“What?” This, from everyone.

“And you’re only just mentioning this now?” Anne added, with great disbelief.

Philomena waved her off. “My brother told me. He and Julian are great friends.”

“What happened?” Mary asked.

“That was the part I couldn’t get very clearly,” Philomena admitted. “Robert was somewhat vague.”

“Men never recall the correct details,” Olivia said, thinking of her own twin brother, Winston. He was worthless for gossip, just worthless.

Philomena nodded. “Robert came home, and he was in quite a state. Rather…er…disheveled.”

They all nodded. They all had brothers.

“He could barely stand upright,” Philomena continued. “And he stank to high heaven.” She waved her hand in front of her nose. “I had to help him get past the drawing room so Mama wouldn’t see him.”

“Then he is now in your debt,” Olivia said, always thinking.

Philomena nodded. “Apparently they were out and about, doing whatever it is men do, and Julian was a bit, er…”

“Soused?” Anne put in.

“He frequently is,” Olivia added.

“Yes. Which stands to reason, given my brother’s condition when he returned home.” Philomena paused, her brow wrinkling as if she were considering something-but then, just as quickly, it was gone, and she continued, “He said that Julian did nothing out of the ordinary, and then there was Sir Harry, practically tearing him apart from limb to limb.”

“Was there blood?” Olivia asked.

“Olivia!” Mary scolded.

“It’s a pertinent question.”

“I do not know if there was blood,” Philomena said, a bit officiously.

“I would think so,” Olivia mused. “What with limbs being torn off.”

Limbs I would least mind doing without, in descending order By Olivia Bevelstoke (all limbs currently intact)

No, forget that one. She wiggled her toes in her slippers reassuringly.

“He does have a blackened eye,” Philomena continued.

“Sir Harry?” Anne asked.

“Julian Prentice. Sir Harry might have a blackened eye. I would not know. I’ve never seen him.”

“I saw him two days ago,” Mary said. “He did not have a blackened eye.”

“Did he look at all impaired?”

“No. Lovely as ever. All in black, though. It’s very curious.”

“All?” Olivia pressed.

“Most. White shirt and cravat. But still-” Mary flipped a hand through the air, as if she just could not accept the possibility of it. “It’s as if he’s in mourning.”

“Perhaps he is,” Anne said, jumping on that. “For the fiancée!”

“The one he killed?” Philomena asked.

“He didn’t kill anyone!” Olivia exclaimed.

“How do you know?” the other three said in unison.

Olivia would have answered, but it occurred to her that she didn’t know. She’d never clapped eyes on the man, never even heard a whisper about him until this afternoon. But still, common sense was surely on her side. The killing of one’s fiancée sounded far too much like one of those gothic novels Anne and Mary were always reading.

“Olivia?” someone said.

She blinked, realizing that she’d been silent for a beat too long. “It’s nothing,” she said, giving her head a little shake. “Just thinking.”

“About Sir Harry,” Anne said, a little smugly.

“It’s not as if I’ve been given the opportunity to think of anything else,” Olivia muttered.

“What would you rather be thinking about?” Philomena asked.

Olivia opened her mouth to speak, then realized she hadn’t a clue how to answer. “Anything,” she finally said. “Almost anything.”

But her curiosity had been piqued. And Olivia Frances Bevelstoke’s curiosity was a formidable thing indeed.

The girl in the house to the north was watching him again. She’d been doing it for the better part of a week now. At first Harry had thought nothing of it. She was the daughter of the Earl of Rudland, for God’s sake, or if not that, then some sort of relation-if she were a servant she’d surely have been sacked by now for all the time she spent standing at the window.

And she wasn’t the governess. The Earl of Rudland had a wife, or so Harry had been told. No wife allowed a governess who looked like that into her household.

So she was almost certainly the daughter. Which meant that he had no reason to suppose she was anything other than a typically nosy society miss, the sort who thought nothing of peering at one’s new neighbors. Except that she had been watching him for five days. Surely if she were curious about only the cut of his coat and the color of his hair, she’d have completed her perusal by now.

He’d been tempted to wave. Plaster an enormous, cheerful smile on his face and wave. That would put a halt to her spying. Except then he would never know why she was so interested.

Which was unacceptable. Harry never could tolerate an unanswered “why.”

Not to mention that he was not quite close enough to her window to see her answering expression. Which defeated the purpose of the wave. If she was going to be embarrassed, he wanted to see it. What was the fun in it, otherwise?

Harry sat back down at his desk, acting as if he hadn’t a clue that she was peeking at him from behind her curtains. He had work to do, and he needed to stop wondering about the blonde up at the window. A messenger from the War Office had delivered a rather lengthy document earlier that morning, and it needed translating right away. Harry always followed the same routine when converting Russian to English-first a quick read, for the overall meaning, then a closer look, examining the document on a more word-by-word level. Only then, after this thorough perusal, did he pick up a pen and ink and begin his translation.