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seen her. She’d seen it in his eyes, in the sharp twist of his head. Dear God, how would she explain herself? Genteel young ladies did not spy upon their neighbors. They gossiped about them, inspected the cuts of their coats and the quality of their carriages, but they did not, repeat not , spy on them through windows.
    Even if said neighbor was a possible murderer.
    Which Olivia still did not believe.
    That said, however, Sir Harry Valentine was definitely up to something. His behavior this past week was not normal. Not that Olivia could claim knowledge as to what constituted normal for him , but she had two brothers. She knew what men did in their offices and studies.
    She knew, for example, that most men did not occupy their offices and studies, at least not for ten hours each day, as Sir Harry seemed to. And she knew that when they did happen to go into their offices, it was usually to avoid relations of the female persuasion, and not, as was the case with Sir Harry, to spend their time studiously examining papers and documents.
    Olivia would have given her eyeteeth, and perhaps a molar or two, to have known what was in those papers. All day long, every day, he was there at his desk, poring over loose papers. Sometimes it almost looked as if he were copying them.
    But that made no sense. Men like Sir Harry employed secretaries for that sort of thing.
    Her heart still racing, Olivia glanced up, assessing her situation. Not that looking up was of any use; still, the window was above her, and really, it was only natural that she might—
    “No, no, don’t move.”
    Olivia let out a groan. Winston, her twin brother—or, as she liked to think of him, her younger brother, by precisely three minutes—was standing in the doorway. Or rather, he was leaning casually against the door frame, attempting to appear the devil-may-care charmer he was currently devoting his life attempting to be.
    Which, admittedly, was not very good grammar, but it did seem to describe him precisely as he was. Winston’s blond hair was artfully mussed, his cravat tied just so, and yes, his boots were made by Weston himself, but anyone with an ounce of sense could see he was still wet behind the ears. Why all of her friends went dreamy-eyed and downright stupid in his presence she’d never understand.
    “Winston,” she ground out, unwilling to offer any further acknowledgment.
    “Stay,” he said, holding a hand forward, palm toward her. “Just one more moment. I’m trying to burn the image into my memory.”
    Olivia gave him a surly bit of lip and carefully crawled along the wall, away from the window.
    “Let me guess,” he said. “Blisters on both feet.”
    She ignored him.
    “You and Mary Cadogan are writing a new theatrical. You’re playing the sheep.”
    Never had he been more deserving of a comeback, but sadly, never had Olivia been in less of a position to deliver one.
    “Had I known,” he added, “I’d have brought a riding crop.”
    She was almost close enough to bite his leg. “Winston?”
    “Yes?”
    “Shut up.”
    He laughed.
    “I’m going to kill you,” she announced, rising to her feet. She’d skirted half the length of the room. There was no way Sir Harry would be able to see her here.
    “With your hooves?”
    “Oh, stop it,” she said disgustedly. And then she realized that he was ambling into the room. “Get away from the window!”
    Winston froze, then twisted around to face her. His brows were arched in question.
    “Step back,” Olivia said. “That’s it. Slowly, slowly…”
    He feigned a motion forward.
    Her heart lurched. “Winston!”
    “Really, Olivia,” he said, turning around and planting his hands on his hips. “What are you doing?”
    She swallowed. There would be no avoiding telling him some thing. He’d seen her crawling about the room like an idiot. He would expect an explanation. Heaven knew she would, had their positions been reversed.
    But she might not have to tell him the truth .