What Happens in London (Bevelstoke #2)(17)

That had to be true. No one in their right mind would attend the annual Smythe-Smith musicale un-invited. It was, in the most delicate of descriptions, an assault on the senses.

One of the senses, anyway. It was probably a good night to be deaf.

What was Sir Harry Valentine doing here? Olivia had spent the past three days with curtains drawn, assiduously avoiding all windows on the south side of Rudland House. But she hadn’t expected to see him out, since as she well knew, Sir Harry Valentine didn’t go out.

And surely anyone who spent as much time with pen, ink, and paper as he did possessed sufficient intelligence to know that if he did decide to go out, there were better options than the Smythe-Smith musicale.

“Has he ever attended anything like this before?” Olivia asked through the corner of her mouth, keeping her head facing forward.

“I don’t think so,” Mary whispered back, also staring straight ahead. She leaned in toward Olivia slightly, until their shoulders almost touched. “He has been to two balls since his arrival in town.”

“Almacks?”

“Never.”

“That horse race in the park that everyone went to last month?”

She felt, rather than saw, Mary shake her head. “I don’t think so. But I can’t be certain. I wasn’t allowed to go.”

“Neither was I,” Olivia murmured. Winston had told her all about it, of course, but (also of course) he had not given as detailed an accounting as she would have liked.

“He spends a great deal of time with Mr. Grey,” Mary continued.

Olivia’s chin drew back with surprise. “Sebastian Grey?”

“They are cousins. First, I believe.”

At that Olivia gave up all pretense of not carrying on a conversation and looked straight at Mary. “Sir Harry Valentine is cousin to Sebastian Grey?”

Mary gave a little shrug. “By all accounts.”

“Are you certain?”

“Why is it so difficult to believe?”

Olivia paused. “I have no idea.” But it was. She knew Sebastian Grey. Everyone did. Which was why he seemed such a peculiar match for Sir Harry, who, as far as Olivia could tell, left his office only to eat, sleep, and knock Julian Prentice unconscious.

Julian Prentice! She’d forgotten all about him. Olivia straightened and looked about the room with practiced discretion.

But of course Mary instantly knew what she was doing. “Who are you looking for?” she whispered.

“Julian Prentice.”

Mary gasped with delighted horror. “Is he here?”

“I don’t think so. But Winston said that it was not such a vicious thing as we thought. Apparently Julian was so sotted Sir Harry could have knocked him down by blowing on him.”

“Except for the blackened eye,” Mary reminded her, ever the stickler for detail.

“The point is, I don’t think he thrashed him.”

Mary paused for a second, then must have decided it was time to move on. She looked this way and that, then scratched at the spot where the stiff lace of her gown bent up against her collarbone. “Er, speaking of your brother, is he attending?”

“Heavens, no.” Olivia managed not to roll her eyes, but it was a close thing. Winston had given a rather convincing show of a head cold and bundled himself off to bed. Their mother had been so well fooled that she had asked the butler to check in on him at hourly intervals and send for her if he worsened.

Which had provided a bright spot in the evening. Olivia had it on the best of authority that there would be a gathering at White’s later that evening. Ah well, it would have to proceed without Winston Bevelstoke.

Which very well might have been her mother’s intention.

“Do you know,” Olivia murmured, “the older I get, the more I admire my mother.”

Mary looked at her as if she’d gone eccentric. “What are you talking about?”

“It’s nothing.” Olivia gave a little wave. It would be far too difficult to explain. She stretched her neck a bit, trying to make it look as if she weren’t perusing the crowd. “I don’t see him.”

“Who?” Mary asked.

Olivia fought off the urge to bat her. “Sir Harry.”

“Oh, he’s here,” Mary said confidently. “I saw him.”

“He’s not here now.”

Mary—who had just moments earlier admonished Olivia for her lack of discretion—displayed astonishing flexibility as she twisted herself nearly backward. “Hmmm.”

Olivia waited for more.

“I don’t see him,” Mary finally said.

“Is it possible you were wrong?” Olivia asked hopefully.

Mary gave her an irritated look. “Of course not. Perhaps he’s in the garden.”

Olivia turned, even though one couldn’t see the garden from the ballroom, where the musicale was being held. It was a reflex, she supposed. If you knew someone was somewhere, you couldn’t not turn in that direction, even if you couldn’t possibly see them.

Of course she didn’t know that Sir Harry was in the garden. She didn’t even know for certain that he was at the musicale. She had only Mary’s claim, and while Mary was quite dependable on matters of party attendance, she had, by her own admission, only seen the man a few times. She could easily have been mistaken.