What Happens in London

Chapter Seventeen

Olivia’s second coiffure of the day took considerably more time to arrange than the first. Sally, still irritated at having been cut off mid-braid, took one look at Olivia’s hair and had not gone lightly with the “I told you so’s.”

And although it went against Olivia’s nature to sit meekly and take such abuse, sit meekly she did, since she couldn’t very well tell Sally that the only reason her hair was falling from its bun in huge messy chunks was because Sir Harry Valentine had had his hands in it.

“There,” Sally declared, inserting the final pin with what Olivia deemed unnecessary force. “This will stay in all week if you’re so inclined.”

Olivia would not have been surprised had Sally painted her with glue, just to keep every hair in place.

“Don’t go out in the rain,” Sally warned.

Olivia stood and headed toward the door. “It’s not raining.”

“It could.”

“But it’s-” Olivia cut herself off. Good heavens, what was she doing, standing there arguing with her maid? Sir Harry was still downstairs, waiting for her.

Just the thought of him made her giddy.

“Why are you skipping?” Sally asked suspiciously.

Olivia paused, her hand on her doorknob. “I wasn’t skipping.”

“You were doing”-Sally did a funny little hopping movement-“this.”

“I am walking sedately out of the room,” Olivia announced. She stepped into the hall. “Very sedately! Like a pallbearer I am…” She turned, ascertained that Sally was out of earshot, and dashed down the stairs.

Upon reaching the ground floor, she did opt for a sedate, pallbearish pace, and it was perhaps because of this that her footfalls were so quiet, and she reached the drawing room without making anyone aware of her approach.

What she saw…

There were really no words to describe it.

She stood in the doorway, thinking this would be a fine time to create a list titled Things I Do Not Expect To See in My Drawing Room, but she was not sure she could come up with anything that topped what she did see in her drawing room, which was Sebastian Grey, standing atop a table, reading (with great emotion) from Miss Butterworth and the Mad Baron.

If that weren’t enough-and it really ought to have been enough, since what was Sebastian Grey doing at Rudland House, anyway?-Harry and the prince were sitting side by side on the sofa, and neither appeared to have suffered bodily harm at the hands of the other.

That was when Olivia noticed the three housemaids, perched on a settee in the corner, gazing at Sebastian with utter rapture.

One of them might even have had tears in her eyes.

And there was Huntley, standing off to the side, openmouthed, clearly overcome with emotion.

“‘Grandmother! Grandmother!’” Sebastian was saying, his voice higher pitched than usual. “‘Don’t go. I beg of you. Please, please don’t leave me here all by myself.’”

One of the housemaids began to quietly weep.

“Priscilla stood in front of the great house for several minutes, a small, lonely figure watching her grandmother’s hired carriage speed down the lane and disappear from view. She had been left on the doorstep at Fitzgerald Place, deposited like an unwanted bundle.”

Another housemaid began to sniffle. All three were holding hands.

“And no one”-Sebastian’s voice dropped to a breathy, dramatic register-“knew she was there. Her grandmother had not even knocked upon the door to alert her cousins of her arrival.”

Huntley was shaking his head, his eyes wide with shock and sorrow. It was the most emotion Olivia had ever seen the butler display.

Sebastian closed his eyes and placed one hand on his heart. “She was but eight years old.”

He closed the book.

Silence. Utter silence. Olivia looked about the room, realizing no one knew she was there.

And then-

“Bravo!” Huntley was the first to cheer, clapping his hands with great fervor. The maids joined in next, sniffling through their applause. Even Harry and the prince clapped, although Harry’s face held more amusement than anything else.

Sebastian opened his eyes, and he was the first to see her. “Lady Olivia,” he said with a smile. “How long have you been standing there?”

“Since Priscilla begged her grandmother not to leave.”

“She was a heartless woman,” Huntley said.

“She did what needed to be done,” the prince argued.

“With all due respect, Your Highness-”

Olivia’s mouth dropped open. Her butler was arguing with royalty?

“-if she had tried a little harder-”

“-she would not have been able to feed the child,” the prince interrupted. “Any fool could see that.”

“It was heartbreaking,” one of the maids said.

“I cried,” said another.

The third nodded, apparently unable to speak.

“You are a wonderful speaker,” the first one continued.

Sebastian gave the three of them a melting smile. “Thank you for listening,” he murmured.

They sighed.

Olivia rubbed her eyes, still trying to make sense of the scene. She turned to Harry with a searching look. Surely he had an explanation.

“It’s really quite a bit better with Sebastian reading it,” he told her.

“It really couldn’t have been worse,” she murmured.

“This should be made into Russian,” the prince said. “It would be very much a success.”

“I thought you said your literature had a deeper tradition,” Olivia said.

“This is very deep,” he replied. “As a trench.”

“Shall I begin the next chapter?” Sebastian asked.

“Yes!” came the resounding response.

“Oh, please,” begged one of the maids.

Olivia still stood unmoving, only her eyes darting back and forth. As splendid as Sebastian’s performance was, she was not sure she could sit through an entire chapter of it without laughing. Which would not endear her to…well…anyone. She certainly didn’t want to fall into Huntley’s disfavor. Everyone knew he ran the house.

Maybe this meant she could slip away. She still hadn’t had breakfast. And she hadn’t finished with the newspaper, either. If Sebastian was entertaining all of the guests (and the household staff, too, but Olivia was willing to overlook this), then she could escape to the breakfast room and read.

Or maybe go shopping. She did need a new hat.

She was pondering her options when Vladimir suddenly spoke. In Russian, of course.

“He says you should have been on the stage,” Alexei said to Sebastian.

Sebastian gave a pleased smile and bowed in Vladimir’s direction. “Spasibo,” he said, thanking him.

“You speak Russian?” the prince said, turning sharply in Sebastian’s direction.

“Only the very basics,” Sebastian quickly replied. “I can say thank you in fourteen languages. Alas, please in but twelve.”

“Really?” Olivia asked, far more interested in this than the Miss Butterworth recitation. “Which languages?”

“I also find it useful to know ‘I need a drink,’” Sebastian said to the prince.

“Da,” he said approvingly. “In Russian, it is Ya nuzhdayus v napitkyeh.”

“Spasibo,” Sebastian replied.

“No, really,” Olivia said, even though no one was paying her any attention. “I want to know which languages.”

“Does anyone know what time it is?” Harry asked.

“There’s a clock on the mantel,” Olivia said without looking at him. “Mr. Grey,” she persisted.

“One moment,” he said to her, before turning back to the prince. “I am very curious about your servant,” he said. “He does not speak English, does he? How did he follow the recitation?”

The prince and Vladimir shared a quick conversation in Russian, and then the prince turned back to Sebastian and said, “He says that he can follow the emotion in your voice.”

Sebastian looked delighted.

“And also he knows a few words,” the prince added.

“Still,” Sebastian murmured.

“Portuguese,” Olivia said, wondering if anyone planned to pay her any attention that afternoon. “You must have learned some Portuguese in the army. How do you say ‘thank you’ in Portuguese?”

“Obrigado,” Harry said.

She turned to him with some surprise.

He gave a little shrug. “I learned a bit, too.”

“Obrigado,” she repeated.

“Obrigada for you,” he said. “Not that you are likely to be mistaken for a man.”

It was not the most resounding of compliments, but she decided to take it, nonetheless.

“What is the strangest language you can thank people in?” she asked Sebastian.

He thought about that for a moment, then said, “Köszönöm.”

She looked at him expectantly.

“Magyar,” he said, and at her blank expression added, “It’s spoken in parts of Hungary.”

“Why do you know that?”

“I have no idea,” he said.

“It was a woman,” the prince said knowingly. “If you don’t remember, it was a woman.”

Olivia decided it was not worth the effort to feel insulted for that.

“Kiitos,” Prince Alexei said, giving Sebastian a top that sort of look, before adding, “Finnish.”

“My heartfelt thanks to you,” Sebastian said. “My repertoire now numbers fifteen.”

Olivia thought about saying merci, but decided she’d only look desperate.

“What can you do?” the prince asked Harry.

“Yes, Harry,” Sebastian said. “What can you do?”

Harry gave his cousin a cool look, then answered, “I’m afraid I’ve got nothing out of the ordinary.”

Olivia had the feeling that there had been some sort of unspoken conversation between the two cousins, but she was not given the opportunity to consider it further, because Sebastian turned back to the prince and asked, “How does one say ‘please’ in Finnish?”

“Ole hyvä.”

“Excellent.” He nodded once, apparently tucking the small piece of knowledge into the back of his mind. “One never knows when one might come across a lovely lady from Finland.”

Olivia was wondering how she might possibly regain control of her drawing room, when she heard a knock at the front door. Huntley immediately excused himself to go answer it.

He returned moments later with a young man she had never met. Although…a little taller than average, dark brown hair…He was almost certainly-

“Mr. Edward Valentine,” Huntley announced. He raised his brows. “Here to see Sir Harry Valentine.”

“Edward,” Harry said immediately, standing up. “Is everything all right?”

“Yes, of course,” Edward replied, looking awkwardly about the room. He clearly had not expected so many people. He handed Harry an envelope. “This came for you. I was told it was urgent.”

Harry took the envelope and placed it in his coat pocket, then introduced his brother to everyone in the room, even the three housemaids, who were still sitting in a neat little row on the settee.

“Why is Seb standing on a table?” Edward asked.

“Entertaining the troops,” Sebastian replied, saluting him.

“Sebastian was reading from Miss Butterworth and the Mad Baron,” Harry explained.

“Oh,” Edward exclaimed, his face lighting with enthusiasm for the first time since he’d entered the room. “I’ve read that.”

“Did you like it?” Sebastian asked.

“Brilliant. Great fun. The writing is a bit spotty in places, but the story is fantastic.”

Sebastian seemed to find that very interesting. “Fantastic good, or fantastic like fantasy?”

“A bit of both, I suppose,” Edward replied. He looked about the room. “Do you mind if I join you?”

Olivia opened her mouth to say, “Of course not,” but she was beaten to the punch by Sebastian, Harry, and the prince.

Really, whose home was this?

Edward looked over at her-it was interesting, he looked nothing like Harry save for the coloring, which was identical-and said, “Er, do you plan to come in, Lady Olivia?”

She realized that she was still standing near the doorway. All the rest of the gentlemen were sitting down, but it was unlikely that Edward, who had only just met her, would do so while she still stood.

“Actually, I thought I might go out to the garden,” she said, her voice trailing off when she realized that no one was protesting her departure. “Or I’ll sit down.”

She found a seat off to the side, not so far from the three maids, who gave her nervous looks.

“Please,” she said to them, “stay. I couldn’t possibly ask you to miss the rest of the performance.”

They thanked her with such devotion that Olivia could only wonder how she would explain this to her mother. If Sebastian came by each afternoon to read (for surely he would not attempt the entire novel in one swoop), and the maids came to listen, that would be quite a few fireplaces that did not get cleaned out.

“Chapter Two,” Sebastian announced. A reverent hush fell over the room, prompting a most irreverent giggle from Olivia.

The prince shot her a dirty look, as did Vladimir and Huntley.

“Sorry,” she mumbled, and placed her hands primly in her lap. It was time, apparently, to be on her best behavior.

Satisfying Endings for Miss Butterworth

By Olivia Bevelstoke

The baron is quite sane, but Priscilla is mad!

Reemergence of pox. New, deadlier strain.

Priscilla leaves the baron and devotes her life to the care and feeding of carrier pigeons.

The baron eats the pigeons.

The baron eats her.

The last one would be a bit of a stretch, but there was no reason why the baron could not have gone mad while exploring in the darkest jungle, where he fell in with a society of cannibals.

It could happen.

She looked over at Harry, trying to see what he thought of the performance. But he looked distracted; his eyes were narrowed in thought but not focused on Sebastian. And his fingers were drumming along the arm of the sofa-a sure sign of a wandering mind.

Was he thinking of their kiss? She hoped not. He did not look remotely transported into rapturous bliss.

Good heavens, she was beginning to sound like Priscilla Butterworth.

Gad.

Several pages into Chapter Two, Harry decided it would not be impolite to quietly excuse himself so that he could read the letter Edward had brought over, presumably from the War Office. He glanced over at Olivia before he left the room, but she was seemingly lost in her own thoughts, staring straight ahead at a blank spot on the wall.

Her lips were moving, too. Not much, but he tended to notice the finer details of her lips.

Edward, too, seemed well situated. He was kitty-corner to the prince, watching Sebastian with a great, big loopy smile on his face. Harry had never seen his brother smile like this before. He laughed, even, when Sebastian mimicked a particularly annoying character. Harry knew he’d never heard his brother laugh.

Once in the hall, he tore open the envelope and pulled out a single sheet of paper. Apparently, Prince Alexei was no longer suspected of wrongdoing. Harry was to stop his assignment at once. There was no explanation as to why the prince was no longer of interest to the War Office, nothing saying how they had come to this determination. Just an order to stop. No please, no thank you.

In any language.

Harry shook his head. Couldn’t someone have figured this out before sending him on such a ridiculous assignment? This was why he stuck to translations. This sort of thing drove him batty.

“Harry?”

He looked up. Olivia had slipped out of the drawing room and was walking toward him, her eyes soft with concern.

“Not bad news, I hope,” she said.

He shook his head. “Just unexpected.” He folded up the paper and placed it back into his pocket. He could dispose of it later, when he was back home.

“I had to leave,” she said, her lips pressed together in what he imagined was her attempt not to smile. She motioned with her head to the open door of the drawing room, through which they could hear snatches of Miss Butterworth.

“Sebastian is that bad, eh?”

“No,” she said, sounding quite amazed. “He’s really quite good. That’s the problem. The book is so bad, but no one seems to realize it. They’re all staring at him like he’s Edmund Kean, performing Hamlet. I just couldn’t keep a straight face any longer.”

“I’m impressed you managed for as long as you did.”

“And the prince,” she added, shaking her head with disbelief. “He’s positively entranced. I can’t believe it. I would never have thought he’d like this sort of thing.”

The prince, Harry thought. Now there was a relief. He wouldn’t have to deal with the bastard ever again. He wouldn’t have to follow him, he wouldn’t have to speak with him…Life would return to normal. It would be lovely.

Except…

Olivia.

He watched her as she tiptoed back to the doorway and peeked in. Her movements were a little blocky, and for a moment he thought she might trip. She wasn’t clumsy, not exactly. But she moved in her own inimitable way, and he realized he could watch her for hours, do nothing but sit and stare at the way her hands carried out mundane tasks. He could watch her face, enjoying every play of emotion, every movement of her brow, of her lips.

She was so beautiful it made his teeth ache.

He made a mental note not to attempt poetry.

She let out a little, “Oh!” and leaned in farther.

He took a step forward and murmured in her ear, “For someone who is not interested, you’re quite interested.”

She hushed him, then gave him a little shove so that he wasn’t crowding her.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

Her eyes widened, and her face took on an expression of delight. “Your cousin is performing a death scene. Your brother has got up on the table, too.”

“Edward?” he asked doubtfully.

She nodded, taking another peek. “I can’t tell who is killing whom-Oh, never mind. Edward’s dead.”

That was quick.

“Oh, wait-” She craned her neck. “No, he’s dead. Sorry.” She turned. Smiled at him.

He felt it everywhere.

“He was rather good at it,” she murmured. “I think he takes after your cousin.”

He wanted to kiss her again.

“Clutched his heart”-she clutched hers-“groaned, and then, when it was all done, he let out one last shudder, and it wasn’t really all done.” She grinned again. “And then it was done.”

He had to kiss her. Now.

“What’s that room over there?” he asked, pointing to a door.

“My father’s office, why?”

“What about that one?”

“Music room. We never use it.”

He grabbed her hand. They were using it now.