Over the past several days, they had fallen into a companionable silence as they worked in the office late into the evening. Occasionally, the quietness was shattered by Atticus saying something ribald. When the bird did so, instead of appearing scandalized, a slight smile edged up the corners of Olivia’s lips. More than once, he wondered if she understood some of the lurid words the parrot spouted as if the bird had studied Francis Grose’s book A Classical Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue.
Luckily, Atticus had drifted asleep several minutes ago.
Since his and Olivia’s escapade at the music hall, Anthony had confined his conversations with her to the business accounts she helped him with, while his restless mind dwelled on other things, such as the kiss they had shared in the alley outside the music hall.
The memory of her lips hesitantly moving against his, then the fiery passion she’d eventually responded with, along with the feel of her small hands gliding up his chest were burned into his mind—clear as the view of the ocean if one stood at Whitesand Bay in Cornwall.
Something had sparked between them, leaving them kissing each other as if it was the last thing they would ever do. Contrary to her saying she’d enjoyed herself, perhaps she’d thought it would be. Perhaps she’d thought they would be carted off to prison.
She cleared her throat, and he realized she’d asked him something while he’d been lost in his thoughts.
“Sorry, Olivia, what did you say?”
She held out an invoice. “Is the final figure on this three hundred and ten pounds or three hundred and twelve? The printing is smudged.”
He took the paper from her and concentrated on the last digit. If he looked at the whole figure, he might muddle the numbers around. “I believe it’s a two.”
“That’s what I thought. Thank you.” She lowered her head and entered the amount in the ledger, then ran her finger over the column of figures.
Anthony could practically see her mind working as she calculated the total. She was remarkably intelligent. What would it be like to be able to add such data in one’s head?
I will never know.
He peered back at the blueprint spread across his desk and picked up a piece of the translucent paper he’d bought at a printing shop on Fleet Street close to where Temple Bar used to be. The thin paper allowed him to transfer the dimensions and add the changes he wished to implement. With his pencil and a protractor, he made more adjustments to the placement of the loading dock. Though he didn’t like adding figures, he’d come to find out that he enjoyed working on the flow of manufacturing areas and finding ways to improve them. He hoped his brother would agree with the changes he’d made when he returned from holiday.
An hour later, the shuffling of papers caused Anthony to set his pencil down and look at Olivia.
The light from the gas lamp made the red in her hair look like glowing embers. Earlier, he’d spent an inordinate amount of time wondering how it would look tumbling over her naked shoulders, contrasting with her pale skin. He’d also wondered if the freckles scattered on her face were on other parts of her body.
Olivia glanced up, and he realized she’d caught him staring at her. The pink on her cheeks deepened.
“Sorry for staring. Your hair . . . The light brings out the vibrancy of the red.”
As if self-conscious about the color, she touched the ginger ringlet near her ear, then as though realizing the action quickly lowered her hand.
“The color is lovely.” His words seemed impulsive, yet he could not help himself from offering the compliment.
She looked at him with a startled expression—an expression of shock like he’d said her breasts were rather perky and he wanted to see them naked. Which he had thought about but would not voice out loud.
She uttered a sound, something between a laugh and a noise of disagreement. “My hair is a hideous color.”
“What? It is anything but. What would make you think that?”
She looked off into the distance of the room, her gaze on the bookshelves, but he could tell from the blankness in her eyes that she really wasn’t even seeing them but thinking of an event from her past. One he presumed was not completely pleasant. Suddenly, more than anything, he wanted to know who had made her feel so self-conscious.
He waited, hoping she would tell him without prompting, but she remained quiet. “Tell me who told you such a thing, Olivia.”
Her gaze jerked back to him. For a long minute, he thought she would not answer him.
“Vicar Finch at the orphanage said my hair was a curse.”
“A curse? I don’t understand.”
“The sign of the devil. Like being left-handed. He said it was why I was not always agreeable. Why I needed to be punished.”
Devil? Punished? The two words slammed into Anthony’s gut like a blow, almost knocking the air from his lungs. His hands balled into tight fists. He forced them to relax. “Did he punish you?”
“I deserved it. I did things I shouldn’t have.”
“Like?” he asked, unable to control the anger within him that was reflected in the tone of his voice.
“I picked apples from Mr. Jamison’s orchard, which abutted the orphanage, and gave them to the other girls and myself. I knew it was wrong. Stealing, but they were a treat and from spring onward whenever a breeze drifted through the orchard, we could smell the sweet scent of the blossoms in the air. When autumn came the fruit glowed under the sun like red beacons. We’d talk about how juicy they must be, and . . .” Her cheeks flushed with color. “Sorry, I’m rambling again.”
“You’re not rambling in the least. You are answering my question. And you were punished for this?”
“Yes.” She nodded.
“How?”
“With a birching.”
The anger within him traveled through his body, making him tense. He could envision a young, perhaps even hungry, Olivia bent over while a birch rod struck her backside.
“How old were you?”
“The first time?”
“You mean you were struck more than once?”
She gave a laugh and the thought that she could do so over such a memory startled him.
“Well, the apple blossoms smelled sweet every year. And I wasn’t always caught. Only twice.”
“You mean after being hit, you did it again?”
“My lord, you live in a grand house. You do not understand what it is like to hear the growl of stomachs. To see girls you have come to love, just like sisters, be hungry for something they long to have, but cannot because of their circumstances.”
Olivia was right. He’d lived a privileged life. Not wanting for anything material. But he knew what it was like to want things that did not come easy, like adding figures with competency, but nothing as simple as desiring an apple. In her position, he would have done the same thing. Punishment or not.
“I don’t condemn you, Olivia. I think that was rather brave of you. And this Vicar Finch thought you were predisposed to this behavior not because you possessed a thoughtful nature, but because you possessed red hair?”
“Yes, just like he struck my friend Helen when she used her left hand to write. I presume it was why the two of us became the dearest of friends. It was also the reason the matron of the orphanage, Mrs. Garson, showed the two of us extra kindness. She did not agree with Vicar Finch.”
“So, there was someone to side with you there?”
“Yes. She was instrumental in me becoming a teacher at the orphanage.”
“May I ask why you left your position to become a chaperone to someone of Lady Winton’s ilk?”
“I had my reasons, my lord. But I don’t wish to speak of them.” Olivia set the pen down. “I’ve finished entering the last invoice from today. May I retire?”
“Of course, thank you for your help.”
She nodded.
Anthony followed her movements as she strode to the door and exited the room. He suspected that Olivia wasn’t telling him somet
hing. Perhaps it was nothing more than the orphanage held unpleasant memories that were not easy to forget if she remained there.
* * *
The following morning, the sun cast its bright glow through the two windows in Olivia’s bedchamber as she finished washing. She slipped on her navy dress and wondered if today the dowager would once again accept callers. The woman appeared determined to wait out the gossip about her grandson before allowing anyone to call on her.
In over a week, Olivia had gathered no new information on the goings-on of the ton. She had helped Lord Anthony several nights with his ledgers, but he’d never left the room, affording her the opportunity to peruse the pile of invitations on his desk, and though the dowager opened her mail in Olivia’s presence, she never saw what any of the correspondence said.
A soft knock sounded on her door.
She glanced at the mantel clock. Seven thirty. Olivia fastened the top button at her collar and opened the door.
The same dark-haired maid who’d brought the silver breakfast tray every morning stood in the corridor with a bland expression on her face.
She took the tray from the maid’s hands. “You’re Galen, right?”
“Yes, miss.”
“Galen, I think I’ll take my meals in the servants’ hall starting today.”
The maid’s expression shifted to one of uncertainty.
Understandable. Like at Lady Winton’s residence, the staff here likely feared she would report every bit of chin-wagging back to the Dowager Marchioness of Huntington. They probably thought she was a gentlewoman down on her luck who’d taken this position. She would have to get them to trust her. If the dowager refused to see callers, perhaps eating meals with the servants would be the next best way to find out the goings-on in London. Servants passed gossip from one household to the next. Plus, she was tired of eating by herself.
She strode past the maid, down the corridor, and moved down the back staircase. Once belowstairs, the sound of chatter and utensils striking against plates resonated from the servants’ hall. As she stepped into the room, the buzz of conversation lowered to a hum before ceasing completely.
Unlike at Lady Winton’s residence, where the butler and housekeeper took their meals in their respective offices, here the two upper servants dined at the table with the maids and footmen.
Since several members of the household staff had gone with Lord and Lady Huntington to the Lake District, there were several unoccupied chairs. Feeling the gaze of those in the room on her like a hot branding iron, Olivia set the serving tray on an old oak sideboard and sat with her plate at the empty seat closest to the entrance.
“I hope you don’t mind if I join you.” She smiled.
The old butler returned the expression, but the housekeeper and several others looked less trusting.
“Not at all,” Menders said when no one else replied.
Lord Anthony was right, not revealing that the butler was the one who’d slammed the door on her face had made him an ally. His lordship might not like doing calculations, but he was smart. Several other words sprung to mind. Handsome. Kind. Extremely skilled at kissing. She hurled that latter thought away.
Katie, the young maid who had shown her to the maids’ quarters when Olivia had first arrived, gave a tentative smile.
Olivia smiled back, then lifted the lid off her dish. She was relieved to see she’d been served the same food as the other staff: eggs, sausage, and a slice of toast with jam on the side. Ignoring the eyes on her like she was a bug in their food, Olivia forked a piece of egg and slipped it into her mouth.
The cook strode into the room and placed a pitcher of milk on the table.
“I must say, the meals here far surpass anything I’ve had before,” Olivia said to the woman.
A proud expression settled on the cook’s face as she strode back out of the room.
“The servants’ hall can get rather boisterous,” the housekeeper said. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather eat in your room?”
“Oh, no, Mrs. Parks. I was raised in an orphanage and am not used to eating alone. The sounds of a crowded dining hall make me feel more at home.”
“You lived in an orphanage?” Katie asked, her eyes large.
“Yes, in Kent.”
One of the footmen pinned her with a curious look. “I grew up in Kent. Where?” he asked as if quizzing her on the authenticity of her story.
“All Saints Orphanage for Girls.”
“Well, I’ll be. I grew up not that far from there.” He smiled and took a sizable bite of his toast.
“Me mom grew up in an orphanage,” the scullery maid said, stepping into the room and removing the tray Olivia had set aside.
They asked her a few more questions and soon the conversation returned to a normal rhythm. Olivia breathed a sigh of relief.
These were her people. Not men like Lord Anthony. She needed to remember that. Needed to remember her place in the world. She knew what powerful men could do. Abuse the power they had, and though Lord Anthony was not like the men on her list, they still were of a different station in life. Fawning over the man was as foolish as leaping over the rooftops during broad daylight.
“My cousin,” Katie said, “who’s a maid for Lord and Lady Belington mentioned that they’ve been working like dogs to get ready for the ball they are having tonight.”
The mention of the Earl of Belington’s name pulled Olivia from her thoughts. She glanced up briefly, then as if uninterested lowered her gaze to her plate of food. Belington was one of the last two men on her list. Trying not to appear too interested, she listened to them chat about the gathering on Upper Brook Street.
“It shall be a grand affair,” Katie continued. “A truckload of flowers was delivered yesterday. My cousin says the guest list includes everyone of import. Some say even Prince Edward might attend.”
“I heard one of the maids there dropped a vase and his lordship sacked her, right there on the spot,” Galen said.
“Lady Huntington wouldn’t do that to one of us,” a little dark-haired maid said.
“No, she wouldn’t,” Katie replied, “but the dowager would.”
The housekeeper’s gaze settled on Olivia, then the woman cleared her throat rather loudly and all conversation about the elder Lady Huntington ceased.
“Is Lord Anthony going?” a pretty blond maid asked, looking at the first footman, Cline, who sometimes served as valet to his lordship.
“He’s going out, but I doubt there. He’s not interested in those debutantes.”
“Why would he be when he has Signora Campari,” another footman stated.
“I think he broke it off with her,” Cline responded.
Had he broken it off with his mistress? What did she care? She wasn’t interested in the job. Not that he’d ask her. But she was interested in the Earl of Belington. In retribution. Tonight, the man would have one additional, uninvited guest at his ball.
Chapter Fifteen
The Dowager Marchioness of Huntington roughly cleared her throat.
From where Olivia sat in the blue drawing room, she peered at the woman sitting across from her.
Over the edge of her book, the dowager shot Olivia a deadly glare with her steely gray eyes. “The tapping of your shoe is monotonous.”
Olivia stilled her foot. She was restless. Once again, the dowager had not received any callers. The only information Olivia had been able to gather about Lord Belington’s ball tonight had come from what the staff had mentioned during breakfast.
“If you are bored, I suggest you go help that scallywag grandson of mine.”
What? How did the old woman know she was helping Lord Anthony?
“Help Lord Anthony?” She forced an innocent expression.
“Don’t play the naiveté with me, child.”
Olivia opened her mouth to respond, but the dowager raised her hand. “I have no issue with you helping that rascal. I’m sure he requires all the assistance he can get. Why my el
dest grandson put him in charge of any of his business holdings I will never understand. By the time Huntington returns from the Lake District, I fear those businesses might teeter on the precipice of ruin. Though in all honesty, I’d say goodbye to bad rubbish if that radical newspaper Caroline runs toppled into financial ruin.”
The woman’s words about Anthony agitated Olivia. He’d been working diligently on the upgrades for Victory Pens. The changes he’d implemented were conducive to the flow of operations. Well, in her limited knowledge, they appeared to be.
Olivia squared her shoulders. “Lord Anthony is doing a wonderful job. You should see the improvements he has made to the layout of the pen factory.”
The dowager arched one of her gray brows.
Olivia braced herself for a setdown. She didn’t care. The dowager was too critical of his lordship.
An unexpected grin formed on the woman’s thin lips.
Unsure what to make of it, Olivia wondered if that was the way the woman looked before tossing a vase at one’s head.
As if the effort to smile was exhausting, the dowager’s lips slipped back into a straight line. She waved her frail hand in the air like Olivia was a pesky fly at the dining table. “Go on. Off with you.”
Olivia hesitated. If she dashed off and went to his lordship’s office, it would confirm she was indeed helping Anthony. She hesitated, unsure what was best. But unable to stifle her desire, she stood and strode to the door.
A minute later, Olivia stepped into the office and paused.
Lord Anthony stood by his desk. She studied the way his long fingers moved as he rolled up the blueprints for Victory Pens. Her gaze settled on his top hat on the blotter and the fact that he wore a jacket, instead of just his shirtsleeves.
Was he about to go out? The thought sent a dichotomy of emotions through her. If he went out and left her in the office, she would be able to rifle through the invitations, but then he would not be here. Why should she care about his absence?
She would only be lying to herself if she didn’t admit she enjoyed his company. He was unlike most of the other members of the ton she had spent any time with. He was less stuffy. Less pretentious. More relaxed. She liked that. She liked him—far more than she should.
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