Tempting the Earl

by Rachael Miles

  “I am neither a child nor a fool.” She folded her hands primly, hoping he would not see them shaking. “I entered into this agreement after careful consideration. I made certain . . . inquiries concerning your character.”

  “What kind of inquiries?”

  “If you must know, I hired a Bow Street runner to investigate your friends, your pastimes, your accounts.” She lied. She’d investigated him herself with a little help from Mentor.

  “Your income is insufficient to live on, but you had enough to hire a runner?”

  “Your father gave me a small fortune merely to consider his offer, and I used a portion of that money. Had I discovered you were cruel, or profligate, or violent . . .”

  “You left out perverse.”

  “I would not be here now.” She ignored his baiting, and kept her voice low and soft.

  “What did you discover?”

  “You excelled at both Harrow and Cambridge, especially in philosophy and natural sciences; your closest friends tend to be men of intellect, but your circle also includes more frivolous companions. In the last year, you have spent a great deal of time at your club and at the races, though your worst expenditures tend to be in keeping up with the latest fashions. No more the serious schoolboy, you have gained a reputation as a wit and . . . if you will excuse me, my lord . . . a bit of a fop.”

  “That tells you little of my character. Does it not concern you that in the last year I have spent considerable time drinking and gambling?”

  “That part of the report did give me pause, but it was balanced by the reports of servants who find you responsible and fair, and of the reports of your closest friends.”

  “Which friends?”

  “Lords Capersby and Palmersfield.”

  “You spoke to Capersby and Palmersfield?”

  “Yes, and at some length. They were most obliging. They made it clear I could do far worse in a husband.”

  “Really?”

  “They in fact assured me that you would be unlikely to beat me if I displeased or angered you,” she tried to tease a little, but he was too angry to notice.

  “I may beat them, however.”

  “Well, if I had friends who met secretly for such a purpose, I would likely wish to beat them too.”

  Later that night, she had retreated to one of the parapets to look out over the peaceful countryside. She heard him on the stairs, and she pulled her cloak around her body, waiting. When he stepped onto the parapet, he looked like Lucifer in moonlight, all rugged beauty. He’d faced her, the light illuminating his face, the line of his chin, and she’d been struck with desire. In his anger, he strode to her. He pressed her body roughly against the parapet wall, forcing a kiss, expecting—she thought—to shock her. She’d stiffened for only a moment, but she’d made no effort to refuse him.

  He’d continued kissing her, his hands feeling the curves of her body, coming to rest on her breast. She’d lifted her arms to encircle his neck, then she’d returned his kiss with passion. The softness of his lips, the smell of his skin and hair, struck her viscerally. He had wanted her, and she had not refused.

  The memory left her flushed, wanting his arms around her even now, but Harrison was outside and she was left to miss him, accompanied by the snoring of his valet. She turned her mind away from her longing, to consider the other threats that faced her. The news that Calista knew she was alive was not welcome.

  Calista’s husband had been a foreign count, wealthy beyond measure. It was Olivia’s third mission after leaving Mrs. Flint’s school—and, due to the outcome, it had been her last until she’d begun writing as An Honest Gentleman. The Home Office had sent her to investigate a series of disappearances—all young women who had worked for a foreign baron, Calista’s husband. Olivia had been hired as a lady’s companion, and though she’d found the baroness odd and temperamental, she’d felt some affection for her.

  Olivia had rebuffed the advances of the count, and he’d turned his unwelcome attentions on the upstairs maid. One night soon after, Olivia had found the maid’s body, broken and beaten in the castle garden. But by the time she’d roused the magistrate, the body had disappeared. She’d searched then, using all the skills she’d learned at Mrs. Flint’s. And she’d found what she was seeking—and more: the bodies of all the missing girls buried together in an ancient sarcophagus in the churchyard. When the baron had tried to silence her as well, she’d felt few qualms about protecting herself.

  Reviewers had praised the gothic gore of The Deserted Wife, finding it a remarkable achievement of the imagination, but she hadn’t imagined any of it, not even Calista arranging the bodies to make room for one more.

  She shook off the memory, but couldn’t forget Calista’s insistence that Olivia too would die. The Home Office had protected her, announcing her death in the papers, and Sir Roderick had secreted her away on his estate. She’d chosen a new name and hoped to begin a new life. But she’d chosen the wrong role to play: believing Harrison wanted a reliable, domestic wife, she’d turned her energies to that, and she’d run the estate admirably, until she’d realized her success would never win his heart.

  Olivia knew she could not go back to being domestic-Olivia; no, her old adventure-loving self was too happy playing the spy again. And that might cost her Harrison.

  It might cost her everything.

  * * *

  They spent the afternoon at Squire Baldwin’s estate, on the excuse of accepting a standing invitation to hunt on his manor lands. The man had immediately picked up his fowling-gun and led them into the fields.

  Olivia stood watching the flight of the grouse. Their host, a garrulous old man, had bragged about his skill in shooting, and she had no wish to reveal herself as more skilled than he. Instead, she made sure to hold the gun awkwardly and allow him to give her lessons on its use.

  “In my day women could shoot or they went hungry when their man was away. None of this accomplishment stuff. Who cares if a woman can draw or paint or sing an aria? What matters is whether she can feed herself and her family when times grow hard.”

  Olivia was listening to Baldwin with half an ear when she heard the grasses rustle to her left, and instinctively stepped into the shade of a tree.

  “No need to be afraid, dearie, I’ll not shoot you.” The squire leaned over to check his weapon, when Olivia heard the snap of a gun’s hammer falling into place behind them. She threw herself at her host, knocking them both to the ground, as the shot fired. It missed her, but grazed Baldwin as it passed.

  Baldwin, the breath knocked out of him by the fall, looking questioningly at Olivia, stunned by the turn of events. She moved a finger to her lips, signaling him to remain silent. They both lay on the ground in the shadow of the trees, unmoving, in case the assailant came to see if his bullet met its target. Olivia pulled Baldwin’s gun, already primed, to her side, prepared to shoot if necessary. They remained there waiting.

  Eventually, Harrison, drawn to the sound of the gunshot, found them, helped the old man to his feet, then lifted Olivia from the grass and held her closely in his arms.

  That evening, Baldwin was still visibly shaken, and he grew more so after Harrison asked if the old man had any connection to the dead men listed in Wilmot’s code.

  “I only know four, all school friends. Some I haven’t seen for years. The only one I’ve had any contact with at all recently was Bowers. He’d become obsessed with old plays, and we had a delightful chat about The Merry Wives of Windsor at a coffee shop.” The older man shook his head. “Tragic. All of them dead, and in senseless accidents, every one.”

  Olivia could barely concentrate on Baldwin’s reminiscences. Yes, Baldwin was on Wilmot’s list, but had the bullet been meant for him, or her? Was this all tied to An Honest Gentleman? Olivia desperately wished she could confide in Harrison, give him all her secrets and see what he thought. But the trust between them was a fragile thing and she could not risk her safety—and that of countless others—until she was
sure how he would react.

  The sooner they reached London, the better. Once she and Harrison deciphered the rest of the items on the list, she hoped all would become clear.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Aidan Somerville, Lord Forster, lounged on the chaise in front of the fire in his fiancée’s library. He watched Sophia, Lady Wilmot, at her easel, painting. She sat in profile, looking out the window. Today she was sketching the trees in their stark late-autumn appearance; the lines appeared ghostly, dark on the prepared white of her canvas. He loved looking at her, the thickness of her nut-brown hair, the trimness of her dress, the elegance of the line of her arm as she raised it over the paper pinned to the easel.

  “Are you certain I can’t convince you to retire to your bedroom? We have at least another hour before Ian and Lily return from the park.” He followed her gaze to the clock over the mantel. “But your children are always a bit late.”

  She shook her head. “Why, Lord Forster,” she teased, “have you no concern for the proprieties?”

  “Never with you.” She was tempted, he could tell. But before he could make a move toward her, a knock sounded at the door, followed by the butler’s entrance.

  “Lord Walgrave has arrived, my lady, on pressing business. He requires the attention of both yourself and His Grace. I placed him in the front drawing room, though he did ask to meet you here, in the library.”

  “Walgrave is always welcome, and if he prefers the library to the drawing room, that suits me as well.”

  “He has brought with him his wife. Should I prepare tea?”

  “His wife?” Sophia looked to Aidan, who nodded affirmation. “Well, then tea, certainly. Before you escort them back, ask Cook to prepare some refreshments. I need a moment to consult with Forster.”

  Dodsley nodded and withdrew.

  Sophia turned to Aidan. “I didn’t know he was married.”

  “I knew. But I didn’t know the two of them spoke.”

  “Why not?”

  “It was an unwelcome marriage—arranged—and he’s resented it and her. As far as I’m aware, she has lived entirely on their estate.”

  “Then perhaps he wishes our help in introducing her to society? Dozens are better suited than I am to that task, but I feel the obligation to help him quite strongly. Without Walgrave’s help this fall, I fear we would have had a difficult time with the magistrates.”

  “I can’t imagine it’s a social call: Walgrave isn’t the sort who would stoop to a purely social visit.”

  “Perhaps that’s why he asked for the library rather than the drawing room, to make it seem less social. This should be an interesting visit.”

  * * *

  When Harrison had announced that they needed to travel to a library in London, Olivia had imagined they would go to the British Museum. But standing in the entry of Lady Wilmot’s house, she found herself wondering how Harrison knew the lady, and how well. If the library had been so robust that they traveled to London to visit it, wouldn’t she have heard about it through antiquarian circles?

  Perhaps Lady Wilmot would be plain, hunchbacked, old, toothless . . . Olivia thought of any number of scenarios with some pleasure.

  But she would be gracious, whatever Harrison’s relationship with her ladyship proved to be, or had been. Besides, Olivia was claiming that their marriage was invalid, so what right did she have to be jealous at all? If she didn’t want him, what would it matter if some other woman did?

  The problem was that she did want him. She had from the moment that he’d thrown open the drawing room door to confront her for agreeing to an arranged marriage.

  But when they entered the drawing room, she realized that Lady Wilmot was the woman who had helped her at the bookshop. In comparison to Lady Wilmot’s elegance and beauty, Olivia knew it was she who looked plain and old.

  Harrison escorted her to meet their hostess. He even seemed as if he wished to remain by her side, though his embrace of her ladyship made clear that the two were old and good friends.

  “Sophia Gardiner, Lady Wilmot, may I introduce my wife, Olivia Levesford, Lady Walgrave.”

  Lady Wilmot’s eyes widened only briefly at seeing Olivia again, then her smile broadened. “I am grateful for the honor of your visit.”

  She took Olivia’s hand and led her to the couch. Livvy was surprised at the woman’s warmth. Perhaps not a mistress. “Walgrave has been a dear friend for years, visiting me and my late husband during our years in Italy, and more recently helping protect us from a mysterious enemy who threatened myself and my children.”

  “You are too gracious,” Harrison objected. “I believe Forster protected you most.”

  “Hear, hear, man! Sophia, do you hear that? Harrison has declared that ‘Forster protected you most.’”

  “Lady Walgrave, you have not yet met my fiancé, Aidan Somerville, Duke of Forster.”

  Olivia had not noticed the man in the room, standing in the corner to the right of the door. But once she did, she wondered how she had missed him. One arm holding a book, his leg resting on the bookcase ladder, he seemed larger than life, filling the corner of the room behind her. She wondered why he had chosen such an obscure corner, and she found it suspicious. Had he wanted to see without being seen, at least at first?

  “Your Grace.” She offered the requisite half curtsey, rising to discover that Forster held his hand out for hers.

  “Lady Walgrave, I have wished for some time to meet the woman who stole Walgrave’s freedom. I hope your trip to London was uneventful.”

  Harrison intervened before she could answer. “Somewhat more eventful than expected. But we came today because we were hoping for your help, Lady Wilmot. We believe we have found the solution to your late husband’s code, but we need your library to finish deciphering it.”

  “If you need the library, then you need the library. And, of course, I will help. I’ve wondered what Tom’s code contained, but I’d almost reconciled myself to never finding out.” Sophia held out her hand for the list. “May I see what you have thus far?”

  Harrison held out the copy he had made from the scholars’ notes. “The clues lead from one book to the next. In each pair of lines, the first line indicates the book to use to decode the next.”

  “Was Tom playing some sort of merry joke?” Sophia examined the list carefully.

  “I think it was a matter of necessity,” Walgrave said. “Tom was weak, collecting the information over years and as his body allowed. He knew someone might notice if he kept the same book by his side for weeks or months on end. He chose a code word—hummingbird—to begin the code, then encoded the remaining items with whatever book was at hand. His contact here could easily use the British Museum’s collection to decipher the code.”

  “Walgrave is right. What we see here is Tom carefully using the resources he had at hand,” Forster chimed in.

  Sophia looked up from the list of items already decoded. “These three titles at the top came in a packet together from a friend in Paris. These next four are my books, purchased from a bookseller in Naples who catered to the English-speaking population. The next two were a gift from one of the English tourists returning home.” She shook her head slightly. “I always wondered why our books seemed to migrate all over the villa.”

  “Did Tom read them?” Olivia asked gently.

  “Always. We had lovely conversations over most of them. That’s how I remember.” Sophia read over the rest of the decoded titles. “It’s almost a record of the last year of our life together.” She grew silent, and Forster stepped to her side, but she waved him away with a wan smile. “But this makes it more difficult. These aren’t just Tom’s books—which we would find in those shelves there—but they are the family’s books. These could be here, in the nursery, at Tom’s country estate, or still in Italy. It’s a bit daunting.”

  Olivia put her hand on Sophia’s elbow. “Perhaps we would find it more manageable if we worked through until we reach one that is difficult
to access.” She looked around the library. Bookshelves alternated with the long windows on the garden side, but even so, the books filled the cases from floor to ceiling, leaving only a space at the top of each case for a marble bust of some famous philosopher, scientist, or author. “Is there an easy way to identify where each book might be?”

  “Yes, of course. I have a set of ledgers in which I record every book and where it should be shelved, though Ian and Lily challenge that system daily.” She removed two large ledger books from the shelf nearest her partner desk. “Lady Walgrave, if you would sit here, we can begin identifying where the books might be found.”

  Forster nodded. “That sounds reasonable. Then Walgrave and I can locate and decipher the code to provide the name of the next title we’ll need.”

  Olivia held out her hands for the ledger and sat in the chair across from Sophia at the desk.

  “The system is a bit complicated. This ledger is our acquisition list. It proceeds in chronological order, so I’ll use it since I can somewhat predict when a particular book came into the library. The ledger you have is the shelf list. It is divided by bookcase and within that contains the actual location for each book. Shall we begin?”

  Olivia nodded yes.

  “Our first book to locate is Mary Robinson’s book of poems, Sight, the Cavern of Woe, and Solitude. That was a gift from Frederick Buchanan when he painted Tom’s portrait in fall of 1817.” She turned the pages swiftly. “Olivia, it will be in the section for Sappho. It should be somewhere in the middle of the list.”

  Olivia turned to her ledger.

  “Oh, and the entries are organized, not by the title or author, but by their location on the shelves. Sappho I.1 is shelf one, place one. You’ll see.”

  Olivia found Robinson’s book some five pages into the section for Sappho. “This says ‘Sappho V.3.’”

  Harrison walked to the Sappho shelves. “Let’s make sure I have this right.” He pointed up. “Sappho?”

  “Correct.”

  “V would be the fifth shelf down from Sappho’s bust, and three is the third book in . . . from which side?”