What Happens in London (Bevelstoke #2)(13)

But she might not have to tell him the truth. Surely there was some other explanation for her actions.



Reasons Why I Might Be Crawling About on the Floor AND Need to Avoid the Window

No. She had nothing.

“It’s our neighbor,” Olivia said, resorting to the truth, since, given her position, she had no other choice.

Winston’s head turned toward the window. Slowly, and with as much sarcasm as a lateral move of the head could convey.

Which, Olivia had to admit, was quite a bit when performed by a Bevelstoke.

“Our neighbor,” he repeated. “Do we have one?”

“Sir Harry Valentine. He leased the house while you were in Gloucestershire.”

Winston nodded slowly. “And his presence in Mayfair has you crawling on the floor…because…”

“I was watching him.”

“Sir Harry.”

“Yes.”

“From your knees.”

“Of course not. He saw me, and—”

“And now he thinks you’re a lunatic.”

“Yes. No! I don’t know.” She let out a furious exhale. “I’m hardly privy to his inner thoughts.”

Winston quirked a brow. “As opposed to his inner bedchamber, which you are—”

“It’s his office,” she cut in heatedly.

“Which you feel the need to spy upon because…”

“Because Anne and Mary said—” Olivia cut herself off, well aware that if she said why she was spying on Sir Harry she’d look more of a fool than she did already.

“Oh no, don’t stop now,” he implored dryly. “If Anne and Mary said it, I definitely want to hear it.”

Her mouth clamped into a businesslike frown. “Fine. But you mustn’t repeat it.”

“I try not to repeat anything they say,” he said frankly.

“Winston.”

“I won’t say a word.” He held up his hands, as if in surrender.

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 fiancée—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.”