by Zoë Archer
Don’t spark with the help. That was the rule. Don’t make this any more complicated than it already is.
Before his own arms could come up, she stepped back.
“We shall get to work right away locating your family,” she said quickly, taking hold of his arm. She hoped he didn’t see the pinking of her cheeks, but she could see a flush in his own and knew her face was even more transparent. They began to walk again towards the front of the brewery. “I promise I’ll help you find them. It doesn’t matter if they are marquises or mudlarks,” she vowed, “we will track them down.”
They had reached the door marked office, and she continued, “There is a friend of mine who will be very helpful in our search. He is extraordinarily informed about all levels of English society.”
“What does he do?”
“Graham Lawford?” She looked slightly mystified. “I don’t know, actually. Something that has to do with the government. If you ask me,” she added lowly as Will bent closer, “he’s a bit shady.”
Will narrowed his eyes. “Can we trust him?”
“Of course,” she answered, confident. “I have known him for many, many years. He was a friend of my older brother’s at university and he would spend holidays with my family because we liked him so well.”
“If you say so,” was all he answered, and opened the door to the office—
To find Graham standing there, glaring at Will and looking quite dangerous. He was wearing his usual attire of a dark charcoal gray suit, immaculately tailored to his large frame, without much ornamentation save the silver watch fob on his black silk vest. With his dark hair, light eyes, severe aquiline nose and cheekbones, and penchant for somber clothing, Graham always made an impression. If she didn’t know him very well, she would have been intimidated by his air of intensity. But this was Graham, and too much time had passed for her to feel any more trepidation around him.
But she could feel Will tense up immediately beside her. She thought for half a moment that the two men might spring on each other like wolves.
“Graham!” She came forward and took his hand, trying as best as she could to dispel the tension. “I was just about to write you. What brings you to Greywell’s?”
Still squinting at Will, Graham answered, “Some of my men told me there had been trouble here this morning.” He broke his eyes away from Will and looked down at Olivia, and his gaze turned from cold and hard to warm and affectionate in an instant. “I came as soon as I could. Are you all right?”
“Yes, marvelous,” she answered. “Will...Mr. Coffin was here and he handled the situation wonderfully.” Turning to Will, she smiled and motioned for him to join them. Will took a few guarded steps forward. “Graham, may I introduce Mr. Will Coffin from Colorado. Will, this is my old friend Mr. Graham Lawford.”
“Pleasure,” Will said tightly, shaking hands.
“Likewise,” Graham replied through his teeth. They each released the other’s hand as though dropping something dead onto the floor.
“You say you were going to write me,” Graham said, turning to her. She could see him immediately shift into the role of a protective older brother. “Is there anything you need?”
“As a matter of fact, yes. Mr. Coffin and I require your services, if you can spare them.”
“For you, anything,” Graham answered directly, which seemed to imply that he wasn’t interested in helping Will, only her.
She explained as concisely as possible the nature of Will’s search, with Will filling in a few details where necessary. Graham listened attentively, nodding and asking a couple of questions. Will showed Graham the scrap of letter his father had written, clearly unhappy to part with the document. But she saw that he was grudgingly pleased to see Graham handle the letter very carefully, acknowledging that it was, as far as Will was concerned, a priceless family heirloom.
“Unfortunately, it isn’t much to go on,” Graham finally concluded, “but,” he added when she looked downcast, “I have worked with far less. I’ll have to borrow this letter for a few days to analyze it.”
“What’s there to analyze?” Will demanded, suspicious. “It’s just a letter.”
“Among other things, Graham is an alienist,” Olivia explained. “He uses a rather unconventional analytical approach to discover things about people.”
“I can study the kind of paper the letter is written on, the ink, and even the handwriting to see who wrote it and where they come from,” Graham said. “It’s a new science, but it has been used in certain investigations for Scotland Yard.”
“All right,” Will said, grudging respect in his voice. “But I want it back.”
Tucking the letter into his pocket, Graham gave a slight bow, almost mocking. His words, however, were serious. “As you are a friend of Olivia’s, I will do everything in my power to assist you. And your letter will be returned, unharmed. Now, if you will excuse us, I need to speak with her in private.”
She could see Will hesitate, unwilling to leave her in the company of a man he so obviously distrusted, but she gave him a reassuring smile. “It will be fine. You can wait for me outside, if you like. Or the carriage can take you home and Graham can give me a ride back.”
“I’ll wait for you,” Will said, and she thought he directed his last words towards Graham, “and we can ride home together.”
The look Lawford gave him would have torn a lesser man into vulture feed, but Will didn’t back down. With a big grin that he didn’t quite feel, staring right into Lawford’s chilly eyes, Will left the office, closing the door behind him. He almost lingered outside the door to catch whatever they were saying to each other, but he wasn’t such a low-down bastard that he’d snoop. Reluctantly, he went outside to the front yard, where Olivia’s carriage waited.
Throwing himself on the plush seat and stretching out his legs, he realized that the angry churning in his gut wasn’t his breakfast repeating on him. It was jealousy, plain and simple. He’d never really experienced it himself, since there wasn’t much out on the trail to get jealous about. And the women he knew weren’t worth that kind of trouble. Hell, there’d never been anything or anyone he’d wanted badly enough to get jealous about.
Seeing Olivia with Lawford was starting to change everything, though. They looked mighty handsome together, two dark-haired people dressed in rich clothes, as though they stepped off the cover of Harper’s. And the way Lawford talked was like Olivia, elegant and refined, not like the lower accents of the people who worked at Greywell’s, or even her servants. Clearly, Olivia and Lawford came from the same world. And they knew each other. She called him her “old friend.” The way Lawford tried to stare Will down meant no trespassing, keep off.
He’d been a cowpuncher almost his whole life. The wind blew him around like a tumbleweed. It didn’t bother him. He was the man he was. But then, near the time Jake had died, Will had started to be badgered by an odd feeling. The feeling that there was something else he wanted, something that just brushed the tips of his fingers, and if he reached out to grab it, he would only push it farther away. He thought maybe going to find his family would help get rid of his discontent, let him know just who he was. It still might. Then he could go back to Colorado, finally settle down. Marry even, if he found the right girl. It seemed like a sensible plan.
But meeting Olivia made him wonder what he was chasing. She had a passion for her work and dedication that he envied, even though it seemed to cost her quite a lot to pursue it. And she fascinated him like no other woman had done before. So smart, so beautiful, with such backbone. She was able to understand, even when he hadn’t, what he was really looking for—not his kinfolk, but himself.
“I’ll be jiggered,” he murmured in the empty carriage. She was amazing.
He’d come to England to find his family, to get a sense of himself, and instead found a woman he could never have.
Chapter Seven
“Good God, a cowboy?”
Charlotte Gough, usually
one of the most gracious and refined people Olivia knew, openly gawked at Will as he came into the salon.
“I am so sorry,” Charlotte said, blushing at her own rudeness. “Please forgive my lapse in manners.”
“No offense taken, ma’am,” Will said affably.
“Charlotte, may I introduce Will Coffin?” Olivia said dryly. She entered her salon and drew off her gloves, giving them and her bonnet to Mordon, who then took Will’s hat and coat and discretely faded away to get tea for Olivia’s visitor. “Will, this is Mrs. Charlotte Gough. Charlotte and I went to school together, and,” Olivia added wryly, “we’re such good friends that she occasionally stops by unannounced.”
Charlotte tipped her fair head in acknowledgement of the breach of protocol. “Yes, I know it’s terribly discourteous of me, but, Olivia, I’ve heard such rumors about you, I had to see you right away.”
“What sort of rumors?” Olivia suppressed her sigh. No sooner had she and Will returned from Greywell’s than she had found Charlotte waiting for her. Olivia’s head was already buzzing with Graham Lawford’s stern admonishment about letting strangers, strange Americans, in her home and the potential for social disaster it could wreak. Now her good friend and confidante had shown up, proving Graham right. Society would inevitably learn about Will and want to dig up everything it could about him. Charlotte’s presence was proof that the word about him was out. There would be no hiding anymore.
It had been pure naïveté, or perhaps hubris, to think that Olivia could do anything without society taking notice. She wasn’t that important a figure, but the world she came from was so small, and its confines so narrow, that any behavior which fell outside of sanction came under immediate scrutiny.
“Well,” Charlotte began nervously, casting a quick glance at Will.
“You may speak freely, Charlotte,” Olivia said.
Her friend grimaced in discomfort. “The hearsay is that you have a Texas cowboy staying with you.”
“Colorado, ma’am,” Will drawled. Charlotte dragged her gaze back to him. “I’m from Colorado, not Texas.”
“Despite what gossip says, there is a difference,” Olivia said wearily. “Denver is over nine hundred miles from San Antonio.”
Charlotte, who had little idea where either of those cities were located, was still well-bred enough to pretend as though she did. “Naturally. But one always hears of cowboys from Texas. It’s where they come from.”
“Well, ma’am,” Will said, politely, “there’s cowboys from all over. Texas, Kansas, Missouri, and,” he added, glancing at Olivia with a quick smile, “Colorado.” He strode into the salon, filling the feminine, chinoiserie-stuffed room with his overtly masculine presence.
Without meaning to, Olivia returned the smile. Something about him did that to her, make her forget herself. Then she remembered that they weren’t alone, and closely watched, so she hurriedly smoothed out her expression. She took a seat in a low-armed ladies’ chair opposite her friend on the divan.
Will stood behind her, almost protective, his hands braced on the back of her chair. She felt rather than saw his nearness, the warmth of his hands close to her neck and the real sense of him standing guard, alert, against whatever threat Charlotte might offer. Olivia was grateful for that, even as she saw Charlotte’s eyes move back and forth between her and Will, considering.
“Mr. Coffin is in England attempting to locate his family,” Olivia explained. Mordon brought the tea cart in and she poured Charlotte a cup. She offered tea to Will but he muttered something about self respecting cowboys drinking tree bark water.
“I see.” Charlotte took a sip of tea but could not completely hide her puzzlement.
“And I’m helpin’ her at the brewery,” Will said, and Olivia felt the vibration of his deep voice through the elaborate scrollwork of her oak chair.
“I did not know that.” Charlotte’s smooth ivory brow wrinkled unhappily. “Unfortunately, Olivia, most of what is being said about you and Mr. Coffin is pure conjecture. And I am afraid that leaves too much room for speculation.”
“What sort of speculation?” Olivia asked, growing alarmed.
Again, her friend’s eyes danced uncomfortably back to Will. “I...” she began, then stopped, blushing.
Olivia understood that Charlotte was unaccustomed to speaking frankly with gentlemen in the room. Rising up from her chair, Olivia stood next to Will and placed a hand on his sleeve. Both of their gazes fixed on the sight for half a heartbeat, before she said quietly, “A lady’s salon can be a tedious place for a gentleman.”
Fortunately, he caught her meaning immediately. “Call me if you need anythin’,” he said softly to Olivia. Then, louder, to Charlotte, “A pleasure meetin’ you, ma’am.” He tipped an invisible Stetson, then sauntered from the room. Olivia noticed that he was slightly bowlegged, a legacy of years on the back of a horse. He must look wonderful on the back of a horse. Perhaps they could go riding together if time permitted it.
“Oh, dear.” Charlotte’s worried voice penetrated her musings. Olivia turned her gaze to her friend. “This doesn’t look good.”
Olivia returned to her seat, but found she had no appetite for tea or cakes. She picked petulantly at the ribbon trimming of her skirts, feeling strangely cross and out of sorts like a child denied an answer to a question. “You may talk candidly, Charlotte.”
Relieved that Will had finally left the room, her friend relaxed and launched into her tale. “I actually received a morning call in the morning, from Francis Hadlow. Of course I had the butler tell her that I was not at home, but she sent up word that she had urgent news about you. I became alarmed. So I broke the rules and had her come up.” Her voice full of genuine concern, she said, “Francis spoke of a wild American staying at your home, and all sorts of strange to-doings. I thought she was talking nonsense, but now I see she wasn’t.” Concern was plain on Charlotte’s face. “What is going on here, Olivia?”
Olivia decided to tell her friend the truth. Charlotte already knew a bit about George Pryce’s attempts to seize the brewery, and it was a measure of Pryce’s power that not even Charlotte, or her husband Frederick, with a seat in the House of Commons, could help Olivia. Though Charlotte might be the recipient of gossip, she was not known for spreading it.
As concisely as possible, Olivia told Charlotte everything that had transpired over the past few days: the thugs attacking her, Will’s rescue, her offer to Will, the trouble with the deliveries—all of it. She omitted the strange attraction that kept pulling her and Will toward each other, however. By the end, Charlotte’s eyes were as round as beer steins, and her tea was cold.
“What a life you lead, Olivia,” Charlotte breathed. “It’s like something out of a penny dreadful.”
Olivia couldn’t help but laugh at the apt comparison, since it was her love of cheap literature that helped bring her and Will together. “I admit that coming out of mourning has been more adventurous than I had anticipated.”
“But are you safe, my dear?” Charlotte leaned forward and took her hand. “Are you well?”
“I am. Surprisingly well. Actually,” she admitted, “I find all this adventure to be rather exciting.”
Charlotte curled her free hand into a fist. “If only we could expose that rotten George Pryce!”
“It’s quite hopeless.” But Olivia did not feel resigned. “Will and I shall find a way to beat him, though. Don’t worry.”
At Olivia’s words, Charlotte gazed at her with apprehension. Olivia realized too late that she had spoken of him informally. “Who is this Will Coffin?” Charlotte asked, anxious.
“I already told you: an American looking for his family. He’s able to assist me with Pryce and I can help him locate his relatives.”
“He isn’t one of those whiskey-loving cowboys who shoot down chandeliers and ride their horses through the ballroom, is he?”
Olivia chuckled. “Yes, and his spurs inflict dreadful damage to the Persian rugs. He spits tobacc
o juice in the Ming vases and lassoes the roast.”
But Charlotte wasn’t laughing. “I’m serious, Olivia. What kind of man is he?”
“He’s....” Olivia sat back, thoughtful. Her eyes wandered aimlessly around the room as she called a vision of Will into her mind. Even thinking about him caused something warm and living to pool in her belly.
“He’s honest,” she finally said, gaze turned inward, “and hardworking. Thoughtful. More than you would think. Very intelligent. He’s quite strong, and not just physically. Within, this fortitude. It’s remarkable. And there’s something about him, a wistfulness, a searching. But no self-pity.” She shook her head. “He’s extraordinary.”
The long silence from Charlotte made Olivia finally collect herself. Straightening in her chair, she looked over at her friend, and the expression on Charlotte’s face made her ask with alarm, “What is it?”
“Olivia,” Charlotte said, naked concern in her stare, “be cautious.”
“Will is a gentleman,” Olivia protested. Something else she had omitted from her earlier story was the kiss they had shared, and decided now wouldn’t be a good time to mention it. “He doesn’t come from our world, but his behavior is honorable.”
“It isn’t Will Coffin that worries me.” Charlotte rose and, coming to stand beside Olivia, gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze. “It’s you. You will break your own heart if you aren’t careful.”
“Mordon told me I would find you here.”
Will looked at Olivia over the back of a chestnut gelding. He continued to run the currycomb over the horse’s flanks, even though Olivia’s coachman kept all four of her horses in top shape, making his work unnecessary. Instead of answering her, Will kept his focus on grooming the gelding, so she watched him in silence from across the stable. The only sounds came from the horse, sometimes snorting and stamping in approval and shifting in the hay strewn on the floor.
