What Happens in London (Bevelstoke #2)(46)

“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.”

He looked up at Harry and Sebastian (but mostly at Harry) and gave them a bland smile. “Did you find that to be true, Sir Harry?” he asked—softly, stingingly.

“No,” Harry replied. Nothing more, just no.

Olivia’s eyes darted back and forth between the two men. Nothing Harry could have said—no protest, no sarcastic remark—could have irritated the prince more.

“Do I hear music?” she asked. But no one was paying her any attention.

“How old are you, Sir Harry?” the prince asked.

“How old are you?”

Olivia swallowed nervously. That could not be an appropriate question to ask of a prince. And she knew he had not used an appropriate tone. She tried to exchange a wary glance with Sebastian, but he was watching the other two men.

“You have not answered my question,” Alexei said dangerously, and indeed, beside him his guard made an ominous shift of position.

“I am twenty-eight,” Harry said, and then, with a pause just long enough to indicate that it had been an afterthought, he added, “Your Highness.”

Prince Alexei’s mouth slid into a very small smile. “We have two more years to make good on Napoleon’s prediction, then, do we not?”