What Happens in London

Chapter Two

Olivia dropped to all fours, her heart pounding. He’d seen her. He had definitely seen her. She’d seen it in his eyes, in the sharp twist of his head. Dear God, how would she explain herself? Genteel young ladies did not spy upon their neighbors. They gossiped about them, inspected the cuts of their coats and the quality of their carriages, but they did not, repeat not, spy on them through windows.

Even if said neighbor was a possible murderer.

Which Olivia still did not believe.

That said, however, Sir Harry Valentine was definitely up to something. His behavior this past week was not normal. Not that Olivia could claim knowledge as to what constituted normal for him, but she had two brothers. She knew what men did in their offices and studies.

She knew, for example, that most men did not occupy their offices and studies, at least not for ten hours each day, as Sir Harry seemed to. And she knew that when they did happen to go into their offices, it was usually to avoid relations of the female persuasion, and not, as was the case with Sir Harry, to spend their time studiously examining papers and documents.

Olivia would have given her eyeteeth, and perhaps a molar or two, to have known what was in those papers. All day long, every day, he was there at his desk, poring over loose papers. Sometimes it almost looked as if he were copying them.

But that made no sense. Men like Sir Harry employed secretaries for that sort of thing.

Her heart still racing, Olivia glanced up, assessing her situation. Not that looking up was of any use; still, the window was above her, and really, it was only natural that she might-

“No, no, don’t move.”

Olivia let out a groan. Winston, her twin brother-or, as she liked to think of him, her younger brother, by precisely three minutes-was standing in the doorway. Or rather, he was leaning casually against the door frame, attempting to appear the devil-may-care charmer he was currently devoting his life attempting to be.

Which, admittedly, was not very good grammar, but it did seem to describe him precisely as he was. Winston’s blond hair was artfully mussed, his cravat tied just so, and yes, his boots were made by Weston himself, but anyone with an ounce of sense could see he was still wet behind the ears. Why all of her friends went dreamy-eyed and downright stupid in his presence she’d never understand.

“Winston,” she ground out, unwilling to offer any further acknowledgment.

“Stay,” he said, holding a hand forward, palm toward her. “Just one more moment. I’m trying to burn the image into my memory.”

Olivia gave him a surly bit of lip and carefully crawled along the wall, away from the window.

“Let me guess,” he said. “Blisters on both feet.”

She ignored him.

“You and Mary Cadogan are writing a new theatrical. You’re playing the sheep.”

Never had he been more deserving of a comeback, but sadly, never had Olivia been in less of a position to deliver one.

“Had I known,” he added, “I’d have brought a riding crop.”

She was almost close enough to bite his leg. “Winston?”

“Yes?”

“Shut up.”

He laughed.

“I’m going to kill you,” she announced, rising to her feet. She’d skirted half the length of the room. There was no way Sir Harry would be able to see her here.

“With your hooves?”

“Oh, stop it,” she said disgustedly. And then she realized that he was ambling into the room. “Get away from the window!”

Winston froze, then twisted around to face her. His brows were arched in question.

“Step back,” Olivia said. “That’s it. Slowly, slowly…”

He feigned a motion forward.

Her heart lurched. “Winston!”

“Really, Olivia,” he said, turning around and planting his hands on his hips. “What are you doing?”

She swallowed. There would be no avoiding telling him something. He’d seen her crawling about the room like an idiot. He would expect an explanation. Heaven knew she would, had their positions been reversed.

But she might not have to tell him the truth. Surely there was some other explanation for her actions.

Reasons Why I Might Be Crawling About on the Floor AND Need to Avoid the Window

No. She had nothing.

“It’s our neighbor,” Olivia said, resorting to the truth, since, given her position, she had no other choice.

Winston’s head turned toward the window. Slowly, and with as much sarcasm as a lateral move of the head could convey.

Which, Olivia had to admit, was quite a bit when performed by a Bevelstoke.

“Our neighbor,” he repeated. “Do we have one?”

“Sir Harry Valentine. He leased the house while you were in Gloucestershire.”

Winston nodded slowly. “And his presence in Mayfair has you crawling on the floor…because…”

“I was watching him.”

“Sir Harry.”

“Yes.”

“From your knees.”

“Of course not. He saw me, and-”

“And now he thinks you’re a lunatic.”

“Yes. No! I don’t know.” She let out a furious exhale. “I’m hardly privy to his inner thoughts.”

Winston quirked a brow. “As opposed to his inner bedchamber, which you are-”

“It’s his office,” she cut in heatedly.

“Which you feel the need to spy upon because…”

“Because Anne and Mary said-” Olivia cut herself off, well aware that if she said why she was spying on Sir Harry she’d look more of a fool than she did already.

“Oh no, don’t stop now,” he implored dryly. “If Anne and Mary said it, I definitely want to hear it.”

Her mouth clamped into a businesslike frown. “Fine. But you mustn’t repeat it.”

“I try not to repeat anything they say,” he said frankly.

“Winston.”

“I won’t say a word.” He held up his hands, as if in surrender.

Olivia gave a curt nod of acknowledgment. “Because it isn’t even true.”

“That, I already knew, considering the source.”

“Win-”

“Oh, come now, Olivia. You know better than to trust anything those two tell you.”

She felt a reluctant need to defend them. “They’re not that bad.”

“Not at all,” he agreed, “just lacking in any ability to discern truth from fiction.”

He was correct, but still, they were her friends, and he was annoying, so it wasn’t as if she was going to admit it. Instead, she ignored his statement altogether and continued with: “I mean it, Winston. You must keep this a secret.”

“I give you my word,” he said, sounding almost bored by the whole thing.

“What I say in this room…”

“Stays in this room,” he finished. “Olivia…”

“Fine. Anne and Mary said they had heard that Sir Harry had killed his fiancée-no, don’t interrupt, I don’t believe it, either-but then I got to thinking, well, how does a rumor like that get started?”

“From Anne Buxton and Mary Cadogan,” Winston answered.

“They never start rumors,” Olivia said. “They only repeat them.”

“A critical difference.”

Olivia felt similarly, but this was neither the time nor place to agree with her brother. “We know he has a temper,” she continued.

“We do? How?”

“You didn’t hear about Julian Prentice?”

“Oh, that.” Winston rolled his eyes.

“What do you mean?”

“He barely touched him. Julian was so far gone a gust of wind could have knocked him out.”

“But Sir Harry did hit him.”

Winston waved a hand. “I suppose.”

“Why?”

He shrugged, then crossed his arms. “No one knows, really. Or at least, no one is telling. But stop for a moment-what does any of this have to do with you?”

“I was curious,” she admitted. It sounded beyond foolish, but it was the truth. And she couldn’t possibly embarrass herself any more this afternoon.

“Curious about what?”

“Him.” She jerked her head toward the window. “I didn’t even know what he looked like. And yes,” she said pointedly, putting a halt to the interruption she could see forming on his lips, “I know that what he looks like has nothing at all to do with whether or not he’s killed anyone, but I couldn’t help myself. He lives right next door.”

He crossed his arms. “And you’re worried he’s planning to steal over and slit your throat?”

“Winston!”

“I’m sorry, Olivia,” he said, laughing, “but you must admit, it’s the most ludicrous thing-”

“But it’s not,” she put in earnestly. “It was. That I agree. But then-I started watching him, and I tell you, Winston, there is something very peculiar about that man.”

“Which you’ve discerned in the last-” Winston frowned. “How long have you been spying upon him?”

“Five days.”

“Five days?” Gone was the bored-aristocrat expression, replaced by mouth-dropping disbelief. “Good Lord, Olivia, haven’t you anything better to do with your time?”

She tried not to look embarrassed. “Apparently not.”

“And he didn’t see you? In all that time?”

“No,” she lied, and quite smoothly, too. “And I don’t want him to. That was why I was crawling away from the window.”

He looked over at the window. Then back at her, his head moving slowly, and with great skepticism. “Very well. What have you discerned about our new neighbor?”

She plopped herself down into a chair at the back wall, surprised by how much she wanted to tell him her findings. “Well. Most of the time he seems quite ordinary.”

“Shocking.”

She scowled. “Do you want me to tell you or not? Because I won’t continue if all you’re going to do is mock me.”

He motioned for her to continue with a patently sarcastic flick of his hand.

“He spends an inordinate amount of time at his desk.”

Winston nodded. “A sure sign of murderous intent.”

“When was the last time you spent any time at a desk?” she shot back.

“Point taken.”

“And,” she continued, with considerable emphasis, “I also think he is given to disguises.”

That got his attention. “Disguises?”

“Yes. Sometimes he wears spectacles and sometimes he does not. And twice he was worn an extremely peculiar hat. Inside.”

“I can’t believe I am listening to this,” Winston stated.

“Who wears a hat inside?”

“You’ve gone mad. It’s the only explanation.”

“Furthermore, he wears only black.” Olivia thought back to Anne’s comments earlier in the week. “Or dark blue. Not that that is suspicious,” she added, because the truth was, if she hadn’t been the one uttering the words, she’d probably have thought her an idiot, too. The entire escapade did sound quite useless when put so plainly.

She sighed. “I know this sounds ridiculous, but I tell you, something is not right with that man.”

Winston stared at her for several seconds before finally saying, “Olivia, you have too much time on your hands. Although…”

She knew he was letting his words trail of purposefully, but she also knew that she was not going to be able to resist the bait. “Although what?” she ground out.

“Well, I must say, it does demonstrate an uncharacteristic tenacity on your part.”

“What do you mean by that?” she demanded.

The look he gave her was condescending in the way that only a sibling could manage. “You must admit, you don’t possess a reputation for seeing things through to the end.”

“That is not true!”

He crossed his arms. “What about that model of St. Paul’s you were building?”

Her jaw dropped into an openmouthed gasp. She could not believe he was using that as an example. “The dog knocked it over!”

“Perhaps you recall a certain vow to write to Grandmother every week?”

“You’re even worse at it than I am.”

“Ah, but I never promised diligence. I also never took up oil painting or the violin.”

Olivia’s hands balled at her sides. So she hadn’t taken more than six lessons at painting, or one at violin. It was because she had been dreadful at both. And who wanted to hammer endlessly at an endeavor for which one had no talent?

“We were speaking of Sir Harry,” she ground out.

Winston smiled a little. “So we were.”

She stared at him. Hard. He still had that look on his face-one part supercilious, two parts just plain annoying. He was taking far too much pleasure in having needled her.

“Very well,” he said, suddenly solicitous. “Tell me, what is so ‘not right’ about Sir Harry Valentine?”

She waited a moment before speaking, then said, “Twice I have seen him throw masses of paper into the fire.”

“Twice I have seen myself do the very same thing,” Winston replied. “What else do you expect a man to do with paper that needs discarding? Olivia, you-”

“It was the way he was doing it.”

Winston looked as if he’d like to respond but couldn’t find words.

“He hurled it in,” Olivia said. “Hurled it! In a mad rush.”

Winston started shaking his head.

“Then he looked over his shoulder-”

“You really have been watching him for five days.”

“Don’t interrupt,” she snapped, and then, without taking a breath: “He looked over his shoulder as if he could hear someone coming from down the hall.”

“Let me guess. Someone was coming from down the hall.”

“Yes!” she said excitedly. “His butler entered exactly then. At least I think it was his butler. It was someone, at any rate.”

Winston looked at her hard. “And the other time?”

“The other time?”

“That he burned his papers.”

“Oh,” she said, “that. It was rather ordinary, actually.”

Winston stared at her for several moments before saying, “Olivia, you must stop spying on the man.”

“But-”

He held up a hand. “Whatever you think Sir Harry is, I promise you, you’re wrong.”

“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.