Tempting the Earl

by Rachael Miles

  Harrison grabbed Olivia’s arm as she turned from him. She stopped but didn’t turn back. Instead, she pulled her arm out of his grasp, until he was left holding only her hand. It felt so intimate, palms together, and Harrison held Olivia’s hand, feeling as if the whole world were slipping through his grasp. “I know what that man said about you and your father, but I think you know more than that. Part of your claim of invalidity rests on the question of your name, and before you go, I want to know the truth.”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know the truth. I don’t even know my own name with any certainty, except I know it wasn’t Olivia. That was the name Roderick and I chose for me when I went to Mrs. Flint’s and that I took up again after I came to the estate. My earliest memories are of a boat and water, endless water. But how reliable are an infant’s memories? I remember the boat because I felt the swaying of the sea as a lullaby. But was it the sea? Or simply a trip from Liverpool to London? Without finding my father, I will never know.”

  “Where will you go? Your settlement, where will I send it?” He knew the answer to the last question. He’d read each of the pages a dozen times, trying to find a way to tie her to him, or at least find her again. But he asked the question because he needed some way to prolong the moment, to keep at bay the hole that would tear at his belly with her loss. When she left, he would become again thorough, stolid Walgrave and not the passionate man he was with her. Even so, he could not ask her to stay. She had made her choice.

  She looked back at him, the tears now fully visible. “Even now, you pay no attention to my letters. The payments go to my solicitor, who will forward me the funds. As for my destination, I will be comfortable, perhaps even happy.”

  “I am sorry, truly sorry, we could not reconcile our differences. But the man you want doesn’t exist.”

  “But he did, Harrison. He did.” She pulled her hand from his grasp. He turned toward the window, not wanting to see her leave. When he turned back, she was gone.

  He didn’t understand what had just happened. He had thought they were getting along well, discovering all the things they shared in common. They had spent a week laughing and loving. He had even begun to see how with Olivia he might have that marriage of minds he had envied so much in his friends. He poured himself a glass of port. He could go after her, but she didn’t want his help. And she’d made it clear that she certainly didn’t want him. He refused to feel her loss. He refused to mourn her.

  He listened to the carriage pull away from the abbey and disappear into the distance, then sought comfort in the library, but the room was empty. The tables were cleared of all their papers, the books returned to the shelves. It was as if no one was in residence at all. But more likely, the scholars were off in the dower house, trying to blow up his estate with their experiments. Shaking his head, he returned to his tower room with a bottle of port and drank, until he could drink no more.

  The next morning, Harrison returned to the library to find it still empty and the tables still cleared. Wanting company, he went to the lodge. Partlet and Nathan, heads bowed together outside the building, retreated quickly down the garden path, and Lark—who looked as if he had been crying all night—ran into the corridor and slammed the door to his room shut. Down the corridor, all the other scholars scuttled away as soon as they saw him.

  But what had he expected? If he had been one of the scholars, he would have taken Livvy’s side too, though he wasn’t exactly sure what side she was on. He’d thought she finally trusted him.

  At the drawing room, only Otley remained. The old man looked up at him with disappointment, then rose slowly. “I understand that it’s your right to close the library, Lord Walgrave, but such an announcement to the scholars should have come from you directly, rather than from your attorney. I will stay on as you request, but I do it for Sir Roderick’s sake, not yours.”

  Harrison felt as if the world had shifted on its axis and he had not moved with it. “I regret that I have done something to offend you, Otley. But I have sent no letters to the scholars, and I haven’t corresponded with my attorney in some time. In fact, the last time that I wrote to him . . .” The realization dawned suddenly. His angry insistence that Aldine investigate the scholars and close the library if he uncovered even the hint of impropriety, the letter from Aldine he’d never read, his vague response left on the edge of the table in Adam’s room—it all tore out the bottom of Harrison’s heart. “Do you have one of the letters here?”

  Otley held it out, and Harrison’s hands shook as he took it. And suddenly he understood why Olivia had left him—she’d thought he’d broken his promise to keep the scholars. He could explain—he could even get Aldine to write a letter on his behalf. But it would be useless, because she was gone, and he had no idea where or how to find her.

  He sank into the chair next to Otley’s and buried his face in his hands so that the old man would not see him weep.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  “Flute. Remember that actress I met with some weeks ago?”

  “The one I followed?”

  “Yes.”

  “I thought we decided she wasn’t of interest.”

  “We were wrong. We thought that Mrs. Wells was using her as a blind to conceal the true author of the articles. However, she is not an actress at all, but Lord Walgrave’s wife in disguise.”

  “Is she An Honest Gentleman?”

  “A woman who used to be a governess? I don’t think so. No, before I arrived at the abbey, Lord Walgrave had some long discussion with the scholars about word choice in the newspaper essays. I believe he is An Honest Gentleman, and his wife is his agent. And that makes him ripe for a discussion of our fee.”

  “Fee?”

  “For keeping his secret. A peer exposing the secrets of other peers will not sit well with the ton. His career will be over.”

  “What if he refuses? Idealists are unpredictable.”

  “Then he might have to die.”

  There was a commotion from outside Charters’s study, and Calista pushed her way into the room.

  “I have come for my jewels.”

  “They are my jewels now. A retainer for our services, and we have discovered the information you desired.”

  “I figured out who An Honest Gentleman is by myself.” Her eyes darted around the room, as if more people were going to appear from the corners. “You did nothing for me, and I’ll pay you nothing in return.”

  “Your being unhappy doesn’t mean we did nothing.”

  “I don’t have anything more to pay you. The jewels weren’t even mine, not anymore, at least. My relatives weren’t supposed to discover them missing, but they have. I must return them.”

  “That is no concern of ours.” Charters lifted his finger, and Flute opened the door to three large men. They flanked the woman.

  She looked at the men. “You told me nothing. And I must have my jewels.”

  “Irrelevant. You knew the terms when you hired us.”

  “Don’t discount me! I found out their names, you fool, and I will discover yours. I will tell everyone that you are a swindler, a cheat, and a murderer.”

  “If you have the time before you are tried and hanged for theft . . . Goodbye, Baroness Ecsed. See: I already know your name.” The men lifted her by her shoulders. “I would recommend a swift retreat to the Continent; perhaps you can convince your husband’s family to take you in. Try France. Montpellier.” He flicked his finger again. “See her out, gentlemen.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Though Harrison did not know where exactly, Olivia received reports that he had followed her to London, methodically searching each place where she might be. He’d visited her solicitor. He’d accosted Mrs. Wells at both Drury Lane and the World, demanding she deliver a letter to his gypsy, Calypso. He’d even demanded that Joe and Mr. James reveal her whereabouts, but they had refused. Instead, they had written to reassure her that Harrison now knew that the Honest Gentleman affair—and their involvement in
it—had been approved by the Prince Regent himself. Harrison had also, Joe wrote, gone into the archives and spent two days reviewing the Ecsed affair, declaring himself horrified anew at the Baron’s depravities. But, Joe had assured her, all references to her own actions after reporting the Baron to the magistrates had been carefully expunged. It was cold comfort, but she appreciated Joe’s words.

  Her cottage would not be ready for another week, so Olivia had taken temporary lodgings with Mrs. Wells. Or rather, in the nicely appointed apartment adjacent to Mrs. Wells’s offices at the World. Olivia hid there, surrounded by friends.

  In the evening she’d attended in secret a meeting of the Muses’ Salon. But the ladies did not know where she lodged, and, true to their promise, they told no one of her attendance. The salon was her only comfort.

  When she returned to the World, however, a note was stuck to the door with a sharp penknife. Dread clenched at the bottom of her belly. She pulled out the knife, noticing the emblem of Baron Ecsed on its edge—Calista’s husband. Looking over her shoulder, she let herself into her rooms, then raising the lamp, she read Calista’s uncontrolled scrawl.

  You killed my husband. Tonight I kill yours. I’m waiting by the presses.

  Olivia dropped the note on the floor, stunned. Calista had found her. But worse, Calista had found Harrison. Hands shaking, Olivia loaded her pistol, then shoved it in her reticule. Whatever she had to do, Harrison would not die.

  She met Penn, one of the pressmen, on the street downstairs outside the offices of the World. He had heard something loud from inside the shop and was going to investigate. She sent him away, afraid the big man’s presence would force Calista’s hand.

  The office was dark, and she maneuvered slowly through the piles of printed materials. By the time she reached the pressroom, she could see a dim glow next to the central press.

  Olivia stepped into the light and walked forward slowly, not taking her eyes off the woman across the room, unable to believe that it had come to this.

  Calista held the pistol awkwardly, her hand shaking. Two feet in front of her spread a pool of liquid. Olivia traced the line of liquid: It extended around the presses and to the walls on either side.

  “Ah, Lady Walgrave. That smell is linseed oil, and these rags are soaked in turpentine. With all this wood and paper, this place will burn brilliantly. But will you live to see it?” She gestured with the pistol. “Or will he?”

  Olivia looked at Harrison, leaning against the wall, his face pale, his shirt red with blood. From the way his shoulder hung forward, she could tell it was dislocated. Sweat beaded on his brow and his lip.

  “What have you done to him?”

  The woman laughed with glee. “After I stabbed him? I merely pulled back the arm of the press and let it go. Shame it only hit his shoulder—I was hoping to stop his heart.”

  A thick line of oil ran across the floor in front of Harrison and connected with the line encircling the presses. When the solvent caught fire, he would be trapped. “I’m not Lady Walgrave. We are not married.”

  The woman spat on the floor at Olivia’s feet. “Liar. You have been his wife for almost a decade. His countess. You have enjoyed the pleasures of life, of rank, while I have enjoyed nothing but suffering. I used to have pretty dresses and an estate and money, so much money I thought I could buy the world if I wanted it. But then you came, and now it’s gone. All of it. I have a room and an allowance from my husband’s cousin that lets me buy one new dress a year. I sit in my room, with my chair, and my bed, and my dress, and I think of how much I hate you. Even when you were dead, I thought about how much I hated you.”

  Olivia watched the woman carefully. It was clear she had gone mad. “What are you waiting for, Calista?”

  “Don’t you call me that. After what you did, you can call me vengeance or fury.” Calista stopped. “I’m nobody now—the ton no longer invite me to their parties. But before tonight is done, you will be nobody too. The only question is whether I kill you or him . . . or both.”

  “Punish me. Harrison had no part in what’s between us.”

  “But you care for him, and killing him would hurt you.”

  “She’s mad. She keeps saying you killed her husband.” Harrison spoke with obvious pain.

  “Be quiet, Harrison,” Olivia ordered softly.

  “Oh, he won’t be quiet, Lady Walgrave. He’s been trying to convince me that you are not capable of that treachery.” She turned with glee to Harrison. “Do you know what your pretty wife has done to you, my lord? Do you know that she’s been writing to the newspapers? But whether I kill you or not, you will die.” She turned back to Olivia. “The men I hired to find you think he’s An Honest Gentleman, and I let them believe it. He’ll pay their price to keep silent or he’ll die. But it’s you who is writing those essays—just as it was you who killed my husband.”

  Olivia saw Harrison’s face beg her to defend herself, but perhaps it was better this way. He would finally know who she was and what she was capable of. But he would live—that’s all that mattered.

  “Walgrave doesn’t care for me at all—so my part in your husband’s death won’t matter to him.” She watched his face change as he realized the madwoman was right. “I mean nothing to him, and he means nothing to me.”

  “He must care for you. Why else did he come when I wrote him? Why else would a lord marry a servant with no more money than a common whore?”

  “Your husband was a monster who enjoyed his cruelties.” She looked at Harrison. Then at the printing press near him. His eyes followed hers, and he nodded almost imperceptibly. If she could draw away Calista’s aim, he could put the press between his body and Calista’s bullet. “Do you think you would have fared so well over time, Calista?”

  “He never would have hurt me. I brought him the girls. I knew once he saw you he would fancy you, so I hired you. It was his right to expect more of you than just teaching his children. But you rebuffed him, and he accepted the advances of that little whore. If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s yours. If you had accepted him, he wouldn’t have killed her. No, I will destroy you as you destroyed him.”

  “He threw her body from the tower, Calista, and you laughed at her broken bones. And she was not the first. He delighted in killing, Calista, and you delighted in helping him.”

  “Why do you value the lives of servant girls more than the life I had? A scullery maid is a scullery maid is a scullery maid. But I was a baroness. I danced with kings. How did her life even compare to mine? And no one cared what my husband did with the servants. It wasn’t anything that every other lord hadn’t done. The magistrates even said that the girl didn’t know her place.”

  Olivia clenched her fist until the knuckles were white.

  “Besides, who are you to worry about killing? You were quick enough to take his life. Tell him, Lady Walgrave, about the man you killed, about the children you left fatherless, about the wife you reduced to penury. He doesn’t know how bloodthirsty you are, but I know. They told me you were dead, but then I saw you on the street a year ago, going to a play. I thought I’d seen a ghost. But you weren’t a ghost, were you? No, you were alive, with a new name, married to an earl.”

  “I’m not married to him. I gave a false name. The marriage is invalid. You can let him go.”

  “Of course you gave a false name. Do you even know your real name? After I discovered you weren’t dead, I found out everything I could about Olivia, Lady Walgrave. But she doesn’t exist. But I had an advantage, because before you were Olivia, you were Peggy—Peggy who murdered my husband. And with that name, I found out others. I even know that your father called you Elise.”

  “What do you know of my father?”

  “I have friends, even now. Do you know that fire near St. Bride’s? I set it, and all to stop a little journalist from finding her father. I know where he is. But I’ll never tell you. And your mother—do you even remember your mother? Her name for you was . . .”

  “
Enough, Calista.” The well-dressed man stepped into the room, holding his own pistol. Harrison, it seemed, had been correct—the threats she’d been receiving weren’t linked. Or at least, not in the way she had thought.

  “Lady Walgrave, take your husband and leave.”

  “No! She’s mine! I’ve waited years for my revenge.” She swung the pistol around to face this new intruder, supporting it with both hands.

  “Put the pistol down.” The well-dressed man moved slowly forward.

  “Why are you protecting her? She’s nothing compared to me—I was a baroness.” Calista’s face contorted with madness and rage.

  The printing press in the shadows behind Calista creaked, and she turned, firing. The bullet lodged in the body of one of the presses.

  From behind her, Penn appeared. The big man tried to knock Calista to the floor, but she heard him at the last moment. Calista threw the lamp into the linseed oil. The liquid burst into flame, spreading almost instantly down its path. And Calista disappeared in the smoke.

  “Penn, the presses!” Olivia cried out. She ran to retrieve one of the large buckets filled with water near the piles of paper.

  Though the line of oil extended across most of the back of the room, it was not evenly thick in all places. At each press, she and Penn and the well-dressed man emptied the water buckets, then they emptied the ones filled with urine that the pressmen used to clean the type. The scorched smells burned her nose.

  Harrison, using only one arm, poured water on the rags. “If it gets too hot, linseed oil will combust without a flame.”

  The smoke, however, still billowed.

  “There’s no more water, but I think the fire is out,” Harrison yelled.

  “Whether it’s out or not, we must leave before we can’t find the door,” Olivia directed. “Penn, help Harrison. We’ll follow you.”

  The large man nodded and helped Harrison stumble to the door. But seeing another flame, Olivia turned back to smother it. The no-longer-well-dressed man took her by the shoulders and pushed her in front of him toward the door. “You, too, Elise. No daughter of Fallon’s dies when she still has a chance for love. But you must stop searching—no one else can know you are still alive.”