“And to Prince Alexei,” Sebastian reminded him. He closed his eyes. “Don’t mind me. It helps to picture the scene.”

Harry had not thought that anything could bring about a sense of kinship with the prince, but as they exchanged glances it was clear that both of them thought Sebastian was insane.

Harry cleared his throat, backed up to the beginning of the sentence, and read: “She was, of course, shielded from the weather in her tiny chamber, but the window casings rattled with such noise that there would be no way she would find slumber this evening.”

Harry looked up. The prince was listening intently, despite the bored expression on his face. Sebastian was completely enrapt.

Either that or asleep.

“Huddled on her thin, cold bed, she could not help but recall all of the events that had led her to this bleak spot, on this bleak night. But this, dear reader, is not where our story begins.”

Sebastian’s eyes popped open. “You’re only on the first page?”

Harry quirked a brow. “Did you expect that His Highness and I had been meeting each evening, conducting secret reading sessions?”

“Give me the book,” Sebastian said, reaching out and snatching it from Harry’s hands. “You recite dreadfully.”

Harry turned to the prince. “I have little training.”

“It was a dark and windy night,” Sebastian began, and Harry had to admit he did bring a great deal of drama to it. Even Vladimir was leaning forward to listen, and he didn’t speak English.

“-Miss Priscilla Butterworth was certain that at any moment the rain would begin, pouring down from the heavens in sheets and streams, dousing all that lay within her purview.”

Dear God, it almost sounded like a sermon. Sebastian had clearly missed his calling.

“‘Purview’ is not used correctly,” Prince Alexei said.

Sebastian looked up, his eyes flashing with irritation. “Of course it is.”

Alexei jabbed a finger in Harry’s direction. “He said it is not.”

“It’s not,” Harry said with a shrug.

“What’s wrong with it?” Sebastian demanded.

“It implies that what she sees is under her power or control.”

“How do you know it’s not?”

“I don’t,” Harry admitted, “but she doesn’t seem in control of anything else.” He looked over at the prince. “Her mother was pecked to death by pigeons.”

“That happens,” Alexei said with a nod.

Both Harry and Sebastian looked over at him in shock.

“It is not accidental,” Alexei demurred.

“I may need to revisit my desire to see Russia,” Sebastian said.

“Swift justice,” Alexei stated. “It is the only way.”

Harry couldn’t believe he was asking, but it had to be said. “Pigeons are swift?”

Alexei shrugged, quite possibly the least clipped and precise gesture Harry had seen him make. “Justice is swift. The punishment, not so much.”

This was met with silence and a stare, then Sebastian turned back to Harry and said, “How did you know about the pigeons?”

“Olivia told me. She read ahead.”

Sebastian’s lips pressed together disapprovingly. Harry felt his own part in surprise. It was a singularly odd expression to see on his cousin’s face. Harry couldn’t recall the last time Sebastian had disapproved of anything.

“May I continue?” Sebastian asked, voice dripping with solicitousness.

The prince gave his nod, and Harry murmured, “Please do,” and they all settled in for a listen.

Even Vladimir.

Chapter Seventeen

Olivia’s second coiffure of the day took considerably more time to arrange than the first. Sally, still irritated at having been cut off mid-braid, took one look at Olivia’s hair and had not gone lightly with the “I told you so’s.”

And although it went against Olivia’s nature to sit meekly and take such abuse, sit meekly she did, since she couldn’t very well tell Sally that the only reason her hair was falling from its bun in huge messy chunks was because Sir Harry Valentine had had his hands in it.

“There,” Sally declared, inserting the final pin with what Olivia deemed unnecessary force. “This will stay in all week if you’re so inclined.”

Olivia would not have been surprised had Sally painted her with glue, just to keep every hair in place.

“Don’t go out in the rain,” Sally warned.

Olivia stood and headed toward the door. “It’s not raining.”

“It could.”

“But it’s-” Olivia cut herself off. Good heavens, what was she doing, standing there arguing with her maid? Sir Harry was still downstairs, waiting for her.

Just the thought of him made her giddy.

“Why are you skipping?” Sally asked suspiciously.

Olivia paused, her hand on her doorknob. “I wasn’t skipping.”

“You were doing”-Sally did a funny little hopping movement-“this.”

“I am walking sedately out of the room,” Olivia announced. She stepped into the hall. “Very sedately! Like a pallbearer I am…” She turned, ascertained that Sally was out of earshot, and dashed down the stairs.

Upon reaching the ground floor, she did opt for a sedate, pallbearish pace, and it was perhaps because of this that her footfalls were so quiet, and she reached the drawing room without making anyone aware of her approach.

What she saw…

There were really no words to describe it.