To Wed a Wicked Prince

by Jane Feather

  “Men? How many?”

  “Two.”

  “Russian?”

  “Foreign certainly. Tell me, monsieur, does this have anything to do with my husband’s work on behalf of his country?”

  That brought his eyes up from the carpet. “What do you know of that?”

  “I know that my husband is a spy for the czar,” she said. “He told me so himself, so you may be quite frank with me.” She looked at him, suddenly puzzled by his expression. He looked both startled and relieved. “So answer me, please. Is my husband’s disappearance something to do with that work?”

  “You’d best ask him yourself,” Tatarinov said. “I must go at once.” He took a step to the door.

  Livia acted instinctively. She was still frightened for Alex but she was more frightened of not knowing what was going on.

  She spun around and locked the door, dropping the key into her pocket. Of course if Tatarinov tried to overpower her he’d probably succeed…slowly she raised the pistol. She still didn’t know whether it was loaded but guessed that Alex would have seen little point in having a gun that was no good in an unexpected attack. And it seemed obvious now that he had been prepared for such an event. And now so was she.

  Tristan and Isolde, hackles rising, began to growl as they sensed the menace in the room. Tatarinov looked murderously at them and raised a foot to kick Tristan aside as the animal approached with bared teeth.

  “Sit,” Livia commanded, and miraculously they backed off. Her hand was perfectly steady as she trained the pistol on Tatarinov’s shoulder. She had no desire to kill him, but thought she could probably put a bullet through his shoulder at this range.

  “What are you doing?” he demanded, outrage and astonishment on his face.

  “I want you to tell me exactly what’s going on,” she said evenly. “Is my husband’s life in danger?”

  Tatarinov rocked slightly on the balls of his feet, assessing her determination. “If you shoot me, Princess, your husband will have even less chance of escaping his abductors,” he pointed out.

  “Abductors?” Livia frowned, but the pistol didn’t waver. “Who would abduct him?”

  “Madame, we are wasting precious time—”

  “Then answer my question,” she snapped. “And be quick about it. My patience is wearing thin. Who has taken my husband? And where have they taken him?”

  He took another step towards her but both dogs leaped at his ankles, barking and nipping. He kicked out at them but it only made them more frantic.

  “Get them off me,” he demanded, and in different circumstances Livia would have found it amusing that he should be more alarmed by a pair of silly pink dogs than by a pistol trained on him.

  “Sit down and they will too,” she said. “As long as they think you’re threatening me, they’ll go on doing what they’re doing.”

  He cursed in a language she did not understand, but the gist of it was clear in any language, then sat down on a straight-backed chair. Immediately the dogs settled back on their haunches with an air of complacence at a job well done.

  “All right, Monsieur Tatarinov, tell me what’s going on, all of it, and quickly.”

  He sat still, frowning at her. Women in his experience didn’t behave like this, waving pistols around and setting dogs on a man. They knew their place and kept to it. He had had his reservations about Prokov’s wife, an overly bold woman, he’d decided on first meeting. This conduct, however, went beyond bold.

  “I’m waiting, monsieur. Have the czar’s enemies taken my husband?” She waved the pistol.

  Very well, if you want the truth, Princess, then you shall have it. “If the czar’s enemies had abducted your husband, Madame, we would have little to worry about,” he stated. “Prince Prokov was working to remove the czar. I believe Arakcheyev’s secret police have him.”

  He glanced around the room. “If I get up and give myself vodka from that bottle over there, will these wretched creatures attack me again?”

  Livia lowered the pistol against her skirt and went over to the sideboard. She brought the bottle over to him. “Who is this Arakcheyev?”

  “The czar’s head of the Ministry of War.” He tipped the bottle to his lips and drank deeply. “He also controls the secret police.”

  Just the sound of the term sent a chill of horror down Livia’s spine. The fact that Alex had misled her as to his true allegiance would have to wait. At present it mattered little who held him captive. “How do we get Alex out of their hands?”

  “I’m fairly certain they will be taking him back to Russia,” Tatarinov told her. “They’ll not torture him here.” He saw her blanch but she didn’t waver, her eyes remained fixed upon him, the pistol still held quietly at her side.

  “Sperskov is a different matter, he’s not a close friend of the czar’s, they did what they had to with him and presumably he gave them Prince Prokov.” He drank again. “Can’t blame him for that. He must have held out quite a long time if they didn’t come for the prince until this afternoon.”

  “I understand very little of what you’re saying,” Livia said. “Who is this Sperskov?”

  “A member of our little band of brothers,” Tatarinov said shortly. “Loyal to our cause, and an essential conduit…he knows all the right people. But he’s not battle-hardened. He disappeared last night. I feared the worst, particularly when I could find no news of him and your husband did not make our agreed rendezvous late this afternoon.”

  Focus on the most important matters, Livia told herself, trying to rein in her imagination. Don’t let the horrendous images get in the way of clear thinking.

  “How will they take him out of England?” Focus on the practical.

  “By ship, of course.” His voice rose with sudden impatience. “They’ll be in a hurry to get away so they’ll probably go from Greenwich, as it’s the closest shipping dock. There are always ships willing to take on an unorthodox passenger or two for the right coin.”

  He stood up and the dogs growled. “I’m wasting time. Unlock that damned door and let me get about my business.”

  “I’m coming with you,” Livia said, snapping her fingers at the terriers, who came reluctantly to her side.

  “You can’t possibly…that’s ridiculous…never heard such a thing…you’ll be in the way,” Tatarinov blustered, trying to push past her to the door.

  “There’s nothing you can do about it,” Livia said calmly. “I shall simply follow you to Greenwich if you don’t want me to travel with you. I can assure you I will not hold you up in any way, and I most certainly will not be in your way, but you should understand once and for all that my place is with my husband and if he is in danger then I will be at his side.”

  She turned to open the door. “Will you wait for me while I change my clothes quickly? Or must I follow you?”

  “Madame…Princess…” He saw her adamant countenance and thought it was probably better to keep her under his eye. He would put her somewhere safely out of the way when they reached Greenwich. “I’ll wait.”

  “Good.” She turned the key in the lock and opened the door. “Do you have a carriage here?”

  “I’m riding.”

  “Good, then I’ll change and fetch Daphne from the mews.” The dogs were on her heels as she ran up the stairs, calling over her shoulder, “Ten minutes at most.”

  Tatarinov eyed the front door. He could be gone from the house and on his horse in two minutes, but he knew the wretched woman would follow him and the gods alone knew what she would do on her own. He needed to collect a couple of others on their way to Greenwich, and he could only pray that the prince and his abductors had missed the evening tide and were waiting for the morning.

  And if they weren’t at Greenwich…?

  Livia threw off her robe and scrambled into her riding habit. She dropped the pistol into the deep pocket of her jacket and sat on the bed to pull on her boots. Her mind was closed to anything but the urgency of the moment. She would not th
ink of the possibility that the ship had already sailed. She would not think of the possibility that they had gone to Dover or some other port. She would not think of the possibility that Alex might already be dead…

  She left her bedroom, closing the door on the dogs, their pathetic whine following her as she ran back down the stairs. Tatarinov was pacing the hall, a short, stocky, bull-like figure who somehow inspired confidence. She disliked him certainly, but she had the conviction that if push came to shove he would be a very useful ally to have.

  “I’m ready.” She hurried to the front door and pulled it open. It would have to stay unlocked, but there was nothing to be done about that. Tatarinov’s horse, a sturdy and unbeautiful raw-boned gelding, was tethered to the square railing.

  “My horse is in the mews, just across the square,” Livia said. She ran to the mews and was leading Daphne from her stall when a shout came from the room above the stable.

  “Eh, who’s there? What’s goin’ on down there?” A tousled head appeared in a window.

  “It’s me, Jemmy. I’m just taking Daphne for a ride,” she called softly, unwilling to wake the entire mews.

  “Eh, m’lady, at this time o’ night?”

  “Just a fancy I have,” she said. “Go back to sleep.”

  But Jemmy appeared in the yard in less than a minute, sleepy-eyed and tousled, but determined to saddle the mare. “Should I be goin’ with you, m’lady?” he asked doubtfully.

  “No, I have an escort, thank you,” she said, gesturing to the entrance of the mews, where Tatarinov sat astride his gelding. Jemmy led Daphne to the mounting block and Livia mounted quickly. “Tell everyone at the house not to worry about anything,” she said. “I’ll be back in the morning.” She had no idea whether she would or not, but something had to be said.

  Tatarinov merely grunted when she rode up beside him. “Got to make some stops,” he said. “Pick up some others. I can’t take ’em on alone.”

  “I’m here, don’t forget,” she said.

  “I’m hardly likely to,” he stated, and from then on they rode in silence.

  They rode over London Bridge and then followed the river south. Three times Tatarinov turned his horse into a narrow side street, telling Livia brusquely to stay where he could see her. He knocked out the same rhythm on three doors and a hasty conversation that Livia could not make out ensued, resulting on each occasion in a man joining them on a sturdy pony.

  The three men stared at Livia but offered no greeting; instead the men talked amongst themselves in Russian, leaving their female companion to her own unquiet thoughts.

  It was an hour’s ride to Greenwich, the longest hour Livia thought she had ever spent. They rode into the village and took the Norman road down to the docks. They passed a watchman with his lantern on a tall pole, making his rounds, his voice a mournful chant: Three o’clock and all’s well.

  He looked suspiciously at the group of riders as they passed him, and Tatarinov leaned down from his horse and tossed him a coin. The watchman deftly caught the glint of silver and pocketed it, then continued on his way, still chanting. The night riders could be bringing rapine and mayhem to the village of Greenwich, but a silver coin bought a watchman’s silence.

  The handful of ships swinging at anchor along the quayside showed riding lights in the dark, and a handful of buildings along the wharf had lanterns hanging outside. Sounds of shouting and laughter came from within several of them, and a door opened at one. Two men, forcibly ejected from the taproom, rolled onto the mud-slick cobbles in a violent tangle of limbs.

  Tatarinov conferred with his companions and then spoke finally to Livia. “There’s a boat shed over yonder. You’ll be safe enough there.”

  “Judging by the type of person frequenting this wharf, I somehow doubt that,” Livia said acidly. “And if it were safe for me to hide in a boat shed, what are you going to be doing in the meantime?” Her fingers closed reflexively over her pistol.

  “Reconnoiter,” he said. “No point running into anything if we don’t know what’s out there. Maybe the prince isn’t even here.”

  This made perfect sense, but Livia had no intention of allowing them to go off without her. “Don’t mind me,” she said firmly. “I won’t interfere in the least. I’ll stay in the background until I can see something useful to do.”

  Tatarinov glowered. For two pins he’d call his companions over and they’d physically restrain the woman, but he couldn’t help the reflection that if he offered injury or insult to Prokov’s wife, the prince, assuming he came out of this alive, would not be best pleased. “If I were your husband I’d be mighty glad to see the back of you, shouldn’t wonder,” Tatarinov muttered, turning his horse into the shelter of a dilapidated lean-to beside a boat shed on the quay.

  Livia smiled for the first time since this nightmare had begun. “Oh, I don’t think he will,” she said. “I really don’t think so at all.” She followed his lead and dismounted, tethering Daphne to a post in the lean-to close to a water-filled horse trough.

  Tatarinov’s men dismounted and tethered their own horses, then after a whispered discussion the four men split up, two going into the village, Tatarinov and the other taking different directions along the quay. Livia, after a moment’s reflection, headed after Tatarinov. She had an idea, just a niggle of an idea at present, but if they were in luck and found Alex somewhere in this line of ships, she thought she could see a role for herself in his rescue.

  Alex in the aft cabin of the good ship Caspar was cursing his own stupidity, even as he tried to think of how and when he had made a mistake. How had these two ruffians known to come for him? They’d said nothing of any significance since they’d appeared in his bedchamber. Boris, of course, would never have let them upstairs, but Morecombe, as he’d made very clear, did not work for Prince Prokov. He’d open the door and let a visitor in, but it wouldn’t occur to him to inquire of the prince if said visitor would be welcome.

  But they would have taken him somehow, Alex knew. These were Arakcheyev’s men and failure was not an option. But with a little warning he could have been more ready for them. Sperskov’s disappearance was the key, he now realized. He should have armed himself against discovery the minute Tatarinov had told him the duke had vanished. But he had always believed in a cool head. Make sure of something before you act. In this particular instance, with hindsight, not the best operating procedure, he reflected with grim cynicism.

  He could have resisted when they came for him, of course, but that would have endangered Livia. He had expected her home at any minute throughout the confrontation, his ears straining for a sound from the adjoining bedchamber. Arakcheyev’s brutish henchmen would have had no scruples how they used her, and with only a handful of women, an old deaf man, and a youth in the house to summon for aid, he could see little help for it but to go with them without a fight.

  And now he was bound and gagged, tied to a chair in a dismal cabin in a yawl heading on the morning’s tide for Calais, and from there the hell of an overland journey to St. Petersburg and the tender hands of Arakcheyev.

  The emperor wouldn’t speak up for him, and with a wry twist of his mouth beneath the filthy strip of sacking that kept him silent, Alex thought that he could hardly blame the man when his so-called friend had been part of a conspiracy plotting his death. He knew he had the czar to thank for the fact that he was still alive. Dried blood crusted a gash over his left eye and his lip was split, a purple bruise swelling on his cheekbone, courtesy of his captors, who hadn’t been able to resist the opportunity to exert a little power over the usually powerful. But apart from these really minor injuries he was in essence unhurt.

  The czar would insist on absolute proof of Prince Prokov’s involvement in the conspiracy before anything really unpleasant could happen to him. But that protection would last only as far as his final interview with the emperor.

  Oh, he thought he could manage to face the inevitable with some degree of dignity, even the degradation
of pain, although that would be harder. But he was tormented by the knowledge that he was parting from Livia without reconciliation. She still saw only his deception, a monumental deception, he would freely admit, but unless he could be sure she saw also, and believed in, his love, then he would die a wretched death. Just five minutes, that would be all he needed.

  But Livia was tucked up, snug and resentful and angry, in Cavendish Square, and here he was. As helpless as a trussed goose.

  The sound of voices brought him out of his grim reverie. Familiar voices. The captain of this scruffy yawl, sounding as if he’d hit the rum bottle rather frequently during the evening, and another voice, one that made his heart jump and cleared his mind of anything but the need to concentrate and be ready for action.

  Tatarinov.

  No point wondering how the man had known what had happened, Alex told himself, just concentrate on how to tell him that he was there, just below him. Alex looked around the small, dim cabin. The chair he was tied to was bolted to the floor, as was every piece of furniture. There was a lamp burning low on the table. He could think of many uses for it in his present predicament, but they all depended on his being able to hold it, and he couldn’t do that.

  His arms were bound at his sides by the rope that tied him to the chair. And the knots were masterly sailor’s knots. His legs were tied together at the ankles but he could still move them in unison. He swung his legs up from the knees, kicking the underside of the table. Although its base was securely bolted to the decking, the wooden top shook and the lamp with it. He kicked again, a little more carefully; he didn’t want the lamp to roll over. It could set light to this tinderbox in the blink of an eye.

  Trying to strike a happy medium between making sufficient noise to be heard and not upending the lantern, he set up a rhythm that Tatarinov would recognize if he could hear it.

  Livia stood on the quayside in the shadows, watching the group on the deck of the Caspar. Tatarinov was talking with two men, and they struck her as a formidable trio. The sailors, as she assumed they were, were powerful figures, broad-shouldered and barrel-chested. Tatarinov himself, as she’d already reflected, reminded her of a bull.