What Happens in London (17 page)

His front door began to rattle.

His heart slammed in his chest, and his muscles leaped to readiness, every nerve suddenly poised for a fight. It was late. And he’d been out following mysterious Russians. And…

And he was an idiot. If someone was going to break into his house, he’d not use the bloody front door. Harry stalked over, turned the lock, and pulled it open.

Edward fell in.

Harry stared down at his younger brother with disgust. “Oh, for God’s sake.”

“Harry?” Edward looked up and squinted, and Harry wanted to know who the hell else he was expecting.

“How much have you had to drink?” Harry demanded.

Edward tried to pull himself to his feet, but after a moment gave up and sat right in the center of the hall, blinking as if he weren’t quite sure how he’d got into the position. “What?”

If anything, Harry’s voice grew quieter. And more deadly. “How much have you had to drink?”

“Uhhhh…well…” Edward’s mouth moved, almost as if he were chewing his cud. He probably was, Harry thought with disgust.

“Don’t bother,” Harry said curtly. What did it
matter how many drinks Edward had tossed back? It had been enough to render him senseless. The Lord only knew how he’d got himself home. He was no better than their father. The only difference was that Sir Lionel had confined most of his drunkenness to the home. Edward was making an ass of himself all over London.

“Get up,” Harry ordered.

Edward stared up at him, his face blank.

“Get. Up.”

“Why’re you so angry?” Edward muttered, reaching out for a hand. But Harry didn’t offer one, and so he struggled to his feet of his own accord, grabbing hold of a nearby table for balance.

Harry fought to keep hold of his temper. He wanted to grab Edward and shake and shake and bloody well scream that he was killing himself, that any day now he’d die the way Sir Lionel had, stupidly and alone.

His father had fallen out a window. He’d leaned too far out and broken his neck. On the table nearby, there had been a glass of wine and an empty bottle.

Or so he’d been told. Harry had been in Belgium. A letter had arrived from his father’s solicitor with the details.

From his mother he had heard nothing.

“Go to bed,” Harry said in a low voice.

Edward wobbled and smirked. “I don’t have to do what you say.”

“Fine then,” Harry spat. He’d had enough of this. It was like his father all over again, except now he could do something. He could say something. He didn’t have to stand there, helpless, and clean up someone else’s mess.

“Do what you want,” he said, his voice low and shaking. “Just don’t puke in my house.”

“Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Edward cried out, lurching forward and then grabbing the wall when he stumbled. “You’d like it if I left, so everything could be neat and tidy. You never wanted me.”

“What the hell are you talking about? You’re my brother.”

“You left. You left!” Edward nearly screamed.

Harry stared at him.

“You left me alone. With him. And her. And no one else. You knew Anne was leaving to get married. You knew I’d have no one.”

Harry shook his head. “You were leaving for school. You only had a few months before you would be gone. I made sure of it.”

“Oh, that was just—” Edward’s face contorted and his head moved about unsteadily, and for a moment Harry was sure he was going to vomit. But no, he was just trying to find the right word, the furious, sarcastic word.

And drunk as he was, he couldn’t do so.

“You didn’t…you didn’t even think.” Edward shook a finger at him, then shook it again. “What did you think would happen when he dropped me off?”

“You weren’t supposed to let him drop you off!”

“How was I supposed to know! I was twelve. Twelve!” Edward shouted.

Harry raced through his memory, trying to recall his good-byes. But he could remember almost nothing. He’d been so eager to get out, to leave it all behind. But he’d given advice to Edward, hadn’t he? He’d told him it would all be all right, that he would
go to Hesslewhite, and not have to deal with their parents. And he’d told him not to let their father near the school, hadn’t he?

“He pissed in his pants,” Edward said. “On the first day. He fell asleep on my bed and pissed in his pants. I got him up and changed his clothes. But I didn’t have spare bedsheets. And everyone—” His voice choked, and Harry could see the terrified boy in his face, confused and alone.

“Everyone thought it was me,” Edward said. “Splendid way to start off, don’t you think?” He weaved a bit then, buoyed by bravado. “I was the
most
popular boy after that. Everyone wanted to be friends with
me
.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry said.

Edward shrugged, then he stumbled. Harry reached out and caught him this time. And then—he wasn’t sure how it happened, or why he did it—he pulled his brother close. Gave him a hug. Just a bit of one. Just for long enough to blink back the tears in his eyes.

“You need to get to bed,” Harry said, his voice hoarse.

Edward nodded, and he leaned on Harry as he helped him to the stairs. He did all right with the first two, but on the third he tripped.

“Thorry,” Edward mumbled, struggling to right himself.

He dropped his
s
’s. Just like their father.

Harry thought he might be sick.

It wasn’t quick, and it wasn’t pretty, but eventually Harry managed to topple Edward into his bed, boots and all. He laid him carefully on his side with his mouth near the edge of the mattress, in case he threw up. And then he did something he’d never done, in all
the years he’d maneuvered his father into a similar position.

He waited.

He stood by the door until Edward’s breathing was quiet and even, and then he stayed there for several minutes more.

Because people weren’t meant to be alone. And they weren’t meant to be scared. Or feel small. And they shouldn’t have to count how many times something bad happened, and they shouldn’t worry that it might happen again.

And as he stood there in the darkness, he realized what he had to do. Not just for Edward, but for Olivia. And maybe for himself, too.

B
y the following morning Olivia was feeling not quite so out of sorts. The light of day and a good night’s rest, it seemed, could do a great deal to restore the spirits, even if she hadn’t come to any grand conclusions.

Why I Was Crying Last Night

By Olivia Bevelstoke

Actually, I wasn’t crying.

But it seemed like it.

She decided to try it from a different angle.

Why I Wasn’t Crying Last Night

By Olivia Bevelstoke

She sighed. She had no idea.

But there was always denial. And so she resolved not to think about it, at least until she’d managed to get some breakfast. She was always more levelheaded on a full stomach.

She was halfway through her morning routine, trying to sit still while her maid pinned her hair, when a knock sounded at the door.

“Enter!” she called out, then murmured to Sally, “Did you order chocolate?”

Sally shook her head, and they both looked up as a maid entered, announcing that Sir Harry was waiting for her in the drawing room.

“At
this
time of the morning?” It was nearly ten, so hardly the crack of dawn, but still, unconscionably early for a gentleman to call.

“Shall I have Huntley tell him that you are unavailable?”

“No,” Olivia replied. Harry wouldn’t call so early without a good reason. “Please inform him that I shall be down straightaway.”

“But you haven’t had breakfast, my lady,” Sally said.

“I’m sure I won’t waste away for want of one breakfast.” Olivia lifted her chin, regarding her reflection in the mirror. Sally was working on something rather elaborate, involving braids, clips, and at least a dozen pins. “Perhaps something simpler this morning?”

Sally’s shoulders slumped with disappointment. “We’re more than halfway done, I promise.”

But Olivia was already pulling out pins. “Just a little bun, I think. Nothing fancy.”

Sally sighed and started to adjust the coiffure. In about ten minutes Olivia was done and heading
downstairs, trying to ignore the fact that the rush had meant that a lock of her hair had already fallen free and had to be tucked behind her ear. When she arrived at the drawing room, Sir Harry was seated all the way on the far side, at the small writing table by the window.

He appeared to be…working?

“Sir Harry,” she said, looking at him with some confusion. “It’s so early.”

“I have come to a conclusion,” he told her, rising to his feet.

She looked at him expectantly. He sounded so…
definitive
.

He clasped his hands in front of him, his stance wide. “I cannot allow you to be alone with the prince.”

He had said as much the night before, but really, what could he do?

“There is only one solution,” he continued. “I shall be
your
bodyguard.”

She stared at him, stunned.

“He has Vladimir. You have me.”

She continued to stare at him, still stunned.

“I will stay here with you today,” he explained.

She blinked several times, finally finding her voice. “In my drawing room?”

“You should not feel that you have to entertain me,” he said, motioning to some papers he had set down on the small writing desk. “I brought work with me.”

Good heavens, did he intend to move in? “You brought work?”

“I’m sorry, but I really can’t lose an entire day.”

Her mouth opened, but it was a few seconds before she said, “Oh.”

Because really, what else could there possibly be to say to that?

He gave her what she suspected he thought was an encouraging smile. “Why don’t you get yourself a book and join me?” he asked, motioning to the seating area in the center of the room. “Oh right, you don’t like books. Well, the newspaper will do just as well. Sit down.”

Again it took her several moments before she managed to speak. “You’re inviting me to join you in
my
drawing room?”

He gave her a steady look, then said, “I’d rather be in my own drawing room, but I hardly think that would be acceptable.”

She nodded slowly, not because she was agreeing with him, although she supposed she was, on the last statement at least.

“We are in accord, then,” he stated.

“What?”

“You’re nodding.”

She stopped nodding.

“Do you mind if I sit?” he asked.

“Sit?”

“I really must get back to work,” he explained.

“To work,” she echoed, because she was clearly at her conversational best this morning.

He looked at her, his brows arching, and it was only then that she realized that what he
meant
was that he could not sit until she did. She started to say, “Please,” as in,
Please, do make yourself at home
, because she had had over twenty years of courtesy drummed into her. But good sense (and perhaps a fair bit of self-preservation) took hold, and she switched
to, “You really shouldn’t feel you need to stay here all day.”

His lips pressed together, and tiny lines fanned out from the corners. There was something resolute in his dark eyes, something steely and immovable.

He wasn’t asking her permission, she realized. He was telling her what to do.

It should have raised her hackles. It was everything she detested in a man. But all she could do was stand there, feeling…fluttery. Her feet were squirming in her slippers, she realized, getting ready to rise to her tiptoes, her body suddenly too light to remain fixed to the ground.

She took hold of the back of a chair. She felt as if she might float away. Maybe she should have eaten breakfast.

Although that really didn’t explain the odd sensation that had taken hold somewhat…below her stomach.

She looked at him. He was saying something. But she definitely wasn’t listening. She didn’t even hear him, didn’t hear anything but a wicked little voice inside, telling her to look at his mouth, at those lips, at…

“Olivia? Olivia?”

“I’m sorry,” she said. She squeezed her legs together, thinking that some sort of muscular motion might jolt her from her trance. And she couldn’t think of any other body part he couldn’t see.

But that just seemed to make her feel…squirmier.

His head tilted slightly, and he looked…concerned? Amused? It was hard to tell.

She had to get a hold of herself. Now. She cleared her throat. “You were saying…?”

“Are you all right?”

“Perfectly well,” she said crisply. She liked the sound of that, brisk and businesslike, with every consonant perfectly enunciated.

He watched her for a few moments, but she could not quite read his expression. Or perhaps she just didn’t
want
to read his expression, because if she did, she suspected she’d realize he was looking at her as if she might suddenly start barking like a dog.

She gave him a tight smile, and said again, “You were saying…?”

“I was saying,” he said slowly, “that I’m sorry, but I cannot allow you to be alone with that man. And don’t say that Vladimir would be here, because he hardly counts.”

“No,” she said, thinking of her unsettling last conversation with the prince, “I wouldn’t say that.”

“Good. Then we are in agreement?”

“Well, yes,” she said, “about not wanting to be alone with Prince Alexei, but—” She cleared her throat, hoping it might help her regain her equilibrium. She needed to keep a sharper head around this man. He was staggeringly intelligent, and he would run circles around her if she didn’t stay on her toes. And that would be
on
her toes, not floating right off them. She cleared her throat again. And then again, because all that clearing was giving her a scratchy throat.

“Do you need something to drink?” he asked solicitously.

“No. Thank you. What I was trying to say was—you do understand that I am not alone here. I have parents.”

“Yes,” he said, not sounding terribly impressed with her argument, “it is my understanding that you
do. I have never seen them, however. Not here, at any rate.”

She frowned, glancing over her shoulder into the hall. “I think my mother is still asleep.”

“My point exactly,” Harry said.

“I am grateful for the gesture,” she said, “but I feel I must point out that it is quite unlikely that the prince—or anyone, for that matter—will make a call this early in the morning.”

“I agree,” he told her, “but it is a chance I am not willing to take. Although…” He thought for a moment. “If your brother is willing to come down here and vow to me that he will not allow you out of his sight for the rest of the day, I will happily depart.”

“That presupposes that
I
want him in
my
sight for the rest of the day,” Olivia said tartly.

“Then you’re stuck with me, I’m afraid.”

She looked at him.

He looked at her.

She opened her mouth to speak.

He smiled.

She started wondering why she was fighting so hard.

“Very well,” she said, finally moving out of the doorway and into the room. “I suppose it can’t hurt.”

“You won’t even know I’m here,” he assured her.

That, she highly doubted.

“It’s only because I have no other plans for the morning,” she informed him.

“I understand.”

She gave him a sharp look. It was disconcerting, not being able to tell if he was being sarcastic.

“It’s highly irregular,” she murmured, but true to his word, he was already back at the desk, carefully reading the papers he’d brought with him. Were those the same documents he had worked on so diligently when she’d been spying on him?

She edged a little closer, grabbing a book off a table. She needed an object in her hands, something to use as a prop if he noticed how closely she was watching him.

“You’ve decided to read
Miss Butterworth
, then?” he asked, not looking up at her.

Her lips parted. How had he known she’d picked up a book? How had he even known she was watching him? His eyes hadn’t left the papers on the desk.

And
Miss Butterworth
? Really? She looked down at the book in her hands in disgust. If she was going to pick up a random object, surely she could have done better than that.

“I’m trying to be more open-minded,” she said, settling into the first chair she came across.

“A noble pursuit,” he said, not looking up.

She opened the book and looked down, loudly flipping the pages until she found where they’d left off two days earlier. “Pigeons…pigeons…” she murmured.

“What?”

“Just looking for the pigeons,” she said sweetly.

He shook his head, and she thought she saw him smile, but he still didn’t look up.

She sighed loudly, then peeked over.

No reaction.

She then reassured herself that the sigh had not been initiated with the intention of trying to attract
his attention. She had sighed because she’d needed to exhale, and if it had been loud, well, that was her habit. And since it had been loud, it had made
sense
to peek over…

She sighed again. Absolutely not on purpose.

He kept working.

Possible Contents of Sir Harry’s Papers

By Olivia Bevelstoke

Sequel to
Miss Butterworth
(wouldn’t it be delicious if he turned out to be the author?)

Unauthorized sequel to
Miss Butterworth,
because it is highly unlikely that he penned the original, splendid as that would be A Secret Diary—with all of his secrets (!!!!!) Something else entirely Order for a new hat

She giggled.

“What is so funny?” he asked, finally looking up.

“I couldn’t possibly explain,” she said, trying not to grin.

“Is the joke at my expense?”

“Only a little.”

He quirked a brow.

“Oh very well, it’s entirely at your expense, but it’s no less than you deserve.” She smiled at him, waiting for him to comment, but he did not.

Which was disappointing.

She turned back to
Miss Butterworth
, but even though the poor girl had just broken both legs in a hideous carriage wreck, the novel was less than gripping.

She started drumming her fingers on one of the open pages. The noise grew louder…and louder…until it seemed to echo through the room.

To her ears, at least. Harry didn’t notice.

She let out a loud exhale and went back to Miss Butterworth and her broken legs.

She turned a page.

And read. And turned another. And read. And turned another. And—

“You’re on Chapter Four already.”

She jumped in her seat, startled by the sound of Harry’s voice so close to her ear. How was it possible that he’d got up without her noticing?

“Must be a good book,” he said.

She gave a shrug. “It’s passable.”

“Is Miss Butterworth recovered from the plague?”

“Oh, that was ages ago. She’s more recently broken both of her legs, been stung by a bee, and nearly sold into slavery.”

“All in four chapters?”

“Closer to three,” she told him, motioning to the chapter head visible on her open page. “I’ve only just started the fourth.”

“I finished my work,” he said, coming around to the front of the sofa.

Ah. Now,
finally
, she could ask, “What were you doing?”

“Nothing very interesting. Grain reports from my property in Hampshire.”

Compared to her imaginings, this was somewhat disappointing.

He sat down on the other end of the sofa, crossing
one ankle over the opposite knee. It was a very informal position; it spoke of comfort, and familiarity, and something else—something that made her giddy and warm. She tried to think of another man who would sit near her in so relaxed a pose. There was no one. Just her brothers.

And Sir Harry Valentine was definitely not her brother.

“What are you thinking about?” he asked, his voice sly.