by Tarah Scott
The movement broke the spell.
Olivia snapped, “I fail to see why you are here. This matter is truly none of my concern. It’s Deborah you should be speaking with. Not I. I would greatly appreciate you handling your own affairs.”
Nicholas snorted. “I haven’t spoken to Deborah in years, nor, might I add, was she the one to write. Why would I disturb the lass over a spiteful lie?”
“I do not lie,” she retorted.
“Then, shall we pay Deborah a visit and settle this matter once and for all?” Nicholas crossed his arms as his irritation resurfaced. “We are but a short carriage ride away from the truth.”
“I can scarcely pick up at the drop of a hat.” She waved a hand at the shop.
He refrained from pointing out the lack of customers. “Then may I reserve the pleasure of your company tomorrow? Surely, you understand that I need your help. I can scarcely arrive at the Duke of Lennox’s residence, unannounced, to discuss such a delicate matter.”
She hesitated.
“Believe me, Miss Mackenzie, I have every intention of upholding the truth.” He chuckled, then added, “If I am truly proven to be the father of your cousin’s child, I will wed her within the week.”
A flash of naked doubt crossed her face.
He grinned. So, she wasn’t as believing of her cousin as she claimed.
The shop door rattled and opened. The bell rang, and a dark-haired man entered, his hat tucked under his arm, his gloves in hand, and a very finely carved, silver-handled walking stick hooked over his arm. Recognition punched Nicholas like a fist in the gut. Years. A good ten years had passed since he’d last seen Lord James Randall.
It wasn’t long enough.
Lord Randall looked up, then froze, as if poised to flee.
Nicholas recovered first. “Fancy meeting you here, Randall,” he grated through tightly clenched teeth.
Lord Randall closed the door behind him with a deliberate slowness, then answered, “So, my eyes do not deceive me. I didn’t know you could be bothered to leave the card table, Blair.”
The words sounded innocent and apt enough, given his reputation, but coming from Lord Randall’s mouth, they took on quite a different meaning. Henrietta. Henrietta Kendrick, the woman who would always stand between them, the woman Nicholas had lost to Randall over his choice to play a game of cards that fateful night.
Nicholas drew a sharp breath. Even after ten years, the memory of Henrietta still hurt. His first love, lost, and long dead—thanks to the man standing before him.
“Do not allow me to interfere with your purchase, Randall,” he clipped.
A calculating gleam sparked in Lord Randall’s eyes. “Purchase? Perhaps, I’ve business of another sort, my dear fellow.”
Nicholas tensed. There was no mistaking that look of smug satisfaction. Was the snake playing a game with Olivia? Like he’d bloody hell let that happen—not again.
“Nae.” Nicholas lifted his mouth in a dangerous smile. “You will be leaving. Soon.”
“Miss Mackenzie would have a say, I imagine,” Lord Randall softly disagreed.
From the corner of his eye, Nicholas saw Olivia glance from man to man, clearly puzzled, but he couldn’t let himself become distracted—not again.
“Nae,” Nicholas replied, deadly calm. “You and your insidious ways are not welcome here.”
Lord Randall’s eye twitched. “Insidious? Simply because you lost?”
Lost? Did losing to a man who lied and bent the truth, truly count as a loss? While Nicholas had played his game, Randall had whispered lies into sweet Henrietta’s so very innocent ears. He’d drowned her with glasses of wine. He’d broken her heart. Then, he’d invited himself into her bed. The next morning, she’d agreed to become the next Lady Randall. Her conscience had allowed her no other choice.
“You both fancy music, do you?” Olivia’s voice broke the silence. “Piano arrangements? Violin? Perhaps both?” As they continued to glare at one another, she moved to the shelves and pulled out various sheets of music. “Might I recommend The Soldier’s Adieu? A copy for each gentleman?”
Lord Randall’s eyes narrowed at Nicholas. “I often find the past destined to repeat itself. Do you not agree?”
Nicholas snorted with contempt.
“Robin Adair and Highland Hearth are quite popular this year,” Olivia said. “Might I also recommend the classics? Brahms? Mozart?”
Nicholas shot a glance at the lass. She was a far different creature than the retiring Henrietta. The thought comforted. He raised a brow at Lord Randall and warned in a low voice, “I will see you ruined if you try a single thing.”
Lord Randall’s nostrils flared.
Olivia returned to the counter, her arms overflowing. “No collection is complete without The Lifework of Samuel Dunn.” She dropped the music into two stacks and slammed a palm down on each. “That’s three crowns each, gentlemen.”
Lord Randall blinked. Nicholas grinned. Nae, this feisty lass was a far cry from the shy Henrietta. If he were to bet, he’d wager his entire inheritance Lord Randall could never charm his way under Olivia’s skirts.
“For such delightful service, I will gladly pay more.” Nicholas chuckled and dropped a guinea on the counter.
Lord Randall hesitated.
“Surely, you wouldn’t begrudge the lass her due?” Nicholas lifted a brow.
Lord Randall’s face darkened. “I wager you are the one with creditors on your tail.” He fished a handful of small coins from his pocket and slammed them down.
Nicholas eyed him, surprised at his response as well as the coins. Why would a man keep a pocketful of pennies?
“I thank you for your patronage, my lords.” Olivia marched to the door and held it wide open. “Good day.” She nodded her chin at the street.
Nicholas dropped his eyes over her fine figure. Damnation. Could a woman be more attractive? He picked up his music but took his time strolling toward the door, not only to ensure Lord Randall was truly leaving, but to prolong his enjoyment of the visual treat standing before him.
“Good day, my lord.” Olivia curtsied as Lord Randall passed before her.
Randall touched the brim of his hat. “Good day, Miss Mackenzie.”
Nicholas paused on the threshold, standing a little closer than politeness decreed.
“Good day, my lord.” A wealth of emotion stormed in those green eyes.
Instinct informed him she was thinking of the kiss in the garden. His gaze dropped to her lips. He’d be tasting that sweetness again. He wouldn’t stop until he did.
“Good day, Miss Mackenzie.”
Then, with a gallant bow, he clapped his hat on his head and stepped into the street.
The door shut behind him. The next moment, he heard the click of the lock.
The corner of his lip lifted. She was a challenge, but he liked a good challenge right well enough. It only made victory all the sweeter.
Chapter Eight
Skullduggery
Olivia leaned against the door and heaved a sigh of relief. From the moment Nicholas had arrived, a whirlwind of intense emotions had stormed through her. Attraction, first. He’d stood so handsome in his tailored jacket, peering down at her with his cheek creased into a smile. His stunning blue eyes had drunk every inch of her. Never had her heart hammered more wildly.
Then, he’d spoken his name.
Anger and disappointment had swallowed her whole. But now? Dare she hope he’d spoken the truth? Dare she believe he hadn’t fathered Deborah’s child?
Had Deborah lied? Why?
She stepped to the window and peeked through the curtain just in time to catch a glimpse of Nicholas before he disappeared down the street. She understood the rumors now, the giggles behind the fans as the Season’s debutants gossiped about Lady Blair’s scandalously fascinating son. His lean buttocks and muscular thighs did draw the eye.
A foolish grin tugged her lips. Olivia stepped back with a snort. She had better thing
s to do than ogle someone through a curtain, drooling like a madwoman—especially over the man who had fathered a child with her cousin.
She returned to the counter and swept the coins scattered there into a pile. One caught on her fingers. A bent shilling. Strange. She already had one of those. Well, now she had two. She dropped the entire lot safely into her pocket, then turned her steps back to the print room.
Many proclaimed the work of setting the type to be tedious, a true bore—but not her. She found the task relaxing, and when she was done, she quite enjoyed running her fingers over the fine lead engravings, pleased that not even the smallest casting stood out of line.
Today, however, there was nothing soothing to setting the rows. Her thoughts whirled between Nicholas’s arrival, to his kiss in the garden, and then back again.
Setting the type took twice longer than usual, and when she finally finished, the late afternoon skies had darkened with rain. Big, fat drops.
Olivia twisted her lip in a grimace and hurried up the stairs at the back of the shop to her room above. The ping of water striking the pans met her ears as she opened her bedroom door. She already had four pots placed strategically beneath the leaks. From the puddle forming on the floorboards at the foot of her small bed, it was time to add another pot to the collection. She hurried back down the stairs.
Mrs. Lambert met her in the kitchen. “You will run out of pots, lass.”
Olivia shot her a rueful grin. “I will fix the roof in the morning. It’s too dark, now.”
“That’s men’s work.” Mrs. Lambert sniffed. The hairs sprouting from her mole bobbed in agreement.
Olivia shrugged. “I have no coin for a roofer.” She nodded at the clay tiles stacked in the corner of the kitchen. “Besides, I have three tiles left from last time. Surely, replacing them can’t be that hard. No doubt, it will just take me twice as long. I’ll just start at dawn.” With luck, she’d be finished in time to open the shop at the usual hour.
Mrs. Lambert lifted a doubtful brow. “Then, you’ll need me earlier?”
“Please.” Olivia smiled, fished out Lord Randall’s small coins from her apron pocket, and gave Mrs. Lambert her pay.
By the time she’d seen the woman to the door and her father safely in bed, the rain began to fall in earnest. Smothering a yawn, she dropped a small iron pot at the foot of the bed and shrugged into her nightdress amidst the various pings and plops of the drops hitting the pots and pans.
Exhausted, she burrowed under the patched quilt and against the symphony of sound, let sleep carry her away. Strangely, her last conscience thought was the memory of Nicholas’s lips on hers.
* * *
Olivia woke with a start. Judging by the warmth of the sun on her face, she’d overslept. She raised herself on her elbows. The view outside the window revealed a patchy sky. She surveyed the mismatched collection of cookery ware dotting her floor. A new leak had sprouted during the night.
She threw her covers back with a huff. She had time enough to fix at least one roof tile—she was running out of pots and pans.
She slipped off her nightdress and into a pair of her father’s breeches, along with one of his gray linen shirts and, tying her hair back from her face, jogged down the narrow stairs.
The welcoming aroma of eggs and bacon guided her to the kitchen. “Good morning, Mrs. Lambert.”
“Good morning, lass.” The woman didn’t acknowledge her breeches. Mrs. Lambert understood the necessity of Olivia wearing men’s clothing, for operating the press and for other tasks about the house, but she still pretended she didn’t see.
Olivia smiled and joined her father as he sat at the table, his eyes locked unseeing out the window. “Good morning, father,” she murmured, and dropped a kiss on the top of his head.
He didn’t move. Not that she expected him to. He never responded to her this early in the day. He stayed within his silent shell until Mrs. Lambert guided him to his piano.
“Take this, lass.” Mrs. Lambert pressed a thick slice of bacon wrapped in a bannock into her hands, still refusing to look at her breeches.
Olivia chuckled and stepped out into the fresh morning air. The rain from the night before made everything appear clean and bright. She ate quickly, dusted her hands on the back of her breeches, then dragged the ladder from the back of the small fenced yard to prop against the side of the townhouse.
The clay tile weighed more than she liked and balancing it on her shoulder while ascending the ladder was far harder than it had looked when she’d watched the roofer before. Still, while it was very slow going, she finally succeeded in shoving the tile onto the lip of the roof and glanced around.
She groaned. From the looks of the roof, there were at least five more broken tiles—maybe more. With a scowl, she descended, grabbed the hammer from the print room, then returned to the roof to knock the first cracked tile free. Her arms had already begun to ache when she pulled out the last broken piece and kicked it off the roof. She paused and wiped sweat from her forehead. She was fortunate, truly, that her roof wasn’t a steep one, but even so, she slipped more than once as she dragged the new tile into place.
By the time she’d finally finished settling the tile into place, sweat dripped from her brow and stained the back of her shirt. One tile. One damnable, infernal tile. She’d spent the entire morning on the thing, and from her newfound perch, she could see at least a dozen more that needed replacing.
“Damn it all to hell,” she swore under her breath. She wasn’t usually one to swear, but if ever a situation required it, this one certainly did.
She swung her leg over the roof’s edge, located the ladder rung with her foot, and began to climb down. A few feet from the ground, hands startled her from behind, locking themselves nearly under her arms onto the ladder rails. She gasped in surprise and fell back against a man’s hard chest.
“My apologies,” Nicholas rumbled in her ear. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
Against her will, her heart pounded with excitement even as her temper flared. She whirled as his hands slipped around her waist, effectively caging her in his arms.
“I could have broken my neck,” she snapped.
“Hardly.” He grinned. “Not when I am right here.” He lowered his lashes, strangely thick dark ones even though his hair was blond.
She frowned in an effort to clear her thoughts and added acidly, “Or sprained my ankle.”
“You were on the last rung,” he murmured, his lips still quirked upwards in amusement. “And may I point out, I did catch you.”
He pulled her closer as if to underscore the declaration. She felt the heat of his hard chest, mere inches from her breasts. Her heart leapt into her throat, and for the briefest of moments, she wanted him to kiss her again.
Then, sanity returned. This man soon would—or should—wed her cousin.
Gathering her brows into a frown, she broke from his grasp.
“Women should wear breeches more often,” he murmured as she stepped away.
Startled, she glanced up. “That’s a scandalous thing to say,” she retorted in an effort to ignore her racing pulse.
“Why?” he asked with a lazy lift of a brow. “The garment befits them quite admirably, I must say. Surely, there is nothing wrong with admiring the female form?”
He had a way with words that thrilled the blood. Determined to ignore him, she asked bluntly, “Why are you here?”
He answered easily enough. “Why, I came to fetch you, my dear. Are we not calling upon your cousin? My carriage awaits.”
If he thought she was going anywhere in a carriage with him, he was so very sadly mistaken. “I do not recall agreeing to such a thing.” She pursed her lips and pointed to the roof. “Even if I had, I have a roof to repair.”
Nicholas cast an eye at the roof, then arched an amused brow. “I will send for a roofer.”
“I cannot afford one.” Olivia took a step toward the kitchen for another tile.
He caught
her quickly by the wrist. She held still. His fingers felt like fire.
“Did I ask you to pay?” he drawled.
Olivia shook her hand free. “It’s my roof that needs fixing.”
This time, he stepped forward, easily blocking her way and she was forced to look into his face. The expression in his eyes made her heart skip a beat, the expression of a man not even bothering to hide his interest. What had he said? Aye, a true man doesn’t let the lass that caught his interest slip through his fingers. He goes after her.
But then, it was such a very rakish thing to say.
Suddenly, Mrs. Lambert’s head popped out the back door, “Oliva, darling, there’s a man to see you in the shop.”
From her dour expression, it was clearly a man Olivia didn’t wish to see. “Who, Mrs. Lambert?”
“I wouldn’t know, lass,” the woman replied. “But he smells of the banking sort.”
Olivia frowned, murmured a distracted, “If you’ll excuse me,” then ran through the back door and up the stairs. In less than three minutes, she’d changed into a dress and dragged a comb through her hair and dashed back down the stairs.
On the last step, she drew a deep breath and, adopting a sedate pace, headed for the front shop. Pausing behind the curtains, she peeked through the opening.
“Damnation,” she swore under her breath.
It was Mr. Pitt, the owner of the Theater Royale, standing by the counter with his pudgy fingers laced behind his back and his bald spot prominently on display—despite the straggly tufts of hair he’d combed sideways to hide his loss of hair.
Her mouth went dry. What brought him here? Her last payment wasn’t due for a few more weeks.
“Good morning, Mr. Pitt,” she forced a measure of warmth in her voice as she entered the room. “How pleasant to see you. How might I be of service?”
The man turned and gave a curt nod that sufficed as a greeting. “This letter.” He pulled a letter from his waistcoat. With a flick of his wrist, he slid the paper across the counter. “‘Tis a might concerning, it is. Read it, right quick.”
Wordlessly, Olivia picked up the letter and began to read.
