A Stranger's Kiss (Lords of Chance Book 2)

by Tarah Scott

  “I am inclined to agree with you, my lord, but I am still inspecting the matter.” Mr. Timms folded his pudgy hands across the vast expanse of his belly. “As for Lady Deborah…”

  Nicholas tapped his finger in anticipation.

  “Hers is a common enough plight. Until five months ago, she was keeping close company to Lord Piers Deveraux, second son to the Comte de Gercourt. A man I believe you know well?”

  “Piers?” Nicholas drew a sharp breath in surprise. “He never mentioned her. Of course, I haven’t seen him since Paris—last fall, I believe.”

  Mr. Timms nodded. “Their affair was of a whirlwind nature, and from all appearances, a genuine one, despite Lord Deveraux’s passing distraction to the Lady Marie Rochambeau.”

  “Passing distraction?”

  “Lady Deborah discovered them, ahem…shall we say…in a compromised position?” Mr. Timms mopped his face.

  “Caught them in bed, eh?” Nicholas queried dryly.

  “Aye, my lord.” The investigator nodded. “Her heart broke. She left Paris and returned home to her grandfather’s estate, outside Glasgow. There, shall we say, she succored her heart with the attentions of the stable lad.”

  “The stable lad?” Nicholas repeated, surprised. So, the stable lad had fathered the child? Deborah’s desperation could now be understood. Then, he recalled Mr. Timms’ first comment. “You said their affair—Piers’ affair with Deborah—appeared genuine in nature?”

  “The man is distraught. He pines for her in Edinburgh, according to those with knowledge of the matter.”

  Nicholas strode to the window and crossed his arms. Pined for her, did he? Genuine? Genuine enough to forgive her for making the same mistake Piers had himself? He drummed his fingers on his arms.

  Well, there was only one way to find out. He’d have to speak with the man himself.

  Chapter Fourteen

  A Slipper of Blue

  “Damnation!” Olivia swore and sucked her fingertip. “Not again.”

  She kicked the foot of the printing press bolted to the floor. Pain shot through her toe. Fine. That wasn’t the best of decisions, but she’d just smashed her finger for the third time that day and she hadn’t slept a wink last night. She’d stayed up to print her entire paper supply in a desperate bid to raise the needed money.

  At the first of the week, she’d lowered the price of every sheet of music she possessed, and thanks to Mrs. Reid, the silk merchant’s wife and the loudest gossip on the street, word spread. A new class of customers began trickling into her shop, primarily composed of the daughters of Glasgow’s merchants.

  Still, she’d sold more music than she thought possible. She had even made a small profit. Small, not enough to pay the wages of a shop lad, but since she was doing the work herself, it was enough to fuel her with a cautious optimism. Perhaps, just perhaps, she might make enough to cover the last payment, after all.

  As for news of Louisa? She scowled. She’d received only two responses, both claiming no knowledge of the opera singer’s whereabouts, but promises to deliver the letter should that change.

  The press groaned, and she jerked back her hand, narrowly avoiding the frame as it fell into place. At last, she was ready to print. She picked up the paper. There was so much to do. A little later in the morning, she had a few deliveries to make, one to Colonel Buids’ wife, only four townhouses away from her grandfather’s.

  The thought of her grandfather summoned an image of him kneeling at her mother’s grave. She released the Devil’s Tail and rubbed the back of her neck. She couldn’t banish the image of the man from her mind. Again and again, at the oddest times, she saw his shaking shoulders, the angle of his head, rife with grief.

  She thinned her lips. Well, it was too late for sorrow now. He should have made peace with his daughter while she lived instead of waiting to whisper words on her gravestone.

  As much as she wanted to check after Deborah’s welfare—she hadn’t heard from her in nearly a week—she wasn’t ready to risk seeing her grandfather again. Not yet.

  As for Nicholas, the man had vanished from her shop, but then, such was the nature of a rake. That fact bothered her much more than it should.

  “How could such a sweet, sweet lady give birth to such a man?” she asked acidly, for what must have been the twentieth time, half hoping that voicing the condemnation would somehow chase the man from her mind.

  Of course, it didn’t work. It only seemed to summon visions of his blue eyes. She closed her eyes and rested her head against the cap of the press. What kind of wanton woman was she to lust after her cousin’s soon-to-be husband?

  With a growl, she forced herself to return to her task, and an hour later, she stood over the counters in the print room, eyeing the drying sheets with satisfaction, but only for a minute. She had deliveries to attend.

  She’d just finished tying the last bundle in the front of the shop when Mrs. Lambert breezed in through the curtains.

  “My dear child.” The woman’s mouth formed an ‘o’ of surprise upon taking in Olivia’s appearance. “Have you been up all night?”

  Olivia answered with a grin and a yawn.

  Mrs. Lambert thinned her lips, her mole hairs seeming to disapprove, as well.

  “I wil sleep tonight,” Olivia promised as she pushed past the woman and headed upstairs.

  After she’d changed quickly, splashed water on her face, and dragged a comb through her hair, she ran back down the stairs and collected the music.

  Four deliveries. She’d save the last for Colonel Buids’ wife. She’d scarcely gone a dozen yards from her door when she heard her name. She prevented herself from turning, just in time.

  Lord Randall.

  She quickened her pace and ducked into a narrow alley where his carriage couldn’t follow. Not only did Nicholas’s warnings of the man ring true, she knew in her heart that he was up to no good. Not wanting to waste a thought on the man, she breathed deeply of the fresh, early summer air and hurried through Glasgow’s streets.

  In short order, she delivered all four bundles, with the colonel’s being the last. As she stepped into the street to turn homewards, she paused. She was so close to her grandfather’s townhouse. It wouldn’t hurt to pay a quick visit to Deborah…and if she found Nicholas there? She expelled a huff.

  “Well, if that’s where he’s been hiding, then, all is as it should be,” she muttered, even as her heart disagreed.

  Twenty minutes later—twenty minutes of indecision—she finally stood outside her grandfather’s townhouse, looking for signs of Nicholas’s carriage and finding none.

  Relief washed over her as she lifted the door’s brass knocker.

  On the third knock, the door opened. “Lady Deborah is not at home,” the maid bobbed in answer to her inquiry.

  Olivia pursed her lips. “Will she return soon?”

  “If you will kindly come inside, I shall inquire, Miss.” The maid held the door open wide.

  She led Olivia down the hall and to the sitting room, and after seeing her inside, quickly left. Olivia stepped gingerly inside. It was a beautiful room. Of course, she would expect nothing less from the Duke of Lennox. She glanced about. From the gleaming gold brocade couches to the overstuffed chairs, the room seemed too new, too perfect, as if never used. Even the heavy silk drapes and crystal beaded chandelier suspended in the center of the ceiling appeared as only beautiful facades, hardly a home. Nothing like the comfort of her tawdry, rundown parlor.

  She grinned at the comparison. Hardly in a mood to sit, she wandered to the small collection of portraits hanging over a side table that displayed a magnificent Chinese vase. One portrait caught her eye, a small one. Peering closer, she realized with a start that it was a depiction of her mother.

  “Why are you here?” a gruff bass grated.

  Olivia whirled as the Duke of Lennox strode into the room, his brows drawn into a thick line of displeasure. One would never have guessed him a man to weep over his disowned d
aughter’s grave.

  “Are you struck dumb?” he asked waspishly.

  Olivia snorted. “Forgive me. I merely sought to reconcile the man I saw in the graveyard with the man before me now,” she answered, the truth lending her voice a deeper strength.

  He froze, then slowly resumed his walk to the window. He reached it and turned. “It is high time you and I came to an understanding.”

  “Pardon?”

  He didn’t care for the challenge in her tone. That much was obvious by the dark roil in his eyes. “I will not have you embarrassing the family name.”

  Family name? The ship named ‘Family’ had sailed years ago. “Pardon?” she repeated, this time with more than a touch of contempt.

  “You must marry,” he said in clipped tones.

  So, another pompous man sought to order her about? “I must inform you that I am not inclined to do so—not that my marriage is any concern of yours.”

  He clamped his jaw. “It is quite unseemly—quite—that a lady of your position seeks to run a venture such as printing music. Clearly, that is the domain of men.”

  Olivia laughed outright.

  Her grandfather’s head snapped back.

  “Let me lay your concerns to rest, then,” she chuckled dryly. “First, I can run a press better than most, I assure you, be they man or woman. Second, I am no concern of yours. The word ‘family’ does not exist between us. Therefore, I am hardly a lady.”

  “Indeed, you are not,” he replied in cold disdain.

  His words didn’t even hurt. Olivia shrugged. “Your words have no power over me,” she replied with a pert smile.

  He blinked.

  “Are you expecting me to faint? Wither? Wilt?” she challenged.

  The duke’s brows furrowed. “My reputation—

  “Of which I care not a whit,” Olivia inserted.

  “Randall is acceptable,” he finished abruptly.

  The change of subject took her by surprise. “Pardon?”

  “I will provide the dowry—”

  “Pardon?”

  “Do not interrupt me,” his voice thundered in the room.

  Her anger erupted. “And, you, do not think to control my life,” she raised her voice in turn. “I will marry if and when I please, and very most certainly, not at your command.”

  He drew back as if she’d slapped his cheek, apparently unused to challenges.

  She didn’t care. Caught in a depth of anger she’d never before experienced, she planted her hands on her hips. “Lord help me, but do I understand you correctly? Dare you, and Lord Randall—of all men to walk the Earth—dare speak of my marriage? The impudence, the pure audacity…” her voice trailed away, speechless.

  “These are men’s concerns,” the duke spat.

  “Oh? My own life isn’t my concern?” The fury boiling in Olivia grew hotter by the second. How dare her grandfather speak to Lord Randall…and how dare Lord Randall speak with her grandfather? Suddenly, the man’s constant snooping around her shop became clear.

  “Never,” she vowed. “I will never wed the man. Ever.”

  “His title could restore some semblance of respectability to a woman of your position,” came her grandfather’s curt reply.

  Olivia rolled her eyes. “I have no interest in joining the ranks of those coldhearted, uncaring…” she faltered as an unwanted image of his shaking shoulders in the graveyard slipped through her thoughts.

  She fell silent, her anger drained.

  The duke didn’t move.

  For a time, only the creaking of the carriages on the street outside came between them. At last, the duke stalked to a walnut cabinet in the corner of the room, took a key from his pocket, and twisted it into the uppermost locked drawer. He opened the doors and pulled out a small, carved box.

  “This means nothing to you?” He held the box up as he turned to face her.

  Olivia shook her head. Slowly, he joined her. When he reached her side, he extended his hand and opened the lid of the box.

  “This was your mother’s heritage before she let pride get in her way,” he rasped.

  A small ceramic shoe glistened on a bed of white velvet. Sapphires and diamonds encrusted the heel and the upper edges. Where one might expect a bow or a buckle near the toe, a sapphire, as large as a Robin’s egg, rested instead, surrounded by a ring of diamonds catching the stray rays of light filtering into the room.

  Olivia knew what it was. The Blue Slipper.

  “Your mother’s pride kept you poor, Olivia. Her pride prevented you from a proper education, one that befits a lady. Your mother’s pride—her obstinance—condemned you to the lower echelons of society.” He spoke slowly, ominously.

  For a suspended moment in time, Olivia simply stared at the small shoe, lying on its velvet bed.

  The lid abruptly snapped shut and her grandfather spun on his heel to return the box to the cabinet. As he twisted the key in the lock, he said, “Walk away from this madness of An Enchanted Summer Evening. Sponsoring a concert is no place for a woman. Sell your shop, if you must. Wed Randall and gain a title. Then, you can return to your proper place in society.” He faced her, his craggy face an unreadable mask. “It is simple, Olivia. It’s time you walked away from your father and his dreams.”

  Walk away from her father? Olivia’s chin lifted. “Never. You dare judge my mother? Pride, you say? Obstinance? You are so wrong, so very, very wrong. My mother’s love taught me the meaning of a true family and a home.” She eyed the soulless perfection of the room around her as well as the man, then added, “Clearly, that is something you will never understand. True love cannot be bought.” She whirled and headed for the door.

  She was three feet away from it when her grandfather’s hand dropped on her shoulder. “Accept Randall,” he urged. “Then, I can bestow upon you a dowry.”

  Olivia didn’t bother turning around. “At the price of my father? Never. Yet even more so, from myself. I detest Lord Randall. I will never wed the man.”

  “I will not give you a penny otherwise.”

  This time, she did turn. With a laugh combined with a humph of disdain, she retorted, “Never have I asked from you a single penny. I will most certainly not start now. I will make my own way—without your help. That, I promise you.”

  She stormed out of the sitting room, down the hall and out the front door. It wasn’t until she reached the edge of Glasgow Green that she realized she’d left without garnering news of Deborah’s time of return. She expelled a breath. Oh, well, it couldn’t be helped. She would find a different way to reach her cousin, one that avoided any meeting with the cantankerous, judgmental Duke of a grandfather.

  Just what the man was up to fair puzzled her. Why care now? Why throw a husband and a dowry in her path? Did her concert hurt his reputation that badly? She smiled, coldly. If it did, then she’d double her efforts. She’d do everything possible to make An Enchanted Summer Evening happen. She’d even bally well sell the press if she had to.

  The moment she set foot in the park, another hand dropped on her arm. She jerked free and glanced up, surprised and affronted and very much irritated at men manhandling her arm and shoulder as they pleased. To her great annoyance, Lord Randall peered down at her with a pleased, smug expression.

  Pleased, was he? Unable to stop the anger from erupting, she snapped without preamble, “You have spoken of me to the duke?”

  His brows twitched, obviously not expecting such a direct response. “Forgive me, am I out of order?” he asked after a moment.

  “If you’re asking if you are out of order discussing my future with the duke—without my consent, mind you—then the answer is yes.” She looked him straight in the eye. “The duke does not speak for me. You have been misinformed.”

  Olivia didn’t miss the tic of his jaw muscle nor the fleeting flare of his nostrils. The rumors of his temper were obviously true. Her anger deepened all the more. How dare her grandfather seek to forge a union with a foul-tempered man with
a title—simply for the sake of his own reputation. Small wonder Deborah was distraught about confessing her situation to him.

  "Olivia, please.” Lord Randall stepped closer.

  So now, it was ‘Olivia,’ was it? Did he really think she’d swoon over him, fall for him that easily? She wasn’t Louisa’s kind.

  “If you will excuse me, Lord Randall,” she murmured in frosty tones. “I must be going.”

  As she turned, he reached out as if to touch her again.

  She stopped him with a withering glare. “Good day, my lord.”

  She marched down the garden path, ignoring his calling of her name. Really, the man was a mystery. What did he expect of her? That she’d turn around and run into his arms?

  She arrived at the shop, out of sorts, and slammed the front door shut.

  The bang brought Mrs. Lambert through the curtains. “Oh, it’s you, lass.” She wiped her hands on her apron. “I sold a song while you were out. Put the coins in the box there.” Her mole hairs pointed the way.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Lambert.” Olivia grimaced. One sheet. Still, one sale was better than none.

  She opened the box and emptied the coins into her palm. Eight shillings in all. Her gaze caught on one of the coins. It was bent. She squinted closer. It was the coin Lord Randall had given her. Odd. Bent, like the coin stolen from her box under the floorboard.

  Strange.

  What were the odds she’d possess two bent shillings?

  With a sigh, she shrugged the thought away and headed to the print room to work. She had to bolster her sales. It was time to advertise in the paper, but first, she had to bind the music she’d printed.

  * * *

  Morning arrived dreary and unseasonably cold, but for all the gloom, the shop bustled with customers. Olivia smiled, pleased. Her last newspaper announcement had proved fruitful. She eyed her box beneath the counter. While it wasn’t overflowing, she was pleased with the week’s sales.

  A gasp circled a group of young women perusing the music near the window.