Olivia could feel the tears pooling in her eyes. She blinked them back. She would not cry now. She would not let the circumstances of her birth, or those wretched men, bring her to tears.
“You’re right, Olivia. I don’t know what it feels like, but you risk your life. For what?”
“The money I steal I send to the orphanage. I’ve also sent some to the young women who have been wronged. All anonymously.”
“But if caught these powerful men that you have robbed will see you sent to jail.” He strode to the bed and cupped her face in his hands. “They will do everything in their power to see you never leave Newgate Prison.”
“You don’t understand. I had to. I promised Helen.”
He straightened, leaving her longing for the warmth of his palms on her face. “Helen?”
“She was my dearest friend. She was also the Duke of Wharton’s illegitimate daughter. He forced himself on her mother, a maid in his house, and when her belly started to swell, he cast the woman out. What choice did Helen’s mother have but to leave her infant at the orphanage? No one would hire a maid with child.”
“How do you know all this?”
“Mrs. Garson knew the reasons. The women would tell her when they asked her to take their children into the orphanage.”
“And she told you?”
She peered into the shadows of the room, then back to him. “When younger, both Helen and I were tasked with cleaning Mrs. Garson’s office. It was there Helen came across a book in a hidden compartment in the wall. Curious as to why it was hidden, she opened it, and found out the truth about her parentage. Mrs. Garson had written everything she’d been told.
“Helen said when she grew up, she would make her father pay, along with all the other wretched men who were named in the journal. But Helen got sick and died. The doctor said she had weak lungs, and the orphanage was cold. So, while her father lived in opulence . . .” Olivia blinked at the tears blurring her vision. “On her deathbed, she made me promise to avenge all the girls. Stealing from these men who valued their wealth was the only thing I could think of doing.”
Anthony slumped into the chair by the bed. “Good Lord.”
“Forgive me for deceiving you, Anthony. I want you to know I took no pleasure in doing so.”
* * *
The following day, Anthony used paperweights to pin down the corners of the revised blueprint for Victory Pens. After James and his family arrived home today and settled in, he was sure his brother would want an update.
He stared blindly at the drawing—his mind returning to the thought that had taken over his brain last night as he’d lain in bed. Should he tell James about Olivia and what she’d done? Perhaps it was best not to say anything. Olivia would be well enough to leave in a day or two. And though he knew for certain his brother would not tell Scotland Yard after he explained why Olivia had robbed those men, he didn’t want her to feel uncomfortable during her remaining days in this house. Olivia’s secret would be known by only Olivia and himself—if the police didn’t figure it out.
His stomach clenched, and to distract himself, Anthony smoothed his hands over the blueprint. When he’d first started making changes, he’d worried about what James would say. Now he felt confident in every change he’d made. He’d come to realize how much he enjoyed architecture, more specifically, the design of production lines in manufacturing. He could see himself engaging in this type of business. He felt better about himself and his abilities than he had in a very long time.
A knock sounded on the door.
“Yes, come in.”
The butler entered the room. “My lord, there is a Detective Linden here from Scotland Yard.”
Just as quick as the snap of one’s fingers, cold dread exploded in his belly. “Show him into the receiving room, Menders.”
“Yes, my lord.”
As soon as Menders walked away, Anthony’s mind spun. Should he lie and say Olivia had left their employment several days ago? No. The servants knew she was here. They thought her sick. He could just deny it could be her since she’d been ill. It would be his word against the maid who’d seen Olivia.
The thump, thump, thump of Grandmother’s cane moving at a faster speed than normal indicated she’d heard about their guest.
She stepped into the room. The lines around her mouth appeared deeper. “Why is a detective from Scotland Yard here?”
He shrugged with a casualness he did not feel. His grandmother was beyond keen, but he doubted she would figure it out. The fact that Olivia was the Phantom was almost incomprehensible. “Excuse me, Grandmother. I need to see what the man wants.”
As Anthony made his way to the receiving room, his mind swirled. Dr. Trimble knew Olivia was not sick but injured, but he doubted the physician would volunteer the information. More doubtful that he even suspected how she’d hurt herself. Had the maid at the Duke of Wharton’s realized Olivia was injured? Damnation, he should have asked Olivia.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Anthony entered the receiving room to find Detective Linden examining the blue-and-gold ormolu clock on the mantel shelf. The man looked to be in his late forties, short, with a sizable paunch, and thinning hair combed over to one side to hide the bald spot on the top of his head. As Linden examined the clock, he seemed oblivious to the fact Anthony had entered the room.
Anthony cleared his throat.
The detective’s gaze jerked to him. The man’s keen gray eyes seemed to take in everything about Anthony. “Forgive me, my lord, I’m a collector of clocks and this one is most impressive. I’ve never laid eyes on such a fine piece of workmanship. Chinese in origin?”
“Yes. Late eighteenth century. What might I help you with, Detective Linden?”
“Oh, yes, forgive me, my lord, I’m sure you’re a busy man.” Something in the man’s tone conveyed he thought nothing of the kind—that Anthony was an idle man, or worse, a complete scapegrace.
Anthony realized that sadly that had been true a month ago.
“I thank you for seeing me. This should only take a few minutes.” Linden reached into the inside pocket of his dark coat and pulled out a small notebook and pencil.
Seeing as he couldn’t avoid what he presumed was an inquisition about Olivia, Anthony motioned to the two upholstered chairs that flanked the fireplace.
Linden flashed him a smile. As the man sat, his gaze briefly returned to the clock.
For a few seconds, Anthony wondered if he offered the costly timepiece to the detective, the man would go away. But if Linden didn’t accept what would clearly be conceived as a bribe, Anthony’s offer would surely confirm that Olivia had something to hide and possibly seal her fate. As it stood now, it was only the maid’s word that she’d seen Olivia inside the Duke of Wharton’s home on the night of the robbery. He didn’t believe that would be enough to convict Olivia, especially if he remained adamant that Olivia was here on that night. And he’d burned Olivia’s knit hat, trousers, and sweater in his bedchamber’s grate, along with the maid’s uniform from the Duke of Wharton’s, reducing the items to ashes. Though her injury could not be so easily explained, especially if the maid had noticed it.
Linden flipped to a page in his notebook, then zeroed in on Anthony with his intelligent eyes. “I’m sure you’re aware, my lord, that the Duke of Wharton was recently robbed.”
Anthony forced his expression to remain bland. “Of course. It was in all the papers. What’s this have to do with me, sir?”
The man’s eyes grew round. “Nothing to do with you, specifically, my lord. However, there was a witness.”
“To the robbery? Well, that’s wonderful,” Anthony said. “That still doesn’t answer why you are here, Detective Linden.”
The man pulled on his chin. “Not an actual witness to the robbery itself. A maid who works at His Grace’s residence said she saw a woman dressed as a maid that night. A woman that is not employed by the Duke of Wharton.”
“I still don’t understan
d.” Oh, but he did, and a sinking feeling as if he’d ingested lead settled in his stomach.
“Well, the woman used to work as Lady Winton’s companion, but when I called on Lady Winton, she informed me that the woman in question now works for the elder Lady Huntington. If she was there, she is a suspect in the robbery.”
“Good God, man. You think that my grandmother’s companion, Miss Michaels, is the Phantom.” Anthony forced a laugh. “That’s preposterous.”
“It does sound so, sir. Her being a woman and all, but I need to check out every lead.”
“Yes, understandable, but Miss Michaels has been sick. I can vouch that she hasn’t left this house.”
The man peered at Anthony for several long seconds, then jotted something in his notebook before looking at him again with his keen gray eyes. “These robberies take place during the night, my lord. It is possible you are unaware she is leaving.”
Linden had him there. “That is true, Detective, but her room is on the third story, across from my grandmother’s suite of rooms, and contrary to her age, the elder Lady Huntington’s hearing is keen. Along with the fact that we have a sizable staff here. I do not see how the woman could leave without being detected.”
Tapping his pencil against the notebook, Linden seemed to mull over this information. “True, but we now have new evidence that points to the belief that the Phantom enters homes through an attic window after moving across the rooftops. It seems reasonable that this thief would exit wherever he or she lives by using the same method.”
Anthony forced a broad smile. “Miss Michaels leaping from one roof to the other seems as likely as my elderly grandmother doing so. Might I tell you something about the woman in confidence?”
This got the detective’s attention. Eyes wide, he leaned slightly forward. “Of course.”
“I met Miss Michaels when she mistakenly entered my carriage. She also tripped upon entering.” Anthony glanced around the room as if he didn’t wish to be overheard. “The woman is clumsy. She’d probably tumble to her death if on a rooftop.”
The detective shifted backward and pulled on his chin again. “I’ll still need to question her.”
Damnation. “Yes. But as I said, she is rather ill.”
“I will only take a minute, my lord. You see, the maid at the Duke of Wharton’s residence said the woman was injured.”
For a minute, Anthony thought his heart stopped beating before it accelerated.
“I’ve concluded it happened while prying open His Grace’s money box,” Linden continued. “If Miss Michaels is not injured, she will be cleared, and we will conclude that the maid was mistaken and identified someone who resembled her.” The man arched a brow in challenge.
Anthony’s heart hammered in his chest, so loud he feared the detective might hear it. If he refused to let him see Olivia, Linden would grow suspicious. “Yes, of course. Let me send a member of my staff to ask her to join us.”
The man smiled like a barnyard cat who’d spotted a mouse.
Anthony strode to the bell rope, then stopped. He needed to get Olivia out of the house, or she would spend the remainder of her life rotting in a dank cell. “Oh, I forgot. The dashed thing is in need of repair. I’ll just go and get her.”
Mind racing with how he could accomplish getting Olivia out with Linden downstairs, Anthony took the stairs two at a time. He’d simply tell Detective Linden that Olivia was not in her room. That she’d disappeared. Then tonight, he’d take her to Southampton and sneak her onto a ship heading to America. He was sure he could find a captain more than willing to take her on board for a hefty sum.
He reached her bedchamber door and knocked lightly on the surface. “Olivia?”
She opened it, and Anthony was startled to see her up and wearing one of her old navy serviceable gowns.
“What are you doing dressed?” He stepped into the room and closed the door.
“Katie brought me a fresh pitcher of water. She told me that a detective from Scotland Yard is here. The maid at the Duke of Wharton’s residence told him about seeing me, didn’t she?”
“Yes, he wishes to speak with you, but I have a plan. I’ll tell him you’re not here. That you must have left. That you once mentioned to me that you wanted to go to Scotland. While he’s at Victoria Station trying to find out if you’ve boarded a train, tonight we’ll travel by carriage to Southampton, and I’ll get you on a ship.”
“I cannot have you lie for me. I will let him interview me. As you said, they only have the maid’s word. And it was dim in the stairwell.”
He grasped her shoulders. “You don’t understand. The maid told him you were injured.”
Olivia drew in a sharp breath.
“While I’m telling him you’ve disappeared, you need to gather your things, then go hide in my bedchamber. He might request to see this room. Do you understand?”
She nodded.
“Hurry,” he whispered.
Trying to garner Olivia more time to gather her belongings and sneak into his room, Anthony moved down the stairs at a turtle’s pace. He stepped into the receiving room to find Detective Linden once again ogling the ormolu clock like a naked woman’s breasts.
He could offer it to the man. No, something within Anthony, a gut feeling, told him not to venture there. He shoved the idea from his mind.
“It really is a magnificent piece.” The man’s regard shifted to Anthony, then moved past him, obviously searching for Olivia. “Am I to question Miss Michaels upstairs?”
Anthony forced a concerned expression. “Miss Michaels appears to be gone.”
“Gone?” The detective’s eyes narrowed.
“Yes. She’s not in her bedchamber. I thought her too sick to get up. I don’t understand where she could have gone.”
“Might I examine her room?”
“Of course. Follow me.”
* * *
As quickly as Olivia could move with her thigh still plaguing her, she strode to the armoire and flung the doors wide. With hands that shook slightly, she bent to withdraw her suitcase and winced when a lightning-fast pain shot through her thigh. A bead of sweat trailed down her spine. Ignoring her pain, she pulled out her suitcase. She glanced around the room to see if there was anything else that she’d forgotten and realized how little she possessed. Her gaze shifted back to the armoire and the lovely dresses from Madame Renault’s shop.
Would it be so wrong to take one of the day dresses? Yes.
She closed the armoire, then opening her bedroom door, she peered down the corridor. Seeing no one, she moved down the hall and slipped into Anthony’s room.
The exertion of moving after being in bed, and the ache in her thigh, along with fear, caused her knees to quake under her skirt.
Breath sawing in and out of her lungs, she slumped against the door and tried to slow her breathing to a normal rhythm, while glancing around the room. It was imperative that she find a place to hide in case the detective decided to carry out an extensive search of Trent House. Olivia’s gaze settled on the massive bed where she and Anthony had made love. What she would give to join him in that bed again—to feel his warm palms skimming over her skin and experience his mouth pressed to hers as he buried himself deep within her—until they had almost become one body, one soul.
Tears blurred her vision. She blinked them away.
There was no time to become melancholy.
No time to live in the past.
No turning back.
Penny had seen her. Her mind drifted back to that moment when the maid had stared at the blood on Olivia’s hand. The shock on her face, along with her words, replayed in Olivia’s mind. Blimey! What happened to your hand?
Olivia straightened. Penny had thought she’d cut her hand, not her thigh. Is that the injury she’d told the detective about? If so . . .
Without further thought, Olivia opened the door and hobbled back to her room. Quickly, she removed her hairbrush and several hairpins from her suitcase, th
en set the luggage back into the armoire. As she sat at the vanity table, fixing her hair into a severe bun, she silently prayed that Penny had said that Olivia’s hand was cut. If not, Olivia’s gamble would land her in prison for the rest of her life.
When done setting her hair, she stood and moved to the door. She would go and see the detective. It was a gamble, but one she needed to take, or else she’d spend the remainder of her life looking over her shoulder, fearing these noblemen had sent someone to find her. She just hoped she could walk down the stairs and not collapse from the pain.
She opened her bedchamber door and almost bumped into Anthony and the detective.
Chapter Thirty
“Miss Michaels?” Anthony’s voice conveyed his surprise. His eyes conveyed his fear at seeing her still in her bedchamber.
“My lord,” she replied, forcing her voice to sound carefree, even though she felt as if the devil waited for her on the other side of a tightrope. Her gaze traveled past Anthony to the short man standing behind him. The detective’s gray eyes drifted over her. His brow creased. She wasn’t sure if that was a good sign or not, but she hoped she looked insipid enough for the man to question every presumption he had about her.
“You’re Miss Michaels?” The man scratched at his jaw.
“I am.” She tipped her head to the side, hoping it added to her forced look of bewilderment.
“The elder Lady Huntington’s companion?” The detective’s gaze drifted from her face to her hands clasped piously in front of her.
Never Mix Sin with Pleasure Page 24
