To Wed a Wicked Prince

by Jane Feather

  “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.

  There was some cold water in the ewer and she poured a little in the basin and splashed her face, holding a washcloth over her eyes. It brought some relief. Then she tugged her brush through her hair, trying to restore some order to the tangle.

  She paused, her hairbrush in midair, at the sound of voices from the adjoining room. Alex and Boris, of course. She wondered dully if Alex would come in to her this morning. And if he did, what she would do…say. She seemed to have cried away all coherent thought, all rationality. She was just a bundle of confused emotions.

  She pulled the bell for Ethel and went to draw the window curtains back. The previous day’s rain was gone and a watery sun shone from a washed-out blue sky. Soon it would be spring and the square garden would be a mass of yellow forsythia and daffodils.

  “Good morning, m’lady.” Ethel bustled in with a tray of morning chocolate. “Oh, you’re up and about already.” She set the tray on the dresser and gave her mistress a concerned look. “I waited for you to send for me last evening, ma’am. Are you quite well?”

  “Yes, quite well,” Livia said, hearing how listless she sounded. She tried to inject a little spirit into her voice as she said, “I fell asleep early last night and couldn’t believe it when I only awoke a few minutes ago. I must have been really tired.”

  “Yes, m’lady.” Ethel didn’t sound too convinced. “You had no dinner, though.”

  “I wasn’t hungry,” Livia said in a tone that she hoped would close the discussion. “I believe I’ll ride to Mount Street this morning, Ethel. Please put out my habit.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Will you take breakfast in the parlor, ma’am?”

  Livia debated. There was no sound from next door now; presumably Alex had already gone downstairs. “No, bring a tray for me up here, Ethel, I’ll breakfast by the fire when I’m dressed.”

  Cowardly, she knew, but she wasn’t ready to bump into Alex accidentally and she was by no means prepared to face him for the next round of this miserable business. And there would be a second round. It was by no means over. She would have to make a decision, more than one, and she was far too muddled at this point even to frame the question, let alone the solution.

  Alex surveyed the breakfast table without enthusiasm. He had no idea what to do. And it was such an unusual situation for him to be in, it left him feeling oddly bereft. He couldn’t take his wife into his confidence, at least not at this juncture, and if she insisted that reconciliation depended on his confidences, then it was an impasse.

  He poured coffee and glanced at the post that Boris had left beside his plate. Invitation cards and bills. He had no interest in the former and the latter were merely a necessary nuisance.

  He looked up sharply at an alerting cough from the door. “Excuse me, sir.” Boris bowed. “There is a visitor…Monsieur Tatarinov.” Boris managed to indicate what he thought of the gentleman in question simply by a downturn in his voice.

  Alex frowned. It was far too early for social calls, not that Tatarinov was in the habit of making such calls. It had to be pressing business. “Show him in, Boris.”

  Tatarinov entered the breakfast parlor before Boris had the chance to summon him. “Prokov, good, you’re at home.”

  “I usually am at this hour of the morning,” Alex said amiably. “Please, sit down. Coffee?”

  “No, vodka if you have it.” The stocky Russian came up to the table.

  “Of course…Boris?” Alex signaled to the majordomo, who instantly departed. “Won’t you sit down, Tatarinov?” He gestured to a chair opposite.

  “No…no, I have no wish to sit down…” The man was visibly agitated.

  “You appear troubled, my friend,” Alex observed, spooning sour cream onto his plate of smoked mackerel.

  “With good reason,” the other said. He sniffed. “That smells good.”

  “Sit down, man.” Alex waved his fork at the chair and pushed the platter of smoked fish across the table. “Whatever it is will keep long enough for you to eat and drink.”

  Tatarinov sat down and piled a plate with smoked fish, spooning sour cream lavishly on top. He reached for a dish of chopped egg and took a liberal helping, then took a hunk of black bread from the basket.

  Boris set the vodka bottle and a stubby glass at Tatarinov’s elbow. “Will that be all, Prince Prokov?”

  “For the moment, yes, thank you, Boris.”

  “So, what’s amiss, Tatarinov?” Alex asked when they were alone once more.

  “Sperskov’s gone missing,” Tatarinov said through a mouthful of mackerel. He poured vodka into the glass and tossed it down his throat, smacking his lips with satisfaction.

  Alex frowned. “I don’t understand. How could that be?” He took a sip of coffee.

  “No idea.” Tatarinov shrugged. “But he didn’t sleep at home last night.”

  “He has a mistress,” Alex reminded him, dabbing at his mouth with his napkin.

  “Yes, but the woman’s married. He never spends all night in her bed. I went to his house this morning and they said he hadn’t come home last even.” Tatarinov helped himself to more bread. “I went to that little love nest of his, in Half Moon Street. The servant there told me the duke left soon after midnight and his lady a little later.” He stuffed a piece of fish-laden bread into his mouth, chewing stolidly as he regarded Alex across the t
able with the air of one who has just presented a fait accompli.

  “He could have gone anywhere after he left the house,” Alex said, shaking his head with a touch of impatience. “The man has friends in this city.” He shrugged. “More than one lover, I shouldn’t wonder. Sperskov’s always had a taste for the softer side of life.”

  His visitor grimaced. “Aye, an aristocrat through and through, that one. I’ve always thought him too soft for this business. He’s only half a mind on it, the other half’s between a woman’s thighs.”

  “You’re harsh, my friend,” Alex protested. “Sperskov is an idealist.”

  “We’ve no need of such in our ranks,” Tatarinov declared. “We need warriors.”

  “We need both,” Alex said firmly. “Nicolai is loyal to the cause, blindly so, and his contacts make him indispensable. Why did you go in search of him in the first place?”

  “The man’s in charge of communications. He should have received something from Nystad by now. I went to discover if there was anything.”

  Alex nodded. They all had clearly defined roles in this business and Sperskov’s network of friends and acquaintances across Europe made him the perfect conduit for communications. “Where else have you looked for him?”

  “Nowhere as yet. I thought to find out if you knew anything first. You’re the one who keeps tabs on them all.” He poured more vodka and tossed it back with the same flick of his wrist as the first glass.

  “Well, I know nothing. I suggest we cast our net wider. I’ll visit the foreigners, the French and English he numbers amongst his acquaintances, you take the Russians. If we draw a blank then, then we’ll start to worry.”

  “Very well.” Tatarinov pushed back his chair. “And I thank you for breakfast, Prince. Makes a change from the slop they serve in this benighted city.” He gave himself one last gulp of vodka.

  “Just one more thing, Tatarinov…”

  “Yes?” He paused, the glass halfway to his mouth.

  “If he doesn’t turn up, what exactly do you think happened to him?” Alex dropped his napkin to the table.

  Tatarinov shook his head. “Only one thing as I can see…Arakcheyev’s men.”

  “I thought you had them under watch,” Alex said sharply.

  “I do, but I can’t watch them every minute. I don’t know every communication they get. You can be sure Arakcheyev knows every member of this little cabal, except…” He paused, looking at Alex, his black eyes narrowed. “Except you, Prince. You are the czar’s friend, his observer and reporter on the English scene.”

  “True enough,” Alex agreed, aware of a strange prickle on his nape. “And your point, Tatarinov?”

  “For the moment none, and God willing, there will be none,” his visitor stated, heading for the door. “We’ll talk again this afternoon?”

  Alex nodded. “Five o’clock, at the Black Cock in Dean Street.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  Alex stayed at the table for a while after his visitor’s departure. There was no reason to suspect Arakcheyev’s hand in Sperskov’s mysterious disappearance, but it was an unnerving thought.

  And it did nothing to help him deal with his other problem. Should he go to Livia? Try once more to thrash it out? Or would he be better served by leaving her for a while? Once the initial force of her anger and hurt had lessened, as it had to, then perhaps she would see things differently. He could not fulfill the terms of her ultimatum, therefore nothing would be gained by another confrontation. Time might soften her attitude, and maybe he could come up with some half-truth that would satisfy her. But the very idea left a sour taste in his mouth. There’d been enough half-truths and downright untruths in his marriage. There must be no more.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  LIVIA ARRIVED AT MOUNT STREET soon after eleven o’clock without coming across her husband. Boris had informed her that the prince had called for his horse and left the house straight after breaking his fast. He had given no indication of when he would return. It was all to the good, Livia reflected. She needed time for reflection. When next she saw him, she would have to have come to some decisions.

  “Is Lady Bonham in?” she asked Harry’s butler.

  “Yes, ma’am. The ladies are in her ladyship’s parlor,” Hector informed her.

  “Good. I expect to be here for some time, so I’ve sent my groom with my horse to the mews.”

  “Very good, my lady.” Hector bowed and showed her to the parlor door.

  “Oh, Liv, there you are.” Cornelia jumped up from her secretaire. “I was writing you a note. We’ve been debating whether to come to you this morning or wait for you to send for us.”

  “Yes, and since we couldn’t decide, we thought we’d send you a note and see what you’d prefer,” Aurelia said, laying aside her tambour frame as she too rose from her chair. “How are you?” She examined her friend carefully. “You don’t look too robust, my love.”

  “I’m not feeling robust,” Livia said with a wan smile, unpinning her plumed hat. “I’m only glad you’re both in.”

  “We wouldn’t have gone anywhere without contacting you first,” Cornelia said. “We hoped you’d turn to us when you needed us.” She too subjected Livia to a grave scrutiny. “Oh, you poor dear, you’ve had a bad time. Come and sit down.”

  Livia shook her head. “Not yet, I’m too restless to sit.” She paced the elegant room and her friends watched her in silence, waiting for her to decide when to come to rest.

  Livia was in a quandary. She needed these women’s counsel more than she’d ever needed it, but she would keep her promise to Alex not to reveal anything of his real work. However much she believed she could trust her friends, she couldn’t forget that Nell was married to a member of the English secret service and she would not under any circumstances put her in a position of divided loyalties. Somehow she must get their advice, elicit their opinions in an effort to make sense of the situation herself, without actually revealing the truth that lay beneath every one of Alex’s otherwise seemingly despicable actions and deceptions. And however much she loathed the idea that he was working against her own country, rationally she could accept his desire to work for his own.

  “Alexis Prokov was Alex’s father, as I imagine you guessed,” she said eventually. “And by the same token, Sophia Lacey was his mother.”

  “Why didn’t he tell you that from the very beginning?” Cornelia asked, frowning. “Once he’d met you and he realized that you have the same surname as his mother, wouldn’t it have been natural to have exclaimed at the coincidence?”

  “Except that he knew it was not coincidence,” Livia said. She gave a bleak sigh. “But he never knew his mother. Can you imagine how hard that must have been for a child? He knew she was alive and well, but he was not allowed to know her. He must have thought that she didn’t want anything to do with him.”

  “It would explain why he didn’t want to talk of her,” Aurelia said cautiously.

  “Yes,” Livia agreed, “but there’s something else that’s not so easy to explain. The house in Cavendish Square didn’t actually belong to Sophia Lacey. Either she didn’t understand, or she simply forgot after so many years, but Alex’s father gave her the unrestricted use of it throughout her lifetime. On her death it reverted to his estate. And you can guess who is the heir to that estate.”

  There was a stunned silence.

  Eventually Aurelia said slowly, thinking her way through it, “He didn’t need to marry you to get his hands on the house, he could simply have evicted you.”

  Livia shrugged. “He maintains he saw no need to do that, because he decided I would make him an ideal wife. He simply ensured that the house became part of the marriage settlements.”

  “It would have been honest of him to have explained all this to you when he proposed,” Cornelia said, “but maybe he felt it would be indelicate, Liv.”

  “Yes,” Aurelia put in quickly. “It would have been a mite awkward to propose to a woman in one
breath and then tell her she’s already living in his property in the next.”

  It was no good, Livia realized. Without telling her friends the whole truth, she could never get a view of the matter that would really be able to help her clarify her decisions.

  “I suppose you’re right,” she conceded. “But I still feel betrayed. And I can’t help wondering if getting his hands on the house didn’t have something to do with that whirlwind courtship.”

  She sat down finally, perching on the arm of the sofa. “You must admit it was somewhat overpowering…you had suspicions, Ellie, you know you did.”

  “Yes,” Aurelia agreed. “But you didn’t, Liv. And you said that if you burned your fingers at a fire that excited you so much, then it would be with full knowledge.” She twisted her hands in distress. “Forgive me, love, I don’t mean to speak hard truths, but the situation exists and you have to decide whether to live with it…or how to.”

  And there it was, Livia thought. A hard truth and a hard decision. They didn’t need to know about the spying, it wasn’t really the issue at all. “But should I not feel betrayed by his deception?” she asked.

  “Do you believe he loves you?” Cornelia went to the decanters on the sideboard and poured three glasses of sherry.

  Livia saw his face, his eyes as he’d made his declaration at her bedside. “Yes,” she said. “He says so and I believe him.” She took the glass Cornelia offered her with a nod of thanks.

  “And you, Liv?” Aurelia took her own glass.

  “Oh, yes,” Livia said simply. “With all my heart…” She laughed a little sadly. “All my hurt heart.”

  “Then you have to decide whether his deception was somehow an error of omission, a mistaken attempt to save you some pain, or deliberate because the man’s an unmitigated, lying scoundrel,” Cornelia declared.