“I need to return to my lodging,” she said, shaking off those worries. “To retrieve some fresh clothing and personal items.”
“Didn’t Penelope give you gowns?”
Olivia fiddled with a button on her dress—a dress borrowed from Penelope. “She did, but I would like my own.” Penelope’s clothing was a bit tight in the bosom and a little short in the skirt. Lady Samantha had offered to share her clothes as well, but she was even slimmer than Penelope. Even though everything Penelope lent her was far nicer than anything Olivia owned, she wanted to feel normal again, even if just by wearing her own undergarments.
“Of course,” said Jamie after a pause. “We’ll have to be quick, though. I’d rather not make our presence known to all of London just yet.”
“I understand,” she promised. “I only need a quarter hour.”
Two hours later they went. Jamie hired a plain closed carriage, and Olivia wore a veil over her bonnet. The weather in London was far milder than it had been in Kent, but she still bundled herself into Penelope’s thickest cloak. She got out her key as they turned into Clarges Street, and gripped the handle of her empty valise. Most of what she wanted would fit inside, and she didn’t have the time to pack up everything anyway.
She jumped down almost before Jamie had stopped the carriage, and had unlocked the door by the time he tied up the horses. Her rooms were on the first floor, but the short, plump figure of the landlady came hurrying down the hall before they had made it up three stairs.
“See here,” cried Mrs. Harding. “Stop, I say! Stop where you—oh! Mrs. Townsend!”
“Yes,” said Olivia nervously. “I’ve only come for a moment, Mrs. Harding . . .”
“Well, it’s about time! If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were involved in something unbecoming.”
Jamie was nudging her to keep going. “It’s a very long story, ma’am, but I haven’t got time to explain now,” Olivia said, climbing another step.
Mrs. Harding waved her hands. “So many callers you’ve had since you left! Will you want your letters?”
Olivia froze. “Letters?”
Her landlady nodded. “A good number of them. I’ve put them all aside in my parlor, for I didn’t know—”
“Who delivered them?” Jamie interrupted.
Mrs. Harding frowned at him in affront. “That is none of your concern, sir. And who are you? Mrs. Townsend, are you in danger?”
The letters had to be from Clary. What was he sending her? Or was he simply trying to find her? Olivia gave Jamie an anxious look, and he responded with a firm nod, his gaze steady. “This is my trusted friend, Mr. Weston. Will you show him the letters for me? He’s entirely respectable and honorable.” It would save time if Jamie looked at the post. Already she felt her time ticking down. Merely being back in this house, where she had spent so much time parrying Clary’s increasingly persistent advances, was making her tense.
Mrs. Harding looked doubtful. “I don’t know, Mrs. Townsend, it doesn’t seem right. I don’t keep that sort of house.”
Jamie bounded back down the stairs and gave her a charming smile. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, ma’am,” he said with a bow, “but Mrs. Townsend is in a frightful hurry—did you say she’s had a lot of callers recently?” He guided the older woman down the corridor, waving one hand over his head at Olivia: Go.
She ran. Her fingers shook as she unlocked her door on the upstairs landing, but the rooms looked just as she had left them. She hurried into her bedroom and stuffed as many things into the valise as she could. Jamie hadn’t come up to fetch her yet, but it felt like she’d been here an hour already. She went back into the sitting room and opened the top drawer of the chest. She needed another thick shawl to replace the one Clary had ruined in Ramsgate.
Tucked inside the drawer, a bundle of pamphlets caught her eye. She paused. It was probably best to leave her collection of 50 Ways to Sin here, but on the other hand . . . It was a notoriously naughty story about a widowed lady who recounted her amorous adventures across London. Even when she found them shocking, Olivia felt a keen interest in, and even an odd affinity, for Lady Constance, the authoress. Constance was never afraid, never bullied by men, and she pursued her own desires without regard for their impropriety. More than once Olivia had wondered what someone like Constance would have done when Clary began making lewd propositions; laughed at him, most likely. And then there were the men Constance took to her bed, for adventures that were ever more erotic. Before she could talk herself out of it, she pushed them deep into the valise. Just something to read at night, she told herself, to take her mind off her troubles . . . and perhaps inspire more pleasurable activities.
The only warning she had was the sound of a single footstep in the doorway. “My dear Olivia,” said the voice that had dogged her nightmares for months. “How very delightful to see you again.”
Olivia whirled, clutching a shawl defensively. Her heart shot into her throat and her hands started shaking. She felt like a fox, staring down the barrel of the hunter’s gun as Lord Clary strolled into the room, his dark eyes gleaming and a smirk twisting his lips.
But no. She was not a helpless fox, and she was not going to let this man terrify her. Deliberately, even though it felt like her bones were cracking as she unclenched her fingers, she laid the shawl on the chest behind her. “Lord Clary. I didn’t hear the maid announce you.”
“As if I’d wait for that stupid girl to come upstairs when I’ve been searching high and low for you for weeks now. How fortunate that I happened to be passing by when you finally returned home.” He started toward her, flexing his hands. His dark gloves made those hands look like talons, and Olivia repressed a shudder.
“You may call me Mrs. Townsend, out of respect for your bosom friend, my husband.” She knew he had no respect for her personally.
“That’s right: Poor Henry, so sadly dead before his time, leaving behind a pretty, young . . .” He paused in front of her. “Helpless . . .” He leaned closer, his black eyes boring into hers. “Foolish widow.”
She forced her shoulders back, hoping she looked more poised than she felt. Just being this near him made her skin crawl, and she had to fight down the urge to flinch away. Of course he wanted that—he wanted to see her try to escape because he liked the chase . . . followed by the kill. Clary was the sort of man who fed on conquest. He wouldn’t mind if she simply surrendered, but he’d be even happier if he had to overpower her. “How flattering,” she said evenly. “Not many would call a woman of my age young.”
One side of his mouth curled. “And yet you act like the greenest girl.” He clicked his tongue in a pitying way. “Did you really think you could run away from me?”
“I think she did quite well,” said Jamie’s voice from the doorway. “Given that you’ve only now set eyes on her, when she returned to London on her own.”
Since his face was so near hers, Olivia saw how the viscount started, how his eyes flared. But the flash of fury was gone in an instant. He straightened and turned on his heel, raking a cold and dismissive glance over Jamie. “The accomplice. What is your name—Westly?”
“James Weston.” Jamie stared brazenly back. “Your reputation precedes you, sir.”
Clary’s smirk returned. “I hope so. I hope you both keep it in mind.” He took a few steps away from Olivia, and she made herself exhale slowly, to keep him from hearing her gasp in relief. “I grew tired of waiting for you to answer my message, so as you see, I have been forced to come to you.” He eyed Jamie coolly. “Hand it over and we’ll part on amicable terms.”
“Amicable?” Jamie raised his eyebrows, looking genuinely astonished. “How gracious. Particularly after shredding so much clothing.”
The viscount almost smiled at that. “We all have momentary passions. Sometimes one gives in, don’t you agree?” He darted a glance at Olivia. “Perhaps by traveling as a man and wife, when you’re no such thing.”
“Are you certain about
that?” Jamie asked.
Clary’s smirk vanished. Now he looked coldly furious. “I want it.”
“It,” repeated Jamie in the same mildly curious tone he’d used before. “What, precisely, do you mean? Since we’re being so open and frank with each other.”
“You know what I want,” snarled the older man.
Deliberately Jamie looked right at Olivia. “I do. And you shall remain disappointed for all eternity on that score.”
Clary inhaled, and Olivia braced herself for a furious outburst. Jamie appeared untroubled, but in spite of herself she measured the distance to the door, and the location of a heavy candlestick she could use in defense. But then Clary let out his breath and his shoulders eased. “Not her,” he said dismissively. “Henry’s contraband. I know you fetched it from Thanet. Produce it at once.”
“If it was Henry’s, by right it’s now his widow’s property.”
“Don’t try to be clever,” snapped Clary. “It’s mine.”
Jamie rocked back on his heels. “On the other hand, I seem to recall seeing a bill of receipt, in the Earl of Stratford’s own hand, detailing a claim to the very same item you seek. So if anyone other than Mrs. Townsend has a right to . . . it, I believe it would be the new Lord Stratford.” He smiled. “My brother-in-law, as it turns out.”
A muscle twitched in Clary’s jaw. “All right,” he said in a venomously soft voice. “That’s the way of it? How unfortunate he survived.”
“Yes, he’d like to speak to you about that incident on the river,” Jamie said. “As would a magistrate.”
Clary sighed. “Such a waste of time that would be. What would he accuse me of? Murder? It’s a capital crime. As a peer, I would be tried—if it ever came to that—in the House of Lords. Ponder my chances, for a moment. Who could accuse me? The new young earl, who has few connections? He saw nothing with his own eyes. His wife, the nouveau riche heiress he married as a result of some scandal?” His smile was terrible in victory. “We all know I would never set foot in a prison. Even those who might wonder will look to my lineage and family and assure themselves that such a gentleman, one of them, could never be guilty of such a thing. You’re a bigger fool than you look if you don’t acknowledge the truth of all this.”
Olivia felt sick. Dear God. He was right—every word of what he said was true, just as Gray had warned them. She had feared Clary would call her a liar, but it was even worse. He would call Penelope and her husband liars, too, and all the pompous lords in Parliament would believe it. Jamie had worried about setting the right trap for Clary, but now Olivia saw that it didn’t matter; they could set any trap they pleased, and Clary would still walk right out of it. And then he would be free to harass and bully her for the rest of her life.
But all Jamie said was, “Perhaps. Let’s see how it goes.”
“On the other hand,” Clary went on as if Jamie hadn’t spoken, “if you deliver the item to me, I shan’t take out any humiliation on your family.” He clasped his hands behind his back and paced across the room toward Jamie. Both men looked calm and composed, but Olivia felt as if her insides had been twisted up like a spring. Again she eyed the candlestick and gauged how much force it would take to swing it like a cricket bat into Lord Clary’s head.
“And I believe you’re a man of business,” the viscount said, stopping in front of Jamie. “A man who knows a good deal when he’s offered one.”
“Money plays no part in this,” said Jamie quietly.
“No?” Olivia just caught Clary’s dangerous smile as he glanced at her again. “Perhaps you’re a stupid fellow after all.” With a sudden movement, he charged, shoving Jamie backward with two hands to the chest. Jamie almost caught himself—one hand gripped the door frame before Lord Clary viciously banged the door on it, once, twice, until Jamie released it with a howl of pain. Quick as anything the viscount slammed the door shut and turned the key in the lock, and then he swung around to face her.
Olivia already had the candlestick in her hand. Seeing him hurt Jamie like that had jolted her out of all fear and anxiety. She was ready to kill this man, and she raised the heavy candlestick in threat. “If you try to touch me I’ll bash in your skull,” she vowed. And her hands did not shake in the slightest.
Clary came a step closer but no more. From outside the room, Olivia dimly heard Jamie shouting, and Mrs. Harding’s worried shrieks. She kept her focus on Clary.
“I’m not going to take you here and now, my dear,” he said. “But I am going to have you. You’re going to come to me, bare yourself, and go down on your knees. I’ve spent too long panting after you, and by God I will not be denied.”
“I’d sooner drown myself in the Thames.”
He sneered. “We both know that’s not true. We both know you want to live a long, happy life with your own Sir Lancelot outside the door there.”
There was a dull thud against the door.
“He’s going to give me the painting to spare his sister from being exposed as a manipulative little whore,” Clary said, “and you’re going to give yourself to me to preserve whatever is left of your reputation.”
Olivia snorted in disgust. Something hit the door again, this time with a great cracking sound. Jamie was going to break the door down, and it couldn’t happen fast enough for her. Her fingers flexed around the candlestick.
“Because if you don’t . . .” Clary took a step nearer. “I’ll unmask you for the debauched purveyor of sin that you really are. Very careless, my dear, to leave the evidence about for anyone to find. And when Sir Lancelot discovers that the quiet widow leads a scandalous double life . . .” His eyes traveled over her once, lingering on her breasts before moving lower. “Well. Let’s just hope you learned enough on your wicked adventures to persuade me not to tell everyone your little secret.”
Olivia blinked, confused. Unmask her as a purveyor of sin? What did that mean? He had been in their room in Ramsgate. She was quite sure Clary had ripped up her clothes because he suspected that she and Jamie were lovers, which would cause a minor scandal if everyone knew, but it was hardly a sign of wicked debauchery.
But that was the moment something struck the door once more, and this time the wood exploded. Splinters flew everywhere, and when Olivia looked to the doorway, there stood Jamie with a fire axe in his hands.
“Lord Clary,” he said, breathing heavily, “if you’re not out of my sight in the next minute, there will never need to be a trial in Parliament.”
Clary eyed him for a moment. “No matter,” he said coolly. “I’m done here.” He glanced at Olivia, then walked out the door. Jamie stepped aside for him, but not much, and he raised the axe as the other man brushed past him.
Neither of them moved until they heard the door below. “Mrs. Harding,” called Jamie sharply.
“Yes, yes, sir, he’s gone,” called the landlady, her voice fluttering. “Oh my, is Mrs. Townsend hurt?”
“No,” he replied before shoving the ruined door shut. It bounced off the jamb and hung ajar. “No thanks to you,” he added under his breath. “I suspect your henwitted landlady has been encouraging him to hang about waiting for you to return. Christ!” With a sudden movement he flung down the axe. Olivia jumped as it crashed to the floor, skidded across the floorboards until the blade bit into the leg of a table and arrested its slide. “Did he touch you?”
She set the candlestick back on the table. “No. But he threatened me.”
Jamie’s eyes had an eerie, deadly glow about them. “How?”
She took a deep breath. “I don’t quite know. He said he would expose my scandalous secret as a purveyor of sin. I’ve no idea what he means, but he said he would ruin me unless . . .”
“Unless we give him the painting?”
She wet her lips. “No. He wants . . .” Jamie wasn’t going to take this well. “He wants me to surrender to him.”
For the first time his gaze focused on her. “What?”
“He wants me to . . .” She made a suggest
ive motion. A corner of paper sticking out of her valise caught her eye, and suddenly it dawned on her what Clary meant. Her mouth dropped open in astonishment. “Oh! Or else he’ll tell everyone—I think he believes I’m Lady Constance, who writes those naughty stories!”
Jamie seemed turned to stone, his face a blank mask. Olivia couldn’t keep back a gasp of laughter. It was more hysteria than amusement, but still. She clapped one hand over her mouth and turned her back.
“The hell he will.” Jamie stalked across the room and spun her around. He took her face in his hands. “I’m sorry—I never thought he would be sitting here waiting for you—Livie, he could have hurt you—”
“He didn’t.” She wrapped her hands around his wrists, feeling the tension in him. It was strange; normally she would have been the one unable to breathe and stricken with alarm at Clary’s threats. But Jamie had come to her aid with an axe. He chopped down the door to get to her. Even now he was taut and furious and would probably go after Clary with the axe again if she bid him to. It was so unlike the Jamie she knew, unflappable and always ready with a plan or an idea. “Thanks to you.”
For a moment raw emotion blazed across his features. He pulled her to him and kissed her as if he thought it might be the last time. His hands shook and he held her almost roughly. Olivia surged against him, thinking what would have happened if he hadn’t come with her today. “I could have killed him when I saw him in here with you,” he said, his voice a dark growl. “And I would have.”
“I know.” She ran her fingers into his hair. “Thank heaven you didn’t have to.”
“Right.” He exhaled and hung his head for a moment until his forehead touched hers. She could almost feel him gather himself, and when he spoke his voice was noticeably lighter. “So. He plans to denounce you as Lady Constance? I don’t imagine that would go any better for him than the last bloke who tried it.”
“Someone already tried it?” she said incredulously. “I never hear the best gossip . . .”
As hoped, Jamie grinned. The tension dropped from his body, but not the intensity or focus. “Some poor fool thought he’d sorted out Constance’s true identity. He accused a woman in front of a ballroom full of people.”
Six Degrees of Scandal Page 22
