“No,” she murmured. “Did I hurt you?”
Jamie peeled off his glove and held up his hand to the moonlight, flexing his still-numb fingers. “My penmanship won’t be the same for a while.”
“I’m sorry.”
“So am I.” He winced as he pulled the glove back on. “You have a strong swing, by the by. Where did the pistol go?”
Her eyes widened. “Oh! I don’t know. Over there, perhaps.” She pointed across the road.
“Since I presume you were merely alarmed, and I’m not the person you’re hoping to kill, we’d better find it.” He stepped into the dried grass that rustled along the opposite shoulder of the lane and paced back and forth, his eyes sweeping the dark ground.
“If you hadn’t followed me like a murderer, with gun in hand, I wouldn’t have hit you.” Olivia joined him as he waded into the growth.
“I only drew it on the chance there was something—or someone—else out here giving you fright.” A glint of metal caught his eye, and he bent down to retrieve his pistol. “I did call your name, hoping to set you at ease.”
“I didn’t hear it over the wind.”
Jamie didn’t doubt that. The wind had been picking up since he spotted Olivia, hurrying through town with her hood pulled over her face. It whistled through the barren trees and made the area seem even more desolate and isolated than it was. “No matter. You ought to defend yourself against anyone who follows you in the dark.” He checked the pistol and slid it back into his pocket. “Aren’t you going to invite me in for a cup of tea?” It was rude, but he had no intention of letting her brush him aside.
Olivia hesitated, then sighed. “Of course.”
He fell in step beside her and they walked in silence. The path climbed, and in the distance he could hear the sea. When they crested the hill, revealing a humble little cottage near the edge of the marsh, the wind gusted strong enough to make Olivia stagger. Jamie made a motion toward her, but she put her head down and burrowed into her cloak.
The closer they got to the stone cottage, the less he liked it. It sat near the edge of a low cliff overlooking the ocean—or really the mouth of the Thames, where the broad open water of the estuary narrowed into the familiar river that rushed through London, some thirty miles away. A rambling hedge and a few scrubby trees served to break the wind, but the cottage itself stood alone, commanding a good view of the river.
His steps slowed as they reached it. Olivia fumbled in her pocket, but Jamie raised one hand to stop her. “It’s quite lonely out here.”
“I know.” She pulled out the latchkey.
“Are you sure it’s safe?” The cottage was isolated and difficult to find, but once located, there was no help within sight.
She gave a bitter huff of laughter. “Not at all, but it’s no worse than anywhere else, I suppose.” She motioned at the door. “I leave a scrap of wool in the door. If it’s still there when I return, I assume all is well.”
There was a bit of blue cloth peeking out at the latch. Jamie was not reassured. “Then you don’t object if I have a look around, in case someone decided to use a window instead of the door?”
She opened her mouth, then simply shook her head. Jamie took the key and let himself in, his pistol in hand. It took only a few minutes to visit every room in the tiny house; there was one on the ground floor and another above it, up a narrow stair that was almost a ladder. Every window was either wedged shut or boarded over, and there was no place anyone could be concealed, lying in wait, not even under the bed. That explained why she wasn’t more concerned.
When he returned to the main room, Olivia had stirred up the banked fire and lit a pair of lamps. “How did you get this place?” he asked.
“It’s a fisherman’s cottage.” She took the kettle to the water barrel in the corner and filled it. “He was lost at sea several weeks ago. His widow hasn’t given up hope yet and doesn’t wish to sell the cottage, but she moved her family into town. It was too lonely, I expect, and too hard to live here without him.” She hung the kettle on the hook over the reviving fire. “Fortunately for me, she was happy to let it for a few weeks.”
Olivia still wore her cloak, and Jamie felt no interest in removing his coat, either. It was quite cold in the cottage, and he noticed the stock of wood was low. “I’ll get some more wood. We may need more than one cup of tea.”
Outside he scanned the terrain. Split wood was piled not far from the cottage, but he walked past it to the edge of the cliff and peered over. Ten or twelve feet below, a narrow path unfurled through a salt marsh, the tidal grasses rising and falling like a wave in the relentless wind. The sea was a distant black expanse, broken only by the crests of waves catching the moonlight. At high tide, Jamie wouldn’t be surprised if shallow boats could glide right up the edge of the cliff. He had a feeling this cottage had been used for more than fishing.
He loaded his arms with wood. It bothered him that Olivia had come all the way out here. She might feel safe because of the isolation, but if Lord Clary discovered her, he could easily accomplish whatever ill will he wished. Jamie resolved never to leave her here alone. He let himself back in and stacked the wood just inside the door.
“Would you like some dinner?” Olivia had set out two cups for tea, and now she uncovered a plate to show some slices of meat pie. “Humble fare but it smells good,” she added with a tentative smile.
In the light of the reviving fire, he finally got a good look at her. It had been nearly two months since he’d had the opportunity to do so. Olivia had made a point of hiding any upset or distress, even when Abigail and Penelope reported in hushed tones that they thought her situation was growing strained. But there was no concealing how pale and drawn her face had become, and the sight sent a bolt of worry through him.
“Tea will be enough for me, thank you,” he said. He’d had a hearty meal at the inn before heading out to find her, and if anyone needed an extra slice of meat pie, it was Olivia. “But I insist you have your dinner.”
Her face eased gratefully. She put a slice of the pie on a plate and set it on the grate to warm, while the kettle began to steam. She busied herself with preparing the tea as Jamie hung up his coat by her cloak. Then he sat down and watched her, trying to mask both his fascination and his guilt.
It had been a long time since he and Olivia were alone together. For the first few years after her marriage that was very much his preference; the sight of her had been an arrow lodged in his heart, a nagging wound that should have been fatal but somehow wasn’t, and he had avoided seeing her as much as possible. Eventually circumstances brought her back into his orbit, even though his sense of loss had only dulled. Deep in his heart, Jamie suspected Olivia would always have some hold over him. He had known her almost all his life, and loved her for nearly as long. When they met again, after she had been married four or five years, he couldn’t help wondering if the same spark of affection might still burn in her breast.
He was soon set to rights on that score. On every occasion when they met and were forced into any sort of proximity—standing beside each other at a party, or waiting outside a shop for one of his sisters—Olivia kept the conversation firmly fixed on polite but mundane topics. Nothing of any intimacy was ever permitted. They might have been any pair of near-strangers, only passingly acquainted, and not two people who had once meant the world to each other.
That left him with nothing but a bitter burden of guilt. If he had been more responsible as a young man, less convinced of his ability to manipulate everything to his liking, Olivia never would have married Henry Townsend, who then never would have brought Lord Clary into her world.
The mere fact that those two men had been friends should have put Jamie on alert, once Henry died. He knew damned well that Clary was someone to avoid. But Olivia had rebuffed every tentative overture he’d ever made in the last decade, and kept her problems with Clary hidden not just from him but from his sisters as well. She hadn’t wanted his help—and why shou
ld she, when she had good reason to doubt him? The fact that she had gone looking for him before she fled London, though, indicated something had changed—for the worse.
That thought made him get up and fetch his pistol from his coat pocket. “I realize the shovel was chosen on a moment’s inspiration, but if you don’t want to be followed, you really ought to arm yourself properly.” He laid the pistol on the table as she poured tea into the mugs. “You should keep this.”
Olivia shuddered, keeping her eyes away from the gun. “I don’t want it.”
“It’s more effective than a shovel.”
“Do you wish you had a hole in your chest right now?” She set a bowl of sugar in front of him. “I’ve no milk.”
Jamie waved it aside. “I’m rather relieved you didn’t have a pistol earlier, but if you must defend yourself, you shouldn’t leave it up to chance encounters with shovels. Do you know how to shoot?”
“Yes.” She sighed. “Mostly.”
“Mostly?” The sugar bowl was nearly empty. He took a tiny spoonful.
“I know how to load a gun and pull the trigger. My aim is terrible, though, and the report tends to knock me over. In the event I managed to get off a shot, I’d probably miss and wind up flat on my back, coughing on gunpowder and completely helpless.”
He darted a quick glance at her. “Then you don’t really know how to shoot. We’ll work on that.”
“That won’t draw attention to me at all,” she said under her breath.
“Hmm.” Jamie glanced up through his eyelashes as he stirred the sugar into his scalding tea. “And we don’t want that . . .” His unspoken question hung in the air like smoke from the lamp: Why not?
Olivia fidgeted, looking unhappy. “You must know I don’t want that,” she finally said in a low voice. “Not now.”
“Care to tell me why?”
She arched one brow. “Don’t you know? If you managed to find me and follow me, I thought you’d know everything else as well.”
He grinned at her tart tone. He did know quite a bit, possibly more than Olivia herself, but he wanted her to tell him—to trust him. This time, he wasn’t going to let her down. This time, he wasn’t leaving her until Lord Clary was in prison and every nasty, dirty secret of Henry’s had been exposed and burned, and Olivia lost that worn, tense expression. And if she could be persuaded to give him another chance, he wasn’t going to let her go, either. “Everything? How Penelope would laugh at that idea. Even I wouldn’t dare claim to know everything.”
Her lips parted, and for a moment he thought she would burst out laughing. Then the surprise faded from her face, and she seemed to subside in her chair. “How is Penelope?”
Jamie recognized the dodge, but decided to allow it for the moment. “Quite well, the last I saw her.”
“Is . . . is she happy? With Lord Atherton, I mean. I—I know she was pressured into marrying him because she tried to help me, and I’ve been racked by guilt ever since . . .”
Ah, right. Penelope had warned him Olivia would probably be worried. A few weeks ago she had inadvertently rescued Olivia from an apparent assignation with Lord Clary, and in revenge, Clary had spread ugly rumors about Penelope that culminated in her hasty marriage to Lord Atherton. Jamie was both appalled by and grateful for his sister’s fearless devotion and loyalty to her friend.
Penelope also admitted that she might have given Olivia the impression that she was not overly fond of Atherton. Jamie knew the exact opposite was true, but Olivia had undoubtedly been too caught up in her own worries to realize it. He leaned forward, happy that he could dispel one of Olivia’s fears entirely. “Penelope is as happy as I’ve ever seen her, married to the man she loves. When I left them, Atherton had his arms around her and she looked victorious over the world.”
Olivia’s eyes went wide. “What? The man she loves—no, she despised him only a month ago!”
Jamie clicked his tongue sadly. “Am I the only one who pays attention? The more vigorously Penelope denies something, the truer it generally is. I daresay she said she hated him, and may have even tried to hate him, but make no mistake: if Penelope hadn’t wanted Atherton, nothing on earth could have brought about that marriage. My sister would run away with pirates first.”
For the first time there was no trace of anxiety in Olivia. She looked nonplussed. “Well! I hope you’re right . . .”
“Hope!” Jamie snorted. “As if I don’t know my own sister. Let me guess. Pen told you she despised—loathed—Atherton, in great detail and frequency. But somehow she always seemed to be running into him and having yet another interaction she could relate in scathing tones. We both know she would hide behind statues and climb out of windows to avoid someone she actually despised so heartily.”
Olivia’s lips twitched as if she were fighting off a smile. “But Lord Atherton—does he care for her?”
“I’d say he’s mad for her—as any man would have to be, to marry Penelope.” Olivia gasped indignantly, and Jamie laughed. “I mean it in the best possible way. Atherton is devoted to her. He jumped into the Thames and risked his life to save her when Lord Clary pushed her overboard.”
The name seemed to freeze Olivia in place. The dawning smile slid from her lips, and the light in her eyes turned into stunned horror.
“Lord Stratford, Atherton’s father, was very insistent they sail with him on his yacht from London to Richmond, but not until they were under way did Penelope and Atherton discover Lord Clary lying in wait for her belowdecks.” He paused, but Olivia sat like a statue, hollow-eyed and still. “He wanted to know where you were, Livie. When she wouldn’t tell him, Clary pushed her over the side of the boat.”
“Dear heavens—he could have killed her.” Her body hunched convulsively, as if she would be ill, and she seemed to age before his eyes.
“He tried,” Jamie agreed bluntly. Olivia flinched, but he didn’t—couldn’t—relent. If she didn’t know how truly dangerous that man was, she needed to. “And he very nearly succeeded. The Thames is freezing at this time of year. If Atherton hadn’t spent his youth swimming back and forth across the river . . .” He lifted one shoulder. “Needless to say, Atherton and Penelope want Clary’s head on a pike.”
“Would that they could get it!” she said in a sudden burst of animation. “I never thought—”
“That he was so determined?” Jamie shook his head impatiently. “I think you did. Why else are you out in Gravesend, trying not to call attention to yourself, when no one in London knows where you are? Help me, Olivia. Clary tried to kill my sister. He’s wanted in London for that, as well as on suspicion of causing the death of Lord Stratford.” Olivia’s eyes widened. “The shock of seeing his son and heir leap into the Thames, apparently to his death, was too much for the earl. He dropped dead, or so Lord Clary told people. Atherton suspects his father was in league with Clary, which puts him in position to expose Clary. But it appears you know even more about Clary’s activities, and Atherton—or should I say, the new Lord Stratford—told me to implore you to help him. And since I daresay it wouldn’t upset you one whit to see Clary rotting in prison or swinging from a rope, I sincerely hope you’ll trust me and tell me what the devil he’s holding over your head.”
Chapter 6
Before he left London, Jamie had tried to answer three vital questions.
The first one involved Henry Townsend. Years ago, right after Olivia married him, Jamie had inquired just enough to satisfy himself that Olivia would be taken care of. He made sure the man had a comfortable income and no serious stains on his character, and then he quit looking. That had been his own fault, his inability—unwillingness—to think too deeply about her with another man.
This time he wanted to know everything, and there turned out to be a lot to know. Far from being the upstanding gentleman Jamie had presumed, Townsend had run with a fast crowd, which included the notorious Lord Clary. Clary came from a famous and illustrious family, the son of an admiral and the brother of a decorat
ed commodore. He married the daughter of a duke and moved through the very best society with a commanding arrogance that earned him a great deal of deference but very few friends . . . except for Henry Townsend. And ever since Henry died, Lord Clary had been very attentive to his widow.
That had led into Jamie’s second question. What could Clary’s interest in Olivia be? He didn’t doubt the obvious one; Olivia was a beautiful woman, even lovelier than she’d been as a girl. Despite his arrogance, Clary was reputed to be persuasive and charming when he wished to be, and many women thought him quite handsome. Their descriptions put Jamie in mind of a hawk: sleekly magnificent, powerful and ruthless. But somehow he didn’t think Olivia would have begged Penelope for two hundred pounds and fled London if Clary was merely trying to seduce her.
The third question, though, had yielded the most sobering information. He knew Olivia had given up her house in the fashionable part of town after Henry’s death; to make the most of her widow’s portion, he assumed. But it turned out Olivia had almost no income at all. The annuity that should have kept her in comfort had been quietly canceled soon after the elder Mr. Townsend died, and Henry lost the capital at the races. Henry lost quite a lot at the races, Jamie learned, although he also spent freely on clothing and theater boxes and kept a very fine table. By Jamie’s rough math, Henry had probably spent his entire inherited fortune in the course of three or four years—and yet continued to live in the same high style for two more years without accruing much debt. That alone was suspicious. When added to the mystery about Clary, it made a far darker picture. Whether Henry was coldhearted or simply feckless, Jamie couldn’t tell, but there was no question that the man had left his wife penniless and at the mercy of a dangerous man.
The greater question was why. Thanks to Atherton, Jamie thought he knew the answer, but he would need Olivia’s help to prove it.
“Are you ready to talk about Clary?” he asked gently.
She shoved back her chair and leapt to her feet, bending over the fireplace grate to check the warming slice of pie. She brought it back to the table and took her time arranging her cutlery and refilling both mugs of tea, even though his was almost untouched. “I don’t suppose I can persuade you that this is not your problem and you have no obligation to get involved,” she said at last.
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