What Happens in London (Bevelstoke #2)(14)

“Five days?” Gone was the bored-aristocrat expression, replaced by mouth-dropping disbelief. “Good Lord, Olivia, haven’t you anything better to do with your time?”

She tried not to look embarrassed. “Apparently not.”

“And he didn’t see you? In all that time?”

“No,” she lied, and quite smoothly, too. “And I don’t want him to. That was why I was crawling away from the window.”

He looked over at the window. Then back at her, his head moving slowly, and with great skepticism. “Very well. What have you discerned about our new neighbor?”

She plopped herself down into a chair at the back wall, surprised by how much she wanted to tell him her findings. “Well. Most of the time he seems quite ordinary.”

“Shocking.”

She scowled. “Do you want me to tell you or not? Because I won’t continue if all you’re going to do is mock me.”

He motioned for her to continue with a patently sarcastic flick of his hand.

“He spends an inordinate amount of time at his desk.”

Winston nodded. “A sure sign of murderous intent.”

“When was the last time you spent any time at a desk?” she shot back.

“Point taken.”

“And,” she continued, with considerable emphasis, “I also think he is given to disguises.”

That got his attention. “Disguises?”

“Yes. Sometimes he wears spectacles and sometimes he does not. And twice he was worn an extremely peculiar hat. Inside.”

“I can’t believe I am listening to this,” Winston stated.

“Who wears a hat inside?”

“You’ve gone mad. It’s the only explanation.”

“Furthermore, he wears only black.” Olivia thought back to Anne’s comments earlier in the week. “Or dark blue. Not that that is suspicious,” she added, because the truth was, if she hadn’t been the one uttering the words, she’d probably have thought her an idiot, too. The entire escapade did sound quite useless when put so plainly.

She sighed. “I know this sounds ridiculous, but I tell you, something is not right with that man.”

Winston stared at her for several seconds before finally saying, “Olivia, you have too much time on your hands. Although…”

She knew he was letting his words trail of purposefully, but she also knew that she was not going to be able to resist the bait. “Although what?” she ground out.

“Well, I must say, it does demonstrate an uncharacteristic tenacity on your part.”

“What do you mean by that?” she demanded.

The look he gave her was condescending in the way that only a sibling could manage. “You must admit, you don’t possess a reputation for seeing things through to the end.”

“That is not true!”

He crossed his arms. “What about that model of St. Paul’s you were building?”

Her jaw dropped into an openmouthed gasp. She could not believe he was using that as an example. “The dog knocked it over!”

“Perhaps you recall a certain vow to write to Grandmother every week?”

“You’re even worse at it than I am.”

“Ah, but I never promised diligence. I also never took up oil painting or the violin.”

Olivia’s hands balled at her sides. So she hadn’t taken more than six lessons at painting, or one at violin. It was because she had been dreadful at both. And who wanted to hammer endlessly at an endeavor for which one had no talent?

“We were speaking of Sir Harry,” she ground out.

Winston smiled a little. “So we were.”

She stared at him. Hard. He still had that look on his face—one part supercilious, two parts just plain annoying. He was taking far too much pleasure in having needled her.

“Very well,” he said, suddenly solicitous. “Tell me, what is so ‘not right’ about Sir Harry Valentine?”

She waited a moment before speaking, then said, “Twice I have seen him throw masses of paper into the fire.”

“Twice I have seen myself do the very same thing,” Winston replied. “What else do you expect a man to do with paper that needs discarding? Olivia, you—”

“It was the way he was doing it.”

Winston looked as if he’d like to respond but couldn’t find words.

“He hurled it in,” Olivia said. “Hurled it! In a mad rush.”

Winston started shaking his head.

“Then he looked over his shoulder—”

“You really have been watching him for five days.”

“Don’t interrupt,” she snapped, and then, without taking a breath: “He looked over his shoulder as if he could hear someone coming from down the hall.”

“Let me guess. Someone was coming from down the hall.”

“Yes!” she said excitedly. “His butler entered exactly then. At least I think it was his butler. It was someone, at any rate.”

Winston looked at her hard. “And the other time?”

“The other time?”

“That he burned his papers.”

“Oh,” she said, “that. It was rather ordinary, actually.”