Harry kept his voice low. “This evening, with the prince, I do not speak Russian. And neither do you.” Sebastian wasn’t even close to being fluent, but he could certainly stumble through a conversation.
Harry looked at him intently. “Do you understand?”
Seb’s eyes fixed on his, and then he nodded—once, with a gravity he rarely allowed others to see. And then, in the blink of an eye, it was gone, and his loose-limbed posture returned, along with his lopsided smile.
Harry stepped back, quietly watching. Olivia and the prince had completed three-fourths of their stately promenade and were now walking directly toward them. The crowds of partygoers swept out of their path, like beads of oil on water, and Sebastian was standing still, his only movement the fingers of his left hand, idly rubbing together, thumb against the rest.
He was thinking. Seb always did that when he was thinking.
And then, with timing so perfect no one could ever believe it wasn’t an accident, Sebastian plucked a new champagne glass from a roving footman’s tray, tilted his head back for a sip, and then—
Harry didn’t know how he managed it, but it was all over the floor—a splintering crash, shards of glass, and champagne, bubbling furiously on the parquet.
Olivia jumped back; the hem of her gown had been splashed.
The prince looked furious.
Harry said nothing.
And then Sebastian smiled.
Chapter Ten
Lady Olivia!” Sebastian exclaimed. “I am so sorry. Please accept my apologies. Terribly clumsy of me.”
“Of course,” she said, discreetly shaking out one foot, then the next. “It is nothing. Just a spot of champagne.” She smiled up at him, a reassuring it’s-no-trouble-at-all sort of smile. “I’ve heard it is good for the skin.”
She’d heard nothing of the sort, but what else could she say? It wasn’t like Sebastian Grey to be so clumsy, and really, it was just a few drops on her slippers. Beside her, however, the prince was seething with anger. She could feel it in his stance. He’d received more of a splashing than she had, although in all fairness, it had all landed on his boots, and hadn’t she heard that some men cleaned their boots with champagne, anyway?
Still, whatever Prince Alexei had grunted in Russian, she had a feeling it was not complimentary.
“For the skin? Really?” Sebastian asked, giving every appearance of an interest she was quite sure he did not possess. “I’d not heard that. How fascinating.”
“It was in a ladies’ magazine,” she lied.
“Which would explain why I did not know of it,” Sebastian replied smoothly.
“Lady Olivia, will you introduce me to your friend?” Prince Alexei said sharply.
“Of–of course,” Olivia stammered, surprised by his request. He had not seemed interested in meeting very many people in London, with the exception of dukes, royals, and, well, her. Perhaps he wasn’t as arch and proud as she thought. “Your Highness, may I present Mr. Sebastian Grey. Mr. Grey, Prince Alexei Gomarovsky of Russia.”
The two men made their bows, Sebastian’s considerably deeper than the prince’s, which was so shallow as to be almost impolite.
“Lady Olivia,” Sebastian said, once he was through bowing to the prince, “have you met my cousin, Sir Harry Valentine?”
Olivia’s lips parted in surprise. What was he up to? He knew very well that—
“Lady Olivia,” Harry said, suddenly right in front of her. His eyes met hers, and they flared with something she could not quite identify. It sparked through her, made her want to shiver. And then it was gone, as if they were nothing more than mere acquaintances. He gave her a gracious nod, then said to his cousin, “We are already acquainted.”
“Oh, yes, of course,” Sebastian said. “I keep forgetting. You are neighbors.”
“Your Highness,” Olivia said to the prince, “may I present Sir Harry Valentine. He lives directly to the south of me.”
“Indeed,” the prince said, and then, while Harry was bowing, he said something in rapid Russian to his attendant, who gave a curt nod.
“You were speaking with each other earlier in the evening,” the prince said.
Olivia stiffened. She had not realized that he had been watching her. And she wasn’t quite certain why this bothered her so much. “Yes,” she said, for there could be no good reason to deny it. “I count Sir Harry among my many acquaintances.”
“For which I am most grateful,” Harry said. His voice had an edge to it, at odds with the gentle sentiment of the words. Stranger still, he was looking at the prince the entire time he spoke.
“Yes,” the prince replied, his eyes never leaving Harry’s. “You would be, wouldn’t you?”
Olivia looked at Harry, then at the prince, then back at Harry, who held the prince’s eye as he said, “I would.”
“It’s a lovely party, isn’t it?” Sebastian put in. “Lady Mottram has quite outdone herself this year.”
Olivia nearly burst out with an inappropriate giggle. There was something about his demeanor—so excessively jolly—it should have cut through the tension like a knife. But it didn’t. Harry was watching the prince with cool reserve, and the prince—he was watching Harry with icy disdain.
“Is it chilly in here?” she asked, to no one in particular.
“A bit,” Sebastian replied, since they seemed to be the only ones actually speaking. “I have long thought it must be difficult to be a woman, with all your wispy, unsubstantial garments.”
Olivia’s gown was velvet, but with short capped sleeves, and her arms were prickling with goose bumps. “Yes,” she replied, because no one else was speaking. Then she realized she had nothing more to say beyond that, so she cleared her throat and smiled, first at Harry and the prince, who still were not looking at her, and then at the people behind them, all of whom were looking at her, although they were pretending not to.
“Are you one of Lady Olivia’s many admirers?” Prince Alexei asked Harry.
Olivia turned to Harry with widened eyes. What on earth could he say to so direct a question?
“All of London admires Lady Olivia,” Harry replied deftly.
“She is one of our most admired ladies,” Sebastian added.
Olivia ought to have said something quiet and modest in the wake of such praise, but it was all too strange—too utterly bizarre—to say a thing.
They weren’t talking about her. They were saying her name, and paying her compliments, but it was all a part of some strange and stupid male dance for domination.
It would have been flattering if it hadn’t made her so uneasy.
“Is that music I hear?” Sebastian said. “Perhaps the dancing will recommence soon. Do you dance in Russia?”
The prince gave him a cold stare. “I beg your pardon.”
“Your Highness,” Sebastian corrected, although he didn’t sound particularly penitent, “do you dance in Russia?”
“Of course,” the prince bit off.
“Not all societies do,” Sebastian mused.
Olivia had no idea if that was true. She rather suspected it was not.
“What brings you to London, Your Highness?” Harry asked, entering the conversation for the first time. He had answered queries, but only that. Otherwise, he had remained an observer.
The prince looked at him sharply, but it was difficult to discern whether he found the question impertinent. “I visit my cousin,” he replied. “He is your ambassador.”
“Ah,” Harry said graciously. “I have not made his acquaintance.”
“Of course not.”
It was an insult, clear and direct, but Harry did not look the least bit put out. “I met many Russians while serving in His Majesty’s army. Your countrymen are most honorable.”
The prince acknowledged the compliment with a curt nod.
“We could not have defeated Napoleon if not for your tsar,” Harry continued. “And your land.”
Prince Alexei finally looked him
in the eye.
“I wonder if Napoleon would have fared better if winter had not come so early that year,” Harry continued. “Brutal, it was.”
“For the weak, perhaps,” the prince responded.
“How many of the French perished in the retreat?” Harry wondered aloud. “I can’t recall.” He turned to Sebastian. “Do you remember?”
“Over ninety percent,” Olivia said, before it occurred to her that perhaps she should not.
All three men looked at her. There were no varying degrees of their surprise; they were all close to stunned.
“I enjoy reading the newspaper,” she said simply. The ensuing silence told her that this was not enough of an explanation, so she added, “I am sure that the majority of the details were not reported, but it was fascinating, nonetheless. And really quite sad.” She turned to Prince Alexei and asked, “Were you there?”
“No,” he said brusquely. “The march was on Moscow. My home is to the east, in Nizhny. And I was not old enough to serve in the army.”
Olivia turned to Harry. “Were you yet in the army?”
He nodded, tilting his head toward Sebastian. “We had both just gained our commissions. We were in Spain, under Wellington.”
“I had not realized you served together,” Olivia said.
“The 18th Hussars,” Sebastian told her, quiet pride in his voice.
There was an awkward silence, and so she said, “How very dashing.” It seemed like the sort of thing they would expect her to say, and Olivia had long since realized that at times like these, it made a great deal of sense to do the expected.
“Did not Napoleon say that he was surprised when a hussar reached his thirtieth birthday?” the prince murmured. He turned to Olivia and said, “They have a reputation for…how do you say it…” He moved his fingers in a circular motion near his face, as if that would jog his memory. “Recklessness,” he said suddenly. “Yes, that is it.”
“It is a pity,” he continued. “They are thought to be quite brave, but most often”—he made a slitting motion across his throat—“they are cut down.”
He looked up at Harry and Sebastian (but mostly at Harry) and gave them a bland smile. “Did you find that to be true, Sir Harry?” he asked—softly, stingingly.
“No,” Harry replied. Nothing more, just no.
Olivia’s eyes darted back and forth between the two men. Nothing Harry could have said—no protest, no sarcastic remark—could have irritated the prince more.
“Do I hear music?” she asked. But no one was paying her any attention.
“How old are you, Sir Harry?” the prince asked.
“How old are you?”
Olivia swallowed nervously. That could not be an appropriate question to ask of a prince. And she knew he had not used an appropriate tone. She tried to exchange a wary glance with Sebastian, but he was watching the other two men.
“You have not answered my question,” Alexei said dangerously, and indeed, beside him his guard made an ominous shift of position.
“I am twenty-eight,” Harry said, and then, with a pause just long enough to indicate that it had been an afterthought, he added, “Your Highness.”
Prince Alexei’s mouth slid into a very small smile. “We have two more years to make good on Napoleon’s prediction, then, do we not?”
“Only if you plan to declare war on England,” Harry said lightly. “Otherwise, I have retired from the cavalry.”
The two men stared each other down for what seemed an eternity, and then, abruptly, Prince Alexei burst out laughing. “You amuse me, Sir Harry,” he said, but the bite in his voice contradicted his words. “We shall spar again, you and I.”
Harry nodded graciously, with all due deference.
The prince placed his hand over Olivia’s, still resting in the crook of his arm. “But it will have to be later,” he said, giving him a victorious smile. “After I have danced with Lady Olivia.”
And then he turned so that their backs were to Harry and Sebastian, and led her away.
Twenty-four hours later, Olivia was exhausted. She hadn’t got home from the Mottram ball until nearly four in the morning, then her mother had refused to allow her to sleep late, instead dragging her to Bond Street for final fittings for her presentation gown for the prince. Then, of course, there were no naps for the weary because she had to go and be presented, which seemed like a bit of nonsense to her, as she’d spent the better part of the prior evening in the prince’s company.
Didn’t one get “presented” to people one didn’t already know?
She and her parents had gone to Prince Alexei’s residence, a set of apartments in the home of the ambassador. It had been terribly grand, terribly formal, and frankly, terribly dull. Her dress, which had required a corset that would have been far more at home in the previous century, was uncomfortable and hot—except for her arms, which were bare and freezing.
Apparently the Russians did not believe in heating their homes.
The entire ordeal lasted three hours, during which her father drank several cups of a clear spirit that had left him extremely sleepy. The prince had offered her a glass as well, but her father, who had already taken his first taste, immediately whisked it from her hands.
Olivia was supposed to go out again that evening—Lady Bridgerton was hosting a small soirée—but she pleaded exhaustion, and much to her surprise, her mother relented. Olivia suspected that she was tired as well. And her father was in no state to go anywhere.
She took supper in her room (after a nap, a bath, and another, shorter, nap), and was planning to read the newspaper in bed, but just as she was reaching for it, she saw Miss Butterworth and the Mad Baron lying on her bedside table.
It was so odd, she thought, picking up the slim volume. Why would Sir Harry give her such a book? What did it say about her that he thought she would enjoy such a thing?
She thumbed through it, taking in passages here and there. It seemed a little frivolous. Did this mean he had thought she was frivolous?
She looked over at her window, shielded by her heavy curtains, pulled tight against the night. Did he still think she was frivolous? Now that he actually knew her?
She turned back to the book in her hands. Would he choose it as a gift for her now? A lurid, gothic novel, that was what he’d called it.
Was that what he thought of her?
She snapped the book shut, then positioned it on her lap, spine down. “One, two, three,” she proclaimed, swiftly pulling her hands away to let Miss Butterworth fall open to whichever page she liked.
It plopped to one side.
“Stupid book,” she muttered, trying it all over again. Because really, she did not possess enough interest to choose a page herself.
It fell over again, to the same side.
“Oh, this is ridiculous.” Even more ridiculous: she climbed out of bed, sat herself on the floor, and prepared to repeat the experiment for a third time, because surely it would work if the book was on a properly flat surface.
“One, two, thr—” She snapped her hands back into place; the bloody thing was falling over to the side again.
Now she really felt like a fool. Which was impressive, considering the degree of idiocy required to actually remove herself from bed in the first place. But she was not going to let the bloody little book win, so for her fourth attempt, she let the pages fan open just a bit before she let go. A little encouragement, that’s what it needed.
“One, two, three!”
And finally, it fell open. She looked down. To page 193, to be precise.
She slid down to her belly, propped herself up on her elbows, and began to read:
She could hear him behind her. He was closing the distance between them, and soon she would be caught. But for what purpose? Good or evil?
“Evil receives my vote,” she murmured.
How would she know? How would she know? How would she know?
Oh, for heaven’s sake. This was why she read the new
spaper. Just imagine: Parliament was called to order. To order. To order.
Olivia shook her head and continued reading.
And then she recalled the advice given to her by her mother, before the blessed lady had gone to her reward, pecked to death by pigeons—
“What?”
She looked over her shoulder at her door, aware that she’d practically shrieked the word. But really—pigeons?
She scrambled to her feet, grasping Miss Butterworth in her right hand, her index finger sliding between the pages to mark her spot.
“Pigeons,” she repeated. “Seriously?”
She opened the book again. She couldn’t help it.
She had been only twelve, far too young for such a conversation, but perhaps her mother had—
“Boring.” She chose another page, mostly at random. It did seem to make some sense, however, to head closer to the beginning.
Priscilla grasped the window ledge, her ungloved hands clutching at the stone with every ounce of her might. When she’d heard the baron jiggling the doorknob, she’d known she had but seconds to act. If he found her there, in his inner sanctum, who knew what he might do? He was a violent man, or so she’d been told.
Olivia wandered over to her bed and half leaned, half perched herself on the edge, reading all the while.
No one knew how his fiancée had died. Some said illness, but most claimed poison. Murder!
“Really?” She looked up, blinking, then turned toward her window. A dead fiancée? Gossip and rumors? Did Sir Harry know about this? The parallels were amazing.
She could hear him entering the room. Would he notice that the window was open? What would she do? What could she do?
Olivia sucked in her breath. She was on the edge of her seat. Not figuratively, that would never do. She was literally sitting on the edge of the bed. Which accounted for any and all breathlessness.
Priscilla whispered a prayer, and then, with eyes closed tight, she let go.