To Wed a Wicked Prince (30 page)

“I wish I could read Sophia’s side of the correspondence,” Livia said at last, folding the final letter carefully into its creases. “They clearly loved each other with a grand passion.” She stood frowning, her fingers steepled at her mouth. “But they never married. I wonder why not.”

“Perhaps he was already married,” Aurelia suggested, tying the ribbon again around her own packet of letters.

“Perhaps.” Livia dropped the packet back into the writing case. “But just what relation was Prince Alexis Prokov to Prince Alexander Prokov?”

“A distant relative?” offered Cornelia, but without much conviction. Something was seriously awry here.

Livia shook her head. “I don’t think so,” she said, then added slowly, “I think I had better get it from the horse’s mouth, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Aurelia agreed. “And I think we should leave you to do that, Liv.”

“Unless you want us to stay?” Cornelia added.

“No, but thank you. I need some time to think this through before I talk to Alex.” Livia was surprised at how cool, how calm she felt…how distant from emotion.

“We’ll go now.” Cornelia kissed her. “Send for us at once if you need us.”

“Yes, promise,” Aurelia insisted, hugging her.

“I promise.” Livia smiled vaguely at them. “But it won’t be necessary. I’m sure Alex will be as intrigued by this extraordinary revelation as I am.”

“Yes, of course.” Her friends went swiftly to the stairs. “Don’t come down with us,” Cornelia said. “We’ll call tomorrow.”

Livia made no attempt to follow them. She stood motionless in the attic for a long time, staring at the dusty cobwebs. It couldn’t be a coincidence. A man bearing Alex’s name had been Sophia Lacey’s lover. Was that what had brought Alex to this house? Did it have something to do with the single-minded way he had pursued her?

But how or why would that be? Sophia was dead, and it was to be assumed her lover was too. Abruptly she shook her head as if she could somehow dismiss her fears. Nothing was to be gained by fruitless speculation. If Alex had answers to her questions, then he must give them to her.

Livia gathered up the writing case, unhooked the lantern, and left the attic. She went first to her bedchamber and put the case on her dresser, then she went in search of Morecombe.

She found him in the twins’ kitchen, drinking tea in a rocker by the range. The scent of gingerbread was rich and heavy in the air. “Did Lady Farnham take the gingerbread for Franny?” she asked.

“Aye, come for it a minute or two past,” Mavis said, rolling pastry on the pine table.

“You wants summat, m’lady?” Morecombe inquired, making a half-move to get to his feet.

“No…no, I just wanted to ask you all something.” Livia traced a pattern in the flour on the table with a fingertip. “How long were you in Lady Sophia’s service?”

The three of them seemed to consider the question at some length. “’Twas just ’afore the Regatta on the Thames,” Ada said finally, adding a pinch of salt to the simmering contents of a cauldron. “Remember that, Morecombe? Oh, what a day that was, all them boats on the river. Pretty as a picture.”

“Oh, aye, Lady Sophia give us the day off,” Mavis remembered. “She looked right pretty herself, had a seat up there in the grandstand with all the toffs.”

“What year was that?” Livia asked, brushing the flour off her finger.

“Oh…don’t rightly know…” Morecombe muttered.

“Seventy-five,” Mavis stated. “’Twas the year I got my fox bonnet.”

“You’ve the right of it, our Mavis,” Ada agreed. “Seventy-five, that was it. We started in with Lady Sophia in January. Lady Sophia was with that Austrian chap…you know the one, Mavis?”

“The one with the moustaches,” Mavis said with a reminiscent chuckle.

“Eh, that’s enow,” Morecombe growled from his rocker. “What’s past is past.”

The twins seemed to remember Livia’s presence and with a quick glance in her direction fell silent.

“Don’t mind me,” Livia said. “I’d love to hear all your memories of Lady Sophia.”

“Well, as to that, we’ll mind our tongues, ma’am,” Ada declared. “She was a fine lady, and never hurt a soul in her life.”

“But she knew how to enjoy herself,” her sister said with a chuckle. “And she never turned a hair when others did too.”

Livia decided it would be prudent to beat a retreat before something was said that the speaker would later regret. If they’d joined Sophia’s service in 1775, they hadn’t known Alexis Prokov. Alex had been born several years earlier and as far as she knew had been in Russia with his father from the moment of his birth. Although, what was truth anymore?

“Well, I’ll leave you to your work. Prince Prokov is very fond of that veal and ham pie, Ada. Maybe you could make one for lunch one day next week.”

“Aye,” Ada agreed without expansion.

Livia left them and made her way to the hall, where Boris was as usual in attendance. “Is my husband still with his visitor, Boris?”

“No, Princess. Prince Michaelovitch left half an hour ago.”

“Thank you. Would you ask Prince Prokov to come up to my bedchamber?” Livia moved to the staircase. “At his convenience, of course.”

Boris bowed and went towards the library.

Alex was contemplating the success of his little play that afternoon. It had been so simple, but then Prince Michael was a simple man. When he’d been left alone with the dispatch to the emperor lying openly on his host’s desk, it hadn’t occurred to him to question the convenience, or Prokov’s apparent carelessness. Alex, ostensibly fetching a particularly fine claret for his guest, had watched through a crack in the adjoining door as Prince Michael had devoured the contents of the dispatch. Alex thought he understood why the fearsome Arakcheyev employed such a naïve tool as Michael. The man never suspected manipulation or deception and was so obviously proud of the work he thought he was doing, he could be set to follow any scent, as implicitly obedient to instinct as any bloodhound.

But now Michael would be able to report to his masters that Prince Prokov was fulfilling his task as the emperor’s eyes and ears in exemplary fashion.

Boris’s knock disturbed his moment of self-congratulation. “Yes?” He looked up, half expecting and more than half hoping to see Livia’s smiling mouth and sparkling gray eyes. He concealed his disappointment with an interrogative eyebrow. “Yes, Boris?”

“Princess Prokov, sir, requests that you attend her in her bedchamber when it’s convenient,” Boris intoned.

“Thank you.” He nodded dismissal and the majordomo backed out. What was Livia up to? She never gave Boris her messages. If she had something to say to him she came in and said it, or stuck her head around the library door and asked him to join her in the parlor. Why would she use Boris to pass on an invitation to her bedchamber?

Well, there was only one way to find the answer. He dropped wax onto the dispatch and impressed his signet ring, then he tucked the missive into his waistcoat. Later he would deliver it himself to the clandestine poste restante at the Black Cock in Dean Street.

He went into the hall. “We’ll need the carriage at eight o’clock, Boris. My wife and I are going to the theatre.”

“Yes, Prince.” Boris bowed. “You’ll be dining in, I understand.”

“Yes, before the theatre.” Alex mounted the stairs and knocked on the door to Livia’s bedchamber.

He entered at her invitation. “I’ve been puzzling about why my wife in the middle of the afternoon would summon me to her bedroom,” he teased. Then his expression changed as he saw her face. She was very pale, her eyes strained.

“Is something wrong, love? Are you unwell?” He crossed quickly to where she sat at the dresser.

“No, I’m not unwell,” she said. “As to something being wrong…to tell you the truth, Alex, I don’t know. But perhaps you do.” She passed a hand over her eyes, suddenly both weary and rather frightened. Her earlier calm had vanished as the reality of the letters had finally taken hold.

He took her hands, looking down at her, and now he saw the fear. “What is it?”

“These.” She pulled her hands free and gestured to the writing case. “I don’t understand them.”

“What are they?”

“Letters I found in the attic. Read them for yourself.”

Alex took up the top packet, untied the ribbon, and carefully unfolded the yellowing paper. He read in silence while Livia sat on the dresser stool, watching his face in the mirror.

After a while he picked up the remaining packets and went to sit on the bed. He said nothing as he opened each sheet and read systematically. Livia remained where she was, looking at his reflection in the mirror. She could read nothing in his expression, which had become once more inscrutable.

Alex was stunned. His father had written these. His father had been capable of so much passion…so much feeling. The cold, distant, emotionless, duty-bound parent that Alex had known had once been
this
writer. And nowhere in the letters was there mention of himself, of the child of the woman he was writing to. Had she never asked after him? Had she not cared what became of him?

He went back through the letters, for the moment oblivious of Livia, searching for something he might have missed, a glancing reference even. But there was nothing. It seemed that as far as Sophia Lacey was concerned, her son had never existed.

But the passion between herself and his father, that was so real it almost scorched his fingers as they turned the pages.

He looked up at last, holding the final letter between his hands. “Astonishing,” he said. “I would never have believed it possible.”

“Believed what possible?” She turned on her stool to look at him. Her voice was flat and distant.

“That my father was capable of writing such things.” He shook his head, his mouth twisted.

“Alexis Prokov was your father?” The same flat voice.

“Yes…and Sophia Lacey was my mother.”

“I see.” But she didn’t. Not yet. “No, I don’t see,” she said, sounding stronger now. “I don’t understand anything, Alex. Why did they not marry? Was your father married already?”

“No,” he told her. “He never married either, and now I understand why.” He tapped the letter in his lap. “And he never gave me a real reason why my mother was willing to let him take me and carry on with her life as if I’d never existed.” He gave a short laugh. “As a boy I somehow assumed it was my fault, I wasn’t loveable enough.”

“I could feel sorry for that child,” Livia said slowly. “But I see only the man now, and I know he has lied to me. As far as I can see, my marriage is a farce, a performance for some audience I know nothing of. You came after me for some reason that it’s clear to me now had nothing whatsoever to do with the person that I am. I’m owed an explanation for that.”

Alex sighed. “Yes,” he agreed. “I believe you are.” He could give her half an answer at least. “I came to London on a secret mission for the czar. He withdrew his ambassador from the court of St. James’s last November and since then it’s been imperative that he have eyes and ears here.” He shrugged. “I am those eyes and ears.”

“And that explains dinner party discussions about Russia and all those closeted visitors, I suppose.”

“Yes.”

“But why did you have to find a wife?”

She’d believe no comforting lies, Alex knew. It was better to cut deep once and then stitch the wound quickly.

“For an extra layer of protection,” he said. “A readymade social position, a hostess, a normal, ordinary appearance that no one would question.”

“But why me? Why would you choose me to use? There are any number of unattached women in society who would have been delighted to accept what you were offering.” Her voice was cold now.

Alex got off the bed and came over to her. He put his hands on her shoulders, gazing down into her eyes. She looked as if she’d received some dreadful wound, he thought, and his heart ached. “My love, you must believe that it’s been many, many months since I thought of you as anything but the woman I love.”

“Why me?” she repeated, her nostrils flaring slightly. “You came after me like a terrier after a rat. I ask again,
why me
?” She twitched her shoulders impatiently as if to rid herself of an irritating itch.

He let his hands fall from her shoulders. “This house,” he said. “My mother did not actually own it, although she clearly thought she did. My father gave it to her for use in her lifetime only.”

Livia stared at him. “Are you saying she had no right to leave it to me?”

“Yes,” he said simply. “I came to London intending to claim my property. This house was listed as a part of my father’s estates…estates to which I am the sole heir.”

“So why didn’t you simply take it, then?” she demanded harshly. “I presume you have legal documents proving your ownership; why didn’t you evict me with the full permission of the law?”

“That was certainly one of my options…until I met you,” he responded. “But that night at the Clarington’s ball…” He shrugged, trying to smile. “From the moment I saw you, Livia, I was lost. I realized that by choosing you for my wife, I could have the house too.”

“What an admirable conservation of energy,” she said with a cynical twist to her mouth. “Two birds with one stone, as they say.”

“I probably deserve that,” he said, pushing a hand through his hair in a gesture of frustration. “I didn’t intend it to sound quite so brutal.”

She didn’t respond and he tried once more. “You must believe that such considerations soon became irrelevant. You
must
believe that, Livia.” His gaze intensified as he tried to convince her of that truth, but he could see from the blankness of her own stare that he was getting nowhere.

“Would you go away now?” Livia turned back to face the mirror, but she could barely recognize the image looking back at her. She stayed like that until she heard the door close behind him, then she dropped her head onto her folded arms and allowed the tears to come.

I
GOT YOUR MESSAGE…WHAT’S SO
hellfire important that you had to drag me away from a woman?” Sergei grumbled as he came into the smoke-filled chamber. “A good woman too. Got an arse on her like a carthorse…and by God, does she know how to use it.” Blackened teeth showed in a lascivious grin as he drew an obscene diagram in the air.

“A communication from Arakcheyev. It says they’ve picked up a suspicious character in Nystad.” The man called Igor took a swig from the vodka bottle and passed it over to his compatriot. There were no refinements in the dingy lodging above the pie shop in Cheap Street.

Sergei drank in his turn and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before passing back the bottle. “What did they get out of him?”

“Not much at present. He’s a member of the imperial guard and he’ll be hard to break, but he has gold on him, English gold. We’re to pick up Sperskov. Softer meat…we’re to find out what he knows of the gold.”

He took another swig. “Sperskov or Fedorovsky. Arakcheyev says either will do. Whichever one we can pick up without too much fuss.”

Sergei laughed. “Sperskov’s more of a fool than the other one. Full of ideals, that one. And I know just how to snare him. He has a little love nest in Half Moon Street…married lady, so he doesn’t stay with her all night. I’ll pick him up as he slips out. Where should we take him? No good here, it’s a noisy business and there’s too many people around.”

“There’s a place on the river. A warehouse of sorts in Botolph Lane, you can’t miss it, it’s at the end and there’s only river rats to hear.” Igor spat onto the stinking sea coal in the grate. “They’ll not care one way or the other.”

“You want me to bring him there?”

“Yes, but not until after midnight.”

“Then I’ll go back to my whore for an hour. She still owes me a few moves.” Sergei went to the door, pausing with his hand on the latch. “You’ll do the business? Or you want me to?”

“We’ll both do it. I’ve no objection to spilling a drop or two of aristocratic blood.” Igor laughed derisively. “I’m not squeamish.”

Sergei shrugged. “It makes no difference to me. I’ll have the stomach for it after another hour with my girl and a good capon her dame has roasting.”

“After midnight, then.” Igor took up the bottle, reflecting that for the work ahead tonight he needed vodka rather than roast capon in his belly.

Duke Nicolai Sperskov stepped into the street, closing the discreet green door of the house in Half Moon Street behind him. He adjusted the set of his hat and set off towards Piccadilly. There was a spring to his step and he swung his cane in jaunty fashion as he passed the mouth of a narrow alley. He had no warning. One minute he was breathing the frosty air of a wet February night, feeling well satisfied by the evening’s pleasures, and the next he was suffocating in the smothering folds of a horse blanket.

He was half carried, half dragged a few feet even as he cursed and swore and fought against his silent assailant. He was bundled up into a carriage and fell onto the floor, the door slamming shut behind him. The vehicle lurched forward and he struggled to free himself from the swaddling cloth. A boot landed in his stomach and he choked, gasping, curling over the pain. And still not a word had been spoken by his assailant.

Alex listened outside the door to Livia’s bedroom. He could hear nothing, but Boris had said she hadn’t left her chamber all evening. He raised his hand and knocked gently. No response. For once he was reluctant to go in without permission. He would never have given it a second thought before that afternoon, but she had told him to leave her then, and now he wouldn’t force himself on her.

“Livia,” he called softly. “May I come in?”

There was still no response, and sighing, he turned away from the door, entering his own chamber. He knocked again on the adjoining door to her chamber but with little hope for a response. Either she was asleep or she still couldn’t bear to lay eyes on him.

It was only just after midnight. He went to the window that looked down on the deserted street, drumming his fingers on the pane. He’d spent a wretched evening, trying to close his mind to the letters with drink and cards, but he couldn’t find oblivion. Why had his father never mentioned their child in all those pages of passion? If Sophia had asked after her child, surely her lover would have answered her? To refuse to do so would be somehow punitive and there was nothing in those letters that indicated anything except the deepest, most enduring love.

He’d hoped that this house would give him some insight into the woman who had given birth to him. Instead he now had more questions than answers. Morecombe had so far resisted all attempts at friendly confidences and he could hardly go around questioning all and sundry about the character of the late Sophia Lacey without arousing general curiosity, and Livia’s in particular.

He turned away from the window, looking at the door to Livia’s chamber. He could probably make peace with those puzzles; he had lived with them all his life, he could continue to do so. But much more significant damage had been done to a completely innocent, uninvolved woman, and he was at a loss to know how to put it right.

He thought now that if he lost Livia he would have no difficulty finding within himself the fluent passion that had informed his father’s letters to Sophia. But eventually such a loss, such a fruitless expending of love, would break him as he now suspected it had broken his father, finally changing him from a warm, passionate man into an unbending, withdrawn, emotionless man who couldn’t love his own child.

He couldn’t allow that to happen.

He crossed the room to the adjoining door and gently turned the knob, half afraid it would be locked against him, but it swung open onto Livia’s darkened chamber. The fire was almost out, the candles guttered, the curtains at bed and windows open. It seemed as if she had gone to bed refusing any attentions from her maid.

He tiptoed to the bed and looked down at her. With a shock he realized that she was wide awake, her eyes open, gazing up at him.

“I thought you were asleep,” he said softly. “I didn’t mean to intrude.”

“A little late, don’t you think, for such delicacy?” Her voice was hoarse, little more than a rasp, and he could see in the dim gray light from the window how her eyes were red and swollen, her countenance blotched.

“Ah, Livia…please don’t,” he begged, reaching for her hand where it lay on the covers. “Please, my love, let us try to put this right.”

She drew a deep, shuddering breath and closed her sore eyes. “I’m so tired, Alex, I can’t do this tonight.”

He still held her hand as he looked at her in something akin to despair. Every instinct told him that to leave it there, to let her fall asleep filled with this wrenching anger, would be the worst thing he could do.

“Sleep, then, while I rekindle the fire and do something to make this room more comfortable,” he said. “You’ve had no dinner?”

She shook her head on the pillow, a grimace of distaste crossing her face, her eyes still resolutely shut. “I’m not hungry. I just want to sleep. Leave me.”

“I’ve done that once today,” he said with decision, “and I don’t think I’m going to do it again.” He laid her hand back on the coverlet and moved away from the bed. He drew the curtains at the window, shutting out the dark. There was kindling and a scuttle of coals in the hearth and he set about getting a blaze going.

He fetched fresh candles from his own chamber and set the sticks on the mantel, leaving the bed in shadow. It soothed him to be doing something practical with visibly satisfactory results and he could tell from her breathing that Livia had not gone to sleep.

He went back into his own chamber for the cognac decanter that Boris always left out for him and poured two glasses.

He carried one over to the bed. “Sweeting, drink a little of this.”

Livia opened her eyes. “You’re not going to go away, are you?”

“Not yet,” he agreed, holding out the goblet. “You look as if you need this.”

Livia had never believed in pointless combat. She couldn’t force him to leave her alone, and while she was tired unto death she knew she couldn’t sleep. Cognac might help. She pulled herself up against the pillows and took the goblet, inhaling the fumes that were powerful enough to clear the stuffiness from her nose.

“Let me fetch you something to eat,” he suggested. “Or hot milk?”

“No, thank you.” She sipped the cognac. “So, how do you suggest putting this right, Alex? You’ve deceived me, betrayed me, pretended to love me—”

“
No,
” he interrupted. “I will not allow you to say such a thing. I have never pretended to any of my feelings for you, Livia. I will grant you the moral high ground at present, but I tell you straight you will lose that advantage if you accuse me of things that are absolutely
not
true. Is that clear?”

His vehemence startled her out of the slough of misery, and in part of her mind Livia recognized that it was a timely jolt. Self-pity was a loathsome vice and she’d been in danger of sliding into its viscous depths.

“But you
have
deceived me,” she said more moderately. “You
have
lied to me.”

“Yes, I have.” He sipped his cognac. “And for that I am sorry. But in truth, Livia, I don’t see how I could have taken you into my confidence. I am spying on your government, when all’s said and done.”

“Oddly enough I had realized that for myself,” she said with a welcome return to cynicism. “And how do you think that makes me feel?”

“Rotten, I would imagine.”

“Nicely put. A cat’s paw is the answer I would have chosen.” She held out her empty goblet. “More, please.”

He fetched the decanter. “Go easy…it’s powerful stuff on an empty stomach.”

“It can’t make me feel worse than I already do,” she said, then pulled herself up. More self-pity. It was a debilitating emotion; anger was much better.

“This house was the symbol of my independence,” she stated. “I loved…no, love it. In my heart it’s mine, and to be told on top of everything else that I have no claim to it is the worst kind of practical joke. Do you understand that? Are you even capable of understanding that?”

“Yes,” he said baldly.

“And what does it mean to you? You have other houses, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“So, why do you want mine? Oh, no need to answer that. I know, it’s not mine and a man always has to claim his own property, otherwise he’s less of a man. I understand that.” Her tone dripped sarcasm.

“I didn’t take it away from you,” he pointed out. “If you hadn’t found those letters you would never have known the truth. I saw no need to tell you…to hurt you unnecessarily.”

And Livia was obliged to admit the truth of that. Without the letters she would have continued in happy ignorance, married to her prince, unaware of his deception and therefore unhurt by it.

She chose another tack. “As a matter of interest, once your work here is done, where were you intending that we should continue this life of married bliss? I assume your czar will have other missions for you? Was I to be a part of them?”

This was territory he couldn’t go into. There was no knowing the outcome of this enterprise. “That’s an insulting question,” he stated. “You are my wife, and my life is not whole without you. For the duration of this war, we will remain in London. Afterwards…who knows? I will go where duty takes me, and you, my wife, will be at my side.”

“A loyal and obedient wife,” Livia murmured. “Just as a Russian husband expects.”

“Now you are really beginning to annoy me.”

She shrugged. “Deny it.”

He looked at her in frustration. “Just how different is that expectation from one that an English husband would have? Wives are chattels in law in your country too, Livia.”

“Checkmate.” Livia finished her cognac. “You may lay down the law, husband, and I am legally bound to accept it. However, as you know perfectly well, legality is not always the final arbiter. I have a father, powerful friends…if I choose to leave you, then I will do so, and there will be nothing you can do to prevent me.”

Alex took an involuntary step back from the bed. “How did we get onto this byway, Livia? I love you. And I believe you love me.”

Livia closed her eyes for a second, then she said in a soft, defeated voice, “Yes, for pity’s sake, I do.”

Alex nodded. “Then let us have done with foolish talk about legality and possessions. A deep wound has been inflicted and we have to heal it…but we have to heal it together, sweeting. I am guilty, I accept my guilt, but I swear to you I will do everything in my power to make it up to you.”

“You will tell me everything about your spying? About who you are, what you are, what you intend doing?” She watched him closely. “You will take me absolutely into your confidence, now and always?”

Oh, what a tangled web we weave.
He couldn’t possibly promise that, not yet. Not while so much remained to be done. “I cannot promise that,” he said with deep regret. “And you must swear to me that you will not confide what you do know of my activities to anyone.”

Livia closed her eyes again. “I swear it. And now we have nothing more to say to each other.”

Alex stood helplessly by the bed for a moment, then he turned away, drawing the bed curtains around her. He picked up the candles, took them back to his own chamber, and closed the door softly behind him.

Livia slept eventually, but it was a restless sleep plagued with confused strands of dreams that left her filled with a vague sense of premonition and the absolute knowledge that something was very wrong, but in her dreams she couldn’t identify it.

When she awoke memory was bitterly clear and she had no difficulty identifying the source of her unhappiness. Her eyes felt sore and dry and her head ached. She dragged herself out of bed and went to the dresser mirror. Even in the dim light in the bedroom she could see what a fright she looked, her hair standing out around her head in a tangle of curls like Medusa’s snakes, her face pasty white, her eyes red. She couldn’t ring for Ethel looking like this.