“We were speaking of Sir Harry,” she ground out.
Winston smiled a little. “So we were.”
She stared at him. Hard. He still had that look on his face—one part supercilious, two parts just plain annoying. He was taking far too much pleasure in having needled her.
“Very well,” he said, suddenly solicitous. “Tell me, what is so ‘not right’ about Sir Harry Valentine?”
She waited a moment before speaking, then said, “Twice I have seen him throw masses of paper into the fire.”
“Twice I have seen myself do the very same thing,” Winston replied. “What else do you expect a man to do with paper that needs discarding? Olivia, you—”
“It was the way he was doing it.”
Winston looked as if he’d like to respond but couldn’t find words.
“He hurled it in,” Olivia said. “Hurled it! In a mad rush.”
Winston started shaking his head.
“Then he looked over his shoulder—”
“You really have been watching him for five days.”
“Don’t interrupt,” she snapped, and then, without taking a breath: “He looked over his shoulder as if he could hear someone coming from down the hall.”
“Let me guess. Someone was coming from down the hall.”
“Yes!” she said excitedly. “His butler entered exactly then. At least I think it was his butler. It was someone, at any rate.”
Winston looked at her hard. “And the other time?”
“The other time?”
“That he burned his papers.”
“Oh,” she said, “that. It was rather ordinary, actually.”
Winston stared at her for several moments before saying, “Olivia, you must stop spying on the man.”
“But—”
He held up a hand. “Whatever you think Sir Harry is, I promise you, you’re wrong.”
“I’ve also seen him stuffing money into a pouch.”
“Olivia, I know Sir Harry Valentine. He’s as normal as can be.”
“You know him?” And he’d let her run on like an idiot? She was going to kill him.
How I Would Like to Kill My Brother, Version Sixteen By Olivia Bevelstoke
No, really, what was the point? She could hardly top Version Fifteen, which had featured both vivisection and wild boar.
“Well, I don’t actually know him,” Winston explained. “But I know his brother. We were at university together. And I know of Sir Harry. If he’s burning papers it’s merely to tidy his desk.”
“And that hat?” Olivia demanded. “Winston, it has feathers.” She threw her arms into the air and waved them about, trying to depict the hideousness of it. “Plumes of them!”
“That I cannot explain.” Winston shrugged, then he grinned. “But I’d love to see it for myself.”
She scowled, since it was the least infantile reaction she could think of.
“Furthermore,” he continued with a cross of his arms, “he doesn’t have a fiancée.”
“Well, yes, but—”
“And he’s never had one.”
Which did support Olivia’s opinion that the whole rumor was nothing but air, but it was galling that Winston was the one to prove it. If indeed he had proved it; Winston was hardly an authority on the man.
“Oh, by the by,” Winston said, in what was far too casual a voice, “I assume that Mother and Father are not aware of your recent investigative activities.”
Why, the little weasel. “You said you wouldn’t say anything,” Olivia said accusingly.
“I said I wouldn’t say anything about that rot from Mary Cadogan and Anne Buxton. I didn’t say anything about your brand of madness.”
“What do you want, Winston?” Olivia ground out.
He looked her directly in the eye. “I’m taking ill on Thursday. Do not contradict.”
Olivia mentally flipped through her social calendar. Thursday…Thursday…the Smythe-Smith musicale. “Oh, no you don’t!” she cried, lurching toward him.
He fanned the air near his head. “My tender ears, you know…”
Olivia tried to think of a suitable retort and was viciously disappointed when all she came up with was: “You—you—”
“I wouldn’t make threats, were I you.”
“If I have to go, you have to go.”
He gave her a sickly smile. “Funny how the world never seems to work that way.”
“Winston!”
He was still laughing as he ducked out the door.
Olivia allowed herself just a moment to wallow in her irritation before deciding that she’d rather attend the Smythe-Smith musicale without her brother. The only reason she’d wanted him to go was to see him suffer, and she was sure she could come up with other ways to achieve that objective. Furthermore, if Winston were forced to sit still for the performance, he’d surely entertain himself by torturing her the entire time. The previous year he’d poked a hole in her right rib cage, and the year before that…
Well, suffice it to say that Olivia’s revenge had included an aged egg and three of her friends, all convinced he’d fallen into desperate love, and she still didn’t think the score had been made even.
So really, it was best that he’d not be there. She had far more pressing worries than her twin brother, anyway.
Frowning, she turned her attention back to her bedroom window. It was closed, of course; the day was not so fine as to encourage fresh air. But the curtains were tied back, and the clear pane of glass beckoned and taunted. From her vantage point at the far side of her room she could see only the brick of his outer wall, and maybe a sliver of glass from a different—not his study—window. If she twisted a bit. And if there weren’t a glare.
She squinted.
She scooted her chair a bit to the right, trying to avoid the glare.
She craned her neck.
Then, before she had the chance to think the better of it, she dropped back to the floor, using her left foot to kick her bedroom door shut. The last thing she needed was Winston catching her on hands and knees again.
Slowly she inched forward, wondering what on earth she thought she was doing—really, was she just going to rise when she reached the window, as if to say, I fell, and now I’m back up?
Oh, that would make sense.
And then it occurred to her—in her panic, she’d quite forgotten that he must be wondering why she’d fallen to the floor. He’d seen her—of that she was certain—and then she’d dropped.
Dropped. Not turned, not walked away, but dropped. Like a stone.
Was he staring up at her window right now, wondering what had become of her? Did he think she was ill? Might he even come to her house to inquire after her welfare?
Olivia’s heart began to race. The embarrassment would be unfathomable. Winston would not stop laughing for a week.
No, no, she assured herself, he wouldn’t think she was ill. Just clumsy. Surely just clumsy. Which meant that she needed to stand, get up and about, and show herself walking around the room in perfect health.
And maybe she should wave, since she knew he knew she knew he’d seen her.
She paused, going over that last bit in her head. Was that the right number of knews?