What Happens in London (Bevelstoke #2)(16)

And maybe she should wave, since she knew he knew she knew he’d seen her.

She paused, going over that last bit in her head. Was that the right number of knews?

But more to the point, this was the first time he’d spotted her at the window. He had no idea she’d been watching him for five days. Of that she was certain. So really, he would have no reason to be suspicious. They were in London, for heaven’s sake. The most populous city in Britain. People saw one another in windows all the time. The only dodgy thing about the encounter was that she’d acted like an utter fool and failed to acknowledge him.

She needed to wave. She needed to smile and wave as if to say—Isn’t this all so very amusing?

She could do that. Sometimes it felt like her whole life was smiling and waving and pretending it was all so very amusing. She knew how to behave in any social situation, and what was this if not an—albeit unusual—social situation?

This was where Olivia Bevelstoke shone.

She scrambled to the side of the room so that she could rise to her feet out of his line of sight. Then, as if nothing were amiss, she strolled toward the window, parallel to the outer wall, clearly focused on something ahead of her, because that was what she would be doing while minding her own business in her bedchamber.

Then, just at the correct moment, she would glance to the side, as if she’d heard a bird chirping, or maybe a squirrel, and she would happen to see out the window, because that was what would happen in such a situation, and then, when she caught a glimpse of her neighbor, she would smile ever so slightly with recognition. Her eyes would show the faintest spark of surprise, and she would wave.

Which she did. Perfectly. At the wrong person.

And now Sir Harry’s butler must think her an absolute moron.





Chapter Three




Mozart, Mozart, Bach (the elder), more Mozart.

Olivia looked down at the program for the annual Smythe-Smith musicale, idly fingering the corner until it grew soft and ragged. It all looked the same as last year, except that there seemed to be a new girl at the cello. Curious. Olivia chewed on the inside of her lip as she considered this. How many Smythe-Smith cousins of the female variety could there be? According to Philomena, who had got it from her elder sister, the Smythe-Smiths had played as a string quartet every year since 1807. And yet the girls performing never managed to age past twenty. There was always another waiting in the wings, it seemed.

Poor things. Olivia supposed they were all forced to be musical whether they liked it or not. It wouldn’t do to run out of cellists, and heaven knew, two of the girls hardly looked strong enough to hoist their violins.



Musical Instruments I Might Like To Play, Had I Talent By Lady Olivia Bevelstoke



Flute

Piccolo

Tuba



It was good to choose the unexpected from time to time. And the tuba might double as a weapon.

Musical instruments she was fairly certain she would not wish to play would include anything of the stringed variety, because even if she managed to exceed the accomplishments of the Smythe-Smith cousins (legendary for their musicales for all the wrong reasons), she would still likely sound like a dying cow.

She’d tried the violin once. Her mother had had it removed from the house.

Come to think of it, Olivia was rarely invited to sing, either.

Ah well, she had other talents, she supposed. She could produce a better-than-average watercolor, and she was rarely at a loss in conversation. And if she wasn’t musical, at least no one was forcing her on a stage once a year to bludgeon the ears of the unwary.

Or not so unwary. Olivia looked about the room. She recognized almost everyone—surely they all knew what to expect. The Smythe-Smith musicale had become a rite of passage. One had to do it because…

Well now, that was a good question. Possibly unanswerable.

Olivia looked back down at her program, even though she’d already read through it three times. The card was a creamy color, and the hue seemed to melt into the yellow silk of her skirts. She’d wanted to wear her new blue velvet, but then she’d thought a cheerful color might be more useful. Cheerful and distracting. Although, she thought, frowning down at her attire, the yellow wasn’t proving all that distracting, and she was no longer so sure she liked the cut of the lace on the border, and—

“He’s here.”

Olivia looked up from her program. Mary Cadogan was standing above her—no, now she was sitting down, taking the seat Olivia was supposed to have reserved for her mother.

Olivia was about to ask who, but then the Smythe-Smiths began to warm up their instruments.

She flinched, then winced, then made the mistake of looking toward the makeshift stage to see what could have made so wretched a sound. She was not able to determine the origin, but the wretched expression on the face of the violist was enough to make her avert her eyes.

“Did you hear me?” Mary said urgently, poking her in the side. “He’s here. Your neighbor.” At Olivia’s blank stare, she practically hissed, “Sir Harry Valentine!”

“Here?” Olivia instantly twisted in her seat.

“Don’t look!”

And twisted back. “Why is he here?” she whispered.

Mary fussed with her dress, a lavender muslin which was apparently every bit as uncomfortable as it looked. “I don’t know. He was probably invited.”