What Happens in London

Chapter Fourteen

Harry was in a bad mood. The day had started out perfectly fine, and indeed had promised all sorts of good cheer, until he’d ambled over to Rudland House’s sitting room and come across Prince Alexei Gomarovsky, apparent descendant of Russia’s most famous bachelor poet.

Or if not most famous, then famous enough.

Then he’d had to watch Olivia fawning over the churl.

Then he’d had to sit there and pretend he didn’t understand when the bastard said he wanted to rape her. And then tried to pass the bloody thing off as some nonsense about sky and fog.

Then-as he was sitting at home, trying to figure out what to do about the prince’s second statement in Russian, which had been an order to the ever-charming Vladimir to investigate him-he’d received written orders from the War Office to attend that evening’s opening of The Magic Flute, which would have been marvelous, had he been able to watch the stage instead of his new least favorite person, the aforementioned Alexei of Russia.

Then the bloody prince had left the opera early. Left, just as the Queen of the Night was beginning her aria. It was “Hell’s Vengeance Boileth in Mine Heart,” for heaven’s sake. Who left at the beginning of “Hell’s Vengeance Boileth in Mine Heart”?

Hell’s vengeance, Harry decided, was boilething in his heart as well.

He’d followed the prince (and the ever-present and increasingly menacing Vladimir) all the way to Madame LaRoux’s, where Prince Alexei presumably partook of the favors of a lady or three.

At that point, Harry had decided he was well within his rights to go home.

Which he did, but not before getting soaked in a freakishly short but violent rainstorm.

Which was why, when he arrived home and shrugged off his sodden coat and gloves, his only thoughts were of a hot bath. He could see it in his mind, steam rising from the surface. His skin would prickle at the heat, almost painfully, until his body adjusted to the temperature.

It would be heaven. Heaven boilething in a tub.

But sure enough, heaven was not to be his, at least not this night. His coat was still hanging limply off one arm when his butler entered the front hall and informed him that a letter had come for him by special messenger and was waiting on his desk.

And so off to his office he went, his feet splishing and sploshing in his boots, only to find that the message contained absolutely nothing of immediate importance, only a few bits and pieces of trivia to fill gaps in the prince’s history. Harry groaned and shuddered, wishing there was a fire in which to toss the offending missive. Then he could stand in front of it, too. He was so cold and so wet and so bloody annoyed with everything.

And then he looked up.

Olivia. In her window, staring down at him.

Really, this was all her fault. Or at least half of it.

He marched over to his window and wrenched it up. She did the same.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” she said, before he could get word in. “Where have you-what happened to you?”

In the compendium of stupid questions, he decided, that would rank high. But his lips were probably still blue with cold, and there was no way he could say all that. “It rained,” he bit off.

“And you decided to go for a walk in it?”

He wondered if, with superhuman effort, he might be able to strangle her from here.

“I need to speak with you,” she said.

He realized he could not feel his toes. “Does it have to be right now?”

She drew back, looking terribly offended.

Which did little to improve his disposition. But still, gentlemanly behavior must have been beaten into him as a child, because even though he should have slammed the window shut, he instead explained himself, biting off, “I’m cold. I’m wet. And I’m in a very bad mood.”

“Well, so am I!”

“Very well,” he ground out. “What has you in a tizzy?”

“A tizzy?” she repeated derisively.

He held up a hand. If she was going to argue over his word choices, he was through with her.

She must have decided to choose a different battle, because she planted her hands on her hips, and said, “All right then, since you asked, you are the cause of my tizzy.”

This had better be good. He waited for a moment, and then said, dripping with equal parts sarcasm and rainwater, “And…?”

“And your behavior this afternoon. What were you thinking?”

“What was I-”

She actually leaned out of her window and shook a finger at him. “You were deliberately provoking Prince Alexei. Do you have any idea what a difficult situation that put me in?”

He stared at her for a moment, then said simply, “He’s an idiot.”

“He’s not an idiot,” she said testily.

“He’s an idiot,” Harry said again. “One who doesn’t deserve to lick your feet. You’ll thank me someday.”

“I have no intention of allowing him to lick me anywhere,” she retorted, then turned utterly red when she realized what she’d said.

Harry began not to feel quite so cold.

“I have no intention of allowing him to court me,” she said, her voice hushed yet strangely loud enough to reach him with every syllable crystal clear. “But that does not mean he can be ill-treated in my home.”

“Very well. I’m sorry. Are you satisfied?”

She was shocked into silence by his apology, but his triumph was short-lived. After no more than five seconds of her mouth opening and closing, she said, “I don’t think you meant it.”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” he burst out. He could not believe she was acting like he’d done something wrong. He was only following his bloody orders from the bloody War Office. And even allowing for the fact that she had no idea he had any orders to follow, she was the one who had spent the afternoon cooing at a man who had insulted her most viscerally.

Not that she knew that, either.

Still, anyone with a grain of sense could tell that the Prince Alexei was an oily little toad. Very well, an extremely handsome, not-little-at-all toad, but a toad nonetheless.

“Why are you so upset?” she demanded.

It was a damned good thing they were not face to face, because he would have done…something. “Why am I so upset?” he practically spat. “Why am I so upset? Because I-” But he realized he could not tell her that he’d been forced to leave the opera early. Or that he had followed the prince to a brothel. Or that he-

No, he could tell her that part.

“I am soaked to the skin, every inch of me ashiver, and I’m arguing with you through a window when I could be in a hot bath.”

The last part came out a bit like a bellow, which probably wasn’t the wisest thing, given that they were, technically, in public.

She was silent-finally-and then, quietly, she said, “Very well.”

Very well? That was it? She was done with a “very well”?

And then, like an idiot, he stood there. She’d given him the perfect opportunity to bid her farewell, shut his window, and march himself upstairs to the bath, but he just stood there.

Looking at her.

Watching the way she hugged her arms to her body, as if she were chilled. Watching her mouth, which he couldn’t quite see clearly in the dim light, and yet somehow he knew the precise moment she pressed her lips together, the corners tightening with hidden emotion.

“Where were you?” she asked.

He couldn’t stop looking at her.

“Tonight,” she clarified. “Where did you go that you got so wet?”

He glanced down at himself, as if only just then remembering that he was soaked.

How was that possible?

“I went to the opera,” he told her.

“Did you?” She hugged her arms more tightly against her body, and although he could not be sure, it looked as if she moved slightly closer to the window. “I was supposed to attend,” she said. “I wanted to go.”

He moved, too, closer to his window. “Why didn’t you?”

She hesitated, her attention moving from his face for a moment before returning as she said, “If you must know, I knew the prince would be there, and I did not wish to see him.”

Now this was interesting. He moved closer to the window, then-

There was a knock on his door.

“Don’t move,” he ordered, pointing up at her. He shut his window, then strode to the door and opened it.

“Your bath is ready, sir,” his butler announced.

“Thank you. Could you, ah, have them keep it steaming for me? I’ll be a few more minutes.”

“I shall instruct the footmen to keep water on the stove. Will you be requiring a blanket, sir?”

Harry looked down at his hands. Funny, he couldn’t quite feel them properly. “Er, yes. That would be marvelous. Thank you.”

“I will get it at once.”

While the butler went off in search of a blanket, Harry hurried back over to the window and wrenched it open. Olivia now had her back to him. She was sitting on the edge of her windowsill, leaning slightly against the side of the aperture. She had also sought a blanket, he noticed, something soft and powdery blue and-

He shook his head. What did her blanket matter? “One more minute,” he called up. “Don’t go.”

Olivia glanced down at the sound of his voice, just in time to see his window close again. She waited another half minute or so, and then he was back, the wood of the window scraping as he pushed it back up.

“Oh, you got a blanket, too,” she said, as if that were something significant.

“Well, I was cold,” he said, also as if that were important.

They were quiet for a long moment, and then he asked, “Why didn’t you want to see the prince?”

Olivia just shook her head. Not because it wasn’t true, but because she didn’t really think she could talk to him about it. Which was strange, because that afternoon, the first thing she’d thought was that she had to tell him about Prince Alexei’s strange behavior. But now, window to window, with him looking up at her with dark, unfathomable eyes, she didn’t know what to say.

Or how to say it.

“It’s not important,” she finally decided.

He did not speak immediately. When he did, his voice was low, with an edge to it that took her breath away. “If he made you uncomfortable, it is very important to me.”

“He…he…” She kept shaking her head as she spoke, until finally she managed to hold herself still and say, “He just said something about kissing me. It’s nothing really.”

She’d been avoiding looking at Harry, but now she did. He wasn’t moving.

“It’s not the first time a gentleman has done so,” she added. She decided not to mention the part about Vladimir. Frankly, it made her squeamish just to think about it.

“Harry?” she called down.

“I don’t want you seeing him again,” he said in a low voice.

Her first thought was to tell him that he had no authority over her. And indeed, her mouth opened, the words right there on her lips. But then she remembered something he’d said to her. He’d been teasing, or maybe he hadn’t been. Maybe she’d only thought he was teasing when he’d said that she didn’t always think before she spoke.

This time she was going to think.

She didn’t want to see the prince again, either. What was the point in protesting his statement when they both wanted the same thing?

“I don’t know that I will have any choice,” she said. It was true. Short of barricading herself in her room, she had no way of avoiding him.

He looked up, his eyes deadly serious. “Olivia, he is not a nice man.”

“How do you know?”

“I just-” He raked his hand through his hair, letting out what sounded like a frustrated exhale. “I can’t tell you how I know. I mean, I don’t know how I know. It’s a male sort of thing. I can just tell.”

She looked down at him, trying to decipher his words.

He closed his eyes for a moment, rubbing both his hands along his forehead. Finally, he looked up and said, “Don’t you know things about other women that men are too dunce-headed to figure out?”

She nodded. He had a point. Quite a good one, actually.

“Just stay away from him. Promise me.”

“I can’t promise that,” she said, although she wished she could.

“Olivia…”

“I can promise I will try. You know that’s the best I can do.”

He nodded. “Very well.”

There was a hesitant, nervous silence, and then she said, “You should go have that bath. You’re shivering.”

“So are you,” he said softly.

She was. She hadn’t realized it, hadn’t noticed that she was shaking, but now…now that she knew…it seemed to grow worse. And then…even worse…and she thought she might cry, but she had no idea why. It was just there, inside of her. Too much feeling. Too much…

Just too much. It was just too much.

She nodded jerkily. “Good night,” she said, rushing out the word. The tears were there, too close, and she didn’t want him to see them.

“Good night,” he said, but she’d managed to pull down her window before he finished. And then she ran to the bed, and buried her face in her pillow.

But she didn’t cry. Even though now she wanted to.

And she still didn’t know why.

Harry held the blanket close as he trudged back out of his office. He was no longer quite so cold, but he felt awful. His chest had an unsettling, hollow feeling to it, and it seemed to intensify with each breath, sliding up his throat, drawing his shoulders up into a tense, unyielding shrug.

It wasn’t cold, he realized. It was fear.

Prince Alexei had frightened Olivia today. Harry wasn’t sure what exactly he’d done or said, and he knew that she would minimize her feelings if he pressed further about them, but something untoward had occurred. And it would happen again, if the prince was allowed free rein.

Harry moved through the front hall, holding the blanket with his left hand while he used his right to rub the back of his neck. He needed to calm down. He needed to catch his breath and think straight. It would be up to the bath, and then into bed, where he could calmly assess the problem and-

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.