JQ's video for What Happens in London is featured on The Huffington Post. JQ's video is the second one featured. Vote for JQ! To the left of the video is a "Rate This Trailer" poll. Then read the interview about the making of the video.

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The UK Edition. Order from amazon.co.uk

Although What Happens in London is a companion book to The Secret Diaries of Miss Miranda Cheever, Diaries’ hero and heroine don’t make an appearance. I had originally intended them to, but they didn’t end up fitting in the plot.

I'm not so sure I would have made my prince Russian if I'd realized how difficult the language is to translate. Because Russian uses the Cyrillic alphabet, it needs to be both translated and transliterated. 3-5 different Russian speakers helped me with each translated statement, and they never agreed. In the interest of consistency, I ended up going with the translations as done by my copy editor, who I'm told has a Masters in Russian literature.

Miss Butterworth and the Mad Baron first appeared in It's in His Kiss as one of the books Hyacinth was reading to Lady Danbury. I had no plans ever to use it again, but when I needed Harry to give Olivia an unusual gift, it just popped into my mind. I LOVED writing the passages in this book. It is seriously fun to write bad literature.

In regency times, the wealthy had their butlers iron their newspapers before they read them. This was not to eliminate wrinkles but rather to seal the ink so that it did not rub off on people’s hands.

“Hell’s Vengeance Boileth in Mine Heart” is the most famous aria from Mozart’s The Magic Flute, and is more commonly referred to as the Queen of the Night’s Aria. It is known for its difficulty, reaching a high F6, which is rare in opera.

This is a clip of the great Diana Damrau performing this aria.

Check out the soundtrack to What Happens in London in the bonus features section.

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Top Pick! — What Happens in London was named one of the Ten Best Romances of 2009 by the editors at Amazon.com! See the full list.

What Happens in London will debut at #4 on the New York Times mass market fiction bestseller list for the week of July 19.

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"They say he killed his first wife."

It was enough to make Lady Olivia Bevelstoke cease stirring her tea. "Who?" she asked, since the truth was, she hadn't been listening.

"Sir Harry Valentine. Your new neighbor."

Olivia took a hard look at Anne Buxton, and then at Mary Cadogan, who was nodding her head in agreement. "You must be joking," she said, although she knew quite well that Anne would never joke about something like that. Gossip was her lifeblood.

"No, he really is your new neighbor," put in Philomena Waincliff.

Olivia took a sip of her tea, mostly so that she would have time to keep her face free of its desired expression, which was a cross between unabashed exasperation and disbelief. "I meant that she must be joking that he killed someone," she said, with more patience than she was generally given credit for.

"Oh." Philomena picked up a biscuit. "Sorry."

"I know I heard that he killed his fiancée," Anne insisted.

"If he killed someone, he'd be in gaol," Olivia pointed out.

"Not if they couldn't prove it."

Olivia glanced slightly toward her left, where, through a thick stone wall, ten feet of fresh springtime air, and another thick wall, this one of brick, Sir Harry Valentine's newly leased home sat directly to the south of hers.

The other three girls followed her direction, which made Olivia feel quite foolish, as now they were all staring at a perfectly blank spot on the drawing room wall. "He didn't kill anyone," she said firmly.

"How do you know?" Anne responded.

Mary nodded.

"Because he didn't," Olivia said. "He wouldn't be living one house away from me in Mayfair if he'd killed someone."

"Not if they couldn't prove it," Anne said again.

Mary nodded.

Philomena ate another biscuit.

Olivia managed an ever-so-slight turn of her lips. Upward, she hoped. It wouldn't do to frown. It was four in the afternoon. The other girls had been visiting for an hour, chatting about this and that, gossiping (of course), and discussing their wardrobe selections for the next three social events. They met like this frequently, about once per week, and Olivia enjoyed their company, even if the conversation lacked the heft she enjoyed with her closest friend Miranda née Cheever now Bevelstoke.

Yes, Miranda had gone and married Olivia's brother. Which was a good thing. A marvelous thing. They had been friends since birth, and now they would be sisters until death. But it also meant that Miranda was no longer an unmarried lady, required to do unmarried lady sorts of things.

 

Unmarried Lady Sorts of Things
By Lady Olivia Bevelstoke, Unmarried Lady

Wear pastel colors
(and be quite glad if you possess the correct complexion for such hues).
Smile and keep your opinions to yourself (with whatever success you are able).
Do what your parents tell you to do.
Accept the consequences when you don't.
Find a husband who won't bother to tell you what to do.

 

It was not uncommon for Olivia to formulate such epigraphic oddities in her mind. Which might explain why she so frequently caught herself not listening when she ought.

And, perhaps, why she might have, once or twice, said things she really should have kept to herself. Although in all fairness, it had been two years since she'd called Sir Robert Kent an overgrown stoat, and frankly, that had been far more charitable than the other items on her mental accounting.

But digressions aside, Miranda now got to do married lady sorts of things, which Olivia would have liked to have formed a list for, except that no one (not even Miranda, and Olivia still had not forgiven her for this) would tell her what it was that married ladies did, aside from not having to wear pastel colors, not having to be accompanied by a chaperone at all times, and producing small infants at reasonable intervals.

Olivia was quite certain there was more to the last bit. That was the one that sent her mother fleeing from the room every time she asked.

But back to Miranda. She had produced a small infant --Olivia's darling niece Caroline, for whom she'd happily throw herself under hooves, equine or otherwise-- and was now on her way to producing another, which meant that she was not available for regular afternoon chitchat. And as Olivia liked chitchat --and fashion and gossip-- she found herself spending more and more time with Anne, Mary, and Philomena. And while they were often entertaining, and never malicious, they were, slightly-more-than-occasionally, foolish.

Like right now.

"Who are they, anyway?" Olivia asked.

"They?" Anne echoed.

"They. The people who say my new neighbor killed his fiancée."

Anne paused. She looked at Mary. "Do you recall?"

Mary shook her head. "I don't, actually. Sarah Forsythe, perhaps?"

"No," Philomena put in, shaking her head with great certitude. "It wasn't Sarah. She only got back from Bath two days ago. Libby Lockwood?"

"Not Libby," Anne said. "I would have remembered if it were Libby."

"That's my point," Olivia interjected. "You don't know who said it. None of us do."

"Well, I didn't make it up," Anne said, a touch defensively.

"I didn't say you did. I would never think that of you." It was true. Anne repeated most anything uttered in her presence, but she never made things up. Olivia paused, collecting her thoughts. "Don't you think it's the sort of rumor one might want to verify?"

This was met with three blank stares.

Olivia tried a different tactic. "If only for your own personal safety. If such a thing were true--"

"Then you think it is?" Anne asked, in a rather pinning-you-down sort of voice.

"No." Good heavens. "I don't. But if it were, then surely he would not be someone with whom we would wish to associate."

This was met with a long beat of silence, finally broken by Philomena: "My mother has already told me to avoid him."

"Which is why," Olivia continued, feeling a bit as if she were slogging through mud, "we should ascertain its accuracy. Because if it's not true--"

"He's very handsome," Mary cut in. Followed by, "Well, he is."

Olivia blinked, trying to follow.

"I've never seen him," Philomena said.

"He wears only black," Mary said, rather confidentially.

"I saw him in dark blue," Anne contradicted.

"He wears only dark colors," Mary amended, shooting Anne an irritated glance. "And his eyes--oh, they could burn right through you."

"What color are they?" Olivia asked, imagining all sorts of interesting hues--red, yellow, orange...

"Blue."

"Gray," Anne said.

"Bluish-gray. But they're quite piercing."

Anne nodded, having no correction to attach to that statement.

"What color is his hair?" Olivia asked. Surely this was an overlooked detail.

"Dark brown," the two girls answered in unison.

"As dark as mine?" Philomena asked, fingering her own locks.

"Darker," Mary said.

"But not black," Anne added. "Not quite."

"And he's tall," Mary said.

"They always are," Olivia murmured.

"But not too tall," Mary continued. "I don't like a gangly man, myself."

"Surely you've seen him," Anne said to Olivia, "what with his living right next door."

"I don't believe I have," Olivia murmured. "He only let the house at the beginning of the month, and I was at the Macclesfield house party for a week of that."

"When did you return to London?" Anne asked.

"Six days ago," Olivia replied, briskly returning to the topic at hand with: "I didn't even know there was a bachelor in residence." Which, it belatedly occurred to her, implied that if she had known, she would have tried to find out more about him.

Which was probably true, but she wasn't going to admit to it.

"Do you know what I heard?" Philomena suddenly asked. "He thrashed Julian Prentice."

"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.

It was a tedious task. He liked it, but then again, he'd always liked puzzles. He could sit with a document for hours, and realize only when the sun went down that he had not eaten all day. But even he, who was so enamored of the task, could not imagine spending the day watching someone translate documents.

And yet there she was, once again at her window. Probably thinking she was so very good at concealment and he an absolute dunce.

He smirked. She had no idea. Harry might work for the dull branch of the War Office--the one that dealt with words and papers instead of guns, knives, and secret missions-- but he was well-trained. He'd spent ten years in the military, most of them on the Continent, where an observant eye and a keen sense for movement could make the difference between life and death.

He'd noticed, for example, that she had a habit of tucking loose strands of hair behind her ear. And because she sometimes watched him at night, he knew that when she let it down--the entire, unbelievably sunshiny mass of it--the ends hit right in the middle of her back.

He knew that her dressing gown was blue. And, regrettably, rather shapeless.

She had no talent for holding still. She probably thought she did; she wasn't a fidgeter, and her posture was straight and direct. But something always gave her away--a little flutter of her fingertips, or perhaps a tiny elevation of her shoulders as she drew breath.

And of course, by this point, Harry couldn't possibly not notice her.

It did make him wonder. What part of his being hunched over a sheaf of papers was so interesting to her? Because that was all he had been doing all week.

Perhaps he ought to liven up the spectacle. Really, it would be the kind thing to do. She had to be bored silly.

He could jump on his desk and sing.

Take a bite of food and pretend to choke. What would she do, then?

Now that would be an interesting moral dilemma. He set down his pen for a moment, thinking about the various society ladies he'd had cause to meet. He was not so very cynical; he fully believed that some of them, at least, would make an attempt to save him. But he rather doubted any possessed the necessary athletic skills to make it over in time.

He'd best chew his food carefully.

Harry let out a long breath and attempted to refocus his attention on his work. His eyes had been turned toward his papers the entire time he'd been thinking about the girl at the window, but he had not read a thing. He'd got nothing done in the past five days. He supposed he could draw the curtain, but that would be too obvious. Especially now, at half noon, with the sun high and bright.

He stared down at the words before him, but he could not concentrate. She was still there, still staring at him, imagining herself concealed behind the curtain.

Why the hell was she watching him?

Harry didn't like it. There was no way she could see what he was working on, and even if she could, he rather doubted she read Cyrillic. But still, the documents on his desk were often of a sensitive nature, occasionally even of national importance. If someone was spying on him...

He shook his head. If someone was spying on him, it wouldn't be the daughter of the Earl of Rudland, for God's sake.

And then, miraculously, she was gone. She turned first, her chin lifting perhaps an inch, and then she stepped away. She'd heard a noise; probably someone had called out to her. Harry didn't care. He was just glad she was gone. He needed to get to work.

He looked down, got halfway through the first page, and then:

"Good morning, Sir Harry!"

It was Sebastian, clearly in a jocular mood. He wouldn't be calling Harry Sir Anything, otherwise. Harry didn't look up. "It's afternoon."

"Not when one awakens at eleven."

Harry fought off a sigh. "You didn't knock."

"I never do." Sebastian flopped into a chair, apparently not noticing when his dark hair did its own flop-- into his eyes. "What are you doing?"

"Working."

"You do that a lot."

"Some of us don't have earldoms to inherit," Harry remarked, trying to finish at least one more sentence before Sebastian would require his complete attention.

"Perhaps," Sebastian murmured. "Perhaps not."

This was true. Sebastian had always been second-in-line to inherit; his uncle the Earl of Newbury had sired only one son, Geoffrey. But the earl (who still thought Sebastian a complete wastrel, despite his decade of service to His Majesty's Empire) had not been concerned. After all, there had been little reason to suppose that Sebastian might inherit. Geoffrey had married while Sebastian was in the army, and his wife had borne two daughters, so clearly the man could produce a baby.

But then Geoffrey had taken a fever and died. As soon as it became apparent that his widow was not increasing and therefore no young heir was in the offing to save the earldom from the devastation that was Sebastian Grey, the long-widowed earl had taken it upon himself to produce a new heir to the title and was now gadding about London, shopping for a wife.

Which meant that no one knew quite what to make of Sebastian. Either he was the devastatingly handsome and charming heir to an ancient and wealthy earldom, in which case he was without a doubt the biggest prize on the marriage mart, or he was the devastatingly handsome and charming heir to nothing, in which case he might be a society matron's worst nightmare.

Still, he was invited everywhere. And when it came to London society, he knew everything.

Which was why Harry knew he'd get an answer when he asked, "Does the Earl of Rudland have a daughter?"

Sebastian regarded him with an expression that most would interpret as bored, but Harry knew meant: You nodcock.

"Of course," Sebastian said.

The nodcock bit, Harry decided, was implied.

"Why?" Sebastian asked.

Harry glanced briefly toward the window, even though she wasn't there. "Is she blond?"

"Very much so."

"Quite pretty?"

Sebastian slid into a sly smile. "More than that, by most standards."

Harry frowned. What the devil was Rudland's daughter doing watching him so closely?

Sebastian yawned, not bothering to cover it, even when Harry shot him a disgusted look. "Any particular reason for the sudden interest?"

Harry stepped toward the window, regarding her window, which he now knew was on the second floor, third from the right. "She's watching me."

"Lady Olivia Bevelstoke is watching you," Sebastian repeated.

"Is that her name?" Harry murmured.

"She's not watching you."

Harry turned. "I beg your pardon."

Sebastian gave a rude shrug. "Lady Olivia Bevelstoke doesn't need you."

"I never said she did."

"She had five proposals of marriage last year, and the number would have been double that if she hadn't dissuaded several gentlemen before they made fools of themselves."

"You know a great deal about society for one who claims disinterest."

"Have I ever claimed disinterest?" Sebastian stroked his chin in an affectation of thoughtfulness. "How untruthful of me."

Harry gave him a bit of a stare, then rose to his feet and walked to the window, free to do so now that Lady Olivia was gone.

"Anything exciting?" Sebastian murmured.

Harry ignored him, moving his head slightly to the left, not that that did much to improve his vantage point. Still, she'd left the window scrim tied back farther than usual, and if the sun weren't glinting on the glass, he'd have had a good view into her room. Certainly the best yet.

"Is she there?" Sebastian asked, his voice dipping into a mocking quaver. "Is she watching you right now?"

Harry turned, then immediately rolled his eyes when he saw Sebastian moving his hands about, his fingers making odd flexing motions as if he were trying to fend off a ghost.

"You're an idiot," Harry said.

"But a handsome one," Sebastian returned, immediately resuming his slouch. "And terribly charming. It gets me out of so much trouble."

Harry turned, leaning lazily against the window frame. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"I pine for your company."

Harry waited patiently.

"I need money?" Sebastian tried.

"Far more likely, but I have it on the best authority that you lightened Winterhoe's purse by a hundred quid Tuesday last."

"And you say you don't follow gossip."

Harry shrugged. He paid attention when it suited him.

"It was two hundred, I'll have you know. Would have been more, too, if Winterhoe's brother hadn't shown up and hauled him off."

Harry did not comment. He had little affection for Winterhoe or his brother, but he could not help but sympathize.

"Sorry," Sebastian said, correctly interpreting Harry's silence. "How is the young whelp?"

Harry glanced toward the ceiling. His younger brother Edward was still abed, presumably sleeping off whatever excesses he'd got himself into the previous night. "Still detests me." He shrugged. The only reason Harry had moved to London was to keep an eye on his younger brother, and Edward hated that he'd been forced to bow to his authority. "He'll grow out of it."

"Are you evil these days, or just an old stick?"

Harry felt the stirrings of a smile. "An old stick, I think."

Sebastian slouched ever more into the chair and gave the impression of a shrug. "I'd rather be evil."

"There are some who would say you needn't worry on that score," Harry murmured.

"Now, now, Sir Harry," Sebastian admonished. "I've never debauched an innocent."

Harry acknowledged the statement with a nod. All appearances to the contrary, Sebastian did conduct his life according to a certain code of ethics. It was not a code that most would recognize, but it was there, nonetheless. And if he'd ever seduced a virgin, he'd certainly not done so on purpose.

"I heard you gave someone a beating last week," Sebastian said.

Harry shook his head in disgust. "He'll be fine."

"That's not what I asked."

Harry turned back from the window to face Sebastian directly. "Actually, you didn't ask anything."

"Very well," Sebastian said with exaggerated concession. "Why did you beat the young thing to a pulp?"

"It wasn't like that," Harry said irritably.

"I heard you knocked him unconscious."

"That he managed for himself." Harry shook his head with disgust. "He was completely sotted. I punched him once, in the face. At most, I hastened his blackout by ten minutes."

"It's not like you to strike another man unprovoked," Sebastian said quietly, "even if he has had too much to drink."

Harry's jaw clenched. He was not proud of the episode, but at the same time, he could not bring himself to regret it. "He was bothering someone," he said tightly. And that was all he was going to say. Sebastian knew him well enough to know what that meant.

Sebastian nodded thoughtfully, then let out a long sigh. Harry took that to mean that he would drop the subject, and he walked back over to his desk, surreptitiously glancing over at the window on his way.

"Is she there?" Sebastian asked suddenly.

Harry did not pretend to misunderstand. "No." He sat back down, finding his spot in the Russian document.

"Is she there now?"

It was remarkable how quickly this was growing tedious. "Seb--"

"Now?

"Why are you here?"

Sebastian sat up a bit. "I need you to go to the Smythe-Smith musicale on Thursday."

"Why?"

"I promised someone I'd go, and--"

"Who did you promise?"

"It doesn't matter."

"It does to me, if I'm forced to attend."

Sebastian colored slightly, always an entertaining, if unusual, event. "Very well, it's my grandmother. She cornered me last week."

Harry groaned. Any other female, and he'd have been able to get out of it. But a promise to a grandmother--that had to be upheld.

"Then you'll go?" Sebastian asked.

"Yes," Harry said with a sigh. He hated these things, but at least at a musicale one didn't have to make polite conversation all evening. He could sit in his seat, say nothing, and if he looked bored, well, so would everyone else.

"Excellent. Shall I--"

"Wait a moment." Harry turned to him suspiciously. "Why do you need me?" Because really, Sebastian hardly lacked social confidence.

Sebastian shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "I suspect my uncle will be there."

"Since when has that scared you?"

"It doesn't." Seb shot him a look of pure disgust. "But Grandmama is likely to try to mend the rift and-- Oh, for God's sake, does it matter? Will you go or won't you?"

"Of course." Because really, it hadn't been in any doubt. If Sebastian needed him, Harry would be there.

Sebastian stood, and whatever distress he'd been feeling was gone, replaced by his customary nonchalance. "I owe you."

"I've stopped counting."

Seb laughed at that. "I'll go wake the whelp for you. Even I think it's an unseemly hour to still be abed."

"Be my guest. You're the only thing about me Edward respects."

"Respects?"

"Admires," Harry amended. Edward had more than once expressed his disbelief that his brother --whom he found dull beyond measure-- should be so close to Sebastian, whom he wished to emulate in every way.

Sebastian paused at the door. "Is breakfast still laid?"

"Get out of here," Harry said. "And shut the door, will you?"

Sebastian did so, but his chortling rang through the house nonetheless. Harry flexed his fingers and looked back at his desk, where the Russian documents still sat untouched. He had only two days to complete this assignment. Thank God the girl --Lady Olivia-- had left her room.

At the thought of her, he looked up, but without his usual care, since he knew she was gone.

Except she wasn't.

And this time, she had to know that he'd seen her.

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