Olivia waited for more.

“I don’t see him,” Mary finally said.

“Is it possible you were wrong?” Olivia asked hopefully.

Mary gave her an irritated look. “Of course not. Perhaps he’s in the garden.”

Olivia turned, even though one couldn’t see the garden from the ballroom, where the musicale was being held. It was a reflex, she supposed. If you knew someone was somewhere, you couldn’t not turn in that direction, even if you couldn’t possibly see them.

Of course she didn’t know that Sir Harry was in the garden. She didn’t even know for certain that he was at the musicale. She had only Mary’s claim, and while Mary was quite dependable on matters of party attendance, she had, by her own admission, only seen the man a few times. She could easily have been mistaken.

Olivia decided to cling to that thought.

“Look what I brought,” Mary said, digging into her sovereign purse.

“Oh, that’s lovely,” Olivia said, peering down at the beadwork.

“Isn’t it? Mama got it in Bath. Oh, here we are.” Mary pulled out two little tufts of cotton. “For my ears,” she explained.

Olivia’s lips parted with admiration. And envy. “You don’t have two more, do you?”

“Sorry,” Mary said with a shrug. “It’s a very small purse.” She turned forward. “I think they’re ready to begin.”

One of the Smythe-Smith mothers called out for everyone to sit down. Olivia’s mother looked over at her, saw that Mary had taken her seat, and gave a little wave before finding a spot next to Mary’s mother.

Olivia took a deep breath, mentally preparing for her third encounter with the Smythe-Smith string quartet. She’d perfected her technique the year before; it involved breathing deeply, finding a spot on the wall behind the girls from which she must not avert her eyes, and pondering various traveling opportunities, no matter how plebian or routine:

Places I Would Rather Be, Edition 1821 By Lady Olivia Bevelstoke

France With Miranda With Miranda in France In bed with a cup of chocolate and a newspaper Anywhere with a cup of chocolate and a newspaper Anywhere with either a cup of chocolate or a newspaper

She looked over at Mary, who appeared on the verge of nodding off. The cotton was sticking partway out of her ears, and Olivia very nearly had to sit on her hands just to keep from yanking it out.

If it had been Winston or Miranda, she would definitely have done so.

The strains of Bach, recognizable only by its Baroque…well, she wouldn’t call it melody, precisely, but it did have something to do with notes moving up and down a scale. Whatever it was, it slapped her ears, and Olivia snapped her head back toward the front.

Eyes on the spot, eyes on the spot.

She’d rather be:

Swimming

On horseback

Not swimming on horseback

Asleep

Eating an ice

Did that qualify as a place? It was more of an experience, really, as was “asleep,” but then again, “asleep” implied being in bed, which was a place. Although, technically speaking, one could fall asleep sitting up. Olivia never did so, but her father frequently nodded off during her mother’s prescribed “family time” in the sitting room, and Mary, apparently, could even do so during this cacophony.

Traitor. Olivia would never have brought only one set of cotton.

Eyes on the spot, Olivia.

Olivia sighed-a bit too loudly, not that anyone could hear-and went back to her deep breaths. She focused on a sconce behind the violist’s miserable head-no, make that the miserable violist’s head…

Really, that one girl did not look happy. Did she know how dreadful the quartet was? Because the other three clearly had no clue. But the viola player, she was different, she was…

Making Olivia actually hear the music.

Not good! Not good! Her brain rebelled, and she started back with those blasted breaths again, and…

And then, somehow, it was done, and the musicians were standing and making rather pretty curtsies. Olivia found herself blinking excessively; her eyes didn’t seem to be working properly after so much time on one spot. “You fell asleep,” she said to Mary, giving her a betrayed sort of look.

“I did not.”

“Oh, you did.”

“Well, these worked, at any rate,” Mary said, yanking the cotton from her ears. “I could hardly hear a thing. Where are you going?”

Olivia was already halfway down the aisle. “To the washroom. Really must…” And that, she decided, would have to suffice. She had not forgotten the possibility that Sir Harry Valentine was somewhere in the room, and if ever a situation called for making haste, this was it.

It wasn’t that she was a coward-not at all. She wasn’t trying to avoid the man, she was merely trying to avoid his having the opportunity to surprise her.

Be prepared. If it hadn’t been her motto before, then she was adopting it now.

Wouldn’t her mother be impressed? She was always telling her to be more improving. No, that wasn’t proper English. What did her mother say? Didn’t matter; she was almost to the door. She need only push past Sir Robert Stoat, and-

“Lady Olivia.”

Drat. Who-

She turned. And felt her stomach drop. And realized that Sir Harry Valentine was much taller than he’d seemed in his office.

“I’m sorry,” she said serenely, because she had always been rather good at playacting. “Have we been introduced?”

But from the mocking curve of his smile, she was fairly certain she’d not been able to mask her first flash of surprise.

“Forgive me,” he said smoothly, and she shivered, because his voice-it wasn’t what she’d thought it would be. It sounded like the smell of brandy, and it felt like the taste of chocolate. And she wasn’t so certain why she’d shivered, because now she felt rather warm.

“Sir Harry Valentine,” he murmured, executing a elegantly polite bow. “You are Lady Olivia Bevelstoke, are you not?”

Olivia thought very regal thoughts as she lifted her chin half an inch. “I am.”

“Then I am very pleased to make your acquaintance.”

She nodded. She probably ought to speak; it would certainly be more polite. But she felt in danger of losing her poise, and it was wiser to remain silent.

“I am your new neighbor,” he added, looking vaguely amused at her reaction.

“Of course,” she replied. She kept her face even. He would not get the best of her. “To the south?” she asked, pleased by the slightly bored note in her voice. “I had heard it was to be let.”

He didn’t say anything. Not right away. But his eyes fixed on hers, and it took every ounce of her fortitude to maintain her expression. Placid, composed, and with just a hint of curiosity. She thought the last necessary-if she hadn’t been spying on him for nearly a week, she would certainly have found the encounter somewhat curious.

A strange man, acting as if they’d met.

A strange, handsome man.

A strange, handsome man who looked as if he might…

Why was he looking at her lips?

Why was she licking her lips?

“I welcome you to Mayfair,” she said quickly. Anything to break the silence. Silence was not her friend, not with this man, not anymore. “We shall have to have you over.”

“I would enjoy that,” he said, and to her rapidly growing panic, he sounded as if he meant it. Not just the part about enjoying, but that he actually meant to accept the offer, which any fool could have seen was made out of sheer politeness.

“Of course,” she said, and she was sure she wasn’t stammering, except that it sounded a bit as if she was. Or as if she had something in her throat. “If you’ll excuse me…” She motioned to the door, because surely he’d noticed that she had been moving toward the exit when he’d intercepted her.

“Until next time, Lady Olivia.”

She searched for a witty rejoinder, or even one sarcastic and sly, but her mind was a hazy blank. He was gazing upon her with an expression that seemed to say nothing of him, and yet everything of her. She had to remind herself that he didn’t know all of her secrets. He didn’t know her.

Good heavens, apart from this spying nonsense, she didn’t have any secrets.

And he didn’t know that, either.

Somewhat rejuvenated by her indignation, she gave him a nod-small and polite, utterly correct for dismissals. And then, reminding herself that she was Lady Olivia Bevelstoke, and she was comfortable in any social situation, she turned, and she left.

And gave utmost thanks that when she tripped over her own feet, she was already in the hall, where he could not see.

Chapter Four

That had gone well.

Harry congratulated himself as he watched Lady Olivia hurry from the room. She wasn’t moving with any great speed, but her shoulders were a bit raised, and she was holding her dress with her hand, lifting the hem. Not by any huge number of inches-the way women did when they needed to run. But she was holding it nonetheless, surely an unconscious gesture, as if her fingers thought they needed to prepare for a race, even if the rest of her was determined to remain calm.

She knew he’d seen her spying on him. He’d known that already, of course. If he hadn’t been certain the moment their eyes had met three days earlier, he’d have known shortly thereafter; she had pulled her curtains tight and hadn’t peeked out once since she’d been found out.

A clear admission of guilt. A mistake that no professional would ever have made. If Harry had been in her position…

Of course, Harry never would have been in her position. He did not enjoy espionage-never had, and the War Office was well aware of it. But still, all things considered, he wouldn’t have got caught.