by Amy Corwin
No matter how she studied it, she felt responsible for the charwoman’s death. Mrs. Adams may have been lazy and utterly useless as a maid of all work, but she didn’t deserve to die, and especially not simply to furnish a murderer with a key to the academy.
“Ah, there you are, Lady Olivia,” Crispin Belcher strode forward to nod at Olivia. He stretched an arm through the doorway to shake Lord Milbourn’s hand. “Lord Milbourn. I was about to leave a note for you, Lady Olivia.” He crumpled a piece of paper and handed it to Latimore. “No need to now.”
Mr. Belcher was a close friend of all of her brothers, and one of the quartet of fencing aficionados consisting of her brother, Wraysbury, Lord Milbourn, and Mr. Grantham. The group had been a burr under Olivia’s saddle for as long as she could remember as they gently, but firmly, excluded her whenever they went to a fencing match or met themselves to practice the art.
She might have been able to thrust her way into her brothers’ fencing lessons, but she’d never managed to scale the high walls surrounding the quartet, and she couldn’t help but view Mr. Belcher with a touch of aggravation.
There was no possible reason for him to leave a note for her — at least not one she was interested in reading — so as far as she was concerned, he’d have been better off to ask to see Edward.
Oblivious to her irritation, Mr. Belcher held his fashionable silk hat in the crook of his left arm, his gray gloved left hand holding his other glove and a Malacca walking stick. The ornate gold knob on the end of the cane gleamed in the mellow candlelight of the hallway like his golden curls. The tall collar of his black coat framed his face, and his striped trousers made him seem even taller, although he was an inch shorter than Lord Milbourn. His clothing could not be faulted. He was impeccable, as always, which only served to annoy her further as she brushed a recalcitrant curl off her forehead.
Studying Olivia, Mr. Belcher’s wide blue eyes softened with concern, and once again, she was struck by the perfection of his regular features. A straight nose, square jaw, and firm mouth, now compressed with grave concern, gave him the appearance of a benign angel offering heavenly sympathy.
Strangely, despite Belcher’s golden perfection, her breath and heartbeat were quite regular when he examined her. He failed to make her feel as giddy as a glass of champagne did, as when she gazed at Lord Milbourn. Where Milbourn often seemed coldly indifferent or rude, Belcher was warm and as sympathetic as any woman could want. In fact, Belcher struck her in the same way that Lord Saunders often did: with all the appeal of a soggy breakfast bun.
How shameful of me. They are both kind men, and I should feel honored to be engaged to one and friends with the other.
“I hope I am not intruding.” Mr. Belcher’s glance flicked from Olivia to Lord Milbourn. “However, when I heard the terrible news, I felt I had to offer my condolences.” He touched her wrist with his fingertips.
“Heard the news?” she faltered. Surely Mr. Belcher hadn’t heard about Mrs. Adams so soon!
She looked at Lord Milbourn. He was studying Mr. Belcher, and she couldn’t read anything from his expression except polite interest. Somehow, she’d expected more evidence of their friendship. Although Mr. Belcher and Mr. Grantham were several years older than Lord Milbourn, who was only five years older than her brother, they were still members of their privileged quartet.
A flicker of amusement danced in Belcher’s blue eyes for a second and was gone. She stared at him, wondering if she had imagined it. She was tired, upset, and frankly longed to retire to her room and do nothing except stare out the window.
“Grantham,” Mr. Belcher replied. “I heard, well, I am sure you are well aware of the rumors since you were unfortunate enough to be the one to discover his … passing.” He touched her wrist again, his brows pinching as he frowned with sympathy. “I am truly sorry. We shall all miss him. He was a true friend.”
She glanced again at Lord Milbourn, before she said, “Yes.”
Mr. Belcher caught the direction of her quick look and studied first Olivia and then Lord Milbourn. His frown deepened. “You were surprised — I apologize — but has something else occurred?”
“You will hear soon enough,” Lord Milbourn replied, cutting off Olivia.
“Hear? Hear what?” Mr. Belcher’s gaze traveled from Lord Milbourn to Olivia and back. “Surely nothing else could have happened?”
“A woman has been found as well. At the academy,” Lord Milbourn said curtly.
“Woman?” Mr. Belcher’s forehead wrinkled with confusion, and his sharp blue eyes searched her face. “What woman?”
“A woman hired to clean,” Lord Milbourn answered for Olivia as he followed her into the house. “She apparently died several days ago.”
Olivia let out a sigh, relieved not to have to explain matters. A slow headache was beginning to wrap tight bands around her forehead. It was everything she could do not to rub her temple and weep.
“How awful for you, my dear Lady Olivia.” Mr. Belcher threw his hat, glove, and cane on a nearby occasional table and grabbed Olivia’s right hand. He pressed it under the warm fingers of his bare hand, staring at her. “I cannot imagine how shocked you must be. And to have your affairs exposed to public scrutiny this way, well, I can only offer you my sympathy and support. Whom do the authorities suspect? Is the madman in custody?”
“I fear they suspect me,” Olivia said abruptly, her mouth twisting with the bitter admission.
“You?” His grip on her hand tightened as he stared into her eyes. “They must be fools to suspect you. You must be mistaken.”
“I cannot argue with that, Mr. Belcher. However, I am not mistaken,” she said, wriggling her hand out of his clasp. Part of her wanted to step closer to Lord Milbourn and lean on him for just a moment, just long enough to ease the bands compressing her temples.
“It does look bad, of course,” Mr. Belcher said slowly, gazing thoughtfully at his belongings on the nearby table. “However, I am sure there must be some evidence, something to prove your innocence, despite any suspicious circumstances.”
Suspicious circumstances! She winced. If a family friend like Crispin Belcher thought the situation raised questions about her involvement, then what hope did she have of convincing the authorities that she was innocent?
Oh, why hadn’t Edward talked to the authorities about Mr. Underwood? Or had she misunderstood the conversation between the two men and jumped to the wrong conclusion when she’d seen him on the street? If so, she was the only suspect left.
A chill breezed past the nape of her neck, lifting the soft curls and making her skin itch.
“Anyone applying sufficient logic to the course of events would conclude that Lady Olivia could not possibly be involved,” Lord Milbourn interjected smoothly. “As I’m sure the authorities will eventually recognize.”
“Of course.” Mr. Belcher’s frown of concern lifted away as if it had never wrinkled his brow. An expression of smiling, sunny confidence replaced it. “And I trust they shall soon make an arrest and put an end to your worries, Lady Olivia.”
Or give her something new to worry about. She wished she had the confidence in Mr. Greenfield that these two men had. As it was, she felt fortunate not to be arrested already.
Chapter Nine
A soft knock at the front door distracted Olivia. Lord Milbourn, Mr. Belcher, and she all turned to watch Latimore open the front door. He bowed in greeting and waved the newcomer inside.
A bolt of pain shot up Olivia’s neck to her throbbing temples as she watched her betrothed take a few hesitant steps over the threshold into the hall. His nervous gaze flicked past them from one door to the next, the tension in his face revealing his fear of another assault by her dogs. He gripped his walking stick at its midpoint and held it in front of him, prepared for the worst.
“Lady Olivia, Lord Saunders.” Latimore bowed before closing the door.
“Lord Saunders,” Olivia greeted him. She forced a polite smile and nodded. “You
know Lord Milbourn and Mr. Belcher, I believe?”
“Indeed, yes. Gentlemen.” He nodded, but didn’t stop glancing around until Lord Milbourn strode up to him and offered his hand.
“Good afternoon, Saunders,” Lord Milbourn said, waiting patiently while Lord Saunders shifted his cane to his left hand and shook hands.
Mr. Belcher walked forward to greet Olivia’s betrothed and ask after his health.
Olivia gestured for Latimore to join her and whispered, “Where is Margaret? Or Edward for that matter?”
“I beg your pardon, Lady Olivia.” Latimore glanced at the three men exchanging casual comments about the weather and the prospect for snow before morning. “Mr. Edward left twenty minutes ago with Mr. Peregrine and your sisters.” The corners of his mouth creased ever so slightly in as much amusement as he would allow himself to display. “They took your dogs with them, Lady Olivia. Mr. Edward felt they needed exercising.”
As usual, she couldn’t rely upon any of her siblings to rescue her from an increasingly awkward position. What was she going to do with three gentlemen callers?
Mr. Belcher picked up his gloves, cane, and hat. “Excuse me, Lady Olivia. Gentlemen. I am afraid I must bid you good day.”
She bit her lower lip to keep from expressing her relief.
“I should leave, as well,” Lord Milbourn said. He caught Olivia’s gaze with his dark eyes.
“When —” She halted, aware of Lord Saunders’s gaze. When she looked up, Mr. Belcher was also watching her, his golden brows raised in gentle curiosity. She fought against the flush she felt rising over her cheeks and took a deep breath. “There are some matters I must discuss with you.” Lord Saunders’s gaze burned her face, but she refused to look at him. “About the academy.”
A slow smile curved Lord Milbourn’s mouth. “Of course. Tomorrow —”
“Tomorrow is the inquest,” she pointed out.
“If I may, I will escort you there. We can then discuss the academy.” He bowed politely.
“You shall not go to the inquest, Lady Olivia.” Lord Saunders stepped forward abruptly. “A lady of your rank — it is not done.” He glared at Lord Milbourn as if challenging him to disagree.
This was the first time she’d ever heard him express his opinion forcefully. Olivia stared at her betrothed in surprise before she recovered sufficiently to say, “I really think I must go, Lord Saunders. I’m very sorry, but I think it best.” She glanced at Lord Milbourn. “One of my brothers will accompany me, there is no need to inconvenience yourself.”
“Very well.” Lord Milbourn gave her a shallow bow.
“But — but…” Lord Saunders stumbled over his objection. He clearly felt strongly about the matter, but his diffident nature made it impossible for him to maintain his position firmly. “You must see, you must allow me to advise you. Why, we are nearly betrothed, surely, you must see the wisdom.…”
Nearly betrothed. But not quite. An interesting choice of words. Olivia examined him, unable to stop herself from thinking that if Lord Milbourn didn’t want her to attend, he wouldn’t have the least difficulty in telling her so. But then again, he cared very little what anyone thought and was unlikely to advise her to avoid the inquest simply because of fears about what others might say.
“Thank you, Lord Milbourn. Your support is reassuring,” Olivia said, ignoring Lord Saunders’s mumbled protests.
“It is my pleasure. Good day.” Lord Milbourn bowed to each of them.
“I will join you,” Mr. Belcher said, already standing near the door. “Good day, Lady Olivia, Lord Saunders.”
Latimore held the door as the two gentlemen strode out, leaving Olivia facing her betrothed.
Hectic color flushed Lord Saunders’s plump, gentle face. He sputtered under his breath, walking back and forth in a tight line four feet long. “Lady Olivia,” he said when he caught her glance. He stopped pacing. Some of the color left his cheeks, leaving him pale and frowning.
“Perhaps you would join me in the sitting room?” Olivia gestured toward the staircase.
“Of course, of course,” Lord Saunders stammered. He started toward the stairs ahead of her, halted with his foot on the lowest step, flushed, and stepped back to gesture to her to precede him.
Head throbbing, she sighed, sent one glance at the closed front door, and picked up her skirts to climb the staircase.
They’d barely entered the Ivory Drawing Room when Lord Saunders cleared his throat and clasped his hands behind his back. He stood on tiptoes for a second and gazed at her with a dropping mouth and look of vast disappointment in his pale blue eyes. He blinked several times. His anxious gaze searched the room as if he feared some murderous intruder might be taking a nap on one of the silk brocade covered couches while he waited for them.
“Well. I trust you are satisfied,” he said, obviously striving for a firm tone, though his voice quavered over “satisfied,” turning it into a question.
“Why should I be satisfied?” She walked over to the two armchairs and couch arranged in front of the fireplace.
The weather had once again grown icy as the sunlight faded, and some thoughtful maid had lit the fire. The flames burned merrily within the beautiful fireplace, illuminating the deep, golden Sienna marble Ionic columns that supported the sculpted chimneypiece frieze. The carving depicted a central classical urn, flower-bud festoons, and two flanking classical muses, and just looking at the clean lines and graceful design seemed to calm Olivia.
She stretched out her hands, grateful for the warmth, and gestured to the white-figured damask chair on her right. “Would you care to sit?”
“No, I should not.” Lord Saunders frowned at her before stalking closer to the fire. He let out a long breath and then sat on the edge of one of the gold and ivory striped couches. “If you had not lost your senses and attempted to start this dreadful academy, none of this would have happened. Surely, you must see that it is madness! You must end this immediately. It will make us all a laughing stock if you continue.”
“I am afraid I disagree,” she said coldly.
“Then consider what has happened as a direct result of your actions. You have lost a dear family friend —”
“I had nothing to do with his death!” she exclaimed. Her eyes stung, and she wiped them quickly with her fingertips, refusing to give in to tears.
“Nonetheless, he died. I am sorry to speak to you in this way, but I must. As your betrothed —”
“The contract has yet to be signed.” His words tightened around her like a noose around the neck. She couldn’t breathe — she didn’t want to hear anymore, didn’t want to think that he might be right. Her hands clenched together in her effort to keep from touching her throat.
Did others believe she was responsible for Mr. Grantham’s death? Did Margaret?
She hadn’t wanted that to happen, she hadn’t wanted any of this to happen. How could they think otherwise?
He sighed. “That is a discussion for another time, Lady Olivia.” Then he peered at her, rubbed his nose, and took another deep breath. “Please consider my request. Do not go to the inquest tomorrow.”
She nodded and wearily sat in the opposite chair, rubbing her throbbing temple. “I said I was going — I have to go. Surely, you see that.”
“You could very well write your statement and hand it to them. There is no need for a lady to attend a coroner’s inquest. You have no idea what they are like. It is positively gruesome. I — I forbid you to attend.” He cast her a defiant glance before rubbing his hands together in front of the fire. “To be on public display like that.” He shook his head and peered at her again, searching her face for understanding. “If you had any decency of feeling, any sensibility, you would not consider such a course of action. I ask you, please, do not go, Lady Olivia. I beseech you to consider your family. Lady Margaret is grief-stricken. Surely you have no wish to hurt her any further by exposing her to sordid gossip.”
For one second, she considered ment
ioning Mr. Underwood in an attempt to shift the blame to him, but she quickly dismissed it as unworthy. She would not throw his name about like pieces of stale bread tossed to the birds. “Lord Saunders, I understand, truly I do. But you don’t seem to realize that it is entirely possible that they consider me to be a suspect. I must know what is said, if only to protect myself.”
He studied her, his mouth drooping and his eyes shining as if he were about to cry. “I had hoped, well, there it is.” Leaning forward, he fixed his earnest gaze upon her. “I understand how it could have happened. A delicate, sensitive lady such as yourself, faced with a gentleman perhaps a bit too forward, too familiar. Anyone would understand how it could have happened. However, you must realize you could never be held responsible for something you did out of fear. Panic or hysteria — perfectly understandable, you know.” He nodded at her. “You are a lady. No woman would ever be blamed under the circumstances. You may trust my judgment in these matters. The authorities will dismiss the matter. You shall see. So there is no reason for you to attend and expose yourself to public censure or worse. Write your statement and be done with it.” He leaned forward to pat her clasped hands. “Think of your family, and of Lady Margaret. Please.”
She jerked away and managed to cover the gesture by bending toward the fire and rubbing her hands vigorously. He believed Mr. Grantham had made improper advances toward her, and she’d murdered him in a state of hysterical panic.
How can he believe such a thing? Is that truly what he thinks of me? That I am just another hysterical woman who would kill a family friend simply because he acted too forward?
Her emotions spun in circles like a child’s toy. Anger surged forward at his casual assumption that she would have panicked instead of simply slapping his cheek and calling her brother to her aid.
