What Happens in London

By Olivia Bevelstoke

Sequel to Miss Butterworth (wouldn’t it be delicious if he turned out to be the author?)

Unauthorized sequel to Miss Butterworth, because it is highly unlikely that he penned the original, splendid as that would be A Secret Diary-with all of his secrets (!!!!!) Something else entirely Order for a new hat

She giggled.

“What is so funny?” he asked, finally looking up.

“I couldn’t possibly explain,” she said, trying not to grin.

“Is the joke at my expense?”

“Only a little.”

He quirked a brow.

“Oh very well, it’s entirely at your expense, but it’s no less than you deserve.” She smiled at him, waiting for him to comment, but he did not.

Which was disappointing.

She turned back to Miss Butterworth, but even though the poor girl had just broken both legs in a hideous carriage wreck, the novel was less than gripping.

She started drumming her fingers on one of the open pages. The noise grew louder…and louder…until it seemed to echo through the room.

To her ears, at least. Harry didn’t notice.

She let out a loud exhale and went back to Miss Butterworth and her broken legs.

She turned a page.

And read. And turned another. And read. And turned another. And-

“You’re on Chapter Four already.”

She jumped in her seat, startled by the sound of Harry’s voice so close to her ear. How was it possible that he’d got up without her noticing?

“Must be a good book,” he said.

She gave a shrug. “It’s passable.”

“Is Miss Butterworth recovered from the plague?”

“Oh, that was ages ago. She’s more recently broken both of her legs, been stung by a bee, and nearly sold into slavery.”

“All in four chapters?”

“Closer to three,” she told him, motioning to the chapter head visible on her open page. “I’ve only just started the fourth.”

“I finished my work,” he said, coming around to the front of the sofa.

Ah. Now, finally, she could ask, “What were you doing?”

“Nothing very interesting. Grain reports from my property in Hampshire.”

Compared to her imaginings, this was somewhat disappointing.

He sat down on the other end of the sofa, crossing one ankle over the opposite knee. It was a very informal position; it spoke of comfort, and familiarity, and something else-something that made her giddy and warm. She tried to think of another man who would sit near her in so relaxed a pose. There was no one. Just her brothers.

And Sir Harry Valentine was definitely not her brother.

“What are you thinking about?” he asked, his voice sly.

She must have looked startled, because he added, “You were blushing.”

Her shoulders drew back. “I’m not blushing.”

“Of course not,” he said without hesitation. “It’s very warm in here.”

Which it wasn’t. “I was thinking about my brothers,” she said. It was a little bit true, and it ought to put a halt to his imaginings about her alleged blush.

“I quite like your twin,” Harry said.

“Winston?” Good heavens, he might have said he liked swinging from trees with monkeys. Or eating their droppings.

“Anyone who can get under your skin can only deserve my respect.”

She scowled at him. “And I suppose you were nothing but sweetness and light with your sister?”

“Absolutely not,” he said with no shame whatsoever. “I was a beast. But”-he leaned forward, his eyes full of mischief-“I always employed stealth.”

“Oh please.” Olivia had enough experience with siblings of the male persuasion to know that he had no idea what he was talking about. “If you are trying to tell me that your sister was not aware of your antics-”

“Oh no, she was most definitely aware.” Harry leaned forward. “But my grandmother was not.”

“Your grandmother?”

“She came to live with us when I was an infant. I was certainly closer to her than to either of my parents.”

Olivia found herself nodding, although she was not sure why. “She must have been lovely.”

Harry let out a bark of laughter. “She was many things, but not lovely.”

Olivia couldn’t help but grin as she asked, “What do you mean?”

“She was very…” He waved a hand in the air as he considered his words. “Severe. And I would have to say that she was quite firm in her opinions.”

Olivia considered that for a moment, then said, “I like women who are firm in their opinions.”

“I expect you do.”

She felt herself smiling, and she leaned forward, feeling a wonderful, almost effervescent kinship. “Would she have liked me?”

The question seemed to have caught him off guard, and his mouth hung open for a few moments before he finally said, looking almost amused by the question, “No. No, I don’t think she would have done.”

Olivia felt her own mouth go slack with shock.

“Did you wish for me to lie to you?”

“No, but-”

He waved her protest away. “She had little patience for anyone. She sacked six of my tutors.”

“Six?”

He nodded.

“My goodness.” Olivia was impressed. “I would have liked her,” she murmured. “I only managed to run off five governesses.”

He gave a slow smile. “Isn’t it strange how unsurprising I find that?”

She scowled at him. Or rather she meant to scowl. It probably came out something closer to a grin. “How is it,” she returned, “that I did not know of your grandmother?”

“You didn’t ask.”

What did he think, that she ran about asking people about their grandparents? But then it occurred to her-what did she know about him, really?

Very little. Very little indeed.

It was odd, because she knew him. She was quite certain she did. And then she realized it-she knew the man, but not the facts that had made him.

“What were your parents like?” she said suddenly.

He looked at her with some surprise.

“I didn’t ask if you had a grandmother,” she said, by way of an explanation. “Shame on me for not thinking of it.”

“Very well.” But he did not answer right away. The muscles of his face moved-not enough to reveal what he was thinking, but more than enough to let her know that he was thinking, that he couldn’t quite decide how to answer. And then he said: