“Just these may drive me into a sickbed.” Jamie stretched his arms overhead.
“Take a rest,” she said, overcome with remorse. “I wish you would let me help. I sit here doing nothing, and you’re going to go blind from writing.”
He held up one hand. “Not one word of that. You’re providing a vital service.” He snaked an arm around her waist and pulled her close. “I’m in desperate need of inspiration . . .”
Olivia laughed and let him pull her into his lap for a searing kiss.
Her part, they both knew, would come. Every trap needed bait. Clary wanted the painting, but it would be easier to draw him out if he thought he could also catch Olivia unawares and alone.
Jamie didn’t need to tell her this. She also didn’t intend to let him keep her hidden away for protection. Clary had violated everything Olivia held dear: her freedom, her happiness, her friends, and her love. There was no doubt in her mind that Clary viewed Jamie as an obstacle, the man who was keeping her from him. That made him a danger not just to Olivia herself but to Jamie. For both their sakes, Clary had to be dealt with—and Olivia knew she had to be the one to do it.
It took just over three weeks for Jamie to write, and Daniel to publish, eleven issues of 50 Ways to Sin. As Jamie had planned, Lord Brarely grew more and more menacing. Constance grew more and more alarmed by his sinister hovering. Bathsheba reported that everything she heard indicated people were appalled by Brarely’s intimidation and beginning to worry for Constance’s safety. She wasn’t privy to as much discussion of the stories as Olivia might have been, but Olivia hardly left Grosvenor Square. Jamie had suspicions that Clary was watching the house. In any event, MacGregor was able to monitor most gossip, thanks to his still-unknown columnist, and his word on this was most satisfactory: there were several open bets about Brarely’s identity, and Clary was the runaway favorite.
But they knew it was time to spring the trap when Jamie came home from one of his walks late one frigid evening. “Clary’s furious,” he told her as he brushed a light dusting of snow from his greatcoat. “He’s finally told someone he thinks it’s you blackening his name.”
“Where did you hear it?” Olivia had known it would happen if their plan worked, and yet her heart skipped a beat in apprehension anyway.
“A coffeehouse. I ran into a fellow I’ve done business with, and he said Clary was spewing slander about you.” Jamie handed his coat and hat to the waiting footman, who melted into the far recesses of the hall. “Are you worried?”
Yes. With Clary, she would always worry. But Olivia forced the thought down and gave a firm nod. They had a plan, and she wasn’t about to shy away from doing her part.
He gave her a smile that was part reassurance, part promise of vengeance. “Good. I think it’s time.”
Two nights later Olivia put on her old blue cloak and walked out into Grosvenor Square at twilight, late enough for the streetlamps to be lit but not yet dark. The footman hailed a hackney and directed the driver to Mrs. Harding’s lodging house, then helped her inside. The bulky valise she carried held only a few items, but she held it close for comfort. Jamie had gone out several hours earlier to make final arrangements, and Olivia only now realized how accustomed she had become to his presence.
In Clarges Street she paid the driver and ran up the steps. Mrs. Harding popped out of the back of the hall as she came in. “Oh! Mrs. Townsend.”
“Yes.” She started up the stairs.
Mrs. Harding followed, a worried frown on her face. “I am not pleased by this. You can’t come and go as you please—I don’t keep that sort of house—and the gentlemen! There are to be no gentlemen upstairs, Mrs. Townsend!”
Olivia stopped at the top of the stairs. “Mrs. Harding,” she said firmly but quietly, “I shall be quitting my rooms after tonight. I suspect you know why.” After her last visit here, she had formed the idea that Mrs. Harding, or perhaps one of the servants, was reporting to Lord Clary when she came and went. It was too striking a coincidence that the viscount would have been so close at hand the one time she returned to Clarges Street.
Mrs. Harding flushed deep red. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, but I’ve half a mind to call the constable about this. I do not approve of the way you comport yourself!”
“Very well,” said Olivia, knowing the landlady would do no such thing. “Call the constable.” She turned and opened her door.
The rooms looked the same, undisturbed and waiting. She went into her bedroom to be sure all was prepared, then returned to the sitting room and lit the lamps. She unpacked the valise, setting the box on the table and the painting on the floor by the cold hearth, just out of sight behind the worn armchair. St. George seemed to be gazing right at her, approvingly. Protect us all, she told him silently.
The tap at the door made her jump. Telling herself it could be Mrs. Harding, but knowing it probably was not, she opened the door.
“There you are.” Clary shoved at the door as she instinctively tried to push it shut.
Olivia backed up, her heart pounding so hard it hurt. She had planned to lure him here, but now that he was in the room, there was no chance to reconsider anything. “Please leave, Lord Clary.”
“Not yet. We have some unfinished business to attend to, you and I.”
“No, we do not,” she exclaimed, her voice rising.
He closed the door behind him, turning the key in the lock. Watching her, smiling grimly when she took another step backward, he slid the key into his pocket.
“Where is my landlady?” Olivia demanded. “I am not receiving guests—”
“I didn’t ask the old besom’s blessing. Nor do I need your permission!” snarled the viscount. As he came forward into the lamplight, Olivia saw signs of strain in his face and figure. There were shadowy circles under his eyes, his black hair was mussed out of its normal smoothness, and his clothes bore signs of inadequate laundering.
Good.
They weren’t glaring signs of ruin, but to Olivia, who knew how precise and demanding Clary normally was about everything, including his person, they revealed a man whose grasp on his world was slipping. That was exactly what she and Jamie had set out to do, but it also made the viscount even more dangerous.
“Once I asked,” Clary went on, recovering his quiet, deadly voice after the moment of anger. “Once I begged you, my dear. But you were troublesome and obstinate. I’m not a man to be refused, yet you did so . . . several times.” He took off his greatcoat and set it aside. “Not again, Olivia.”
She wet her lips. “I do not want to have an affair with you, sir,” she said, making sure her voice was firm and strong.
Clary’s smile was terrifying, and even though he stood on the opposite side of the room, it made her pulse leap with anxiety. “Did I not make myself clear? I’m not asking this time.” He paused and Olivia inhaled a shuddering breath. “First, tell me where the painting is. I’ll be gentle if you tell me. If I have to search for it . . . you will not enjoy what comes next.”
“Why?” Her voice shook. “Why do you want me? It’s unnatural . . .”
A look of surprise crossed his face. “Why? I don’t completely know, my dear. The usual reason, of course. You took my fancy. Not strongly enough to warrant upsetting my arrangement with Henry, but once he was gone, there was no reason I shouldn’t enjoy you.” He shook his head and clicked his tongue sadly. “But you were so cool and polite. Such a challenge! I knew it wasn’t grief—no one mourned Henry that much, especially not the wife his father bought for him.” He stopped at Olivia’s flinch of shock. “Oh yes, everyone knew. His father kept a tight leash on him, and the only way to loosen it was by accepting a wife’s gentle influence. How fortunate for Henry you had no interest in settling him! He did appreciate that. It made his later activities so much easier.” Clary closed the distance between them as Olivia stood rigid with humiliation. Henry had told everyone he married her only to placate his father. She wasn’t surprised that he’d fel
t that way, but the revelation that he had told all his elegant friends . . . that took her off guard. Even her belief that her husband was gentleman enough to keep the truth of their marriage discreetly secret was false.
“Speaking of those activities, tell me where it is.” Clary’s dark eyes burned. “I know you have it.”
Olivia shook her head.
“Tell me.” His voice sharpened. “All the way to Thanet and back. Henry kept that side of things to himself—at times I thought he must not trust me. But I know the cargo came ashore off Ramsgate, and you fled directly there. Such daring, Olivia. As much as I appreciate your desire to find the last shipment for me, your choice of accomplice was poorly made. As if taking another man to your bed would make me less determined to have you.” With a sudden movement he pushed her. Olivia gave a startled yelp. “I haven’t got all night to indulge you. Tell me where the painting is, and this will be a pleasant experience for both of us.” He shed his jacket and began unbuttoning his waistcoat.
“There.” Olivia backed up and pointed a shaky finger. “There it is. Take it and leave me alone.”
At her words Clary spun on his heel, searching. The painting was on the floor, slightly hidden by the wingback chair next to the hearth, but he saw it. His breath hissed, and he crossed the room in three strides to lift it. For a few moments he studied it, even flipping it over to see the back. “My God.” There was a pulse of excitement in his hushed whisper. “My God, he got it . . .”
“You can have it,” Olivia said again. “Just take it and go.”
Slowly he raised his head and turned to look at her. The familiar cold smile appeared. “Not yet. You’ve wrought too much mischief lately, and you’re going to pay for it.” He set the painting down on the chair, carefully propping it up. The dragon snarled, coiled to attack. Its scales shone in the lamplight.
“No.”
“No?” He flexed his fingers. Olivia knew he didn’t want her to acquiesce. He wanted to force her. “You’ve said no to me one too many times.” He started toward her.
Olivia raised the pistol. While Clary had gone to the painting, she had sidled to the box on the table, screened by her valise, which held two loaded and primed pistols. These were smaller pistols than Jamie’s, but no less accurate at close distance. Jamie had bought them just for her, and she had followed his advice to keep them both ready. “Stop, sir.”
He laughed. “You aren’t going to shoot me.” He took another step, and Olivia pulled the trigger.
Clary howled and clapped one hand to his chest. With an expression of disbelief he shoved back his waistcoat to reveal a sticky smear of blood near his shoulder. He turned on her with murder in his eyes. “That seals your fate.” He charged toward her.
Olivia ran, the second pistol clutched in both hands. Clary caught her skirt but she wrenched loose. Frantically she twisted the doorknob, but he had locked it. She pressed her back to the door and aimed her gun.
Clary froze. For the first time something like fear flickered in his face. “Don’t!”
Olivia kept the pistol trained on the painting. “You need it, don’t you? I heard your wife has left you and her father has cut off her funds. That was most of your income, wasn’t it? Now that Henry isn’t paying you to help him sell smuggled artworks.”
“Put down the pistol,” Clary ordered.
“You’re ruined in London,” she went on, trying to keep her voice from shaking and her words from running together. “You need that painting so you can flee London and sell it overseas, to someone who doesn’t know it’s stolen. Don’t you?”
“Olivia,” said Clary with a voice like steel, “put down the pistol. You might accidentally fire, for God’s sake!”
“That painting is your salvation,” she accused, “but you won’t just take it and leave! You want me for no other reason than that I refused your advances. You’ve chased me and assaulted me and you tried to kill my friend Penelope—”
“The lying little whore should have been more accommodating,” he snarled. “Just as you should. I will not ask again, Olivia. Give me the pistol!” On the last word he lunged at her, and Olivia pulled the trigger.
The report knocked her arm backward into the door and she almost dropped the gun. Clary swiveled to stare in shock. The bullet had drilled right through the painting, leaving a smoking hole where the dragon’s head had been.
“No,” he choked. “No—you’ve spoiled a priceless masterpiece!”
Sensing he would turn on her in a moment, Olivia threw the pistol. It struck the painting, and the thin wooden panel splintered into several pieces. Clary gave a hideous scream but Olivia had pushed past him and was running, straight across the room, through the door of her bedroom, and right into Jamie’s arms.
“You’ll regret—” Clary’s raging growl was cut short as he reached the doorway, two steps behind her. Jamie thrust Olivia behind him. Benedict, Lord Stratford, stood at his side. Behind them, three other men were coming to their feet.
Feeling that there was no more persuasive argument than a confession from Clary’s own lips, Jamie had invited a magistrate to join him in quiet darkness in Olivia’s bedroom while she waited for the viscount to arrive. Benedict had declared he was going to be there as well before Jamie could even ask him, and Gray insisted on the same. Gray, in fact, offered to bring his father, the Duke of Rowland, and that had sealed the magistrate’s agreement. All four of them had slipped into the room some time ago, sneaking up the stairs while Jamie distracted the flighty Mrs. Harding in the parlor.
Clary gazed in horror as the magistrate stepped forward. “Viscount Clary, you need to come with me, sir.”
“That woman shot me,” said Clary. He gave Olivia a look of pure hatred.
“She did,” agreed the magistrate, “and I have to commend her aim. You tried to force yourself on her, and I cannot fault a widowed lady for protecting herself.”
After that Clary refused to speak. The magistrate made him hand over the key, and sent for Mrs. Harding to tend the viscount’s wound. The constables who had been waiting nearby arrived and they escorted Lord Clary to a closed heavy carriage in the mews.
“Thank you for your patience,” Jamie told the magistrate.
“My duty, and nothing more.” The man’s gaze traveled past Jamie. “Will you require anything else, Your Grace?”
“Not tonight,” said the Duke of Rowland. “Hopefully we shan’t have anything like this ever again.”
The magistrate bowed. “I trust not, sir. Good night.” He let himself out.
A wild, fierce grin split Benedict’s face. “We’ve got him! He’ll never wiggle out of this.”
“I doubt it,” said the duke in agreement. He bent down to pick up a piece of the shattered painting. “You did this, George?”
George Churchill-Gray looked over his father’s shoulder. “I did.”
The duke examined it a moment. “Very fine work.”
“Thank you.” Gray frowned. “Except there—I did not have time to get the shadows exactly right, you can see they don’t line up as well as they should . . .”
Rowland chuckled. “Next time you’ll get it.” He cocked his head and gave his son an appraising look. “There’s a very fine portrait of Cupid and Psyche in Ashby’s collection. Perhaps you could—?”
Gray’s expression indicated they’d had this conversation before. “I don’t like to copy paintings, Father.”
“But your mother’s so fond of that one, and Ashby won’t sell the damned thing,” the duke complained. “Just once? For your mother?”
Gray shook his head and walked out, followed by his father still cajoling him. Benedict started to follow them, then stopped. “I have permission to tell Penelope everything, don’t I?” he asked Olivia. “I understand if you would rather I not, but she’ll be wild to know. It took all I had to persuade her to stay home in Margaret Street.”
Olivia laughed—shaky, but happy. “You may tell her. And Lord Stratford—” She put h
er hand on his arm. “Thank you.”
Benedict glanced at Jamie. “It was neither my idea nor my effort that arranged this. And it was solely your bravery, ma’am, that made it succeed.”
“Thank you just the same,” she said softly. He smiled, and followed Gray and Rowland.
That left her alone with Jamie.
“Is this really the end of Clary?” she asked hesitantly. “Did we do enough?”
“The magistrate heard every word. With both of Henry’s books and the proof of the real Titian, that should be enough to keep his lordship in prison for a long time.”
She let out her breath, her shoulders slumping. “I hope so.”
Jamie gathered her close. “It is so,” he whispered. “For us.”
“I can’t believe this worked,” she said, her voice muffled against his chest. It had seemed the maddest scheme she’d ever heard, but Jamie carried it off. Not only a magistrate but a duke had heard Clary confess.
“Thanks to you. Never underestimate how much a villain wants his victim to realize how clever he’s been.”
“And I shot him.” Her laugh was unhappy. “I didn’t like that . . .”
His arms tightened. “Think of it as retribution for what he did to Penelope.”
That did help. And even though Olivia had aimed for the center of Clary’s chest, as Jamie had instructed, she was deeply relieved she’d only hit him in the shoulder. On no account did she want to feel guilty for Clary’s death. But if she’d aimed for his shoulder she would have missed, and who knew what would have happened then.
“It was much easier to shoot the painting.” She raised her head to look at the remains. “Although it is a pity to destroy Gray’s work.”
Six Degrees of Scandal Page 27
