What Happens in London

His brows remained up.

“Am I not supposed to admit that?” she asked pertly.

He smiled slowly, and an agonizingly long moment passed before he said, “You don’t think before you speak, do you?”

“Not very often,” she admitted.

“Try it,” he said, motioning toward the book. “I thought you might find it more entertaining than the newspaper.”

It was just the sort of thing a man would say. No one ever seemed to understand that she preferred the news of the day to silly figments of someone else’s imagination.

“Have you read it?” she asked, looking down as she opened to a random page.

“Gad, no. But my sister recommended it highly.”

She looked up sharply. “You have a sister?”

“You seem to find that surprising.”

She did. She wasn’t sure why, except that her friends had seen fit to tell her everything about him, and somehow that had been left off.

“She lives in Cornwall,” he said, “surrounded by cliffs, legend, and a gaggle of small children.”

“What a lovely description.” And she meant it, too. “Are you a devoted uncle?”

“No.”

Her surprise must have shown, because he said, “Am I not supposed to admit that?”

She laughed without meaning to. “Touché, Sir Harry.”

“I would like to be a devoted uncle,” he told her, his smile growing warm and true, “but I have not had the opportunity to meet any of them.”

“Of course,” she murmured. “You were on the Continent for so many years.”

His head tilted ever so slightly to the side. She wondered if he always did that when he was curious. “You know quite a bit about me,” he said.

“Everyone knows that much about you.” Really, the man should not be surprised.

“There is not much privacy in London, is there?”

“Almost none at all.” The words were out of her mouth before she realized what she’d said, what she might have just admitted to. “Would you care for tea?” she asked, deftly changing the topic.

“I would love some, thank you.”

Once she’d rung for Huntley and given him instructions, Sir Harry said, quite conversationally, “When I was in the army, that was what I missed the most.”

“Tea?” That seemed difficult to believe.

He nodded. “I longed for it.”

“It wasn’t provided for you?” For some reason Olivia found this simply unacceptable.

“Sometimes. Other times we had to make do.”

Something about his voice-wistful and young-made her smile. “I do hope ours meets with your approval.”

“I’m not picky.”

“Really? I would think that with such a love for it, you would be a connoisseur.”

“Rather, I went without so many times that I appreciate every drop.”

She laughed. “It was tea you missed, really? Most gentlemen of my acquaintance would say brandy. Or port.”

“Tea,” he said firmly.

“Do you drink coffee?”

He shook his head. “Too bitter.”

“Chocolate?”

“Only with heaps of sugar.”

“You are a very interesting man, Sir Harry.”

“I am certainly aware that you find me interesting.”

Her cheeks burned. And here she was starting to actually like the man. The worst part of it all was, he had a point. She had been spying on him, and it had been rude. But still, he didn’t need to go out of his way to make her uncomfortable.

The tea arrived, giving her respite from meaningful conversation. “Milk?” she asked.

“Please.”

“Sugar?”

“No. Thank you.”

She didn’t bother to look up as she remarked, “Really? No sugar? Even though you sweeten your chocolate?”

“And my coffee, if I’m forced to drink it. Tea is a different beast altogether.”

Olivia handed him his cup and set to work preparing her own. There was a certain comfort to be found in familiar tasks. Her hands knew just what to do, the memories of the motions long since etched into her muscles. The conversation, too, was bolstering. Simple and meaningless, and yet it restored her equilibrium. So much so that as he took his second sip, she was finally able to upset his equilibrium, smiling sweetly as she said:

“They say you killed your fiancée.”

He choked, which gave her great pleasure (his shock, not his choking; she hoped she’d not become that ruthless), but he recovered quickly, and his voice was smooth and even when he responded, “Do they?”

“They do.”

“Do they say how I killed her?”

“They do not.”

“Do they say when?”

“They might have done,” she lied, “but I wasn’t listening.”

“Hmmm.” He appeared to be considering this. It was a disconcerting sight, this tall, utterly masculine man, sitting in her mother’s mauve sitting room with a dainty teacup in his hand. Apparently pondering murder.

He took a sip. “Did anyone happen to mention her name?”

“Your fiancée’s?”

“Yes.” It was a silky, utterly urbane “yes,” as if they were discussing the weather, or perhaps the likelihood of Bucket of Roses winning the Ascot Cup on Ladies’ Day.

Olivia gave her head a little shake and lifted her own cup to her lips.

He closed his eyes for just a moment, then looked at her directly, his head moving sadly from side to side. “She rests in peace now, that is all that is important.”