by Tarah Scott
Quickly, Olivia lifted the latch. Deborah stood there with red, swollen eyes, clutching a letter to her breast.
Olivia’s heart leapt into her throat. “What is it?”
Her cousin swallowed like a nervous bird, then swept inside. “It’s all wrong, Olivia,” she whispered. “You are not to blame. It’s my doing.”
“What is?” Olivia asked, alarmed as she followed her cousin to the counter.
“It’s all wrong,” Deborah choked. “I am at my wits’ end.”
She certainly looked it. There was a wild look of desperation about her that tore Olivia’s heart. “If you tell me, I might be—”
“Grandfather cannot find out,” Deborah interrupted. Then, dropped her hands to her waist. “Already, I have grown thicker, Olivia. Another month, there is no hiding.”
She was right. Perhaps, there wasn’t hiding, already.
The look in Deborah’s eyes was a tortured one. “Oh, Olivia. It’s the end. I will be disowned.”
Olivia gave her cousin’s hand a comforting squeeze. “I cannot see how grandfather can disown you, Deborah. He doesn’t have another heir left now, does he?”
Deborah shook her head.
“Then, do not fret. We will think of something.” Olivia drew a deep breath. “Nicholas will make this right.”
“Nicholas,” Deborah mouthed his name and then dropped the letter onto the counter. “Will you see he gets this? I do not know where he is staying. Do you?”
The sight of Nicholas’s name on the envelope depressed her even more. Despite his claims to the contrary, something stood between him and Deborah. Why else would she write?
“Please, Olivia,” Deborah begged, her voice scarcely above a whisper.
Olivia nodded, slowly.
The scrape of boots on the step outside interrupted further conversation, and as one, they turned as the door swung open.
Lord Randall entered.
He was persistent, to be sure, dressed as the perfect gentleman, suave and sophisticated as he strolled into the shop. He looped his silver-handled walking stick over his arm and doffed his hat.
“Lady Deborah. Miss Mackenzie. Good morning to you both.”
It struck her then what irritated her about the man. He was perfect—too perfect. Orchestrated. Decidedly fake.
“I must go,” Deborah blurted as she rushed to the door.
“Wait,” Olivia called, but Deborah disappeared through the door.
Olivia grimaced. Her cousin was so high strung, but then, she had cause to be. It was entirely unfair she had to bear this burden alone. She pursed her lips, angry with Nicholas as well as herself for her own behavior with the man. It was only then that she noticed Lord Randall watching her every move.
“May I be of service?” he asked.
Again, such a gentlemanly, polished manner and speaking such kind words…so why did she want to smack the smile right off his face?
Forcing a polite smile, she murmured, “I believe I should ask that of you, my lord, as you have come into my shop.”
He twirled his walking stick and sauntered to the counter. “I merely came by to offer the services of my carriage, Miss Mackenzie. Surely, you are attending Lady Kendrick’s charity event?”
Even if she hadn’t already planned to visit her mother’s grave, she wouldn’t have bothered to attend. What was the point? Doubtless, Elena’s throat ‘still hurt.’
“Thank you, Lord Randall, but I am fine,” she replied. “I shan’t be attending. I thank you for your kind offer.” She owed him no further explanation.
Something about him hardened, almost imperceptibly—something chilling. So, he did have a temper, as gossip claimed.
Feeling a sudden need to put space between them, Olivia stepped behind the counter.
“I see,” he murmured. “I thought you were attending.” Again, the overly polished smile. “I thought merely to be of service, after hearing Lord Blair and your cousin conversing on the matter.”
Olivia lifted a brow.
“But then, perhaps I misunderstood.” He shrugged. “Such is the way with those in love, they so often finish the sentences of the other. They could have been conversing about an entirely different matter.”
The words hurt, even though they shouldn’t, and as much as she didn’t care for Lord Randall, in this, he had no cause to lie. So, Nicholas really was a rake. How could Lady Blair produce such a lying son?
Lord Randall smiled politely and leaned against the counter. “Now that I am here, I do believe I would care to purchase a song, after all. A gift for a pianist.”
“Ah yes,” Olivia replied through wooden lips. “Do you have a piece in mind?”
“Nae. Only, something popular. Special, perhaps. Something new?”
“I do believe I have something in the print room that might suffice,” she said, seeking any excuse to escape his presence, if only for a moment. “If you would excuse me?”
“Most certainly, Miss Mackenzie.” He nodded.
She slipped through the curtains. Refusing to let herself think of Nicholas, she hurried to the print room. The familiar scent of ink and paper soothed her rattled thoughts. After selecting several pages, she had calmed enough to return.
Lord Randall still stood by the counter where she’d left him.
“Perhaps one of these might suffice, my lord?” she queried with a distant smile.
He scarcely looked at them and selected the first. “This will do nicely.”
“Then two shillings, my lord.”
“Thank you, Miss Mackenzie.” He dropped the coins onto the counter.
A sound behind her made Olivia turn. Her father stepped through the curtains.
“Olivia, child, my how you’ve grown.” His hat slid off the back of his head.
The sight of his jagged scar was startling. Keenly aware of Lord Randall watching her every move, she quickly stepped up to her father and straightened his hat.
“Let’s go, shall we, Father?”
“But, we have a customer, child,” he objected.
“He’s made his purchase, dear father.” She pulled him toward the curtain.
Again, he stopped, but this time he looked her in the eye. “Your mother loves bluebells, child.”
He knows what day it is.
“I know, Father,” she whispered.
She saw the pain in his eyes, but only for a moment. Then, he was slipping between her fingers, retreating once again into his private world.
A movement from the corner of her eye reminded her that Lord Randall still waited. She tossed him a quick glance.
“If you will excuse me, my lord. I must see my father settled.”
The man nodded, his face unreadable as he touched the brim of his hat. “Good day, Miss Mackenzie.”
She watched him go, finding herself relieved when the door shut behind him. She turned back to her father and guided him to the parlor.
“Let’s play some music, shall we?” she asked.
He said nothing as she led him back to his piano. Once again seated on his bench before the ivory keys, she watched as his world of music swallowed him.
For a time, Olivia stood by the door, resting her head against the frame. Her father was still there, despite what anyone else thought. She simply had but to listen to his music to know. Part of her couldn’t blame him for giving up, for living in his world of notes. The other part of her, however, didn’t agree. She was still here. She, his child, still needed him.
With a sigh, she brushed tears from her cheeks and headed for her room. She changed into her best dress and glanced at her reflection in the mirror. She could only snort. She was so very far from the lady her mother had been. She inspected her ink-stained, calloused hands and shrugged as her father’s music drifted up the stairwell.
She might not look like her mother, but she certainly had her determination and strength—enough strength for her father and herself, as well.
With a smile, Olivia picked up her bo
nnet, and by the time she returned to the shop, Mrs. Lambert had arrived.
“You will be off then?” the woman asked.
Olivia nodded. Mrs. Lambert knew her first stop and her second.
“Then good luck to you, lass.”
Olivia sighed. With the banker, she would need it. Grimacing, she left and hurried to the river.
The day was warm, and the bluebells bloomed abundantly. In no time at all, she’d gathered a bouquet. Closing her eyes, she buried her face in the flowers, letting pleasant memories of the past parade through her mind as the soft petals brushed her cheek. Almost, she could hear her mother’s sweet laughter once again, playing a soprano to her father’s bass as he sang while working the press.
Then, as swiftly as the memories came, they faded.
Silently, she made her way to the kirk, a time-worn building of stone surrounded by a black-iron fence. She slipped through the gate and picked her way past the older, ivy-covered gravestones, their stone faces weathered and covered with lichen. As she stepped around an old mausoleum, Olivia drew up short.
A man knelt at her mother’s grave. Startled, she stepped back, taking cover behind the mausoleum’s cold stones and then slowly, peered around the corner. The man’s shoulders shook as he covered his face with his hands. Then, he shifted his weight, revealing gray hair under his hat. As she watched, his head turned to the side.
Her heart stopped. Surely, her eyes deceived her. How could her grandfather, the Duke of Lennox, be kneeling at her mother’s grave…weeping? He rose stiffly to his feet and brushed the tears from his cheeks, brusquely, as if they had no right to be there. She could only watch in open astonishment.
Then, he turned on his heel and she drew fully back behind the mausoleum. Her grandfather was difficult as it was. She harbored not a single doubt that he would be beyond displeased to discover she’d witnessed his private moment.
As the duke approached, she inched around the tomb, keeping out of his line of sight. He didn’t even glance her way. He strode out of the cemetery with a purposeful step and disappeared around the corner of the kirk. For a moment, she was tempted to dash after him. Why had he come? Why now? Why acknowledge her mother now? After so many years?
Anger warred with confusion. Then, the ephemeral scent of bluebells reminded her of her true purpose for being here. She wouldn’t dishonor her mother’s memory. Shoving all thoughts of her grandfather aside, she turned her feet to her mother’s grave.
* * *
“As I have said a dozen times before, it is unseemly for a man of my position to discuss business matters with a…a…a…”
Olivia sat across from the banker, but she no longer listened. Husband. Again. The banker never failed to remind her that he wished only to do business with her husband. He had only dealt with her so far out of courtesy and respect to her father, but such courtesy could only last so long.
“Do we have an understanding?” the man asked.
Olivia stood. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Trent.”
There was no use in prolonging the displeasure for either of them. Without a word more, she swept out of the bank and marched across the street.
For the first time, she felt the sharp pang of visceral fear. What if she couldn’t make Mr. Pitt’s last payment? She would have to sell every sheet of music she had, and at a discount, to come up with the money needed…but what if it wasn’t enough? And what if Louisa didn’t return? What if her dream of revealing her father’s music to the world remained only that…a dream?
A man stepped into her path.
“Pardon me, sir,” she muttered, sidestepping him.
A hand dropped onto her arm. “Olivia?”
She looked up, startled.
It was Nicholas.
Chapter Thirteen
Turning the Tides of Fate
Nicholas yawned from the comfort of his carriage as the bank came into view. It was an impressive building, granite, with six Corinthian columns topped with statues. Exactly what they were of, he hadn’t a clue. No doubt, they represented money in some shape or fashion—massive good luck charms for the wealthy bankers lurking within.
As the carriage rolled forward, a familiar shade of auburn hair stormed down the bank steps and crossed the street. He’d recognize her anywhere. Olivia. He rapped the window but leapt from the carriage before the coachman pulled rein. He caught up with her as she turned toward Glasgow Green.
“Pardon me, sir,” she muttered as he stepped into her path.
“Olivia?”
She blinked and looked up. For the briefest of moments, her eyes widened with what could only be pleasure. Then, a mask fell over her face and her bonny green eyes shuttered.
“My lord,” she murmured.
The tone was so formal, he winced.
“Might I offer you a ride?” He hooked his thumb over his shoulder at the carriage now waiting across the street.
“No, thank you,” she replied at once. “I shan’t keep you from Deborah.”
He lifted a puzzled brow. Deborah? Again? “I confess, that is not a name I expected to hear—especially after our last meeting.”
Olivia lifted her chin, giving her head a little toss, and for a moment, he lost all track of what she was saying. He wanted to kiss her again.
“There is no need to hide the fact you’re truly lovers,” she snapped.
“What the devil?” Aye, perhaps it was high time he simply showed her the truth, kiss some sense into those plump, pink lips.
She closed her eyes and puffed a breath, blowing the hair from her face. “Forgive me. I am out of sorts. Dealing with the bank darkens my mood.”
“Understandable, I assure you,” he granted, then drew his brows into a line. “But this nonsense of Deborah must end.”
“Truly, I only wish you the best,” she replied. “Since we are to be relatives—”
He caught her shoulder. “I thought you were of the understanding that Deborah spoke of me falsely. Surely you could see that when we spoke with her?”
“Lord Randall informed me that he sees the both of you together, often enough—”
He couldn’t bear to hear more. “What tripe is this?” He snorted with contempt. “Lord Randall? Good Lord, the man is at it again.” Mr. Timms couldn’t investigate fast enough.
Olivia hesitated. “At what, again?”
He clenched his jaw. “The man is a liar, lass. Come. Shall we discuss this in the privacy of my carriage?”
She rooted herself to the ground. “I have much to do—”
“Please, Olivia. All is not as it seems, I assure you.”
When she heaved a breath, he knew he’d won and, minutes later, they were safely settled in his carriage, with the coachman given orders to take the longest route back to her printing shop.
As the carriage rolled forward, Nicholas began, “Years ago, both Randall and I fell for the charms of the same lass, one Henrietta Kendrick.”
“Lady Kendrick’s daughter?” Her lashes fluttered in recognition.
So, she knew something of the matter. “You have heard of her?”
“Lady Kendrick spoke often how her daughter died of a fever days before her wedding. Such a tragedy.”
A fever? Of course. Polite society could hardly tolerate the truth of the lass hanging herself from the rafters in a barn.
He repeated the same story he’d told Mr. Timms. She listened with rapt attention, never interrupting. When he’d finished, she remained quiet.
Finally, he broke the silence with, “I beg you, Olivia. Do not trust Lord Randall. He is hiding something.”
She responded with a muffled snort. “Have no fear. The man disturbs me.”
Aye, she was so different than Henrietta. She was a fighter, a lioness.
Then, she looked him straight in the eye. “As for Deborah, you must make things right.”
He shot her a withering look. “As for Deborah, I am truly helping the lass, I assure you, but I will not wed her when I am
not the father. A week, Olivia. A week and I should know more.” Mr. Timms would, no doubt, uncover the truth, and once uncovered, the next step would become clearer.
“A week, then,” she agreed.
Further conversation ended with their arrival at the music shop. He helped her down, again savoring the light touch of her fingers on his hand, and as ever, his eyes fell to the sway of her hips and the wide ribbon spanning her waist as she took her leave.
“The hotel, my lord?” his coachman asked when he turned back to his carriage.
He nodded and returned to his seat. It was fitting that Olivia was in the music business. Her body was the finest instrument and, soon, would be his for the playing. He lifted his lip in a private smile. Soon, she’d wear a ribbon and nothing else. He felt himself grow hard at the thought.
The thought of visiting Demelza flashed across his mind, the thought quickly followed by revulsion. He knew what the reaction meant. He was falling for Olivia. Hard. He focused his gaze out the window. In the not-so-distant past, the thought of falling for a woman would have made him run. This time, he wanted a different ending…a permanent one. He slouched back into his seat, letting his thoughts wander over Olivia’s roof, her endeavors with the concert, and, of course, her splendid curves.
In less time than he’d thought possible, the carriage arrived at his hotel, and he’d no sooner stepped inside than Mr. Timms’ bulky form rose from one of the leather chairs beside the window.
“My lord.” The man bowed.
The movement threatened to pop his straining waistcoat buttons. With amusement, Nicholas noticed the top button already missing.
“I have news,” the man announced.
“So soon?” Good. “Please, join me in my rooms.”
Neither man spoke until they settled safely behind the closed door of Nicholas’s private sitting room.
“Lord Randall,” Mr. Timms began at once, “seems to have an interesting financial situation.”
“Interesting? How?”
“His estate is in ruins, owed entirely to the bank, yet he has founded many charities, my lord.”
Charities? Not bloody likely. Randall was the least charitable person to walk the streets of Glasgow. “Ridiculous.”
