by Amy Corwin
Olivia was grateful to Cynthia, though, for her snorts of impatience whenever one of the ladies showed too much interest in the more gothic qualities of the unfortunate deaths. Those inelegant sounds, and Cynthia’s exuberant use of her foil, kept everyone focused on the lessons. Olivia could only hope this was not the first and last time the Misses Peterson and Miss Wilson would attend.
When Olivia returned home, she was surprised to find Edward occupying her sitting room. A bottle of sherry and two glasses sat on the small table at his elbow, and Lord Milbourn lounged in the chair opposite him, his long legs stretched out toward the fire burning merrily in the fireplace.
“Edward, Lord Milbourn,” she greeted them, wondering why they were occupying the Ivory Drawing Room instead of the library, which was Edward’s normal retreat. As she caught Lord Milbourn’s dark gaze, she grew warm, conscious of her flushed, damp cheeks from her recent exercise. She raised a hand to her hair, sure that it was in wild disarray.
Why hadn’t she gone to her room to tidy herself, first?
“You look very well, Lady Olivia,” Edward commented.
“I just returned from the academy. Class went exceedingly well today. To what do I owe this honor? I rarely have you gentlemen visit me in my sitting room,” she said.
Edward leapt to his feet and dragged another chair over to sit next to him, across from Lord Milbourn.
A half smile twisted Lord Milbourn’s mouth as he drew his legs back to give her room to walk past him and sit. “We were routed from the library by Mr. Greenfield,” Lord Milbourn said. His black eyes glinted with amusement. “He is conducting inquiries.”
Olivia looked from Lord Milbourn’s sardonic face to her brother.
Edward shook his head. Worried lines furrowed his brow and his mouth formed a tight line.
What does he have to worry about?
“He cannot possibly suspect you, Edward,” Olivia blurted out.
“I suspect he might be more interested in me.” Lord Milbourn’s mouth twisted into a cynical smile. “After all, Archer did not murder his wife.”
Murder his wife?
Olivia straightened and clasped her hands together in a tight knot. Her gaze was drawn to Milbourn’s dark eyes. A flicker of pain tore through the depths and bitterness thinned his mouth. Looking deeper, she glimpsed the hopelessness he hid so well behind a cold indifference and a sardonic sense of humor that served better than any shield to keep others at a distance. She partially lifted one hand to touch him before she stopped herself. A gesture of pity would only make him angry.
“Well, my brother has never been married,” she said. “So he has not had a wife to murder.”
Edward, in the middle of swallowing a mouthful of sherry, sputtered and choked.
Lord Milbourn chuckled.
“And perhaps you would do better to be less melodramatic, Lord Milbourn,” she said bracingly. “You were apparently never convicted of any such crime, so I am sure Mr. Greenfield will not make any ridiculous assumptions.”
“No. I was not convicted. Not by the law, at any rate,” Lord Milbourn said, his intense gaze fixed on her face.
“You refine too much upon the past,” she said, clasping her hands together.
“Unfortunately, the past can be a very persistent ghost,” Lord Milbourn said.
She stared into his eyes. “Only if you let it haunt you.” She shifted and smoothed her skirt over her lap with restless hands. “I, for one, don’t place too much importance on it.” She smiled. “Except to ensure I don’t repeat mistakes, of course.”
“Precisely my concern,” Lord Milbourn stared at the fire, his face an unreadable slab of granite. “I see we are in accord, mi niña bonita.”
Edward cleared his throat. “Unfortunately, Mr. Greenfield appears determined to sift through all our pasts since he found Grantham’s journal. I cannot blame him — it is his duty — but it is awkward, nonetheless.” The V between his brows deepened. “I fear the reason for Grantham’s death may very well have its seeds in the past. I did not wish to credit all that Mr. Und — a friend — recently confided to me, but perhaps he was not merely upset and imagining things as I supposed.” He studied Lord Milbourn’s harsh profile. “You knew Grantham far longer and better than I. Is there anyone you suspect? Any reason?”
Gazing at her brother, Lady Olivia realized that he was reconsidering his conversation with Mr. Underwood and her statement that he had been near the academy around the time of the murder. Edward had nearly slipped and named him, and his words seemed to imply that Mr. Grantham had been blackmailing Mr. Underwood. Although she had suspected something of the sort, having her suppositions even partially confirmed saddened her. She didn’t want to think that such things could happen among her acquaintances. Mr. Grantham had been so kind, so nice to them. The revelation about his character made her uneasy about trusting anyone.
Worse, she realized that if Mr. Grantham had been blackmailing Mr. Underwood, he could have had other victims, as well. No one was perfect, and they had all done silly things that might embarrass them. So any of Grantham’s victims could easily have murdered him.
Lord Milbourn barked a short laugh. “Grantham was a mild man and quiet. However, all men have the occasional argument. His death may have resulted from the heat of the moment. An ill-judged action. Or it could have been more deliberate, if you take the death of the charwoman into account. If the two are related. If so, you may be correct, Archer. There may be something in his journal that could point the way.” He rubbed the center of his forehead before pushing his fingers through his thick, black hair. “I would like to see that journal.”
“Then why not ask Mr. Greenfield?” Olivia stood. “I am tired of speculating without facts. Let us find out what he knows.”
Her boldness surprised even her. Perhaps her recent, close association with Miss Denholm was having an unexpected influence on her. Unfortunately, she could not determine if others perceived it as salubrious, or as an unforgivable lapse of good breeding.
Edward appeared positively appalled by her suggestion. He exchanged glances with Lord Milbourn, who merely smiled and shrugged.
“I do not think—” Edward stumbled to his feet.
“Indeed.” Lord Milbourn stood languidly. “Why not?” He gestured toward the door. “Shall we see if he has finished annoying Belcher?”
“He may take it amiss,” Edward said, following him. “And I would not blame him.”
Olivia trailed after the two men. “What if he does?”
She brushed past Lord Milbourn as he held the door for her, feeling flushed and self-conscious. She caught the warm scent of bay, leather, and the tingling aroma of something she’d always associated just with him. Something masculine and heady that made her want to lean closer to him, close her eyes, and breathe deeply.
The back of her neck tickled as Lord Milbourn followed her to the staircase. She could feel him behind her, his warmth seemed to bathe her back, even though she knew it was mostly her imagination.
“Do you want me to ask Mr. Greenfield?” she asked over her shoulder as they descended to the ground floor. “He already believes I am guilty, so my request cannot make my situation any worse.”
“There are always ways to make matters worse,” Edward answered grimly. “I will ask on behalf of all of us.”
Lord Milbourn cleared his throat, and Olivia caught a glimpse of a frown as she glanced at him over her shoulder. Apparently, he would have preferred to be the one to put forth the request, but at this juncture, they didn’t need any additional volunteers to throw themselves on their swords, and it would have been rude to argue with his host.
And even Olivia could see the advantages of allowing Edward to handle matters. He was not involved and had been out walking with Hildie when the murder occurred. Dozens of people must have seen them strolling sedately through the park.
As she stepped off the last stair, she turned to study Lord Milbourn’s face.
He appea
red thoughtful, and he held his broad shoulders stiffly as he joined her. She had the distinct impression that he was not pleased to allow Edward to take charge. She smothered a smile as warm amusement swept through her. Lord Milbourn was not a man to let others take the charge. He was the sort of man who would lead from the front, and the devil take the hindmost. The type who ended up standing with a bemused expression on his face as a general pinned a medal to his chest for heroics.
He would not see his actions as courageous, just as something that had to be done. The thought made her long to step closer to him and slip her hand within his warm fingers.
After edging around them, Edward took the lead. They walked down the wide hallway to the library. Just as they reached the double doors, they opened, and Belcher strode out.
“I don’t know what more I can tell you,” Belcher said over his shoulder. He didn’t see the three of them immediately and turned back to face Greenfield, who had apparently stayed behind. “However, if you will let me have the journal for a few days, I will see if I can help you with those cryptic initials.” He held out a hand.
Edward and Lord Milbourn exchanged glances over Olivia’s head. She grimaced.
Before they could say anything, she stepped forward and brushed around Belcher. “Perhaps my brother and I could be of service to you, Mr. Greenfield.” She reached back and pulled Edward forward. “As you are aware, Edward was escorting my sister, Lady Hildegard, to the park, and he has studied the law.” She halted, aware that she was starting to babble. “Not that that matters. However, my point is that Edward was just saying to me that he would be willing to examine Mr. Grantham’s journal and relate to you any information he can discern from the contents.”
Greenfield stood in front of the large, mahogany desk and stared down at its shiny surface, a gentle smile on his face. He ran his fingertips over the smooth wood for several inches, apparently lost in thought.
“Mr. Greenfield?” Olivia repeated.
“I beg your pardon, my lady,” Greenfield’s head came up. He looked at her, a pleasant expression on his face. “You were saying?”
“The journal.” She flicked her hand in his direction. “Lord Milbourn indicated that Mr. Grantham had used some abbreviations in his diary that puzzled you. My brother, Mr. Edward Archer, has offered to study the journal and provide you with any insights he gains.”
The smile on Greenfield’s face grew sadder, and the corners of his mouth drooped, giving him the slightly worried, long face of a bloodhound that fears he has lost the trail and might disappoint his master. All he needed was a long tail to wag slowly back and forth in an it’s-bad-but-not-entirely-hopeless gesture.
“I appreciate the offer, Mr. Archer.” He nodded to Edward, who stood just behind her on the right. “And Mr. Belcher’s, as well. However, I think it best that I continue to puzzle over it myself for now.” He caught her gaze and smiled, his blue eyes bright and penetrating. “Don’t you, Lady Olivia?”
No, I don’t think that at all! I think you ought to give it to me so we can discover what Mr. Grantham wrote about us all.
She returned his smile and nodded. “Of course. No doubt you know your business.”
“I appreciate your confidence.” Mr. Greenfield bowed. “Now, if you will excuse me, I will leave you in peace.”
For now.
She knew he would not leave them alone for long. Like the bloodhound he resembled, he would continue to sniff around, searching for the right trail. And she didn’t feel particularly peaceful about it, although there was little she could do.
If she were Cynthia, she might grab Mr. Greenfield by his dark gray lapels, give him a good shake, and then wrest the journal from his pocket. But she was not quite that bold. Yet. Given sufficient time and provocation, however, Olivia thought she might surpass even the indomitable Cynthia Denholm.
“I will walk with you for a bit,” Belcher said as they trailed back through the hallway to the front door. He accepted his top hat from Latimore and doffed it at a rakish angle on his blond curls, grinning with good humor. “If you don’t mind, Greenfield?”
“Not at all,” Greenfield replied as he followed Mr. Belcher to the front door.
Olivia studied the narrow back of the inquiry agent. His coat hung awkwardly, sagging on the left side, suggesting he carried Grantham’s journal with him. Her gaze fixed on that lumpy bulge. A flicker of anger burned her at the agent’s careless reply. What gave him the right to tease out all their secrets and disappointments? Didn’t he ever lose his temper? Do something he regretted later?
No. Not him. He was too controlled. And yet he always seemed so mild, so unassuming, despite the intelligence in his eyes. He seemed to be constantly weighing them and their words. If they made any mistakes or contradicted themselves, he’d recognize it and remember.
A shiver ran down her back that had nothing to do with the open front door. Even innocent people forgot or grew confused. It was so easy to blurt out the wrong thing because of nerves. She gripped the soft blue merino wool she’d draped over her shoulders as a shield against the February drafts that seemed to spill through unseen cracks and drift through the townhouse at random.
Fear slid icy fingers down her neck. Despite his meek demeanor, she was afraid of Mr. Greenfield and what he might be thinking. He revealed so little. He could be on the verge of arresting her.
She’d be tried and hung. The note and the button would surely damn her.
Her gaze followed him as Lord Milbourn quietly murmured goodbye to her brother.
What was in Mr. Grantham’s journal? Had he said anything about Wraysbury? About Mr. Underwood? Or about her? She could not imagine why he would have written anything about her, but one never knew what thoughts ran through another’s mind.
Her own diary contained entries about Cynthia Denholm that she would hate to have revealed. But at times, she’d been so frustrated with her forthright and undeniably tactless childhood friend. Cynthia was not always an easy person to be around.
And Cynthia would be shocked, perhaps even hurt by Olivia’s words, if she ever read them.
No wonder Mr. Grantham had used abbreviations. One never knew if one’s journal would fall into another person’s hands, or what damage it might do.
I should burn my old journals and start a new one, just using abbreviations. And what would Farmer think if she should walk in while Olivia was burning her diaries? Or if she found the ashes in the fireplace? She would undoubtedly see such an action as a guilty one, and she might feel compelled to report it to Mr. Greenfield.
You should have fired her. Her brother’s voice floated through her mind.
Olivia pulled her shawl closer around her shoulders and hugged herself. Concentrate. Her diaries were not her most pressing concern, Mr. Grantham’s journal was. She needed to read through it and discover if anyone in the Archer family, including herself, had anything to fear from it.
Had Mr. Grantham seen anything shocking in her insistence on learning to fence along with her brothers? At that time, Lord Milbourn had been Mr. Alexander Bron, her brothers’ dashing fencing master, and she would have done anything to provoke him to look at her with something other than laughter in his dark eyes. But slowly, she’d grown to love the fencing, itself. Had Mr. Grantham made assumptions about the two of them that were simply not true?
How could he? Lord Milbourn had always behaved impeccably and with complete propriety.
But Mr. Grantham would not know that. He hadn’t been there to see her frustration with Mr. Bron’s amused, distant air. He was the epitome of the cold indifference aspired to by students of the Spanish Style of fencing. Haughty and implacable. A dangerous man to face when armed with a sword.
But if not that, then what could Mr. Grantham possibly have written about her or Lord Milbourn?
Her pulse quickened as her fingers tightened against her waist under the fringe of her shawl. She had at least a partial answer already. Lord Milbourn’s wife had died violently in
a way that cast suspicion upon him. That much was clear from his comments in the sitting room. What had Mr. Grantham written about that tragedy? Had he accused him of murder?
If he had, Mr. Greenfield might believe the two men had argued, and that Lord Milbourn had killed Mr. Grantham.
But if he had, he would have admitted it. He would never have allowed suspicion to fall on her or other members of the Archer family. Her heart told her that much was true.
So if not Lord Milbourn, then who? Mr. Underwood? It always came back to Mr. Underwood, no matter who else she tried to place in the role of murderer.
As for the foolish and puppyish Mr. Belcher, well, he was a bit of a coxcomb and undoubtedly admired quite a few ladies, but that was hardly scandalous. Many men openly flaunted their mistresses. A lady simply smiled graciously and pretended not to notice while coldly snubbing the woman. Anything Mr. Grantham wrote along those lines would be unimportant.
Of course, it could well be that the journal shed no light upon Mr. Grantham’s death at all.
If only I could obtain that journal. Just to be sure. She straightened her shoulders. Now was not the time for sighs, it was the time for action.
“Please wait, Lord Milbourn. I wish to go for a walk,” she said as he brushed past her. She tore off her shawl and held it out to Latimore, gesturing for her pelisse and bonnet.
“Lady Olivia, perhaps Lord Milbourn has other matters to attend to.” Edward frowned at her.
Latimore, holding her deep blue pelisse and matching bonnet in his hands, looked from him to her. She grabbed her coat and turned her back on her brother while holding out the garment, forcing Edward to help her don it out of sheer politeness.
“I will not be long,” she said.
Lord Milbourn was watching the progress of Mr. Belcher and Mr. Greenfield down the walkway.
“Lord Milbourn?” she asked.
He turned to her with an amused expression on his face. “Yes?”
“It is unimportant, Milbourn,” Edward said. “My coat, Latimore. If you wish to stumble along in the dark, I shall be more than happy to accompany you, Lady Olivia.”
