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 altered 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.”




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