What Happens in London (Bevelstoke #2)(25)

I know he thinks I am unkind.

He blackmailed me into dancing with him.

He’s a better dancer than I am.



After three days of self-imposed isolation, however, Olivia was itching to move past the boundaries of her house and garden. Deciding that the early morning was the best time to avoid other people, she donned her bonnet and gloves, grabbed the freshly delivered morning newspaper, and headed out to her favorite bench in Hyde Park. Her maid, who unlike Olivia did enjoy needlework, followed along, clutching her embroidery and complaining about the hour.

It was a glorious morning—blue sky, puffy clouds, light breeze. Perfect weather, really, and no one out and about. “Come along, Sally,” she called out to her maid, who was lagging at least a dozen steps behind.

“It’s early,” Sally moaned.

“It’s half seven,” Olivia told her, holding steady for a few moments to allow Sally to catch up.

“That’s early.”

“Normally, I would agree with you, but as it happens I believe I am turning over a new leaf. Just see how lovely it is outside. The sun is shining, there is music in the air…”

“I hear no music,” Sally grumbled.

“Birds, Sally. The birds are singing.”

Sally remained unconvinced. “That leaf of yours—I don’t suppose you’d consider turning it back over again?”

Olivia grinned. “It won’t be so bad. As soon as we get to the park, we shall sit and enjoy the sunshine. I will have my newspaper and you your embroidery and no one will bother us.”

Except that after a mere fifteen minutes, Mary Cadogan came positively running up.

“Your mother told me you were here,” she said breathlessly. “You’re feeling better, then?”

“You spoke to my mother?” Olivia asked, unable to believe her bad fortune.

“She told me on Saturday that she would send me a note as soon as you were feeling better.”

“My mother,” Olivia muttered, “is remarkably prompt.”

“Isn’t she, though?”

Sally moved over on the bench, barely even looking up from her needlework. Mary settled in between the two of them, scooting this way and that until an inch of bench could be seen between her pink skirts and Olivia’s green.

“I want to know everything,” Mary said to Olivia, her voice low and thrilled.

Olivia briefly considered feigning ignorance but really, what was the point? They both knew exactly what Mary was talking about. “There’s not much to say,” she said, crinkling her newspaper in an attempt to remind Mary that she had come to the park to read. “He recognized me as his neighbor and asked me to dance. It was all very civilized.”

“Did he say anything about his fiancée?”

“Of course not.”

“What about Julian Prentice?”

Olivia rolled her eyes. “Do you really think he would tell a complete stranger, and a lady at that, about his giving another gentleman a blackened eye?”

“No,” Mary said glumly. “It was really too much to hope for. I vow, I cannot get the details from anyone.”

Olivia did her best to appear bored by the entire affair.

“Very well,” Mary continued, undaunted by her companion’s lack of response. “Tell me about the dance.”

“Mary.” It was a bit of a groan, a bit of a snap. Certainly rude, but Olivia desperately did not want to tell Mary anything.

“You must,” Mary insisted.

“Surely there is something else in London of interest besides my one, very short, very dull dance with Sir Harry Valentine.”

“Not really,” Mary answered. She shrugged, then stifled a yawn. “Philomena’s mother dragged her off to Brighton, and Anne is ill. She probably has the same head cold you had.”

Probably not, Olivia thought.

“No one has seen Sir Harry since the musicale,” Mary added. “He has not attended anything.”

This did not surprise Olivia. He was most likely at his desk, furiously scribbling away. Possibly wearing that ridiculous hat.

Not that she would know. She had not looked out the window in days. She hadn’t even looked at the window. Well, not more than six or eight times, anyway.

Each day.

“What did you talk about, then?” Mary asked. “I know you spoke to him. I saw your lips moving.”

Olivia turned on her, eyes flaring with irritation. “You were watching my lips?”

“Oh, please. It’s not as if you’ve never done the same thing.”

Not only true, but irrefutable, since she’d done it with Mary. But a response—no, a retort—was definitely in order, so Olivia gave a little snort and said, “I’ve never done it to you.”

“But you would,” Mary said with certainty.

Also true, but not something Olivia intended to admit.

“What did you talk about?” Mary asked again.

“Nothing out of the ordinary,” Olivia lied, crinkling her newspaper again—more loudly this time. She’d got through the society pages—she always started at the back of the paper—but she wanted to read the parliamentary report. She always read the parliamentary report. Every day. Even her father didn’t read it every day, and he was a member of the House of Lords.