What Happens in London (Bevelstoke #2)(95)

His knees buckled.

“Harry!”

And then…it wasn’t blackness, really. Why did everyone say things went to black when one fainted? This was red. Or maybe green.

Or maybe…

Two days later

Experiences I Hope Never to Repeat

By Olivia Bevelstoke



Olivia paused in her thoughts as she took a sip of tea, sent up to her bedroom along with a large plate of biscuits by her concerned parents. Really, where did one start with a list such as that? There was the being rendered unconscious (apparently with some sort of drug-soaked cloth to the mouth, she had later learned). And one could not forget the gag, or the tied ankles, or the tied hands.

Oh, and she could not leave off being fed steaming hot tea by the very same man responsible for all of the above. That one had been more of an affront to her dignity than anything else, but it would be rather high up the list.

Olivia was fond of her dignity.

Let’s see, what else…Being eye-and ear-witness to a door being kicked down. She had not enjoyed that. The expressions on her parents’ faces when she was finally brought back to their care—there had been relief, that was true, but that sort of relief required commensurate terror, and Olivia did not want anyone she loved to feel that way ever again.

And then, dear God, this had been the worst: watching Harry as he’d slumped to the floor of the ambassador’s office. She hadn’t realized that he’d been shot. How could she not have realized that? She’d been so busy sobbing in her mother’s arms, she hadn’t seen that he’d gone deathly pale, or that he was clutching his shoulder.

She’d thought she’d been afraid before, but nothing—nothing—could have compared to the terror of those thirty seconds between the time he went down and Vladimir assured her it was nothing but a flesh wound.

And indeed, that was all it was. True to Vladimir’s word, Harry was up and about the very next day. He’d arrived at her home while she was eating breakfast, and then he explained everything—why he hadn’t told her he could speak Russian, what he’d really been doing at his desk when she had spied upon him, even why he had called upon her with Miss Butterworth and the Mad Baron that first crazy, wonderful afternoon. It hadn’t been to be neighborly, or because he had had any feelings for her other than disdain. He had been ordered to do so. By no less an authority than the War Office.

It was a lot to take in over coddled eggs and tea.

But she’d listened, and she’d understood. And now everything was settled, every loose end neatly tied. The ambassador had been detained, as had the men who worked for him, including her gray-haired captor. Prince Alexei had sent over a formal letter of apology, on behalf of the entire Russian nation, and Vladimir, true to his word, had disappeared.

And yet she hadn’t seen Harry in over twenty-four hours. He had left after breakfast, and she’d assumed he’d call again, but…

Nothing.

She wasn’t worried. She wasn’t even concerned. But it was odd. Quite odd.

She took another sip of her tea, then set the cup down on its saucer. Then she picked up both dishes and set them atop Miss Butterworth. Because she kept reaching for the book.

And she didn’t want to pick it up. Not without Harry.

She hadn’t finished the newspaper yet, anyway. She’d read the last half of it, and was rather interested in getting on to the more serious news at the front. There had been rumors that Monsieur Bonaparte was in exceedingly ill health. She supposed he couldn’t have actually died yet; that would have been reported on the front page, with a headline prominent enough that she couldn’t have missed it.

Still, there might be something of note, so she picked up the paper again, and had just found an article to read when she heard a knock on the door.

It was Huntley, carrying a small piece of paper. When he approached, she realized it was actually a card, folded in thirds and sealed at the center with dark blue wax. She murmured her thanks, examining the seal while the butler left the room. It was quite simple: just a V, in a rather elegant script, starting with a swirl and then finishing with a flourish.

She slid her finger underneath and loosened the wax, carefully unfolding the card.

Come to your window.

That was all. Just one sentence. She smiled, looking down at the words for a few seconds more before sliding herself to the edge of her bed. She hopped down, her feet lightly hitting the floor, but she paused for a few seconds before crossing the room. She needed to wait. She wanted to stand here and savor this moment because…

Because he had made it. Harry had created the moment. And she loved him.

Come to your window.

She found herself grinning, almost giggling. She didn’t ordinarily like being ordered about, but in this case it was delightful.

She walked to the window and pulled her curtains open. She could see him through the glass, standing in his own window, waiting for her.

She pushed her window open.

“Good morning,” Harry said. He looked very solemn. Or rather, his mouth looked solemn. His eyes looked like they were up to something.

She felt her own eyes begin to twinkle. Wasn’t that odd? That she could feel it. “Good morning,” she said.

“How are you feeling?”

“Much better, thank you. I think I needed time to rest.”

He nodded. “One needs time after a shock.”