by Amy Corwin
“And that’s the only reason you believe me? Because I am not besmirched with his blood?”
Peregrine chuckled, although he still looked pale, and the cold had made the tip of his nose red. “No. You c-could not harm a fly, Ollie. Everyone knows t-that.”
Slightly mollified, she stopped trying to pull her hand away. “Maybe so, but I am afraid Mr. Idleman and Constable Cooke are not so sure. We have not seen the last of them.”
Her brother chuckled uneasily, not bothering to disagree. They both knew there were going to be some unpleasant events unfolding over the next few days, and the future of Olivia's academy seemed as bleak as the weather.
Chapter Four
When Olivia and Peregrine entered their townhouse, Margaret, Edward, and Hildie were already in the hallway, shedding hats, gloves, and coats. Sparkles of ice flew around them and spattered against the marble floor as they shook off their outerwear and stamped their feet.
Margaret took one look at Olivia’s face and frowned, almost dropping one of her gloves. Ever vigil, Latimore caught the item before it hit the floor and added it to the bundle of clothing draped over his arm while a footman hurried forward with a broom and rag to wipe up the mud and melting ice.
“What is it, Olivia? Has something happened?” Margaret asked.
Suddenly, everyone was watching Olivia as she undid the ribbons of her bonnet and handed it to the butler. “We found…” She glanced over her shoulder at Peregrine, but he was busy with his jacket. “Mr. Grantham was, well, I fear he has had an accident.”
“An accident?” Edward repeated in a stern voice that suggested disbelief.
Margaret gripped Olivia’s wrist. “What kind of accident? Was he hurt?”
Olivia stared into her younger sister’s eyes, searching for a way to make the news less stark and terrible. Margaret had always been so fond of Mr. Grantham, particularly after their father died. He supplied tolerant, amused snippets of guidance when she required it and a sympathetic ear when she needed to pour out her woes to someone. Mr. Grantham had been gentle and kind to all of them, but there was no doubt that Margaret was his favorite. He never failed to bring some trifle with him when he visited, whether it was a ribbon or a favorite confection.
“I am sorry, Margaret,” Olivia said. “He passed away.”
“He is dead?” Margaret’s fingers tightened on Olivia’s wrist, and her mouth quivered as her eyes filled with tears. “How? He was not that old — how could he have died? Was it a carriage accident? This weather is so dreadful.”
“No. I am sorry,” Olivia repeated. She gathered Margaret into her arms, despite her sister’s rigid back, and held her.
Margaret’s wrenching sobs fell in a burning trickle against Olivia’s neck. And Olivia felt tears spill over her own cheeks as she clasped Margaret closer and whispered random endearments into her soft hair. She jerked when Hildie threw her arms around the two of them, clutching her older sisters and crying noisily against their shoulders.
Even Edward glanced away and had to clear his throat several times.
When their tears slowed, all of them turned away, hunched, and their gazes fixed on the floor as if looking at each other would only bring forth a fresh wave of grief. Murmuring apologies, they drifted apart, trudging upstairs to the privacy of their bedchambers. That evening, they all had trays in their rooms, too wearied with sorrow to endure a more elaborate meal in the formal dining room.
The next morning, the post brought a couple of brief but politely worded apologies from two of the ladies who were to be Olivia's first fencing students. She read the notes blearily, through red-rimmed, itching eyes.
That just left one lady. Olivia sighed and refolded the letters and slid them into the drawer of her writing desk. This afternoon's post would undoubtedly bring apologies from her last student, Cynthia Denholm.
Well, perhaps it was for the best. No one would wish to set foot in the townhouse so soon after yesterday's tragedy, especially not Olivia. She kept seeing Mr. Grantham huddled in the wardrobe with the cupid statuette sitting on his shoulder.
Last night, she had barely slept, and this morning, she still felt numb with shock and grief. When Mary came into the room to clean the ashes from the fireplace, Olivia realized she’d forgotten to send Mary, or any of the other maids, to the building to clean the rooms properly.
Although given what had happened, it seemed unlikely that the maids would be willing to go there unless one of the larger footmen went with them. And Olivia couldn’t blame them. She would be uneasy going there alone as well.
Olivia rubbed her forehead. Her head felt achy and stuffed with wool.
What should she do? No doubt the constable had also confiscated the foils and other wardrobe contents. They’d had nothing to do with Mr. Grantham's unfortunate death, but she knew she would be wise to anticipate Constable Cooke’s actions.
The thought seemed like one more obstacle, and she was so tired she could scarcely think.
She would have to start all over again, and she didn’t know if she had the energy to do so. Belatedly, she realized that Margaret had been correct; there was very little to tempt a lady to enroll. The ladies could easily meet for ices at Gunther's if they wanted to get together to gossip. And a walk or a ride in one of the parks would suffice as exercise. No need to scandalize Society and risk censure for engaging in such an unladylike activity.
They didn’t know how exhilarating it was to fence, to hear that whisper of steel against steel as one tested the foil of one’s opponent. They had never experienced what she had, never knew the thrill of matching swords and wits and winning against all odds.
But now, she almost regretted her impulse to start a fencing academy. Her back stiffened. Now that she had begun down this path, she’d appear idiotic and lackadaisical to halt at the first difficulty. She was made of sterner stuff than that.
Her fingers brushed over a fresh sheet of the creamy paper she used for letters. Ladies might not enroll to fence with Olivia, but they would certainly do so if Lord Milbourn were one of the teachers. His dashing, faintly exotic presence would easily overcome the sordid scandal of finding a dead man in her office. The notion brought a hectic flush to her cheeks.
She had to stop thinking of him. He was not the answer to all of her difficulties.
A frown grew, wrinkling her brow. But she needed assistance. Why not him? He had tutored all of her brothers in the fine art before he’d inherited his title and accompanying fortune. Perhaps he would see it as an entertaining lark. Even if he only attended a few sessions, it might be enough.
She dipped her pen in the crystal inkwell and wrote quickly, begging Lord Milbourn for assistance. It wasn't until she signed her name that she had second thoughts. She couldn't ask him. It was too forward. What would he think? No doubt, he would believe she’d never outgrown her childish fondness for him.
How embarrassing.
And what would her betrothed, Lord Saunders, say? Probably nothing. The thought was demoralizing. She rested her chin on her fist, staring glumly out the window. Lord Saunders never said anything about any of her notions, no matter how outrageous they were. He was too kind to hurt her. And she ought to respect his feelings. Her schemes had already embroiled her in a murder, and she knew she would see disappointment and concern in his soft eyes the next time she saw him. He would stand by her, no matter how scandalous her behavior, and he'd never say a word. He'd just look at her with his huge sad eyes, heave a sigh, and carry on bravely.
Nothing could be more sure to make her feel positively cruel and thoughtless than the sound of his soft little sighs.
She folded the letter.
“Olivia? Olivia!” Margaret's voice rushed through the open door behind Olivia like a summer storm. “Oh, there you are.” Sniffing into a handkerchief, she walked into the room, followed by a short, plump man with large blue eyes and a receding hairline. “Lord Saunders is here, Lady Olivia.”
“How charming to see you, my
lord.” Olivia stood and stretched out one hand.
“I came as soon as I heard. My deepest sympathies to you. I understand Mr. Grantham was a good friend to your family.” Lord Saunders caught her fingers and obligingly bowed over her hand. When he straightened, his wide-set blue eyes roved over her face, and his mouth pursed with concern. “You are looking well, Lady Olivia. I had expected, that is, er, I am relieved you appear so well.”
“Yes. I am well,” she answered more sharply than she meant.
Margaret turned her shoulder to them and held her wrinkled linen handkerchief to her nose. “I don’t know how we shall bear it,” she whispered in a muffled voice.
“Of course, my dear Lady Margaret.” He patted her forearm awkwardly. “Your grief is only proper and right, given your loss. It does you credit.”
Olivia studied him. Did he mean to imply that because she was not sobbing, she was not exhibiting the proper sentiment?
He'd obviously rushed over, expecting to find her locked in her bedroom, prostrate with shock. His mournful eyes played over her face, and she thought she could detect disappointment in their depths. Perhaps he didn’t think it was right that she was wandering around the house as if nothing had happened.
Her head rose. Once again, she'd failed to live up to his expectations of frail, sensitive womanhood, and although he was too kind and respectful to voice any criticism, she felt just as crushed when she saw the disappointment in his eyes.
“I told you, finding poor Mr. Grantham in her cupboard did not bother her in the least,” Margaret interjected, her eyes swollen and red. “She is quite hard-hearted.”
“I am not completely heartless,” Olivia protested. “I was horrified. It was a terrible thing, and we will all miss Mr. Grantham.”
“Of course you will,” Lord Saunders said. “Your sentiment is only proper. I would have expected nothing less. I am just sorry that you were ever exposed to such a thing.” He drew himself up like a pigeon puffing out his breast and strolled over to a nearby couch, politely waiting for the ladies to be seated. “At least you can bow out, now, from this ridiculous notion of a fencing academy. No one could possibly criticize you for ending the affair. In a sense, this may prove to be the best thing that could have happened.” When Olivia's eyes widened in surprise, he hastily added, “Of course, Mr. Grantham's death could never be considered a good thing. Oh, no, that was not my meaning at all, you understand. I simply meant that out of every tragedy, some good may come. Well, of course, we are all quite upset, and it is a terrible thing.”
“Of course it is. You are so kind to understand, Lord Saunders.” Margaret gave Olivia a stern look before she sniffed and waved to the couch near Lord Saunders. She wandered through the room, stopping briefly at the writing table, before joining Saunders. “Will you not have a seat, my lord? Lady Olivia, why don't you ring for some tea? I'm sure Lord Saunders would like some refreshment after his long walk. We must think of others, despite our grief.”
“Oh, no, I did not walk. I took a hack. But if you ladies would like some tea, I should, of course, be pleased.” He hesitated in front of the sofa, half-sitting before standing again and waiting for Margaret to take a seat before he smiled and sat beside her.
Olivia yanked on the bell pull in the corner of the room. She was about to lower herself into the wing chair next to their couch when there was a burst of clicking noises in the hallway, growing louder as they headed for the sitting room. Leaping in front of her betrothed, she faced the door.
Yapping and frenzied clicking whooshed into the room as a pack of joyful beagles galloped toward Olivia. Her beagles! Somehow, they had escaped from their room just off the kitchen and, happily making the most of their freedom, had come in search of her.
Two dogs jumped on her skirts, tongues lolling from their mouths in glee.
“Down, Caesar, Brutus.” She forced them down, scratching their long, soft ears with a smile before she turned.
An alarmingly pale Lord Saunders was standing on the seat cushion of the couch while Margaret stood in front of him, pushing back Justinia, Octavius, Titus, and Bathsheba. The dogs bayed at him, and Lord Saunders's mouth worked. He moaned incoherently, his eyes cutting from one dog to the other as they leapt up in their efforts to reach some part of his anatomy to lick.
“Get down,” Margaret ordered, her tear-stained face growing flushed. “How could you, Lady Olivia? You know how your dogs affect Lord Saunders. How could you do this after Mr. Grantham? Have you no heart — no sensitivity — at all?”
“I am sorry, they must have escaped from their room.” Olivia caught several of the dogs and dragged them away by their leather collars, only to have them roll over on their backs in an effort to entice her to rub their bellies. “Naughty little doggies.”
Caesar gazed up at her with huge brown eyes, pink tongue hanging out, and rolled a little closer to expose his tender belly. She couldn't resist his blandishments and stopped to rub him. With a laugh, she petted them all and made them sit at her feet in an orderly group. Their happy expressions lifted her heart for what seemed like the first time in days.
“Perhaps you could take Lord Saunders for a walk, Lady Margaret,” she said. “I'll keep the dogs here until you are gone.”
“But I am expecting Lord Graybrook—” Margaret broke off, casting a glance at Lord Saunders obliquely through her thick lashes. “Well, perhaps he has decided not to call after all. I shall be pleased to have your company, Lord Saunders.”
“Delighted,” Lord Saunders mumbled, eyeing the dogs.
Margaret raised her hand to help Lord Saunders descend from the couch. With amazingly nimbleness, he skirted the wing chair, putting the furniture between him and the dogs. The animals eyed him with bright, curious eyes and wagging tails, clearly hoping this was the start of some new game.
“Honestly, Lady Olivia, I shall never understand why you even brought those dogs with you. They are of no use whatsoever in London,” Margaret chided her as she followed Lord Saunders out of the room.
“They wanted to come,” Olivia said lamely.
How could she explain that when she’d climbed into the carriage, Caesar had run out and jumped in, terrified of being left behind. And then the others had begun baying and escaped from the groom to make a mad dash for the carriage. Once they jumped inside, she couldn’t bring herself to force them out or see the look of disappointment in their brown eyes. It would have felt too much like betrayal to leave them after that.
Margaret took Lord Saunders by the arm and drew him into the hallway. When they’d gone, Olivia stooped to rub all the dogs, trying to be serious and chide them for upsetting her betrothed. But when Caesar and Titus rolled over onto her feet, waving their paws in the air, she couldn’t help laughing. The others soon pushed forward in their efforts to dominate her attention, and she felt a little of her grief and worry fade.
She should have felt badly about upsetting her betrothed, but somehow, when she saw the gentle remonstrance in his gaze, she only wanted to take the dogs and escape to the small grassy area behind the townhouse. Some of her grief returned, however, when she remembered poor Mr. Grantham.
What had happened to him? He’d been such a quiet, gentle man, and a cherished friend. Why had he gone to the academy? Her brow wrinkled. How had he entered without a key? Had he been meeting someone? Had he met Mr. Underwood?
The thought made her queasy, and she pressed a hand against her stomach. She didn’t want to believe Mr. Underwood had been involved, and yet his conversation with her brother and his presence near the academy haunted her.
So many questions. And worse, Mr. Grantham’s death seemed so senseless. How could anyone be angry enough with him to hit him with the first object that came to hand? He had been so inoffensive that it was impossible to imagine the circumstances that must have led to his death. The picture of the stained marble cherub resting on Mr. Grantham’s shoulder, obscuring his head, and the stickiness of his blood on the floor beneath her boots w
ould not leave her. It spoke of brutal, senseless rage.
Uncontrollable anger.
Mr. Underwood had been angry. He’d seemed desperate when she overheard his conversation with her brother. Even more damning, he’d been near the academy soon after Mr. Grantham had died.
Should she report it?
No. If anyone reported it, it should be Edward. He alone knew precisely what Mr. Underwood had said to him.
Once the motive was clear, she would feel more comfortable telling the authorities that he had been in the vicinity of the townhouse that afternoon.
Undecided, she did nothing, and even the dogs couldn’t brighten the rest of her day. She moved through her social duties in low spirits, writing letters, and accepting callers. As the afternoon wore on, she began to realize that the delicate questions of the ladies who visited could not mask the excited curiosity in their eyes. While they were quick to offer their sympathy, they all asked the same questions about the academy and Mr. Grantham’s state when Olivia discovered him.
How dreadful, they simpered behind gloved hands, their eyes bright with excitement.
Olivia was almost relieved when the beagles escaped from their quarters twice more while ladies were visiting. Excited by the prospect of strangers in the house, the dogs bayed and dashed up the stairs and along the gallery with the footman running after them in close attendance.
Olivia calmly sipped her tea to cover her laughter.
“What is the meaning of this outrage?” Mrs. Roberts shrieked, jerking to her feet as Brutus sniffed at her overly ruffled hem. She stood quivering as the other dogs encircled her, sniffing and pawing at her dress. “I came here to lend a sympathetic ear and support, despite the evils of your situation, and I must say, I expected better of you, Lady Olivia.”
“I am sorry, Mrs. Roberts, and I fully appreciate your kindness. Perhaps you could overlook the dogs as simply evidence of my evil situation.” Olivia picked up the teapot. “Would you care for some more tea?”
