To Wed a Wicked Prince by Jane Feather Page A

bedchamber, shrugging out of his riding coat as he went.
    Boris appeared within minutes with the sherry decanter and a plate of sweet biscuits. He set the tray on the dresser, and while Alex poured himself a glass, he opened the armoire and took out the black coat, white waistcoat, and knee britches that would be suitable wear for the opera.
    The front door knocker sounded as he was helping his master into the coat. “Who can that be?” Alex muttered. “I’m not in to visitors, Boris.”
    “No, sir.” The manservant glided towards the door to the hall. He opened it and then nodded. “Ah, it is only a messenger, Your Highness. Leo has answered the knock.” He stepped into the hall and summoned the bootboy who was just closing the front door. “Bring it here, boy.”
    “Right away, Mr. Boris, sir.” The boy, who was no more than thirteen, scurried across the waxed floor, his boots skidding slightly in his haste. He touched his fore-lock as he handed Boris a wafer-sealed parchment. “’Tis for His Highness, Mr. Boris, sir.”
    “One would assume so,” the manservant observed without expression as he took the sheet. He glanced over his shoulder. “Shall I send Leo to summon a chair, sir?”
    “Yes, I’ll be ready in five minutes.” Alex frowned slightly as he made a minute adjustment to his starched cravat. “Bring me the message.” He held out a hand even as he continued to lean forward towards the mirror, twitching at a fold in the snowy linen.
    Satisfied at last, he straightened and took the parchment from Boris. He glanced at the writing. Definitely a feminine hand, although the paper was white and unscented and the pen strokes lacked the flourishes and curlicues so common in female penmanship.
    He took up a nail file from a silver dish on the dresser and slit the wafer. He opened up the sheet and took in the contents in one swift appraisal. A smile touched the corners of his mouth. So Lady Livia had a care for her reputation, did she? But not sufficient of a care to propose bringing a chaperone on their ride. Instead, she was proposing what could only be called an assignation. A secret rendezvous no less. It would seem she might have something more in mind than the need to try the mare’s paces.
    He laughed softly. Livia had made the decision for him. Now was not the moment to change his tactics. If he kept up the pressure, increased the pace even, the citadel would surely fall. Livia Lacey, as he’d hoped, was able and willing to entertain her impulses. Her ready laugh and mischievous sense of humor had entranced him from the first moment and matched something deep in his own personality, a devil-may-care desire to shrug off convention, to pursue one’s own course. An unusual quality in a young woman of Livia’s position, but a most appealing one. She would be a worthy partner in his enterprise.
    “Tell the chairmen to wait,” he instructed Boris as he got up from the dresser. “And tell Leo I will have a message for him to deliver to Cavendish Square in a few minutes.” He strode into his inner sanctum and sat down to write a reply to Livia.
     
    “So, does the name Prince Prokov ring any bells, Harry?” Cornelia asked her husband somewhat impatiently. He seemed to be taking an inordinate length of time reading Aurelia’s missive.
    Harry glanced up at her and gave her a wicked smile. “Maybe…maybe not,” he teased.
    They were in the library of Cornelia’s country house, Dagenham Manor. In truth the house belonged to her young son, Stevie, who had inherited the title of Viscount Dagenham and the Dagenham estates on his father’s death. But until he came of age and found himself a wife, his mother would continue to consider it her own.
    Cornelia leaned over the back of Harry’s chair and playfully snatched the vellum from his hand. “I don’t know how you could possibly know anything about him, or find out anything. You’ve been out of touch with your friends in the underworld for so