What Happens in London

“We know.”

“I don’t like her.”

“We’re sorry to hear that.” Winthrop cleared his throat. “We were not sorry, however, to learn that Rudland House is directly to the north of your newly rented residence.”

Harry ground his teeth together.

“We were not mistaken in this, were we?”

“No,” Harry said grudgingly.

“Good. Because it is essential that you keep an eye on her, too.”

Harry was not able to hide his displeasure.

“Will that be a problem?”

“Of course not, sir,” Harry said, since they both knew the question had been purely rhetorical.

“We do not suspect Lady Olivia of collusion with the prince, but we do think, given his well-documented talent for seduction, that she might succumb to bad judgment.”

“You have documented his talent for seduction,” Harry stated. He didn’t even want to know how that had been achieved.

Again, the vague dismissive wave. “We have our ways.”

Harry was of half a mind to say that if the prince managed to seduce Lady Olivia, it was good riddance for Britain, but something stopped him. A fleeting flash of memory, something in her eyes perhaps…

Whatever her sins, she didn’t deserve this.

Except…

“We are counting on you to keep Lady Olivia out of trouble,” Winthrop was saying.

She had been spying on him.

“Her father is an important man.”

She’d said she liked guns. And hadn’t her maid said something about speaking in French?

“She is well known and well liked in society. Should anything happen to her, the scandal would be irreparable.”

But she couldn’t have known that Harry worked for the War Office. No one knew that he worked for the War Office. He was just a translator.

“It would be impossible for us to conduct our investigations under the scrutiny such a disaster would bring.” Winthrop paused, finally. “Do you understand what I am saying?”

Harry nodded. He still didn’t think that Lady Olivia was a spy, but his curiosity had been more than piqued. And wouldn’t he feel like a fool if he turned out to be wrong?

“My lady.”

Olivia looked up from the letter she was writing to Miranda. She had been debating whether to tell her about Sir Harry. Olivia couldn’t imagine anyone else she could-or would-tell, but then again, it wasn’t the sort of escapade that made sense on paper.

She wasn’t so sure it made sense at all.

She looked up. The butler stood in the doorway, holding a silver tray with a calling card upon it.

“A guest, my lady.”

She glanced up at the clock on the sitting-room mantel. It was a bit early for visitors, and her mother was still out shopping for hats. “Who is it, Huntley?”

“Sir Harry Valentine, my lady. I believe he has let the house to the south.”

Slowly, Olivia set down her pen. Sir Harry? Here?

Why?

“Shall I show him in?”

Olivia didn’t know why he was asking. If Sir Harry was in the front hall, he could practically see Huntley talking to her. There would be no pretending she was unavailable. She nodded, straightened the pages of the letter and tucked them into a drawer, and then stood, feeling as if she needed to be on her feet when he arrived.

Within moments he appeared in the doorway, clad in his customary dark hues. He carried a small package under his arm.

“Sir Harry,” she said lightly, rising to her feet. “What a surprise.”

He nodded his greeting. “I always strive to be a good neighbor.”

She nodded in return, watching warily as he entered the room.

She could not imagine why he might have chosen to call. He had been most unpleasant toward her the day before in the park, and the truth was, she had not behaved any better. She could not remember the last time she had treated anyone so poorly, but in her defense, she was terrified that he would attempt to blackmail her again, this time for something far more dangerous than a dance.

“I hope I am not interrupting,” he said.

“Not at all.” She motioned to the desk. “I was writing a letter to my sister.”

“I did not realize you had one.”

“My sister-in-law,” she amended. “But she is as a sister to me. I have known her all of my life.”

He waited until she took a seat on the sofa, then sat in the Egyptian-style chair directly across from her. He did not appear to be uncomfortable, which Olivia found interesting. She hated sitting in that chair.

“I brought you this,” he said, handing her the parcel.

“Oh. Thank you.” She took it with some awkwardness. She did not want gifts from this man, and she certainly did not trust his motivations for presenting her with one.

“Open it,” he urged.

It was wrapped plainly, and her fingers were shaking-hopefully not so much that he could see. It took her a few tries to undo the knot in the string, but eventually she was able to peel back the paper.

“A book,” she said with a touch of surprise. She’d known that was what it had to be, from the weight and the shape of the package, but still, it was a very odd choice.

“Anyone can bring flowers,” he remarked.

She turned it over-it had been upside down when she’d unwrapped it-and looked at the title. Miss Butterworth and the Mad Baron. Now she was really surprised. “You brought me a gothic novel?”

“A lurid gothic novel,” he corrected. “It seemed the sort of thing you might enjoy.”

She looked up at him, assessing that comment.

He looked back, as if daring her to question him.

“I don’t really read,” she murmured.

His brows rose.

“I mean I can,” she said quickly, irritation rising within her, as much at herself as at him. “I just don’t much enjoy it.”

His brows remained up.

“Am I not supposed to admit that?” she asked pertly.

He smiled slowly, and an agonizingly long moment passed before he said, “You don’t think before you speak, do you?”

“Not very often,” she admitted.

“Try it,” he said, motioning toward the book. “I thought you might find it more entertaining than the newspaper.”

It was just the sort of thing a man would say. No one ever seemed to understand that she preferred the news of the day to silly figments of someone else’s imagination.

“Have you read it?” she asked, looking down as she opened to a random page.

“Gad, no. But my sister recommended it highly.”

She looked up sharply. “You have a sister?”

“You seem to find that surprising.”

She did. She wasn’t sure why, except that her friends had seen fit to tell her everything about him, and somehow that had been left off.

“She lives in Cornwall,” he said, “surrounded by cliffs, legend, and a gaggle of small children.”