What Happens in London

Chapter Twenty-four

By the time they reached the ground floor, the feeling had returned to Olivia’s feet, and she didn’t have to lean quite so hard on Harry.

But she didn’t let go of his hand.

She was still in a panic, heart racing and blood pounding, and she didn’t understand why he was speaking Russian or holding a gun, and she wasn’t sure if she should trust him, and even worse, she didn’t know if she could trust herself, because she feared she might have fallen in love with a mirage, a man who didn’t even exist.

But still, she didn’t let go of his hand. It was, in that terrifying moment, the one true thing in her life.

“This way,” Vladimir said curtly, leading the way. They were heading to the ambassador’s office, where her parents waited. They still had a way to go, or so Olivia assumed from the silence in the halls. When she could hear the hum of the party, then she would know that she was close.

But they were not moving quickly. At every corner, and at the top and bottom of each staircase Vladimir would stop, placing one finger to his lips as he pressed himself against the wall and peered carefully around the corner. And every time, Harry followed suit, pushing her behind him, guarding her with his body.

Olivia understood the need for caution, but she felt as if something inside of her were about to burst, and she just wanted to break free and run, to feel the air whistling past her face as she flew through the halls.

She wanted to go home.

She wanted her mother.

She wanted to take off this dress and burn it, to wash herself, to drink something sweet or sour or minty-whatever would most quickly wipe the taste of fear from her mouth.

She wanted to curl up in her bed, and pull the pillow over her head-she didn’t want to think about any of this. She wanted, for once in her life, to be incurious. Maybe tomorrow she’d want all of the whys and wherefores, but for right now, she just wanted to close her eyes.

And hold Harry’s hand.

“Olivia.”

She looked over at him, and it was only then that she realized that she had closed her eyes. And nearly lost her balance.

“Are you all right?” he whispered.

She nodded, even though she wasn’t. But she thought she might be all right enough. Enough for this night, for whatever it was she needed to do.

“Can you do this?” he asked.

“I have to.” Because, really, what other choice did she have?

He squeezed her hand.

She swallowed, looking down at where they touched, his skin against hers. His grip was warm, almost hot, and she wondered if her fingers felt like sharp little icicles in his palm.

“It’s not much farther,” he assured her.

Why were you speaking Russian?

The words hovered on her lips, almost tumbled out. But she caught them, held them inside. This wasn’t the time to ask questions. She had to focus on what she was doing, what he was doing for her. The ambassador’s residence was enormous, and she’d been unconscious when she’d been brought to her little upstairs room. She couldn’t find her way back to the ballroom herself, could she-at least not without getting lost along the way?

She had to have faith that he would deliver her to safety. She had no choice.

She had to trust him.

She had to.

Then she looked at him, really looked at him for the first time since he and Vladimir had rescued her. The strange gauzy fog that had washed over her began to lift, and she realized that her mind was finally clear. Or rather, she thought with a funny, rueful little twitch of her lips, it was clear enough.

Clear enough to know that she did trust him.

It wasn’t because she had to. It was simply because she did. Because she loved him. And maybe she didn’t know why he hadn’t told her he spoke Russian, but she knew him. When she looked at his face, she saw him reading from Miss Butterworth, scolding her for interrupting. She saw him sitting in her drawing room, insisting that she needed protection from the prince.

She saw him smiling.

She saw him laughing.

And she saw his eyes, open to his soul, as he told her he loved her.

“I trust you,” she whispered. He didn’t hear her, but it didn’t matter. She hadn’t said the words for him.

She’d said them for herself.

Harry had forgotten just how much he hated this. He’d fought in enough battles to know that some men thrived on danger. And he’d fought in more than enough to know that he was not one of them.

He could keep his head, act with calm and rational intent, but afterward, when safety had settled around him like a shroud, he began to shake. His breath came faster and faster, and more than once, he’d lost his belly.

He didn’t like fear.

And never in his life had he been more afraid.

The men who had taken Olivia were ruthless, or so Vladimir had told him when they were searching for her. They had served the ambassador for years and had been amply rewarded for their misdeeds. They were loyal and violent-a terrifying combination. The only consolation was that they were unlikely to hurt Olivia if they thought she was of value to Prince Alexei. But now that she had escaped, who knew how they might judge her? They might consider her soiled goods, completely expendable.

“It is not much farther now,” Vladimir said in Russian as they reached the bottom of the stairs. They had only to make it down the long gallery and over to the public section of the house. Once there, they would be safe. The party was still in full swing, and no one would dare attempt violence with several hundred of England’s most prominent citizens as witnesses.

“It’s not much farther,” Harry whispered to Olivia. Her hands were like ice, but she seemed to have regained most of her spirit.

Vladimir edged forward. They had taken the service stairs, which, unfortunately, ended at a closed door. He pressed his ear against the wood and listened.

Harry tugged Olivia closer.

“Now,” Vladimir said quietly. He opened the door very slowly, stepped out, then motioned for them to follow.

Harry took a step out, and then another, Olivia one pace behind.

“Quickly now,” Vladimir whispered.

They moved swiftly, silently, keeping to the walls, and then-

Crack!

Harry pulled hard on Olivia’s hand, his first instinct to shove her to safety, but there was nowhere, no shelter, no refuge. There was nothing but the wide-open hallway, and someone, somewhere, with a gun.

“Run!” Vladimir shouted.

Harry let go of Olivia’s hand-she’d be able to run faster with both arms free-and he yelled, “Go!”

And they ran. They tore down the hallway, skidding around the corner after Vladimir. From behind them, a voice shouted in Russian, ordering them to stop.

“Keep going!” Harry yelled to Olivia. Another shot rang out, and this one came close, slicing the air near Harry’s shoulder.

Or maybe it sliced his shoulder. He couldn’t tell.

“This way!” Vladimir ordered, and they followed him around another corner, and then down a hall. The shots had stopped, and there were no more footsteps racing behind them, and then, somehow, they were all tumbling into the ambassador’s office.

“Olivia!” her mother shrieked, and Harry watched as they embraced, as Olivia, who had not shed a tear, at least not one that he’d seen, collapsed in her mother’s arms, weeping.

Harry leaned against the wall. He felt dizzy.

“Are you all right?”

Harry blinked. It was Prince Alexei, looking at him with concern.

“You’re bleeding.”

Harry looked down. He was holding his shoulder. He hadn’t realized he’d been doing that. He lifted his hand and looked down at the blood. Strange, it didn’t hurt. Maybe that was someone else’s shoulder.

His knees buckled.

“Harry!”

And then…it wasn’t blackness, really. Why did everyone say things went to black when one fainted? This was red. Or maybe green.

Or maybe…

Two days later

Experiences I Hope Never to Repeat

By Olivia Bevelstoke

Olivia paused in her thoughts as she took a sip of tea, sent up to her bedroom along with a large plate of biscuits by her concerned parents. Really, where did one start with a list such as that? There was the being rendered unconscious (apparently with some sort of drug-soaked cloth to the mouth, she had later learned). And one could not forget the gag, or the tied ankles, or the tied hands.

Oh, and she could not leave off being fed steaming hot tea by the very same man responsible for all of the above. That one had been more of an affront to her dignity than anything else, but it would be rather high up the list.

Olivia was fond of her dignity.

Let’s see, what else…Being eye-and ear-witness to a door being kicked down. She had not enjoyed that. The expressions on her parents’ faces when she was finally brought back to their care-there had been relief, that was true, but that sort of relief required commensurate terror, and Olivia did not want anyone she loved to feel that way ever again.

And then, dear God, this had been the worst: watching Harry as he’d slumped to the floor of the ambassador’s office. She hadn’t realized that he’d been shot. How could she not have realized that? She’d been so busy sobbing in her mother’s arms, she hadn’t seen that he’d gone deathly pale, or that he was clutching his shoulder.

She’d thought she’d been afraid before, but nothing-nothing-could have compared to the terror of those thirty seconds between the time he went down and Vladimir assured her it was nothing but a flesh wound.

And indeed, that was all it was. True to Vladimir’s word, Harry was up and about the very next day. He’d arrived at her home while she was eating breakfast, and then he explained everything-why he hadn’t told her he could speak Russian, what he’d really been doing at his desk when she had spied upon him, even why he had called upon her with Miss Butterworth and the Mad Baron that first crazy, wonderful afternoon. It hadn’t been to be neighborly, or because he had had any feelings for her other than disdain. He had been ordered to do so. By no less an authority than the War Office.

It was a lot to take in over coddled eggs and tea.

But she’d listened, and she’d understood. And now everything was settled, every loose end neatly tied. The ambassador had been detained, as had the men who worked for him, including her gray-haired captor. Prince Alexei had sent over a formal letter of apology, on behalf of the entire Russian nation, and Vladimir, true to his word, had disappeared.

And yet she hadn’t seen Harry in over twenty-four hours. He had left after breakfast, and she’d assumed he’d call again, but…

Nothing.

She wasn’t worried. She wasn’t even concerned. But it was odd. Quite odd.

She took another sip of her tea, then set the cup down on its saucer. Then she picked up both dishes and set them atop Miss Butterworth. Because she kept reaching for the book.

And she didn’t want to pick it up. Not without Harry.

She hadn’t finished the newspaper yet, anyway. She’d read the last half of it, and was rather interested in getting on to the more serious news at the front. There had been rumors that Monsieur Bonaparte was in exceedingly ill health. She supposed he couldn’t have actually died yet; that would have been reported on the front page, with a headline prominent enough that she couldn’t have missed it.

Still, there might be something of note, so she picked up the paper again, and had just found an article to read when she heard a knock on the door.

It was Huntley, carrying a small piece of paper. When he approached, she realized it was actually a card, folded in thirds and sealed at the center with dark blue wax. She murmured her thanks, examining the seal while the butler left the room. It was quite simple: just a V, in a rather elegant script, starting with a swirl and then finishing with a flourish.

She slid her finger underneath and loosened the wax, carefully unfolding the card.

Come to your window.

That was all. Just one sentence. She smiled, looking down at the words for a few seconds more before sliding herself to the edge of her bed. She hopped down, her feet lightly hitting the floor, but she paused for a few seconds before crossing the room. She needed to wait. She wanted to stand here and savor this moment because…

Because he had made it. Harry had created the moment. And she loved him.

Come to your window.

She found herself grinning, almost giggling. She didn’t ordinarily like being ordered about, but in this case it was delightful.

She walked to the window and pulled her curtains open. She could see him through the glass, standing in his own window, waiting for her.

She pushed her window open.

“Good morning,” Harry said. He looked very solemn. Or rather, his mouth looked solemn. His eyes looked like they were up to something.

She felt her own eyes begin to twinkle. Wasn’t that odd? That she could feel it. “Good morning,” she said.

“How are you feeling?”

“Much better, thank you. I think I needed time to rest.”

He nodded. “One needs time after a shock.”

“You are speaking from experience?” she asked. But she needn’t have done so; from his expression she knew that he was.

“When I was in the army.”

It was funny. Their conversation was simple, but it wasn’t flat. They weren’t awkward; they were merely warming up.

And Olivia was already feeling the first tingles of anticipation.

“I bought another copy of Miss Butterworth,” he said.

“You did?” She leaned on the ledge. “Did you finish it?”

“Indeed.”

“Does it get any better?”

“Well, she does go into surprising detail about the pigeons.”

“No.” Good heavens, she was going to finish that wretched novel. If the author actually showed the death by pigeons…well now, that was worth her time.

“No, really,” Harry said. “It turns out Miss Butterworth was witness to the sad event. She relives it in a dream.”

Olivia shuddered. “Prince Alexei is going to adore it.”

“Actually, he’s hired me to translate the entire book into Russian.”

“You’re joking!”

“No.” He gave her a look that was both sly and satisfied. “I’m working on the first chapter right now.”

“Oh, how exciting. I mean, awful, too, since you actually have to read it, but I suppose it’s a different task altogether when you’re being paid to do so.”

Harry chuckled. “It’s a change from the War Office documents, I must say.”

“Do you know, I think I would like those better.” Dull, dry facts were much more to her taste.

“You likely would,” he agreed. “But then again, you’re an odd sort of female.”

“Charming as always with the compliments, Sir Harry.”

“As I am a scholar of words, that is only to be expected.”

She realized she was grinning. She was hanging half out of her window, grinning. And she was quite happy to be there.

“Prince Alexei pays quite handsomely,” Harry added. “He feels that Miss Butterworth will be a huge success in Russia.”

“He and Vladimir certainly enjoyed it.”

Harry nodded. “It means I may retire from the War Office.”

“Is that what you wished to do?” Olivia asked. She’d only just found out about his work; she’d not got a sense as to whether he enjoyed it.

“Yes,” he replied. “I don’t think I realized just how much until these last few weeks. I’m tired of all the secrets. I enjoy translation, but if I can keep to gothic novels-”

“Lurid gothic novels,” Olivia corrected.

“Indeed,” Harry agreed. “I-oh, excuse me, our other guest has arrived.”

“Our other-” She glanced this way and that, blinking with confusion. “Someone else is here?”

“Lord Rudland,” Harry said, nodding deferentially at the window below and to the left of Olivia’s.

“Father?” Olivia looked down, startled. And perhaps a bit mortified as well.

“Olivia?” Her father poked the upper half of his body out the window, twisting awkwardly to see her. “What are you doing?”

“I was going to ask you the same thing,” she admitted, the sheepishness of her tone taking an edge off her impertinence.

“I received a note from Sir Harry requesting my presence at this window.” Lord Rudland twisted back around to face Harry. “What is this about, young man? And why is my daughter hanging out of her window like a fishwife?”

“Is Mother here?” Olivia asked.

“Your mother is here, too?” her father blustered.

“No, I was just wondering, since you’re here, and-”

“Lord Rudland,” Harry interrupted, his voice loud enough to cut the both of them off, “I would like to request the honor of your daughter’s hand in marriage.”

Olivia gasped, then squealed, then jumped up and down, which turned out to be a bad idea. “Ow!” she yelped, smacking her head on the window. She poked her head back out and beamed down at Harry with tears in her eyes. “Oh, Harry,” she sighed. He’d promised her a proper proposal. And here it was. Nothing could have been so splendid as this.

“Olivia?” her father asked.

She looked down, wiping at her eyes.

“Why is he asking me this through a window?”

Olivia considered the question, considered her possible answers, and decided that honesty was her best alternative. “I am fairly certain you do not wish to know the answer to that question,” she told him.

Her father closed his eyes and shook his head. She had seen that gesture before. It meant he didn’t know what to do with her. Luckily for him, she was about to be taken off his hands.

“I love your daughter,” Harry said. “And I like her very much as well.”

Olivia put her hand over her heart and squeaked. She didn’t know why she squeaked; it just came out, like a little bubble of pure joy. His words-they were quite simply the most perfect declaration of love imaginable.

“She is beautiful,” Harry went on, “so beautiful it makes my teeth ache, but that’s not why I love her.”

No, that was more perfect, aching teeth and all.

“I love that she reads the newspaper every day.”

Olivia looked down at her father. He was staring at Harry as if he’d gone mad.

“I love that she has no patience for stupidity.”

It was true, Olivia thought with a silly smile. He knew her so well.

“I love that I’m a better dancer than she is.”

Her smile disappeared, but she had to acknowledge the truth of that as well.

“I love that she’s kind to small children and large dogs.”

What? She looked at him in askance.

“I’m guessing,” he admitted. “You seem like the sort.”

She pressed her lips together so she wouldn’t laugh.

“But most of all,” Harry said, and although he was looking squarely at Olivia’s father, it felt as if he were looking at her, “I love her. I adore her. And I would like nothing more than to spend the rest of my days standing beside her as her husband.”

Olivia looked back down at her father. He was still staring at Harry with an expression of great shock.

“Father?” she asked hesitantly.

“This is highly irregular,” her father said. But he didn’t sound angry, just dazed.

“I would give my life for her,” Harry said.

“You would?” she asked, her voice small, and hopeful, and thrilled. “Oh, Harry, I-”

“Hush,” he said, “I’m talking to your father.”

“I approve,” Lord Rudland suddenly said.

Olivia’s mouth fell into an indignant O. “Because he told me to hush?”

Her father looked up. “It is indicative of uncommon good sense.”

“What?”

“And a healthy dose of self-preservation,” Harry added.

“I like this man,” her father announced.

And then, quite suddenly, Olivia heard another window opening.

“What is going on?” It was her mother, in the drawing room, precisely three windows over from her father. “Who are you talking to?”

“Olivia is getting married, dear,” her father said.

“Good morning, Mama,” Olivia added.

Her mother looked up, blinking. “What are you doing?”

“Apparently getting married,” Olivia said, with a rather silly grin.

“To me,” Harry said, just to clarify.

“Oh, Sir Harry, er…lovely to see you again.” Lady Rudland looked over at him, blinking a few times. “I didn’t see you there.”

He nodded graciously at his future mother-in-law.

Lady Rudland turned to her husband. “She’s marrying him?”

Lord Rudland nodded. “With my heartfelt approval.”

Lady Rudland considered this for a moment, then turned back to Harry. “You may have her in four months.” She looked up at Olivia. “We have much to plan, you and I.”

“I was thinking more along the lines of four weeks,” Harry said.

Lady Rudland turned to him sharply, the index finger of her right hand pointed straight up. It was a gesture Olivia also knew quite well. It meant that the recipient was to argue at his own peril.

“You have a great deal to learn, my boy,” Lord Rudland said.

“Oh!” Harry exclaimed. He motioned up to Olivia. “Don’t move.”

She waited, and a moment later he returned with a small jeweler’s box. “A ring,” he said, even though it was quite obvious. He opened the box, but Olivia was too far away to see anything but a bit of sparkle.

“Can you see it?” he asked.

She shook her head. “I’m sure it’s lovely.”

He poked his head farther out the window, his eyes narrowing as he measured the distance. “Can you catch it?” he asked.

Olivia heard her mother gasp, but she knew there was only one suitable reply. She gazed upon her future husband with a most supercilious expression and said, “If you can throw it, I can catch it.”

He laughed. And he threw.

And she missed. On purpose.

It was better that way, she thought, when they met in the middle to search for the ring. A proper proposal deserved a proper kiss.

Or, as Harry murmured to her in full sight of both of her parents, perhaps an improper one…?

Improper, Olivia thought, as his lips touched hers. Definitely improper.