What Happens in London (8 page)

“That’s early.”

“Normally, I would agree with you, but as it happens I believe I am turning over a new leaf. Just see how lovely it is outside. The sun is shining, there is music in the air…”

“I hear no music,” Sally grumbled.

“Birds, Sally. The birds are singing.”

Sally remained unconvinced. “That leaf of yours—I don’t suppose you’d consider turning it back over again?”

Olivia grinned. “It won’t be so bad. As soon as we get to the park, we shall sit and enjoy the sunshine. I will have my newspaper and you your embroidery and no one will bother us.”

Except that after a mere fifteen minutes, Mary Cadogan came positively running up.

“Your mother told me you were here,” she said breathlessly. “You’re feeling better, then?”

“You spoke to my mother?” Olivia asked, unable to believe her bad fortune.

“She told me on Saturday that she would send me a note as soon as you were feeling better.”

“My mother,” Olivia muttered, “is remarkably prompt.”

“Isn’t she, though?”

Sally moved over on the bench, barely even looking up from her needlework. Mary settled in between the two of them, scooting this way and that until an inch of bench could be seen between her pink skirts and Olivia’s green.

“I want to know
everything
,” Mary said to Olivia, her voice low and thrilled.

Olivia briefly considered feigning ignorance but really, what was the point? They both knew exactly what Mary was talking about. “There’s not much to say,” she said, crinkling her newspaper in an attempt to remind Mary that she had come to the park to read. “He recognized me as his neighbor and asked me to dance. It was all very civilized.”

“Did he say anything about his fiancée?”

“Of course not.”

“What about Julian Prentice?”

Olivia rolled her eyes. “Do you really think he would tell a complete stranger, and a lady at that, about his giving another gentleman a blackened eye?”

“No,” Mary said glumly. “It was really too much to hope for. I vow, I cannot get the details from
anyone
.”

Olivia did her best to appear bored by the entire affair.

“Very well,” Mary continued, undaunted by her companion’s lack of response. “Tell me about the dance.”

“
Mary
.” It was a bit of a groan, a bit of a snap. Certainly rude, but Olivia desperately did not want to tell Mary anything.

“You must,” Mary insisted.

“Surely there is something else in London of interest besides my one, very short, very dull dance with Sir Harry Valentine.”

“Not really,” Mary answered. She shrugged, then stifled a yawn. “Philomena’s mother dragged her off to Brighton, and Anne is ill. She probably has the same head cold you had.”

Probably not, Olivia thought.

“No one has seen Sir Harry since the musicale,” Mary added. “He has not attended
anything
.”

This did not surprise Olivia. He was most likely at his desk, furiously scribbling away. Possibly wearing that ridiculous hat.

Not that she would know. She had not looked out the window in days. She hadn’t even looked
at
the window. Well, not more than six or eight times, anyway.

Each day.

“What did you talk about, then?” Mary asked. “I know you spoke to him. I saw your lips moving.”

Olivia turned on her, eyes flaring with irritation. “You were watching my lips?”

“Oh, please. It’s not as if you’ve never done the same thing.”

Not only true, but irrefutable, since she’d done it
with
Mary. But a response—no, a retort—was definitely in order, so Olivia gave a little snort and said, “I’ve never done it to
you
.”

“But you would,” Mary said with certainty.

Also true, but not something Olivia intended to admit.

“What
did
you talk about?” Mary asked again.

“Nothing out of the ordinary,” Olivia lied, crinkling her newspaper again—more loudly this time. She’d got through the society pages—she always started at the back of the paper—but she wanted to read the parliamentary report. She always read the parliamentary report. Every day. Even her father didn’t read it every day, and he was a member of the House of Lords.

“You looked angry,” Mary persisted.

I am now
, she wanted to grumble.

“Were you?”

Olivia grit her teeth. “I’m sure you were mistaken.”

“I don’t
think
so,” Mary said, in that excruciating singsong voice she employed when she thought she was in the know.

Olivia looked over at Sally, who was pulling her needle through the fabric, pretending she wasn’t listening. Then she looked back at Mary, giving her an urgent sort of look, as if to say—
Not in front of the servants
.

It was not a permanent solution to the Mary problem, but it would put her off for a little while, at least.

She crinkled her newspaper again, then looked down at her hands in dismay. She’d got it before the butler had had a chance to iron the paper, and now the ink was coming off on her skin.

“That’s disgusting,” Mary said.

Olivia could think of no response, except, “Where is
your
maid?”

“Oh, over there,” Mary replied, waving her hand in
the general vicinity of behind them. And then Olivia realized she’d made a terrible miscalculation, because Mary immediately turned to Sally and said, “You know my Genevieve, don’t you? Why don’t you go talk to her?”

Sally did know Mary’s Genevieve, and she also knew that Genevieve’s English skills were limited at best, but as Olivia couldn’t very well jump in and insist that Sally
not
speak to Genevieve, Sally was forced to set down her embroidery and head off to find her.

“There,” Mary announced proudly. “That was neatly done. Now tell me, what was he like? Was he handsome?”

“You’ve seen him.”

“No, was he handsome up close? Those
eyes
.” Mary shivered.

“Oh!” Olivia exclaimed, suddenly remembering. “They were
brown
, not bluish gray.”

“That can’t be. I’m quite certain—”

“You got it wrong.”

“No. I never get things like that wrong.”

“Mary, I was this close to his face,” Olivia said, motioning to the distance between them on the bench. “I assure you, his eyes are brown.”

Mary looked horrified. Finally, she shook her head and said, “It must be the way he looks at a person. So piercing. I just assumed his eyes were blue.” She blinked. “Or gray.”

Olivia rolled her eyes and looked straight ahead, hoping that would be the end of it, but Mary was not to be deterred. “You still didn’t tell me about him,” she pointed out.

“Mary, there is nothing to say,” Olivia insisted. She looked down at her lap in dismay. Her newspaper was now a crumpled, unreadable heap. “He asked me to dance. I accepted.”

“But—” And then Mary gasped.

“But what?” Really, Olivia was losing patience with this.

Mary grabbed her arm, actually grabbed it. Hard.

“What is it now?”

Mary pointed a finger in the direction of the Serpentine. “Over there.”

Olivia saw nothing.

“On the
horse
,” Mary hissed.

Olivia shifted her gaze to the left and then—

Oh, no
. It couldn’t be.

“Is that him?”

Olivia didn’t answer.

“Sir Harry,” Mary clarified.

“I know who you’re talking about,” Olivia snapped.

Mary craned her neck. “I think it
is
Sir Harry.”

Olivia
knew
it was, not so much because it looked like the gentleman in question, but rather because how could her luck be anything but?

“He rides well,” Mary murmured admiringly.

Olivia decided it was time to think religiously and pray. Maybe he wouldn’t see them. Maybe he would but decide to ignore them. Maybe lightning—

“I think he saw us,” Mary said, all glee and delight. “You should wave.
I
would, but we haven’t been introduced.”

“Don’t give him any encouragement,” Olivia ground out.

Mary turned on her in an instant. “I
knew
you didn’t like him.”

Olivia closed her eyes in misery. This was supposed to have been a peaceful, solitary outing. She wondered how long it would be until Mary caught Anne’s head cold.

Then she wondered if there was anything she could do to hasten the infection.

“Olivia,” Mary hissed, jabbing her in the ribs.

Olivia opened her eyes. Sir Harry was now quite a bit closer, clearly riding in their direction.

“I wonder if Mr. Grey is here as well,” Mary said hopefully. “He might be Lord Newbury’s heir, you know.”

Olivia pasted a tight smile onto her face as Sir Harry approached, apparently without his might-be-an-heir cousin. He did ride well, she noticed, and his mount was very fine—a gorgeous brown gelding with white socks. He was dressed for a ride—a real one, not a stately trot on the park path. His dark hair was wind-blown, and his cheeks had a bit of color in them, and it
should
have made him look more approachable and friendly, but, Olivia thought with some disdain, he’d need to smile for that.

Sir Harry Valentine did not
do
smiles. Certainly not in her direction.

“Ladies,” he said, coming to a halt in front of them.

“Sir Harry.” It was all Olivia could manage, given that she was loath to unclench her teeth.

Mary kicked her.

“May I introduce Miss Cadogan,” Olivia said.

He tilted his head graciously. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“Sir Harry,” Mary said, giving him a nod of greeting in return. “It is a pleasant morning, is it not?”

“Very much so,” he replied. “Wouldn’t you agree, Lady Olivia?”

“Indeed,” she said tightly. She turned toward Mary, hoping he would follow suit and direct his questions at
her
.

But of course he did not. “I have not seen you in Hyde Park before, Lady Olivia,” he said.

“I don’t normally venture forth this early.”

“No,” he murmured, “I would imagine you have very important things to do at home at this time of the morning.”

Mary gave her a curious look. It was a cryptic statement.

“Things to do,” he went on, “people to watch…”

“Is your cousin riding as well?” Olivia asked quickly.

His brows rose mockingly. “Sebastian is rarely seen before noon,” he replied.

“But you are an early riser?”

“Always.”

Another thing to detest about him. Olivia didn’t mind getting up early, but she hated people who were cheerful about it.

Olivia made no further comment, purposefully trying to extend the moment into awkwardness. Perhaps he would take the hint and leave. Anybody with sense knew that conversation was impossible between two ladies on a bench and a gentleman on horseback. Her neck was already beginning to cramp from looking so far up.

She reached up and rubbed the side of her neck, hoping he would take the hint. But then—because clearly everyone was against her, even herself—she had an extremely ill-timed burst of memory. About her imaginary boils. And the plague. Of the bubonic variety. And heaven help her, she laughed.

Except she couldn’t laugh, not with Mary sitting right next her and Sir Harry looking down his arrogant nose, so she clamped her mouth shut. Except
that
sent the air through her nose, and she snorted. Most inelegantly. And that tickled.

Which made her laugh for real.

“Olivia?” Mary asked.

“It’s nothing,” she said, waving her hand at Mary as she turned the other way, trying to cover her face. “Really.”

Sir Harry said nothing, thank God. Although it was probably only because he thought her insane.

But Mary—now she was a different story, and she never knew when to let go. “Are you sure, Olivia, because—”

Olivia still looked down into her shoulder, because somehow she knew she’d laugh anew if she didn’t. “I just thought of something, that is all.”

“But—”

Amazingly, Mary stopped pestering her.

Olivia would have been relieved, except that it seemed highly unlikely that Mary might suddenly develop tact and sense. And indeed, she was proved correct, because Mary hadn’t cut herself off out of any sympathy for Olivia. She’d cut herself off because—

“Oh, look, Olivia! It’s your brother.”

H
arry
had
been planning to head home. It was his custom to take an early-morning ride, even in town, and he’d been just about ready to exit the park when he spied Lady Olivia sitting on a bench. He found this sufficiently intriguing to stop and be introduced to her friend, but after a few moments of idle chatter, he decided he didn’t find either one of
them
sufficiently intriguing to keep him from his work.

Especially since Lady Olivia Bevelstoke was the reason he’d fallen so far behind in the first place.

She’d ceased spying upon him, that was true, but the damage was done. Every time he sat at his desk, he could feel her eyes upon him, even though he knew very well she’d shut her curtains tight. But clearly, reality had very little to do with the matter, because all he had to do, it seemed, was glance at her window, and he lost an entire hour’s work.

It happened thus: He looked at the window, because it was
there
, and he couldn’t very well never happen to glance upon it unless he also shut his curtains tight, which he was not willing to do, given the amount of time he spent in his office. So he saw the window, and he thought of her, because, really, what else would he think of upon seeing her bedroom window? At that point, annoyance set in, because A) she wasn’t worth the energy, B) she wasn’t even there, and C) he wasn’t getting any work done because of her.

C always led into a bout of even deeper irritation, this time directed at himself, because D) he really ought to have better powers of concentration, E) it was just a stupid window, and F) if he was going to get agitated about a female, it ought to be one he at least
liked
.

F was where he generally let out a loud growl and forced himself to get back to his translation. It usually worked for a minute or two, and then he’d look back up, and happen to see the window, and the whole bloody nonsense cycled back to the beginning.

Which was why, when he saw the look of utter dread cross Lady Olivia Bevelstoke’s face at the mention of her brother, he decided that no, he did not need to get back to work just yet. After all the annoyance she had caused him, he was looking forward to watching her experience similar pain.

“Have you met Olivia’s brother, Sir Harry?” Miss Cadogan asked.

Harry swung himself down from his mount; it seemed he would be here for a while. “I have not had the pleasure.”

Lady Olivia’s face assumed a decidedly sour mien at his use of the word “pleasure.”

“He is her twin brother,” Miss Cadogan continued, “recently down from university.”

Harry turned to Lady Olivia and said, “I did not realize you were a twin.”

She shrugged.

“Has your brother completed his studies?” he asked.

She nodded curtly.

He almost shook his head at her attitude. She really was quite an unfriendly female. It was a shame she was so pretty. She did not deserve the good fortune of her looks. Harry rather thought she ought to have a large wart on her nose.

“He might be acquainted with my brother, then,” Harry commented. “They would be of an age.”

“Who is your brother?” Miss Cadogan asked.

Harry told them a bit about Edward, stopping a moment before Lady Olivia’s brother arrived. He was on foot, walking by himself, with the loose-limbed gait of a young man. He looked rather like his sister, Harry noticed. His blond hair was several shades darker, but the bright eyes were precisely the same, both in color and shape.

Harry bowed; so did Mr. Bevelstoke.

“Sir Harry Valentine, my brother, Mr. Winston Bevelstoke; Winston, Sir Harry.”

Said by Lady Olivia with a stunning lack of interest or inflection.

“Sir Harry,” Winston said politely. “I am acquainted with your brother.”

Harry didn’t recognize him, but he supposed young
Bevelstoke was one of Edward’s many acquaintances. He’d met most of them here and there; most were entirely unmemorable.

“You are our new neighbor, I understand,” Winston said.

Harry acknowledged this with a murmur and nod.

“To the south.”

“Indeed.”

“I’ve always liked that house,” Winston said. Or rather, pontificated. It certainly sounded as if he were about to take the statement on a grand journey. “Brick, is it not?”

“Winston,” Olivia said impatiently, “you know very well it’s brick.”

“Well, yes,” he said, with an offhanded wave, “or at least I was moderately certain. I don’t often pay attention to those things, and, as you know, my bedroom faces the other direction.”

Harry felt a smile creeping along his lips. This could only get better.

Winston turned to Harry and said, for no apparent reason other than to torture his sister, “Olivia’s room faces the south.”

“Does it now?”

Olivia looked as if she might—

“It does,” Winston confirmed, putting a halt to Harry’s speculation on what Lady Olivia might or might not do. But he was thinking that spontaneous combustion was not outside the realm of possibility.

“You’ve probably seen her window,” Winston went on. “You really couldn’t miss it. It’s—”

“Winston
.”

Harry actually stepped back an inch or two. It looked
as if there might be violence. And despite Winston’s greater height and weight, he rather thought he’d put his money on his sister.

“I am sure Sir Harry is not interested in a floor plan of our home,” Olivia bit off.

Winston stroked his chin thoughtfully. “I wasn’t thinking of a floor plan so much as an elevation.”

Harry turned back to Olivia. He was not sure he had ever seen such well-controlled fury. It was impressive.

“It’s so nice to see you this morning, Winston,” Miss Cadogan put in, quite possibly oblivious to the familial tension. “Are you often out and about this early?”

“No,” he replied. “Mother sent me to fetch Olivia.”

Miss Cadogan smiled brightly and returned her attention to Harry. “Then it seems you are the only regular morning visitor here in the park. I, too, came looking for Olivia. We haven’t had a chance to chat for ages. She has been ill, you know.”

“I did not know,” Harry said. “I hope you are feeling better.”

“Winston was also ill,” Olivia said. She offered a frightening smile. “Much sicker than I.”

“Oh, no!” Miss Cadogan gushed. “I am so sorry to hear that.” She turned to Winston with great concern. “Had I known, I would have brought you a tincture.”

“I shall be sure to inform you next time he falls ill,” Olivia told her. She turned to Harry, lowered her voice, and said, “It happens more often that we would like. It’s very distressing.” And then, down to a whisper: “He was born that way.”

Miss Cadogan rose to her feet, all of her attention
on Winston. “Are you feeling better now? I must say, you look a bit peaked.”

Harry thought he looked the picture of health.

“I’m fine,” Winston bit off, his ire clearly directed at his sister, who was still sitting on the bench, looking extremely satisfied with her recent accomplishments.

Miss Cadogan looked past him to Olivia, who was shaking her head, mouthing, “
He’s not
.”

“I will definitely bring you that tincture,” Miss Cadogan said. “It tastes a bit foul, but our housekeeper swears by it.
And
I insist that you return home at once. It’s chilly out.”

“It’s really not necessary,” Winston protested.

“I was planning to return soon, anyway,” Miss Cadogan put in, proving that young Bevelstoke was no match for the combined might of two determined women. “You may escort me.”

“Do inform Mother that I shall be back momentarily,” Olivia said sweetly.

Her brother glared at her, but he had clearly been outmaneuvered, and so he took Miss Cadogan’s arm and led her away.

“Well played, Lady Olivia,” Harry said admiringly, once the others were out of earshot.

She gave him a bored look. “You are not the only gentleman I find irritating.”

There was no way he could ignore a comment like that, so he sat beside her, plopping right down into the spot recently vacated by Miss Cadogan. “Anything interesting?” he asked, motioning toward her newspaper.

“I would not know,” she replied. “I am besieged by interruptions.”

He chuckled. “My cue to apologize, I am sure, but I shan’t indulge you.”

Her lips pressed together, presumably pinching back a retort.

He sat back, crossing his right ankle over his left knee, letting his lazy pose signal that he was settling in beside her. “After all,” he mused, “it is not as if I am invading your privacy. We are sitting on a bench in Hyde Park. Open air, public place, et cetera, et cetera.”

He paused, giving her the chance to comment. She did not. So he continued on with: “If you’d wanted privacy, you might have taken your newspaper to your bedchamber, or perhaps to your office. Those are places, would you not agree, where one might operate under the assumption of privacy?”

Again he waited. Again, she refused to engage. So he lowered his voice to a murmur and asked, “Do you have an office, Lady Olivia?”

He did not think she would answer, as she was staring straight ahead, quite determinedly not looking at him, but much to his surprise, she ground out, “I do not.”

He admired her for that, but not enough to change tack. “Pity, that,” he murmured. “I find it most beneficial to have a place that is my own that is not used for sleeping. You should consider an office, Lady Olivia, if you wish for a place to read your newspaper away from the prying eyes of others.”

She turned to him with an impressively indifferent expression. “You’re sitting on my maid’s embroidery.”

“My apologies.” He looked down, pulled the fabric
out from beneath him—he was barely on the hem, but he decided to be magnanimous and decline to comment—and set it aside. “Where
is
your maid?”

She waved her hand in an unspecific direction. “She went off to join Mary’s maid. I’m sure she will return at any moment.”

He had no response to that, so instead he said, “You and your brother have an interesting relationship.”

She shrugged, clearly trying to be rid of him.

“Mine detests me.”

That caught her interest. She turned, smiled too sweetly, and said, “I would like to meet him.”

“I’m sure you would,” he replied. “He is not often in my office, but when he gets up at a reasonable hour, he breakfasts in the small dining room. The windows are just two past my office toward the front of the house. You might try looking for him there.”

She gave him a hard look. He smiled blandly in return.

“Why are you here?” she asked.

He motioned to his mount. “Out for a ride.”

“No, why
here
?” she ground out. “On this bench. Sitting next to me.”

He thought about that for a moment. “You vex me.”

Her lips pursed. “Well,” she said, somewhat briskly. “I suppose that’s only fair.”

The sentiment was rather sporting of her, even if the tone was not. She had, after all, just minutes earlier said that she found him irritating.

Her maid arrived then. Harry heard her before he saw her, stomping over the damp grass with great irritation, traces of a Cockney accent evident in her voice.

“Why does that woman seem to think I should learn French? She’s the one in England, I say. Oh.” She paused, looking at Harry with some surprise. When she continued, her voice and accent were considerably more cultured. “I am sorry, my lady. I did not realize you had company.”

“He was just leaving,” Lady Olivia said, all sweetness and light. She turned to him with a smile so dazzlingly sunny he finally understood all those broken hearts he kept hearing about. “Thank you so much for your company, Sir Harry,” she said.

His breath caught, and it occurred to him that she was an exceedingly good liar. If he hadn’t just spent the past ten minutes with the lady he was now referring to in his head as “Surly Girl,” he might have fallen in love with her himself.

“As you indicated, Lady Olivia,” he said quietly, “I was just leaving.”

And so he did, with every intention of never seeing her again.

At least not on purpose.

Thoughts of Lady Olivia firmly behind him, Harry got back to work later that morning, and by afternoon was lost in a sea of Russian idioms.

Kogda rak na goryeh svistnyet
= When the crawfish whistles on a mountain = When pigs fly.

Sdelatz slona iz mukha
= Make an elephant out of a fly = Make a mountain out of a molehill.

S dokhlogo kozla i shersti klok
= Even from the dead goat, even a piece of wool is worth something =

Equals…

Equals…

He pondered this for several minutes, idly tapping his pen against his blotter, and was just about to give up and move on when he heard a knock at the door.

“Enter.” He didn’t look up. It had been so long since he’d been able to maintain his focus for an entire paragraph; he wasn’t going to break the rhythm now.

“Harry.”

Harry’s pen stilled. He’d been expecting the butler with the afternoon’s post, but this voice belonged to his younger brother. “Edward,” he said, making sure he knew exactly where he’d left off before looking up. “This is a pleasant surprise.”

“This came for you.” Edward crossed the room and placed an envelope on his desk. “It came by courier.”

The outside of the envelope did not indicate the sender, but the markings were familiar. It was from the War Office, and it was almost certainly of some importance; they rarely sent communication of this sort directly to his home. Harry set it aside, intending to read it when he was alone. Edward knew that he translated documents, but he did not know for whom. Thus far Harry had not seen any indication that he could be trusted with the knowledge.

The missive could wait a few minutes, however. Right now Harry was curious as to his brother’s presence in his office. It was not Edward’s habit to deliver items about the house. Even if he had been the one to receive the letter, he most likely would have tossed it on the tray in the front hall for the butler to deal with.