloves should keep your arms and hands warm enough, although, of course, you’ll have to take the left one off for the ring.” She turned aside to pick up the embroidered veil that hung over a chair. “Let us see the full effect now.” She lifted it high and dropped it lightly over Livia’s head, arranging the folds down her back.

“Lovely,” she pronounced. “Don’t you think so, ladies?”

Livia turned to her friends, a question in her gray eyes. They both smiled at her, and Aurelia blinked away an inconvenient tear. Her own wedding day came back to her in a flood of memory…her nervousness, the uncertainty she felt about the step she was taking, her sudden panic that she didn’t really know the man she was marrying, even though he was her best friend’s brother and they had grown up in the same village. How different it had been for her. Livia was in love. With the best will in the world, Aurelia could not say she had been in love on her wedding day.

Oh, she’d grown to love her husband. They’d become easy together, good friends, quiet lovers. But there was no grand passion. No sweeping desire. No sense that the world was tumbling about her ears, the way Livia described her feelings. Livia was radiant, and the radiance increased with every moment she spent with her fiancé.

Livia said suddenly, “Oh, is that the time? I have to go. I arranged to meet the decorator at the house.” She lifted the veil from her head. “There’s so much to do and I have to be in Ringwood by Friday at the latest. I’ll need at least a week to finalize preparations.” She handed the veil to Cornelia and turned her back for Claire to unfasten the dress. “I’ll see you both at dinner this evening.”

“I just hope Harry finishes whatever’s been occupying him upstairs,” Cornelia said with a rueful grimace. “He’s closeted in his attic office. Something was delivered from the ministry this morning and he disappeared upstairs with it. There’s no knowing when he’ll reappear. Hosting a dinner party comes rather low on my husband’s priorities in these situations.”

Her friends nodded their comprehension. Viscount Bonham’s cryptology work for the War Ministry frequently took him out of social circulation for days at a time. Since he didn’t like his work to be generally known, Cornelia was growing adept at finding excuses for his absences when they conflicted with social engagements.

“Will you be able to explain things to Alex, Liv? If Harry doesn’t appear,” she asked rather tentatively, unsure how Livia would take the need to keep the truth from her fiancé.

“Of course,” Livia said cheerfully. “Harry’s business is not mine to reveal. We can simply use his usual excuse. A family emergency with one of his many sisters or their offspring has taken him out of town.”

Her friends laughed with her, remembering how Harry had so often explained his sudden disappearances in such fashion. He was quite shameless about roping in his large extended family to bolster his excuses.

“That’s settled, then. Dinner at eight.” Cornelia headed for the door.

Livia dressed again quickly and hurried downstairs. Harry’s butler was in the hall as she crossed to the front door. “Will you be taking the dogs, Lady Livia?” he inquired.

Livia stopped and sighed. “I wasn’t going to, Hector. Are they being a nuisance again?”

“They seem to have something against the butcher, ma’am, and since the butcher is very important to Lord Bonham’s chef, particularly when he’s preparing for a large party, it tends to cause an upset in the kitchen when he brings the choice cuts for Monsieur Armand’s approval and the dogs attack him. No one can hear themselves think for the noise, ma’am,” he added apologetically. “And if Monsieur Armand becomes upset, then dinner tends to suffer.”

“And of course the butcher is coming this afternoon,” Livia said with another sigh. “I’ll take them with me, Hector. I’m walking to Cavendish Square anyway.”

Hector looked relieved. “I’ll fetch them myself, Lady Livia.”

He returned in a very few minutes with the two pink Lakeland terriers prancing and skittering on the marble floor. Livia looked at them with disfavor. “I do not understand how two such ridiculous bits of fluff could cause so much havoc,” she scolded.

For answer, they jumped up at her, tails wagging furiously, eyes bright with adoration, tongues lolling. “Oh, come on then,” she said, taking their leads from the butler, who hurried to open the front door for her. “Thank you, Hector.”

“Thank
you,
my lady,” the butler said, closing the door gently behind her.

It was a cold December afternoon and Livia walked swiftly, the dogs prancing at her heels. When she reached Cavendish Square she stopped outside the house and looked up at the façade. The gleaming windows threw back sunlight and the front door stood open despite the cold as workmen hurried in and out. Alex had been right. An amazing amount of work could be achieved in a short space of time. At least with the aid of a bottomless purse and the right influence. Alex, it seemed, had both.

It had occurred to her to wonder how he’d acquired the influence in the short time he’d been in London, but when she’d asked he’d just laughed and said it was always possible to get what one wanted if one was determined. And Prince Prokov was certainly that.

The thought brought a smile to her lips as she went up the steps to the house, moving aside to let a pair of workmen carrying trestles get past her. The dogs barked indignantly and sprang at the men.

Livia dragged the animals into the hall and into the parlor. It had been finished first and was now a blissful haven amid the chaos. She released their leads and looked around with satisfaction. This was her private room. Fresh paint and new upholstery had updated it without destroying its essential character. She had kept the faded Turkey carpet, and most of the furniture, replacing only the broken-down sofas and a chair with a wobbly leg. It was here that she felt the spirit of Sophia Lacey most strongly.

A discreet knock at the door heralded the appearance of the decorator. “I have the swatches you asked for, Lady Livia.” He stepped back, holding his samples up high as Tristan and Isolde came at him in a yapping rush.

A sharp command sounded from behind him and instantly the dogs sat back on their haunches, tongues lolling. Alex stepped past the decorator. “I’m assuming you had no choice but to bring them,” he said to Livia, the light in his eyes as he looked at her contradicting the slight exasperation in his tone.

“No, it was the butcher, you see,” she said, feeling the fire start deep inside her, the glow spreading up from her loins to her lips.

“I’m not sure that I do,” he said, “but never mind.” He took her hand and kissed it, then leaned forward and kissed her cheek. The decorator’s presence dictated a discreet salutation, but even so he felt her stir beneath the cool brush of his lips and he was aware of the deep, masculine satisfaction in knowing how easily he could ignite her passion to meet his own flare of desire. Just the lightest touch of his lips on her skin was enough these days to bring his body to a peak of lust, and he could read its match in the smoky depths of her gray gaze.