“I wasn’t—” Oh, for heaven’s sake, why was she still denying it? “Yes,” she practically spat. “Wouldn’t you do the same?”
“I might call for a constable first.”
“I might call for a constable first,” she mimicked, using a voice she usually reserved for her siblings.
“You are testy.”
She glared at him.
“Very well, did you at least discover something interesting?”
“Yes,” she said, narrowing her eyes. “Yes, I did.”
He waited, then finally said, with no small amount of sarcasm, “Do tell.”
She leaned forward. “Explain the hat.”
He looked at her as if she’d gone mad. “What are you talking about?”
“The hat!” she exclaimed, waving her hands alongside her head, her wrists flicking up as if to indicate the silhouette of a headpiece. “It was ridiculous! It had feathers. And you were wearing it inside.”
“Oh. That.” Harry fought a chuckle. “That was for your benefit, really.”
“You didn’t know I was there!”
“Excuse me, yes I did.”
Her lips parted, and she looked a trifle queasy as she asked, “When did you see me?”
“The first time you stepped in front of the window.” Harry shrugged, raising his eyebrows as if to say—Just try to contradict me. “You’re not as good at concealment as you think.”
She drew back in a huff. It was ludicrous, but he suspected she thought she’d been insulted. “And the papers in the fire?” she demanded.
“Don’t you ever toss papers in the fire?”
“Not in a mad rush, I don’t.”
“Well, that was for your benefit, too. You were going to such trouble. I thought I had best make it worth your while.”
“You…”
She didn’t look able to complete the sentence, so he added, almost offhandedly, “I was near to jumping on the desk and dancing a jig, but I thought that would be too obvious.”
“You were making fun of me the whole time.”
“Well…” He thought about that. “Yes.”
Her lips parted. She looked outraged, and he almost felt apologetic—really, it had to be a male reflex, to feel ashamed when a female had that look on her face. But she had not a leg to stand on, not even a toe. “Might I remind you,” he pointed out, “that you were spying on me. If anyone is the wronged party, it is I.”
“Well, I do think you’ve had your revenge,” she responded primly, her chin poking up in the air.
“Oh, I don’t know about that, Lady Olivia. It will be a long time before we are even.”
“What are you planning?” she asked suspiciously.
“Nothing.” He grinned. “Yet.”
She made a funny little huffing sound—it was quite endearing, really—and he decided to go in for the winning blow with, “Oh, and by the way, I have never been betrothed.”
She blinked, looking somewhat confused by his sudden change of topic.
“The dead fiancée?” he supplied helpfully.
“Not so dead, then?”
“Never even alive to begin with.”
She nodded slowly, then asked, “Why did you come here today?”
Harry certainly wasn’t going to tell her the truth, that she was now his assignment, and he was supposed to make sure that she didn’t unwittingly commit treason. So he just said, “It seemed polite.”
He was going to have to spend a great deal of time with her in the next few weeks, or if not with her, then at least in her vicinity. He no longer suspected that there had been any nefarious purpose to her spying on him. He never had, really, but it would have been foolish not to be careful. Still, her story about the dead fiancée was so ludicrous it had to be true. It did seem exactly the reason a bored debutante would spy on a neighbor.
Not that he knew much of bored debutantes.
But he supposed he would soon.
He smiled at her. He was enjoying himself far more than he’d expected to.
She looked as if she might roll her eyes, and for some reason he wanted her to. He liked her much more when her face was in motion, replete with emotion. At the Smythe-Smith musicale, she had been cool and uncompromisingly reserved. Except for a few unharnessed flashes of ire, she had been devoid of expression.
It had grated. It had got under his fingernails, like an itch that could never be satisfied.
She offered more tea, and he took it, strangely content to prolong the visit. As she was pouring, however, the butler entered the room again, bearing a silver tray.
“Lady Olivia,” he intoned. “This arrived for you.”
The butler bent down so that Lady Olivia could remove a card from the tray. It looked like an invitation of sorts, festive and grand, with a ribbon and a seal.
A seal?
Harry shifted his position ever so slightly, trying to get a better view. Was it a royal seal? The Russians did like their royal trappings. He supposed the British did, too, but that was neither here nor there. She wasn’t being pursued by King George.
She glanced at the card in her hands, then moved to set it down on the table beside her.
“Don’t you want to open it?”
“I’m sure it can wait. I wouldn’t wish to be rude.”
“Do not mind me,” he assured her. He motioned toward the card. “It does look interesting.”
She blinked a few times, looking first at the card and then up at him with a curious expression.
“Grand,” Harry clarified, thinking his first choice of adjectives had not been well thought.
“I know who it’s from,” she said, apparently unaffected by the knowledge.
He cocked his head, hoping the motion would serve as the question it would be impolite to voice aloud.
“Oh, very well,” she said, sliding her finger under the seal. “If you insist.”
He hadn’t insisted in the least, but he wasn’t about to say anything that might make her change her mind.
And so he waited patiently while she read, enjoying the play of emotion across her face. She rolled her eyes once, let out a small but beleaguered exhalation, and then finally groaned.
“Unpleasant news?” Harry inquired politely.
“No,” she said. “Just an invitation I’d rather not accept.”
“Then don’t.”
She smiled tightly. Or maybe it was ruefully. He couldn’t be sure.
“This is more of a summons,” she told him.
“Oh, come now. Who has the authority to issue a summons to the illustrious Lady Olivia Bevelstoke?”
Wordlessly, she handed him the card.
Chapter Eight
Reasons Why a Prince Might Pay Attention to Me
By Lady Olivia Bevelstoke
Ruination
Marriage
Neither option was particularly appealing. Ruination, for obvious reasons, and marriage for…well, a whole host of reasons.
Reasons Why I Would Not Care to Marry a Russian Prince By Lady Olivia Bevelstoke
I don’t speak Russian.
I can’t even manage French.
I don’t want to move to Russia.
I hear it’s quite cold there.
I would miss my family.
And tea.
Did they drink tea in Russia? She looked over at Sir Harry, who was still examining the card she’d handed to him. For some reason she thought he would know. He’d traveled widely, or at least as widely as the army would have needed him to, and he did like tea.