To Wed a Wicked Prince

by Jane Feather

  “So I do,” Livia said, taking a sip from her glass. “So I do.” And somehow she had made up her mind. As long as it wasn’t the latter, and she knew in every ounce of her being that Alex was true in his feelings for her, then she would have to find a way to live with the man he was. And somehow, somewhere, she would find forgiveness for his deception.

  “Let’s take the children to Gunters for ices,” she suggested suddenly. “It’s a lovely sunny day, maybe a little chilly for ice cream but the children won’t mind.”

  The other two women looked at her a little strangely. “Is that the end of this, then, Liv?” Cornelia asked.

  “The end of my going round and round in circles,” Livia stated. “I’ve worried my head into a tangle of knots and I need to be distracted. So, let’s go to Gunters. I’ve a fancy for that bergamot ice.”

  “The children will have had lunch in the nursery by now,” Aurelia said, “but Linton will still complain that it’ll spoil their dinner.” She laughed. “Oh, why not, Nell? We haven’t had a set-to with Linton in weeks.”

  Cornelia was already pulling the bell rope. “We’ll take the barouche.”

  Stevie, Franny, and Susannah were a bubbling, excited distraction, thrilled at the prospect of an excursion with their mothers and without the watchful eye of their nurse. Ices at Gunters were always a treat, but one rarely indulged in February. They stopped the barouche outside the establishment in Berkeley Square and a waiter dodged through the traffic in the square to take their order.

  The children shrieked their choices in a crescendo of excitement. Cornelia deftly extricated the essentials from the babble and gave the waiter a clear order. “Liv, you’d like the bergamot pear?” she added.

  Livia was no longer sure that she fancied what had seemed appealing half an hour before, but she acceded.

  “I want to try that parmesan ice,” Aurelia said. “It sounds so interesting.”

  “And I’ll have the coffee,” Cornelia said.

  The relieved waiter dodged his way back across the street into Gunters, returning in a few minutes with their order balanced on a tray. The children clamored to take their ices into the square garden under the now winter-bare maple trees and dispersed under supervision of the groom and Daisy while the women stayed in the carriage.

  “You don’t seem too enthusiastic about that bergamot, Liv,” Aurelia observed after a minute, watching Livia play with the ice in her glass, taking tiny tastes on the tip of her spoon.

  “Perhaps it wasn’t such a good idea,” Livia said. “How does the parmesan taste?”

  “Delicious,” Aurelia said with a laugh. “But probably better at the dinner table. It’s a combination of cheese and sweet.”

  “You should have stayed with the conventional,” Cornelia declared, scraping the last morsels of coffee ice from her glass. “But it grows chilly, inside now as well as out. We should get the children home.”

  “Yes, and I need to go back to Cavendish Square,” Livia said, leaning down from the barouche to put her empty glass and spoon on the tray the waiter held. She was ready now, her mind clear. Ready to make her demands, ready to look for the compromises that her father had told her she would have to find when inevitably they came to a crossroads. And Alex would be ready now.

  “Would you like to take the barouche home?” Cornelia asked. “Your groom could bring Daphne back.”

  “No,” Livia said. “I’ll enjoy the ride…it’s barely fifteen minutes, after all.”

  “You’re comfortable, Liv, with what you’re going to do?” Aurelia asked sotto voce as the children piled back into the barouche.

  Livia gave her a quick smile. “With what I’m going to do, yes. How Alex will respond, I don’t know.”

  “Don’t forget that we’re always here,” Cornelia said, seizing Susannah’s strawberry-sticky hands in her handkerchief before they smeared her pelisse. “Any time, Liv. Send for us.”

  “Yes, I know,” Livia said. “And I thank you both.”

  She arrived back at Cavendish Square just as the day was fading. The streetlamps were not yet lit but the house lights were on as she hurried up to the front door.

  Surprisingly it was Morecombe who opened it. At this time of day he was usually ensconced in his own quarters and Boris ruled supreme.

  “Good evening, Morecombe.” She stepped through the door. “Where’s Boris?”

  “Off for the evenin’,” Morecombe stated. “Someone needs to keep the door.”

  “Yes, of course,” Livia said. “Is Prince Prokov in?”

  Morecombe shook his head.

  “Oh.” Livia was at something of a loss. “Have you seen him this afternoon?”

  “Oh, aye,” Morecombe said, closing and bolting the front door.

  “And he went out again?” she asked, patient, because impatience would slow the process even further.

  “Men come for ’im,” Morecombe said. “You want yer dinner in the parlor, m’lady. Our Ada’s made your favorite roast lamb wi’ that there red-currant jelly.”

  “Delicious,” Livia said absently. Something wasn’t quite right here. “Did the prince say he wouldn’t be in for dinner when he left with his friends?”

  “Summat on those lines, my lady,” Morecombe stated. “Shall I set dinner in t’ parlor, then?”

  The one issue that concerned the single-minded retainer, Livia reflected, knowing that nothing would deflect him until he had his answer. “Uh…yes, thank you,” she said, going to the stairs. “Are you sure my husband left no message?”

  “No, no message,” Morecombe said, turning back to the kitchen. “Dinner’ll be ready in an hour.”

  “Thank you,” Livia said. On impulse she turned from the stairs and went into the salon. The image of Sophia Lacey gazed out serenely from above the fireplace.

  But how serene was she? Livia stepped closer, looking up into those astonishing blue eyes. She should have known, she thought. They were the twins of Alex’s. And they were so unusual it was extraordinarily dimwitted of her not to have noticed.

  But then, how could she have remarked on something that as far as she was concerned had absolutely no relevance to her life? Such connections only became obvious when one was in possession of certain facts.

  She was aware of an overwhelming sense of anticlimax, of frustration. The knowledge of having reached a decision had buoyed her during the afternoon and she’d been going over in her head the words she would use when she saw Alex. To find that he’d gone out without a word, without making any effort to communicate with her, brought a resurgence of anger. Perhaps he really couldn’t care less whether they were estranged or not. It certainly seemed as if it hadn’t bothered him unduly. How else could he calmly go off with his friends without a word to her? But then, of course, he was probably out and about on his country’s business, she thought in renewed frustration. It seemed it took precedence over his marriage.

  Livia went upstairs to change out of her riding habit. She pulled the bell for Ethel and then wandered through into Alex’s room. The empty space was filled with the sense of her husband, but it felt wrong somehow. She looked around, frowning slightly. A crumpled cravat lay on the dresser, a coat was thrown carelessly over a chair, a pair of boots seemed to have been flung into a corner, the armoire was open, and the coverlet on the bed was rumpled.

  Had Alex gone out in such haste that he hadn’t troubled to summon Boris’s assistance? Why hadn’t anyone come in to tidy up after him?

  A feeling of unease crept over Livia as she looked around. It was a vague feeling but it lifted the fine hairs on the nape of her neck. She turned and went back to her own room, where Ethel was setting a ewer of hot water on the marble-topped washstand.

  “Did you see Prince Prokov this afternoon, Ethel?” she asked as she unbuttoned her jacket.

  “No, m’lady. Will you wear evening dress?”

  “No, I’m dining alone tonight, just bring me the velvet robe, please.” She shrugged out of the jacket and unh
ooked her skirt. “What time did Boris leave?”

  “About three o’clock, m’lady.”

  “Was that before or after my husband left?” She stepped out of the skirt and went to wash her face and hands at the washstand.

  “I don’t rightly know, madam.” Ethel handed her a towel. “I didn’t know the prince had gone out.”

  “Oh, I’ll ask Morecombe, then, when I go down.” Livia dried her face and hands and then slipped her arms into the wide sleeves of the robe that Ethel held out for her. She fastened the buttons down the front, then sat at the dressing table while Ethel unpinned her hair and brushed it out.

  “Will you leave it loose, m’lady?”

  “No, pass me the netted snood.” Livia caught her hair up at the back, twisted it into a loose knot, and slipped the snood over it, confining it tidily on her nape. “That’s all, thank you, Ethel. But would you go and tidy up next door? I can’t understand why no one’s been in since my husband left.”

  “Perhaps no one knew his lordship had gone out, ma’am, what with Boris not being here. Mr. Morecombe probably didn’t think to mention it.”

  “No, I’m sure not,” Livia agreed. It was a more than likely explanation, and it wasn’t that important when all was said and done. “Does anyone in the servants’ hall know where Boris went?” Boris’s absence struck her as rather odd. In all the time they’d been in London she couldn’t remember his leaving the house unless specifically on Alex’s business.

  “Not as far as I know, m’lady. Probably his afternoon off,” Ethel suggested.

  “Yes, I suppose so,” Livia agreed. “I didn’t realize he ever took one.”

  “He doesn’t, usually,” Ethel said. “But maybe he knew the prince was going out and he wouldn’t be needed.”

  “Maybe so,” Livia said with a shrug. “See to tidying Prince Prokov’s chamber anyway, please, Ethel. He won’t want to come back to it looking like that. I’m going downstairs.” She went down to her parlor and rang for Morecombe.

  He appeared after about five minutes. “You want summat, m’lady?”

  “Yes. Did you see Prince Prokov leave this afternoon?”

  “Aye. He an’ two men. They come for him about fifteen minutes earlier. I let ’em in an’ Jemmy showed ’em up.”

  “Showed them up? What do you mean? Into the library, surely.”

  “Well, as to that, I know what ’appened. They asked for the prince, I told ’em he was above stairs, an’ they said they’d go on up. So I tells Jemmy to take ’em up.” Morecombe’s gaze was a trifle truculent.

  “I didn’t mean to contradict you, Morecombe,” Livia said swiftly. “I was just a little surprised.”

  “Oh, aye,” he said stolidly. “Well, about fifteen minutes later they all three come down an’ go off. There was an ’ackney outside waitin’ on them.”

  Alex went off in a hackney? Livia stared at Morecombe. “The prince didn’t send to the mews for his curricle…or his horse?”

  “No, as I says, there was an ’ackney waitin’ on ’em.”

  “Thank you, Morecombe.” Livia gave him a quick smile of dismissal and the old retainer shuffled off. She left the parlor and went into the library, uncertain what she was looking for. It all seemed tidy and in order, papers neatly arranged on the desk, quill pens sharpened, and the faintest hint of Alex in the air.

  But her unease increased. She wandered aimlessly around the room, looking for something, but she had no idea what. It was ridiculous to feel this sense of foreboding. Alex had gone out for the evening, as simple as that. He often went out with his friends, or his compatriots…

  She turned and went back into the hall, looking for Morecombe again. She found him in the parlor setting a place on the table in the window for her dinner. “Were they foreigners, these men who came for the prince?” she asked.

  “Reckon so,” he stated, polishing a wineglass on his sleeve. “Spoke funny…kind of thick like. Not the usual kind of friend,” he added somewhat obliquely.

  It was a long paragraph for Morecombe, Livia reflected. “How do you mean not the usual kind?”

  “Rough customers, I reckon.” He set the wineglass in its place and looked over his handiwork. “You want a bottle of the ’92 burgundy with the lamb?”

  “Oh, yes, lovely, thank you.” Livia frowned into the fire. The only acquaintance of Alex’s whom she would describe as a rough customer was Tatarinov. But her husband was a spy, up to every kind of devious scheme, how should she know who his friends and colleagues were? She hadn’t even known the truth about the man himself, and he’d gone out of his way to keep her well clear of the men he worked with. A couple of rough customers more or less was probably all part of a spy’s world.

  She poured herself a glass of sherry and sat down by the fire to await her dinner. She was not going to worry over this another minute. Alex would reappear later…of course, if he’d gone out for the evening, and knew he was out for the evening, he would have changed into evening dress.

  She set down her glass just as Morecombe came in staggering a little beneath the weight of a laden tray. “Was the prince in evening dress when he went out?” she asked casually.

  “Not as I remember,” Morecombe said, setting a roast saddle of lamb on the table. “There now, there’s parsnips an’ a dish o’ them scalloped taties that you like. Peas with onions, an’ red-currant jelly. Our Ada wants to know if you’d fancy a brook trout t’follow.”

  “Oh, no, this all looks wonderful,” Livia said hastily. “Prince Prokov doesn’t know what he’s missing.”

  Morecombe greeted this observation with a sniff and pulled the cork on the bottle of burgundy. “Right y’are, then. That’ll do you.”

  “It certainly will, thank you.” Livia sat down at the table and gazed unseeing at the feast laid out before her. She seemed to have no appetite but she couldn’t risk upsetting Morecombe and the twins. Resolutely she carved herself some lamb.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  BY CLOSE TO MIDNIGHT, LIVIA was beside herself. She knew that Alex would have sent her a message if he intended to be out this late. He would not deliberately cause her concern, however at odds they were. He hadn’t changed into evening dress so he obviously hadn’t had any formal plans to dine with friends, or go to his clubs, or attend the theatre or the opera. Anyway, he would never have done the latter without seeing if she wanted to join him, or at least before yesterday it would have been unthinkable.

  She paced the parlor, too restless even to try to read or sew. Perhaps he’d gone to a card party, an informal gathering where they played high and drank deep. She knew that he sometimes did. Not that she’d ever seen him even slightly the worse for wear. Whom could he be with? She racked her brains trying to think of someone obvious to ask, but no name came to her.

  And anyway, she told herself, if he was merely at a pleasure party, he would have sent a message to say he’d be late home. She couldn’t get away from that certainty.

  Could he have had an accident? Knocked down by a carriage? Fallen foul of the gangs of footpads who roamed the alleys? Images of his bleeding body sprawled in some dark, deserted lane filled her mind. She shook her head as if it would dispel the pictures. That was a ridiculous fear; Alex was more than capable of taking care of himself.

  Controlling her rising panic with difficulty, Livia went into the library again. The terriers scampered ahead of her into the lamplit room and thumped down in front of the fire, regarding her with their bright button eyes beneath thick fringes. The curtains were drawn, the fire burning brightly, all just waiting for its owner’s return. She sat down at his desk and tried the drawers. They were all locked, except one at the bottom.

  She pulled it open and looked in surprise at the ivory-handled pistol it contained. She’d never seen Alex with a pistol; as far as she knew he didn’t even go to Manton’s shooting gallery for sport. But then he wasn’t in the habit of telling her everything, as she already knew.

  Livia took out the weapo
n gingerly, turning it over in her hands. Was it loaded? She had no way of telling, but Morecombe would probably be able to tell her. He was something of an expert with the blunderbuss, after all. Not that it mattered. She was about to replace it in the drawer when the front door knocker sounded, loud and urgent. The dogs leaped to their feet, yapping frantically.

  Alex. He was knocking with such vigor because he knew Boris wasn’t on duty. Why hadn’t he come back by now? she wondered. It was nearly midnight, after all. But Alex must have given him the whole night off, she decided, and Morecombe wouldn’t hear anything short of the last trump at this time of night. Still carrying the pistol, she hurried out to the hall, her heart leaping with relief.

  “Just coming,” she called, pulling back on the heavy bolts as the dogs pranced and barked and leaped at the door. She hauled it open and then stared in disbelief and disappointment. Monsieur Tatarinov stood on the doorstep.

  “Good evening, Princess.” He raised his voice over the noise of the dogs and stepped disdainfully over them into the hall without waiting for an invitation. “Where’s your husband? I need to talk to him.” Again without waiting for an invitation he strode across the hall to the library, the terriers gamboling at his heels.

  “He’s not here,” Livia said, following him into the room, instinctively closing the door behind her. “He went out this afternoon, and he hasn’t come back since.” She could hear the tremor in her voice. “Don’t you know where he is?”

  Tatarinov’s nostrils flared as he inhaled sharply. “Since this afternoon, you say?”

  “Yes…please, is something wrong?”

  He didn’t immediately reply, merely stood staring at the carpet, slamming one closed fist into the palm of his other hand. “Madame, did he go out alone?”

  “I wasn’t here myself, but I understand some men came to call and he left with them some time later.” Livia knew now that something was dreadfully wrong, but strangely her fear had receded under the determination to get out of this taciturn and unpleasant man every scrap of knowledge he had.