Julia Quinn - What Happens in London

“Edward?”

“You’d best read the letter,” Edward said gruffly as he moved to leave. “They said it was important.”

Harry waited for him to depart, then picked up the directive from the War Office. It was unusual for them to contact him in this manner; they usually just sent over someone with documents in hand. He flipped over the note, used his forefinger to break the seal, and then opened it.

It was short, just two sentences long, but it was clear. Harry was to report to the offices at Horse Guards in Whitehall immediately.

He groaned. Anything that required his actual presence could not be good. The last time they’d hauled him in, it was to order him to play nursemaid to an elderly Russian countess. He’d had to remain glued to her side for three weeks. She’d complained about the heat, the food, the music…The only thing she hadn’t complained about was the vodka, and that was because she’d brought her own.

She’d insisted on sharing, too. Anyone who spoke Russian as well as Harry did could not drink British swill, she’d announced. She actually reminded him a bit of his grandmother for that.

But Harry did not drink, not even a drop, and he spent night after night dumping his glass into a potted plant.

Strangely, the plant had thrived. Quite possibly, the finest moment of the assignment was when the butler frowned down at the botanical wonder and said, “I didn’t think that made flowers.”

Still, Harry had no desire to repeat the experience. Unfortunately, he was rarely given the luxury of refusing. Funny, that. They needed him, as Russian translators weren’t exactly thick on the ground. And yet he was expected to jump to their bidding.

Harry briefly considered finishing the page he was working on before departing, then decided against it. Best to get it over with.

And besides, the countess was back in St. Petersburg, presumably complaining about the cold, the sun, and the lack of English gentlemen forced to wait on her hand and foot.

Whatever it was they wanted of him, it couldn’t be as bad as that, could it?

It was worse.

“Prince Who?” Harry asked.

“Prince Alexei Ivanovich Gomarovsky,” replied Mr. Winthrop, who was Harry’s frequent liaison with the War Office. Winthrop might have had a Christian name, but if so, Harry had not been made aware of it. He was simply Mr. Winthrop, of medium height and medium build, with medium brown hair, and a face that was unremarkable in every way. As far as Harry knew, he never left the War Office building.

“We don’t like him,” Winthrop said, with very little inflection. “He makes us nervous.”

“What do we think he might do?”

“We’re not sure,” he replied, seemingly oblivious to Harry’s sarcasm. “But there are a number of aspects to his visit that place him under suspicion. Foremost of which is his father.”

“His father?”

“Ivan Alexandrovich Gomarovsky. Now deceased. He was a supporter of Napoleon.”

“And the prince still has a position in Russian society?” Harry found that difficult to believe. It had been nine years since the French had marched on Moscow, but Franco-Russian relations were still frosty at best. The tsar and his people had not appreciated Napoleon’s invasion. And the French had long memories; the humiliation and devastation of the retreat would stay with them for many years to come.

“His father’s treasonous activities were never discovered,” Winthrop explained. “He died last year of natural causes, still believed to be a loyal servant of the tsar.”

“How do we know that he was a traitor?”

Winthrop brushed off his question with a vague wave. “We have information.”

Harry decided to accept that at face value, since he wasn’t likely to be told anything more.

“We also wonder at the timing of the prince’s visit. Three known sympathizers of Napoleon-two of them British subjects-arrived in town yesterday.”

“You allow traitors to remain free?”

“It is often in our best interests to allow the opposition to believe that they are undetected.” Winthrop leaned forward, resting his forearms on his desk. “Bonaparte is sick, probably dying. He is wasting away.”

“Bonaparte?” Harry asked doubtfully. He’d seen the fellow once. From afar, of course. He was short, yes, but with a remarkable belly. It was difficult to imagine him thin and gaunt.

“We have learned”-Winthrop shuffled some papers on his desk until he found what he was looking for-“that his trousers have had to be taken in by nearly five inches.”

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.