Fencing for Ladies (The Archer Family Regency Romances #5)

by Amy Corwin

  Another maid, Mary, arrived at that moment, breathless and flushed. When she paused in the doorway, Edward said, “Tea. And make sure it is hot.”

  “Yes, sir.” Mary sketched a quick curtsey and dashed off again.

  Edward eyed Olivia, and although she’d hoped he had forgotten the topic of their conversation, it appeared he had not. “As I said, you may hire another maid. They cannot be that scarce. Not like trying to find a decent cook, after all.”

  “Apparently, Gray was at least partially correct: ignorance is bliss — I was a great deal happier before I learned about that wretched button.” She rubbed her forehead again, thinking of Farmer’s skill in creating hot possets that could vanquish even the worst headache. “And while I dislike disagreeing with you, I have to say that while good cooks may be hard to find, a competent personal maid is harder still. So please leave poor Farmer alone. You saw her — she was terrified at the inquest. She did not want to be there. Frankly, I would not be at all surprised if Greenfield forced both the button and a confession out of her.”

  “You are a trifle overly solicitous, my dear sister, but perhaps you are right.” Edward sighed. “It shoves you into a devilishly tight corner, however. I don’t like the situation.”

  “I cannot claim to be overcome with joy, either.” She shook her head. “And I don’t understand — why did you not mention Mr. Underwood? I told you that he was near the academy, and I thought I heard him mention a journal when he spoke to you. Was he not concerned about Mr. Grantham’s diary?”

  “Yes. However, I doubt it is relevant,” he replied harshly.

  “Very well,” she said, hurt by the thought that her brother cared more for Mr. Underwood than for her. She looked up at Edward, smiled wryly, and changed the subject. “We Archers seem to be a rum lot, do we not? First Wraysbury was involved with that murder, and now this. I have never heard of a family dogged by such dreadful misfortunes before. Perhaps it is just as well that you studied law.” Her smile broadened in an attempt to treat the matter lightly. “I should have listened to you sooner and not gone to the inquest.”

  “It would not have made any discernable difference.” He clasped his hands behind his back as he paced back and forth in front of the door. “However, in the future, perhaps you should consider my recommendations before taking any action.”

  “I will.” She bowed her head meekly to avoid letting him see her struggles to suppress her laughter.

  He sounded so much like a lawyer, that it was difficult to maintain a suitably serious expression.

  His next statement, however, instantly sobered her. “I wish you were safely married. Perhaps we should discuss moving up the wedding date with Lord Saunders.”

  “Married?” Her question rose shrilly. “How would marriage help me?”

  Before Edward could answer, Mary returned to the room, huffing and flushed. She carried a huge wooden tray, laden with an array of cups, saucers, pots, plates, and silverware. The gold-rimmed china dishes clinked and clattered when she stumbled over the doorjamb, and Edward hastily took the tray from her and set it on the low table in front of Olivia.

  “Miss Denholm,” Mary gasped, standing sideways at the door. She glanced through it to the hallway. “And Mr. Underwood for Mr. Archer. I brung extra tea things, Lady Olivia.”

  “Thank you, Mary.” Olivia stood as Cynthia Denholm strode briskly into the room.

  “Getting to be a habit, Lady Olivia. Ramshackle way to run an academy, if you ask me,” Cynthia said as she walked over to the low table, studied the tea tray, selected a slice of cake, and took a large bite. “Good cake. Who is your cook?”

  “Our cook is none of your business,” Olivia snapped without thinking.

  Edward looked shocked. His gaze flickered from Olivia to Cynthia and back.

  “I beg your pardon,” Olivia said in a calmer voice.

  “Not necessary — no offense taken, Lady Olivia. Good cooks are like pearls in oysters. Someone else always finds them.” She threw her head back and laughed heartily at her joke before picking up another slice of pound cake.

  “Would you care for some tea?” Olivia asked, gesturing to the seat across from her.

  “Delightful to see you, Miss Denholm,” Edward said. “However, I must ask you ladies to excuse me. Mr. Underwood is waiting. And we have an appointment — at the club — I really must go.”

  Cynthia’s mouth was full, so she waved him off.

  As Edward walked briskly through the door, Olivia pressed her hand to her mouth to keep from laughing. She couldn’t help remembering one particular summer evening when Edward had courteously offered to show Cynthia the rose garden at their country estate. Olivia didn’t know what they’d discussed or what her brother had said to Cynthia, but upon their return to the garden terrace, Cynthia had grabbed Edward’s chin and forced a kiss upon his mouth.

  “Wondered about that,” Cynthia uttered cryptically before joining Olivia.

  He’d never quite gotten over the shock, and Olivia knew for a fact that he had even begged Wraysbury’s advice on whether he now had to make an offer for the dreadful woman. What Wraysbury had said remained a mystery, but Edward always grew grim whenever Cynthia’s name cropped up in the conversation.

  Olivia suspected that Cynthia saw the whole episode as a frightfully good joke, because her eyes sparkled with amusement every time Edward edged out of the room whenever she sailed through the door.

  As she turned back to face Cynthia, two thoughts surprised her.

  She truly wanted the fencing academy to be a success. She adored fencing, regardless of Lord Milbourn’s opinion that she wasn’t particularly gifted at the art, and even if she never saw him again, she desperately wanted to continue. Nothing could match the challenge and breathless exhilaration of a fight, and she couldn’t give it up.

  However, she would miss him. He’d provided at least some of the impetus to drive her to strive for more, to do better, to excel. Her stomach burned at the thought of the hole it would leave in her life if she lost his friendship and support.

  Marriage to Lord Saunders would never fill that void. Their future together stretched out in front of her, filled with gray, dreary years. But there were worse things, she supposed, even if she couldn’t think of any.

  She studied Cynthia. She wanted her other friends to share her pleasure in the art and science of fencing, and Cynthia had certainly felt something that first day. Her blue eyes had gleamed with the thrill of the experience.

  To become an expert, teach someone else.

  Olivia’s mother had told her that so many times that she could still hear her mother’s voice echoing in her mind. She’d taught Olivia to sew and then stepped aside to watch Olivia teach Margaret. Then Margaret taught Hildie. Poor Hildie had been relegated to teaching one of the younger kitchen maids to sew, but she’d done it.

  If Olivia wanted to become proficient, teaching others was the best way to do so.

  Perhaps Cynthia was doing her more of a favor than she knew.

  Cynthia poked through the pots, rattling dishes, and throwing ingredients together before pouring herself a cup of milky tea. She slurped it down and looked at Olivia. “Excellent tea! Are you ready, then? The other ladies are waiting for us at the academy.”

  Olivia’s head jerked up. Her mouth hanging open, she stared at her. “Ladies? What ladies?”

  “The other students, I presume.” Cynthia shrugged.

  “How many are there?” Olivia asked in a strangled voice.

  “Three when I left. Could be more now, of course.” She eyed Olivia and strode toward the door with a brisk air. “Well, are you ready?”

  “I — well, yes.”

  The explanation for the sudden influx of students had to be the effect of the inquest. The ladies were eager to hear the details and gossip about it, while experiencing the vicarious excitement of having fencing lessons at the very location where two corpses had been discovered.

  Perhaps they even hoped for
a private tour to see the stained floor, conducted by the presumed murderess, herself.

  How ghastly. But their morbid curiosity is my advantage. A frisson of excitement shook her.

  Regardless of their motives, she now had pupils, and she intended to make the most of the opportunity. Once the ladies tasted the excitement of the sport, they would become serious students of the art — Cynthia had already felt the thrill coursing through her veins. And Olivia would soon have friends who understood and shared her enthusiasm.

  Olivia had just reached the door when she nearly ran into Latimore.

  “Lord Saunders, Lady Olivia,” he intoned sonorously, his impressive nose tilted toward the gilded crown molding.

  Lord Saunders stepped out from behind the butler. He glanced from Olivia to Cynthia and frowned.

  “Lord Saunders, how pleasant to see you,” Olivia said. “You know Miss Denholm, I believe.”

  The two nodded and examined at each other like a pair of pugilists taking the measure of their opponent.

  Oh, no, not another scene. The two didn’t get along, and Olivia glanced from one to the other, unprepared to play the role of diplomat.

  “I’m sorry, Lord Saunders,” Olivia said. “We were just on our way to the academy.”

  “The academy? Now?” Lord Saunders’s pale brown eyebrows rose toward his receding hairline. “The inquest is barely over. Surely, common decency should prevent you from indulging in such scandalous behavior at such a time.”

  As if hearing their voices, Margaret appeared at Lord Saunders’s shoulder. She touched his arm and nodded. “Indeed, my dear sister. Common decency. Mr. Grantham was our dear friend. I don’t see how you can even consider going to the academy at a time like this.”

  Lord Saunders smiled at Margaret.

  She squeezed his forearm as she returned his smile.

  Olivia felt ill with irritation.

  “I have never heard such nonsense in my life,” Cynthia declared, resting her hands on her broad hips. “You are not going to listen to such a pudding-headed sapskull, are you?” She eyed Olivia. “I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t recommend you to, either.”

  Two red splotches burned over Lord Saunders’s plump cheekbones. He straightened and said, “I do not see that Lady Olivia is in need of your counsel, young lady, and I will thank you to keep your comments to yourself.”

  Margaret beamed at him. “You are so forceful, Lord Saunders,” she murmured.

  Lord Saunders lifted his chin and stared at Olivia.

  “Well, Lady Olivia?” Cynthia fixed her gaze on Olivia, as well.

  Before Olivia could answer, Lord Saunders added, “If you continue with this outrageous behavior, I am afraid—”

  Cynthia snorted. “I can well believe that!”

  “I am afraid,” Lord Saunders repeated in a louder voice, “that I shall have to reconsider matters.”

  “Matters?” Olivia could barely speak. Ice encased her limbs and even her lips resisted her efforts to open them.

  He cannot mean that — this cannot happen — not now, not when I need someone — anyone — to believe in me — trust me!

  Lord Saunders gave one, tight nod. “With regards to our future union.” His mouth tightened into a frown. “You do not seem to view me, or my opinions, with the proper respect.”

  “You are so right, Lord Saunders,” Margaret agreed. “I have noticed it myself and have been quite appalled by my sister’s disregard for any normal feelings or common decency,” she repeated Lord Saunders’s phrase with evident satisfaction.

  He patted Margaret’s fingers, which still clung to his forearm.

  Olivia finally opened her mouth to speak, but her whirling thoughts refused to settle on a reply. In the distance, she heard the cheerful howl of her dogs, followed by the clatter of their toenails on the floor.

  The beagles were coming. Her thoughts fled.

  “Well, Lady Olivia,” Cynthia said. “Answer the ninnyhammer. What is it to be? I cannot wait all day for my second lesson, and the ladies are waiting.”

  Olivia’s gaze jerked from Cynthia to Lord Saunders to Margaret before landing on Latimore.

  The butler appeared to be aware of the oncoming situation. His head was lifted and tilted toward the stairwell, clearly listening to the impending arrival of the next disaster.

  “The dogs, Latimore. They have gotten loose again,” Olivia said at last.

  “Very good, Lady Olivia.” Latimore left. Hopefully, he would apprehend the animals before they managed to make a terrible situation worse.

  She rubbed her temple. What she really needed was one of Farmer’s hot possets and a few minutes of silence.

  If only Lord Saunders could be blamed for Mr. Grantham’s murder.

  Horrified at the thought, she straightened and smiled apologetically at him. “I am sorry, Lord Saunders. I have no desire to offend you or anyone, but I am going to the academy. You must, of course, do what you think is best.”

  Margaret, who had been staring down at the floor, seemed to choke. She quickly pressed her fingers to her mouth to suppress the peculiar sound. When she glanced up, Olivia caught her gaze and suffered a dizzying sensation of shock. Margaret’s blue eyes were brilliant with gleeful triumph, and she was clearly biting the inside of her mouth to keep from smiling. Her right hand clasped Lord Saunders’s sleeve tightly, and she’d wrapped her left arm around her own waist.

  Her feet shifted in sharp movements as if she were dancing a very small jig within the restrictive circle of her gown’s hem. As Olivia watched, Margaret made a series of peculiar noises and swallows.

  She was glad to see Olivia’s engagement crumble and was trying not to giggle.

  How could she? Olivia stared at her, bewildered by the flushed pleasure in her sister’s face.

  “Good decision. No one could blame you, Lady Olivia. What I can’t understand is how you came to accept such a ninny to begin with,” Cynthia said. “Now I suggest we leave while you still have students left to teach.”

  “Of course.” Olivia let her friend drag her down the stairs and out of the door, all the while wondering what had happened and what important fact she had missed.

  Chapter Fourteen

  A block away from the fencing academy, Alexander saw Greenfield rounding the corner.

  “Is that not Greenfield?” Belcher asked, gesturing toward the soberly dressed inquiry agent. Despite his professed intention to go to his club and drink as much as possible, Belcher remained at Alexander’s side, almost as if he didn’t want to be alone.

  Well, he’d always been a social beast and preferred crowds to solitary enjoyments. In fact, Alexander had never seen him so much as pick up a book or even a newspaper. No such private interests plagued Belcher.

  Alexander nodded and swallowed an impatient sigh.

  “Perhaps he has discovered something new. Let us join him.” Belcher picked up the pace and dashed across the street without the least concern for the passing carriages.

  One team of horses, jerked back by the driver of a small cabriolet, neighed and danced over the curb to nearly trample the pedestrians on the walkway. The driver swore vociferously and shook a meaty hand in Belcher’s direction.

  Belcher laughed and shrugged.

  After ascertaining that no one had been injured, Alexander hurried after Belcher. He wanted time to think, but more than that, he needed to know what progress Greenfield was making. If any.

  Seeing him leaving the vicinity of the academy seemed hopeful, however. If he had already decided that he had enough evidence to convict Lady Olivia, he wouldn’t have bothered to continue the search. Some doubt had to remain in his mind.

  “Greenfield!” Belcher hailed the officer.

  Greenfield paused at the corner and turned, an expression of polite inquiry on his face. “Mr. Belcher.” When he caught sight of Alexander, he added, “Lord Milbourn.”

  “Still investigating?” Belcher asked, slapping Greenfield on the shoulder as he chuckled heartil
y.

  Greenfield studied him briefly. “There are still questions to be answered, sir.”

  “Questions? You seemed fairly sure at the inquest,” Belcher said. His fair eyebrows rose. “The button and all that nonsense.”

  “Not sure enough to name the responsible party,” Greenfield reminded him gently. “Questions do remain.”

  Belcher glanced at Alexander and shrugged expressively, his brows rising higher still as if he were unable to conceive of any nails that had not been pounded firmly into the lid of Lady Olivia’s coffin.

  “Motive?” Alexander suggested.

  Greenfield’s gaze cut to him. “Motive, indeed.”

  “It seemed obvious enough to me,” Belcher said.

  “Obvious?” Greenfield asked, leaving the brief question hanging like a carrot in front of a donkey.

  Belcher raised his hands, palms up, and took the bait. “Well, surely — an argument — clearly an accident committed in the heat of the moment. Lady — that is, any lady might panic if she were alone with a man who became too insistent.”

  “And the housekeeper?” Alexander asked, impatient with Belcher’s easy explanation.

  “Coincidence? Burglar? Must the two deaths be related?” Belcher shrugged.

  “That is another question, indeed, sir,” Greenfield said. He glanced around the busy street and edged closer to the curb.

  A gap in the traffic presented itself, and Greenfield walked briskly across the street, followed closely by Belcher and Alexander.

  “Where are you heading?” Belcher asked, undaunted by the officer’s determined air and brisk pace.

  The second of silence preceding Greenfield’s reply spoke volumes about his annoyance at Belcher’s persistence, but he answered calmly enough, “I wish to speak to Mr. Archer.”

  “Archer?” Belcher frowned.

  “Mr. Edward Archer,” Greenfield clarified.

  “Surely, he is not implicated! Why, he never set foot near his sister’s academy, did he? And surely he would not allow suspicion to fall upon Lady Olivia, if he were involved,” Belcher said.

  Grantham’s journal. Belcher’s words reminded Alexander of that awkward piece of evidence. Just what tales had he told within its pages?