What Happens in London

  Which was why Harry knew he’d get an answer when he asked, “Does the Earl of Rudland have a daughter?”

  Sebastian regarded him with an expression that most would interpret as bored, but that Harry knew meant, You nodcock.

  “Of course,” Sebastian said.

  The “nodcock” bit, Harry decided, was implied.

  “Why?” Sebastian asked.

  Harry glanced briefly toward the window, even though she wasn’t there. “Is she blond?”

  “Very much so.”

  “Quite pretty?”

  Sebastian slid into a sly smile. “More than that, by most standards.”

  Harry frowned. What the devil was Rudland’s daughter doing watching him so closely?

  Sebastian yawned, not bothering to cover it, even when Harry shot him a disgusted look. “Any particular reason for the sudden interest?”

  Harry stepped toward the window, regarding her window, which he now knew was on the second floor, third from the right. “She’s watching me.”

  “Lady Olivia Bevelstoke is watching you,” Sebastian repeated.

  “Is that her name?” Harry murmured.

  “She’s not watching you.”

  Harry turned. “I beg your pardon.”

  Sebastian gave a rude shrug. “Lady Olivia Bevelstoke doesn’t need you.”

  “I never said she did.”

  “She had five proposals of marriage last year, and the number would have been double that if she hadn’t dissuaded several gentlemen before they made fools of themselves.”

  “You know a great deal about society for one who claims disinterest.”

  “Have I ever claimed disinterest?” Sebastian stroked his chin in an affectation of thoughtfulness. “How untruthful of me.”

  Harry gave him a bit of a stare, then rose to his feet and walked to the window, free to do so now that Lady Olivia was gone.

  “Anything exciting?” Sebastian murmured.

  Harry ignored him, moving his head slightly to the left, not that that did much to improve his vantage point. Still, she’d left the window scrim tied back farther than usual, and if the sun weren’t glinting on the glass, he’d have had a good view into her room. Certainly the best yet.

  “Is she there?” Sebastian asked, his voice dipping into a mocking quaver. “Is she watching you right now?”

  Harry turned, then immediately rolled his eyes when he saw Sebastian moving his hands about, his fingers making odd flexing motions as if he were trying to fend off a ghost.

  “You’re an idiot,” Harry said.

  “But a handsome one,” Sebastian returned, immediately resuming his slouch. “And terribly charming. It gets me out of so much trouble.”

  Harry turned, leaning lazily against the window frame. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  “I pine for your company.”

  Harry waited patiently.

  “I need money?” Sebastian tried.

  “Far more likely, but I have it on the best authority that you lightened Winterhoe’s purse by a hundred quid Tuesday last.”

  “And you say you don’t follow gossip.”

  Harry shrugged. He paid attention when it suited him.

  “It was two hundred, I’ll have you know. Would have been more, too, if Winterhoe’s brother hadn’t shown up and hauled him off.”

  Harry did not comment. He had little affection for Winterhoe or his brother, but he could not help but sympathize.

  “Sorry,” Sebastian said, correctly interpreting Harry’s silence. “How is the young whelp?”

  Harry glanced toward the ceiling. His younger brother Edward was still abed, presumably sleeping off whatever excesses he’d got himself into the previous night. “Still detests me.” He shrugged. The only reason Harry had moved to London was to keep an eye on his younger brother, and Edward hated that he’d been forced to bow to his authority. “He’ll grow out of it.”

  “Are you evil these days, or just an old stick?”

  Harry felt the stirrings of a smile. “An old stick, I think.”

  Sebastian slouched ever more into the chair and gave the impression of a shrug. “I’d rather be evil.”

  “There are some who would say you needn’t worry on that score,” Harry murmured.

  “Now, now, Sir Harry,” Sebastian admonished. “I’ve never debauched an innocent.”

  Harry acknowledged the statement with a nod. All appearances to the contrary, Sebastian did conduct his life according to a certain code of ethics. It was not a code that most would recognize, but it was there, nonetheless. And if he’d ever seduced a virgin, he’d certainly not done so on purpose.

  “I heard you gave someone a beating last week,” Sebastian said.

  Harry shook his head in disgust. “He’ll be fine.”

  “That’s not what I asked.”

  Harry turned back from the window to face Sebastian directly. “Actually, you didn’t ask anything.”

  “Very well,” Sebastian said with exaggerated concession. “Why did you beat the young thing to a pulp?”

  “It wasn’t like that,” Harry said irritably.

  “I heard you knocked him unconscious.”

  “That he managed for himself.” Harry shook his head with disgust. “He was completely sotted. I punched him once, in the face. At most, I hastened his blackout by ten minutes.”

  “It’s not like you to strike another man unprovoked,” Sebastian said quietly, “even if he has had too much to drink.”

  Harry’s jaw clenched. He was not proud of the episode, but at the same time, he could not bring himself to regret it. “He was bothering someone,” he said tightly. And that was all he was going to say. Sebastian knew him well enough to know what that meant.

  Sebastian nodded thoughtfully, then let out a long sigh. Harry took that to mean that he would drop the subject, and he walked back over to his desk, surreptitiously glancing over at the window on his way.

  “Is she there?” Sebastian asked suddenly.

  Harry did not pretend to misunderstand. “No.” He sat back down, finding his spot in the Russian document.

  “Is she there now?”

  It was remarkable how quickly this was growing tedious. “Seb—”

  “Now?

  “Why are you here?”

  Sebastian sat up a bit. “I need you to go to the Smythe-Smith musicale on Thursday.”

  “Why?”

  “I promised someone I’d go, and—”

  “Whom did you promise?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “It does to me, if I’m forced to attend.”

  Sebastian colored slightly, always an entertaining, if unusual, event. “Very well, it’s my grandmother. She cornered me last week.”

  Harry groaned. Any other female, and he’d have been able to get out of it. But a promise to a grandmother—that had to be upheld.

  “Then you’ll go?” Sebastian asked.

  “Yes,” Harry said with a sigh. He hated these things, but at least at a musicale one didn’t have to make polite conversation all evening. He could sit in his seat, say nothing, and if he looked bored, well, so would everyone else.

  “Excellent. Shall I—”

  “Wait a moment.” Harry turned to him suspiciously. “Why do you need me?” Because really, Sebastian hardly lacked social confidence.

  Sebastian shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “I suspect my uncle will be there.”

  “Since when has that scared you?”

  “It doesn’t.” Seb shot him a look of pure disgust. “But Grandmama is likely to try to mend the rift and—Oh, for God’s sake, does it matter? Will you go or won’t you?”

  “Of course.” Because really, it hadn’t been in any doubt. If Sebastian needed him, Harry would be there.

  Sebastian stood, and whatever distress he’d been feeling was gone, replaced by his customary nonchalance. “I owe you.”

  “I’ve stopped counting.”

  Seb laughed at that. “I
’ll go wake the whelp for you. Even I think it’s an unseemly hour to still be abed.”

  “Be my guest. You’re the only thing about me Edward respects.”

  “Respects?”

  “Admires,” Harry amended. Edward had more than once expressed his disbelief that his brother—whom he found dull beyond measure—should be so close to Sebastian, whom he wished to emulate in every way.

  Sebastian paused at the door. “Is breakfast still laid?”

  “Get out of here,” Harry said. “And shut the door, will you?”

  Sebastian did so, but his chortling rang through the house nonetheless. Harry flexed his fingers and looked back at his desk, where the Russian documents still sat untouched. He had only two days to complete this assignment. Thank God the girl—Lady Olivia—had left her room.

  At the thought of her, he looked up, but without his usual care, since he knew she was gone.

  Except she wasn’t.

  And this time, she had to know that he’d seen her.

  Chapter Two

  Olivia dropped to all fours, her heart pounding. He’d seen her. He had definitely seen her. She’d seen it in his eyes, in the sharp twist of his head. Dear God, how would she explain herself? Genteel young ladies did not spy upon their neighbors. They gossiped about them, inspected the cuts of their coats and the quality of their carriages, but they did not, repeat not, spy on them through windows.

  Even if said neighbor was a possible murderer.

  Which Olivia still did not believe.

  That said, however, Sir Harry Valentine was definitely up to something. His behavior this past week was not normal. Not that Olivia could claim knowledge as to what constituted normal for him, but she had two brothers. She knew what men did in their offices and studies.

  She knew, for example, that most men did not occupy their offices and studies, at least not for ten hours each day, as Sir Harry seemed to. And she knew that when they did happen to go into their offices, it was usually to avoid relations of the female persuasion, and not, as was the case with Sir Harry, to spend their time studiously examining papers and documents.

  Olivia would have given her eyeteeth, and perhaps a molar or two, to have known what was in those papers. All day long, every day, he was there at his desk, poring over loose papers. Sometimes it almost looked as if he were copying them.

  But that made no sense. Men like Sir Harry employed secretaries for that sort of thing.

  Her heart still racing, Olivia glanced up, assessing her situation. Not that looking up was of any use; still, the window was above her, and really, it was only natural that she might—

  “No, no, don’t move.”

  Olivia let out a groan. Winston, her twin brother—or, as she liked to think of him, her younger brother, by precisely three minutes—was standing in the doorway. Or rather, he was leaning casually against the door frame, attempting to appear the devil-may-care charmer he was currently devoting his life attempting to be.

  Which, admittedly, was not very good grammar, but it did seem to describe him precisely as he was. Winston’s blond hair was artfully mussed, his cravat tied just so, and yes, his boots were made by Weston himself, but anyone with an ounce of sense could see he was still wet behind the ears. Why all of her friends went dreamy-eyed and downright stupid in his presence she’d never understand.

  “Winston,” she ground out, unwilling to offer any further acknowledgment.

  “Stay,” he said, holding a hand forward, palm toward her. “Just one more moment. I’m trying to burn the image into my memory.”

  Olivia gave him a surly bit of lip and carefully crawled along the wall, away from the window.

  “Let me guess,” he said. “Blisters on both feet.”

  She ignored him.

  “You and Mary Cadogan are writing a new theatrical. You’re playing the sheep.”

  Never had he been more deserving of a comeback, but sadly, never had Olivia been in less of a position to deliver one.

  “Had I known,” he added, “I’d have brought a riding crop.”

  She was almost close enough to bite his leg. “Winston?”

  “Yes?”

  “Shut up.”

  He laughed.

  “I’m going to kill you,” she announced, rising to her feet. She’d skirted half the length of the room. There was no way Sir Harry would be able to see her here.

  “With your hooves?”

  “Oh, stop it,” she said disgustedly. And then she realized that he was ambling into the room. “Get away from the window!”

  Winston froze, then twisted around to face her. His brows were arched in question.

  “Step back,” Olivia said. “That’s it. Slowly, slowly…”

  He feigned a motion forward.

  Her heart lurched. “Winston!”

  “Really, Olivia,” he said, turning around and planting his hands on his hips. “What are you doing?”

  She swallowed. There would be no avoiding telling him something. He’d seen her crawling about the room like an idiot. He would expect an explanation. Heaven knew she would, had their positions been reversed.

  But she might not have to tell him the truth. Surely there was some other explanation for her actions.

  Reasons Why I Might Be Crawling About on the Floor AND Need to Avoid the Window

  No. She had nothing.

  “It’s our neighbor,” Olivia said, resorting to the truth, since, given her position, she had no other choice.

  Winston’s head turned toward the window. Slowly, and with as much sarcasm as a lateral move of the head could convey.

  Which, Olivia had to admit, was quite a bit when performed by a Bevelstoke.

  “Our neighbor,” he repeated. “Do we have one?”

  “Sir Harry Valentine. He leased the house while you were in Gloucestershire.”

  Winston nodded slowly. “And his presence in Mayfair has you crawling on the floor…because…”

  “I was watching him.”

  “Sir Harry.”

  “Yes.”

  “From your knees.”

  “Of course not. He saw me, and—”

  “And now he thinks you’re a lunatic.”

  “Yes. No! I don’t know.” She let out a furious exhale. “I’m hardly privy to his inner thoughts.”

  Winston quirked a brow. “As opposed to his inner bedchamber, which you are—”

  “It’s his office,” she cut in heatedly.

  “Which you feel the need to spy upon because…”

  “Because Anne and Mary said—” Olivia cut herself off, well aware that if she said why she was spying on Sir Harry she’d look more of a fool than she did already.

  “Oh no, don’t stop now,” he implored dryly. “If Anne and Mary said it, I definitely want to hear it.”

  Her mouth clamped into a businesslike frown. “Fine. But you mustn’t repeat it.”

  “I try not to repeat anything they say,” he said frankly.

  “Winston.”

  “I won’t say a word.” He held up his hands, as if in surrender.

  Olivia gave a curt nod of acknowledgment. “Because it isn’t even true.”

  “That, I already knew, considering the source.”

  “Win—”

  “Oh, come now, Olivia. You know better than to trust anything those two tell you.”

  She felt a reluctant need to defend them. “They’re not that bad.”

  “Not at all,” he agreed, “just lacking in any ability to discern truth from fiction.”

  He was correct, but still, they were her friends, and he was annoying, so it wasn’t as if she was going to admit it. Instead, she ignored his statement altogether and continued with: “I mean it, Winston. You must keep this a secret.”

  “I give you my word,” he said, sounding almost bored by the whole thing.

  “What I say in this room…”

  “Stays in this room,” he finished. “Olivia…”

  “Fine. Anne and Mary
said they had heard that Sir Harry had killed his fiancée—no, don’t interrupt, I don’t believe it, either—but then I got to thinking, well, how does a rumor like that get started?”

  “From Anne Buxton and Mary Cadogan,” Winston answered.

  “They never start rumors,” Olivia said. “They only repeat them.”

  “A critical difference.”

  Olivia felt similarly, but this was neither the time nor place to agree with her brother. “We know he has a temper,” she continued.

  “We do? How?”

  “You didn’t hear about Julian Prentice?”

  “Oh, that.” Winston rolled his eyes.

  “What do you mean?”

  “He barely touched him. Julian was so far gone a gust of wind could have knocked him out.”

  “But Sir Harry did hit him.”

  Winston waved a hand. “I suppose.”

  “Why?”

  He shrugged, then crossed his arms. “No one knows, really. Or at least, no one is telling. But stop for a moment—what does any of this have to do with you?”

  “I was curious,” she admitted. It sounded beyond foolish, but it was the truth. And she couldn’t possibly embarrass herself any more this afternoon.

  “Curious about what?”

  “Him.” She jerked her head toward the window. “I didn’t even know what he looked like. And yes,” she said pointedly, putting a halt to the interruption she could see forming on his lips, “I know that what he looks like has nothing at all to do with whether or not he’s killed anyone, but I couldn’t help myself. He lives right next door.”

  He crossed his arms. “And you’re worried he’s planning to steal over and slit your throat?”

  “Winston!”

  “I’m sorry, Olivia,” he said, laughing, “but you must admit, it’s the most ludicrous thing—”

  “But it’s not,” she put in earnestly. “It was. That I agree. But then—I started watching him, and I tell you, Winston, there is something very peculiar about that man.”

  “Which you’ve discerned in the last—” Winston frowned. “How long have you been spying upon him?”

  “Five days.”

  “Five days?” Gone was the bored-aristocrat expression, replaced by mouth-dropping disbelief. “Good Lord, Olivia, haven’t you anything better to do with your time?”