by Lara Temple
‘I’m so very, very sorry, Colin. What can I do to help?’
‘I did not mean to worry you, Olivia. We are not on our last legs, though Mr Ratchett did tell me in confidence that Sir Ivo is putting pressure on the bank to foreclose. Still, he assures me they see no need to take such drastic measures as we have always honoured our commitments and he did count Father his friend, despite the...unpleasantness. Still, I think it would be best to sell and remove from Gillingham. I cannot see Mama returning there, not with all the gossip.’ He rubbed his hand over his forehead. ‘I never guessed... I don’t understand any of it. Father always seemed so...reliable. I cannot comprehend why...’
‘I don’t either, Colin. It makes no sense.’
‘Nothing makes sense at the moment. I went by Brook Street, but Lady Phelps said you were visiting this church with Nora. I thought she is your chaperon, Olivia. You should not be here on your own.’
‘I am not on my own. Nora is awaiting me in the carriage.’
‘Nora is hardly an adequate chaperon in London.’
‘It is merely a church, Colin. Not Vauxhall Gardens.’
His eyes widened. ‘I trust Lady Phelps is not taking you to such places, Olivia. They are not at all the thing, you know.’
‘That was a figure of speech, Colin. If you must know, we do not go about much.’
‘Then why not come to Mama and Phoebe in Harrogate?’
‘There is some important business I must address in London.’
‘Surely Mr Mercer can...’
‘No, Colin. He cannot. Please let us not argue. How is Phoebe faring?’
‘Still in shock. It is doubly hard for her. She has barely begun to recover from Jack—’ He stopped. ‘I’m so sorry, Olivia. I know Jack’s death was painful for you as well.’
Olivia resisted the swiping claw of anger that demanded she strike out at his unknowing cruelty. She was accustomed, a little, to people presuming her friend Phoebe was the greater sufferer from Jack’s death. There was no point in trying to explain that the loss of a twin brother might be even more devastating than the loss of a fiancé. What mattered was that Phoebe herself never presumed her loss was greater. She knew how close Olivia and Jack were. Had been.
‘Please don’t apologise, Colin. I hate that people won’t talk about him with me. It makes it worse. He feels even more dead that way.’
He clasped her hand, shaking it a little. ‘You always say the strangest things, Olivia; if you’re not careful you will end up like one of those bluestocking quizzes.’
She smiled a little stiffly. ‘Then I shall have to school my tongue. When must you return?’
‘Tomorrow. I do not like leaving Mama for long. Phoebe tries, but Mama needs me there as well. When will you complete your...your business?’
The barely veiled condemnation in his voice struck home. She hated not being there to support Mary Payton and Phoebe during their mourning, but she hoped once they knew she was acting on their behalf they would forgive her defection.
‘Very soon, I hope. Please do come dine with Lady Phelps and me this evening, Colin.’
She clasped his hand briefly, but as she let go he grabbed it and pulled her back towards the church. She wanted to resist, but her guilt made her weak and she followed. The church seemed smaller now, a little stifling.
‘What is it, Colin? You know it isn’t proper for me to be here alone with you. I told Nora I would only be a moment.’
‘I believe that is the first time you preached propriety to me, Olivia; I cannot recall the number of times Mama had palpitations because of you and your brothers. I am glad to see you are finally growing up.’
‘That is one way of phrasing it, certainly.’
‘Couldn’t you convince Lady Phelps to come with you to Harrogate? We... Mother and Phoebe missed you these past two years since you left Gillingham. I never understood what happened between you and Bertram and of course we followed Father’s lead and stood by you, but the truth is I admit I am glad you jilted him. He was never right for you and I must say I don’t think the heiress he married last year is very happy with him either, if that makes you feel any better. But the point is I...we all miss you since you left.’
‘I will come as soon as I am able, Colin.’
‘What if I tell you I would like you to come?’ He moved even closer, taking her other hand as well. ‘Everything is so upended and somehow you always made the strangest things seem...commonplace. Coming to visit you with Father over the past two years while you were staying with Lady Phelps I have come to... I hardly had any idea how much I depended upon your presence until... I cannot say anything, under the circumstances, but once we are out of mourning...’
She forced herself not to move, not to pull her hands from his. This wasn’t Bertram, this was Colin, there was no reason to feel so stifled. It was not as if she had not contemplated this solution to her conundrum. She had noted Colin’s migration from friendship to admiration during his visits with Henry. If she could not redeem Henry Payton’s name and reputation by any other means, marriage to Colin would grant him access to her fortune and he could provide for Phoebe and Mary Payton without them suffering any qualms of conscience.
But as he pressed her hands between his, the gap between good intentions and reality widened and she struggled against the need to pull away.
‘You will come soon?’ he prompted and she breathed deeply and nodded. He bent to touch his mouth to her cheek and she held herself still even as his lips slid and settled on her own. It is only Colin, she reminded herself. This is not Bertram and you are no longer a gullible fool. No one will ever take advantage of you that way again. Ever.
He drew back, his blue eyes warm and his cheeks pink, and finally she allowed herself to move, pulling her hands from his.
‘I must go or Nora will worry. Please tell your mama and Phoebe... Tell them I will see them soon. Be strong, Colin.’
She hurried outside to the awaiting hackney, narrowly missing a pushcart piled high with casks. Inside, she tugged off her gloves and kneaded her palms, trying to chase away the stinging pressure that always came when memories of Bertram returned.
‘I’m so sorry I kept you waiting in this horrid weather, Nora. You will not believe who is in town...’
‘I saw Master Colin approach you, Miss Olivia. I told you this was foolishness itself. You aren’t twelve years old, hiding in trees so you can listen to your brothers’ talk unseen. And you needn’t tell me to save my breath, I know you won’t listen. Just put this shawl over your legs, it is almost as cold as back home. I take it you didn’t tell Master Colin the truth?’
‘I cannot, you know that. I may uncover nothing and I do not wish to give him false hope.’
Nora sighed, but didn’t answer, and Olivia turned to look out the window and caught herself as she rubbed again at her cheek, as if she could wipe away the underlying memories of her disastrous betrothal.
She did not regret jilting Bertram—marriage to that deceitful wretch would be far worse than heartbreak and ostracism—but she deeply regretted telling Henry Payton the truth and then swearing him to secrecy. Poor Henry had taken her side and then faced the fury of Bertram’s family without complaint, even when Bertram’s father Sir Ivo made it impossible for Henry to work in Gillingham. She did not even try to escape her culpability—it was her fault he had to spend so much time in London away from his wife, therefore her fault he sought solace with other women, therefore her fault he was dead.
None of this was Colin’s fault, but when he kissed her the mocking memory of her fateful confrontation with Bertram surfaced, as sharp and vivid as the reality. Bertram had dismissed her rejection, trying to placate her by the same means he achieved everything—seduction. She had once enjoyed his kisses, convinced they were signs of his love. But that evening the embraces she so looked forward to became unbearable. Sh
e could still see his face bearing down on her, feel his wet lips seeking her mouth, the weight of his body pressing her against the wall... Everything she looked forward to in their union became a sign of her gullibility. Colin was nothing like Bertram, but perhaps now and for ever any contact with a man would bear Bertram’s taint and that of her disgust with her blindness. All her passionate hopes capsized by the weight of his horrible deceit.
She shook herself. What mattered now was Henry. She had come to London and opened herself to the world again because of him and she would see her task through.
If Lord Sinclair wouldn’t help, she would do it alone. She would prove the Henry Payton she knew and loved had existed, even if he was dead. She would stand by him as he had stood by her.
Chapter Three
Lucas waited until the young man exited the church before leaving the shadow of the pillars separating the nave from the chancel. He was tempted to go after him and tell him precisely what foolhardiness his little friend was engaged in. Perhaps a few judicious words about her activities would have her family remove her before she caused real damage. To herself or to others.
He walked outside into the gloomy winter morning, juggling what he knew about her. He was accustomed to making quick judgements about people, but this girl was proving a bit of a puzzle. Perhaps it would be a good idea to discuss this with Chase. They rarely discussed the past, but his brother was not only good at puzzles but this concerned him as well. Not that he would show it, or much else for that matter. Chase went through life as lightly as possible. Lucas considered going to Chase’s apartments near St James’s, but thought better of it. This discussion had best be held at Sinclair House where they would be assured of privacy.
* * *
‘This place grows more cavernous every time I enter it. Shouldn’t you consider replacing the carpet on the stairs? I sounded like a herd of stampeding camels on the way up,’ Chase said as he entered Lucas’s study at Sinclair House. Lucas looked up from his papers and smiled at his younger brother. They were of a height and had often been mistaken for twins once out of school, but Chase’s eyes were grey rather than black, as if transitioning between their mother’s Italian blood and the Sinclairs’ northern heritage. He was still brown from his recent trip to the east, adding to the Latin impression.
‘I prefer it that way,’ Lucas replied as he went to pour his brother a measure of brandy. ‘You of all people should appreciate the benefit of being forewarned.’
‘You have the Tubbs clan in the nether regions to do that for you, Luke. Some boy I didn’t recognise, but scarcely out of breeches, opened the door for me. I thought Mrs Tubbs called a halt to her share in growing the family.’
‘That would have been Richard. He is Annie’s boy.’
‘Annie’s? My God, she was an inch high when I last saw her.’
‘Another sign you don’t come here often enough. Are you settled in London for now?’
‘I don’t know yet. A few weeks, perhaps, but I will visit Sam at the Hall before I leave again. I don’t like the fact that our little sister is still holed up at Sinclair Hall so long after Ricardo’s death.’
‘Don’t press her, Chase. It isn’t Ricardo she is mourning and you know Sam makes her own decisions, including how long and how hard to mourn. Besides, she is keeping busy with her work.’
‘I won’t press. I merely want to see her. And you? How long before you roam again?’
‘I am expected in St Petersburg in a month or so. Why not stay here while you are in London?’
Chase looked around the study.
‘No, the Mausoleum is your cross to bear, Lucas. Just walking by the closed door to the Great Hall reminded me why I prefer the uncomplicated impersonality of my lodgings on Half Moon Street.’
Lucas grimaced. ‘I always enter by way of the mews myself. One day I will have to do something about this place one way or another. It’s damnable that it is entailed.’
Chase swirled his brandy and went to sprawl in a wingchair by the fireplace.
‘That is sufficient reason to have an heir, just so you can then break the entail and rid us of the Mausoleum and the Hall.’
‘No, thank you. I don’t think the world needs more Sinclairs; we’ve done enough damage as it is.’
‘So we have. I dare say the world wishes our Sinclair ancestors had stayed in the far north among our Scottish forebears instead of joining the English court and wheedling good English titles and land out of them. Too late to repine now, though. So why don’t you tell me what is bothering you?’
‘Why do you presume something is bothering me?’
‘Years of experience. Out with it.’
Chase had an impressive ability to remain still while listening, offering neither distraction nor encouragement and certainly no indication of his thoughts, but Lucas knew him too well to be fooled. His very stillness was telling.
* * *
‘What do you think?’ Lucas asked as he concluded his story of the peculiar Miss Silverdale and her theories.
‘I think that if anyone else had told me this tale I would be checking them for the fever. Gypsies, doxies and occultists... Are you quite certain that young woman isn’t touched?’
‘I’m afraid not. She might be unconventional, but she is distressingly sane and as stubborn as a Cossack. Short of kidnapping her and bundling her off to her family in Yorkshire, I don’t think I can dissuade her from her fantasies of plots and injustice.’
‘Do you think there is a chance there is anything to it?’ Chase tipped his glass to watch the firelight undulate in its depths, his sharp-cut profile tense, his dark-grey eyes hooded. Chase was only ten when their father died and though their mother tried to keep the details from them, the gossip was too juicy to be contained and the boys at school were only too happy to share the tale of the duel and its causes. They were both sent down for brawling and the following year they had been only too happy to leave England to live with their grandmother’s family in Venice.
‘No, I don’t,’ Lucas replied. ‘This is clearly a case of acute denial of reality. Little Miss Silverdale evidently feels indebted to her godfather and has concocted this cock-and-bull story to assuage her grief and guilt. I think she is tilting at windmills, but I don’t want her making enquiries about our family. If anyone is to continue tarnishing our name, I prefer we remaining Sinclairs do it ourselves.’
‘True. So what do you plan to do about her and her occultist ambitions? What a pity I cannot observe her performance. You should.’
‘Are you mad? I prefer a full month of Wednesdays at Almack’s.’
‘No, you don’t. You are curious. Besides, imagine what might happen if that Catte Street doxy discovers she is being duped by this young woman during her occultism session? Not a pretty scene. Might sit heavily on what remains of your conscience.’
‘Be damned to you, Chase.’
‘Undoubtedly.’
‘All the more reason to bundle her off home.’
‘Perhaps.’
‘It is a waste of time.’
‘Well, you have time to waste if you aren’t needed in St Petersburg until next month. Unless you wish to go early and enjoy the Russian winter to the hilt? Bonaparte tried that, not very successfully.’
‘No, I damn well don’t. I was hoping you would have some useful thoughts on defusing this loose cannon.’
‘I do. Go oversee your budding occultist and keep the Sinclair name off the dunghill where is appears to enjoy residing all too often. Meanwhile I will go to the Hall and see Sam before I must leave London again.’ He stood, straightening his waistcoat and looking around with a sigh. ‘Do you know, I am of two minds about your having allowed the Mausoleum to descend into such bare silence. It doesn’t do your hedonistic reputation credit, you know. You could hire an acting troupe to stage an orgy or two and leave the windows open on to the
square.’
‘No, thank you. Besides, the lack of information about what occurs here only encourages the creative minds of the ton. God forbid I should confuse them with something as mundane as reality.’
‘That is true, especially since you provide them more than enough material with your activities in foreign lands. Speaking of providing material, will you join me at the club tonight?’
‘I cannot, it is Wednesday. Almack’s calls.’
For a moment Chase stared at him in shock before bursting into laughter.
‘Good God, for a moment I thought you were serious. Don’t scare me like that. If you ever turn respectable, the world might develop expectations of me as well and if there is one thing I find more abhorrent than Almack’s, it is expectations.’
Chapter Four
‘What the devil?’
Olivia dropped the tablecloth she was holding and ran for the study door. It was probably not a smart thing to do. The sound of a man cursing in what should be an empty house would usually be taken as a good sign to run in the opposite direction. But Olivia recognised the voice and, perhaps foolishly, she wasn’t in the least afraid. Alert, but not afraid.
She stopped in the doorway. Lord Sinclair was standing, hands on hips, inspecting her Wall of Conjecture.
‘What are you doing here?’ she asked, tucking a straggling curl behind her ear. It was absurd to wish she was wearing something more presentable than a simple muslin round dress. He was in riding clothes but he possessed the same casual elegance in his buckskins and dark blue riding coat as he had on both previous occasions. Again she was struck by the sheer power of his face and frame. He looked utterly out of place in her parlour. In her world.
‘What the...what are all these?’ he demanded and she moved a little more deeply into the room despite her discomfort.
‘Those are lists.’
‘I can see that. I’ve just never seen so many on a wall. How do you manage to make them stay there?’
