She shook her head. Over his shoulder the window presented a view into the nascent blizzard. The roads would be almost as dangerous as Clary. “It’s snowing, and we’ve no idea where to go until we sort out those papers. I’ll go speak to the innkeeper.” Without waiting for his reply, she rushed from the room.
When she found the innkeeper’s wife, the woman nodded knowingly. “I suspected as much. The snow’s coming down harder than ever now, and I doubt even the mail coach will get through. Everyone’s asking to stay. But I’ve still got a fine room upstairs, m’lady, and your man can find a bed above the stables.”
The mere mention of Jamie being so far away hit Olivia like a punch. Her heart jumped into her throat and her chest felt tight, and she had to grip her hands together to stop their shaking. No. Last night she had endured it, but only because Jamie judged the Hicks home safe. This was just an inn along the Canterbury road, where no one would think twice about answering freely and honestly if anyone asked about her. Lord Clary might be two days behind them, with no idea where they were heading, or he might be two hours behind. He—or at least his man—had traced her as far as Gravesend and could just as easily follow her here.
She forced herself to take a deep breath. That was panic driving her thoughts again, and she mustn’t give in to it. It would paralyze her otherwise. She tried to see the humor in the moment: the woman had just offered the fine room upstairs to a penniless widow, while consigning a wealthy man to sleeping in the stables with the servants. Even more amusing, Jamie would actually do it. He’d never been one to stand on ceremony or status, and easily kept company with a wide variety of people. Of course she couldn’t let him sleep in the stable—it was snowing, for heaven’s sake. But when she opened her mouth to explain, what came out was, “He’s my husband.”
The proprietress looked as startled as Olivia felt. “Oh, begging your pardon, ma’am! I presumed, since he was driving, that he must be—but I’ll see that your things are put upstairs straightaway. Will you want dinner as well?”
Shocked mute by what she’d just done, Olivia nodded. She went back to the parlor, but hesitated with her hand on the door. So much for her vow to maintain a distance between them. And yet . . . did she still want to? Jamie had rushed to her aid, at no small expense or inconvenience to himself. He had sworn to protect her and help her. She trusted him implicitly—except where her own heart was concerned.
She let herself in. Jamie was waiting, on his feet and coatless. “I’m sorry, Livie,” he said at once. “I should have consulted you. My only thought was to leave Gravesend as quickly as possible.”
“As was mine.” She rubbed her hands down her skirt, trying not to notice how broad his shoulders looked in shirtsleeves, nor how attractive he was with his hair pushed back, curling at his collar where it had got damp from the snow. Why had she said he was her husband? Hadn’t she spent ten years trying to banish that wish from her mind?
“It wasn’t my place to decide for you what we should do,” he went on. “You’ve been through so much—”
An untimely urge to laugh bubbled up. “I’m fine.”
He smiled. “I know you are. That’s the girl I know: always strong and unbroken.”
Always strong? At the moment she didn’t feel strong at all. Her courage began to flag; she could still run after the landlady and ask for another room . . .
“You’re right: we should stop for the night here. We do need time to figure out where to turn next, and you should have a good night’s sleep.”
That would be close to impossible, given what she’d told the innkeeper’s wife. Sleep had been difficult when Jamie was only a few stairs away at the lonely seaside cottage. How much harder would it be to have him in the same room . . . even in the same bed?
Olivia inhaled unevenly. After telling herself for years that there could never be anything between them again, now she couldn’t think of anything else. For the first time in a decade she was alone with him. No one knew where they were, and no one nearby knew who they were. Perhaps this was a chance to wipe the slate clean . . .
If it wasn’t too late for that.
She pressed one hand to her forehead. She was as unsure and confused as if she were sixteen again. At least before there had only been youth and shyness between them.
“Olivia,” said Jamie loudly, as if he’d said her name several times. She jerked, and met his concerned gaze. “Are you feeling faint? You’ve gone pale.”
“There’s only one room,” she blurted out. It wasn’t quite a lie. There was only one room reserved for them, as of now.
His expression changed. “Ah. I shall find a pile of straw in the stables—”
“No!” She flushed. “I refuse to allow that. You’ve been out in the weather all day.”
He didn’t speak for a moment. “There must be something . . .”
“I told the proprietress you were my husband,” she said in a rush. “I thought it would be easier.”
For a split second his face was blank, perfectly expressionless, as if he’d been struck dumb. “Right,” he said after a moment. “We’ll manage.” Before Olivia could ask what that meant, he turned away. “We should start on puzzling these out,” he said without looking at her. He held up some of Henry’s papers. “They have to be important, because Charters and then Armand kept them. Did you make any discovery?”
She wilted. It was both disappointing and a relief to change the subject. By evening, she told herself, she would decide how to address the shared room. “No.”
“We will.” He reached for the mahogany writing case he’d brought in with him. “Let’s start by aligning everything against Henry’s ledger.”
Over the next few hours they sorted every paper from Mr. Armand, spreading them out on the table. At one point Jamie took out a common book and began making notes. Olivia’s head began to hurt; the reports seemed meaningless to her, even when correlated with the entries in Henry’s ledger. Most obscure of all were the weather reports. Among the letters and receipts were inexplicably detailed reports of wind, rain, tides, and fog. “Is this some sort of code?” she finally asked in exasperation.
Jamie was frowning at one of the weather descriptions. “I don’t think so, not in the usual sense. I understand the importance—anything that comes by sea, particularly covertly, relies a great deal on weather.”
She sighed. “But how can they help us now, so many months later?” She picked up one at random. “This one isn’t even for weather in Gravesend or any nearby town. It’s all about the sea off the Isle of Thanet, which must be nearly fifty miles from here.”
“If weather was important to Henry,” said Jamie slowly, “these reports must correspond to shipments—the important ones.” He ran his finger down a page of the ledger again, glancing at another weather report. “Soon after this, Henry paid twelve pounds to Capn. P. That’s more than usual. Most of the payments are under ten pounds.”
“Perhaps he took more risk.”
“Perhaps,” muttered Jamie, looking doubtful.
Olivia’s heart sank. She’d spent half the money borrowed from Penelope to get these papers, and they only left her more mystified than ever. It probably wouldn’t take Clary long to find Mr. Armand, who wouldn’t waste a moment telling the viscount what had happened. The only solace she felt was the fact that Clary didn’t seem to know any better than she did where to find Henry’s missing treasure.
“Perhaps he paid more if the weather was dreadful,” she said half in jest. “I certainly would charge more to unload a ship in driving rain or fog. I don’t suppose they could sail into a harbor and berth at the dock.”
He was still leaning over the array of papers on the table. “Perhaps.”
“Should we make a list?” She needed something to do, to stave off the creeping feeling that Henry had hidden his tracks too well. Without comment Jamie pushed his notebook across the table. Olivia occupied herself with drawing a neat table on one page and then filled in each diary
entry, weather notice, and letter. Jamie fed papers to her in chronological order, and at times got up to pace the room in thought. At some point a maid came and he ordered dinner and wine, the latter of which arrived just as Olivia finished her chart.
“What do we have?” Jamie poured the wine and handed her a glass.
She stretched her ink-stained fingers. “The only thing I notice is that all the weather reports coincide with payments.” He held out his hand and she gave him the notebook.
“Yes,” he murmured, reading down the page. “And Captain P was paid more than anyone else.”
“If only we knew who he was,” she said under her breath.
“And . . .” He looked up. “He was one of the last people paid—right before Henry died.”
Which still didn’t indicate who he was or what he’d been paid for. Olivia drank some wine and indulged in a few uncharitable thoughts about her late husband.
Abruptly Jamie shoved back his chair, scraping the feet loudly over the floor. “Was there a weather report for the very last payment?”
“Yes.”
“From where?”
She ran her finger over the papers until she found it. “Another one from Thanet; it mentions Deal.” Deal lay on the Straight of Dover, conveniently opposite the French port of Calais, where Commodore Clary was stationed.
“Ramsgate,” he breathed. “Go back and add where the weather reports were gathered next to each payment, especially our Captain P.”
His air of intense interest made her sit up. “Why?”
“I have an idea,” was all he would say as he rifled through the papers in search of every weather document. As he read them aloud, she noted the locale of each report. By the end even she could see the pattern.
Most of the weather reports were taken between Gravesend and Sheppey, the northern coast of Kent. Every report from Thanet, though—the eastern coast—corresponded with a payment to the mysterious Captain P—which were a few pounds higher than all the other payments.
Jamie’s expression was fiercely victorious. “Old Charters left no widow, but I learned he did have a daughter. She married and went to Ramsgate, only a few miles from Deal.”
Her mouth fell open. “And her husband was a ship’s captain?”
“No, a vicar.” He saw her expression. “Who else would be better positioned to act as an intermediary with local sea captains?”
That sounded very slender evidence to Olivia. “I suppose . . .”
Jamie was undeterred. “The weather reports could be a way of indicating something was successfully brought ashore—and weather would matter to valuable artworks, where a tumble into the water could ruin them. All of these report calm seas, fog, moonless nights, which would make it easier to unload cargo. I still believe payments were made in exchange for sheltering the goods. Higher payments to Captain P could mean he took the more valuable items. And who would suspect a vicar of being part of the operation?”
Dutifully she nodded, though not because she was persuaded. The thought of driving to the easternmost edge of Kent in search of an unnamed vicar who might know something—or nothing—about Henry’s smuggling made her want to be sick. In fact, they had no proof Henry had been smuggling at all, not really. She would have put Penelope’s money to better use buying a pistol to shoot Clary through the heart, and then booking passage to America, letting Henry’s scheming fade into oblivion. She reached for her wineglass.
“I think we should go to Ramsgate.” Jamie’s eyes gleamed with renewed enthusiasm. “Let’s track down Mr. Charters’s daughter and see if she knows anything.”
“And if she doesn’t?”
He shrugged, as if her question hadn’t suggested they would be wasting their time. “Then we’ll know that avenue of inquiry is dead and move on to something else.”
Shooting Clary in the heart would be easier, she thought, mildly shocking herself. The wine must be magnifying her anxiety; she didn’t normally contemplate violence against anyone, not even Clary.
“Do you disagree, Livie?” Jamie was watching her too closely. Either that or he could still tell what she was thinking by the look on her face.
“I fear it will be a waste of time.” She raised her glass, realized it was empty, and set it down with a sigh. “A long, cold drive with nothing but disappointment at the end. However, I don’t have a better idea. If you’re correct, that Henry left one valuable item undelivered, I suppose this is the only way to discover it.”
“But you still doubt.”
She twisted her empty glass. “Wouldn’t Charters have delivered anything smuggled into England, even after Henry died?”
“Not if he didn’t get paid for it.” Jamie leaned back in his chair. “Remember he only handled this end. I presume Henry sent him funds as necessary, but we don’t have that accounting. If Charters stopped receiving money when Henry fell ill, he might not feel compelled to deliver anything. He may not have known to whom to deliver it; Henry took pains to keep the receiving side—the smugglers—separated from the delivery side—possibly Lord Clary.”
“What if Charters told everyone to destroy anything when he learned Henry had died? If they weren’t going to get paid and didn’t know whom to deliver to, why would they keep it?”
“Because they know it’s worth something to someone.” A knock sounded on the door, and he called out, “Come.” As the maid brought in a tray of food, he gathered up all the papers, stacking them neatly with the notebook on top. “Put this out of your mind and eat,” he told Olivia in a kinder tone. “We’ve had enough for one day.”
The maid brought a hearty stew and fresh bread, still warm from the oven, along with more wine. They ate in silence, Olivia fighting off the feeling that they had gained nothing. From Jamie’s absorbed expression, she thought he was probably planning their trip to Ramsgate and how he would locate Mr. Charters’s daughter. That would be like him: determined and undaunted.
Perhaps he was right. His prediction about Mr. Armand had been accurate, and whatever hunches he followed to find her had been just as good. She should acknowledge that he knew better what he was doing than she did.
Of course, it was her own actions that were keeping them overnight in this inn, sharing a room.
As if he had just thought of the same thing, he pushed back from the table. They had both finished eating and been sitting in silence for some time. “You must be exhausted. Why don’t you go to bed?”
Her breathing hitched. She rubbed her palms on her skirt. “And you?”
He didn’t meet her gaze. “I’ll just finish the wine and see if it inspires any brilliant thoughts on where to find the mysterious Captain P.” In illustration he lifted the decanter over his glass.
She should say something, explaining her actions. She should clarify what she expected, or intended, after she had taken only one room for the two of them. Unfortunately, no explanation came to mind; not a word of any kind, in fact. With a nod, she got up and fled.
The innkeeper directed her to a good-sized room upstairs, where the fire was already lit. Her valise as well as another bag that must be Jamie’s were stowed neatly by the washstand. And just beyond that stood the bed, wide and inviting.
The sight of it made her stop.
For ten years she had tried to forget what it was like with Jamie. Three days in his company made her remember everything. Not only the physical pleasure—despite his youth and inexperience, Jamie had made love to her with astonishing enthusiasm and tenderness—but the joy and comfort of being loved so deeply and purely. Never had she found anyone else who cared for her that way. Abigail and Penelope were like sisters to her, but there were things she couldn’t tell them. Jamie, on the other hand . . . She had always known she could confide anything to him, and she had trusted him wholeheartedly.
But as she had stood at the window that horrible day in Tunbridge Wells, brokenhearted and alone with a husband who was very much a stranger to her, watching the man she loved ride away, Oliv
ia had thought herself the stupidest creature alive. If she hadn’t been so trusting and honest with Jamie, he never would have been able to hurt her so badly. Then and there she vowed not to touch him, not to be alone with him, not to speak to him of anything beyond trivialities. She didn’t even want to know about his activities; surely it was only a matter of time before he fell in love and married someone else, and Olivia wasn’t sure she could bear that. It was easier to build a wall between them.
Suddenly she wished she hadn’t done it. It had protected her wounded young heart, but at the cost of a friendship that had sustained her since she was a child. If she hadn’t pushed him away, Jamie might have helped her endure her lonely, loveless marriage. Henry wouldn’t have cared. And Olivia knew that, if she had asked, Jamie would have advised her when Clary started hounding her. The same pride that had kept her from telling him how desperate her father’s finances were, ten years ago, had also kept her from telling Jamie—and all the Westons—that she was in serious trouble.
Olivia let out her breath. She wanted to solve her own problems, but by not asking for help when she needed it, she had only made things worse. And as soon as Jamie learned of it, he had come, focused and determined and willing to risk his own safety to help her.
There was no undoing the past, but she could learn from it. Olivia readied for bed, feeling a tendril of hope in her breast. It might be too late to hope for anything else, but three days with Jamie had vividly reminded her how easily they got on together. If she could manage to revive their friendship, it would be like restoring a piece of her heart. As she got into bed, she said a small prayer that he would feel the same.
Chapter 12
Jamie sat by the fire for a long time.
Olivia had told the innkeeper they were married and would share a room. Jamie had to remind himself—repeatedly—not to make too much of that. She didn’t want to be alone. She had been through unimaginable strain lately. If by some chance Lord Clary forged through the snow and caught up to them, discovered what room they had, and burst through the locked door in the middle of the night, it would be a very good thing that Jamie be there to protect her.
Six Degrees of Scandal Page 12
