Six Degrees of Scandal

by Caroline Linden

  “If you prefer,” he said. She darted a wary glance at him, and he nodded in grudging concession. “It might be best to keep our acquaintance quiet. Clary doesn’t know me, which means he won’t be attuned to anything I do.” It also occurred to him that the viscount’s likely reaction to any man helping Olivia would probably be a pistol shot to the back of the head. The more anonymity Jamie had, the more useful he could be.

  But that didn’t leave many options for getting anything from Armand, so in the end they decided on a bold, simple strike. Olivia put on her cloak and bonnet, looking determined and confident, and set out for town. Jamie followed her from a careful distance until she reached the edge of Gravesend, almost within sight of the solicitor’s office. He might agree that she could face the man alone, but he’d be damned if he’d allow her to walk about unprotected while Clary was free. If anything happened to her, Jamie would never forgive himself.

  She turned the corner, heading up the main thoroughfare into town, and Jamie went the other way, tugging his muffler higher around his face. The first thing he had to do was get Olivia out of that isolated cottage. If he could find her there, so could anyone else. Penelope had given him a little information, when he set out to find Olivia, but the biggest clue by far was that the Townsends had come from Kent, specifically Rochester. That had narrowed his search considerably, but it was hardly a great secret. It was a stroke of luck that Mr. Armand had turned out to be relatively near London, and not in one of the many smuggling villages scattered across the entire Kentish coast. But it was a stroke that could cut both ways, and the sooner Olivia quit Gravesend, the better.

  He headed around town along the coast road, finally stopping at a small house at the end of a row of narrow cottages, cobbled together piecemeal and in various states of shabbiness. Jamie rapped at the door and waited. Smoke puffed from the chimney, but the paint on the door was peeling and the curtains were drawn. After several minutes a woman opened the door. She balanced a drooling toddler on one hip and looked a little frazzled, even though it was still morning.

  “Is this the home of Mr. William Hicks?” he asked.

  “Aye,” said the woman slowly. “Who’s asking?”

  In reply he handed her a folded note. She looked at it sideways, then disappeared into the house. Barely a minute later the door was yanked open, this time by a man about Jamie’s own age. A long scar, badly healed, ran along the side of his face from his chin, past his severed ear, into his hair. “Come in, sir,” he said, opening the door wider and gesturing with a hand missing three fingers.

  James stepped inside the house. It was warm but the air was thick, as if the house had been closed up too long. The woman was bundling the toddler and another small child up the narrow stairs at the rear of the large room, while two girls of about eight or ten stoked the fire and stirred the contents of the kettle hung over that fire. Limping heavily, William Hicks swept aside some schoolbooks on the bench and offered Jamie the chair at the head of the table. He murmured quietly to the two girls, and they moved the pot to a hook outside the hearth before following their mother up the stairs.

  “Thank you for speaking with me,” James said, taking the chair with a nod.

  “Anything Lieutenant Crawford asks, I’ll give,” said Mr. Hicks at once, straddling the bench. He laid the unfolded note on the table. Render this man all aid within your power, as a favor to me—Lt. D. Crawford, it read. “You’ve only to ask, sir.”

  Jamie didn’t look at the paper. “I know what he wrote, but I’m not here to ask for favors. I’m prepared to pay handsomely for your inconvenience.”

  “No inconvenience at all, not for a friend of the lieutenant.” Hicks sat with military straightness, his gaze trained on James’s face. “What can I do for you?”

  “I need three things.” He held up his fingers. “A closed carriage, as fast as you can find that will also allow travel with some privacy, along with a good horse or two to pull it.”

  “I’ll have one by tomorrow morning,” Hicks vowed.

  “No one must know it’s for me, or hear my name.”

  Hicks shrugged. “I don’t know your name, sir.”

  Jamie grinned. “Exactly. I also need a hamper of provisions, enough to feed a man for three days at least. Can you stow it in the carriage?”

  “I can and I will.”

  He nodded in approval. “And the last thing I need is information. I understand there’s a solicitor named Charters in Gravesend.”

  “There was,” said Hicks. “Dead now—must be nigh on four or five months.”

  “Yes. What sort of fellow was he?” He saw Hicks hesitate. “A man of discretion?”

  “Aye,” was the immediate reply. “That he was.”

  Jamie leaned forward and lowered his voice. “The sort a free trader might be able to trust?”

  Hicks looked wary at the mention of smugglers, but gave a slow nod. “Might have been. I didn’t have much business with him.”

  “But you heard things, surely.” When Hicks hesitated again, Jamie dropped his voice another level. “The man is dead. I mean no harm to him or his memory. Did he leave a widow?”

  From his expression, Hicks was struggling with his conscience. Jamie waited. Daniel Crawford, his friend and source of information in London, had sworn Hicks would rise to the occasion, but the pull of loyalty to home was strong. “No,” said his host at last.

  Damn. That cut off one main source of hope, that there could be evidence hidden with the original solicitor’s family. “A brother?” Jamie pressed. “A mother? Did he have anyone at all?”

  “He had a daughter,” said Hicks after a moment’s thought. “Out near Ramsgate, I think, but no other family I heard of.”

  That was a link, however slim. “Do you know her name?”

  After a moment Hicks shook his head. “She married a vicar, is all I remember.”

  “What do you know of the man who assumed his practice?”

  Hicks relaxed. “Horatio Armand. He come from Rye, I believe.”

  Another smuggling haven. “Is he cut from the same cloth as Charters?”

  The other man’s mouth opened, then closed. He lifted one shoulder, his expression unreadable.

  Jamie altered his approach. “I don’t intend to use this information against anyone. In fact, it helps me less if both men were upright and law-abiding supporters of the customs collector. But someone’s safety, perhaps someone’s life, hangs in the balance.”

  Hicks sighed. He frowned at the note on the table. “I can only repeat some gossip, aye? I had nothing to do with any of it myself.”

  “Of course not.” Jamie even knew it was true. Hicks had been away at sea, a midshipman under Daniel Crawford’s command, until two years ago, when he suffered his disfiguring injuries in the East Indies. He’d come home to recuperate and been unable to find a place on another ship in the navy when he was well. Daniel had spoken of him as the most responsible and capable man to have onboard, though.

  “There was a good bit of free trading in this area during the war,” Hick said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I expect you know that. It ain’t nothing to what went on decades ago, before the Riding Officers started patrolling. Anyone who partakes of that needs a good man ashore to help cover his tracks, aye? Charters might’ve been one such man. I can’t swear to it, but I wouldn’t doubt it, either. It’s hard to believe he’d sell his practice to any other sort, but I know nothing directly about Armand.”

  That fit with the picture coming together in Jamie’s mind. “Did you ever know of a family called Townsend, from Rochester?”

  Hicks frowned in thought. “Nay, can’t say I do.”

  He hadn’t really expected Hicks to say yes, but it was worth asking. “I’m also interested in knowing if a certain man has been in Gravesend, at any time in the last several years but especially in the last few months. He’s an aristocrat and looks it. About my height, around forty years of age. Dark hair, pale skin, a prominent nose. He�
�d be seeking Charters as well, most likely, and someone called Townsend.”

  “I’ve not noticed him about town, but I can ask,” said Hicks. “His name?”

  This time Jamie hesitated, but it was too important to know if Clary had traced Olivia this far. “I don’t want you asking for him by name. Don’t mention it unless strictly necessary.”

  “I won’t, sir.” Hicks grinned. “I expect the lieutenant told you I can be trusted to hold my tongue.”

  “That’s why I’m here.” Jamie grinned back. “The man’s name is Simon Clary—Viscount Clary. He’s a dangerous fellow and is likely to be desperate.”

  “Got it.” Hicks’s eyes gleamed. “Are you chasing him or running from him?”

  “Avoiding him at all costs. If you chance to hear anything of him, or any man who fits his description, I’d like to know it.”

  Hicks nodded. “Where shall I report, sir?”

  “I’ll come tomorrow morning for the horse and carriage.” He pulled a purse from his pocket and set it on the table. “I hope that’s adequate.”

  Hicks picked it up and peered inside. For a moment his lips moved as he counted, then he jerked up his head in astonishment. “’Tis several times adequate!”

  “For your inconvenience.” Jamie got to his feet. “And your discretion.”

  “Entirely yours, sir,” said Hicks fervently. “Thank ’ee dearly.”

  Jamie picked up his hat, then paused. “I expect to leave town tomorrow, but if you should hear anything after that, about Clary or anyone called Townsend, would you write to your lieutenant and tell him? He’ll get word to me.”

  “I will indeed, sir. But what if I need to contact you before?”

  “I’m staying at the Stag and Hound tonight,” said James. “Under the name Daniel Crawford.”

  Hicks started, then a slight smile touched his face. “I’ll not forget that name.”

  Tucking his muffler higher around his neck, James said farewell and went back out into the cold. Now that supplies and transportation were arranged, he went to the inn. Olivia had told him to wait for two hours; she explained the solicitor had made her wait for hours the previous day. Not liking the idea of her sitting docilely in the very spot where Clary might seek her first, Jamie argued against that. Finally they had agreed on one hour, which gave him just enough time now to shave and change his shirt.

  He crossed the busy yard and jogged up the stairs two at a time to his room. The Stag and Hound was the biggest inn in Gravesend, allowing him to come and go without much notice. The fire in his room was nothing but ash, as expected, and it was cold, but not as cold as it was in the fishing cottage. He stripped to the waist to wash and shave.

  He stropped his razor and pondered the next move. How was she getting on with the solicitor? He paused to fish out his watch. Still nearly half an hour until he was to meet Olivia. Jamie soaped his face and applied the razor, hoping she returned from her mission with a stack of documents. As long as she got something useful from Armand, this would be worth it, but either way they were leaving Gravesend before Clary could catch up to them.

  Just thinking of the viscount made him nick his chin. Jamie cursed and swabbed the blood away. Clary’s persistence bothered him. Jamie had known many a person willing to go to great lengths to achieve their object once set upon it. If he was perfectly honest with himself, that could be said about him at times. But he had never pursued a goal beyond the bounds of reason or sanity, and Clary would be doing just that if he came after Olivia. Not only had he tried to kill Penelope and played some role in Lord Stratford’s death, there was simply no reason Clary needed Olivia. If Jamie’s theory was correct, and Clary was after a valuable piece of art, there had to be more discreet ways to find it than by terrifying Olivia, especially once it became clear she didn’t have it.

  And that only alarmed Jamie more. It meant Clary wanted her as much as he wanted the mystery object, and that made him even more dangerous.

  He dried his face and changed clothes, then headed back out to meet Olivia. Just as he was about to step out of the taproom into the cold, the innkeeper hailed him. “Mr. Crawford! There’s a letter for you, sir, delivered express this morning.”

  Jamie stopped instantly. The only person who knew where he was, and what name he was using, was the man who had lent him that name. He gave the innkeeper a nod of thanks and took the letter with him, not wanting to miss Olivia.

  It took only a few minutes to reach the place where he had agreed to wait for her. There was no view of the main street from here but he found a spot that offered some shelter from the wind and a fair prospect of the street she would take out of town, not too far from where she had come at him with the shovel the previous night. He checked his watch again and finally took out his letter.

  His expectation of what it would say was not disappointed.

  The answer to your parting question is no. I’ve run every rumor to the ground and found naught. All my sources are alerted though and will report if the news changes. My sister sends her best and urges you to return to town as soon as you may.

  Yr servant, Crawford

  That put one question to rest. No one had seen Lord Clary since he pushed Penelope off the Stratford yacht. To Jamie’s mind that meant one of two things: either Clary had taken off in pursuit of Olivia, or he was lying low in a preemptive bid to rally his connections against any charges Atherton brought. Since the first choice had dire consequences, Jamie had gone after Olivia himself while setting Daniel to finding out if the second might be true. After all, if Clary was fortifying his alliances in London, it would buy some time for Olivia to sort out her late husband’s secrets.

  But none of Daniel’s many sources of gossip in and around London had seen or heard news of Lord Clary recently, and Jamie knew those sources included at least one member of the House of Lords. That didn’t mean Clary wasn’t spreading his own version of the events aboard the Stratford yacht, but it severely curtailed any relief Jamie felt at having located Olivia so quickly.

  He checked his watch again. She should have come along by now, yet was nowhere to be seen. He craned his neck and looked down the lonely path toward the cottage, but they had explicitly promised to meet here. Whoever arrived first was to wait, concealed if necessary in the rambling hedgerows.

  James walked down the road a hundred yards. From there he could see almost into Gravesend. The solicitor’s office was a few streets down from this one, and Olivia would have only a short walk before she should come into view. Where was she?

  He paced back and forth, torn between two unpleasant choices. She had insisted that she’d come this far on her own, and she could do this herself; he wanted her to trust him, and that meant he must trust her. But the note from Daniel crinkled ominously in his pocket, and the thought of Clary lying in wait for her outside the solicitor’s office made his steps drift ever closer to Gravesend.

  Breathing hard, he stopped. She was only a few minutes late. If he charged into the office it would blow away any chance of keeping their association clandestine. They needed every advantage they could find to stay ahead of Clary, even one as slight as the fact that she wasn’t a woman alone any longer. Reluctantly Jamie returned to his waiting spot, but with his watch in hand. In another quarter of an hour he was going after her, and damn anyone who saw.

  Chapter 9

  Olivia pushed open the door of Mr. Armand’s office with fire in her eyes and vengeance in her heart. The solicitor had dismissed her and made her feel like a fool yesterday, and she meant to pay him back in kind.

  “Good morning,” she said to the astonished clerk, who almost fell off his stool at the sight of her. “I’ve come to see Mr. Armand.”

  “He’s not in, madam,” he protested.

  Olivia kept walking. Today she was not going to sit demurely and wait for anyone to deign to see her. “I’ll wait in his office until he arrives.”

  “Madam,” cried the clerk, trying—and failing—to scurry around her
and block the door. “This is inappropriate!”

  Olivia ignored him. Without breaking stride, she reached the door to Mr. Armand’s office and threw it open. The office was empty.

  The irate clerk folded his arms. “I told you, madam.”

  “And I told you I would wait in his office.” She took off her cloak and tossed it onto the chair. “Some tea would be lovely, thank you.”

  With an expression of deep outrage and hostility, the clerk drew himself up. “As you wish,” he sneered. Olivia just smiled at him and closed the door with a firm snap, right in his face. A few moments later she heard the outer door open and bang closed. He must be running off to fetch Mr. Armand to warn him there was a madwoman in his office.

  Let him. Olivia felt a bit mad, to say nothing of impatient. The last thing she wanted to do was wait here all day.

  Mindful of Jamie’s warnings, she edged toward the windows, which looked east over the street. Nothing exceptional caught her eye, but she stepped well back from them anyway. She ought to sit properly in her chair and wait, and yet . . . This would be a prime moment to see if any of Henry’s papers were at hand. Today the bookcases held thick legal books, and the boxes of papers she had seen yesterday were gone. Jamie, she was sure, would be rifling through everything in the office if he were here. But Olivia was still somewhat shocked her bold gambit had worked thus far, and so when Mr. Armand came thundering into the office, she was sitting calmly in the chair.

  The solicitor’s face was purple. “What do you mean by this, Mrs. Townsend?”

  She rose and gave him her best smile. “Mr. Armand. I called upon you yesterday. You might recall it. You left me to wait for hours, then had the effrontery to tell me you had burned my husband’s papers.”