Olivia agreed. Although her gaze kept slipping to her husband until he joined her on the pew. Even then, he left a careful gap between them, which might as well have been as wide as the Minch. There was no touching of hands or accidental bumping of legs. No sideways glances or brushing of shoulders. And it was his mother he escorted to the dining room for the wedding breakfast after the ceremony, not her.
Pretending that nothing was wrong between them was one of the hardest things Olivia had ever done. She wanted to entreat Hamish to change his mind about living apart from her, but she realized her pleas would likely fall on deaf ears. She’d need fresh, clever arguments to challenge her stubborn-as-an-ox husband’s entrenched beliefs about himself. But for the life of her, she couldn’t think of anything that would be likely to succeed.
There was a single moment during the lively wedding breakfast when Olivia caught Hamish watching her with such focused, intense regard, her insides had trembled with hope and desire. But in the next instant, his expression became shuttered, and he looked away to beckon over a footman to attend to something at the table.
At least, if nothing else, Olivia was utterly convinced he was lying when he’d told her he didn’t love her. But unless he could acknowledge how he truly felt and was willing to try to make things work, their marriage was doomed to fail. She couldn’t do this on her own. He had to meet her halfway.
* * *
* * *
Following the wedding breakfast, everyone descended to the great hall to bid the newlyweds farewell. Hamish had offered them the use of the estate’s hunting lodge, Kilmuir House, for their honeymoon. It was but a few miles away, high up on the moors, but it would give Isobel and Brodie the opportunity to enjoy some time alone together.
Olivia tried not to be jealous as she watched the blissfully happy couple mount their horses and then ride through the barbican passage together amid shouts and whoops from the assembled guests and Muircliff’s staff.
When she eventually turned to look for Hamish, he’d already gone back inside.
Tilda tugged at the skirts of Olivia’s lavender gown. “Lady Livvie, will you come and play with me and Mia?”
Olivia smiled down at the little girl. “I’d love to,” she replied. Tomorrow they’d all be rising early to leave for London, so Olivia needed to check how Nurse Swan was progressing with preparations for the long journey. At least this time, the nurse would be accompanying them and there would be a lot more toys on hand to keep Tilda amused. Although, strangely enough, it seemed Tilda’s favorite book was The Fauna of Scotland and Its Isles: An Illustrated History. It touched Olivia’s heart that the child had grown fond of all her hastily spun tales.
Olivia was also touched that Tilda—with Nurse Swan’s help—had been practicing the pronunciation of words and names she found tricky, including Olivia’s name.
“I can say it, Lady Livvie, I really can. But I have to con . . . concentrate,” said Tilda gravely. They were both sitting in one of the nursery’s wide window seats with Miss Mia, the porcelain doll. The rays of light slanting in through the leaded panes made Tilda’s light brown curls look just like toffee.
A tiny line appeared between her brows as she carefully pronounced, “O . . . Oliv . . . Olivia.” A triumphant smile brighter than the sunlight dancing on the deep blue sea lit her face. “You’re Lady Olivia.”
“Oh, Tilda, you are so very clever,” cried Olivia, and enveloped the child in a warm hug. Sadness tugged at her heart at the thought that if they did find the little girl’s mother, she would soon be bidding her farewell also.
“I can say my name too,” Tilda said as they drew apart.
“Your name?” repeated Olivia. “But isn’t it Tilda?”
Tilda nodded. “Yes, but that’s not all of it. My mama told me I have a longer name. It’s . . .” The child frowned again in concentration. “Ma . . . Matilda.”
“Goodness, that is such a pretty name too. Matilda. I like it very much.”
Nurse Swan drew close. “And have ye told Lady Sleat how old ye are? We’ve been practicing that as well, haven’t we, Miss Tilda?”
“Yes.” Tilda held up three fingers. “I’m this many.” She pointed to each one as she counted. “One, two, three. I remembered. So on my next birthday I’ll be this many. Four.” She held up another small finger to illustrate her point. “See. Four.”
“Heavens, I’m very impressed. With you and Nurse Swan.” While Olivia couldn’t wait to tell Hamish what she’d learned, she wondered if Tilda might have recalled anything else useful. “And have you learned to say anyone else’s name?”
“Yes,” Tilda said, nodding. “Mia’s name.” She picked up the pretty doll and leaned her up against the leaded windowpane. “She has the same name as my mama.”
This time Olivia couldn’t contain her excitement. “She does?”
Tilda’s brow knit. “It’s a very tricky name though.”
“My lady, this is news to me too,” observed Nurse Swan. To Tilda she said, “Do you think ye can say it fer us now?”
“I’ll try.” Tilda’s frown deepened. “It has ‘you’ at the beginning. You . . . You-feem . . .” She wrinkled her nose. “I can’t do it.”
“Euphemia?” ventured Olivia.
Tilda smiled brightly. “Oh, yes. That’s Mama’s name. Euphemia.”
“And that’s a very pretty name too,” said Olivia, gently brushing one of Tilda’s curls away from her eyes. “I’m sure it suits your lovely mama perfectly.”
Tilda’s expression grew solemn again. “The baron didn’t like Mama though. He’d get cross with her and shout. He scared me. Mama said he was a bad man.”
“The baron?” Olivia’s pulse began to race. “Does . . . does he have another name? Something else your mama called him?”
Tilda shook her head. “I don’t know. Mama just said he was ‘the baron.’ She would make me hide in my room when he came to visit. But I could hear him sometimes. When he shouted. He made Mama cry.”
Oh, the poor child. Olivia’s heart cramped. It sounded as though Hamish’s original suspicions had been correct. That Tilda’s mother may have been a former paramour or mistress who’d found herself in a difficult situation. She wondered if this baron—whoever he was—might be her new protector. But speculating on her own wouldn’t do any good.
She needed to find Hamish.
* * *
* * *
When she bumped into Daniels in the gallery below the nursery, he informed Olivia that Lord Sleat was in his private study. By the time she reached the library, she was quite breathless with rushing.
The room was quiet save for the incessant pounding of the sea and her rapid breathing. Pausing by one of the tall arched windows, she took a moment to compose herself while admiring the spectacular view. The sun was setting, blazing a fiery trail across the dark waters of the Minch. To think that tomorrow she would be leaving here filled her with a horrible, aching sadness.
She really had no idea if she would ever return to Muircliff. Hamish would undoubtedly wish to divorce her as soon as her inheritance was secured. If her uncle and the trustee agreed to sign all the money over to him before her twenty-fifth birthday, they might part ways sooner rather than later.
How depressing to think this marriage would end before it had really begun.
To make matters worse, she might also be saying goodbye to sweet little Tilda very soon . . . But the child belonged with her mother. And there was no sense putting off this conversation with Hamish. He would be extremely keen to hear Tilda’s disclosures.
As Olivia turned to face the tapestries along the library’s back wall where the concealed door to Hamish’s study was located, it clicked open and her husband emerged.
“Olivia,” he said as though taken by surprise. In his hand he carried a sheaf of papers. “It would be arrogant of me to assume you’d come
to see me rather than find a book.” He approached his desk and deposited the papers on the blotter. His forehead creased with a frown as he added, “But I’ll ask you all the same. Do you need to speak with me?”
“Y-yes, I do,” she replied, moving closer to the ornately carved desk despite his rather lukewarm greeting. She nervously smoothed her palms over the skirts of her lavender-hued gown. “But not to talk about us and our situation, if that’s what you’re worried about. It’s about Tilda. I was in the nursery with her just now and she . . . she said some things I thought you might be interested in.”
Hamish’s gaze was razor sharp. “I’m all ears.”
“I thought you might be.” Olivia quickly recounted what she’d learned about Tilda’s age and her mother’s name. “Do you have any idea who this Euphemia might be?”
Hamish blew out a sigh and deposited himself in the heavy Jacobean-style chair behind his desk. “Aye. I do. It could be Euphemia Harrington. I hope you’ll forgive me for alluding to an indelicate subject, but she was a mistress I once employed.”
Olivia sank into the chair on the other side of the desk and laced her fingers together. Tension knotted her belly. “I promise I won’t go all missish on you about this, Hamish. What you did before we wed isn’t any business of mine. But I do feel the need to ask you one question: if this Euphemia Harrington is Tilda’s mother, could it be that Tilda is yours?”
A shadow passed across Hamish’s face. “No. She’s not.”
“Oh . . . I’m not sure what to say, Hamish. Only that . . . Are you certain?”
“Aye. I am.” Hamish’s voice was grim with resignation. “The last time I had anything to do with Euphemia Harrington was six years ago. If Tilda is only three years old, which I believe she is, there’s no possible way I could be her father. But it makes me wonder why she chose to entrust Tilda’s care to me.”
It was obvious to Olivia and anyone who really knew him that Hamish was noble and tenderhearted beneath all his bluff and bluster about being a blighted soul. But belaboring the point wouldn’t serve any purpose right now. Instead, Olivia said, “Tilda also mentioned that her mama was afraid of a bad man whom she referred to as ‘the baron.’ I questioned her further, but she couldn’t tell me anything else about him other than that he had a terrible temper. He’d shout and make her mother cry.”
Hamish’s gaze hardened, and a muscle flickered in his jaw. “It sounds like this man was abusing Euphemia. At least verbally.”
“Yes, I agree. Tilda said her mother would hide her whenever he visited. But she could hear their arguments.”
Hamish shook his head. “It makes me sick just thinking about it.” Blowing out a sigh, he stood. The interview was clearly over. “I thank you, Olivia. I doubt I would have been able to coax such information from Tilda. If it weren’t for you, I’d still be floundering around in the dark.”
Olivia rose from her seat. “I cannot take all the credit. Nurse Swan helped too.”
Hamish inclined his head. “Then I am indebted to you both.”
“You really have no need to be.” Olivia could sense that Hamish wanted to return to his study. Through the open doorway she could see the corner of the desk he’d lifted her onto, and her throat tightened. She’d give anything to return to that place in which anything seemed possible with Hamish.
Swallowing hard, she cleared the lump of emotion clogging her throat before she spoke again. “It’s obvious that you’re busy, but before I go, I just wanted to say I’ve had time to think on what you said to me the other night, about living apart. While I’d like nothing more than to stay with one of my friends when we return to London, I believe it would be better if we appear amicably wed at least for the foreseeable future, as hard as that may be. If it seems we’re estranged from the outset, there will be talk, and it might embolden my uncle to challenge the validity of our marriage. And I don’t think either of us wants that. Uncle Reginald and the trustee won’t sign over my inheritance to you unless they give our union their seal of approval. If they don’t, we shall have to wait until I turn twenty-five to inherit.”
That muscle twitched in Hamish’s jaw again. “Aye, you’re right.”
“I know this will be difficult for both of us. But I just wanted to let you know, I’ll do my best to stay out of your way. I don’t want you to end up regretting what you did to protect me or, even worse, resenting me.”
Hamish’s gaze softened. “Och, Olivia. I could never feel that way about you. Don’t ever think that.”
She nodded. “Thank you. I’ll bid you good night now, Hamish. Given the journey ahead of us, I wish to retire early.”
The corner of Hamish’s wide mouth lifted into a brief smile. “Good night to you too, lass,” he said before turning back to his study.
As Olivia sped from the library and through Muircliff’s halls to her bedchamber, she reminded herself that, if nothing else, at least Hamish had agreed they could still live under the same roof for the time being. Which meant she still had a little more time on her side to make her husband see reason.
All was not lost yet.
CHAPTER 22
Two of the ton’s finest were seen entering London’s most-whispered-about house of ill repute in broad daylight. And one is rumored to have recently wed over the anvil . . .
The Beau Monde Mirror: The Society Page
Soho Square, London
October 7, 1818
Maximilian Devereux, the Duke of Exmoor, gave a low whistle as he climbed from the hackney coach with Hamish. “So this is where Euphemia Harrington is currently working,” he said, looking up at the fine town house with its pillared portico, white-bricked facade, and neat brass plate proclaiming it was Birchmore House. “I must say, my friend, from what I’ve heard, this bawdy house is not for the faint of heart.”
“Aye, I know,” agreed Hamish grimly as he pushed his beaver hat firmly onto his head. It was well-known in certain circles that this was an exclusive brothel of questionable practices. “And believe me, I’m more than happy you’ve come along to lend your moral support, or a helping hand if need be. I don’t anticipate there’ll be any trouble, but one never knows. Especially in an establishment such as this.”
When his inquiry agent, Mr. Kent, informed Hamish earlier this morning that his former mistress Mia Harrington was one of the prostitutes currently on staff here, Hamish was not only surprised but dismayed for her. Hamish rather suspected Mia would not have willingly chosen this life for herself. Indeed, her heartrending act of entrusting Tilda to his care all but confirmed it.
Mr. Kent also confirmed something that Olivia had shared all those weeks ago at Gretna Green—that Birchmore House was her cousin’s brothel of choice. Just thinking about Felix de Vere being anywhere near Olivia or Mia—or any female, for that matter—made his blood boil.
“Shall we go inside?” asked Max, pulling Hamish from his dark thoughts. The duke glanced up and down the square before unnecessarily adjusting the fit of his perfectly tailored coat and his own top hat. “I, for one, am not keen to be lingering out the front of Birchmore House in broad daylight. Who knows what may end up in the papers.”
“I agree,” replied Hamish as he mounted the stairs in a few determined strides and rapped sharply on the shiny black door. “Let’s do this.”
It was opened by a ham-fisted footman. After subjecting them to a brief but thorough perusal from beneath a heavy brow, he ushered them into an entry hall, which was a study in crimson and gold, and dark wood. An oversized chandelier threatened to crash down upon their heads at any moment.
The thuggish footman relieved them of their hats. “If you’d like to take a seat, my good sirs.” He gestured at a nearby velvet covered settee. “I’ll just ring for Madam Birchmore.”
“Madam Birchmore?” murmured Max as the footman turned away. “That can’t be her real name.”
Hamish’s mouth twitched with a wry smile. “I agree. I suppose she thinks it’s good for business.”
Just then, a highly polished door that was flanked by a pair of large potted palms opened to reveal a petite yet wiry woman with dark hair scraped tightly into a no-nonsense bun. Attired in a severe gown of dark green wool, she looked more like the prim headmistress of a young ladies’ academy than the proprietress of a notorious brothel. “Gentlemen, do come in,” she said, stepping back to admit them both. “I’m Madam Birchmore.”
Once they were settled in comfortable wingback chairs before the madam’s desk, her sharp gaze settled on Max and then Hamish. “So what can I do for both of you today? I’m sure you’re already aware that my establishment caters to the needs of all gentlemen, whatever they may be . . .” She pushed a slim leather-bound book across the blotter toward them. “This is our bill of fare. If you’d like to take a look, then tell me what type of service whets your appetite, I’ll be sure to find just the right girl for you. Oh, and as I’m sure you’ve heard, absolute discretion is assured.”
Ignoring the “menu,” Hamish cleared his throat. “Actually, I already know what I want. I’d like to see Mia.” His inquiry agent had informed him that Euphemia was currently using the shortened version of her name.
Madam Birchmore arched a thin brow. “Would you now? I must say, our Mistress Mia is quite popular at the moment. But you’re in luck. As it’s early in the day, she’s currently free.”
“Excellent.”
“It will cost you double if there’s two of you though,” she added in a steel-laced tone that brooked no argument.
“I’m just here to watch,” replied Max with suitably withering ducal boredom.
Madam Birchmore laced her fingers together on the desk. “And that’s your prerogative, sir. But it will still cost you double.”
Once a price was settled upon for an hour-long appointment with Mistress Mia, and Hamish had paid Madam Birchmore, she led them into another hallway and up a narrow flight of wooden stairs to the first floor.
How to Catch a Sinful Marquess Page 27
