Page 37 of Innocent in the Prince's Bed

‘Redruth? What the hell are we plotting over here?’ Stepan inserted himself between them with an angry whisper. ‘Do you know who Redruth is? Next to Ormond, he controls more seats in Parliament than anyone else. Now, what the hell do you want with the Duchess? Tell me you are not having an affair with her? I didn’t think she was the sort. Redruth seemed a decent chap the one time I met him.’

‘It’s not the Duchess, it’s the daughter,’ Nikolay interrupted, trying to smooth things over, but only making them worse. Illarion cringed and Nikolay stepped back, making excuses about needing to rejoin the vodka group.

No one ever accused Stepan of being slow. He crossed his arms. ‘Dove Sanford-Wallis? Let me guess, she is your new muse?’ He grabbed Illarion by the arm and dragged him to a quiet corner. ‘Good God, Illarion, what are you thinking? Tell me you haven’t seduced her yet? You can’t seduce her, you know that? You shouldn’t even look at her. The betting book lays odds she’s promised to…’ Stepan stopped his worried tirade, the rest of the pieces falling into place for him. ‘Percivale.’ He pushed a hand through his dark hair. ‘Is that what this afternoon was really about? What did you do to warrant Heatherly all but calling Nikolay out?’

‘Lady Dove doesn’t want to marry Percivale. She’s being forced to it by her parents. She doesn’t want any of this,’ Illarion tried to explain, but Stepan was too fast.

‘You have to stop seeing her, immediately. This is not Kuban, Illarion. You can’t go about protesting and breaking up marriage matches, or writing reckless poetry.’

‘It’s not reckless,’ Illarion said. He hated it when Stepan dismissed his work as frivolous.

Stepan leaned forwards, his voice hushed. ‘A woman in Kuban killed herself over one of your poems. Do you want that to happen here?’

‘I didn’t mean for Katya…’ Illarion’s voice broke with anger and emotion. ‘How dare you of all people, my friend, suggest the Tsar in all his corruption was correct that I prompted Katya to suicide? I had no idea what she intended.’ That was the fear that drove his nightmares, the fear that had driven him from home—that he had killed Katya. She had become a casualty of his war against the marital injustices of Kuban. ‘If you were not my friend, I would call you out for that.’

Stepan lifted a brow. ‘Like you did the others?’ Illarion had fought a series of duels before he fled Kuban, duels for his honour, for Katya’s posthumous name. He’d won them all, but he hadn’t really won. Winning had not changed the accusations, it had only made people more circumspect as to where they voiced their opinions. ‘Illarion, this is not how we make friends. London is supposed to be a new start for all of us. But you are intent on repeating the past. Let this girl go. She is not your problem.’

‘She inspires me.’ What if he lost Dove and he couldn’t write again? What if he stepped away and she married Percivale?

‘You can find another muse, one that isn’t so much trouble.’ Stepan blew out a breath. ‘What happens when you tell she has a choice and she actually believes you? What can you offer her?’

‘I don’t know,’ Illarion admitted.

Stepan was quiet. ‘You need to know before you take things any further. It’s not fair to her. “With great power comes great responsibility,”’ he quoted. ‘She has to know what her choices really are and what they really mean. Life outside the ton isn’t for everyone, especially a duke’s daughter who’s been raised to it.’

To which Illarion answered with equal determination, ‘“The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.”’ That was the albatross of Kuban, the millstone that hung about his neck and threatened to drag him down. He’d stood aside and done nothing for Katya. As a result, Ustinov had driven her to her death. It would not happen again, not on his watch.

Stepan sighed. ‘What do you mean to do since you don’t mean to follow my direction?’

Illarion grinned. ‘I mean to take Lady Dove on a picnic.’ In the interim, he’d deal Percivale some indirectness of his own, a little poem, perhaps, with a few references only Percivale would understand.

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