What Happens in London

  She tried not to look embarrassed. “Apparently not.”

  “And he didn’t see you? In all that time?”

  “No,” she lied, and quite smoothly, too. “And I don’t want him to. That was why I was crawling away from the window.”

  He looked over at the window. Then back at her, his head moving slowly, and with great skepticism. “Very well. What have you discerned about our new neighbor?”

  She plopped herself down into a chair at the back wall, surprised by how much she wanted to tell him her findings. “Well. Most of the time he seems quite ordinary.”

  “Shocking.”

  She scowled. “Do you want me to tell you or not? Because I won’t continue if all you’re going to do is mock me.”

  He motioned for her to continue with a patently sarcastic flick of his hand.

  “He spends an inordinate amount of time at his desk.”

  Winston nodded. “A sure sign of murderous intent.”

  “When was the last time you spent any time at a desk?” she shot back.

  “Point taken.”

  “And,” she continued, with considerable emphasis, “I also think he is given to disguises.”

  That got his attention. “Disguises?”

  “Yes. Sometimes he wears spectacles and sometimes he does not. And twice he was worn an extremely peculiar hat. Inside.”

  “I can’t believe I am listening to this,” Winston stated.

  “Who wears a hat inside?”

  “You’ve gone mad. It’s the only explanation.”

  “Furthermore, he wears only black.” Olivia thought back to Anne’s comments earlier in the week. “Or dark blue. Not that that is suspicious,” she added, because the truth was, if she hadn’t been the one uttering the words, she’d probably have thought her an idiot, too. The entire escapade did sound quite useless when put so plainly.

  She sighed. “I know this sounds ridiculous, but I tell you, something is not right with that man.”

  Winston stared at her for several seconds before finally saying, “Olivia, you have too much time on your hands. Although…”

  She knew he was letting his words trail of purposefully, but she also knew that she was not going to be able to resist the bait. “Although what?” she ground out.

  “Well, I must say, it does demonstrate an uncharacteristic tenacity on your part.”

  “What do you mean by that?” she demanded.

  The look he gave her was condescending in the way that only a sibling could manage. “You must admit, you don’t possess a reputation for seeing things through to the end.”

  “That is not true!”

  He crossed his arms. “What about that model of St. Paul’s you were building?”

  Her jaw dropped into an openmouthed gasp. She could not believe he was using that as an example. “The dog knocked it over!”

  “Perhaps you recall a certain vow to write to Grandmother every week?”

  “You’re even worse at it than I am.”

  “Ah, but I never promised diligence. I also never took up oil painting or the violin.”

  Olivia’s hands balled at her sides. So she hadn’t taken more than six lessons at painting, or one at violin. It was because she had been dreadful at both. And who wanted to hammer endlessly at an endeavor for which one had no talent?

  “We were speaking of Sir Harry,” she ground out.

  Winston smiled a little. “So we were.”

  She stared at him. Hard. He still had that look on his face—one part supercilious, two parts just plain annoying. He was taking far too much pleasure in having needled her.

  “Very well,” he said, suddenly solicitous. “Tell me, what is so ‘not right’ about Sir Harry Valentine?”

  She waited a moment before speaking, then said, “Twice I have seen him throw masses of paper into the fire.”

  “Twice I have seen myself do the very same thing,” Winston replied. “What else do you expect a man to do with paper that needs discarding? Olivia, you—”

  “It was the way he was doing it.”

  Winston looked as if he’d like to respond but couldn’t find words.

  “He hurled it in,” Olivia said. “Hurled it! In a mad rush.”

  Winston started shaking his head.

  “Then he looked over his shoulder—”

  “You really have been watching him for five days.”

  “Don’t interrupt,” she snapped, and then, without taking a breath: “He looked over his shoulder as if he could hear someone coming from down the hall.”

  “Let me guess. Someone was coming from down the hall.”

  “Yes!” she said excitedly. “His butler entered exactly then. At least I think it was his butler. It was someone, at any rate.”

  Winston looked at her hard. “And the other time?”

  “The other time?”

  “That he burned his papers.”

  “Oh,” she said, “that. It was rather ordinary, actually.”

  Winston stared at her for several moments before saying, “Olivia, you must stop spying on the man.”

  “But—”

  He held up a hand. “Whatever you think Sir Harry is, I promise you, you’re wrong.”

  “I’ve also seen him stuffing money into a pouch.”

  “Olivia, I know Sir Harry Valentine. He’s as normal as can be.”

  “You know him?” And he’d let her run on like an idiot? She was going to kill him.

  How I Would Like to Kill My Brother, Version Sixteen By Olivia Bevelstoke

  No, really, what was the point? She could hardly top Version Fifteen, which had featured both vivisection and wild boar.

  “Well, I don’t actually know him,” Winston explained. “But I know his brother. We were at university together. And I know of Sir Harry. If he’s burning papers it’s merely to tidy his desk.”

  “And that hat?” Olivia demanded. “Winston, it has feathers.” She threw her arms into the air and waved them about, trying to depict the hideousness of it. “Plumes of them!”

  “That I cannot explain.” Winston shrugged, then he grinned. “But I’d love to see it for myself.”

  She scowled, since it was the least infantile reaction she could think of.

  “Furthermore,” he continued with a cross of his arms, “he doesn’t have a fiancée.”

  “Well, yes, but—”

  “And he’s never had one.”

  Which did support Olivia’s opinion that the whole rumor was nothing but air, but it was galling that Winston was the one to prove it. If indeed he had proved it; Winston was hardly an authority on the man.

  “Oh, by the by,” Winston said, in what was far too casual a voice, “I assume that Mother and Father are not aware of your recent investigative activities.”

  Why, the little weasel. “You said you wouldn’t say anything,” Olivia said accusingly.

  “I said I wouldn’t say anything about that rot from Mary Cadogan and Anne Buxton. I didn’t say anything about your brand of madness.”

  “What do you want, Winston?” Olivia ground out.

  He looked her directly in the eye. “I’m taking ill on Thursday. Do not contradict.”

  Olivia mentally flipped through her social calendar. Thursday…Thursday…the Smythe-Smith musicale. “Oh, no you don’t!” she cried, lurching toward him.

  He fanned the air near his head. “My tender ears, you know…”

  Olivia tried to think of a suitable retort and was viciously disappointed when all she came up with was: “You—you—”

  “I wouldn’t make threats, were I you.”

  “If I have to go, you have to go.”

  He gave her a sickly smile. “Funny how the world never seems to work that way.”

  “Winston!”

  He was still laughing as he ducked out the door.

  Olivia allowed herself just a moment to wallow in her irritation before deciding that she’d rather attend the Smythe-Smith musicale without her brothe
r. The only reason she’d wanted him to go was to see him suffer, and she was sure she could come up with other ways to achieve that objective. Furthermore, if Winston were forced to sit still for the performance, he’d surely entertain himself by torturing her the entire time. The previous year he’d poked a hole in her right rib cage, and the year before that…

  Well, suffice it to say that Olivia’s revenge had included an aged egg and three of her friends, all convinced he’d fallen into desperate love, and she still didn’t think the score had been made even.

  So really, it was best that he’d not be there. She had far more pressing worries than her twin brother, anyway.

  Frowning, she turned her attention back to her bedroom window. It was closed, of course; the day was not so fine as to encourage fresh air. But the curtains were tied back, and the clear pane of glass beckoned and taunted. From her vantage point at the far side of her room she could see only the brick of his outer wall, and maybe a sliver of glass from a different—not his study—window. If she twisted a bit. And if there weren’t a glare.

  She squinted.

  She scooted her chair a bit to the right, trying to avoid the glare.

  She craned her neck.

  Then, before she had the chance to think the better of it, she dropped back to the floor, using her left foot to kick her bedroom door shut. The last thing she needed was Winston catching her on hands and knees again.

  Slowly she inched forward, wondering what on earth she thought she was doing—really, was she just going to rise when she reached the window, as if to say, I fell, and now I’m back up?

  Oh, that would make sense.

  And then it occurred to her—in her panic, she’d quite forgotten that he must be wondering why she’d fallen to the floor. He’d seen her—of that she was certain—and then she’d dropped.

  Dropped. Not turned, not walked away, but dropped. Like a stone.

  Was he staring up at her window right now, wondering what had become of her? Did he think she was ill? Might he even come to her house to inquire after her welfare?

  Olivia’s heart began to race. The embarrassment would be unfathomable. Winston would not stop laughing for a week.

  No, no, she assured herself, he wouldn’t think she was ill. Just clumsy. Surely just clumsy. Which meant that she needed to stand, get up and about, and show herself walking around the room in perfect health.

  And maybe she should wave, since she knew he knew she knew he’d seen her.

  She paused, going over that last bit in her head. Was that the right number of knews?

  But more to the point, this was the first time he’d spotted her at the window. He had no idea she’d been watching him for five days. Of that she was certain. So really, he would have no reason to be suspicious. They were in London, for heaven’s sake. The most populous city in Britain. People saw one another in windows all the time. The only dodgy thing about the encounter was that she’d acted like an utter fool and failed to acknowledge him.

  She needed to wave. She needed to smile and wave as if to say—Isn’t this all so very amusing?

  She could do that. Sometimes it felt like her whole life was smiling and waving and pretending it was all so very amusing. She knew how to behave in any social situation, and what was this if not an—albeit unusual—social situation?

  This was where Olivia Bevelstoke shone.

  She scrambled to the side of the room so that she could rise to her feet out of his line of sight. Then, as if nothing were amiss, she strolled toward the window, parallel to the outer wall, clearly focused on something ahead of her, because that was what she would be doing while minding her own business in her bedchamber.

  Then, just at the correct moment, she would glance to the side, as if she’d heard a bird chirping, or maybe a squirrel, and she would happen to see out the window, because that was what would happen in such a situation, and then, when she caught a glimpse of her neighbor, she would smile ever so slightly with recognition. Her eyes would show the faintest spark of surprise, and she would wave.

  Which she did. Perfectly. At the wrong person.

  And now Sir Harry’s butler must think her an absolute moron.

  Chapter Three

  Mozart, Mozart, Bach (the elder), more Mozart.

  Olivia looked down at the program for the annual Smythe-Smith musicale, idly fingering the corner until it grew soft and ragged. It all looked the same as last year, except that there seemed to be a new girl at the cello. Curious. Olivia chewed on the inside of her lip as she considered this. How many Smythe-Smith cousins of the female variety could there be? According to Philomena, who had got it from her elder sister, the Smythe-Smiths had played as a string quartet every year since 1807. And yet the girls performing never managed to age past twenty. There was always another waiting in the wings, it seemed.

  Poor things. Olivia supposed they were all forced to be musical whether they liked it or not. It wouldn’t do to run out of cellists, and heaven knew, two of the girls hardly looked strong enough to hoist their violins.

  Musical Instruments I Might Like To Play, Had I Talent By Lady Olivia Bevelstoke

  Flute

  Piccolo

  Tuba

  It was good to choose the unexpected from time to time. And the tuba might double as a weapon.

  Musical instruments she was fairly certain she would not wish to play would include anything of the stringed variety, because even if she managed to exceed the accomplishments of the Smythe-Smith cousins (legendary for their musicales for all the wrong reasons), she would still likely sound like a dying cow.

  She’d tried the violin once. Her mother had had it removed from the house.

  Come to think of it, Olivia was rarely invited to sing, either.

  Ah well, she had other talents, she supposed. She could produce a better-than-average watercolor, and she was rarely at a loss in conversation. And if she wasn’t musical, at least no one was forcing her on a stage once a year to bludgeon the ears of the unwary.

  Or not so unwary. Olivia looked about the room. She recognized almost everyone—surely they all knew what to expect. The Smythe-Smith musicale had become a rite of passage. One had to do it because…

  Well now, that was a good question. Possibly unanswerable.

  Olivia looked back down at her program, even though she’d already read through it three times. The card was a creamy color, and the hue seemed to melt into the yellow silk of her skirts. She’d wanted to wear her new blue velvet, but then she’d thought a cheerful color might be more useful. Cheerful and distracting. Although, she thought, frowning down at her attire, the yellow wasn’t proving all that distracting, and she was no longer so sure she liked the cut of the lace on the border, and—

  “He’s here.”

  Olivia looked up from her program. Mary Cadogan was standing above her—no, now she was sitting down, taking the seat Olivia was supposed to have reserved for her mother.

  Olivia was about to ask who, but then the Smythe-Smiths began to warm up their instruments.

  She flinched, then winced, then made the mistake of looking toward the makeshift stage to see what could have made so wretched a sound. She was not able to determine the origin, but the wretched expression on the face of the violist was enough to make her avert her eyes.

  “Did you hear me?” Mary said urgently, poking her in the side. “He’s here. Your neighbor.” At Olivia’s blank stare, she practically hissed, “Sir Harry Valentine!”

  “Here?” Olivia instantly twisted in her seat.

  “Don’t look!”

  And twisted back. “Why is he here?” she whispered.

  Mary fussed with her dress, a lavender muslin which was apparently every bit as uncomfortable as it looked. “I don’t know. He was probably invited.”

  That had to be true. No one in their right mind would attend the annual Smythe-Smith musicale un-invited. It was, in the most delicate of descriptions, an assault on the senses.

  One of th
e senses, anyway. It was probably a good night to be deaf.

  What was Sir Harry Valentine doing here? Olivia had spent the past three days with curtains drawn, assiduously avoiding all windows on the south side of Rudland House. But she hadn’t expected to see him out, since as she well knew, Sir Harry Valentine didn’t go out.

  And surely anyone who spent as much time with pen, ink, and paper as he did possessed sufficient intelligence to know that if he did decide to go out, there were better options than the Smythe-Smith musicale.

  “Has he ever attended anything like this before?” Olivia asked through the corner of her mouth, keeping her head facing forward.

  “I don’t think so,” Mary whispered back, also staring straight ahead. She leaned in toward Olivia slightly, until their shoulders almost touched. “He has been to two balls since his arrival in town.”

  “Almacks?”

  “Never.”

  “That horse race in the park that everyone went to last month?”

  She felt, rather than saw, Mary shake her head. “I don’t think so. But I can’t be certain. I wasn’t allowed to go.”

  “Neither was I,” Olivia murmured. Winston had told her all about it, of course, but (also of course) he had not given as detailed an accounting as she would have liked.

  “He spends a great deal of time with Mr. Grey,” Mary continued.

  Olivia’s chin drew back with surprise. “Sebastian Grey?”

  “They are cousins. First, I believe.”

  At that Olivia gave up all pretense of not carrying on a conversation and looked straight at Mary. “Sir Harry Valentine is cousin to Sebastian Grey?”

  Mary gave a little shrug. “By all accounts.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “Why is it so difficult to believe?”

  Olivia paused. “I have no idea.” But it was. She knew Sebastian Grey. Everyone did. Which was why he seemed such a peculiar match for Sir Harry, who, as far as Olivia could tell, left his office only to eat, sleep, and knock Julian Prentice unconscious.

  Julian Prentice! She’d forgotten all about him. Olivia straightened and looked about the room with practiced discretion.

  But of course Mary instantly knew what she was doing. “Who are you looking for?” she whispered.