And she didn’t want to pick it up. Not without Harry.

She hadn’t finished the newspaper yet, anyway. She’d read the last half of it, and was rather interested in getting on to the more serious news at the front. There had been rumors that Monsieur Bonaparte was in exceedingly ill health. She supposed he couldn’t have actually died yet; that would have been reported on the front page, with a headline prominent enough that she couldn’t have missed it.

Still, there might be something of note, so she picked up the paper again, and had just found an article to read when she heard a knock on the door.

It was Huntley, carrying a small piece of paper. When he approached, she realized it was actually a card, folded in thirds and sealed at the center with dark blue wax. She murmured her thanks, examining the seal while the butler left the room. It was quite simple: just a V, in a rather elegant script, starting with a swirl and then finishing with a flourish.

She slid her finger underneath and loosened the wax, carefully unfolding the card.

Come to your window.

That was all. Just one sentence. She smiled, looking down at the words for a few seconds more before sliding herself to the edge of her bed. She hopped down, her feet lightly hitting the floor, but she paused for a few seconds before crossing the room. She needed to wait. She wanted to stand here and savor this moment because…

Because he had made it. Harry had created the moment. And she loved him.

Come to your window.

She found herself grinning, almost giggling. She didn’t ordinarily like being ordered about, but in this case it was delightful.

She walked to the window and pulled her curtains open. She could see him through the glass, standing in his own window, waiting for her.

She pushed her window open.

“Good morning,” Harry said. He looked very solemn. Or rather, his mouth looked solemn. His eyes looked like they were up to something.

She felt her own eyes begin to twinkle. Wasn’t that odd? That she could feel it. “Good morning,” she said.

“How are you feeling?”

“Much better, thank you. I think I needed time to rest.”

He nodded. “One needs time after a shock.”

“You are speaking from experience?” she asked. But she needn’t have done so; from his expression she knew that he was.

“When I was in the army.”

It was funny. Their conversation was simple, but it wasn’t flat. They weren’t awkward; they were merely warming up.

And Olivia was already feeling the first tingles of anticipation.

“I bought another copy of Miss Butterworth,” he said.

“You did?” She leaned on the ledge. “Did you finish it?”

“Indeed.”

“Does it get any better?”

“Well, she does go into surprising detail about the pigeons.”

“No.” Good heavens, she was going to finish that wretched novel. If the author actually showed the death by pigeons…well now, that was worth her time.

“No, really,” Harry said. “It turns out Miss Butterworth was witness to the sad event. She relives it in a dream.”

Olivia shuddered. “Prince Alexei is going to adore it.”

“Actually, he’s hired me to translate the entire book into Russian.”

“You’re joking!”

“No.” He gave her a look that was both sly and satisfied. “I’m working on the first chapter right now.”

“Oh, how exciting. I mean, awful, too, since you actually have to read it, but I suppose it’s a different task altogether when you’re being paid to do so.”

Harry chuckled. “It’s a change from the War Office documents, I must say.”

“Do you know, I think I would like those better.” Dull, dry facts were much more to her taste.

“You likely would,” he agreed. “But then again, you’re an odd sort of female.”

“Charming as always with the compliments, Sir Harry.”

“As I am a scholar of words, that is only to be expected.”

She realized she was grinning. She was hanging half out of her window, grinning. And she was quite happy to be there.

“Prince Alexei pays quite handsomely,” Harry added. “He feels that Miss Butterworth will be a huge success in Russia.”

“He and Vladimir certainly enjoyed it.”

Harry nodded. “It means I may retire from the War Office.”

“Is that what you wished to do?” Olivia asked. She’d only just found out about his work; she’d not got a sense as to whether he enjoyed it.

“Yes,” he replied. “I don’t think I realized just how much until these last few weeks. I’m tired of all the secrets. I enjoy translation, but if I can keep to gothic novels-”

“Lurid gothic novels,” Olivia corrected.

“Indeed,” Harry agreed. “I-oh, excuse me, our other guest has arrived.”

“Our other-” She glanced this way and that, blinking with confusion. “Someone else is here?”

“Lord Rudland,” Harry said, nodding deferentially at the window below and to the left of Olivia’s.

“Father?” Olivia looked down, startled. And perhaps a bit mortified as well.

“Olivia?” Her father poked the upper half of his body out the window, twisting awkwardly to see her. “What are you doing?”

“I was going to ask you the same thing,” she admitted, the sheepishness of her tone taking an edge off her impertinence.

“I received a note from Sir Harry requesting my presence at this window.” Lord Rudland twisted back around to face Harry. “What is this about, young man? And why is my daughter hanging out of her window like a fishwife?”