To Wed a Wicked Prince

by Jane Feather

  Alex said with a laugh, “To distract ourselves, my love.”

  “I suppose so,” she agreed. “Didn’t you tell me once that you never knew your mother?”

  “I might have done,” he said carefully. “Since it’s true.”

  “Dying in childbirth is so tragic,” Livia said. “And for your father…it must have been dreadful. To be left with a baby to bring up all alone. Did he every remarry?”

  “No.” Alex shook his head. He didn’t think he’d ever actually said his mother had died giving birth to him, but it seemed easier to leave Livia with that assumption.

  He reached for her hands again and pulled her in against him, but this time he held her lightly. “There will be plenty of time for questions and explorations, Livia. But I do want to talk about your ancient retainers.”

  “What about them?” Unease prickled again.

  “I understand we can’t turn them off,” he said carefully. “But a generous pension would surely satisfy them.”

  “No,” Livia declared. “Sophia’s will states absolutely that they are to leave this service only when they choose.”

  “Have you asked them about that?” He was treading carefully, aware that Livia had the same proprietorial feelings towards the retainers as she did towards the house itself.

  “It isn’t necessary,” she said. “They know the terms of the will and when they’re ready to go they’ll say so.”

  “I understand,” he repeated. “But surely you must see, Livia, that once we’re married, Morecombe cannot be the doorkeeper, let alone butler, in the household of the Prince and Princess Prokov?” He opened his hands in a gesture that could have been mistaken for supplication.

  Livia did not make that mistake. “What do you suggest?”

  Alex heard the edge to the question and debated whether to push the issue now or have it out when they were married and Livia would have to accept that Morecombe and the twins were his employees and potential pensioners. But honesty insisted that he continue.

  “There would be no reason for them to leave the house if they didn’t wish to vacate their quarters,” he said reasonably. “But their duties could be curtailed quite drastically without offending them, I would have thought.”

  Livia realized that physical passion was a truly ephemeral sensation. “Quite apart from going against the spirit of Sophia’s will, such a move would make them feel useless and unwanted. This is as much their house, Alex, as it is mine, and their claim precedes mine, quite frankly.”

  Her voice rose a fraction. “I can’t and won’t have them put out to grass. Quite apart from how they rallied around when Nell and Ellie and I arrived, with three squalling children and an outraged nurse in tow, the twins are the most wonderful cooks.”

  She folded her arms, once again aware of the chill in the room. “I’m sure we can dissuade Morecombe from answering the door. I don’t think he’ll see that as a demotion since he doesn’t like doing it anyway, but everything else he does…”

  She shook her head vigorously. “No, Alex. The twins continue to reign in the kitchen and Morecombe does what he chooses to do. That’s the way it has to be.”

  “I have an excellent cook myself,” Alex pressed mildly. “His father was Russian, and he was trained in France. I don’t think he would take kindly to working under the supervision of two old ladies.”

  “Then he must learn.” Livia realized that they’d reached some kind of line. And this was no time to be taking up definitive confrontational positions. She said quickly, “I’m sure I can persuade Morecombe to give up his responsibilities for answering the door, but I can’t tell him he’s no longer butler.”

  She offered a conciliatory smile. “I have to get back to Mount Street to change for dinner. But surely these are things we can discuss later, Alex. It will all fall into place when we start to live here together. Everything will be in a state of flux, and everyone’s role will have to be redesigned. Who knows, maybe Morecombe and the twins will decide to leave of their own accord once they realize how things have changed.”

  Livia fervently hoped for such a resolution, but doubted that it would be that simple. Morecombe, Ada, and Mavis were as much fixtures of the house in Cavendish Square as the dining room fresco.

  Obviously this was a battle to be fought another day, Alex decided. Since it was inconceivable that he should lose it, nothing would be gained by a premature confrontation. He was not yet master of this particular household. And, in truth, he had no wish to distress his mother’s old retainers. He was very interested in listening to their reminiscences, and they certainly wouldn’t be open for a comfortable chat if they thought he was out to dispossess them. It would be possible to make incremental changes in their roles in the household once the new regime was established.

  “I’m sure you’re right,” he said easily.

  He opened the parlor door and Tristan and Isolde raced between his legs towards the spurious freedom of the hall. “Perhaps Morecombe could take sole responsibility for those creatures,” he suggested, with what he hoped was a note of ironic humor.

  “He gives the impression that they annoy him too,” Livia said, responding in what she hoped was the same tone. “But actually he seems to like them and it seems to be mutual.”

  “Then perhaps we’ve solved two problems with one solution,” Alex said, escorting her down to the street. “Let me take you back to Mount Street.”

  Alex saw Livia into the house and left, blowing her a kiss with the promise that he would see her at dinner. Then he set off at a brisk walk towards Piccadilly. He picked up a hackney and directed the jarvey to Half Moon Street and Tatarinov’s lodgings.

  He paid off the hackney and stood in the narrow street contemplating the tall house where Tatarinov had two small rooms. The man had no interest in the trappings of wealth and lived a very different life from that of the rest of their little band of conspirators. But then he was cut from a different cloth, Alex reflected, raising his hand to the knocker.

  Tatarinov had presented himself to Constantine Fedorovsky on the latter’s journey to London. He had impeccable credentials, letters of recommendation that were sent directly by the small group of revolutionaries controlling the flow of information from St. Petersburg. His competence was unquestionable and for all the roughness of his manners, Alex and his fellows had accepted him in their number with gratitude rather than suspicion. Now Alex was not so sure.

  He banged the knocker again and after a minute the door opened a crack. A young maidservant peered around. “Yes, sir?”

  “Is Monsieur Tatarinov at home?” Alex asked politely.

  “Aye, sir. Shall I tell him who’s come?”

  “No, just show me in.” Alex pushed the door wide and stepped into a narrow hall. “Where will I find him?”

  “Second door on the landing, sir.” She pointed up the stairs towards the darkened upper reaches of the house.

  Alex nodded his thanks and took the stairs two at a time. He knocked sharply on the indicated door and waited, watching the tiny eyehole set close to the top of the door. There was no sound from within, but he saw an eye at the peephole, and then a key grated in the lock and the door opened.

  “What brings you here, Prince?” Tatarinov asked, surveying his visitor without expression.

  Alex moved the silver knob of his cane between finger and thumb. The seemingly ordinary accessory became a lethal sword stick with the right pressure on the spring mounted in the knob. He didn’t think he would need it, but it was as well to be prepared.

  “I came to ask you what took you to Cavendish Square this afternoon,” he replied easily. “I am aware I have some followers, but I hadn’t thought to number you among them, Tatarinov.”

  “Ah.” The other man nodded. “You’d best come in.” He stepped back, holding the door wide.

  Alex stepped into a parlor where a fire of sea coal belched noxious fumes and the light came from three tallow candles on the mantel.

  “No
t quite what you’re used to, eh, Prince?” Tatarinov stated with a short laugh. “Not all revolutionaries are feather-bedded aristocrats.” He went to the table and picked up a vodka bottle, filling two squat tumblers. “Drink with me.” He held one out to his visitor.

  Alex debated returning a sharp answer to the somewhat derisive comment and then decided to ignore it. He took the glass and drained the contents in one swallow. Tatarinov nodded his approval and followed suit, then he refilled both glasses and set the bottle back on the table.

  “So, you’ve caught their surveillance, then?”

  “I’m aware I’m being watched, but I don’t know who by,” Alex said. He kept his hand still on the knob of his cane, his eyes never leaving Tatarinov. “I’m hoping you’ll tell me since you seem to be a part of the surveillance.”

  “Aye, well, ’tis Arakcheyev’s men,” the other man told him. “They don’t have anything to go on, but they’ve been told to keep an eye on every Russian in town, follow ’em for a couple of weeks. They don’t suspect you of anything at present. I’ve put their minds at rest on that score. They think I’m one of ’em who’s also watching you all for Arakcheyev. If I tell ’em nothing’s going on, they’ll believe me. You should lose your shadows by Christmas and they’ll watch someone else for a while.”

  It made sense. Alex was well acquainted with the dreaded head of the czar’s Committee for General Security. Arakcheyev had the czar’s absolute trust and he would be excessively diligent when it came to rooting out threats to his sovereign’s safety on any continent. It was typical of his methods that he would suspect everyone initially and take them off his list only when he was certain they were innocent.

  “So, are you working for Arakcheyev also?” he asked, tossing back the contents of his glass.

  “He thinks so,” Tatarinov said with a shrug. “Way I look at it, I’m most useful to you if I keep in with them.”

  “Indeed,” Alex agreed. He wasn’t sure whether he could believe this man or not. He gave the impression of open honesty, of having nothing to hide, but if he was clever enough to play the double agent here, then he was also clever enough to deceive the conspirators.

  “Why are you interested in deposing the czar, Tatarinov?” he asked.

  The Russian turned and spat onto the coals in the grate. “Not for the same reasons as you, Prince. I don’t come from your palace world of privilege. Me and mine have worked the land for the gentry, and died doing it. Alexander has sworn to keep the old system…he won’t consider reforms, and the people have had enough. The peasants will turn on him and his like eventually, you mark my words. The time may not be now, but when it comes the streets will run with blood.”

  A cold finger ran up Alex’s spine at the conviction in the man’s voice. It was true that the injustices in his homeland were many, and it was true that there were grumbles in the villages, but there always had been and the landed gentry put down any hint of rebellion with the savagery of the knout.

  He couldn’t deny Tatarinov’s accusations. But they put his mind at rest about the man’s true allegiance. His motives were different, but none the less powerful for that, and the end was the same.

  “I’d appreciate it if you could keep me informed of anything that you might hear in your double role,” Alex said, setting down his glass. “It would be as well for two of us to share the knowledge.”

  “As you say, Prince,” Tatarinov agreed. “I hear all sorts of tidbits, and I’ll be the first to know if Arakcheyev suspects anything concrete.”

  “That’s a comfort,” Alex said somewhat dryly. He didn’t need reminding that this was a dangerous business they were on, but the danger was somehow now made manifest. He turned to the door. “I’ll leave you now. Keep me informed.”

  “Aye, I’ll do that,” Tatarinov said. “And, by the bye…Viscount Bonham…husband to your fiancée’s friend…”

  Alex paused, his hand on the latch. “Yes, what of him?”

  “He does something hush-hush for the War Ministry here,” Tatarinov said. “Not sure what, but you’d best watch yourself around him.”

  Alex raised his eyebrows. “Interesting,” he commented. “I’ll be on my guard.” He waved a hand in farewell and went down the stairs, letting himself out into the cold street.

  Strangely enough, the information didn’t surprise him particularly. He had had the measure of Harry Bonham for some weeks now, and had only respect for him. He had suspected that the man probably had interests outside the general run of sport and pleasure. Nevertheless, it was an unnerving piece of information and he would have to watch his step around Cornelia as much as her husband.

  That said, he would far rather fall foul of the British secret service than Arakcheyev’s men.

  Had the czar anything to do with this surveillance, or was it only at the instigation of Arakcheyev? On the whole, Alex thought it probably the latter. The czar might go so far as to ask an elder statesman like Prince Michael Michaelovitch to keep an eye out for his unofficial ambassador just in case he got himself into deep water and couldn’t swim out of it, but it would be prompted more by concern that Alex should accomplish his task for Russia efficiently than by a suspicion that he might be up to no good. Arakcheyev, on the other hand, looked after his master and even the czar’s most trusted advisors would not be given a free pass.

  Oh well, worries for another day, he decided. If he didn’t hurry he’d be late for the Bonham’s dinner party.

  Chapter Fourteen

  THERE WAS A LIGHT DUSTING of snow on the ground when Livia walked up the aisle of her father’s church on the Saturday before Christmas, attended by her two matrons of honor. Alex stood at the altar, Viscount Bonham beside him.

  It had been agreed among his peers after Tatarinov’s information about the viscount that the less they came into contact with Bonham as a group the less risk they would run. Livia had expressed surprise and dismay that he was inviting no one of his own to the wedding, but she’d accepted the fib that only Duke Nicolai and Count Fedorovsky were sufficiently close to him to warrant an invitation, and unfortunately they both had longstanding invitations to spend Christmas elsewhere.

  It was a useful fabrication. He didn’t want Livia getting too friendly with his own people. A man who was playing both ends against the middle needed to keep the separate strands of his life well apart lest the spark that would be ignited if they touched turn into a conflagration that would engulf them all.

  Now, as he watched Livia’s steady progress towards him and their shared future, he thought how far he had come in this relationship from the early days when he had seen her as his passport to an easy social acceptance in her world. Now it wouldn’t matter if she could bring him nothing. He wanted her for herself, for that lively sense of humor, that delicious bubble of laughter, for the way her eyes turned smoky with passion and her body melted into his. He had never met a woman like her and he wanted to marry her, to keep her safe, to love her and be loved by her.

  But he also knew that he was deceiving her, that the entire bedrock of this marriage was based on deception, and he could do nothing to alter that. The die was cast, and he had to maintain the deception if he was to protect her. Only thus could she continue living the life she was used to, a life now enhanced by her married status, by her title, and by his wealth. It was a forgivable deception, surely. He had only to keep her safe from the other side of his world, even as she played an unwitting part in it. A fair exchange?

  As she reached him, Livia smiled through the gauzy transparency of her veil. He looked unusually tense, she thought. It was as monumental a step for him as it was for her.

  She had not a single misgiving. It had surprised her, but she had woken up that morning happy and full of excitement. Maybe it was a wildly impractical thing to do, to join one’s life with a near stranger simply because it felt right…simply because just thinking of him made her heart sing and her blood surge. But she could not imagine doing anything different. She could not
imagine how she could ever have made a different decision. And here on the steps of the altar she still couldn’t.

  As she smiled through her veil, he smiled back and she could feel the tension slide from him. Perhaps he’d been afraid she was having second thoughts.

  And then the organ music faded and the Reverend Lacey began to speak, his sonorous tones ringing through the old raftered church. Wintry sunlight bathed the congregation in color as it poured through the stained-glass windows.

  Towards the end of the service Livia gave her bouquet of white roses to Cornelia and drew off her left glove. Alex slipped the slender gold band on her finger, his fingers tightening over hers as he held her hand for a minute. And it was done.

  The vicar pronounced them man and wife, stepped forward again, and raised his daughter’s veil. “You may kiss the bride.”

  Alex’s mouth whispered over hers and Livia was aware of a seething elation. Today her life was really beginning. And even though she knew it was naïve to believe it, she could see only a path strewn with roses. Naïve, yes, but so what? This was her wedding day.

  They emerged from the church to the clamor of church bells and the applause of the crowd gathered in the churchyard. It seemed the entire parish had turned out to celebrate the wedding of their vicar’s daughter. Rice showered the bridal couple as they stood for a moment arm in arm in front of the church doors. The dazzle of the sun on snow made Livia blink and her eyes water.

  It seemed to be having a similar effect on her friends, she noticed. Their eyes were definitely a little blurred. A gust of wind blew her veil across her face and it was Alex who lifted it aside, tucking it back behind her ears.

  “I think we had better get out of the wind before you take flight,” he murmured, and was rewarded with a soft chuckle.