by Candace Camp
Oliver’s brows rose in amazement as those mundane words seemed to penetrate Lady Holland’s emotional storm. She nodded and gulped, then wrapped her hand around Vivian’s arm and began to pull herself to her feet. Quickly Oliver grasped her other arm and hauled her up.
At that moment the man who had given chase to the thief came trotting back, panting. “Sorry . . . my lady . . .” he gasped out. “I tried . . . but I couldn’t . . . catch up with him. Fast little dev—um, man.”
“You are Lady Holland’s driver?” Oliver asked, and the man nodded.
“Yes, sir. I went after him, but . . . I’m sorry.”
“I am sure you did all that could be expected.”
“I don’t know as his lordship’ll say that,” the man responded gloomily.
“Did you see what happened?” Oliver went on. “Did you get a look at the man?”
The driver shook his head. “No, I saw her ladyship coming, and I was climbing down, see, and going around the carriage to give her ladyship a hand. Then I heard something funny, and her ladyship screams. There was footsteps off and runnin’. I ran around the carriage and took off after him. Heard his footsteps, got a sight of his back ’fore he hit the shadows. He was a fast one. Little.”
Oliver nodded. “Well, get back atop. We’ll put Lady Holland into the carriage and escort her home.” As the man responded to the authority in Oliver’s voice and started back toward his carriage, the earl turned to Vivian. “Why don’t you get Lady Holland settled in the carriage? I shall tell your coachman to follow us and take you home from there.”
“Yes, of course.” Vivian turned back to the other woman. “Come, let us get into your nice warm carriage? It’s far too cold out here for my taste, even with a cloak on.”
Lady Holland nodded, still sniffling, and allowed Oliver to hand her up into the carriage before he left in search of Vivian’s coachman. Vivian sat down beside the older woman, picking up the lap robe and laying it across them both, carefully tucking it in around Lady Holland. Lady Holland smiled wanly and wiped the tears from her cheeks. A pleasant-looking middle-aged woman, she looked rather the worse for wear now. She was pale, with a livid scratch where the diamonds had been torn from her neck.
“Charles will be so furious.”
“At the man who stole your necklace,” Vivian said soothingly. “Not at you. He will be glad that you were not injured in the robbery.”
Lady Holland appeared as dubious as the coachman had about their lord’s reaction to the thievery. “He didn’t want me to wear them tonight. He told me it was too dangerous, what with all these robberies that have been taking place. But I insisted. I mean, after all, what good are diamonds if one never wears them?”
“My sentiment exactly.”
“Yes, but Charles is a man. And so terribly practical. But really, it’s not as if he doesn’t drop that much any night at the tables. I told him he lost far more than that at faro, and I said I was going to wear them no matter what he wanted. And now he’ll blame me . . .” She finished in a wail, and by the time Stewkesbury swung back into the carriage, she was in a full spate of tears again.
Oliver raised his eyebrows at Vivian, and it was all she could do not to grin. Pressing her lips firmly together, she turned to Lady Holland, patting her soothingly on the back. “There now, it’s been a perfectly horrid evening, hasn’t it? But soon we’ll have you back home and safe, won’t we, Stewkesbury?”
“Yes, of course. There’s no danger now, my lady.”
“It was so awful!” Lady Holland slowed into little hiccupping sobs. “I was just walking to the carriage, and all of a sudden, he was right there in front of me!” She gave an expressive shudder, but the tears had stopped.
“What did he look like?” Oliver asked.
The woman gazed at him vaguely. “Why, I don’t know. Just ordinary, I suppose. Does it matter?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if Lord Holland wishes to engage a Bow Street Runner to try to find the thief and the jewels. It sounds as if they were quite valuable. A description of the thief would help the Runner find him. Was there anything distinctive about him? A scar? What color was his hair?”
“I—I’m not sure. It happened so quickly . . .”
“Just close your eyes for a moment, Lady Holland, and relax,” Vivian suggested. “Now, think about the moment when he appeared in front of you. Was he as tall as Lord Stewkesbury?”
“No.” Lady Holland shook her head. Then she opened her eyes, looking rather pleased with herself. “No, not nearly that tall, just a bit taller than I am. So he must have been a medium sort of height. And I remember his hair now. I mean, well, I don’t remember it because I didn’t see it. He had on a cap pulled low, and I couldn’t see his hair. Most of his face was in the shadow of the cap, as well.”
After a few more minutes of questioning Lady Holland, they came up with as good a description of the man as they were likely to obtain—a man of medium height with an ordinary face, dressed in the rough clothes of a laborer, hair color and eye color unknown. If a Bow Street Runner or anybody else could catch the thief from that description, Vivian reflected, it would be little short of a miracle.
But Lady Holland at least seemed calmer, and by the time they reached her house, she seemed content enough to let her maid whisk her upstairs and cosset her. Lord Holland was not at home, so Oliver had to be content with relating what had happened to the butler.
“I hope she will be all right,” Vivian commented as they left the house and walked down the steps to where her carriage awaited. “Frankly, she seemed less upset over the robbery than having to tell her husband about it.”
“I don’t know the man. All I’ve ever heard regarding him is that he’s an inveterate gambler.”
“So Lady Holland said.” Vivian glanced around. “Where is your carriage?”
“I sent him home. It seemed foolish to have two carriages trailing us around town. I shall escort you home and walk from there.”
“Don’t be silly. No need for you to walk. I shall tell Jackson to stop by Stewkesbury House first.”
“I shall see you home first,” Oliver replied firmly.
“Stewkesbury . . .”
“Lady Vivian . . .”
His tone was such a perfect imitation of hers, his expression so quizzical that Vivian had to chuckle. “Very well. I know I shall never shake you from your idea of your duty.”
“I am glad to hear that you don’t think I would let you ride home by yourself after what just happened to Lady Holland.”
“Of course not. Though I cannot believe that someone is going to leap inside my coach as it rolls along and steal my bracelet from me.” She reached out to take his hand to step up into her carriage, and the ruby-and-diamond bracelet on her wrist winked in the light from the streetlamp.
“I would not count on it. The chap who took Lady Holland’s necklace seemed quite audacious to me.”
“It was bold, wasn’t it? Lady Holland mentioned that there had been other robberies.”
Oliver nodded as he swung into the carriage behind her and sat on the opposite seat. “So I’ve heard. Lord Denmore was complaining about it at the club the other day. He was robbed as he left a gambling club a few weeks ago.” Amusement lit Oliver’s face for a moment. “He seemed especially outraged because he’d won that night. They took his winnings and his ruby stickpin. Fortney’s wife was robbed the other evening, too, though I’m not sure of the particulars.”
“Do you think the thefts are all the work of the same person?”
He shrugged. “I have no idea. Although . . . most of them seem to involve jewels, which may mean they’re connected.”
“Hmm. I shall have to ask Mr. Brookman.”
“Who?” Oliver frowned. “What are you talking about?”
“My jeweler. He’s finished resetting a gem I bought from him a few months ago. I shall ask him what he’s heard about these thefts. If jewels are being stolen, they must be selling them. Who is mo
re likely to have heard about it than a jeweler?”
“The devil.” Oliver’s scowl deepened. “Don’t start snooping about in this.”
Vivian quirked an eyebrow at him. “Really, Stewkesbury, are you trying to tell me what I can and can’t do?”
“No, I know very well that you can act on any mad notion that comes to you. What I sincerely hope is that you will have the good sense not to do so.”
“My sense is very good, thank you,” she retorted. “And I am not planning on doing anything. I am merely going to ask a few questions.”
“Asking questions can be dangerous, particularly when you ask them of the wrong person.”
“I doubt very much that my jeweler is going about grabbing people’s jewelry.” Vivian’s lips quirked at the idea of the slender, artistic Mr. Brookman running through the streets yanking baubles off women’s necks.
“Probably not, but if I know you, you won’t stop there,” Oliver replied darkly.
“I am not going to do anything. I wish you would stop acting as if I hadn’t any brains inside my head.”
“I didn’t say that,” he protested.
Vivian sighed. “You didn’t have to. It’s clear what you think. You act as if I’m still that sixteen-year-old girl running about Willowmere, playing mad pranks. I assure you that I am not. I make my own decisions. Why, before much longer, I will be living in my own home, with my—”
“What!” The earl stiffened, staring at her with such shock that it was almost ludicrous.
Vivian suppressed her sudden urge to giggle. “I have my business manager looking for a house in London.”
“Do you mean—are you suggesting that you intend to move into your own home? Alone?”
Vivian could no longer hold back the laughter bubbling up in her. “Oh, Oliver! How you look! It isn’t so bizarre. It makes a great deal of sense, you know.”
“How? What are you thinking? Good Gad, Viv—” The youthful nickname slipped out in his shock. “It makes no sense whatsoever! Really, you cannot have thought.”
“I have thought. I have thought about it a great deal. It is much more reasonable than staying in that huge house by myself. Papa does not spend as much time in London as he used to, so I am usually alone. It would be better to have a much smaller house and fewer servants. A cozy but stylish place. And, frankly, I would prefer not to have to endure Jerome and Elizabeth whenever they come to town. Not only do they quarrel until I want to scream, they also try to draw me into their argument, to take one side or the other, which is something I will not do.”
As Stewkesbury struggled to find words to answer her, the carriage arrived at Carlyle Hall, and Vivian opened the door and stepped down. The earl scrambled out after her and went up the steps to her front door. When a footman opened the door to admit Vivian, Oliver followed her into the house.
“Stewkesbury! Whatever are you doing?” Vivian protested, a twinkle in her eyes. “’Tis scarcely appropriate for you to be here this late, the two of us alone.”
“No doubt,” Oliver agreed grimly. “But I cannot leave when you are proposing this—this—why, it is the most nonsensical thing I have ever heard from you. And I can tell you that is saying a great deal.”
Vivian rolled her eyes. “Very well, then, if you must. At least come into the drawing room to harangue me instead of standing out here in the foyer. Michael, bring Lord Stewkesbury a bottle of port. I am sure this will be thirsty work.”
“No. I don’t want any port,” Oliver told the footman tightly before he followed Vivian into the drawing room, with some effort holding his peace until they were away from the footman. Taking up his position at the mantel, he turned and fixed Vivian with a stare. “Tell me you are jesting, that you are telling me this to upset my equanimity.”
Vivian let out a little laugh. “Really, Oliver, I do not go about rearranging my life in order to upset you. I don’t understand why you are over the boughs about this. Grown children often move into their own homes. Why, Fitz is buying a house in London, is he not?”
“Fitz is married!”
“But even if he were not . . . if he had bought a town house last year, for instance, you would not have quibbled. You did not when Royce moved into his own home.”
“Of course not. That has nothing to do with—”
“Oh, no.” Vivian’s eyes flashed, vivid and green. “It has everything to do with it. If I were a man, you would not act this way.”
“Of course not. If you were a man, there wouldn’t be a problem.”
“There is no problem now—except in your head. I should like a house of my own. As I told you before, there are ample good reasons for it. I am of an age, and I am quite capable of purchasing it. I am not dependent upon Papa; my aunt Millicent left me a very nice inheritance.”
“I am sure she did, as well as stuffing your head with a lot of bizarre notions.”
“They are not bizarre!” Vivian flared up. “She was a forward-thinking woman who corresponded with some of the finest minds of the day. Edward Gibbon. Herder. Mary Wollstonecraft. William Godwin.”
“Radicals all,” he muttered, then shook his head, holding up his hands. “We are straying from the point. It is not your aunt who is at issue—or your ability to purchase a house. It is the propriety of it.”
“Your watchword!” Vivian said scornfully. “Propriety.”
“It is all very well for you to disdain propriety,” he shot back, his color rising. “But I can assure you that it rules the world you live in.”
“Has it never occurred to you that perhaps that world is wrong?”
“Of course it has. That isn’t the point.”
“Then pray tell, what is the point?” Vivian threw her arms wide.
“The point is what your life would be if you thwart those rules. A good name lost is the very devil to get back.”
Vivian stared at him, slack-jawed. “I have no intention of ‘losing’ my good name. I’m talking about having my own home, not becoming a courtesan!”
He closed his eyes, a pained look crossing his face. “Vivian . . .”
“Well, that is how you are behaving. I am not proposing anything scandalous. It isn’t as if I’m a young girl making her come-out. I am a grown woman, a veritable spinster, in fact.”
“You are scarcely a spinster.”
“I am eight-and-twenty. Even my grandmother has given up on my making a good match. She is simply praying now that I don’t go mad and do something utterly unsuitable.”
“One can understand her position.”
“It is not unheard of for an unmarried woman to establish her own household.”
“It is if her father is still alive—when she already has a home with him—any number of homes, in fact. You have an unmarried brother, as well.”
“What difference does that make?” Vivian took a step forward, setting her fists on her hips and glaring at Stewkesbury. “Why must a woman live with her father or her brother?”
He, too, moved closer, his face settling into an equally mulish expression. “So he can take care of her! Support her. Protect her.”
“I have just established that I do not need anyone to support me. As for the rest of it . . . my father is not even in the house with me. Or Seyre. If anyone takes care of me or protects me, it is the servants, and I plan to continue to have servants.”
Oliver grimaced. “Don’t pretend to be obtuse. It isn’t merely physical protection, and you know it. It is the protection of his name.”
“Do you think that everyone will forget who my father and brother are just because I move out of Carlyle Hall?”
“Of course not.” He clenched his jaw, his teeth grinding together. “It isn’t that you literally need his protection or that you cannot manage well enough on your own. Obviously you are quite capable of that.”
“I don’t know why you say that as if it were a bad thing.”
“It isn’t—I don’t—oh, bloody hell. You twist everything around so I sc
arcely know what we are talking about.” He swung away, then turned back. “The problem is that what you propose is blasted unconventional.”
“I am unconventional.”
“I know.” He flung his hands out to the sides as she had done moments earlier, an uncharacteristically dramatic gesture for him. His gray eyes were silver in their intensity. “That only makes it worse. It isn’t as if we were talking about some sedate, sensible spinster who is going to set up a household with her widowed cousin or some such person as chaperone. You already do all sorts of things no one else does. You push the rules to the limit.”
“Then no one will be surprised by my move.”
“They may not be surprised, but they will be shocked. They will talk.”
“They already talk. A number of people are shocked by me—as you should well know.”
“Yes, but what is perhaps a little shocking, a trifle titillating, in a young woman residing in her father’s home is far worse than that when she is a woman living on her own.”
“It isn’t as though I plan to completely flout all the rules. I will have a companion. A chaperone, if you will. I’m sure Katherine Morecomb will come live with me.”
“Your cousin?” His brows flew up. “That wisp of a woman? Why, she wouldn’t be able to dissuade you if you decided to stand on your head in the middle of St. James.”
“I should think not, for then I should be quite mad and incapable of being reasoned with.”
He shot her a dark look. “Don’t think you can divert me with a flippant remark.”
“Of course not. Nothing could divert you,” Vivian retorted.
“Blast it, Vivian, don’t you realize what people will think? What they’ll say? They’ll talk about your free and easy manner; they’ll recall every gown you wore that pushed the edges of decorum.” His eyes flickered to the neckline of her black gown, but he pulled them hastily away. “And then they’ll speculate on why a woman who has a perfectly grand home should want to live by herself. In no time at all you will be branded a loose woman.”
