He dropped his glove, and took a swift look through the doorway as he stooped to fetch it. The thirsty customer was tall and fair, wore an arrogant expression, and when he turned his head to snap at the serving girl rushing by, Jamie recognized the man who had ridden out to Olivia’s cottage.
He picked up his glove and continued to his room. Clary’s man was staying in this very inn; how perfect. Thank the blessed Lord he hadn’t dared bring Olivia here.
Upstairs he tore open the letter. It must be something urgent for Daniel to write to him twice in one day, and to send the second express. But this letter was not from Daniel Crawford; it was from his sister.
I must protest this complete and utter abandonment of our agreement. It’s been a fortnight and you’ve not even given a hint of when you can resume work. Surely in your travels you can make time; long rides in mail coaches are endless and dull unless one is engaged in some pursuit more fascinating than watching the scenery pass. And even if you have no compassion on society at large, think of Dan, who is greatly out of humor at being left idle. The whole enterprise sprang out of his risk and effort, and now you have abandoned him. Do not let him down, I beg you.
—Bathsheba
Jamie scowled. Bathsheba was tireless to the point of being tiresome when her will was thwarted. She’d argued, protested, even wept when he left London, and now she’d decided to try guilt. Her brother had firmly agreed that Jamie must go to Olivia’s aid, though, no matter the cost or inconvenience. Jamie told himself he had nothing to regret.
It didn’t quite work. The needle of remorse was sharp, and slid deep. His absence had left Daniel at loose ends, and as Bathsheba pointed out, it was also costing him money.
He shoved the letter inside his notebook. There was nothing he could do about it now, not when he had far more pressing things to worry about. Bathsheba knew why he’d left town. She couldn’t seriously expect him to keep up his usual activities while riding about England, searching for Olivia, dodging Lord Clary, and trying desperately to find whatever object would put an end to Olivia’s troubles.
When the serving girl brought his dinner, he took a few minutes to chat with her in hopes of finding out about Clary’s servant. Apparently the man, Mr. Jakes, had already made a nuisance of himself, and she didn’t mind at all sharing how abrupt he’d been with the innkeeper’s wife about his bed linen, nor how he’d cuffed the boot boy.
“What a rotter,” said Jamie in commiseration. “But a single gent, traveling alone, won’t stay long.”
The girl rolled her eyes. “His master’s to follow any day now, he says. Thrust it right in Mr. Blackman’s face that his lordly master wouldn’t deign to stay in a slovenly place such as this. Good luck to him, I say! The Stag and Hound ain’t the finest hotel, but it’s the best in Gravesend. I’d like to see how he feels after a few nights in the flea-riddled beds at the Red Boar. They never air their linens, ne’er a once.”
“Then it sounds the ideal accommodation for him.” He winked and handed her a coin.
She grinned. “I heartily agree, sir! Good night to you.”
He ate and then packed, planning on rising early. But that left him too much time to think. How was Olivia spending her evening? The Hickses would surely be kind to her but he disliked leaving her alone there. Hell, he disliked leaving her, especially now that she had accepted his help and company again after so many years.
Jamie paced his room, restless and out of sorts. Even after all these years apart, it was startling how easy he felt with Olivia. Despite her reserve, he could see enough of the girl he knew—and had loved so wildly—that his hopes threatened to outpace reason. Perhaps he shouldn’t be surprised; while she’d been someone else’s wife and strictly out of his reach, Jamie had known his best tactic was to stay away. All his efforts to eradicate his feelings had failed, which was why he’d been careful not to spend much time around her in the last decade. It took only a few hours together, even in crowded social meetings and even as she treated him with formal courtesy, and he would feel that pull, that tug toward her—and he would know it was time to leave. His family thought he was a wanderer, unable to put down roots, but that was wrong. Leaving was the last thing he wanted to do, but it was the only thing he had to do.
But this time . . . This time Olivia wasn’t keeping him at arm’s length. This time he was determined to help her, at any and all costs to himself. Last night she had wanted him to go home and leave her to it, but today she’d been reluctant to part from him. It seemed like progress, however slow. And the thought that he might have another chance at the happiness he’d once taken for granted, before losing so suddenly . . .
He cast a look at his notebook, still lying on top of his valise. Bathsheba’s letter stuck out at the corner, taunting him. With a muttered oath he snatched up the notebook and flipped it open. The blank page seemed to hum with potential. Yes, damn it, perhaps he should get some work done. Almost feverishly he prepared a pen, and nearly spilled the ink as he wrenched off the top. He dipped the pen and tapped it, taking one last moment to think.
Then he set the pen to paper and began to write.
Chapter 11
Olivia spent a strange night at the Hickses’ home. When the door closed behind Jamie, she felt painfully exposed. She was used to being alone—in a way she had been alone for nearly ten years—but not when thrust upon the mercy of strangers. With some trepidation she went to speak to her unexpected and unwitting hostess and apologize for the way they’d been introduced.
Mary Hicks was very kind, though. She never asked what Olivia’s trouble was, or even her name. Mr. Hicks soon came home bearing a ham and a sack of turnips, which sparked an outcry of delight among his family. It didn’t take much to divine that they had suffered some very hard times, probably due to Mr. Hicks’s wounds. Before he arrived home, Mary murmured a quick warning, almost apologetically, and added that he’d been injured in the navy. Olivia watched him swing his daughters into his arms, beaming proudly, and suspected Jamie had given him a great deal of money. Even though she knew it had been done on her account, she couldn’t feel sorry for causing it.
When it was time for bed, Mary tried to give Olivia her own bed, but Olivia steadfastly refused. In the end William Hicks brought down one of his daughters’ mattress ticks and laid it before the fire. He banked the coals, asked if she needed anything at all, and when she gratefully said no, he and Mary bade her good night and went upstairs.
Alone by the fire, Olivia finally felt safe, if not peaceful. Here in this small house where no one would ever think to look for her, with a stoutly barred door and help close at hand, she could breathe easily.
It lasted only until she took out Henry’s book. This time she opened it to the end, where the stream of entries ended. Jamie said he’d read it from cover to cover, but she was interested in the last entries. If Jamie’s theory was right, whatever Clary wanted was most likely to be mentioned here. But no matter how many times she read it, the book never yielded more than it already had. Plenty of money, but only initials.
She set the book aside and sighed. What were you doing, Henry? she silently asked the glowing coals. And why couldn’t you have told me, even when you were dying?
The answers to those questions, along with sleep, eluded her. Olivia rose and dressed before any of the Hickses stirred the next day. The sooner she collected Henry’s papers and fled Gravesend, the better, especially since Clary’s man was here. She made herself eat breakfast with the Hicks family, smiling at the little girls’ enjoyment of sliced ham and slices of bread from the same loaf Olivia had bought just yesterday, but when there was a tap at the door, she leapt to her feet. Mr. Hicks got up to open the door and Jamie stepped inside, rubbing his hands together and stamping a dusting of snow from his boots.
For a moment she felt the room fade away. The emotion that bloomed inside her chest at the sight of his face caught her off guard. It wasn’t mere hope at the prospect of solving Henry’s riddles, or relie
f to be doing something instead of helplessly sitting around. It was nothing less, and really nothing more, than joy that it was Jamie who was here.
She supposed she’d had this reaction to him from the start. She had managed to repress it or ignore it for a long time, but today her defenses were gone. No man had ever made her heart soar the way he did.
Of course, no man had ever broken her heart the way he had, either.
His gaze met hers from across the room. “Are you ready?”
“Yes,” she answered. For better or for worse, her lot was cast with him this time. In a few minutes she was bundled up and they had made their farewells to Mr. and Mrs. Hicks, who warmly wished them well.
They walked briskly, their steps crunching on a thin rime of ice coating the ground. For once the wind wasn’t as sharp, and light snow drifted down around them. As they approached the solicitor’s offices, Jamie slowed his steps. “I will be ten paces behind you at all times,” he said. “As soon as you reach Armand’s door, I’ll fetch the carriage. I already checked on it, and it’s ready and waiting just as Hicks promised. Keep an eye on the window and do not leave until I drive up.”
Her heart stuttered. “He’s here, isn’t he? Clary?”
Jamie’s eyes were roving the streets around them, although few people were out. At her question his gaze snapped back to her. “I don’t think so, but we shan’t risk it. His man in staying at the Stag and Hound.” He tilted his head slightly at the large inn across the street.
Olivia said nothing, her breath crystallizing on the net of the veil she wore over her bonnet. Even though it clouded her vision, she didn’t feel protected by it. She strode ahead, keeping her attention on the half-timbered building that housed Mr. Armand’s office. Inside her cloak pocket she clutched the small purse that held exactly one hundred pounds. The solicitor wasn’t getting a farthing more from her.
In fact, he didn’t even try. Today the clerk was less surly than before, and waved her toward the open inner door. “Go right in, madam. Mr. Armand is expecting you.”
Olivia hardly paused as she walked through, letting out her breath when she saw the room held only Mr. Armand. With some effort she blocked all question of Clary from her mind. “Good morning, sir. You have everything ready, I trust.”
Mr. Armand regarded her as if he suspected she would pull a gun on him. “I do.” He nudged a package, neatly knotted in string, across his desk. “As you requested.”
She smiled. “Excellent. You don’t mind if I take a look, do you? I wouldn’t want to walk away with someone else’s papers by mistake.” She felt almost rude, baldly saying she didn’t trust him, but Armand had already tried to lie to her. It wouldn’t surprise her a bit if he handed her a packet of worthless scraps.
“There’s no mistake, Mrs. Townsend,” he said, stony-faced. “But do as you please.”
Mindful of the time, she untied the string and rifled through the enclosed papers, enough to recognize Henry’s handwriting. “Thank you, Mr. Armand.”
He pushed a paper at her. “Would you be so kind as to sign that you’ve taken possession of them?” When she hesitated, he gave her a flat, humorless smile. “For my records.”
“Of course.” She scrawled something only vaguely resembling her name, and took out her purse. “And if you’d be so kind as to provide a receipt, we can conclude our business.” She had learned too well to be very watchful of her money.
By the time the clerk grudgingly wrote a receipt, Olivia had spotted Jamie in the street. He was barely recognizable, with his muffler over his face, as he adjusted the bridles of two sturdy-looking brown geldings harnessed to a traveling chaise. When she stepped out the door, package clutched to her chest, he immediately opened the chaise door and she ducked inside. The carriage swayed as Jamie vaulted into the driver’s seat and they were off before the vehicle had swayed back.
The day was gray and cloudy, but Olivia ripped off the wrappings of the packet. One by one she held up the pages to the window, her eyes racing over them in search of . . . something. But these pages held nothing. Letters on mundane matters between Henry and Mr. Charters, receipts for expenses, and weather reports. In increasing desperation Olivia dug deeper into the packet. It wasn’t thick, and it didn’t take her long to reach the end, without having found a single useful piece of information.
For a moment she just sat in shock, rocking gently with the carriage’s motion. Why had Henry wanted this burned? Why had Armand lied and said he had burned them? It was worthless—rubbish. All that wasted effort—and money . . . For a moment she considered pitching it all out the window and letting the wind carry it off to the sea.
The sound of Jamie’s voice floated back to her; he was speaking to the horses, but it acted as a balm on her nerves. She couldn’t despair so soon. Jamie had seen something in Henry’s diary that she had not; he would read every page of this, and she had no doubt he would find something helpful in it, somehow. She pressed her fingertips to her temples and let her temper cool for a minute, then picked up the papers again. There must be some reason the solicitor had kept them.
By the time Jamie turned off the road, she had read every page twice. Unless they were using some sort of code, Henry’s letters to Mr. Charters held nothing of any help. They referred obliquely to “associates” but not in terms that would identify any of them, let alone indict them, and referred only in the vaguest terms to business transactions. The expense reports were similarly bland, mere receipts. The weather reports were simply mystifying. And there wasn’t the slightest indication of what items Henry had smuggled into England, let alone any that might still be missing.
The door opened. “Have you solved it?” Jamie asked.
Olivia sighed. “No.”
He nodded as if that was expected. “Come down, let’s have a cup of tea while they change the horses.”
She gathered her skirt and stepped down, blinking at the thick flurry of white around her. “Where are we?”
“About fifteen miles from Gravesend.” He squinted at the leaden sky. “The weather is slowing us down.”
Nervously Olivia looked over her shoulder, as if Clary would materialize out of the swirling snow. The road behind them was empty as far as she could see—which was not very far. She shivered and tugged her cloak around her. “Where are we going?”
“East.”
“Why?” Olivia glanced at him, and realized he was half frozen; snow had collected on his hat and shoulders, even on his eyelashes. While she’d been sitting snug in the carriage with a lap blanket and hot bricks at her feet, he’d been exposed to the weather. “Tell me later,” she said before he could answer. “I’ll secure a private parlor.” She picked up her skirts and hurried inside.
But once Jamie had come in from speaking to the groom and they were settled by a fire with hot tea, she returned to the question. “Why are we going east?”
“It seemed as good a direction as any.” Jamie propped his boots on the fender and cradled his tea in both hands. His cheeks were red and when he winced on a sip of tea, Olivia felt a sharp tug at her heart at the evidence of what lengths he would go to for her.
“Wouldn’t it make more sense to go back to London and confront Mr. Brewster, to see if he’s got the other half of the ledger entries?”
He leaned back in his chair. “Have you found something indicating him?”
At the mention of the papers, Olivia flushed. “Not yet.”
“I’ll wager you won’t.” He gave a halfhearted shrug at her expression. “Henry was quite good at this. It would be foolish to connect the two arms of the operation. I chose east because it seems more likely smugglers operated out here, bringing in shipments. I could be completely wrong, but in that event, at least we may have thrown off anyone trying to follow us.”
They sat in silence for several minutes, Jamie warming his feet and Olivia feeling the dark cloud gathering around her again as they encountered yet another obstacle. Curse Henry. Thanks to his wiliness they
were racketing about the countryside in winter, unsure of where to go or whom to seek, with Clary looming like a specter over their shoulders.
“What are we doing, Jamie?” she asked, staring into the fire. “We don’t know what we’re searching for; we don’t even know where we’re going.”
“We’re heading away from Clary,” he countered. “And we’ll sort out where precisely we’re going from Henry’s papers.”
Her stomach knotted. “I haven’t found anything helpful.”
“No? Let’s have a look. I told the groom we would stay an hour,” he said.
The thought that he could divine some useful information in such a short time, after she’d spent hours poring over every page, made her want to cry. Either he would, proving her inept or stupid, or he wouldn’t, and they would be no closer to finding an end to this nightmare.
What if they never found what Clary wanted? What if such a thing didn’t exist? He could be chasing after them right this moment, unhindered by the snow and no doubt furious to have missed her in Gravesend. What if his servant had seen her this morning, and he and his master had followed them all day? Clary could be lying in wait for them to leave this inn. If Jamie drove them out into a snowstorm, it would be easy for Clary to shoot him . . .
Abruptly she stood. By now the viscount had assumed monstrous and supernatural powers in her mind. Even though she knew it was probably hysteria, the feeling was unshakable and she needed a moment to steady herself. “We should stay here this evening.”
Jamie frowned. “I’d rather put more distance between us and Gravesend.”
Six Degrees of Scandal Page 11
