Forcing down her temper, she dipped a polite curtsy and went past him into a large but disordered inner office. Pale rectangles on the walls marked missing pictures, and bookcases stood empty. Mr. Armand murmured an apology as he dusted off a chair for her. “I apologize for the delay. I did not expect you to come yourself.”
That softened her irritation somewhat. “Of course. But I was astonished to learn you have some of my husband’s papers. Henry has been dead for almost two years now. I confess myself very eager to reclaim anything of his.”
“Indeed,” said Mr. Armand slowly. “Mrs. Townsend . . . Did you not receive my letter? The second one?”
“Why, no,” said Olivia after a startled moment. “Only the one.”
He sat behind his desk and looked pained. “Mrs. Townsend, I sent you a book—”
Olivia nodded, every scrap of her attention focused on the solicitor. “That’s why I’m here.”
That book was why she had dropped everything to come to Gravesend in winter. After Henry’s death it became more and more obvious that he had kept secrets from her, very large and significant ones. That alone didn’t surprise her; their entire marriage had been rather distant, like two acquaintances living in polite proximity. Henry never confided in her about his affairs, and since the bills were always paid, Olivia never pressed. She’d supposed they were living on his inheritance from his father, which had been substantial.
But when Henry died, her income inexplicably dried up, even though there should have been an annuity to provide for her. The solicitor, Mr. Brewster, could only tell her that the accounts were empty and her annuity had been canceled. He had no idea where Henry drew his funds, and without Henry himself, those funds seemed to vanish. As the money disappeared, so did Henry’s purported friends. Olivia hadn’t minded that; she knew she was nothing like her charming and gregarious husband, and his friends had no time for a widow of plummeting income and status. In fact, she wished all of Henry’s friends had drifted away, but one in particular—Viscount Clary—refused to go away, and that had started all her troubles.
Her pulse spiked just at the thought of him, threatening her composure. With some effort, Olivia focused her attention on Mr. Armand. Three weeks ago, out of the blue, she had received a package from him with a letter indicating that he had taken over the practice of the late Richard Charters, who had apparently been one of Henry’s solicitors, and had discovered the enclosed book in Mr. Charters’s files labeled with Henry’s name. The book looked for all the world to be part diary, part ledger, with a steady stream of payments in Henry’s distinctive handwriting. The recipients were only identified by initials, though, and the notations were very suspicious.
Thanks to Lord Clary’s intimations, Olivia had begun to suspect her husband was up to something illicit, even illegal, and this book seemed to confirm it, if not explain exactly what those activities were. If she could decipher what Henry had been up to and how Clary was involved, it should help her turn the tables on the viscount and persuade him to keep his distance from her.
Or so she hoped. If not, she had no idea what she would do.
Mr. Armand shuffled his feet and scratched his chin. “About that book, yes. It’s been a monumental task sorting out Mr. Charters’s files. He practiced for over forty years, you see, and maintained quite a stock of information for his clients—”
“I understand,” said Olivia quickly. “You must be eager to be rid of it. I’m here to collect anything my husband left in Mr. Charters’s possession.” There must be more than the diary. There had to be.
“Ah. . . . You see, Mrs. Townsend . . .” He paused. “I ought not to have sent you the book at all. It was done in error, and if you would be so good as to return it—”
“What?”
The tips of his ears flushed at her exclamation. “Quite right, you’re surprised; I apologize profusely. It had fallen from one crate into another, probably whilst being moved, and therefore I didn’t immediately comprehend the nature of the information within.”
“What is that nature?” For the first time Olivia was devoutly glad she’d left the book hidden at her leased cottage. For a while she had considered bringing it along, in case Mr. Armand offered to help her understand it, but some instinct had made her conceal it beneath her floorboards. She’d expected Clary would be the one seeking it, though, not the solicitor who sent it.
Mr. Armand gave her a placating smile. “I must insist, madam, on having it back.”
“No,” she said indignantly. “I must insist on claiming my husband’s property. If he left a debt, I’m prepared to pay it.” Her palms were damp. She’d borrowed a large sum of money from Penelope Weston for just this purpose, but she still hoped she wouldn’t have to use it. She had absolutely no idea how she’d ever repay her friend.
“It’s not about a debt. As soon as I realized the mistake, I wrote to you, requesting its return.”
Olivia’s jaw firmed. “It contains my husband’s handwriting. Do you deny it was his?”
“I see this conversation is upsetting you, as I feared.” He held up one hand as she opened her mouth. “I sincerely apologize for my error in sending the book and unsettling you. Mr. Charters kept his clients’ information strictly confidential, and he meant that protection to extend beyond the grave. That book was in a box of items that Mr. Charters instructed should be destroyed upon his own death.”
The floor seemed to drop from beneath her. “Mr. Armand,” she said carefully. “If I had any idea my husband left personal and private belongings with Mr. Charters, I would have claimed them months ago. Those papers belong to me, not to Mr. Charters or to you. Please tell me you have them still and can give them to me now.”
The solicitor leaned forward. “Madam, you do not understand. The papers were to be kept confidential. Mr. Townsend must have wished it so, or Mr. Charters would not have left such an instruction.”
“That is your assumption,” she replied. “I promise you, sir, that my husband would not want to keep them from me.” Olivia had no idea if it was true or not, but she wasn’t about to tell the solicitor that. Henry hadn’t been the best husband but neither had he been a terrible one. She was certain Henry wouldn’t want Clary to intimidate and hurt her, and now this mysterious book, and any other papers that clarified it, might be the only way to stop him.
“Nevertheless, Mr. Charters’s instructions were quite clear: everything was to be burned. And it was.”
She blinked. “You burned it already?”
He nodded. “And I must ask for the return of that book, so it can also be destroyed.”
Olivia stared at him in disbelief. “You can’t be serious.”
“Mrs. Townsend, I only want to spare you any trouble. Mr. Charters’s notes indicated that anything related to that book would be at an end with Mr. Townsend’s death, which means it can only cause you upset and renewed grief. I recommend you return it to me and put it from your mind.”
No. Not an answer to her prayers but only another mystery, another question that couldn’t possibly have a good answer. Stiffly she got to her feet. “I cannot do that, sir.” If Henry had been entangled in something so terrible that he wanted all proof destroyed after his death—something Lord Clary may also have been deeply involved in—there was a chance the viscount would speak to Mr. Armand about retrieving that book. And if Clary traced her to Mr. Armand’s office . . .
She had to throw the solicitor off. He thought she was a woman easily led and susceptible to emotion, so she might as well ladle it on. She pulled out a handkerchief and bit the inside of her cheek until tears welled up in her eyes. “I think you misunderstand the nature of a woman’s grief, Mr. Armand. Far from wishing to forget everything about my husband, I cling to his memory. Anything of his, even those things so mundane you obviously think no one could care about, is more dear to me than ever because it was once his, and he’s now lost to me forever.” Not only that, it seemed Henry would take his secrets to his grave, an
d leave her to face the consequences. Henry himself grew less and less dear to her every day, but she would have given almost anything to see his papers that might solve her current problems.
Olivia let some hysteria creep into her voice. “If you ever lose someone so beloved, you’ll understand what I feel! My husband’s papers belonged to me, and you had no right to destroy them—certainly not peremptorily. I would say the same thing to Mr. Charters, if he’d had the decency to notify me that he had them. I cannot approve of a solicitor who would deprive a widow of her husband’s property, and I wonder what Mr. Charters was trying to conceal by burning it!”
Mr. Armand rose as well. “Mrs. Townsend,” he said in a voice filled with both condescension and warning, “you are impugning an honorable man. I fear you are overwrought—”
“Perhaps I am,” she cried. “I am dreadfully disappointed that my dear husband’s last belongings were destroyed without my permission. Good day, Mr. Armand.”
She pressed her handkerchief to her mouth and walked out of his office, ignoring the clerk’s smirk as she snatched up her cloak and left. The nasty little fellow must have known all along that his employer would give her bad news.
Outside, the bitter wind sliced through her dress. Olivia tugged up the hood and pulled on her gloves. An entire day wasted, and even worse, she didn’t know what to do next. She’d read part of Henry’s book, but it was infuriatingly mysterious—her hopes were pinned on whatever papers the solicitor had. Surely they must have contained a wealth of information about the money, all that money that Henry noted so carefully. And if that much money had gone through the solicitor’s hands, she reasoned, he must know more about it. Well, it seemed Mr. Charters had known much more, and now Mr. Armand had burned the evidence. She’d better read the book more closely, since it appeared to be her only source of illumination.
The town was buttoning up for the night. Lamps glowed in windows along the main street, and the smell of roasting meat made her lift her nose more than once. She had purposely taken a small cottage out of town, but now her rumbling stomach and cold hands made her heart sink; she had a long walk ahead of her before she would be savoring her own dinner by a cozy fire. She hunched her shoulders against the wind and started up the road headed north, toward the coast.
She heard the footsteps behind her as she reached the last turn toward her cottage. She caught her breath and listened: it was a heavy tread, a man in boots whose longer stride was gaining on her. It could be anyone hurrying home after a long day, and yet . . . Her heart nearly stopped and her lungs felt crushed as other possibilities streaked through her mind. If Lord Clary had somehow found her, followed her, and discovered her here alone, in this narrow lane at the edge of town . . .
Her hands fisted in the folds of her cloak. No, no, no. If she let herself think too much of that, he would win. The man had spent months trying to seduce her, with increasing degrees of coercion and intimidation. If he’d tracked her to Gravesend in the middle of winter, he wouldn’t be refused again.
Now her blood was running and her feet sped up as anger flowed freely through her veins. She was so tired of this—a decade of her life had been ruined by men manipulating or forcing her into doing what they wanted her to do, with no thought at all to her wishes. First her father, then Henry’s father, blasted Henry himself, that unctuous solicitor, and now the devil incarnate, Lord Clary. Olivia had had enough.
She hated Clary. He hated her, too. If he didn’t want under her skirt so badly, he probably would have already engineered some sort of “accident” to dispose of her. For all she knew, he’d finally got over wanting her and now just wanted to get rid of her.
An abandoned building was just ahead. It had once been a gatehouse, but the tall fences keeping people from the marshes behind it were long gone, and the cottage itself was crumbling into rubble. Just beyond it lay the way to her rented cottage, up the winding path and over the hill. But in the desiccated remnants of the overgrown hedge, the moonlight picked out a familiar and welcome shape: the handle of a shovel.
Her eyes riveted on it. The thick shadows swayed and fluttered with every burst of wind, and if she looked away she might never locate that shovel again. Footsteps still followed behind her, not gaining but not receding, either. Perhaps her pursuer was waiting until they were unquestionably out of sight of the town; once she rounded the gatehouse a sprawling hawthorn hedge would hide her from sight of every window in Gravesend. Not that anyone would be watching, but there would be no hope of help, let alone rescue. This lane was deserted, dark and lonely with a frosty wind blowing in her face. Clary could do what he willed with her and no one would even discover her body before spring.
But that shovel stood there, haphazardly propped against the stone wall. She said a quick prayer it still had a blade and wouldn’t fall apart the moment she touched it. Things tended to do that when left out in the open air this near the sea. It was her only hope, though, and she meant to use it in any way possible.
She waited until she was only a few steps away. Thus far she’d moved at a brisk walk but no faster; now she bolted, letting her cloak fly out behind her. Fearful that the shovel would be stuck in a mass of undergrowth, she seized it and yanked, almost stumbling when it came free without protest. She whisked around the corner of the house and flattened herself against the wall, trying to still the loud rasp of her breath.
The footsteps paused. She gripped the handle, her heart pounding viciously and her eyes fixed on the place in the lane where her pursuer must step if he meant to follow her. Go away, she silently begged. As much as she wouldn’t mind seeing Clary dead, she didn’t know if she had the stomach to beat him to death herself.
He spoke. The whining wind blew away his words, scattering them among the clattering of the bare branches, but it was unquestionably a man’s voice. His steps crunched closer.
Cold sweat trickled down Olivia’s temple. She raised the shovel as one might hold a cricket bat. Her arms shook, and she clenched her jaw to steady herself. Only one of us can walk away from this, she reminded herself. If she swung at him and missed, Clary would probably kill her on the spot with this same shovel.
The light faded as a cloud blew across the round face of the moon. She would be harder to see, but so would he. Olivia carefully braced her feet for balance, wishing the man would either prove himself innocent and walk away, or prove himself guilty and come around the damned house. Standing there waiting, poised in terror, was torture.
A step, then another. A tall, shadowy shape appeared around the corner of the house. His hat shielded his face, but there was just enough moonlight to gleam on the barrel of the pistol in his hand.
Olivia sucked in a deep breath and swung with all her might.
He was tall and standing on the path, while she was not as tall and stood in the hollowed shell of the cottage garden. The shovel cracked squarely into his arm with an impact that almost knocked her off her feet. The pistol flew out of his hand and into the darkness. The man cursed and doubled over. Frantically Olivia jerked the shovel back, bringing it up to take another swing. She had to keep him from locating the gun.
“Stop,” he cried, flinging up his hands as he collapsed to his knees. “Wait!”
Arms raised, heart racing, Olivia registered the voice just in time to keep herself from slamming the shovel into him again. Not Clary. Not anyone who would hurt her, in fact. “J-Jamie?” she stammered in disbelief.
He tilted back his head as the cloud drifted past the moon and gave her enough light to see his face beneath the brim of his hat. “Good evening, Livie,” said James Weston with a crooked smile. “Lovely to see you again.”
Chapter 5
Not for the first time, James Weston wished he could wind back the years and beat some sense into his younger self.
Ten years ago none of this would have happened. Olivia would have been happy to see him. She wouldn’t have kept dangerous secrets and she wouldn’t have run off alone on some mad, risky
scheme. Ten years ago she would have come to him before her circumstances grew dire, and asked for help because she trusted him.
Of course, ten years ago she had done that—and he failed her. Even worse, it seemed she was still suffering the consequences of that failure. Jamie had suspected that all along, but not until tonight had he realized just how much she was suffering. He didn’t blame her for attacking him with a shovel.
Olivia dropped it as if the handle scalded her hands. “What are you doing here?”
Jamie climbed back to his feet. “Looking for you,” he said, shaking his arm. It was tingling and weak from the elbow down, and he could barely feel his fingers.
Her breathing wheezed with panic. “How did you find me?” She retreated into the deepest shadows, her face stark white. “Who knows where I am?”
That fear nicked him where it hurt. He knew whom she feared. His sister Penelope had told him an incredible story about Viscount Clary pursuing Olivia for unknown, but unmistakably sinister, purposes, and for once she hadn’t exaggerated. Olivia was terrified, even all the way out here in lonely Gravesend. And that meant Jamie had failed her yet again, because Penelope also told him that Olivia tried to see him before she fled London. She was out here alone, reduced to defending herself with a shovel, because he hadn’t been there when she needed him.
“No one,” he said in reply to her question. “Penelope gave me a few clues, and I made some guesses.”
“And that was enough for you to find me.” She drew a rough breath. “I must have made a mistake somewhere . . .”
“You’re overlooking the chance I was fiendishly clever,” he said mildly.
As brief as a flash of lightning, a reluctant smile crossed her face. Some of the tension drained from her rigid figure. “My mistake.”
He gave a nod. “I didn’t think you were hiding from me.”
Six Degrees of Scandal Page 4
