What Happens in London

answering expression. Which defeated the purpose of the wave. If she was going to be embarrassed, he wanted to see it. What was the fun in it, otherwise?

Harry sat back down at his desk, acting as if he hadn’t a clue that she was peeking at him from behind her curtains. He had work to do, and he needed to stop wondering about the blonde up at the window. A messenger from the War Office had delivered a rather lengthy document earlier that morning, and it needed translating right away. Harry always followed the same routine when converting Russian to English-first a quick read, for the overall meaning, then a closer look, examining the document on a more word-by-word level. Only then, after this thorough perusal, did he pick up a pen and ink and begin his translation.

It was a tedious task. He liked it, but then again, he’d always liked puzzles. He could sit with a document for hours, and realize only when the sun went down that he had not eaten all day. But even he, who was so enamored of the task, could not imagine spending the day watching someone translate documents.

And yet there she was, once again at her window. Probably thinking she was so very good at concealment and he an absolute dunce.

He smirked. She had no idea. Harry might work for the dull branch of the War Office-the one that dealt with words and papers instead of guns, knives, and secret missions-but he was well trained. He’d spent ten years in the military, most of them on the Continent, where an observant eye and a keen sense for movement could make the difference between life and death.

He’d noticed, for example, that she had a habit of tucking loose strands of hair behind her ear. And because she sometimes watched him at night, he knew that when she let it down-the entire, unbelievably sunshiny mass of it- the ends hit right in the middle of her back.

He knew that her dressing gown was blue. And, regrettably, rather shapeless.

She had no talent for holding still. She probably thought she did; she wasn’t a fidgeter, and her posture was straight and direct. But something always gave her away-a little flutter of her fingertips, or perhaps a tiny elevation of her shoulders as she drew breath.

And of course, by this point, Harry couldn’t possibly not notice her.

It did make him wonder. What part of his being hunched over a sheaf of papers was so interesting to her? Because that was all he had been doing all week.

Perhaps he ought to liven up the spectacle. Really, it would be the kind thing to do. She had to be bored silly.

He could jump on his desk and sing.

Take a bite of food and pretend to choke. What would she do, then?

Now that would be an interesting moral dilemma. He set down his pen for a moment, thinking about the various society ladies he’d had cause to meet. He was not so very cynical; he fully believed that some of them, at least, would make an attempt to save him. But he rather doubted any possessed the necessary athletic skills to make it over in time.

He’d best chew his food carefully.

Harry let out a long breath and attempted to refocus his attention on his work. His eyes had been turned toward his papers the entire time he’d been thinking about the girl at the window, but he had not read a thing. He’d got nothing done in the past five days. He supposed he could draw the curtain, but that would be too obvious. Especially now, at half noon, with the sun high and bright.

He stared down at the words before him, but he could not concentrate. She was still there, still staring at him, imagining herself concealed behind the curtain.

Why the hell was she watching him?

Harry didn’t like it. There was no way she could see what he was working on, and even if she could, he rather doubted she read Cyrillic. But still, the documents on his desk were often of a sensitive nature, occasionally even of national importance. If someone was spying on him…

He shook his head. If someone was spying on him, it wouldn’t be the daughter of the Earl of Rudland, for God’s sake.

And then, miraculously, she was gone. She turned first, her chin lifting perhaps an inch, and then she stepped away. She’d heard a noise; probably someone had called out to her. Harry didn’t care. He was just glad she was gone. He needed to get to work.

He looked down, got halfway through the first page, and then:

“Good morning, Sir Harry!”

It was Sebastian, clearly in a jocular mood. He wouldn’t be calling Harry Sir Anything, otherwise. Harry didn’t look up. “It’s afternoon.”

“Not when one awakens at eleven.”

Harry fought off a sigh. “You didn’t knock.”

“I never do.” Sebastian flopped into a chair, apparently not noticing when his dark hair did its own flop-into his eyes. “What are you doing?”

“Working.”

“You do that a lot.”

“Some of us don’t have earldoms to inherit,” Harry remarked, trying to finish at least one more sentence before Sebastian would require his complete attention.

“Perhaps,” Sebastian murmured. “Perhaps not.”

This was true. Sebastian had always been second-in-line to inherit; his uncle the Earl of Newbury had sired only one son, Geoffrey. But the earl (who still thought Sebastian a complete wastrel, despite his decade of service to His Majesty’s Empire) had not been concerned. After all, there had been little reason to suppose that Sebastian might inherit. Geoffrey had married while Sebastian was in the army, and his wife had borne two daughters, so clearly the man could produce a baby.

But then Geoffrey had taken a fever and died. As soon as it became apparent that his widow was not increasing and therefore no young heir was in the offing to save the earldom from the devastation that was Sebastian Grey, the long-widowed earl had taken it upon himself to produce a new heir to the title and to that end was now gadding about London, shopping for a wife.

Which meant that no one knew quite what to make of Sebastian. Either he was the devastatingly handsome and charming heir to an ancient and wealthy earldom, in which case he was without a doubt the biggest prize on the marriage mart, or he was the devastatingly handsome and charming heir to nothing, in which case he might be a society matron’s worst nightmare.

Still, he was invited everywhere. And when it came to London society, he knew everything.

Which was why Harry knew he’d get an answer when he asked, “Does the Earl of Rudland have a daughter?”

Sebastian regarded him with an expression that most would interpret as bored, but that Harry knew meant, You nodcock.

“Of course,” Sebastian said.

The “nodcock” bit, Harry decided, was implied.

“Why?” Sebastian asked.

Harry glanced briefly toward the window, even though she wasn’t there. “Is she blond?”

“Very much so.”

“Quite pretty?”

Sebastian slid into a sly smile. “More than that, by most standards.”

Harry frowned. What the devil was Rudland’s daughter doing watching him so closely?

Sebastian yawned, not bothering to cover it, even when Harry shot him a disgusted look. “Any particular reason for the sudden interest?”

Harry stepped toward the window, regarding her window, which he now knew was on the second floor, third from the right. “She’s watching me.”

“Lady Olivia Bevelstoke is watching you,” Sebastian repeated.

“Is that her name?” Harry murmured.

“She’s not watching you.”

Harry turned. “I beg your pardon.”