He scrubbed his hands over his face. That was as likely as Olivia throwing herself into his arms and letting him make love to her. He’d noticed—keenly—that she wouldn’t touch him, not even when climbing through a hedge. No, her actions tonight were surely motivated by fear of being helpless and alone, and he had pledged himself to protect her, not add to her anxieties. Which meant his actions tonight would be motivated by decency and honor. If he took even the slightest advantage of the situation, he would be no better than Clary—worse, in fact.
The maid came to clear away the dishes. “Will you be wanting another bottle of wine, sir?”
It was tempting. He shook his head and levered himself out of the chair. “No thank you.”
“Good night, sir.” She let herself out, the door propped open in her wake as a hint that he ought to go upstairs. A glance at his watch showed the hour was late. When he opened the shutter over one window, he saw a field of white, the snow still drifting down on the deserted inn yard. On the slim chance Clary’s servant managed to follow their trail, Jamie had spoken to the groom who helped him stable the horses about any visitors who might come after them. With the snow falling all day, albeit lightly, it was far less likely anyone could follow them—yet. It was some comfort that they could sleep easily tonight.
Well—as easily as possible, given the shared room.
He took a deep, resolute breath. If he could endure eight years of seeing Olivia married to another man, he could endure one night in the same room with her. Still, he finished every drop of wine before packing up the papers and heading for the stairs.
The room was dark when he let himself in. A single lamp sat on the mantel, the wick turned down low to provide a bare minimum of light. It was enough to show the pile of blankets neatly folded on the table, which filled him with a mixture of disappointment and relief. He hadn’t really expected to share the bed with her, and yet the possibility had lodged in his mind like a burr.
There was a rustle of bedclothes as Olivia stirred. “Jamie?”
He set his jaw. So much for hoping she might be asleep already. “Yes.”
“Did you discover anything helpful?” Her voice was soft and drowsy, a little husky with sleep.
“No.” His mind fixated on the image of Olivia in bed, her long, dark hair curling over the pillow, her body relaxed and clad in only a nightgown—or less. He pictured her blue eyes, clear and sparkling, as she smiled at him in the morning. With a jerk he turned his back to the bed, realizing he was staring hungrily at her shadowed form while she was still worrying about Henry’s criminal past catching up to her.
“I didn’t expect you would,” she said, almost consolingly. “I fear it’s all going to come to naught.”
He took off his jacket and sat down to tug at his boots. “I don’t give up that easily.”
“Oh!” She sat up. He could tell by the creak of the bed ropes. “I didn’t mean to suggest that. It just seems you were right about Henry; he didn’t want anyone to find out, and he’s made it nearly impossible.”
One boot came off; he set it near the hearth. “We’ve only begun. Don’t despair.”
“I’m not despairing,” she said. “Merely . . . doubtful.”
Of course she would be. Olivia had had more than her fair share of things to doubt in her life—including him. Especially him, to be honest. Jamie set his second boot next to the first and went to work on his waistcoat buttons. “We’re a long way from surrender. I sense those weather reports are the key to finding anything overlooked after Henry’s death. A trip to Ramsgate will put it to rest one way or the other.”
“Ramsgate is so far . . .”
“It’ll be worth the trip if we find something. I think we should go.” He said it firmly and confidently, because they didn’t really have an alternative. If there was a smuggled piece of art still missing, they were locked in a race with Clary to find it first. Olivia had suggested they visit Henry’s London solicitor, but they could do that at any time. Once Clary found any contraband art, it would be gone. If the man had any brains at all, he would take his illicit prize and flee, never to set foot in England again.
Jamie didn’t want that. Clary belonged in prison, not in a quiet villa in Italy living off the profits of a stolen masterpiece.
She was quiet for several minutes, until he began to think she might have drifted back to sleep. That was his hope, anyway. His imagination had more than it could handle, listening to her voice in the dark and knowing he would be hearing her breathing all night long. He pulled at his cravat, not sure if this was paradise or torment.
“Perhaps you’re right. I’m sure it will sound better in the morning.”
In the morning. There was no question they needed to be off at first light, which would be much easier after a good night’s sleep. The only problem was, how was he to get it, while listening to her every sleepy sigh and murmur?
It took only a few minutes to shake out the blankets and make a pallet on the floor in front of the fire. It wasn’t comfortable but he’d slept on worse. He stretched out his legs and closed his eyes and tried not to listen to the rustle of the bedclothes as Olivia moved around in bed.
“Jamie?” Her voice made him start. He looked up, right into her face, peering down at him over the side of the bed. “You must regret coming after me.”
“Not at all,” he said at once. “Don’t even think that.”
She laid her cheek on the edge of the mattress. The long braid of her hair swung over her shoulder, the curling end hanging right above his head. Jamie tried not to stare at it in fascinated longing. “I realize how much effort and expense you’ve gone to, and I cannot express how deeply I appreciate everything—you would have been well justified in walking away after I hit you with a shovel.”
“That was an honest mistake.”
“And you nearly froze today, driving in the snow,” she went on. “You must be exhausted, and yet you want to go to Ramsgate tomorrow.”
He wasn’t cold now—far from it—and he wasn’t sure he could sleep a wink. A flood of memories, of that one golden sunny afternoon and of all the broken dreams he’d had to survive on since then, were playing through his mind, tempting, teasing, taunting. Perhaps a gentleman would be able to repress those wicked thoughts, but he didn’t have it in him, not now. “Go to sleep, Olivia.”
“Of course.” She sighed. “I’m sorry. I tell you how tired you must be and how much you deserve a good night’s sleep, but here I make you sleep on the floor and then chatter at you.”
He had to smile at that. “I’ve slept on far worse floors than this, and I like your chatter. It feels so long since we really talked.”
“Doesn’t it?” Her voice warmed. “I wish we had better subjects to discuss than—”
“Tell me about your family,” he interrupted. “I hope they are well.” What he really hoped was that her family had become kinder to her in the years since her marriage. His sisters had told him little of the Herberts.
“I believe so,” she said after a moment. “My sister married Lord MacLaren of Edinburgh. It was a splendid match for her. He was kind enough to grant my parents a small manor house in his possession. I believe they are quite happy there. So said my mother’s last letter, a few years ago, when they took up residence.”
“You haven’t heard from them in a few years?”
A curious expression, somewhere between disgust and relief, flitted across her face. “They sent their condolences when Henry died.”
He breathed through his nose. Sir Alfred sold his daughter to Henry Townsend for a few thousand pounds, and then abandoned her? Not even Jamie had thought that little of him. “Have they given up Kellan Hall, then?”
“I believe they took a tenant.” Her voice grew a little wistful. “I haven’t been there in years. Even if they were there, I wouldn’t have gone.”
“Because of Henry?”
The question came out before he could stop it. For years Jamie had told himself he
didn’t want to know about Olivia’s husband and marriage. Of course, that deliberate ignorance had lulled him into thinking she was taken care of, doing well enough on her own. Even once he knew better, he had tried to confine his investigations to Henry’s illicit activities, not to anything personal. He shifted on the hard floor and told himself he ought to ask more questions, even about subjects he didn’t like to dwell on. He couldn’t allow any more misconceptions, about anything.
“Henry had nothing to do with it—well, not directly. He wouldn’t have prevented me from going, but I suppose he’s the reason I never wanted to.” The wistfulness had vanished from her tone. “My father used Mr. Townsend’s money—my marriage settlement—to give Daphne a lovely Season. My mother told me of all the fine dresses she wore and all the suitors she had. Daphne became the beauty everyone expected her to be, and she was quite a success.” She paused. “I don’t think you were in London that year.”
“No,” he said after a moment. “I wasn’t.” After that soul-crushing day in Tunbridge Wells, when she wore another man’s ring on her finger and told him they should keep any regrets to themselves, Jamie had gone home and told his father he wanted to be anywhere in the world except London, or any part of southeastern England. Surprised, his father had suggested he go to Devonshire and investigate reports of a coming boom in tin mining. So Jamie went and spent the next year there; his own fortune had been born, as he realized the significance of the find. Engineers had learned how to dig deep into hillsides and find deposits of tin in mines that had been abandoned for years. At the same time, a man in London had developed a method of preserving food in tin-plated boxes, which sent the demand for tin soaring, especially from the army and navy, with their thousands of soldiers and sailors in need of provisions. Jamie threw himself into it, and learned how to strike partnerships with landowners and negotiate fair wages with laborers. It all paid off very handsomely. He still owned shares of some of those mines.
And it had kept him far away from Olivia and her husband.
“So your sister married well,” he said, shaking off the memories of that time. “I recall it was your mother’s dearest wish that she marry a lord.” Lady Herbert must have wanted the same for Olivia, once upon a time. Not that it had moved her to prevent the marriage to Henry Townsend, who was most definitely not nobility of any sort.
“Yes, our mother was very well pleased with the match: an earl, you know. MacLaren was handsome and eligible, even if Scottish, and he had a large fortune. Everything Mother and Father wanted,” she said wryly. “Daphne seemed pleased with him as well. He was several years older than she, and he indulged her a great deal. I believe the only mark against him was that he preferred to remain on his Scottish properties. Daphne was certain she could persuade him to return to London for the Season every year, but to the best of my knowledge they haven’t.”
He frowned slightly. “You don’t know?”
She was quiet for a long moment. “I wasn’t in great charity with my parents. My mother would come to call, especially after Henry took the house in St. James Square, which struck her as a very fashionable part of town. She wanted me to be pleased at Daphne’s triumph, but I found it . . . difficult.”
Because she’d been denied any similar success, to say nothing of choice. How could Lady Herbert have expected Olivia to take joy in her sister’s marriage, when it had been made possible by the ruination of Olivia’s own hopes and happiness? His hands were in fists again, and it took him several deep breaths to overcome the tide of loathing he felt for himself. Even as a young man he had known the Herbert parents weren’t as kind and loving as his own, but he had left her to face them on her own. What a little idiot he’d been.
“Olivia,” he said very quietly, “was Henry kind to you?”
She didn’t answer. The firelight flickered on her face, disguising her expression.
“I don’t mean to pry,” he went on, “nor to resurrect unpleasant memories. But I have always . . . wondered.”
Her sigh was barely audible. “He was not unkind. If I wanted a new bonnet or a subscription to the lending library, he would agree without hesitation. He was generous with his funds. I’d no idea, of course, that he spent every last farthing during his life and left me nothing—” She stopped abruptly. “He never struck me or mocked me. In the beginning, we tried to be cordial, but before long we both knew it would never be anything more. Henry . . . He was very charming and witty, and he hated sitting at home at nights. A dinner party or a theater outing pleased him much more, and a carriage race or a cockfight would enthrall him. His father told me directly that he hoped marriage would settle Henry, but he must have been sorely disappointed. I never had the sort of influence that would have swayed him. Mr. Townsend—his father—did; until his death Henry lived within his means and was somewhat conscious of propriety. But after Mr. Townsend died, Henry lost all interest in economy or moderation. And far from being able to prevent it, I didn’t even realize it.”
“Do you think you could have stopped him, if you had?”
“No,” she said immediately. “But it would have put me on guard for what was to come. That’s the only thing I cannot forgive him. When he died, I expected to live more simply. I never expected to be—”
She stopped speaking, but Jamie could guess the next word: poor. “Didn’t your family offer help?” he asked, hoping against hope she hadn’t been too proud to ask them. The Herberts certainly owed her that much. He knew she had often resisted the help his family, particularly his sisters, tried to give her.
Her reply was so long in coming, he began to think she wouldn’t answer. “No,” she said at last, in a tone he hardly recognized from her: flat and expressionless. “Even if they would have helped me—something I doubt very much—I don’t want it. On the day I wed Henry, I swore I would have as little to do with them as I could. My father couldn’t even look me in the eye that day. He knew very well what he was doing, and I was furiously glad that it embarrassed him. It pleased me to see Lord MacLaren keep them under his thumb. He gave my parents a manor house at Daphne’s pleading, but it’s off in the wilds of Scotland, far from anything elegant or entertaining. My mother fretted over that, and my father muttered about MacLaren’s cheeseparing ways, for he only gave them the use of the house, not the income.” Her short laugh was bitter. “I find it hard to feel sorry for them. They got precisely what they wished for: a wealthy, titled son-in-law. They assumed he would be malleable and generous, but that was their mistake.”
Jamie silently agreed. He knew he’d been fortunate in life, economically, but his father had been a self-made man, an attorney who used his wits to build a fortune out of very modest beginnings. Nothing had prevented Sir Alfred Herbert from doing the same. Instead the man gambled at the races and relied on his daughters’ marriages to save him from penury. Jamie did not feel sorry for him at all, with the free use of a manor house and rents from his estate in Sussex.
“But how I’ve rambled on when you must be exhausted.” Olivia sounded a little embarrassed. “And about such dull topics.”
“I was glad to listen,” he said honestly. “I have long been curious, and none of it was dull.” Infuriating, but not dull. Talking to her was never dull.
“Truly?” She draped her arm over the side of the bed, cushioning her cheek on her hand. “You led a far more interesting life. Abigail and Penelope told me.”
He scoffed lightly. “You should take anything my sisters said with a large dose of skepticism.”
She smiled. “Yes, I always thought the truth must have been more risque. I daresay you never told your mother and sisters the best parts.”
Jamie frowned in mock affront. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Penelope told me you dove into a flooded mine to help rescue the miners.”
Years ago. He was surprised she knew about it. “Once. It wasn’t flooded too deeply but some of the men couldn’t swim.”
“And that you rod
e a steam carriage.”
He grinned. “I did. Tremendous fun it was, rolling along without aid of horses or men. I predict great things will come of steam carriages.”
“Great things? They’re dangerous! A normal coach won’t explode!”
Jamie shrugged. “Steam carriages don’t usually, either, if operated correctly. The economies are too great to ignore: one man can run a machine able to transport goods—or people—that would require a half dozen wagons. Better manufactories and skilled operators will make them safer, and then everyone will use them.”
She shook her head, smiling. “I can’t imagine it! But if you say it will be so, I believe it.” She wet her lips. “They also told me once they thought you were in love with a French vicomtesse. Abigail said she was beautiful.”
Jamie pressed his mouth closed. How had his family heard about Marie? Their affair had been very discreet. “My sisters are fond of silly gossip.”
“Then you were never in love with her?”
“No,” he said shortly. Never in love, not with Marie or any other woman. Not that he wanted to talk about it with Olivia. He drew breath to change the subject, but she forestalled it.
“May I ask an impertinent question?”
Warily he jerked his head yes. What could be more impertinent that asking about his lovers?
“I’ve always wondered,” she said slowly, “why you never married.”
“No one would have me,” he replied at once. That was an easy answer. “I have no appeal to ladies of taste or discernment.”
“The real reason, not what Penelope teases you with.” There was reproach in her voice, but also something tentative and curious.
He turned his head and stared at the coals glowing in the grate until his eyes hurt. Another flippant answer withered on his tongue. Finally, very softly, he said, “You know why.”
It took her a moment to react, and even then he barely heard her soft inhalation. “But I was married . . .”
Six Degrees of Scandal Page 13
