What Happens in London

  “How do you know?” Anne responded.

  Mary nodded.

  “Because he didn’t,” Olivia said. “He wouldn’t be living one house away from me in Mayfair if he’d killed someone.”

  “Not if they couldn’t prove it,” Anne said again.

  Mary nodded.

  Philomena ate another biscuit.

  Olivia managed an ever-so-slight turn of her lips. Upward, she hoped. It wouldn’t do to frown. It was four in the afternoon. The other girls had been visiting for an hour, chatting about this and that, gossiping (of course), and discussing their wardrobe selections for the next three social events. They met like this frequently, about once per week, and Olivia enjoyed their company, even if the conversation lacked the heft she enjoyed with her closest friend, Miranda née Cheever now Bevelstoke.

  Yes, Miranda had gone and married Olivia’s brother. Which was a good thing. A marvelous thing. They had been friends since birth, and now they would be sisters until death. But it also meant that Miranda was no longer an unmarried lady, required to do unmarried lady sorts of things.

  Unmarried Lady Sorts of Things

  By Lady Olivia Bevelstoke, Unmarried Lady

  Wear pastel colors (and be quite glad if you possess the correct complexion for such hues). Smile and keep your opinions to yourself (with whatever success you are able). Do what your parents tell you to do. Accept the consequences when you don’t. Find a husband who won’t bother to tell you what to do.

  It was not uncommon for Olivia to formulate such epigraphic oddities in her mind. Which might explain why she so frequently caught herself not listening when she ought.

  And, perhaps, why she might have, once or twice, said things she really should have kept to herself. Although in all fairness, it had been two years since she’d called Sir Robert Kent an overgrown stoat, and frankly, that had been far more charitable than the other items on her mental accounting.

  But digressions aside, Miranda now got to do married lady sorts of things, for which Olivia would like to have formed a list, except that no one (not even Miranda, and Olivia still had not forgiven her for this) would tell her what it was that married ladies did, aside from not having to wear pastel colors, not having to be accompanied by a chaperone at all times, and producing small infants at reasonable intervals.

  Olivia was quite certain there was more to the last bit. That was the one that sent her mother fleeing from the room every time she asked.

  But back to Miranda. She had produced a small infant—Olivia’s darling niece Caroline, for whom she’d happily throw herself under hooves, equine or otherwise—and was now on her way to producing another, which meant that she was not available for regular afternoon chitchat. And as Olivia liked chitchat—and fashion and gossip—she found herself spending more and more time with Anne, Mary, and Philomena. And while they were often entertaining, and never malicious, they were, slightly more than occasionally, foolish.

  Like right now.

  “Who are they, anyway?” Olivia asked.

  “They?” Anne echoed.

  “They. The people who say my new neighbor killed his fiancée.”

  Anne paused. She looked at Mary. “Do you recall?”

  Mary shook her head. “I don’t, actually. Sarah Forsythe, perhaps?”

  “No,” Philomena put in, shaking her head with great certitude. “It wasn’t Sarah. She only got back from Bath two days ago. Libby Lockwood?”

  “Not Libby,” Anne said. “I would have remembered if it were Libby.”

  “That’s my point,” Olivia interjected. “You don’t know who said it. None of us does.”

  “Well, I didn’t make it up,” Anne said, a touch defensively.

  “I didn’t say you did. I would never think that of you.” It was true. Anne repeated most anything uttered in her presence, but she never made things up. Olivia paused, collecting her thoughts. “Don’t you think it’s the sort of rumor one might want to verify?”

  This was met with three blank stares.

  Olivia tried a different tactic. “If only for your own personal safety. If such a thing were true—”

  “Then you think it is?” Anne asked, in a rather pinning-you-down sort of voice.

  “No.” Good heavens. “I don’t. But if it were, then surely he would not be someone with whom we would wish to associate.”

  This was met with a long beat of silence, finally broken by Philomena: “My mother has already told me to avoid him.”

  “Which is why,” Olivia continued, feeling a bit as if she were slogging through mud, “we should ascertain its accuracy. Because if it’s not true—”

  “He’s very handsome,” Mary cut in. Followed by, “Well, he is.”

  Olivia blinked, trying to follow.

  “I’ve never seen him,” Philomena said.

  “He wears only black,” Mary said, rather confidentially.

  “I saw him in dark blue,” Anne contradicted.

  “He wears only dark colors,” Mary amended, shooting Anne an irritated glance. “And his eyes—oh, they could burn right through you.”

  “What color are they?” Olivia asked, imagining all sorts of interesting hues—red, yellow, orange…

  “Blue.”

  “Gray,” Anne said.

  “Bluish gray. But they’re quite piercing.”

  Anne nodded, having no correction to attach to that statement.

  “What color is his hair?” Olivia asked. Surely this was an overlooked detail.

  “Dark brown,” the two girls answered in unison.

  “As dark as mine?” Philomena asked, fingering her own locks.

  “Darker,” Mary said.

  “But not black,” Anne added. “Not quite.”

  “And he’s tall,” Mary said.

  “They always are,” Olivia murmured.

  “But not too tall,” Mary continued. “I don’t like a gangly man, myself.”

  “Surely you’ve seen him,” Anne said to Olivia, “what with his living right next door.”

  “I don’t believe I have,” Olivia murmured. “He only let the house at the beginning of the month, and I was at the Macclesfield house party for a week of that.”

  “When did you return to London?” Anne asked.

  “Six days ago,” Olivia replied, briskly returning to the topic at hand with: “I didn’t even know there was a bachelor in residence.” Which, it belatedly occurred to her, implied that if she had known, she would have tried to find out more about him.

  Which was probably true, but she wasn’t going to admit to it.

  “Do you know what I heard?” Philomena suddenly asked. “He thrashed Julian Prentice.”

  “What?” This, from everyone.

  “And you’re only just mentioning this now?” Anne added, with great disbelief.

  Philomena waved her off. “My brother told me. He and Julian are great friends.”

  “What happened?” Mary asked.

  “That was the part I couldn’t get very clearly,” Philomena admitted. “Robert was somewhat vague.”

  “Men never recall the correct details,” Olivia said, thinking of her own twin brother, Winston. He was worthless for gossip, just worthless.

  Philomena nodded. “Robert came home, and he was in quite a state. Rather…er…disheveled.”

  They all nodded. They all had brothers.

  “He could barely stand upright,” Philomena continued. “And he stank to high heaven.” She waved her hand in front of her nose. “I had to help him get past the drawing room so Mama wouldn’t see him.”

  “Then he is now in your debt,” Olivia said, always thinking.

  Philomena nodded. “Apparently they were out and about, doing whatever it is men do, and Julian was a bit, er…”

  “Soused?” Anne put in.

  “He frequently is,” Olivia added.

  “Yes. Which stands to reason, given my brother’s condition when he returned home.” Philomena paused, her brow wrinkling as if she
were considering something—but then, just as quickly, it was gone, and she continued, “He said that Julian did nothing out of the ordinary, and then there was Sir Harry, practically tearing him apart from limb to limb.”

  “Was there blood?” Olivia asked.

  “Olivia!” Mary scolded.

  “It’s a pertinent question.”

  “I do not know if there was blood,” Philomena said, a bit officiously.

  “I would think so,” Olivia mused. “What with limbs being torn off.”

  Limbs I would least mind doing without, in descending order By Olivia Bevelstoke (all limbs currently intact)

  No, forget that one. She wiggled her toes in her slippers reassuringly.

  “He does have a blackened eye,” Philomena continued.

  “Sir Harry?” Anne asked.

  “Julian Prentice. Sir Harry might have a blackened eye. I would not know. I’ve never seen him.”

  “I saw him two days ago,” Mary said. “He did not have a blackened eye.”

  “Did he look at all impaired?”

  “No. Lovely as ever. All in black, though. It’s very curious.”

  “All?” Olivia pressed.

  “Most. White shirt and cravat. But still—” Mary flipped a hand through the air, as if she just could not accept the possibility of it. “It’s as if he’s in mourning.”

  “Perhaps he is,” Anne said, jumping on that. “For the fiancée!”

  “The one he killed?” Philomena asked.

  “He didn’t kill anyone!” Olivia exclaimed.

  “How do you know?” the other three said in unison.

  Olivia would have answered, but it occurred to her that she didn’t know. She’d never clapped eyes on the man, never even heard a whisper about him until this afternoon. But still, common sense was surely on her side. The killing of one’s fiancée sounded far too much like one of those gothic novels Anne and Mary were always reading.

  “Olivia?” someone said.

  She blinked, realizing that she’d been silent for a beat too long. “It’s nothing,” she said, giving her head a little shake. “Just thinking.”

  “About Sir Harry,” Anne said, a little smugly.

  “It’s not as if I’ve been given the opportunity to think of anything else,” Olivia muttered.

  “What would you rather be thinking about?” Philomena asked.

  Olivia opened her mouth to speak, then realized she hadn’t a clue how to answer. “Anything,” she finally said. “Almost anything.”

  But her curiosity had been piqued. And Olivia Frances Bevelstoke’s curiosity was a formidable thing indeed.

  The girl in the house to the north was watching him again. She’d been doing it for the better part of a week now. At first Harry had thought nothing of it. She was the daughter of the Earl of Rudland, for God’s sake, or if not that, then some sort of relation—if she were a servant she’d surely have been sacked by now for all the time she spent standing at the window.

  And she wasn’t the governess. The Earl of Rudland had a wife, or so Harry had been told. No wife allowed a governess who looked like that into her household.

  So she was almost certainly the daughter. Which meant that he had no reason to suppose she was anything other than a typically nosy society miss, the sort who thought nothing of peering at one’s new neighbors. Except that she had been watching him for five days. Surely if she were curious about only the cut of his coat and the color of his hair, she’d have completed her perusal by now.

  He’d been tempted to wave. Plaster an enormous, cheerful smile on his face and wave. That would put a halt to her spying. Except then he would never know why she was so interested.

  Which was unacceptable. Harry never could tolerate an unanswered “why.”

  Not to mention that he was not quite close enough to her window to see her answering expression. Which defeated the purpose of the wave. If she was going to be embarrassed, he wanted to see it. What was the fun in it, otherwise?

  Harry sat back down at his desk, acting as if he hadn’t a clue that she was peeking at him from behind her curtains. He had work to do, and he needed to stop wondering about the blonde up at the window. A messenger from the War Office had delivered a rather lengthy document earlier that morning, and it needed translating right away. Harry always followed the same routine when converting Russian to English—first a quick read, for the overall meaning, then a closer look, examining the document on a more word-by-word level. Only then, after this thorough perusal, did he pick up a pen and ink and begin his translation.

  It was a tedious task. He liked it, but then again, he’d always liked puzzles. He could sit with a document for hours, and realize only when the sun went down that he had not eaten all day. But even he, who was so enamored of the task, could not imagine spending the day watching someone translate documents.

  And yet there she was, once again at her window. Probably thinking she was so very good at concealment and he an absolute dunce.

  He smirked. She had no idea. Harry might work for the dull branch of the War Office—the one that dealt with words and papers instead of guns, knives, and secret missions—but he was well trained. He’d spent ten years in the military, most of them on the Continent, where an observant eye and a keen sense for movement could make the difference between life and death.

  He’d noticed, for example, that she had a habit of tucking loose strands of hair behind her ear. And because she sometimes watched him at night, he knew that when she let it down—the entire, unbelievably sunshiny mass of it—the ends hit right in the middle of her back.

  He knew that her dressing gown was blue. And, regrettably, rather shapeless.

  She had no talent for holding still. She probably thought she did; she wasn’t a fidgeter, and her posture was straight and direct. But something always gave her away—a little flutter of her fingertips, or perhaps a tiny elevation of her shoulders as she drew breath.

  And of course, by this point, Harry couldn’t possibly not notice her.

  It did make him wonder. What part of his being hunched over a sheaf of papers was so interesting to her? Because that was all he had been doing all week.

  Perhaps he ought to liven up the spectacle. Really, it would be the kind thing to do. She had to be bored silly.

  He could jump on his desk and sing.

  Take a bite of food and pretend to choke. What would she do, then?

  Now that would be an interesting moral dilemma. He set down his pen for a moment, thinking about the various society ladies he’d had cause to meet. He was not so very cynical; he fully believed that some of them, at least, would make an attempt to save him. But he rather doubted any possessed the necessary athletic skills to make it over in time.

  He’d best chew his food carefully.

  Harry let out a long breath and attempted to refocus his attention on his work. His eyes had been turned toward his papers the entire time he’d been thinking about the girl at the window, but he had not read a thing. He’d got nothing done in the past five days. He supposed he could draw the curtain, but that would be too obvious. Especially now, at half noon, with the sun high and bright.

  He stared down at the words before him, but he could not concentrate. She was still there, still staring at him, imagining herself concealed behind the curtain.

  Why the hell was she watching him?

  Harry didn’t like it. There was no way she could see what he was working on, and even if she could, he rather doubted she read Cyrillic. But still, the documents on his desk were often of a sensitive nature, occasionally even of national importance. If someone was spying on him…

  He shook his head. If someone was spying on him, it wouldn’t be the daughter of the Earl of Rudland, for God’s sake.

  And then, miraculously, she was gone. She turned first, her chin lifting perhaps an inch, and then she stepped away. She’d heard a noise; probably someone had called out to her. Harry didn’t care. He was just glad she was gone. He ne
eded to get to work.

  He looked down, got halfway through the first page, and then:

  “Good morning, Sir Harry!”

  It was Sebastian, clearly in a jocular mood. He wouldn’t be calling Harry Sir Anything, otherwise. Harry didn’t look up. “It’s afternoon.”

  “Not when one awakens at eleven.”

  Harry fought off a sigh. “You didn’t knock.”

  “I never do.” Sebastian flopped into a chair, apparently not noticing when his dark hair did its own flop—into his eyes. “What are you doing?”

  “Working.”

  “You do that a lot.”

  “Some of us don’t have earldoms to inherit,” Harry remarked, trying to finish at least one more sentence before Sebastian would require his complete attention.

  “Perhaps,” Sebastian murmured. “Perhaps not.”

  This was true. Sebastian had always been second-in-line to inherit; his uncle the Earl of Newbury had sired only one son, Geoffrey. But the earl (who still thought Sebastian a complete wastrel, despite his decade of service to His Majesty’s Empire) had not been concerned. After all, there had been little reason to suppose that Sebastian might inherit. Geoffrey had married while Sebastian was in the army, and his wife had borne two daughters, so clearly the man could produce a baby.

  But then Geoffrey had taken a fever and died. As soon as it became apparent that his widow was not increasing and therefore no young heir was in the offing to save the earldom from the devastation that was Sebastian Grey, the long-widowed earl had taken it upon himself to produce a new heir to the title and to that end was now gadding about London, shopping for a wife.

  Which meant that no one knew quite what to make of Sebastian. Either he was the devastatingly handsome and charming heir to an ancient and wealthy earldom, in which case he was without a doubt the biggest prize on the marriage mart, or he was the devastatingly handsome and charming heir to nothing, in which case he might be a society matron’s worst nightmare.

  Still, he was invited everywhere. And when it came to London society, he knew everything.