What Happens in London

Chapter Three

Mozart, Mozart, Bach (the elder), more Mozart.

Olivia looked down at the program for the annual Smythe-Smith musicale, idly fingering the corner until it grew soft and ragged. It all looked the same as last year, except that there seemed to be a new girl at the cello. Curious. Olivia chewed on the inside of her lip as she considered this. How many Smythe-Smith cousins of the female variety could there be? According to Philomena, who had got it from her elder sister, the Smythe-Smiths had played as a string quartet every year since 1807. And yet the girls performing never managed to age past twenty. There was always another waiting in the wings, it seemed.

Poor things. Olivia supposed they were all forced to be musical whether they liked it or not. It wouldn’t do to run out of cellists, and heaven knew, two of the girls hardly looked strong enough to hoist their violins.

Musical Instruments I Might Like To Play, Had I Talent By Lady Olivia Bevelstoke

Flute

Piccolo

Tuba

It was good to choose the unexpected from time to time. And the tuba might double as a weapon.

Musical instruments she was fairly certain she would not wish to play would include anything of the stringed variety, because even if she managed to exceed the accomplishments of the Smythe-Smith cousins (legendary for their musicales for all the wrong reasons), she would still likely sound like a dying cow.

She’d tried the violin once. Her mother had had it removed from the house.

Come to think of it, Olivia was rarely invited to sing, either.

Ah well, she had other talents, she supposed. She could produce a better-than-average watercolor, and she was rarely at a loss in conversation. And if she wasn’t musical, at least no one was forcing her on a stage once a year to bludgeon the ears of the unwary.

Or not so unwary. Olivia looked about the room. She recognized almost everyone-surely they all knew what to expect. The Smythe-Smith musicale had become a rite of passage. One had to do it because…

Well now, that was a good question. Possibly unanswerable.

Olivia looked back down at her program, even though she’d already read through it three times. The card was a creamy color, and the hue seemed to melt into the yellow silk of her skirts. She’d wanted to wear her new blue velvet, but then she’d thought a cheerful color might be more useful. Cheerful and distracting. Although, she thought, frowning down at her attire, the yellow wasn’t proving all that distracting, and she was no longer so sure she liked the cut of the lace on the border, and-

“He’s here.”

Olivia looked up from her program. Mary Cadogan was standing above her-no, now she was sitting down, taking the seat Olivia was supposed to have reserved for her mother.

Olivia was about to ask who, but then the Smythe-Smiths began to warm up their instruments.

She flinched, then winced, then made the mistake of looking toward the makeshift stage to see what could have made so wretched a sound. She was not able to determine the origin, but the wretched expression on the face of the violist was enough to make her avert her eyes.

“Did you hear me?” Mary said urgently, poking her in the side. “He’s here. Your neighbor.” At Olivia’s blank stare, she practically hissed, “Sir Harry Valentine!”

“Here?” Olivia instantly twisted in her seat.

“Don’t look!”

And twisted back. “Why is he here?” she whispered.

Mary fussed with her dress, a lavender muslin which was apparently every bit as uncomfortable as it looked. “I don’t know. He was probably invited.”

That had to be true. No one in their right mind would attend the annual Smythe-Smith musicale un-invited. It was, in the most delicate of descriptions, an assault on the senses.

One of the senses, anyway. It was probably a good night to be deaf.

What was Sir Harry Valentine doing here? Olivia had spent the past three days with curtains drawn, assiduously avoiding all windows on the south side of Rudland House. But she hadn’t expected to see him out, since as she well knew, Sir Harry Valentine didn’t go out.

And surely anyone who spent as much time with pen, ink, and paper as he did possessed sufficient intelligence to know that if he did decide to go out, there were better options than the Smythe-Smith musicale.

“Has he ever attended anything like this before?” Olivia asked through the corner of her mouth, keeping her head facing forward.

“I don’t think so,” Mary whispered back, also staring straight ahead. She leaned in toward Olivia slightly, until their shoulders almost touched. “He has been to two balls since his arrival in town.”

“Almacks?”

“Never.”

“That horse race in the park that everyone went to last month?”

She felt, rather than saw, Mary shake her head. “I don’t think so. But I can’t be certain. I wasn’t allowed to go.”

“Neither was I,” Olivia murmured. Winston had told her all about it, of course, but (also of course) he had not given as detailed an accounting as she would have liked.

“He spends a great deal of time with Mr. Grey,” Mary continued.

Olivia’s chin drew back with surprise. “Sebastian Grey?”

“They are cousins. First, I believe.”

At that Olivia gave up all pretense of not carrying on a conversation and looked straight at Mary. “Sir Harry Valentine is cousin to Sebastian Grey?”

Mary gave a little shrug. “By all accounts.”

“Are you certain?”

“Why is it so difficult to believe?”

Olivia paused. “I have no idea.” But it was. She knew Sebastian Grey. Everyone did. Which was why he seemed such a peculiar match for Sir Harry, who, as far as Olivia could tell, left his office only to eat, sleep, and knock Julian Prentice unconscious.

Julian Prentice! She’d forgotten all about him. Olivia straightened and looked about the room with practiced discretion.

But of course Mary instantly knew what she was doing. “Who are you looking for?” she whispered.

“Julian Prentice.”

Mary gasped with delighted horror. “Is he here?”

“I don’t think so. But Winston said that it was not such a vicious thing as we thought. Apparently Julian was so sotted Sir Harry could have knocked him down by blowing on him.”

“Except for the blackened eye,” Mary reminded her, ever the stickler for detail.

“The point is, I don’t think he thrashed him.”

Mary paused for a second, then must have decided it was time to move on. She looked this way and that, then scratched at the spot where the stiff lace of her gown bent up against her collarbone. “Er, speaking of your brother, is he attending?”

“Heavens, no.” Olivia managed not to roll her eyes, but it was a close thing. Winston had given a rather convincing show of a head cold and bundled himself off to bed. Their mother had been so well fooled that she had asked the butler to check in on him at hourly intervals and send for her if he worsened.

Which had provided a bright spot in the evening. Olivia had it on the best of authority that there would be a gathering at White’s later that evening. Ah well, it would have to proceed without Winston Bevelstoke.

Which very well might have been her mother’s intention.

“Do you know,” Olivia murmured, “the older I get, the more I admire my mother.”

Mary looked at her as if she’d gone eccentric. “What are you talking about?”

“It’s nothing.” Olivia gave a little wave. It would be far too difficult to explain. She stretched her neck a bit, trying to make it look as if she weren’t perusing the crowd. “I don’t see him.”

“Who?” Mary asked.

Olivia fought off the urge to bat her. “Sir Harry.”

“Oh, he’s here,” Mary said confidently. “I saw him.”

“He’s not here now.”

Mary-who had just moments earlier admonished Olivia for her lack of discretion-displayed astonishing flexibility as she twisted herself nearly backward. “Hmmm.”

Olivia waited for more.

“I don’t see him,” Mary finally said.

“Is it possible you were wrong?” Olivia asked hopefully.

Mary gave her an irritated look. “Of course not. Perhaps he’s in the garden.”

Olivia turned, even though one couldn’t see the garden from the ballroom, where the musicale was being held. It was a reflex, she supposed. If you knew someone was somewhere, you couldn’t not turn in that direction, even if you couldn’t possibly see them.

Of course she didn’t know that Sir Harry was in the garden. She didn’t even know for certain that he was at the musicale. She had only Mary’s claim, and while Mary was quite dependable on matters of party attendance, she had, by her own admission, only seen the man a few times. She could easily have been mistaken.

Olivia decided to cling to that thought.

“Look what I brought,” Mary said, digging into her sovereign purse.

“Oh, that’s lovely,” Olivia said, peering down at the beadwork.

“Isn’t it? Mama got it in Bath. Oh, here we are.” Mary pulled out two little tufts of cotton. “For my ears,” she explained.

Olivia’s lips parted with admiration. And envy. “You don’t have two more, do you?”

“Sorry,” Mary said with a shrug. “It’s a very small purse.” She turned forward. “I think they’re ready to begin.”

One of the Smythe-Smith mothers called out for everyone to sit down. Olivia’s mother looked over at her, saw that Mary had taken her seat, and gave a little wave before finding a spot next to Mary’s mother.

Olivia took a deep breath, mentally preparing for her third encounter with the Smythe-Smith string quartet. She’d perfected her technique the year before; it involved breathing deeply, finding a spot on the wall behind the girls from which she must not avert her eyes, and pondering various traveling opportunities, no matter how plebian or routine:

Places I Would Rather Be, Edition 1821 By Lady Olivia Bevelstoke

France With Miranda With Miranda in France In bed with a cup of chocolate and a newspaper Anywhere with a cup of chocolate and a newspaper Anywhere with either a cup of chocolate or a newspaper

She looked over at Mary, who appeared on the verge of nodding off. The cotton was sticking partway out of her ears, and Olivia very nearly had to sit on her hands just to keep from yanking it out.

If it had been Winston or Miranda, she would definitely have done so.

The strains of Bach, recognizable only by its Baroque…well, she wouldn’t call it melody, precisely, but it did have something to do with notes moving up and down a scale. Whatever it was, it slapped her ears, and Olivia snapped her head back toward the front.

Eyes on the spot, eyes on the spot.

She’d rather be:

Swimming

On horseback

Not swimming on horseback

Asleep

Eating an ice

Did that qualify as a place? It was more of an experience, really, as was “asleep,” but then again, “asleep” implied being in bed, which was a place. Although, technically speaking, one could fall asleep sitting up. Olivia never did so, but her father frequently nodded off during her mother’s prescribed “family time” in the sitting room, and Mary, apparently, could even do so during this cacophony.

Traitor. Olivia would never have brought only one set of cotton.

Eyes on the spot, Olivia.

Olivia sighed-a bit too loudly, not that anyone could hear-and went back to her deep breaths. She focused on a sconce behind the violist’s miserable head-no, make that the miserable violist’s head…

Really, that one girl did not look happy. Did she know how dreadful the quartet was? Because the other three clearly had no clue. But the viola player, she was different, she was…

Making Olivia actually hear the music.

Not good! Not good! Her brain rebelled, and she started back with those blasted breaths again, and…

And then, somehow, it was done, and the musicians were standing and making rather pretty curtsies. Olivia found herself blinking excessively; her eyes didn’t seem to be working properly after so much time on one spot. “You fell asleep,” she said to Mary, giving her a betrayed sort of look.

“I did not.”

“Oh, you did.”

“Well, these worked, at any rate,” Mary said, yanking the cotton from her ears. “I could hardly hear a thing. Where are you going?”

Olivia was already halfway down the aisle. “To the washroom. Really must…” And that, she decided, would have to suffice. She had not forgotten the possibility that Sir Harry Valentine was somewhere in the room, and if ever a situation called for making haste, this was it.

It wasn’t that she was a coward-not at all. She wasn’t trying to avoid the man, she was merely trying to avoid his having the opportunity to surprise her.

Be prepared. If it hadn’t been her motto before, then she was adopting it now.

Wouldn’t her mother be impressed? She was always telling her to be more improving. No, that wasn’t proper English. What did her mother say? Didn’t matter; she was almost to the door. She need only push past Sir Robert Stoat, and-

“Lady Olivia.”

Drat. Who-

She turned. And felt her stomach drop. And realized that Sir Harry Valentine was much taller than he’d seemed in his office.

“I’m sorry,” she said serenely, because she had always been rather good at playacting. “Have we been introduced?”

But from the mocking curve of his smile, she was fairly certain she’d not been able to mask her first flash of surprise.

“Forgive me,” he said smoothly, and she shivered, because his voice-it wasn’t what she’d thought it would be. It sounded like the smell of brandy, and it felt like the taste of chocolate. And she wasn’t so certain why she’d shivered, because now she felt rather warm.

“Sir Harry Valentine,” he murmured, executing a elegantly polite bow. “You are Lady Olivia Bevelstoke, are you not?”

Olivia thought very regal thoughts as she lifted her chin half an inch. “I am.”

“Then I am very pleased to make your acquaintance.”

She nodded. She probably ought to speak; it would certainly be more polite. But she felt in danger of losing her poise, and it was wiser to remain silent.

“I am your new neighbor,” he added, looking vaguely amused at her reaction.

“Of course,” she replied. She kept her face even. He would not get the best of her. “To the south?” she asked, pleased by the slightly bored note in her voice. “I had heard it was to be let.”

He didn’t say anything. Not right away. But his eyes fixed on hers, and it took every ounce of her fortitude to maintain her expression. Placid, composed, and with just a hint of curiosity. She thought the last necessary-if she hadn’t been spying on him for nearly a week, she would certainly have found the encounter somewhat curious.

A strange man, acting as if they’d met.

A strange, handsome man.

A strange, handsome man who looked as if he might…

Why was he looking at her lips?

Why was she licking her lips?

“I welcome you to Mayfair,” she said quickly. Anything to break the silence. Silence was not her friend, not with this man, not anymore. “We shall have to have you over.”

“I would enjoy that,” he said, and to her rapidly growing panic, he sounded as if he meant it. Not just the part about enjoying, but that he actually meant to accept the offer, which any fool could have seen was made out of sheer politeness.

“Of course,” she said, and she was sure she wasn’t stammering, except that it sounded a bit as if she was. Or as if she had something in her throat. “If you’ll excuse me…” She motioned to the door, because surely he’d noticed that she had been moving toward the exit when he’d intercepted her.

“Until next time, Lady Olivia.”

She searched for a witty rejoinder, or even one sarcastic and sly, but her mind was a hazy blank. He was gazing upon her with an expression that seemed to say nothing of him, and yet everything of her. She had to remind herself that he didn’t know all of her secrets. He didn’t know her.

Good heavens, apart from this spying nonsense, she didn’t have any secrets.

And he didn’t know that, either.

Somewhat rejuvenated by her indignation, she gave him a nod-small and polite, utterly correct for dismissals. And then, reminding herself that she was Lady Olivia Bevelstoke, and she was comfortable in any social situation, she turned, and she left.

And gave utmost thanks that when she tripped over her own feet, she was already in the hall, where he could not see.