What Happens in London by Julia Quinn
“Oh, I hate that.”
“What do you think?” Olivia asked, hoping that she had successfully diverted Mary from asking any more questions.
“It’s not so bad,” Mary said consolingly. “I can help you. I’ve dressed my sister’s hair dozens of times.” She pushed Olivia into a chair and began to adjust her pins. “Your dress looks as if it suffered no harm.”
“I’m sure the hem is stained,” Olivia said.
“Who spilled the champagne?” Mary asked.
“I’m not sure.”
“I’ll bet it was Mr. Grey. He has one arm in a sling, you know.”
“I saw,” Olivia murmured.
“I heard he was pushed down a flight of stairs by his uncle.”
Olivia just barely managed to contain her horror at the rumor. “That can’t be true.”
“Why not?”
“Well…” Olivia blinked, trying to come up with an acceptable answer. She didn’t want to say that Sebastian had fallen off a table in her house—Mary would positively pummel her with questions if she knew that Olivia had any special knowledge of the incident. Finally she settled on: “If he’d fallen down a flight of stairs, don’t you think he’d have suffered more serious injury?”
Mary appeared to consider this. “Maybe it was a short flight of stairs. His front steps, perhaps.”
“Perhaps,” Olivia said, hoping that would be the end of it.
“Although,” Mary continued, putting an end to Olivia’s hopes, “one would think there would be witnesses if it had happened outside.”
Olivia decided not to comment.
“I suppose it could have happened at night,” Mary mused.
Olivia was beginning to think that Mary ought to consider writing a Miss Butterworth-style novel of her own. She certainly possessed the imagination for it.
“There,” Mary declared. “As good as new. Or almost. I couldn’t quite recreate the little curl over your ear.”
Olivia was impressed (and perhaps a little alarmed) that Mary had remembered the curl over her ear; Olivia certainly hadn’t. “Thank you,” she said. “I very much appreciate it.”
Mary smiled warmly. “I’m happy to be of help. Shall we head back to the party?”
“You go ahead without me,” Olivia said. She motioned toward the other, more private, section of the washroom. “I need a moment.”
“Would you like me to wait for you?”
“Oh, no no no,” Olivia said, hoping her surfeit of no’s sounded more conversational than desperate. She really needed a few moments to herself—just a bit of time to collect her thoughts, to breathe deeply, and to attempt to regain her equilibrium.
“Oh, of course. I shall see you later, then.” Mary gave her a nod and exited the small room, leaving Olivia on her own.
Olivia closed her eyes for a moment and took that deep breath she’d been waiting for. She still felt tingly and lightheaded, shocked by her own behavior and, at the same time, giddy with delight.
She wasn’t sure what shocked her more—that she had just given up her virginity in the home of the Russian ambassador or that she was preparing to rejoin the party as if nothing had happened.
Would people see it on her face? Did she look fundamentally different? Heaven knew, she felt fundamentally changed.
She leaned forward a few inches, trying to examine her reflection more closely. Her cheeks were pink; there was no hiding that. And maybe her eyes looked a little brighter, almost glittery.
She was being fanciful. No one would know.
Except Harry.
Her heart jumped. Literally jumped in her chest.
Harry would know. He would remember every last detail, and when he looked at her, his eyes hot with desire, she would melt anew.
And suddenly she was no longer so sure she would be able to carry this off. No one would know what she’d been doing from looking at her. But if someone happened to look at her while she was looking at Harry…
She stood. Squared her shoulders. Tried to be resolute. She could do this. She was Lady Olivia Bevelstoke, comfortable in any social situation, wasn’t she? She was Lady Olivia Bevelstoke, soon to be…
She let out a little squeal at the thought of it. Soon to be Lady Valentine. She liked that. Lady Valentine. It was so romantic. Really, names didn’t get much better than that.
She turned toward the door. Reached for the knob.
But someone opened it first. So she stepped back to avoid being hit by the door.
But she couldn’t avoid—
“Oh!”
Where the hell was Olivia?
Harry had been back at the party for more than half an hour and he still hadn’t caught a glimpse of her. He’d played his part to perfection, chatting with any number of bright young ladies, even dancing with one of the Smythe-Smiths. He’d checked on Sebastian, not that he needed it—his shoulder had not been troubling him for several days.
Olivia had said that she was planning to go to the ladies’ retiring room to check on her appearance, so he’d not expected her to arrive promptly, but still, shouldn’t she have been done by now? He’d thought she’d looked rather nice when he’d last seen her. What more could she have needed to do?
“Oh, Sir Harry!”
He turned at the sound of a female voice. It was that young lady Olivia had been sitting with in the park. Blast, what was her name?
“Have you seen Olivia?” she asked.
“No,” he said. “I haven’t been in the ballroom long, though.”
The young woman frowned. “I don’t know where she could be. I was with her earlier.”
Harry regarded her with increased interest. “You were?”
She nodded, waving one of her hands off to the side, presumably to indicate another location. “I was helping her with her hair. Someone spilled champagne on her dress, you know.”
Harry was not sure how that related to her hair, but he knew better than to ask. Whatever story Olivia had concocted, it had convinced her friend, and he wasn’t going to contradict.
The young lady frowned, tilting her head this way and that as she glanced out over the crowd. “I really needed to tell her something.”
“When did you last see her?” Harry asked, keeping his tone polite, almost paternal.
“Goodness, I’m not sure. An hour ago? No, it couldn’t have been that long.” She continued her visual search of the dance floor, but Harry couldn’t tell if she was looking for Olivia or merely inspecting the guest list.
“Do you see her?” Harry murmured, mostly because it was damned awkward, standing there next to her while she looked at everyone in the room besides him.
She shook her head, and then, apparently spotting someone she deemed of greater importance, said, “Do let her know I’m looking for her when you find her.” With a little wave, she headed back into the crowd.
That was singularly unhelpful, Harry decided, as he moved toward the doors to the garden. He didn’t think Olivia would have gone outside, but the ballroom was sunken, and one had to ascend three steps to reach the doors. He’d be much more likely to be able to see her from there.
But when he reached his vantage point, he was once again stymied. Everyone else he knew seemed to be in attendance, but Olivia was nowhere to be found. There was Sebastian, still charming the ladies with his made-up tales of derring-do. Edward was at his elbow, trying to appear older than he really was. Olivia’s friend (whose name he still could not recall) was sipping a glass of lemonade, pretending she was listening to the elderly gentleman who was shouting something at her. And there was Olivia’s twin brother, leaning against the back wall, his expression bored.
Even Vladimir was there, walking across the ballroom with great purpose, not bothering to excuse himself as he shoved aside various lords and ladies. He did look rather serious, Harry thought, and he was wondering if he ought to investigate when he realized the giant Russian was heading for him.
“You come with me,” he said to Harry.
; Harry started. “You speak English?”
“Nyeh tak khorosho, kak tiy govorish po-russki.”
Not as well as you speak Russian.
“What is going on?” Harry asked. In English, just to be careful.
Vladimir’s eyes met his with steely purpose. “I know Winthrop,” he said.
It was almost enough to convince Harry to trust him.
And then Vladimir said, “Lady Olivia has disappeared.”
Suddenly it didn’t matter if he trusted him or not.
Olivia had no idea where she was.
Or how she’d got there.
Or why her hands were tied behind her back, and her feet were bound together, and a gag had been wrapped around her mouth.
Or, she thought, blinking frantically to adjust to the dim light, why she hadn’t been blindfolded.
She was lying on her side, on a bed, staring at a wall. Maybe whoever had done this to her had figured that if she couldn’t move or make a noise, it wouldn’t matter what she saw.
But who? Why? What had happened to her?
She tried to think, tried to calm her racing mind. She’d been in the washroom. Mary Cadogan had been there, and then she’d left, and Olivia had been alone for how long? At least a few minutes. Maybe as many as five.
She’d finally summoned the nerve to go back to the party, but the door had opened and then…
What happened? What happened?
Think, Olivia, think.
Why couldn’t she remember? It was as if a big gray smudge had been wiped across her memory.
She started to breathe more heavily. Quick and deep. Panicked. She couldn’t think straight.
She started to struggle, even though she knew it was fruitless. She managed to flip over, away from the wall. She couldn’t seem to calm down, to focus, to—
“You’re awake.”
She froze. In an instant she went still, her only movement the rapid rise and fall of her chest.
She did not recognize the voice. And when its owner came closer, she did not recognize the man, either.
Who are you?
But of course she couldn’t speak. He saw the question, however; saw it in her panicked eyes.
“It does not matter who I am,” he said, his voice carrying some sort of accent. But she couldn’t tell where he was from. Just as she’d always been terrible with languages, she never could place accents, either.
The man drew closer, then sat in a chair near her. He was older than she was, although not as old as her parents, and his graying hair was clipped close to his head. His eyes—she couldn’t tell what color they were in the darkness. Not brown. Something lighter.
“Prince Alexei has taken quite a fancy to you,” he said.
Her eyes widened. Prince Alexei had done this to her?
Her captor chuckled. “You do not hide your emotions well, Lady Olivia. It was not the prince who brought you here. But it will be the prince”—he leaned closer, menacingly, until she could smell his breath—“who will pay to bring you back.”
She shook her head, grunting, trying to tell him that the prince had not taken a fancy to her, or that if he had, he didn’t any longer.
“If you’re smart, you won’t struggle,” the man said. “You won’t free yourself, so why waste your strength?”
And yet she couldn’t seem to stop struggling. Absolute terror was building up within her, and she didn’t know how to keep it still.
The gray-haired man stood, gazing down at her with a tiny curve of his lips. “I will bring you food and drink later.” He left the room, and Olivia thought her throat would close in panic as she heard the click of the door shutting, followed by the turns of two locks.
She wasn’t going to be able to get out of here. Not by herself.
But did anyone even know she was gone?
Chapter Twenty-two
Where is she?”
That was all Harry managed to get out before he launched himself at the prince. He had followed Vladimir to a room at the back of the house, his panic rising with each step. He knew he was being foolish; this could be a trap. Someone obviously knew he worked for the War Office; how else would Vladimir have known he spoke Russian?
He could be walking toward his own execution.
But it was a chance he had to take.
Still, when he saw the prince standing there, illuminated by a single candle on a bare table, Harry snapped. His fear made him even stronger, and when they both hit the floor, it was with stunning force.
“Where is she?” Harry yelled again. “What have you done with her?”
“Stop!” Vladimir wedged himself between the two men, pulling them apart. It was only when Harry was standing again, held an arm’s length from the prince, that he realized Alexei had not fought back.
The terror in the pit of his stomach grew. The prince looked pale, grim. Frightened.
“What is going on?” Harry whispered.
Alexei handed him a piece of paper. Harry took it over to the candle and looked down. It was written in Cyrillic; Harry didn’t protest. This was not the time to pretend he could not read it.
The lady will live if you cooperate. She will be expensive. Tell no one.
Harry looked up. “How do we know it’s her? They don’t mention her by name.”
Wordlessly, Alexei held out his hand. Harry looked down. It was a lock of hair. Harry wanted to say that it might not be hers, that there could be another woman with hair that color, that unbelievable shade of sun and butter, with the same amount of curl, not a ringlet but more than a wave.
But he knew.
“Who wrote this?” he asked. In Russian.
Vladimir spoke first. “We think—”
“You think?” Harry roared. “You think? You had better start knowing, and damned soon. If anything happens to her…”
“If anything happens to her,” the prince cut in with icy precision, “I will cut out their throats myself. There will be justice.”
Harry turned to him slowly, trying to hold back the roiling acid in his belly. “I don’t want justice,” he said, his voice low and flat with rage. “I want her.”
“And we will get her,” Vladimir said quickly. He shot the prince a look of warning. “She will not come to harm.”
“Who are you?” Harry demanded.
“It does not matter.”
“I think it does.”
“I work also for the War Office,” Vladimir said. He shrugged a little. “Sometimes.”
“Pardon me if you fail to capture my trust.”
Vladimir looked at him again, that hard, direct stare that had unnerved Harry back in the ballroom. It was clear that he was much more than the menacing manservant he pretended to be.
“I know Fitzwilliam,” Vladimir said in a low voice.
Harry froze. No one knew Fitzwilliam—not unless he wanted them to. His mind reeled. Why would Winthrop have ordered him to observe Prince Alexei if they already had Vladimir in place?
“Your man Winthrop did not know about me,” Vladimir said, anticipating Harry’s next question. “He is not high enough to know about me.”
As far as Harry knew, the only person higher up than Winthrop was Fitzwilliam himself. “What is going on?” he asked, struggling to keep his voice even.
“I am not a sympathizer of Napoleon,” Prince Alexei said. “My father was, but I”—he spat on the floor—“am not.”
Harry looked at Vladimir.
“He does not work with me,” Vladimir said, motioning with his head toward the prince. “But he is …supportive. He has given money. And the use of his land.”
Harry shook his head. “What does this have to do with—”
“There are those who would seek to use him,” Vladimir interrupted. “He is valuable, alive or dead. I protect him.”
It was amazing. Vladimir really was Alexei’s bodyguard. One tiny truth in a web of lies.
“He is here to visit his cousin, just as he says,” Vladimir continue
d. “It is a convenient way for me to meet with my associates in London as well. Unfortunately, the prince’s interest in Lady Olivia did not go unnoticed.”
“Who took her?”
Vladimir looked away for a moment, and Harry knew it was bad. If he could not look him in the eye, Olivia was in grave danger indeed.
“I am not certain,” Vladimir finally said. “I can’t tell yet if there are political considerations or it is just for money. The prince is a man of considerable wealth.”
“I was told his fortunes had declined,” Harry said curtly.
“They have,” Vladimir confirmed, raising a hand to stop Alexei from defending himself. “But he still has much. Land. Jewels. More than enough for a criminal to wish to ransom someone close to him.”
“But she’s not—”
“Someone thinks I was planning to ask her to marry me,” Alexei cut in.
Harry turned on him. “Were you?”
“No. I might have considered it once. But she—” He waved a hand dismissively through the air. “She is in love with you. I do not need a woman who will love me. But I will not tolerate one who loves someone else.”
Harry crossed his arms. “Apparently your intentions were not made clear to your enemies.”
“For that I would apologize.” Alexei swallowed, and for the first time since Harry had known him, he looked uncomfortable. “I cannot control what others think of me.”
Harry turned to Vladimir. “What do we do now?”
Vladimir gave him a look that told him he would not like what came next. “We wait,” he said. “We will be contacted again.”
“I’m not going to stand here and—”
“And what do you suggest we do instead? Interview every last guest? The note said to tell no one. We already disobeyed when we told you. If these are men like I think they are, we do not want to make them upset with us.”
“But—”
“Do you want to give them a reason to hurt her?” Vladimir demanded.
Harry felt himself choking. It was as if someone had reached up from his belly and was strangling him from the inside out. He knew Vladimir was right, or at least he knew that he didn’t have any better ideas.
It was killing him. The fear. The helplessness. “Someone has to have seen something,” he said.
“What do you think?” Olivia asked, hoping that she had successfully diverted Mary from asking any more questions.
“It’s not so bad,” Mary said consolingly. “I can help you. I’ve dressed my sister’s hair dozens of times.” She pushed Olivia into a chair and began to adjust her pins. “Your dress looks as if it suffered no harm.”
“I’m sure the hem is stained,” Olivia said.
“Who spilled the champagne?” Mary asked.
“I’m not sure.”
“I’ll bet it was Mr. Grey. He has one arm in a sling, you know.”
“I saw,” Olivia murmured.
“I heard he was pushed down a flight of stairs by his uncle.”
Olivia just barely managed to contain her horror at the rumor. “That can’t be true.”
“Why not?”
“Well…” Olivia blinked, trying to come up with an acceptable answer. She didn’t want to say that Sebastian had fallen off a table in her house—Mary would positively pummel her with questions if she knew that Olivia had any special knowledge of the incident. Finally she settled on: “If he’d fallen down a flight of stairs, don’t you think he’d have suffered more serious injury?”
Mary appeared to consider this. “Maybe it was a short flight of stairs. His front steps, perhaps.”
“Perhaps,” Olivia said, hoping that would be the end of it.
“Although,” Mary continued, putting an end to Olivia’s hopes, “one would think there would be witnesses if it had happened outside.”
Olivia decided not to comment.
“I suppose it could have happened at night,” Mary mused.
Olivia was beginning to think that Mary ought to consider writing a Miss Butterworth-style novel of her own. She certainly possessed the imagination for it.
“There,” Mary declared. “As good as new. Or almost. I couldn’t quite recreate the little curl over your ear.”
Olivia was impressed (and perhaps a little alarmed) that Mary had remembered the curl over her ear; Olivia certainly hadn’t. “Thank you,” she said. “I very much appreciate it.”
Mary smiled warmly. “I’m happy to be of help. Shall we head back to the party?”
“You go ahead without me,” Olivia said. She motioned toward the other, more private, section of the washroom. “I need a moment.”
“Would you like me to wait for you?”
“Oh, no no no,” Olivia said, hoping her surfeit of no’s sounded more conversational than desperate. She really needed a few moments to herself—just a bit of time to collect her thoughts, to breathe deeply, and to attempt to regain her equilibrium.
“Oh, of course. I shall see you later, then.” Mary gave her a nod and exited the small room, leaving Olivia on her own.
Olivia closed her eyes for a moment and took that deep breath she’d been waiting for. She still felt tingly and lightheaded, shocked by her own behavior and, at the same time, giddy with delight.
She wasn’t sure what shocked her more—that she had just given up her virginity in the home of the Russian ambassador or that she was preparing to rejoin the party as if nothing had happened.
Would people see it on her face? Did she look fundamentally different? Heaven knew, she felt fundamentally changed.
She leaned forward a few inches, trying to examine her reflection more closely. Her cheeks were pink; there was no hiding that. And maybe her eyes looked a little brighter, almost glittery.
She was being fanciful. No one would know.
Except Harry.
Her heart jumped. Literally jumped in her chest.
Harry would know. He would remember every last detail, and when he looked at her, his eyes hot with desire, she would melt anew.
And suddenly she was no longer so sure she would be able to carry this off. No one would know what she’d been doing from looking at her. But if someone happened to look at her while she was looking at Harry…
She stood. Squared her shoulders. Tried to be resolute. She could do this. She was Lady Olivia Bevelstoke, comfortable in any social situation, wasn’t she? She was Lady Olivia Bevelstoke, soon to be…
She let out a little squeal at the thought of it. Soon to be Lady Valentine. She liked that. Lady Valentine. It was so romantic. Really, names didn’t get much better than that.
She turned toward the door. Reached for the knob.
But someone opened it first. So she stepped back to avoid being hit by the door.
But she couldn’t avoid—
“Oh!”
Where the hell was Olivia?
Harry had been back at the party for more than half an hour and he still hadn’t caught a glimpse of her. He’d played his part to perfection, chatting with any number of bright young ladies, even dancing with one of the Smythe-Smiths. He’d checked on Sebastian, not that he needed it—his shoulder had not been troubling him for several days.
Olivia had said that she was planning to go to the ladies’ retiring room to check on her appearance, so he’d not expected her to arrive promptly, but still, shouldn’t she have been done by now? He’d thought she’d looked rather nice when he’d last seen her. What more could she have needed to do?
“Oh, Sir Harry!”
He turned at the sound of a female voice. It was that young lady Olivia had been sitting with in the park. Blast, what was her name?
“Have you seen Olivia?” she asked.
“No,” he said. “I haven’t been in the ballroom long, though.”
The young woman frowned. “I don’t know where she could be. I was with her earlier.”
Harry regarded her with increased interest. “You were?”
She nodded, waving one of her hands off to the side, presumably to indicate another location. “I was helping her with her hair. Someone spilled champagne on her dress, you know.”
Harry was not sure how that related to her hair, but he knew better than to ask. Whatever story Olivia had concocted, it had convinced her friend, and he wasn’t going to contradict.
The young lady frowned, tilting her head this way and that as she glanced out over the crowd. “I really needed to tell her something.”
“When did you last see her?” Harry asked, keeping his tone polite, almost paternal.
“Goodness, I’m not sure. An hour ago? No, it couldn’t have been that long.” She continued her visual search of the dance floor, but Harry couldn’t tell if she was looking for Olivia or merely inspecting the guest list.
“Do you see her?” Harry murmured, mostly because it was damned awkward, standing there next to her while she looked at everyone in the room besides him.
She shook her head, and then, apparently spotting someone she deemed of greater importance, said, “Do let her know I’m looking for her when you find her.” With a little wave, she headed back into the crowd.
That was singularly unhelpful, Harry decided, as he moved toward the doors to the garden. He didn’t think Olivia would have gone outside, but the ballroom was sunken, and one had to ascend three steps to reach the doors. He’d be much more likely to be able to see her from there.
But when he reached his vantage point, he was once again stymied. Everyone else he knew seemed to be in attendance, but Olivia was nowhere to be found. There was Sebastian, still charming the ladies with his made-up tales of derring-do. Edward was at his elbow, trying to appear older than he really was. Olivia’s friend (whose name he still could not recall) was sipping a glass of lemonade, pretending she was listening to the elderly gentleman who was shouting something at her. And there was Olivia’s twin brother, leaning against the back wall, his expression bored.
Even Vladimir was there, walking across the ballroom with great purpose, not bothering to excuse himself as he shoved aside various lords and ladies. He did look rather serious, Harry thought, and he was wondering if he ought to investigate when he realized the giant Russian was heading for him.
“You come with me,” he said to Harry.
“Nyeh tak khorosho, kak tiy govorish po-russki.”
Not as well as you speak Russian.
“What is going on?” Harry asked. In English, just to be careful.
Vladimir’s eyes met his with steely purpose. “I know Winthrop,” he said.
It was almost enough to convince Harry to trust him.
And then Vladimir said, “Lady Olivia has disappeared.”
Suddenly it didn’t matter if he trusted him or not.
Olivia had no idea where she was.
Or how she’d got there.
Or why her hands were tied behind her back, and her feet were bound together, and a gag had been wrapped around her mouth.
Or, she thought, blinking frantically to adjust to the dim light, why she hadn’t been blindfolded.
She was lying on her side, on a bed, staring at a wall. Maybe whoever had done this to her had figured that if she couldn’t move or make a noise, it wouldn’t matter what she saw.
But who? Why? What had happened to her?
She tried to think, tried to calm her racing mind. She’d been in the washroom. Mary Cadogan had been there, and then she’d left, and Olivia had been alone for how long? At least a few minutes. Maybe as many as five.
She’d finally summoned the nerve to go back to the party, but the door had opened and then…
What happened? What happened?
Think, Olivia, think.
Why couldn’t she remember? It was as if a big gray smudge had been wiped across her memory.
She started to breathe more heavily. Quick and deep. Panicked. She couldn’t think straight.
She started to struggle, even though she knew it was fruitless. She managed to flip over, away from the wall. She couldn’t seem to calm down, to focus, to—
“You’re awake.”
She froze. In an instant she went still, her only movement the rapid rise and fall of her chest.
She did not recognize the voice. And when its owner came closer, she did not recognize the man, either.
Who are you?
But of course she couldn’t speak. He saw the question, however; saw it in her panicked eyes.
“It does not matter who I am,” he said, his voice carrying some sort of accent. But she couldn’t tell where he was from. Just as she’d always been terrible with languages, she never could place accents, either.
The man drew closer, then sat in a chair near her. He was older than she was, although not as old as her parents, and his graying hair was clipped close to his head. His eyes—she couldn’t tell what color they were in the darkness. Not brown. Something lighter.
“Prince Alexei has taken quite a fancy to you,” he said.
Her eyes widened. Prince Alexei had done this to her?
Her captor chuckled. “You do not hide your emotions well, Lady Olivia. It was not the prince who brought you here. But it will be the prince”—he leaned closer, menacingly, until she could smell his breath—“who will pay to bring you back.”
She shook her head, grunting, trying to tell him that the prince had not taken a fancy to her, or that if he had, he didn’t any longer.
“If you’re smart, you won’t struggle,” the man said. “You won’t free yourself, so why waste your strength?”
And yet she couldn’t seem to stop struggling. Absolute terror was building up within her, and she didn’t know how to keep it still.
The gray-haired man stood, gazing down at her with a tiny curve of his lips. “I will bring you food and drink later.” He left the room, and Olivia thought her throat would close in panic as she heard the click of the door shutting, followed by the turns of two locks.
She wasn’t going to be able to get out of here. Not by herself.
But did anyone even know she was gone?
Chapter Twenty-two
Where is she?”
That was all Harry managed to get out before he launched himself at the prince. He had followed Vladimir to a room at the back of the house, his panic rising with each step. He knew he was being foolish; this could be a trap. Someone obviously knew he worked for the War Office; how else would Vladimir have known he spoke Russian?
He could be walking toward his own execution.
But it was a chance he had to take.
Still, when he saw the prince standing there, illuminated by a single candle on a bare table, Harry snapped. His fear made him even stronger, and when they both hit the floor, it was with stunning force.
“Where is she?” Harry yelled again. “What have you done with her?”
“Stop!” Vladimir wedged himself between the two men, pulling them apart. It was only when Harry was standing again, held an arm’s length from the prince, that he realized Alexei had not fought back.
The terror in the pit of his stomach grew. The prince looked pale, grim. Frightened.
“What is going on?” Harry whispered.
Alexei handed him a piece of paper. Harry took it over to the candle and looked down. It was written in Cyrillic; Harry didn’t protest. This was not the time to pretend he could not read it.
The lady will live if you cooperate. She will be expensive. Tell no one.
Harry looked up. “How do we know it’s her? They don’t mention her by name.”
Wordlessly, Alexei held out his hand. Harry looked down. It was a lock of hair. Harry wanted to say that it might not be hers, that there could be another woman with hair that color, that unbelievable shade of sun and butter, with the same amount of curl, not a ringlet but more than a wave.
But he knew.
“Who wrote this?” he asked. In Russian.
Vladimir spoke first. “We think—”
“You think?” Harry roared. “You think? You had better start knowing, and damned soon. If anything happens to her…”
“If anything happens to her,” the prince cut in with icy precision, “I will cut out their throats myself. There will be justice.”
Harry turned to him slowly, trying to hold back the roiling acid in his belly. “I don’t want justice,” he said, his voice low and flat with rage. “I want her.”
“And we will get her,” Vladimir said quickly. He shot the prince a look of warning. “She will not come to harm.”
“Who are you?” Harry demanded.
“It does not matter.”
“I think it does.”
“I work also for the War Office,” Vladimir said. He shrugged a little. “Sometimes.”
“Pardon me if you fail to capture my trust.”
Vladimir looked at him again, that hard, direct stare that had unnerved Harry back in the ballroom. It was clear that he was much more than the menacing manservant he pretended to be.
“I know Fitzwilliam,” Vladimir said in a low voice.
Harry froze. No one knew Fitzwilliam—not unless he wanted them to. His mind reeled. Why would Winthrop have ordered him to observe Prince Alexei if they already had Vladimir in place?
“Your man Winthrop did not know about me,” Vladimir said, anticipating Harry’s next question. “He is not high enough to know about me.”
As far as Harry knew, the only person higher up than Winthrop was Fitzwilliam himself. “What is going on?” he asked, struggling to keep his voice even.
“I am not a sympathizer of Napoleon,” Prince Alexei said. “My father was, but I”—he spat on the floor—“am not.”
Harry looked at Vladimir.
“He does not work with me,” Vladimir said, motioning with his head toward the prince. “But he is …supportive. He has given money. And the use of his land.”
Harry shook his head. “What does this have to do with—”
“There are those who would seek to use him,” Vladimir interrupted. “He is valuable, alive or dead. I protect him.”
It was amazing. Vladimir really was Alexei’s bodyguard. One tiny truth in a web of lies.
“He is here to visit his cousin, just as he says,” Vladimir continue
“Who took her?”
Vladimir looked away for a moment, and Harry knew it was bad. If he could not look him in the eye, Olivia was in grave danger indeed.
“I am not certain,” Vladimir finally said. “I can’t tell yet if there are political considerations or it is just for money. The prince is a man of considerable wealth.”
“I was told his fortunes had declined,” Harry said curtly.
“They have,” Vladimir confirmed, raising a hand to stop Alexei from defending himself. “But he still has much. Land. Jewels. More than enough for a criminal to wish to ransom someone close to him.”
“But she’s not—”
“Someone thinks I was planning to ask her to marry me,” Alexei cut in.
Harry turned on him. “Were you?”
“No. I might have considered it once. But she—” He waved a hand dismissively through the air. “She is in love with you. I do not need a woman who will love me. But I will not tolerate one who loves someone else.”
Harry crossed his arms. “Apparently your intentions were not made clear to your enemies.”
“For that I would apologize.” Alexei swallowed, and for the first time since Harry had known him, he looked uncomfortable. “I cannot control what others think of me.”
Harry turned to Vladimir. “What do we do now?”
Vladimir gave him a look that told him he would not like what came next. “We wait,” he said. “We will be contacted again.”
“I’m not going to stand here and—”
“And what do you suggest we do instead? Interview every last guest? The note said to tell no one. We already disobeyed when we told you. If these are men like I think they are, we do not want to make them upset with us.”
“But—”
“Do you want to give them a reason to hurt her?” Vladimir demanded.
Harry felt himself choking. It was as if someone had reached up from his belly and was strangling him from the inside out. He knew Vladimir was right, or at least he knew that he didn’t have any better ideas.
It was killing him. The fear. The helplessness. “Someone has to have seen something,” he said.