What Happens in London

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 fiancee-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