by Lara Temple
‘He didn’t say, but I think so, Nora.’
‘First you said we’d only be in this house a time or two, now we’ve a footman and a maid and him coming when it pleases him...’
‘He comes at my request, Nora. He is helping me.’
‘Is he? Helping himself more like.’
‘He has been a perfect gentleman.’
‘Gentlemen don’t sit alone with young women with no chaperon noon till night.’
‘He leaves well before night, Nora, so do not exaggerate. And though you are not in the room with us, your presence and that of your rolling pin are felt most keenly. I told you he has done nothing that even the most exacting chaperon could take exception to.’
‘You don’t sound happy about it, Miss Olivia, and that’s trouble enough. Men like him are trouble whether they mean to be or not. I’ve known you before you knew yourself. How much longer will we be?’
‘I do not know.’
Nora didn’t bother responding and Olivia went to her study and stared at her wall. After a few moments there was a soft knock at the door and her heart kicked, but it was only Jem.
‘May I, miss? I have a tray of tea and cake from Mrs Jones and something from his lordship.’
Her heart, already much abused, gave a protesting thud and sank.
‘Yes, Jem? I gather he will not be coming today?’
‘I don’t know about that, miss. He said I was to purchase a foot warmer.’
‘A what?’
He looked as surprised as she felt. He placed the tray on the table and went to fetch a wooden box with an ornate handle from the hallway.
‘A foot warmer. Surely they have them in Yorkshire, too, miss? To keep feet warm. Here, I’ve already put in coals from the kitchen.’
‘I know what a foot warmer is, but...never mind. Why did he tell you to purchase a foot warmer?’
‘His lordship said as you might find it useful.’
‘Did he?’
‘He did, miss. I’ll just put it under the desk, shall I? Oh, and he said that since Nora has taken to my sister, Abby, it is best she come to stay at Spinner Street as well to help Mrs Jones with more than just the dusting.’
‘Did he?’
‘She’s a good girl, don’t you worry. Here, you may sit down now, miss, and see how well it will serve.’
Olivia sat as directed, simply because it was easier and more dignified than stamping her foot and demanding to see Lucas immediately so she could make it clear to him...
She tucked her feet against the wooden box. She hadn’t realised how chilly the floor was until now. Blast the man.
‘The carriage that brought the foot warmer is still outside and Mrs Jones asked if I could accompany her to the drapers. Apparently they delivered the wrong bolt of cloth this afternoon.’
‘Cloth? For?’
‘I fixed the windows in the back parlour, but the damp got to the curtains. His lordship said...’ He trailed off at her expression, cleared his throat and continued. ‘I did offer to go myself, but Mrs Jones says I haven’t an eye for colour. Abby is downstairs with the linen if you need anything, but if you would rather we wait until you leave for Brook Street...’
‘No, I shall be quite all right, Jem. Go with Nora.’
‘Very well, then. Is there anything else I can fetch for you, miss?’
Yes. Your master’s head on a platter. Or at least his presence.
‘No, Jem. This is truly delightful. Do please convey to Lord Sinclair my supreme gratitude for all his generous arrangements on my behalf and inform him I shall of course be defraying all related costs.’
Jem nodded and grinned. ‘In those words, miss? I don’t know if I’ll remember them rightly.’
‘You may phrase it as you see fit, Jem. So long as the sentiment is clear.’
‘Oh, very clear, miss.’
As Jem left the study, Inky darted inside and made straight for the foot warmer. After rubbing against it, the cat curved her lean body around it and closed her eyes.
Olivia listened to the quiet of the house, her feet absorbing the warmth emanating from the new addition to her study.
‘You might think this foot warmer is unadulterated bliss, but it is not so simple, Inky,’ she informed the cat purring at her feet. ‘Every time I turn my back he has made some new inroad into my life. Soon he will be finding you a companion cat.’ Inky blinked and yawned, a flash of sharp teeth and pink tongue, then turned and wrapped herself the other way, tail flicking defiantly. ‘I’ve become a responsibility, Inky. And he is wrapping me in cotton wool so he can walk away from this with impunity.’
‘I should have known you would find a way to read some dastardly motive into a foot warmer.’
He hadn’t even knocked, she thought, trying to muster up some resentment to stifle the now familiar wave of joy that attended his appearance.
He went to the fire, extending his hands to the flames. ‘So. Tell me why you are peeved.’
‘I am not peeved,’ she replied. ‘I am merely wondering how many more additions you plan to make to my household without consulting me.’
He cast a look at her over his shoulder and she shivered, but his answer was matter of fact.
‘Nora appears quite content with having Jem and Abby here to help and they enjoy being of use. There isn’t that much to do for all members of the Tubbs clan at the Mausoleum.’
‘That is not the point and you know it.’
‘You wish me to ask permission next time?’
‘There should not be a next time.’
He shrugged and went to sit by the table. Inky unfolded herself, stretched and padded towards Lucas. It was typical that Inky, who almost never regarded anyone other than Nora and, rather grudgingly, Olivia, would show such an appreciation of Lucas though he rarely did more than bestow a casual stroke or scratch. It was precisely as Nora had said. He didn’t even mean to seduce, but he did. It was unfair.
She was worse than Inky—at least Inky didn’t think of him between strokes.
‘At least someone here appreciates me,’ Lucas said affectionately as he bent to give Inky her due. ‘Shall we start over? Good morning, Miss Silverdale. Good morning, Inky, you pestilential feline.’
‘Good morning, Lord Sinclair. Should I draw parallels?’
‘I would deem you more terrier than feline. What has Nora supplied today?’ he asked as he uncovered the plate on the tray.
‘Do you not eat at home?’
‘The Mausoleum isn’t a home—it is a furnished cavern. But, yes, I did eat though I left some room for Nora’s cakes. I am glad she found use for the oranges, this smells wonderful.’
‘Are you responsible for the oranges as well?’ she demanded.
‘Mrs Tubbs, I believe. I have found Mrs Eldritch, by the way.’
She almost bounced out of her chair.
‘Have you? Why did you not say so immediately? Where is she?’
‘In the back parlour.’
She did bounce out of her chair and promptly sat back again. ‘Lucas Sinclair!’
‘Olivia Silverdale?’
‘Well?’ she asked. ‘Does she live in London? We must speak to her!’
‘We will, tomorrow. There are limits to my depravity and I draw the line at interrogating widows on a Sunday. My rules, remember?’
She squirmed in her chair. ‘Elspeth has arranged for us to join a party to the British Museum tomorrow at noon, but I shall tell her...’
‘No. As I said, we will keep these two worlds separate and that means you will not change your plans. Besides, I am also otherwise occupied tomorrow morning. I will find some excuse to make an appointment with the widow that won’t raise her suspicion, but will ensure she is at home and I will inform you of the place and time tomorrow. Who is in this party to the museum?�
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‘The Barnstables and the Westerbys, I think. Elspeth mentioned some other names, but I cannot remember.’
His mouth curved, but it was the mocking smile that he wore in public. ‘The noose draws tighter. The money in the clubs is on Barnstable, but Westerby is close behind.’
‘Are you serious? People are wagering they will offer for me?’
‘No, Sir Olive-a-Dale, they are wagering you will accept. There is no doubt they will offer so no one will give odds on that possibility. There are other contenders, like Bolton, but the odds are much longer. There was even some consideration about adding my name to the betting books after our second waltz.’
‘This is unbelievable.’
‘Apparently your disbelief was shared by the ton since no one was willing to take the other side of the bet, so interest dwindled.’
‘I meant I cannot believe people wager on such nonsense. Have they nothing better to do?’
He raised a brow. ‘Is that a serious question? You ask whether a group of people whose sole purpose in life is to be entertained has something better to do than find new ways to titillate themselves?’
‘Oh, dear, do you think Lady Phelps knows anything of this?’
‘Of course she does. Your chaperon is no fool and she has your interests at heart.’
‘What she believes to be my interests.’
‘Don’t discount her opinions because they don’t march with yours.’
She watched as he poured and placed a cup of tea on the desk by her hand. Concentric rings quivered on the surface of the liquid and she touched the rim of the cup, trying to quiet the sting of tears in her eyes. Her brothers hadn’t poured her a cup of tea since she was a child. Giving her tea and a foot warmer and pencils was unfair, especially when she wanted so much more. She expected nothing else, but when he had so casually dismissed the possibility of adding him to the list of her suitors the sting had been sharp and deep.
She took one of his pencils, sliding it between her fingers. They were so finely made it was almost a pity to use them. She should put one aside to remind her for ever of these strange days and the even stranger man who she had trapped into helping her. Perhaps one day she would tell her grandchildren, if she had any: this was given to me by the man who changed my life. She didn’t quite know how, but he had.
This was given to me by the man I love.
‘What is wrong?’ he asked abruptly.
‘Nothing is wrong.’
‘Liar. Are you upset with me, Lady Phelps, yourself or the world at large?’
‘Myself,’ she replied, forcing herself to retreat from the topic that could lead nowhere but to more pain. ‘I’ve been making lists of everything I find in the letters, but I’m afraid if we learn nothing from Mrs Eldritch I am out of ideas on how to advance.’
‘That is probably because there is nowhere to advance, Olivia. No, don’t answer, just give me your latest lists while you return to reading my mother’s letters. If you find anything embarrassing, don’t tell me.’
She surrendered her lists and opened the Venetian box where she kept his parents’ letters.
‘You know, you don’t have to wait until I am here to read them,’ he said, watching her.
‘Yes, I do. Eat your cake.’ Olivia unfolded the next letter and concentrated on Lady Sinclair’s lovely writing. He was right—it was silly to wait until he was present to read them. It wasn’t that she wasn’t tempted to continue when he was not there and it wasn’t merely that she felt it wasn’t right to read them behind his back. She enjoyed his presence as she read about him, layering the tales of his young self on the man.
She didn’t know whether to be glad or sorry he refused to read them himself. If he did, he might not allow her to continue. But he should read them. They were so full not just of love and longing, but of all the intricacies of life—the frustrations and fears of being a mother who for the first time was away from her husband and coping with three growing children who tested her and each other. There was a beauty in the honesty with which the woman wrote to Lucas’s father. Longing was followed by anger which was followed by contrition in a flow that made Olivia’s heart ache.
She didn’t have Howard’s letters, but there were enough clues in Tessa’s responses to show he wrote her very different letters than those he addressed to Henry Payton. Whatever he had done in Boston, his letters to Tessa Sinclair appeared to be full of love, interest, admiration and concern for her and his children. But then if he was anything like his son, he would obviously be very adept at manipulating people. There was nothing to show he had not also applied precisely that charm on the women of Boston and the young woman who purportedly had been the cause of the tragic duel.
She picked up another letter, casting a quick glance at Lucas. His concentration reminded her of her brother Carl when he was in the middle of one of his experiments and she wondered what it would do to break his focus on Henry’s legal papers. He was ploughing through the stack far too quickly for her peace of mind. Her eyes moved over the sharp lines of his profile and the overly serious curve of his mouth and settled there.
He was so very beautiful it made her heart ache.
Beautiful was utterly the wrong word, but it wasn’t. It wasn’t merely that he was handsome, that was undeniable, but she could see him now, the man inside the impressive shell. He was deeply flawed, but despite that he was a good man. She never would have believed she might come to that conclusion when this had all begun.
For a moment she indulged the image of going over to him, slipping on to his lap, putting her arms around him and pressing her mouth to the tense line of his lower lip and...and then he put her aside and told her not to be a fool. Even her imagination was unforgiving. She sighed and fixed her attention on the letters, allowing the images raised by Lady Sinclair’s writing to draw her in and away.
‘What are you laughing at?’ His question broke through her concentration.
‘I wasn’t laughing.’
‘Yes, you were.’
‘I didn’t make a sound!’
‘You didn’t have to.’ He approached the desk, planting his hand on the surface as he leaned over her. She resisted the urge to cover the letter. She didn’t want him to find any excuse to take it away.
‘Your mother was describing Sam’s intervention on behalf of a goose.’
‘A goose? Lord, I remember that. It was Landry’s, a farmer who lived close by.’
She let him read over her shoulder, breathing in his scent as her body mapped the warmth of his proximity. Was it too much to hope that when she married it would be just like this? This mix of comfort and tingling heat just at a man’s presence? She would lean back against his chest, touch the tips of her fingers to the large hand resting on her desk, trace the roughened ridge of his knuckles and the softer sweep of skin between his thumb and forefinger. Place her hand over his...
‘Poor Sam, she was miserable for weeks after that,’ Lucas said, his voice warm and indulgent, and surprise penetrated her pleasant and painful fog.
‘She? I thought... I was certain Sam was a boy!’
‘So was she for a while. She wanted to be like Chase and me and was furious when she realised she couldn’t. She still has a hard time accepting reality, rather like you. The two of you would probably deal very well together.’ He picked up the next page of the letter, his brow rising, and she held out her hand to take it back.
‘I am still reading that.’
‘There isn’t anything here that pertains to this case.’
There was nothing she could say because he was right. She watched his hand reach for the packet of the remaining letters and she clutched her hands in her lap against the need to stop him.
‘Please don’t take them, not yet.’ The words rushed out of her and he hesitated.
‘They are just foolish anecdotes.’<
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She didn’t answer or move.
‘What on earth do you see in them?’ he asked. ‘My mother is hardly the most scintillating correspondent. Not even village gossip, just a repetitive recounting of the scope of her very limited life.’
‘You have no idea how lucky you are.’ She hadn’t meant to say that, certainly not with that sulky voice.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Nothing.’
‘No, not nothing. If you want these letters, you will have to explain yourself.’
She didn’t look up. She was so close to tears and she didn’t even know why.
‘You will say it is foolish.’
‘I doubt it. Even if I do, that hasn’t stopped you from telling me what you think thus far. Tell me.’
She resisted the urge for all of ten seconds. When the words came they were rushed, tumbling over themselves like sheep hurrying to pass through a closing gate.
‘My parents were naturalists and they travelled around the world and left us in Yorkshire with a succession of wet-nurses, nursemaids, governesses and tutors. The Paytons were our legal guardians while my parents were away, which was sometimes for fifty weeks out of each year. The only letters they wrote were occasional accounts of their adventures. They never asked questions about us or referred to anything we wrote in our letters and eventually we stopped writing. Jack and I invented outrageous tales of our exploits just to see if there was anything that could elicit a response. I once sent a letter saying I was performing in Drury Lane under the name of Shady Nightingale. When they died of a fever in the Dutch Indies I remember Jack being suddenly furious with them now that it was too late. I don’t remember feeling much at all. Between the ages of two and fourteen I had seen them for all of what amounts to less than a year.’
She paused, her side aching as if she had been running.
‘You are right that the letters probably have nothing to do with discovering what happened to Henry, but they aren’t merely foolish stories. I might be foolish, but they aren’t. I know what happened afterwards must have been horribly painful for all of you, but in these letters it all seems so...so full of love.’
