What Happens in London (9 page)

Edward did not interact with Harry unless forced to do so, by outside influence or by necessity. Necessity usually being of the financial variety.

“How are you today, Edward?”

Edward shrugged. He looked tired, his eyes red and puffy. Harry wondered how late he’d been out the night before.

“Sebastian will be joining us for supper this evening,” Harry said. Edward rarely ate at home, but Harry thought he might, if he knew Seb would be there.

“I have plans,” Edward said, but then he added, “but perhaps I could delay them.”

“I would appreciate that.”

Edward stood in the center of the office, the very image of a sulky, sullen boy. He was two and twenty now, and Harry supposed he thought himself a man, but his bearing was callow and his eyes still young.

Young, but not youthful. Harry was disturbed by how haggard his brother appeared. Edward drank too much, and probably slept too little. He was not like their father, though. Harry couldn’t quite put his finger on the difference, except that Sir Lionel had always been jolly.

Except when he was sad and apologetic. But he generally forgot about that by the next morning.

But Edward was different. Overindulgence did not make him effusive. Harry could not imagine him getting up on a chair and waxing poetic about the
thplendidneth
of a
thchool
. Edward did not attempt to be charming and debonair during the rare occasions that they shared a meal. Instead, he sat in stony silence, answering nothing but direct queries, and then with only the bare minimum of words.

Harry was painfully aware that he did not know his brother, knew nothing of his thoughts or interests. He
had been gone the bulk of Edward’s formative years, off on the Continent, fighting alongside Seb in the 18th Hussars. When he returned, he’d tried to rekindle the relationship, but Edward had wanted nothing to do with him. He was only here, in Harry’s home, because he could not afford rooms of his own. He was the quintessential younger brother, with no inheritance to speak of, and no apparent skills. He’d scoffed at Harry’s suggestion that he, too, join the military, accusing him of wanting only to be rid of him.

Harry hadn’t bothered to suggest the clergy. It was difficult to imagine Edward leading anyone toward moral rectitude, and besides that, Harry
didn’t
want to be rid of him.

“I received a letter from Anne earlier in the week,” Harry mentioned. Their sister, who had married William Forbush at the age of seventeen and never looked back, had ended up in Cornwall, of all places. She sent Harry a letter each month, filled with news of her brood. Harry wrote back in Russian, insisting that if she did not use the language, she’d lose it altogether.

Anne’s reply had been his warning, clipped from his letter and pasted onto a new sheet of paper, followed by, in English: “That is my intention, dear brother.”

Harry had laughed, but he hadn’t stopped with the Russian. And she must have taken the time to read and translate, because when she replied, she often had questions about the things he’d written.

It was an entertaining correspondence; Harry always looked forward to her letters.

She did not write to Edward. She used to, but she’d stopped when she realized that he would never return the gesture.

“The children are well,” Harry continued. Anne had five of them, all boys save the last. Harry wondered what she looked like now. He hadn’t seen her since he left for the army.

Harry sat back in his chair, waiting. For anything. For Edward to speak, to move, to kick the wall. Most of all, he was waiting for him to ask for an advance on his allowance, for surely that was the reason for his appearance. But Edward said nothing, just stubbed his toe along the floor, catching the edge of the dark-hued carpet and flipping it over before kicking it back down with his heel.

“Edward?”

“You’d best read the letter,” Edward said gruffly as he moved to leave. “They said it was important.”

Harry waited for him to depart, then picked up the directive from the War Office. It was unusual for them to contact him in this manner; they usually just sent over someone with documents in hand. He flipped over the note, used his forefinger to break the seal, and then opened it.

It was short, just two sentences long, but it was clear. Harry was to report to the offices at Horse Guards in Whitehall immediately.

He groaned. Anything that required his actual presence could not be good. The last time they’d hauled him in, it was to order him to play nursemaid to an elderly Russian countess. He’d had to remain glued to her side for three weeks. She’d complained about the heat, the food, the music…The only thing she hadn’t complained about was the vodka, and that was because she’d brought her own.

She’d insisted on sharing, too. Anyone who spoke
Russian as well as Harry did could not drink British swill, she’d announced. She actually reminded him a bit of his grandmother for that.

But Harry did not drink, not even a drop, and he spent night after night dumping his glass into a potted plant.

Strangely, the plant had thrived. Quite possibly, the finest moment of the assignment was when the butler frowned down at the botanical wonder and said, “I didn’t think that
made
flowers.”

Still, Harry had no desire to repeat the experience. Unfortunately, he was rarely given the luxury of refusing. Funny, that.
They
needed
him
, as Russian translators weren’t exactly thick on the ground. And yet he was expected to jump to their bidding.

Harry briefly considered finishing the page he was working on before departing, then decided against it. Best to get it over with.

And besides, the countess was back in St. Petersburg, presumably complaining about the cold, the sun, and the lack of English gentlemen forced to wait on her hand and foot.

Whatever it was they wanted of him, it couldn’t be as bad as that, could it?

I
t was worse.

“Prince Who?” Harry asked.

“Prince Alexei Ivanovich Gomarovsky,” replied Mr. Winthrop, who was Harry’s frequent liaison with the War Office. Winthrop might have had a Christian name, but if so, Harry had not been made aware of it. He was simply Mr. Winthrop, of medium height and medium build, with medium brown hair, and a face that was unremarkable in every way. As far as Harry knew, he never left the War Office building.

“We don’t like him,” Winthrop said, with very little inflection. “He makes us nervous.”

“What do
we
think he might do?”

“We’re not sure,” he replied, seemingly oblivious to Harry’s sarcasm. “But there are a number of aspects to his visit that place him under suspicion. Foremost of which is his father.”

“His father?”

“Ivan Alexandrovich Gomarovsky. Now deceased. He was a supporter of Napoleon.”

“And the prince still has a position in Russian society?” Harry found that difficult to believe. It had been nine years since the French had marched on Moscow, but Franco-Russian relations were still frosty at best. The tsar and his people had not appreciated Napoleon’s invasion. And the French had long memories; the humiliation and devastation of the retreat would stay with them for many years to come.

“His father’s treasonous activities were never discovered,” Winthrop explained. “He died last year of natural causes, still believed to be a loyal servant of the tsar.”

“How do we know that he was a traitor?”

Winthrop brushed off his question with a vague wave. “We have information.”

Harry decided to accept that at face value, since he wasn’t likely to be told anything more.

“We also wonder at the timing of the prince’s visit. Three known sympathizers of Napoleon—two of them British subjects—arrived in town yesterday.”

“You allow traitors to remain free?”

“It is often in our best interests to allow the opposition to believe that they are undetected.” Winthrop leaned forward, resting his forearms on his desk. “Bonaparte is sick, probably dying. He is wasting away.”

“Bonaparte?” Harry asked doubtfully. He’d seen the fellow once. From afar, of course. He was short, yes, but with a remarkable belly. It was difficult to imagine him thin and gaunt.

“We have learned”—Winthrop shuffled some papers on his desk until he found what he was looking for—“that his trousers have had to be taken in by nearly five inches.”

Harry was impressed despite himself. No one could accuse the War Office of a lack of attention to detail.

“He won’t escape St. Helena,” Winthrop continued. “But we must remain vigilant. There will always be those who plot in his name. We believe Prince Alexei might be one of those people.”

Harry exhaled. Irritably, because he wanted Winthrop to know just how much he did not wish to be involved in this sort of business. He was a translator, for God’s sake. He liked words. Paper. Ink. He did not like Russian princes, and he had no wish to spend the next three weeks pretending he did. “What do you require of me?” he asked. “You know that I do not engage in espionage activities.”

“Nor would we want you to,” Winthrop said. “Your language skills are far too valuable for us to have you lurking in some dark corner, hoping you don’t get shot.”

“It’s hard to believe you have difficulty recruiting spies,” Harry murmured.

Once again, sarcasm was lost on Winthrop. “Your command of the Russian language, along with your position in society, makes you ideal to keep an eye on Prince Alexei.”

“I don’t go out much in society,” Harry reminded him.

“Yes, but you could.”

Winthrop’s words hung over the room like a sword. Harry knew very well that there was only one other
man at the War Department whose Russian fluency rivaled his own. He also knew that George Fox was the son of an innkeeper who had married a Russian girl who’d come to England as a servant to a diplomat. Fox was a good man, sharp and brave, but he would never gain entrée to the same functions as a prince. Frankly, Harry wasn’t so sure that he could, either.

But Sebastian, with his possible earldom, might. And it wasn’t as if Harry had never tagged along before.

“We won’t ask you to take any direct action,” Winthrop said, “although, with your background at Waterloo, we are confident that you would be more than capable.”

“I’m done with fighting,” Harry warned him. And he was. Seven years on the Continent was enough. He had no plans to pick up a saber again.

“We know. That is why all we are asking is that you keep an eye on him. Listen to his conversations when you are able. Report to us anything you find suspicious.”

“Suspicious.” Harry echoed. Did they think the prince was going to spill secrets at Almacks? Russian speakers were rare in London, but surely the prince would not be so foolish as to assume that no one would understand what he was saying.

“This comes from Fitzwilliam,” Winthrop said in a quiet voice.

Harry looked up sharply. Fitzwilliam ran the War Office. Not officially, of course. Officially, he did not even exist. Harry didn’t know his real name, and he was not sure he knew what he looked like; the two times they had met, his appearance had been so al
tered that Harry could not discern what was truth and what was disguise.

But he knew that if Fitzwilliam ordered something, it must be done.

Winthrop took a folder from his desk and held it out to Harry. “Read this. It’s our dossier on the prince.”

Harry took the document and started to rise, but Winthrop stopped him with a gruff, “That cannot leave the premises.”

Harry felt himself pause, the sort of annoyed, over-played cessation of movement one did when one is being ordered about. He sat back down, opened the folder, pulled out four sheets of paper, and began to read.

Prince Alexei Ivanovich Gomarovsky, son of Ivan Alexandrovich Gomarovsky, grandson of Alexei Pavlovich Gomarovsky, et cetera, et cetera, unmarried, no betrothal on record. In London visiting the ambassador, who was his sixth cousin.

“They’re all related,” Harry muttered. “Hell, he’s probably related to me.”

“Pardon?”

Harry gave Winthrop a brief glance. “Sorry.”

Traveling with a retinue of eight, including a diplomatic consort of astonishing menace and hulk. Liked vodka (of course), English tea (how open-minded of him), and the opera.

Harry nodded as he read. Perhaps this wouldn’t be so bad. He enjoyed the opera himself, but he never seemed to find the time to go. Now it would be a requirement. Excellent.

He turned a page. There was a sketch of the prince. He held it up. “Does this resemble him?”

“Not very much,” Winthrop admitted.

Harry shuffled the sketch to the back. Why did they even bother? He continued reading, gathering bits and pieces of the prince’s personal history. His father had died at the age of sixty-three of a heart ailment. Poison was not suspected. His mother was still living, dividing her time between St. Petersburg and Nizhny Novgorod.

He flipped to the last page. The prince appeared to be on the prowl for women, showing a particular preference for blondes. He had visited the most exclusive brothel in London six times during the two weeks he’d been in London. He had also attended numerous social functions, possibly even searching for a British wife. It was rumored that his fortunes in Russia had diminished and that he might need a bride with a sizable dowry. He had shown particular attention to the daughter of—

“Oh.
No
.”

“Is there a problem?” Winthrop inquired.

Harry held up the paper, not that Winthrop could read the writing from across the desk. “Lady Olivia Bevelstoke,” he said, his voice laden with grim disbelief.

“Yes.” That was all. Just yes.

“I know her.”

“We know.”

“I don’t like her.”

“We’re sorry to hear that.” Winthrop cleared his throat. “We were not sorry, however, to learn that Rudland House is directly to the north of your newly rented residence.”

Harry ground his teeth together.

“We were not mistaken in this, were we?”

“No,” Harry said grudgingly.

“Good. Because it is essential that you keep an eye on her, too.”

Harry was not able to hide his displeasure.

“Will that be a problem?”

“Of course not, sir,” Harry said, since they both knew the question had been purely rhetorical.

“We do not suspect Lady Olivia of collusion with the prince, but we do think, given his well-documented talent for seduction, that she might succumb to bad judgment.”

“You have documented his talent for seduction,” Harry stated. He didn’t even want to know how that had been achieved.

Again, the vague dismissive wave. “We have our ways.”

Harry was of half a mind to say that if the prince managed to seduce Lady Olivia, it was good riddance for Britain, but something stopped him. A fleeting flash of memory, something in her eyes perhaps…

Whatever her sins, she didn’t deserve this.

Except…

“We are counting on you to keep Lady Olivia out of trouble,” Winthrop was saying.

She
had
been spying on him.

“Her father is an important man.”

She’d said she liked guns. And hadn’t her maid said something about speaking in French?

“She is well known and well liked in society. Should anything happen to her, the scandal would be irreparable.”

But she couldn’t have known that Harry worked for
the War Office. No one knew that he worked for the War Office. He was just a translator.

“It would be impossible for us to conduct our investigations under the scrutiny such a disaster would bring.” Winthrop paused, finally. “Do you understand what I am saying?”

Harry nodded. He still didn’t think that Lady Olivia was a spy, but his curiosity had been more than piqued. And wouldn’t he feel like a fool if he turned out to be wrong?

“My lady.”

Olivia looked up from the letter she was writing to Miranda. She had been debating whether to tell her about Sir Harry. Olivia couldn’t imagine anyone else she could—or would—tell, but then again, it wasn’t the sort of escapade that made sense on paper.

She wasn’t so sure it made sense at all.

She looked up. The butler stood in the doorway, holding a silver tray with a calling card upon it.

“A guest, my lady.”

She glanced up at the clock on the sitting-room mantel. It was a bit early for visitors, and her mother was still out shopping for hats. “Who is it, Huntley?”

“Sir Harry Valentine, my lady. I believe he has let the house to the south.”

Slowly, Olivia set down her pen. Sir Harry? Here?

Why?

“Shall I show him in?”

Olivia didn’t know why he was asking. If Sir Harry was in the front hall, he could practically see Huntley talking to her. There would be no pretending she was unavailable. She nodded, straightened the pages
of the letter and tucked them into a drawer, and then stood, feeling as if she needed to be on her feet when he arrived.

Within moments he appeared in the doorway, clad in his customary dark hues. He carried a small package under his arm.

“Sir Harry,” she said lightly, rising to her feet. “What a surprise.”

He nodded his greeting. “I always strive to be a good neighbor.”

She nodded in return, watching warily as he entered the room.

She could not imagine why he might have chosen to call. He had been most unpleasant toward her the day before in the park, and the truth was, she had not behaved any better. She could not remember the last time she had treated anyone so poorly, but in her defense, she was terrified that he would attempt to blackmail her again, this time for something far more dangerous than a dance.

“I hope I am not interrupting,” he said.

“Not at all.” She motioned to the desk. “I was writing a letter to my sister.”

“I did not realize you had one.”

“My sister-in-law,” she amended. “But she is as a sister to me. I have known her all of my life.”

He waited until she took a seat on the sofa, then sat in the Egyptian-style chair directly across from her. He did not appear to be uncomfortable, which Olivia found interesting. She hated sitting in that chair.

“I brought you this,” he said, handing her the parcel.

“Oh. Thank you.” She took it with some awkwardness. She did not want gifts from this man, and she certainly did not trust his motivations for presenting her with one.

“Open it,” he urged.

It was wrapped plainly, and her fingers were shaking—hopefully not so much that he could see. It took her a few tries to undo the knot in the string, but eventually she was able to peel back the paper.

“A book,” she said with a touch of surprise. She’d known that was what it had to be, from the weight and the shape of the package, but still, it was a very odd choice.

“Anyone can bring flowers,” he remarked.

She turned it over—it had been upside down when she’d unwrapped it—and looked at the title.
Miss Butterworth and the Mad Baron
. Now she was
really
surprised. “You brought me a gothic novel?”

“A
lurid
gothic novel,” he corrected. “It seemed the sort of thing you might enjoy.”

She looked up at him, assessing that comment.

He looked back, as if daring her to question him.

“I don’t really read,” she murmured.

His brows rose.

“I mean I
can
,” she said quickly, irritation rising within her, as much at herself as at him. “I just don’t much enjoy it.”

His brows remained up.

“Am I not supposed to admit that?” she asked pertly.

He smiled slowly, and an agonizingly long moment passed before he said, “You don’t think before you speak, do you?”

“Not very often,” she admitted.

“Try it,” he said, motioning toward the book. “I thought you might find it more entertaining than the newspaper.”

It was just the sort of thing a man would say. No one ever seemed to understand that she preferred the news of the day to silly figments of someone else’s imagination.