What Happens in London (10 page)

“Have
you
read it?” she asked, looking down as she opened to a random page.

“Gad, no. But my sister recommended it highly.”

She looked up sharply. “You have a sister?”

“You seem to find that surprising.”

She did. She wasn’t sure why, except that her friends had seen fit to tell her
everything
about him, and somehow that had been left off.

“She lives in Cornwall,” he said, “surrounded by cliffs, legend, and a gaggle of small children.”

“What a lovely description.” And she meant it, too. “Are you a devoted uncle?”

“No.”

Her surprise must have shown, because he said, “Am I not supposed to admit that?”

She laughed without meaning to. “Touché, Sir Harry.”

“I would like to be a devoted uncle,” he told her, his smile growing warm and true, “but I have not had the opportunity to meet any of them.”

“Of course,” she murmured. “You were on the Continent for so many years.”

His head tilted ever so slightly to the side. She wondered if he always did that when he was curious. “You know quite a bit about me,” he said.

“Everyone knows that much about you.” Really, the man should not be surprised.

“There is not much privacy in London, is there?”

“Almost none at all.” The words were out of her mouth before she realized what she’d said, what she might have just admitted to. “Would you care for tea?” she asked, deftly changing the topic.

“I would love some, thank you.”

Once she’d rung for Huntley and given him instructions, Sir Harry said, quite conversationally, “When I was in the army, that was what I missed the most.”

“Tea?” That seemed difficult to believe.

He nodded. “I
longed
for it.”

“It wasn’t provided for you?” For some reason Olivia found this simply unacceptable.

“Sometimes. Other times we had to make do.”

Something about his voice—wistful and young—made her smile. “I do hope ours meets with your approval.”

“I’m not picky.”

“Really? I would think that with such a love for it, you would be a connoisseur.”

“Rather, I went without so many times that I appreciate every drop.”

She laughed. “It was tea you missed, really? Most gentlemen of my acquaintance would say brandy. Or port.”

“Tea,” he said firmly.

“Do you drink coffee?”

He shook his head. “Too bitter.”

“Chocolate?”

“Only with heaps of sugar.”

“You are a very interesting man, Sir Harry.”

“I am certainly aware that
you
find me interesting.”

Her cheeks burned. And here she was starting to actually like the man. The worst part of it all was, he had a point. She
had
been spying on him, and it
had
been rude. But still, he didn’t need to go out of his way to make her uncomfortable.

The tea arrived, giving her respite from meaningful conversation. “Milk?” she asked.

“Please.”

“Sugar?”

“No. Thank you.”

She didn’t bother to look up as she remarked, “Really? No sugar? Even though you sweeten your chocolate?”

“And my coffee, if I’m forced to drink it. Tea is a different beast altogether.”

Olivia handed him his cup and set to work preparing her own. There was a certain comfort to be found in familiar tasks. Her hands knew just what to do, the memories of the motions long since etched into her muscles. The conversation, too, was bolstering. Simple and meaningless, and yet it restored her equilibrium. So much so that as he took his second sip, she was finally able to upset
his
equilibrium, smiling sweetly as she said:

“They say you killed your fiancée.”

He choked, which gave her great pleasure (his shock, not his choking; she hoped she’d not become
that
ruthless), but he recovered quickly, and his voice was smooth and even when he responded, “Do they?”

“They do.”

“Do they say how I killed her?”

“They do not.”

“Do they say when?”

“They might have done,” she lied, “but I wasn’t listening.”

“Hmmm.” He appeared to be considering this. It was a disconcerting sight, this tall, utterly masculine man, sitting in her mother’s mauve sitting room with a dainty teacup in his hand. Apparently pondering murder.

He took a sip. “Did anyone happen to mention her name?”

“Your fiancée’s?”

“Yes.” It was a silky, utterly urbane “yes,” as if they were discussing the weather, or perhaps the likelihood of Bucket of Roses winning the Ascot Cup on Ladies’ Day.

Olivia gave her head a little shake and lifted her own cup to her lips.

He closed his eyes for just a moment, then looked at her directly, his head moving sadly from side to side. “She rests in peace now, that is all that is important.”

Olivia didn’t just choke on her tea, she spit it nearly across the room. And he laughed, the wretch.

“Good God, that was the most fun I’ve had in years,” he said, trying to catch his breath.

“You’re despicable.”

“You accused me of murder!”

“I did not. I only said that someone else did.”

“Oh, yes,” he said mockingly, “
there’s
a really big difference.”

“For your information, I didn’t
believe
it.”

“I am warmed to the core by your support.”

“Don’t be,” she said sharply. “It was nothing more
than common sense.”

He laughed again. “Is that why you were spying on me?”

“I wasn’t—” Oh, for heaven’s sake, why was she still denying it? “Yes,” she practically spat. “Wouldn’t you do the same?”

“I might call for a constable first.”

“I might call for a constable first,” she mimicked, using a voice she usually reserved for her siblings.

“You
are
testy.”

She glared at him.

“Very well, did you at least discover something interesting?”

“Yes,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “Yes, I did.”

He waited, then finally said, with no small amount of sarcasm, “Do tell.”

She leaned forward. “Explain the hat.”

He looked at her as if she’d gone mad. “What are you talking about?”

“The hat!” she exclaimed, waving her hands alongside her head, her wrists flicking up as if to indicate the silhouette of a headpiece. “It was ridiculous! It had feathers. And you were wearing it inside.”

“Oh. That.” Harry fought a chuckle. “That was for your benefit, really.”

“You didn’t know I was there!”

“Excuse me, yes I did.”

Her lips parted, and she looked a trifle queasy as she asked, “When did you see me?”

“The first time you stepped in front of the window.” Harry shrugged, raising his eyebrows as if to say—
Just try to contradict me
. “You’re not as good at con
cealment as you think.”

She drew back in a huff. It was ludicrous, but he suspected she thought she’d been insulted. “And the papers in the fire?” she demanded.

“Don’t you ever toss papers in the fire?”

“Not in a mad rush, I don’t.”

“Well, that was for your benefit, too. You were going to such trouble. I thought I had best make it worth your while.”

“You…”

She didn’t look able to complete the sentence, so he added, almost offhandedly, “I was near to jumping on the desk and dancing a jig, but I thought that would be too obvious.”

“You were making fun of me the whole time.”

“Well…” He thought about that. “Yes.”

Her lips parted. She looked outraged, and he almost felt apologetic—really, it had to be a male reflex, to feel ashamed when a female had that look on her face. But she had not a leg to stand on, not even a toe. “Might I remind you,” he pointed out, “that
you
were spying on
me
. If anyone is the wronged party, it is I.”

“Well, I do think you’ve had your revenge,” she responded primly, her chin poking up in the air.

“Oh, I don’t know about that, Lady Olivia. It will be a long time before we are even.”

“What are you planning?” she asked suspiciously.

“Nothing.” He grinned. “Yet.”

She made a funny little huffing sound—it was quite endearing, really—and he decided to go in for the winning blow with, “Oh, and by the way, I have never been betrothed.”

She blinked, looking somewhat confused by his
sudden change of topic.

“The dead fiancée?” he supplied helpfully.

“Not so dead, then?”

“Never even alive to begin with.”

She nodded slowly, then asked, “Why did you come here today?”

Harry certainly wasn’t going to tell her the truth, that she was now his assignment, and he was supposed to make sure that she didn’t unwittingly commit treason. So he just said, “It seemed polite.”

He was going to have to spend a great deal of time with her in the next few weeks, or if not with her, then at least in her vicinity. He no longer suspected that there had been any nefarious purpose to her spying on him. He never had, really, but it would have been foolish not to be careful. Still, her story about the dead fiancée was so ludicrous it had to be true. It did seem exactly the reason a bored debutante would spy on a neighbor.

Not that he knew much of bored debutantes.

But he supposed he would soon.

He smiled at her. He was enjoying himself far more than he’d expected to.

She looked as if she might roll her eyes, and for some reason he wanted her to. He liked her much more when her face was in motion, replete with emotion. At the Smythe-Smith musicale, she had been cool and uncompromisingly reserved. Except for a few unharnessed flashes of ire, she had been devoid of expression.

It had grated. It had got under his fingernails, like an itch that could never be satisfied.

She offered more tea, and he took it, strangely content to prolong the visit. As she was pouring, however, the butler entered the room again, bearing a silver tray.

“Lady Olivia,” he intoned. “This arrived for you.”

The butler bent down so that Lady Olivia could remove a card from the tray. It looked like an invitation of sorts, festive and grand, with a ribbon and a seal.

A seal?

Harry shifted his position ever so slightly, trying to get a better view. Was it a royal seal? The Russians did like their royal trappings. He supposed the British did, too, but that was neither here nor there. She wasn’t being pursued by King George.

She glanced at the card in her hands, then moved to set it down on the table beside her.

“Don’t you want to open it?”

“I’m sure it can wait. I wouldn’t wish to be rude.”

“Do not mind me,” he assured her. He motioned toward the card. “It does look interesting.”

She blinked a few times, looking first at the card and then up at him with a curious expression.

“Grand,” Harry clarified, thinking his first choice of adjectives had not been well thought.

“I know who it’s from,” she said, apparently unaffected by the knowledge.

He cocked his head, hoping the motion would serve as the question it would be impolite to voice aloud.

“Oh, very well,” she said, sliding her finger under the seal. “If you insist.”

He hadn’t insisted in the least, but he wasn’t about to
say anything that might make her change her mind.

And so he waited patiently while she read, enjoying the play of emotion across her face. She rolled her eyes once, let out a small but beleaguered exhalation, and then finally groaned.

“Unpleasant news?” Harry inquired politely.

“No,” she said. “Just an invitation I’d rather not accept.”

“Then don’t.”

She smiled tightly. Or maybe it was ruefully. He couldn’t be sure.

“This is more of a summons,” she told him.

“Oh, come now. Who has the authority to issue a summons to the illustrious Lady Olivia Bevelstoke?”

Wordlessly, she handed him the card.

Reasons Why a Prince Might Pay Attention to Me

By Lady Olivia Bevelstoke

Ruination

Marriage

N
either option was particularly appealing. Ruination, for obvious reasons, and marriage for…well, a whole host of reasons.

Reasons Why I Would Not Care to Marry a Russian Prince

By Lady Olivia Bevelstoke

I don’t speak Russian.

I can’t even manage French.

I don’t want to move to Russia.

I hear it’s quite cold there.

I would miss my family.

And tea.

Did they drink tea in Russia? She looked over at Sir Harry, who was still examining the card she’d handed to him. For some reason she thought he would know. He’d traveled widely, or at least as widely as the army would have needed him to, and he did like tea.

And her list hadn’t even begun to touch upon the
royal
aspects of marriage to a prince. The protocol. The formality. It sounded an absolute nightmare.

A nightmare in a very cold climate.

Quite honestly, she was beginning to think that ruination was the lesser of the two evils.

“I did not realize you moved in such rarefied circles,” Sir Harry said, once he was done with his perusal of the invitation.

“I don’t. I’ve met him twice. No”—she thought back over the past few weeks—“three times. That’s all.”

“You must have made quite an impression.”

Olivia sighed wearily. She’d known that the prince had found her attractive. She’d had enough men pursue her in the past that she could recognize the signs. She’d tried to dissuade him as politely as she could, but she couldn’t very well rebuff him completely. He was a prince, for heaven’s sake. If there was going to be tension between their two nations,
she
wasn’t going to be the cause of it.

“Will you go?” Sir Harry asked.

Olivia grimaced. The prince, who was apparently
unaware of the English custom that gentlemen called upon ladies, had requested that she pay him a visit. He had gone so far as to specify a time, two days hence, at three in the afternoon, which led Olivia to feel that he had taken a rather liberal view of the word “request.”

“I don’t see how I can refuse,” she replied.

“No.” He looked down again at the invitation, shaking his head. “You can’t.”

She groaned.

“Most women would find it flattering.”

“I suppose it is. I mean, yes, of course it is. He
is
a prince.” She tried to put a little excitement into her voice. She didn’t think she succeeded.

“But you still don’t wish to go?”

“It’s a nuisance, is what it is.” She gave him a direct look. “Have you ever been presented at court? No? It’s dreadful.”

He laughed, but she was too worked up to do anything but continue. “The dress has to be just so, with hoops and panniers even though no one has worn that nonsense for years. Your curtsy must be exactly the right depth, and heaven forbid you smile at the wrong moment.”

“Somehow I don’t think Prince Alexei expects you to don hoops and panniers.”

“I know he doesn’t, but it’s still going to be grotesquely formal, and I don’t know the first thing about Russian protocol. Which means my mother will insist upon finding someone to teach me, although where she will find a tutor at this late date, I don’t know. And then I will have to spend the next two days learning how deep a Russian curtsy must be, and are there any
topics it would be considered impolite to discuss, and oh!”

She left off with the
oh
, because honestly, the entire topic was giving her a stomachache. Nerves. It was nerves. She hated nerves.

She looked over at Sir Harry. He was sitting very still, with an inscrutable expression on his face.

“Aren’t you going to tell me it won’t be so terrible?” she asked.

He shook his head. “No. It will be terrible.”

She slumped. Her mother would have a fit of the vapors if she saw her like this, all slouchy in the presence of a gentleman. But really, couldn’t he have lied and said she was going to have a marvelous time? If he’d lied, she would still be sitting straight.

And if it made her feel better to affix blame upon someone else, so be it.

“At least you have a few days until you have to present yourself,” he offered.

“Only two,” she said gloomily. “And I’ll probably see him tonight, as well.”

“Tonight?”

“The Mottram ball. Are you going?” She flapped her hand in front of her face. “No, of course you’re not.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” She felt herself blush. That had been terribly thoughtless of her. “I simply meant that you don’t go out. Not that you couldn’t. You just do not choose to. Or at least I assume that’s the reason.”

He stared at her, so long and so level, that she was compelled to continue. “I watched you for five days, remember.”

“It is something I’m unlikely to forget.” He must have taken pity on her, because he did not pursue the topic further, instead saying, “As it happens I do plan to attend the Mottram ball.”

She smiled, more than a little surprised by the flutters of delight in her midsection. “Then I will see you there.”

“I would not miss it for the world.”

As it happened, Harry
hadn’t
planned to attend the Mottram ball. He wasn’t even sure if he had received an invitation, but it was easy enough to attach himself to Sebastian, who would certainly be going. This meant he was forced to endure Seb’s interrogation—
why
did he suddenly wish to go out and
who
might be responsible for the change of heart? But Harry had plenty of experience dodging Sebastian’s questions, and once they arrived, it was such a crush that he was able to lose his cousin immediately.

Harry remained at the perimeter of the ballroom, casting an appraising eye over the crowd. It was difficult to estimate how many were in attendance. Three hundred? Four? It would be easy to pass along a note without being detected, or to conduct a furtive conversation, all the while appearing as if nothing were amiss.

Harry gave himself a mental shake. He was starting to think like a bloody spy, for God’s sake. Which he did not have to do. His orders had been to keep an eye on Lady Olivia and the prince, together or separately. He wasn’t supposed to attempt to prevent anything or stop anything or really,
anything
.

Watch and report, that was all.

He didn’t see Olivia or anyone who looked vaguely royal, for that matter, so he got himself a glass of punch and sipped at it for several minutes, entertaining himself by watching Sebastian move about the room, charming everyone in his path.

It was a talent, that. One he most definitely did not possess.

After about thirty minutes of watching and waiting (no reporting to be done, whatsoever), there was a small stir near the east entrance, so Harry began to wend his way over. He got himself as close as he was able, then leaned toward the gentleman next to him and asked, “Do you know what all the fuss is about?”

“Some Russian prince.” The man shrugged, unimpressed. “Been in town for a couple of weeks.”

“Causing quite a stir,” Harry commented.

The man—Harry didn’t know him, but he seemed like the sort who spent his evenings at events such as these—snorted. “The ladies have gone stupid for him.”

Harry returned his attention to the small knot of people near the door. There was the usual movement of bodies, and every now and then he caught a glimpse of the man at the center of it all, but not for long enough to get a good look at him.

The prince was quite blond, that much he’d been able to see, and taller than average, although probably not, Harry noted with some satisfaction, as tall as he was.

There was no reason Harry should be introduced to the prince, and no one who would think to do so, so
he hung back, trying to take measure of the man as he moved through the crowd.

He was arrogant, that was for certain. At least ten young ladies were presented to him, and each time, he did not even so much as nod. His chin remained high, and he acknowledged each of them with nothing more than a sharp, downward glance.

He treated the gentlemen with similar disdain, speaking only to three.

Harry wondered if there was
anyone
in attendance the prince did not consider beneath his notice.

“You look very serious this evening, Sir Harry.”

He turned and smiled before he could think the better of it. Lady Olivia had somehow sneaked up to his side, heartbreakingly beautiful in midnight-blue velvet.

“Aren’t unmarried ladies supposed to wear pastels?” he asked her.

Her brows rose at his impertinence, but her eyes sparkled with humor. “Yes, but I’m no longer so new. It’s my third year out, you know. Practically on the shelf.”

“Somehow I find it difficult to believe that that is anyone’s fault but your own.”

“Ouch.”

He grinned at her. “And how have you been faring this evening?”

“I have nothing to report. We’ve only just arrived.”

He knew that, of course. But he couldn’t very well let on that he’d been watching for her, so he said, “Your prince is here.”

She looked as if she wanted to groan. “I know.”

He leaned in with a conspiratorial smile. “Shall I help you to avoid him?”

Her eyes lit up. “Do you think you can?”

“I am a man of many talents, Lady Olivia.”

“Funny hats notwithstanding?”

“Funny hats notwithstanding.”

And then, just like that, they both laughed. Together. The sound came together like a perfect chord, clear and true. And then, at quite the same time, they both seemed to realize that moment was significant, although neither had any idea why.

“Why do you wear such dark colors?” she asked.

He looked down at his evening kit. “You don’t like my coat?”

“I do,” she assured him. “It’s very elegant. It’s just that it has been commented upon.”

“My taste in clothing?”

She nodded. “It was a slow week for gossip. Besides, you commented on
my
gown.”

“True enough. Very well, I wear dark colors because it makes my life easier.”

She said nothing, just waited with an expectant look on her face, as if to say—
surely there’s more
.

“I shall let you in on a grave secret, Lady Olivia.”

He leaned forward, and so did she, and it was another one of those moments. Perfect accord.

“I am daft when it comes to colors,” he said in a low, grave voice. “Can’t tell red and green apart to save my life.”

“Really?” Her voice was a bit loud, and she glanced about self-consciously before continuing in a quieter tone. “I have never heard of such a thing.”

“I’m not the only one, I’m told, but I’ve never met anyone else so afflicted.”

“But surely there is no need for dark colors all the time.” She sounded—and looked—utterly fascinated. Her eyes were sparkling with it, and her voice was full of interest.

If Harry had known that his difficulties seeing colors would be such a boon with the ladies, he’d have trotted it out years ago.

“Can’t your valet pick out your attire?” she said.

“Yes, but then I’d have to trust him.”

“You don’t?” She looked intrigued. Amused. Perhaps a combination of both.

“He has a rather dry sense of humor, and he knows I can’t sack him.” He gave her a helpless shrug. “He saved my life once. And perhaps more importantly, my horse’s as well.”

“Oh, then you definitely cannot sack him. Your horse is lovely.”

“I’m quite fond of him,” Harry said. “The horse. And the valet, I suppose.”

She nodded approvingly. “You should be thankful that dark colors suit you. Not everyone wears black well.”

“Why, Lady Olivia, is that a compliment?”

“Not so much a compliment to you as an insult to everyone else,” she assured him.

“Thank heavens for that. I don’t think I would know how to conduct myself in a world in which you offered compliments.”

She touched him lightly on the shoulder—flirtatious, daring, and utterly ironic. “I feel
exactly
the same way.”

“Very well. Now that we are in accord, what shall we do about your prince?”

She gave him a sideways sort of look. “I know that you are just dying for me to say that he’s not my prince.”

“I expected you would, yes,” he murmured.

“In the interest of disappointing you, I shall have to say that he is as much my prince as he is anyone else’s here.” She pressed her lips together as she glanced about the room. “Except for the Russians, I suppose.”

At any other time, Harry would have said that he was Russian, or at least one quarter so. He’d have made a splendid remark, maybe something about not wanting to claim the prince, regardless, and then dazzled her with his command of the language.

But he couldn’t. And truth be told, it was disconcerting how much he wanted to.

“Can you see him?” she asked. She was craning her neck, standing on her tiptoes, but although she was of slightly above average height, there was no way she could see over the crowd.

Harry, however, could. “Over there,” he said with a nod toward the doors leading out to the garden. The prince was standing in the center of a small group of people, looking utterly bored by their attentions, and yet at the same time as if he expected it as his due.

“What is he doing?” Olivia asked.

“He is being presented to…” Well, hell. He had no idea to whom he was being presented. “…someone.”

“Male or female?”

“Female.”

“Young or old?”

“Is this an interrogation?”

“Young or old?” she repeated. “I know everyone here. It is my
vocation
to know everyone at these events.”

He cocked his head to the side. “Is this something you take special pride in?”

“Not particularly, no.”