What Happens in London

“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