What Happens in London

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.”