“I would appreciate that.”
Edward stood in the center of the office, the very image of a sulky, sullen boy. He was two and twenty now, and Harry supposed he thought himself a man, but his bearing was callow and his eyes still young.
Young, but not youthful. Harry was disturbed by how haggard his brother appeared. Edward drank too much, and probably slept too little. He was not like their father, though. Harry couldn’t quite put his finger on the difference, except that Sir Lionel had always been jolly.
Except when he was sad and apologetic. But he generally forgot about that by the next morning.
But Edward was different. Overindulgence did not make him effusive. Harry could not imagine him getting up on a chair and waxing poetic about the thplendidneth of a thchool. Edward did not attempt to be charming and debonair during the rare occasions that they shared a meal. Instead, he sat in stony silence, answering nothing but direct queries, and then with only the bare minimum of words.
Harry was painfully aware that he did not know his brother, knew nothing of his thoughts or interests. He had been gone the bulk of Edward’s formative years, off on the Continent, fighting alongside Seb in the 18th Hussars. When he returned, he’d tried to rekindle the relationship, but Edward had wanted nothing to do with him. He was only here, in Harry’s home, because he could not afford rooms of his own. He was the quintessential younger brother, with no inheritance to speak of, and no apparent skills. He’d scoffed at Harry’s suggestion that he, too, join the military, accusing him of wanting only to be rid of him.
Harry hadn’t bothered to suggest the clergy. It was difficult to imagine Edward leading anyone toward moral rectitude, and besides that, Harry didn’t want to be rid of him.
“I received a letter from Anne earlier in the week,” Harry mentioned. Their sister, who had married William Forbush at the age of seventeen and never looked back, had ended up in Cornwall, of all places. She sent Harry a letter each month, filled with news of her brood. Harry wrote back in Russian, insisting that if she did not use the language, she’d lose it altogether.
Anne’s reply had been his warning, clipped from his letter and pasted onto a new sheet of paper, followed by, in English: “That is my intention, dear brother.”
Harry had laughed, but he hadn’t stopped with the Russian. And she must have taken the time to read and translate, because when she replied, she often had questions about the things he’d written.
It was an entertaining correspondence; Harry always looked forward to her letters.
She did not write to Edward. She used to, but she’d stopped when she realized that he would never return the gesture.
“The children are well,” Harry continued. Anne had five of them, all boys save the last. Harry wondered what she looked like now. He hadn’t seen her since he left for the army.
Harry sat back in his chair, waiting. For anything. For Edward to speak, to move, to kick the wall. Most of all, he was waiting for him to ask for an advance on his allowance, for surely that was the reason for his appearance. But Edward said nothing, just stubbed his toe along the floor, catching the edge of the dark-hued carpet and flipping it over before kicking it back down with his heel.
“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?
Chapter Seven
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.”