What Happens in London (5 page)

“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 brother. 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.

M
ozart, 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 the 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.

“Julian Prentice.”

Mary gasped with delighted horror. “Is he here?”

“I don’t think so. But Winston said that it was not such a vicious thing as we thought. Apparently Julian was so sotted Sir Harry could have knocked him down by blowing on him.”

“Except for the blackened eye,” Mary reminded her, ever the stickler for detail.

“The point is, I don’t think he
thrashed
him.”

Mary paused for a second, then must have decided
it was time to move on. She looked this way and that, then scratched at the spot where the stiff lace of her gown bent up against her collarbone. “Er, speaking of your brother, is he attending?”

“Heavens, no.” Olivia managed not to roll her eyes, but it was a close thing. Winston had given a rather convincing show of a head cold and bundled himself off to bed. Their mother had been so well fooled that she had asked the butler to check in on him at hourly intervals and send for her if he worsened.

Which had provided a bright spot in the evening. Olivia had it on the best of authority that there would be a gathering at White’s later that evening. Ah well, it would have to proceed without Winston Bevelstoke.

Which very well might have been her mother’s intention.

“Do you know,” Olivia murmured, “the older I get, the more I admire my mother.”

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

“It’s nothing.” Olivia gave a little wave. It would be far too difficult to explain. She stretched her neck a bit, trying to make it look as if she weren’t perusing the crowd. “I don’t see him.”

“Who?” Mary asked.

Olivia fought off the urge to bat her. “Sir Harry.”

“Oh, he’s here,” Mary said confidently. “I saw him.”

“He’s not here now.”

Mary—who had just moments earlier admonished Olivia for her lack of discretion—displayed astonishing flexibility as she twisted herself nearly backward. “Hmmm.”

Olivia waited for more.

“I don’t see him,” Mary finally said.

“Is it possible you were wrong?” Olivia asked hopefully.

Mary gave her an irritated look. “Of course not. Perhaps he’s in the garden.”

Olivia turned, even though one couldn’t see the garden from the ballroom, where the musicale was being held. It was a reflex, she supposed. If you knew someone was somewhere, you couldn’t
not
turn in that direction, even if you couldn’t possibly see them.

Of course she didn’t
know
that Sir Harry was in the garden. She didn’t even know for certain that he was at the musicale. She had only Mary’s claim, and while Mary was quite dependable on matters of party attendance, she had, by her own admission, only seen the man a few times. She could easily have been mistaken.

Olivia decided to cling to that thought.

“Look what I brought,” Mary said, digging into her sovereign purse.

“Oh, that’s lovely,” Olivia said, peering down at the beadwork.

“Isn’t it? Mama got it in Bath. Oh, here we are.” Mary pulled out two little tufts of cotton. “For my ears,” she explained.

Olivia’s lips parted with admiration. And envy. “You don’t have two more, do you?”

“Sorry,” Mary said with a shrug. “It’s a very small purse.” She turned forward. “I think they’re ready to begin.”

One of the Smythe-Smith mothers called out for everyone to sit down. Olivia’s mother looked over at her,
saw that Mary had taken her seat, and gave a little wave before finding a spot next to Mary’s mother.

Olivia took a deep breath, mentally preparing for her third encounter with the Smythe-Smith string quartet. She’d perfected her technique the year before; it involved breathing deeply, finding a spot on the wall behind the girls from which she must not avert her eyes, and pondering various traveling opportunities, no matter how plebian or routine:

Places I Would Rather Be, Edition 1821 By Lady Olivia Bevelstoke

France With Miranda With Miranda in France In bed with a cup of chocolate and a newspaper Anywhere with a cup of chocolate and a newspaper Anywhere with either a cup of chocolate or a newspaper

She looked over at Mary, who appeared on the verge of nodding off. The cotton was sticking partway out of her ears, and Olivia very nearly had to sit on her hands just to keep from yanking it out.

If it had been Winston or Miranda, she would definitely have done so.

The strains of Bach, recognizable only by its Baroque…well, she wouldn’t call it melody, precisely, but it did have something to do with notes moving up and down a scale. Whatever it was, it slapped her ears, and Olivia snapped her head back toward the front.

Eyes on the spot, eyes on the spot.

She’d rather be:

Swimming

On horseback

Not swimming on horseback

Asleep

Eating an ice

Did that qualify as a place? It was more of an experience, really, as was “asleep,” but then again, “asleep” implied being in bed, which
was
a place. Although, technically speaking, one could fall asleep sitting up. Olivia never did so, but her father frequently nodded off during her mother’s prescribed “family time” in the sitting room, and Mary, apparently, could even do so during
this
cacophony.

Traitor. Olivia would never have brought only one set of cotton.

Eyes on the spot, Olivia.

Olivia sighed—a bit too loudly, not that anyone could hear—and went back to her deep breaths. She focused on a sconce behind the violist’s miserable head—no, make that the miserable violist’s head…

Really, that one girl did
not
look happy. Did she know how dreadful the quartet was? Because the other three clearly had no clue. But the viola player, she was different, she was…

Making Olivia actually hear the music.

Not good! Not good!
Her brain rebelled, and she started back with those blasted breaths again, and…

And then, somehow, it was done, and the musicians were standing and making rather pretty curtsies.
Olivia found herself blinking excessively; her eyes didn’t seem to be working properly after so much time on one spot. “You fell asleep,” she said to Mary, giving her a betrayed sort of look.

“I did not.”

“Oh, you did.”

“Well, these worked, at any rate,” Mary said, yanking the cotton from her ears. “I could hardly hear a thing. Where are you going?”

Olivia was already halfway down the aisle. “To the washroom. Really must…” And that, she decided, would have to suffice. She had not forgotten the possibility that Sir Harry Valentine was somewhere in the room, and if ever a situation called for making haste, this was it.

It wasn’t that she was a coward—not at all. She wasn’t trying to avoid the man, she was merely trying to avoid his having the opportunity to surprise her.

Be prepared
. If it hadn’t been her motto before, then she was adopting it now.

Wouldn’t her mother be impressed? She was always telling her to be more improving. No, that wasn’t proper English. What did her mother say? Didn’t matter; she was almost to the door. She need only push past Sir Robert Stoat, and—

“Lady Olivia
.”

Drat. Who—

She turned. And felt her stomach drop.
And
realized that Sir Harry Valentine was much taller than he’d seemed in his office.

“I’m sorry,” she said serenely, because she had always been rather good at playacting. “Have we been introduced?”

But from the mocking curve of his smile, she was fairly certain she’d not been able to mask her first flash of surprise.

“Forgive me,” he said smoothly, and she shivered, because his voice—it wasn’t what she’d thought it would be. It sounded like the smell of brandy, and it felt like the taste of chocolate. And she wasn’t so certain why she’d shivered, because now she felt rather warm.