To Wed a Wicked Prince (25 page)

Alex was in fact standing in a small alcove, partially concealed by a heavy velvet curtain, listening intently to the conversation between two unseen gentlemen on the other side of the curtain.

“So Count Nesselrode is in Paris, making contact with Talleyrand?”

“Aye, we intercepted two of Nesselrode’s letters to the czar, containing information given to him by Talleyrand.” The speaker gave a short laugh. “According to Bonham, who deciphered them, Nesselrode refers to Talleyrand as
my cousin Henry.
”

“Also
handsome Leander.
” A third voice, which Alex recognized as belonging to Harry Bonham, joined the conversation. Harry sounded amused. “Fouché is known as Natasha, and our dear friend the czar rejoices in the code name Louise.”

“So it would seem that Talleyrand is betraying his own emperor,” one of the men mused. “The old fox was always a tricky character. The czar would be a fool to trust him or the information he’s sending his way. No one ever knows which side Talleyrand is really playing on.”

“Oh, Talleyrand plays only on his own side, Eversham,” Harry declared. “That’s all anyone needs to know about the man…ah, if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, my wife appears ready to leave…and not a moment too soon, I might add.”

He strolled away, followed shortly by the other two. Only then did Alex step out of the alcove. That had been a worthwhile piece of eavesdropping, he thought. The czar would be interested to know that his secret correspondence with young Nesselrode was being intercepted by the British. It would be a piece of information that would shore up his own credentials as the czar’s clandestine eyes and ears in London.

There were three men gathered in the small room behind the taproom in the Duke of Gloucester tavern in Long Acre. The air was thick with smoke from their pipes, mingling with the reek of sea coal in the small fireplace.

“We know for a fact that Prokov has the emperor’s writ,” one of the men said in almost musing tones. He was short and stocky, with a rather brutal mouth and a head of iron-gray hair.

“Yes, without question, Sergei,” affirmed Prince Michael Michaelovitch, tossing off the clear contents of his glass with an expert twist of his wrist. “And he’s cleverly placed himself in the perfect position to accomplish his task. A wife who’s seen everywhere about town, a mansion in Cavendish Square, and his wife’s friends give him the entrées into the political and diplomatic echelons of society. He’s becoming more English than the English these days, no one would suspect him of spying for the emperor. Don’t you agree, Igor?”

“But he also entertains Sperskov and the like,” Igor remarked. He was of the same breed as Sergei, with the shoulders of a prize fighter and a luxuriant pair of whiskers. Beside them Prince Michael, pink-cheeked, white-haired, with an air of breeding and benevolence suited to an elder statesman, seemed as rare and delicate as an orchid.

“We have to assume that he’s also keeping an eye on them. He’ll inform the czar of anything untoward among that group,” the prince said. “But I doubt there’s anything…they’re social butterflies, no more than that.”

“I wouldn’t be too sure,” Sergei responded with a dour shake of his head. “The talk of revolution even in the palaces of St. Petersburg is ever more open. People don’t even bother to whisper behind their hands these days.”

“Well, it’s hard to see what they can achieve from London. The czar’s well out of their reach,” the prince declared. “And I have faith in Prokov…as does the emperor.”

He pushed back his stool and stood up. “If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I have an engagement with a rather lovely demimondaine in the piazza.” He smiled complacently. “Say what you will, the ladies of this town have a certain refinement, and these bagnios, as they call their houses of pleasure, are most welcoming.” He nodded amiably, picked up his beaver hat, and strolled out of the room, swinging his cane with a jaunty air.

“Old fool,” Igor said, leaning sideways to spit into the coals. They hissed and foul-smelling smoke billowed into the room.

“He may be an old fool, Igor, but he has the ear of Arakcheyev,” Sergei said. “And that’s one man you offend at your peril.”

Igor nodded grimly and refilled his glass from the squat bottle. Their master would stop at no brutality to achieve his ends. He controlled the secret service as efficiently and savagely as he controlled the army. And if he deemed Prince Michaelovitch worthy of the task of keeping an eye on the doings of émigrés in London, then his minions would do well to keep their opinions to themselves.

“Well, Tatarinov has an entrée with Sperskov and his group,” Igor said. “Although how he’s managed to gain their trust I don’t know. A diamond in the rough, that one. Another Arakcheyev, I would say. I wouldn’t want to cross him on a dark street on a moonless night.”

“No,” agreed Sergei. “Have you ever seen him with a knife?” He shook his head in wonder. “I watched him carve a man into tiny pieces in Moscow once. They thought he was a spy for Napoleon.” He gave a short laugh. “How times have changed. Napoleon’s spies are now feted, not dismembered.”

“Ours not to reason why, my friend.” Igor stood up. “I’ve a mind to find a whore in the piazza…nothing as refined as a demimondaine for the likes of me, of course…” His laugh was sardonic. “But there are plenty of eager women behind the pillars willing to lift their skirts for a sixpence. Coming, Sergei?”

“Why not?” Sergei stood up, slipping the vodka bottle into the capacious pocket of his coat.

The two men seemed to slide from the room and into the taproom. They left the tavern itself as indistinguishable as a pair of shadows, and the tavern’s patrons barely noticed their passing.

Alex dismounted from his horse outside the house, tossed the reins to his groom, and strolled up the steps. A light tap on the knocker was all it took to bring Boris, who opened the door with a low bow.

“Good afternoon, Your Highness.” He took the prince’s hat and whip.

“Thank you, Boris. Is Princess Prokov in?”

“I believe the princess is in the library, sir.”

“Alone?”

“Yes, sir. I believe so.”

Alex nodded and started to walk away, then he paused. “How are things working out, Boris?”

“You mean with Morecombe and the women, Prince?” Boris’s expression became frozen and his voice flattened.

“Yes, that’s what I mean,” Alex said dryly.

“As well as you might expect, sir.” Boris brushed at the brim of the hat with an air of concentration. “I have no jurisdiction there, so I don’t inquire into their activities.”

Alex pursed his lips, wishing he hadn’t asked. Even after more than a month the household was still in a state of armed truce and he was well aware that Boris considered he had been betrayed. On the other hand, Alex had to admit that the twins performed culinary miracles in their own kitchen, which had been created in a previously unused scullery, and the cook grudgingly accepted that if his employers wanted traditional English dishes once in a while, then someone should prepare them, and it certainly wasn’t going to be him. He had no interest in the likes of Yorkshire pudding, spice cakes, creamed turnips, scalloped oysters, apple pie, or sponge cake.

Morecombe and Boris, however, were another matter. Alex had endeavored to win the confidence of his mother’s elderly retainer, but Morecombe had been impervious to all his efforts. He clearly didn’t regard the master of the house with any more respect than he accorded Boris, the interloper. It was frustrating, but there was little Alex could do about it if the man refused to unbend. However, neither was he about to encourage Boris to voice his own complaints about Morecombe. He nodded vaguely at his majordomo and went in search of his wife, well aware of Boris fulminating in hurt silence behind him.

He went into the library and at first couldn’t see Livia. Then he heard her. “Oh, Alex, there you are. You won’t believe what I’ve found.” Her voice bubbled with laughter and the ladder she was on in order to reach the top shelves wobbled alarmingly as she twisted in his direction.

He loved that bubble in her voice. He looked up into her laughing face as she perched on the top step, her eyes shining with mischievous glee. “What have you found, Livia?” Prudently he put a steadying hand on the ladder.

“It’s another of Aunt Sophia’s surprises,” she said. “Only look at these books, Alex. They’re all on the top shelves, presumably to keep them from accidental discovery, but they’re so wonderfully wicked. I’ll pass some of them down to you.”

She began to pull volumes from the shelf, leaning down to put them in his outstretched free hand. “They’re all in French, but they seem to have come from Oriental originals. I can’t really take them in properly up here, it’s too wobbly.”

“Then come down,” Alex instructed as he took the volumes one by one, dropping them onto a chair beside the ladder. He put his hands on her ankles, steadying her as she came down backwards. “What possessed you to go up there?”

“I was curious,” Livia said as he lifted her down the last rungs. “We didn’t do anything to this room when we first arrived and it was so dusty and dirty and uninviting that we never bothered to take a look at the books. I was at a loose end this afternoon so I thought I’d have a look.”

She turned in his arms, laughing up at him. “How I wish I’d known Aunt Sophia.”

“She must have been an unusual woman,” he said, looking over her head, aware of a deep pang of loss. Every day he spent in this house it grew stronger, and with every surprise revelation it grew harder to bear. And the hardest thing to bear was his longing to share it with Livia, and the deadening knowledge that he couldn’t, not without revealing things about himself that would hurt her and, more pragmatically, make his business in London much harder to complete.

“You’re not disapproving, are you?” Livia said, feeling the change in him as he held her lightly. “You’re not a prude, Alexander Prokov.”

She leaned back against his encircling arm, looking up into his face. “Or have you been hiding that side of yourself from me?” Her gray eyes were still full of laughter but there was a flicker of uncertainty beneath.

He shook his head. “No, I am not a prude. I couldn’t be married to you if I were. Although I have to admit I didn’t know I wanted a shameless hussy for a wife until I had one.”

Mischievously she played a drum roll on his chest with her fists. “Come and look at them with me.” She twisted away from him and gathered up the books in her arms, depositing herself on the sofa. “Come and sit beside me.”

Alex obeyed. He whistled soundlessly as they turned the pages, which he had to admit were definitely arousing. Livia glanced sideways at him, and her eyes were suddenly heavy and languorous. “Do you think that’s possible?” she murmured, her tongue touching her lips as she examined an illustration. “It looks painful.”

“No,” he said, giving the idea apparently serious consideration, even though his eyes were dancing. “I don’t think it need be.” He kissed the corner of her mouth. “Would you care to try, madam?”

She nodded and he got up and went to the door, turning the key.

“I don’t know whether that was successful or not,” Livia gasped half an hour later, lying sprawled on the floor.

“It might have been more so if you hadn’t found it so amusing,” Alex said, straightening her contorted limbs. “It’s extremely difficult to make love to a woman who’s convulsed with laughter. An elementary fact of life that seems to have escaped you.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, pulling his head down to hers. “But it was ticklish. Do you think Aunt Sophia ever did it like that?”

Not with my father,
Alex thought, the idea effectively dowsing his amusement once again. He raised his head and sat up.

“I wonder how many lovers she had.” Livia stretched out on the rug, one hand resting languidly on his bare thigh. “She can’t have been a chaste spinster all her life. If I could summon the courage I’d ask Morecombe…or perhaps the twins. But they’re so reticent about the past. Of course, it was a different era. Thirty years ago…”

“It certainly was.” Alex stood up quickly. “I can’t spend the entire afternoon dallying with you, Livia.” He began to put on his clothes.

She sat up reluctantly. “What else must you do?”

“I’m expecting some guests,” he said, bending to gather up the books. “Get dressed now.”

Livia rose to her feet. There was a strange chill suddenly. She hadn’t done anything to offend him, she was certain of it. They’d just made love, however unorthodox the method, but in general such activity generated a wonderful sense of connection between them. But now he seemed to have distanced himself from her.

“Is something wrong, Alex?” She scrambled into her clothes, uncaring how disheveled she might look.

“No, of course not. How could there be?” He was on the ladder replacing the books on the topmost shelf.

“You tell me,” she murmured sotto voce, fastening the buttons on her bodice.

The door knocker sounded and Alex frowned. “My guests,” he said shortly. He came down the ladder. “My dear girl, you’re buttoned up all wrong.” He brushed aside her hands and swiftly fastened her gown. He ran his hands through her hair, trying to comb it into some semblance of tidiness. “Anyone looking at you would know exactly what you’ve been doing.”

“You were doing it too,” she reminded him, thrusting her bare feet into her slippers, tucking her stockings into her hands. “I’m sorry if you’re embarrassed, Alex, I’ll go out through the garden and your guests will never see me.” She made no attempt to hide her annoyance. It wasn’t as if they weren’t husband and wife.

“That might be for the best,” he said, moving to the door to unlock it. “I don’t think anyone should see you holding your stockings in that shameless fashion.” A hint of his customary warmth had returned to his eyes and his voice, but Livia was not reassured.

She shook her head and hurried to the French doors that opened onto the garden. “Never fear, I’m going now. Enjoy your guests.” Before he could say anything she opened the doors and slipped out into the frigid afternoon.