To Wed a Wicked Prince

by Jane Feather

  “Oh, not well, my dear. She was fifteen years older than I…we moved in different sets.” She gave a small laugh. “My mama would not permit me to mix with Sophia’s circle.”

  “Oh, why not?”

  “She had a reputation, my dear.” Another chuckle punctuated the confidence. “There was always talk wherever Sophia went…men around her like bees at the nectar, and her door knocker was never still with the parade of gentlemen calling upon her. None of us gals was ever permitted to get too close…always whisked away at the most interesting moments.”

  “Was there ever a scandal?”

  Lady Hargreaves shook her head. “There was always talk, but I never knew any details. Whatever it was happened when Sophia was very young, long before I knew her…some mad love affair, I daresay, but no one would ever talk of it openly.”

  She sighed. “I admit I always envied her…such excitement…to be considered not respectable always seemed so dashing to us poor conventional debutantes. Ah, Albermarle Street. Thank you so much for the lift, Livia dear.”

  “My pleasure, ma’am.”

  “I did enjoy our little chat,” the lady said, enfolding herself in the fur boa again as she edged out of the carriage. “Give my regards to that handsome husband of yours…I’ve often thought I’ve met him somewhere before…nonsense, of course…quite impossible, but sometimes there’s an unmistakable impression.” She shook her head. “I’m becoming a foolish old woman. Good-bye, my dear, good-bye.” Waving merrily, she gathered up the trailing fur and went up to her own front door.

  Livia chuckled. She liked Lady Hargreaves, as did Nell and Ellie. The ladies of that generation were in general a lot less silly than those of their own and on occasion had a refreshing candor about subjects that modern society considered taboo. She’d confirmed Livia’s suspicions about Sophia Lacey rather than offered any new insights, but nevertheless, what little she’d said had whetted Livia’s perennial curiosity about her benefactress.

  The carriage drew up outside the house in Cavendish Square and Livia hurried out of the rain into the lamplit hall. “Is my husband in, Boris?” she asked as she unbuttoned her pelisse.

  “He has a visitor, Princess. In the library.”

  “Ah.” Livia nodded. Off-limits, in other words. She went to the stairs, hurrying up to her chamber to take off her hat and pelisse. Alex was occupied, it was still raining, and a book by the fire seemed no more appealing than it had that morning. On the other hand, the memory of the conversation in the carriage was still very fresh in her mind. On impulse she picked up the oil lamp that was already lit on her dresser and made her way up the narrow staircase to the attic.

  She’d only been up here once since she’d taken up residence in Cavendish Square. It had been dirty and dusty, full of shrouded shapes, trunks, and boxes, and as she stood on the threshold, holding the lantern high, she reflected that, unsurprisingly, things had not improved. Something scurried across the floor in a dark angled corner. Rats…mice…squirrels?

  Livia was not squeamish about livestock, however. She hung the lantern on a hook suspended from the steeply gabled ceiling and a pool of light illuminated the central part of the attic. The corners remained in shadow. Four round windows under the eaves were obscured by a lacy tracing of cobwebs, but there was little enough light outside anyway, so they made little difference.

  Livia looked around, wondering where to start. Dust-covered shapes that were obviously discarded furniture were of no interest. If there were treasures up here she would be very surprised. It was the trunks and boxes that intrigued her.

  She was struggling with the catches of an iron-bound chest, which seemed to have rusted in place, when she heard her name. It was Cornelia’s voice from the floor below.

  “Liv…Liv, where are you?”

  “Up here, in the attic,” she called back, scrambling to her feet, brushing the dust and dirt off her cambric skirt.

  “What on earth are you doing up here?” Cornelia appeared at the head of the stairs. She looked around with interest. “It’s filthy.”

  “I don’t suppose it’s been cleared out in years,” Livia said, regretting that she hadn’t thought to change into something old. “Is Ellie with you?”

  “Yes, she’s downstairs talking to the twins. Franny has been pestering her for days for some of those gingerbread men that our Mavis bakes, so she’s asking her to make some.”

  “That’ll please Mavis,” Livia said somewhat absently. “I don’t really know where to start.”

  “I think the question is why would you want to start in the first place?” Cornelia said. “God knows what’s up here.”

  “That’s exactly the point,” Livia told her. “There could be anything.” She gestured expansively at their surroundings.

  “Liv…Nell…are you up here?” Aurelia’s quick step sounded on the stairs and she emerged into the attic. “What on earth are you doing?”

  “My question exactly,” Cornelia said. “If you want to go through all this stuff, why don’t you get the servants to carry it downstairs so that we can look at it in a civilized manner?”

  “No, that’s too much trouble. I’m happy enough up here, but you don’t have to stay.”

  “Oh, yes, we do,” Aurelia stated firmly. “Having braved the rain to visit you, we’re not going to turn tail.” She bent over the chest that Livia had been wrestling with. “These locks need to be pried loose. There must be something up here, like a crowbar or something.” She looked around.

  “Try this.” Cornelia picked up a thin metal file from a gate-legged table with one leg missing.

  “Let me try.” Livia took it from her and knelt in the dust again, prying the locks up with the end of the file. It took a few minutes but finally they sprang loose. “Now, what have we here?” She lifted the lid and sneezed as a cloud of dust rose from the interior of the chest.

  “It looks like old clothes.” Cornelia peered over her shoulder.

  Livia lifted out the top layer of heavily embroidered gold taffeta. “Heavens, it’s a ball gown of some sort.” She shook out the folds. “It would have had a hoop underneath with panniers and suchlike.”

  “I do believe it’s the same gown that Sophia’s wearing in the portrait in the drawing room,” she said. “Oh, it’s full of moths…what a pity.”

  “I’m going to look in those boxes over there.” Cornelia went over to a pile of boxes under the eaves. “Do you want to help, Ellie?”

  “I want to investigate that trunk over there,” Aurelia said, now as caught up in the project as her friends.

  Livia lifted out the layers of clothes in the chest, fascinated by the elaborate designs, the yards and yards of material. In these clothes Sophia would have worn powdered hair and strategically placed beauty patches on her face. As she sorted through the clothes Livia felt a strange connection with the woman who had worn them; it was almost as if Sophia’s spirit were lurking in these dusty, moth-eaten folds.

  Ridiculous fancy, of course, but one she rather liked. She buried deeper in the chest and her fingers closed around something that was not cloth.

  “What’s this?” She lifted it out. “Oh, it’s a writing case, I think.” She got to her feet and carried the case to the rickety table. “It’s locked. I wonder where the key could be.”

  “Probably still in the chest,” Cornelia suggested, sitting back on her heels.

  Livia went to look. She took everything out, shaking out the folds of material while a veritable dust storm enveloped her, but there was no key.

  “You can probably break the lock with that file,” Aurelia suggested, still burrowing in the trunk. “There’s some lovely cashmere in here, and a beautiful mantilla. What a waste to leave them for the moths.”

  But Livia was too absorbed in her task to pay attention. She pushed the file into the lock and tried twisting it, then wrenching it. Brute force would ruin the writing case, but since it had been moldering in the attic for heaven only knew how long, it hardly m
attered. Finally the lock gave way and she opened the case.

  Packets of letters tied with blue ribbon lay neatly stacked inside. She picked up one packet, untied the ribbon, and picked up the top sheet. The paper was yellowing and the seal on the back was broken, but it was of thick, heavily embossed red wax. She put the edges together and saw the initials AP.

  “What have you found?” Cornelia asked, glancing over her shoulder.

  “Letters, packets of them.” Carefully Livia opened up the sheet, afraid it would disintegrate. The ink had faded somewhat but the writing was strong and masculine.

  The letter began:

  My heart, it has been so long since I heard from you. I have not smiled since I left you and doubt I will ever do so again. I love you too much ever to find peace or laughter or even rest again. Sometimes I conjure up the image of the ordinary everyday things around you. Simple objects like the fork that you use, the pillow for your head, the little silver box where you keep your rings, your handkerchief with the embroidered initials. And then I see you again, feel you in my arms, inhale the sweet fragrance of your skin…

  Livia read on, feeling like a trespasser, an eavesdropper, and yet unable to stop herself. It ended simply. Yours unto death, A. And then, at the bottom, engraved on the paper, was the name Prince Alexis Prokov.

  Livia stared at it, uncomprehending. It didn’t make sense and for a lunatic moment she thought the letter had to be from Alex. But of course it wasn’t. How strange, she thought disjointedly, that Sophia had also known a man called Alexis Prokov.

  “What is it, Liv? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.” Cornelia came over to her.

  “I have,” Livia said. She handed the letter to Cornelia and opened another sheet. The same name engraved on the bottom, the same initials, the same outpouring of love and sorrow.

  “What does it mean?” Aurelia asked, reading over Cornelia’s shoulder. “Who is this Alexis Prokov?”

  “I have no idea,” Livia said, opening letters feverishly now, scanning them with hungry eyes.

  Cornelia exchanged a worried glance with Aurelia, then she said gently, “Liv, I don’t see how it could be pure coincidence.”

  Livia looked up from the letter she was reading. “No,” she agreed, a deep frown between her brows. “No, I don’t see how it could be.” She looked in the writing case. “There are dozens of them in here, they must cover several years, I would have thought.”

  “Are any of them dated?” Aurelia asked.

  “None so far. Here, you take some and have a look.” She handed them a packet each and then continued with her own. The three of them read in concentrated silence, each moved by the deep emotion the letters revealed.

  “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.”