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.