What Happens in London (3 page)

There could not be a boy in England better suited for life at university. And yet—

“I’m joining the army.”

Again the words came forth, no conscious thought involved. Harry wondered what he was saying. He wondered
why
he was saying it.

“With Sebastian?” Aunt Anna asked.

Harry nodded. “Someone’s got to make sure he doesn’t get himself killed.”

Sebastian gave him a dry look at the insult, but he was clearly too pleased by the turn of events to make a retort. He’d always been ambivalent about a future in the military; Harry knew that, for all his bravado, he’d be relieved to have his cousin along with him.

“You can’t go to war,” Sir Lionel said. “You are my heir.”

Everyone in the room—all four of them his relations—turned to the baronet with varying degrees of surprise. It was, quite possibly, the only sensible thing he’d said in years.

“You have Edward,” Harry said bluntly.

Sir Lionel drank, blinked, and shrugged. “Well, that’s true.”

It was more or less what Harry would have expected him to say, and yet deep in his belly he felt a nagging pit of disappointment. And resentment.

And hurt.

“A toast to Harry!” Sir Lionel said jovially, lifting his glass. He did not seem to notice that no one else was joining him. “Godspeed, m’son.” He tipped back his glass, only then realizing that he had not recently refilled. “Well, damn it,” he muttered. “That’s awkward.”

Harry felt himself slumping in his chair. And at the same time, his feet began to feel itchy, as if they were ready move forward. To run.

“When do you leave?” Sir Lionel asked, happily replenished.

Harry looked at Sebastian, who immediately spoke up. “I must report next week.”

“Then it shall be the same for me,” Harry said to his father. “I shall need the funds for the commission, of course.”

“Of course,” Sir Lionel said, responding instinctively to the tone of command in Harry’s voice. “Well.” He looked down at his feet, then over at his wife.

She was staring out the window.

“Jolly fine to see you all,” Sir Lionel said. He plunked down his glass and ambled over to the door, losing his footing only once.

Harry watched him depart, feeling strangely detached from the scene. He’d imagined this before, of course. Not the going into the army, but the leaving. He’d always supposed that he’d head off to university in the usual fashion, packing his things into the family carriage and rolling away. But his imagination had indulged in all sorts of dramatic exits—everything from wild gesticulations to ice-cold stares. His favorites involved flinging bottles against the wall. The expensive ones. The ones smuggled in from France.
Would his father still support the Frogs with his illegal purchases, now that his son was facing them down on the battlefield?

Harry stared at the empty doorway. It didn’t matter, did it? He was done here.

He was done. With this place, with this family, with all those nights steering his father into bed, placing him carefully on his side so that if he did vomit again, at least he wouldn’t choke on it.

He was done.

Done.

But it felt so hollow, so quiet. His departure was marked by…nothing.

And it would take him years to realize that he’d been cheated.

T
hey say he killed his first wife
.”

It was enough to make Lady Olivia Bevelstoke cease stirring her tea. “Who?” she asked, since the truth was, she hadn’t been listening.

“Sir Harry Valentine. Your new neighbor.”

Olivia took a hard look at Anne Buxton, and then at Mary Cadogan, who was nodding her head in agreement. “You must be joking,” she said, although she knew quite well that Anne would never joke about something like that. Gossip was her lifeblood.

“No, he really is your new neighbor,” put in Philomena Waincliff.

Olivia took a sip of her tea, mostly so that she would have time to keep her face free of its desired expression, which was a cross between unabashed exasperation and disbelief. “I meant that she must be joking
that he killed someone,” she said, with more patience than she was generally given credit for.

“Oh.” Philomena picked up a biscuit. “Sorry.”

“I
know
I heard that he killed his fiancée,” Anne insisted.

“If he killed someone, he’d be in gaol,” Olivia pointed out.

“Not if they couldn’t prove it.”

Olivia glanced slightly toward her left, where, through a thick stone wall, ten feet of fresh springtime air, and another thick wall, this one of brick, Sir Harry Valentine’s newly leased home sat directly to the south of hers.

The other three girls followed her direction, which made Olivia feel quite foolish, as now they were all staring at a perfectly blank spot on the drawing-room wall. “He didn’t kill anyone,” she said firmly.

“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 mar
ried 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, shoot
ing 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.