What Happens in London (Bevelstoke #2)(48)

“Boring.” She chose another page, mostly at random. It did seem to make some sense, however, to head closer to the beginning.

Priscilla grasped the window ledge, her ungloved hands clutching at the stone with every ounce of her might. When she’d heard the baron jiggling the doorknob, she’d known she had but seconds to act. If he found her there, in his inner sanctum, who knew what he might do? He was a violent man, or so she’d been told.



Olivia wandered over to her bed and half leaned, half perched herself on the edge, reading all the while.

No one knew how his fiancée had died. Some said illness, but most claimed poison. Murder!



“Really?” She looked up, blinking, then turned toward her window. A dead fiancée? Gossip and rumors? Did Sir Harry know about this? The parallels were amazing.

She could hear him entering the room. Would he notice that the window was open? What would she do? What could she do?



Olivia sucked in her breath. She was on the edge of her seat. Not figuratively, that would never do. She was literally sitting on the edge of the bed. Which accounted for any and all breathlessness.

Priscilla whispered a prayer, and then, with eyes closed tight, she let go.



End of chapter. Olivia flipped the page eagerly.

It was only a few feet to the cold, hard ground.



What? Priscilla was on the ground floor? Olivia’s eagerness quickly gave way to irritation. What sort of pea brain dangled from a ground-floor window? She’d allow for a bit of elevation for the building’s foundation, but really. One would be hard-pressed even to sprain an ankle in such a mild fall.

“That’s rather manipulative,” she said, narrowing her eyes. Who was this author, anyway, trying to scare her readers over nothing? Did Harry have any idea what he’d given her, or had he just been going blindly on a recommendation from his sister?

She looked over at her window. It was still the same size, with the same curtains—unchanged in every way. She wasn’t sure why this surprised her.

What time was it, anyway? Almost half nine. He probably wouldn’t be in his office. Well, he might. He did tend to work late, although come to think of it, he never had told her just what it was he did there with such diligence.

She pushed herself up and away from the edge of the bed and walked toward the window. Slowly, with cautious feet, which was ridiculous, since he couldn’t possibly see her through the curtains.

Miss Butterworth still in her left hand, she reached out with her right and pulled the curtains open…





Chapter Eleven




All things considered, Harry was ready to call it a decent day’s work.

On a normal day, he’d have translated twice what he’d managed for today, possibly more, but he’d been distracted.

He’d found himself staring up at Olivia’s window, even though he knew she wasn’t there. This was the day she was supposed to visit the prince. At three in the afternoon. Which meant she’d probably have left home shortly before two. The Russian ambassador’s residence was not very far away, but the earl and countess would not want to risk being late. There was always traffic, or they could break a wheel, or a street urchin might dash into the road…No one with any prudence left their home without allotting extra time for unforeseen delays.

Olivia would probably be stuck there for two hours, possibly three; no one knew how to drag these things out like the Russians. Then a half hour to get home, and— Well, she’d be home now, that was for certain. Unless she’d gone back out again, but he hadn’t noticed the Rudland carriage departing.

Not that he’d been looking. But his curtains were open. And when he was angled just so, he could see a small strip of light shining through from the street. And of course any carriages that happened to roll by.

He stood and stretched, lifting his hands above his head and rolling his head down and around. He planned to do one more page tonight—the clock on the mantel proclaimed the time to be only half nine—but just now he needed to shake some blood back into his legs. He walked out from behind his desk, and then over to the window.

And there she was.

For a split second they stood frozen, caught in the moment of wondering—Should I pretend I don’t see?

And then Harry thought—of course not.

He waved.

She smiled. And waved back. And then—

He found himself staring with surprise. She was opening the window.

So of course he did the same.

“I know you said you hadn’t read this,” she said without preamble, “but did you even peek?”

“Good evening to you,” he called. “How was the prince?”

She shook her head impatiently. “The book, Sir Harry, the book. Did you read any of it?”

“I’m afraid not. Why?”

She held it up with two hands, right in front of her face, then moved it to the side so that she could see him. “It is ridiculous!”

He nodded agreeably. “I thought it might be.”

“Miss Butterworth’s mother gets pecked to death by pigeons!”

He fought a chuckle. “Do you know, I think that might make it considerably more interesting to me.”

“Pigeons, Sir Harry! Pigeons!”