Six Degrees of Scandal

by Caroline Linden

  “Rubbish.” He leaned toward her. “He tried to kill my sister. Do you honestly believe I’d walk away and let him try the same to you?”

  She flinched again at the mention of Clary’s attempt on Penelope’s life. James didn’t care. He was relieved beyond measure that his sister and her husband were both alive and well, but he felt, deep in his bones, that Clary wouldn’t leave things to chance if he got his hands on Olivia again. Pushing Penelope overboard had probably been an impulse when she refused to answer his questions. Olivia, though . . . Whatever the man wanted from her, he was willing to risk everything to get it.

  “You once trusted me,” he went on. “I came for no other reason than to help you, as one friend to another.”

  “I know.” She paused as if struggling for words. “I would never forgive myself if anything happened to you because you tried to help me, though.”

  “Then you know how I feel,” he replied. “Should I step back and let you bear all the risk? Could I forgive myself if I did nothing and Clary did you a great harm? No. Besides . . .” He winked, trying to lessen the tension. “Atherton told me things that may help us put the noose around Clary’s neck. Don’t forget that: I’m not just offering my manly brawn but also useful intelligence.”

  Slowly she smiled. As it always had, it made him want to smile back. There was something about Olivia’s face that changed when she smiled; it was the spark of humor in her eyes, or perhaps the endearing little quirk to the left corner of her mouth, or even the way her chin went down a bit. Whatever it was, it had entranced him for nearly twenty years, and still did. “How could I resist such an offer?”

  “Of course you can’t,” he agreed with a straight face. “No one could.”

  She ducked her head and poked her dinner with her fork, but the smile lingered. “What can I tell you? You may know more than I do.”

  “What does Clary want from you?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. Jamie cocked one brow and she flushed. “Well—yes, I thought I knew what he wanted, originally. After Henry died, Lord Clary was almost kind. He offered to help sort out Henry’s affairs, see that debts were paid, and so on. I had Mr. Brewster—Henry’s London solicitor—so I assured Lord Clary that I was content to leave things in Mr. Brewster’s competent hands.”

  She put down her fork and folded her hands in her lap. “Then his lordship offered me other things: his box at the theater, his carriage if I ever needed one.” She hesitated. “When he wishes to be, Clary can be almost charming, in a rather overbearing way. But eventually he must have got tired of his offers being refused. He called on me one day and made a blunt proposition: he wanted me to be his mistress. He offered a house in St. John’s Wood, a staff of servants, credit at the finest shops . . .”

  Jamie eyed his pistol and somehow kept his mouth shut. How could Olivia not have told someone Clary was harassing her?

  “I refused as politely as I could.” Her eyes grew stormy. “He didn’t believe it. How could anyone in my position not want him? I suspect Clary is rarely denied anything he wants, and he thought I was being coy, or teasing, and he promised me anything on earth my heart desired if only I could accept him . . . but he did it in such a way that was almost threatening. I had never before been frightened of him but that day I was, and he saw it. From then on I tried to avoid him, but he would turn up from time to time and catch me off guard. He never asked me to be his mistress again—”

  Thank God, thought Jamie grimly.

  “—instead he did worse. He told me Henry had owed him a great deal of money, and since we hadn’t been able to reach an amiable solution”—she almost spat out the words—“he had no choice but to ask for it back. Of course I didn’t have the sum he named, but he didn’t believe me. After I refused all his offers of money, he must have thought I had a private fund hidden somewhere.”

  Or he wanted to terrify you even more. “Did he show you proof of Henry’s debt?”

  She gave a scornful laugh. “Of course not! I asked him to stop calling on me and conduct any business through Mr. Brewster. He said he would if I gave him Henry’s things.” She paused and tilted her head to look at him for the first time since he’d asked what Clary wanted from her. “Now why would Lord Clary want Henry’s papers? Henry hardly kept any papers. Mr. Brewster paid all the bills. Henry had little correspondence; he hadn’t the patience for sitting at a desk writing letters. I never saw him read anything other than the racing report or a sporting newspaper.”

  Clever fellow. Jamie had an idea what Henry had been up to, and scads of letters would have been dangerous.

  “Lord Clary didn’t believe me any more about that than he did about the rest.” She returned her gaze to her untouched plate of dinner. “I still don’t know what he wants, but I fear he’ll hound me until I’m dead.”

  “Penelope said she interrupted a confrontation between you and Lord Clary in London.” He phrased it carefully and spoke gently, but Olivia flinched.

  “Yes.” She sounded choked. “It was more of an—an assignation. Lord Clary grew more and more insistent that he’d sue me for the debt and I’d be thrown in prison. He kept insinuating I had something valuable, which he obviously felt some claim on, but I don’t! Finally I agreed to meet him one evening to explain once and for all, but he clearly thought I was weakening . . .” A lock of hair fell forward to hide her face as she bowed her head. “The truth is . . . I was. I thought it might pacify him and show him I was nothing to him, or at least nothing he really wanted. But then . . . Penelope opened the door. And like a coward I fled, so fast I didn’t realize until later that she had not followed. Clary hadn’t allowed her to follow. I abandoned her to his fury, and—”

  He held up one hand to cut her off. “Penelope does not blame you.”

  Olivia closed her eyes and looked physically ill for a moment. “Only because Lord Atherton was there to save her.”

  “We all need someone to save us at times,” he said gently.

  Hesitantly, almost warily, she raised her eyes. Jamie could only return her questioning look with one of quiet confidence and hope she believed him.

  “What did Clary do that sent you fleeing to Kent?” he asked.

  Olivia’s deep blue gaze didn’t waver from his. “Nothing directly. Unexpectedly, I received a very odd package from a solicitor in Gravesend, Mr. Armand. He wrote that he’d recently acquired the practice of another solicitor, now deceased, and in the process of sorting old files, he had discovered a diary belonging to Henry, which he enclosed. I was very startled, because I’d never heard Henry mention another solicitor. Mr. Brewster had been employed by Henry’s father, and he handled everything I knew of. The Townsends came from Kent, though, so it was possible this other solicitor, Mr. Charters, handled their business in the country.

  “But the diary was very . . . odd. Not only was it unlike Henry to keep a diary at all, it didn’t contain the usual things a gentleman would record. Mr. Brewster had taken a holiday to his cottage outside London, but I was so curious I went to see him there. He professed not to know anything about it, though I’m not certain he was truthful.” Her mouth thinned. “I missed Penelope’s wedding because of that, and I learned nothing.”

  “Do you still have the diary?”

  She nodded. “When Mr. Brewster told me nothing, I decided I should come see Mr. Armand, who would be able to tell me more. At the least, I could reclaim any of Henry’s property and perhaps learn something from it. And . . . I confess I was very eager to escape Lord Clary’s attention for a while.” Her voice hardened. “But the vile solicitor not only told me he’d burned everything, he asked me to return the diary! He sent it in error, he claimed.” She scowled. “Mr. Charters left detailed instructions for what to do with his clients’ papers after his death, and Henry had agreed everything should be destroyed. He was never in the habit of explaining his intentions to me, but I can’t believe he meant to leave me to Lord Clary’s mercy, without a farthing to my name!”
/>   Jamie stretched out his legs. He had a feeling Henry Townsend hadn’t spared much thought at all for Olivia’s situation. He’d spent a fortnight ruthlessly mining every source of gossip, rumor, and illicit knowledge he could tap. His sister Penelope, and especially her husband, had given him a good starting point, and everything he’d heard since then had only confirmed it. Nothing Olivia said tonight contradicted his research, either.

  What he had to tell her was not going to improve her opinion of her late husband, and as of yet he wasn’t entirely sure how it would help rid her of Clary. The only thing he was truly certain of was that he and Olivia could solve it together.

  “It’s a good thing you confided in Penelope as much as you did,” he said. “It was another rare stroke of luck that she married Stratford’s son. When the earl died Atherton suddenly became privy to all his father’s secrets, and unlike Henry, the Earl of Stratford kept papers. Atherton is only beginning to sort them out, but it’s clear to him so far that Clary was deeply involved in helping his father acquire a great deal of artwork by dubious means. Given Clary’s interest in you after Henry’s death, I suspect your late husband was part of the operation as well.”

  Olivia’s face scrunched up in confusion. “What operation?”

  Jamie smiled ruefully. “Henry was a smuggler.”

  Chapter 7

  Olivia thought she’d heard wrong. “What?” she said again, stupidly. She shook her head before he could explain. “No, Henry barely left London. He couldn’t be smuggling . . .”

  “And when he did leave town, he came home to Kent, didn’t he?” Jamie nodded. “To visit the family home, pay his respects to old friends . . . perhaps check on the network of people who brought his particular cargo into England.”

  Her heart started to pound. That diary, full of entries that looked like payments. A secret solicitor in Kent, with orders to burn everything. The generous income that inexplicably vanished at Henry’s death. “What do you mean?” she whispered.

  Jamie leaned back in his chair. The light of the lamp glinted off his dark hair, tousled by the wind into a wildly attractive mess of waves. An unexpected flood of longing swamped her as he tilted his head and gave her a wry smile. “I don’t actually know anything for certain. Some of this is purely guessing. But it fits together, and I daresay Atherton will be able to answer more questions as he catalogs his father’s collection.”

  “Tell me your guesses,” she said.

  His eyes met hers, filled with sympathy. “It’s not very flattering to the late Mr. Townsend.”

  “It couldn’t be worse than what I’ve already contemplated,” she replied honestly. Her worst guess had been blackmail. Henry had kept company with a very fast set, and he must have known some of their secrets.

  Jamie’s mouth quirked. “No doubt.” He nodded toward her untouched dinner. “Don’t let it get cold.” Surprised, Olivia looked at her food, then picked up her fork. The prospect of some answers, or at least information, revived her appetite.

  Jamie was quiet for a moment, his gaze distant as if he were sorting his thoughts. “Very well. I’ll start with Lord Stratford, because this is the part I heard first from Penelope and Atherton. Stratford was a well-known patron of the arts. He had an eye for promising artists, and his estate at Stratford Court is filled with exceptional pictures and sculpture. Atherton said the earl also had a private gallery, so private no one save Stratford himself was permitted to view it. Atherton saw it a few times as a boy, before his father decided his taste for art wasn’t refined enough, but now of course he’s master of Stratford Court and able to visit it at will. As fine as the collection around the house is, it’s nothing to the works in the private gallery. One of Atherton’s sisters married an artist, so he’s been able to confirm that several pictures are extremely valuable, yet have no provenance. There are no bills of sale in the earl’s records, nothing to indicate where they came from, which is odd for art. Normally there would be correspondence with a dealer or prior owner or even the artist himself. It’s as if the pictures just appeared at Stratford Court.

  “The other thing of interest Atherton told me was about a small cave, right on the river near his estate in Richmond. When Clary tried to kill my sister and Atherton jumped in after her, they made it to shore and took shelter in this cave. In the light of day, Atherton found crates suitable for holding paintings. The cave is on a piece of property the old earl acquired years ago, yet never cleared, sold, or even visited. It was let go back to wilderness, and Atherton thinks it might have been to provide cover to this cave. Any paintings could be sent by ship right into Richmond, deposited in the cave, and then retrieved by the earl or a loyal servant at a more convenient moment. No one would remark a small boat crossing the river, after all, and it’s a short enough journey it could be made at night.”

  “But Henry didn’t know Lord Stratford,” Olivia pointed out. “Viscount Clary was one of his most elegant friends; I’m sure I would recall an earl.”

  Jamie tapped his temple. “Right you are. But Clary knew both of them—and before he pushed Penelope off the yacht, Clary said you had something he wanted, and what’s more, Stratford wanted it, too. I think Clary was the conduit between the smuggler—Henry—and the buyers—such as the Earl of Stratford.”

  She still had trouble believing it. “Perhaps . . . But how did Henry get these smuggled items? How did he know what to smuggle in the first place? He never showed any interest in art.” Henry had the usual gentleman’s education, which meant he’d spent a brief time abroad as a young man, but if it had made an impression, Olivia hadn’t seen evidence of it. Her husband’s interests had been principally ones of pleasure and comfort; he kept a cellar of fine wines and expected her to host a good table. He paid more attention to the horse races than to anything in politics or news or literature, although he was always well turned-out sartorially. Often Olivia had retreated to her room with a good book while Henry went to Vauxhall or the theater.

  “This is pure conjecture, and may be utterly wrong,” Jamie warned. “But Lord Clary’s brother is a decorated navy commodore, and when the war ended he was assigned to Calais. The smuggling trade was still in full roar, and if an English commander of the port could be persuaded to look the other way while some contraband was loaded onto a British ship bound for England . . .” He shrugged. “An easy trip to Gravesend, which holds more than her fair share of smugglers. Once unloaded in Kent, items could be discreetly sent all over England.”

  “But what is this contraband?” she asked again. “That’s a plausible theory for how things would get to England. Where did they come from?”

  “Paris, most likely. Bonaparte’s great museum, filled with the treasures of every state he conquered. Wellington ordered the plundered artwork returned, but hundreds of pieces had already gone missing by the time he made that decree. No doubt several collectors in England gnashed their teeth when he did that, and would happily seize any opportunity to get their hands on some of that art.”

  Olivia shook her head numbly. “You’re describing a vast network of thieves and smugglers and liars. I never thought Henry was a man of unimpeachable morals, but this . . . I cannot believe it.”

  “I could be wrong, of course,” said Jamie easily, which only convinced Olivia that he knew far more than he was telling her, and with more certainty.

  “Even if I could prove any of that, what would it get me? Clary is still well-connected. It would be my word against his, and all his family’s. And if you’re correct that British citizens—wealthy and influential citizens—are benefiting from this smuggling, that only makes it harder to believe anything will happen. Lord Atherton might be willing to expose his father’s role, but I doubt other men will be so inclined. They’ll call me a wicked liar.”

  For a moment Jamie didn’t reply. “To be quite honest,” he finally said, almost cautiously, “I don’t give a damn about them, whoever they may be or however many of them there are. My goals are simple: to see Cl
ary in prison, and to free you from all remnants of Henry’s scheme. Any other participants can go hang, in my opinion, or scuttle into the darkness and stay there with their stolen pictures.”

  She gave a despairing laugh. “Simple! I wish I shared that view.”

  With a sudden motion Jamie shot to his feet, sending his chair flying over backward. He braced his arms on the table right in front of her, pinning her in place with a fierce look. “Don’t doubt me,” he commanded. “Whatever it takes, I will see that man punished for what he did to you, and I swear that you will be free of this mess. If only—” He stopped abruptly, and his arms flexed as if he would toss the table aside and seize her. “We’ll solve this, Livie,” he said in a calmer voice. “I give you my word.”

  Wide-eyed, she managed to nod.

  Jamie watched her closely for a moment, then retrieved his chair and sat back down. “You said the solicitor sent you a book. Do you have it with you?”

  “I—yes.”

  “Shall we have a look and see if we can puzzle out anything, with this new theory in mind?”

  Her heart was still thudding from his sudden intensity and nearness. Olivia slid off her chair, trying to recapture some of the distance between them, although she had a feeling things would never be the same. He’d caught her off guard and now she couldn’t erase the sight of him looming over her, his hazel eyes glittering with passion, his arms very nearly embracing her. It was the closest she’d been to him in years.

  She led the way to a corner of the room where a rough cabinet held dishes and linens. “I found this by accident,” she said, kneeling beside the cabinet. She put her finger into a knot in one of the floorboards and lifted. It only came up an inch, but then she slid it straight out, revealing a narrow hollow in the stone beneath the house. There lay the little book Mr. Armand had sent her. She took it out and replaced the loose board.