by Amy Corwin
“What other reason could there be for Grantham’s death?” Cynthia asked, tilting her head to one side. Her shrewd gaze challenged Olivia.
“I don’t know,” Olivia said, opening the journal and flicking through the pages. Skimming the entries, her brow wrinkled. There were no names — just enigmatic abbreviations. “Surely this affair was not recent — I understood Lord Milbourn’s wife died a number of years ago.”
Cynthia nodded in agreement. “Ten years.” Again she gestured at the diary. “Read it.”
“How can I read it? There are no names mentioned — at least none I recognize.”
Cynthia laughed and flung her hands up as she shrugged. “It is not hard to interpret — you will puzzle it out as well as I did. It is not difficult.”
“It is ridiculously obtuse — can you not simply translate it for me?”
“You give up too easily, and I have already told you the gist of it. Milbourn’s tragedy is described, as well as several youthful escapades that your brother participated in. You will certainly recognize those and from there, the rest of the entries become clear.”
Olivia shut the book with a frustrated flick of her hand. Why couldn’t Cynthia just provide her with a key? Why did she have to be so difficult? “But—”
“Grantham thought Milbourn might have pushed his wife down the stairs.” Cynthia studied her. “That is the important point. Killed her. Probably knew about her affairs. A young hothead. Impulsive. Dangerous, as I said.”
“He was never accused, never arrested,” Olivia said, leaning forward. Her hands twisted in her lap.
“He is a slave to his impulses.” Cynthia reached over the table to clasp Olivia’s forearm and give it a squeeze. “Best to be prepared. Dreadful thing, but it’s got to be faced. Stay away from him — best to be safe.”
Olivia shook her off and sat back. “I need to think — to consider this information.”
“Naturally.” Cynthia stood and sighed, her gaze drifting one last time over the decimated tea tray. “Read the journal before you return it to Mr. Greenfield. Best to face the facts. Sorry.” She leaned over and gave Olivia’s shoulder an awkward pat. “Must be off.” She hesitated a second before adding, “And burn that letter concerning Mrs. Underwood. It’s an ugly thing — arranging to get rid of an unborn baby. Must have been a year or two before she married. Can’t blame her. Terrible position. No wonder she’s had two miscarriages after that experience. Sheer butchery.” She heaved a sympathetic sigh and shook her head as she stood. “Almost burned it, myself. Don’t know why I didn’t. A man wouldn’t understand. Terrible to be alone and with child. Good thing you have Lord Saunders. He will support you — make you forget. You’ll see.”
“Lord Saunders?” Olivia rose to her feet and stared at Cynthia, feeling deserted.
“You’re next to betrothed, are you not? Best thing for you. Forget Milbourn — the devil take him. Now, I must be off. Good day to you, Lady Olivia, and don’t forget the journal. Read it. Best to face the truth now than cry about it later,” she said before striding through the door and disappearing from view, leaving Olivia with Mr. Grantham’s journal resting, heavy and cold, in her hands.
The clammy feel of the stained leather cover was not the only reason Olivia stared down at it with distaste. She wanted to remember Mr. Grantham as a kind, gentle man who was always happy to provide a listening ear when one felt overwhelmed and needed a strong measure of sympathy. The fact that he might have then gone home and written about all their little foibles and tales of woe made her queasy with a sense of betrayal.
But if there was something in the diary that could provide a clue as to who had murdered him, she needed to discover it. Flipping through the pages again, her frustration mounted. She hated puzzles, particularly when others, like Cynthia, found them so easy to interpret. Olivia stopped to read a few passages here and there as her anger with her inability to understand Mr. Grantham’s cryptic references burned. But after a few minutes, she found several events that were familiar to her from her brothers’ accounts. She could not claim complete victory, however, because Mr. Grantham had referred to the participants by names like M. Dull, M. Somber, and M. Simple. And her brothers had never shared all the details with their sisters, so Mr. Grantham’s appellations made it very difficult to decide precisely to whom Mr. Grantham referred.
After an hour, her head throbbed, and the only definite progress she’d made was to decide that “M.” designated “Mr.” while “Mdme” meant either “Miss” or “Mrs.” depending upon the lady he noted. And she often doubted her conclusions about that, as well.
Throwing the book to the floor, Olivia stood and paced in front of the fire until she could control her irritation. Mr. Grantham’s arrogant, mocking tone only increased her angry frustration. After five minutes of walking, she picked up the leather volume again, sat, and rubbed her brow before plunging once again into the diary.
After rereading one section three times, she felt almost sure that Mdme Ice was actually Mrs. Bron, Lord Milbourn’s wife. That should have meant that she should have been able to identify M. Dull, M. Somber, or M. Simple as Milbourn, but Grantham’s entries were so coy that she could not make that association, although she felt sure that he was one of them. None of the names seemed appropriate.
Nonetheless, one thing was clear despite Grantham’s efforts at obfuscation; he’d had a brief affair with Mdme Ice. In his own words, “I have broken through the ice, at last, to find nothing but a great deal of hissing steam and hot, salty water beneath the beautiful surface.” Mr. Grantham had betrayed Lord Milbourn in the worst way possible and still pretended to be his friend for ten years.
She slammed the journal shut. Perhaps she would find the resolve to read more later and work out his ridiculous nicknames. Or she might simply hand it over to Mr. Greenfield and be done with the filthy thing, because for the moment, it seemed certain to only bring them all more pain without the hope of an answer.
Chapter Eighteen
By mid-morning on Tuesday, Alexander finally resigned himself to ignorance concerning the contents of Grantham’s journal. Greenfield steadfastly refused to allow him to even see the bloody book. He’d been so obstinate that Alexander had almost come to suspect that the inquiry agent had created the diary in his imagination to trick those involved into confessing, and that it didn’t actually exist.
Considering the case for the one hundredth time, Alexander experienced a now-familiar prickling of the skin between his shoulder blades. He had facts aplenty and could almost see how the puzzle fit together. Almost, but not quite. He’d hoped that Grantham’s journal would supply the final nudge to align all the pieces.
His frustration led to restlessness, and Alexander left his townhouse abruptly. He walked aimlessly and soon found himself on Oxford Street, just a few blocks from the Fencing Academy for Ladies. He paused at Holles and then turned down the street toward Cavendish Square. Hands in pockets, he stared up at the dreary building, his thoughts straying to Lady Olivia.
Greenfield had to be insane to believe she had anything to do with Grantham’s death. Or that of the charwoman.
Thinking of her made him walk in the direction of the Archer house. He wanted to see Lady Olivia and know that she was safe. And free.
The walk was not long. While he was waiting in the hallway of the Archer house, he studied the huge portraits. Slowly, he grew aware of the deep quiet penetrating the rooms and hallways around him, like a cold, dense fog masking all signs of life.
Something is wrong.
His senses sharpened. In the distance, he thought he could hear the soft sibilance of distant whispers, so low they barely intruded upon the silence. The faint noise could almost have been the rushing of blood through his veins. Or an illusion — a desire to hear any minute sign of normal life.
“Lord Milbourn, if you will please follow me?” Latimore intoned from the bottom step of the staircase.
Alexander nodded sharply and followed t
he butler up to the gallery on the first floor. Latimore ushered him through the colonnaded space into the Ivory Drawing Room and performed the introductions before bowing his way out again.
Edward, Peregrine, and Lady Olivia faced him. They stood in a semicircle in front of the fireplace, and their strained, pale faces bore such similar, grim expressions that Alexander halted. He’d interrupted a serious discussion of some sort. Something terrible had happened.
Had Greenfield made a move against her?
“I have come at a bad time,” he said, moving closer to Lady Olivia. He searched her alabaster face, noting the worried lines around her shadowed eyes and the downward turn of her mouth.
Edward exchanged glances with his brother and stepped forward to shake Alexander’s hand. “Not at all.”
Peregrine shook his hand in turn and looked at Edward with raised eyebrows.
Edward nodded absently.
“B-beg your p-pardon, Milbourn. On my way out, you see,” Peregrine said, clearly relieved at the prospect of escaping whatever situation they’d been discussing.
Oddly enough, his rapid retreat alleviated some of Alexander’s anxiety. Peregrine would never abandon his sister if she were truly in trouble. Whatever else he lacked, he didn’t lack for courage.
“How are you, Lord Milbourn?” Lady Olivia asked, initiating the polite preliminaries of a social call. “Would you care to be seated?”
“Yes. And I am quite well.” He glanced from Lady Olivia to Archer. “Has Mr. Greenfield been harassing you?”
Lady Olivia exchanged looks with her brother before she gestured for him to sit and sank into a nearby chair. She clasped her hands in her lap and smiled. “No. He has not been here recently. Has he been troubling you?”
“No.”
“Would you care to be seated?” Lady Olivia asked again, half-rising.
Archer sat abruptly on the damask couch facing the fireplace and leaned back, leaving Alexander to sit in the chair opposite Lady Olivia.
“Have you learned anything more about the case?” Archer asked.
“Nothing. Though I assume Greenfield knows what he is doing,” Alexander said as he took a seat. “I had hoped to get a look at Grantham’s journal, but he has avoided granting me that privilege.” He studied Archer. “There must be a clue somewhere — a motive — and that is the most likely place. Perhaps he would allow you to read it.”
Another sidelong glance flashed between Archer and Lady Olivia.
“What is it?” Alexander asked sharply.
“Mr. Greenfield refused to allow you to see the diary because he does not have it,” Lady Olivia said slowly. She looked at her brother. “I have it.”
“You? How did you obtain Grantham’s journal?”
“Miss Denholm found it in the street. The night that child died,” she said.
“And she gave it to you?” He leaned forward, sitting on the edge of his chair. “Why?”
“Lord Milbourn, there were some references to you that some might believe point to a motive,” Archer said before his sister could explain.
“So you and Lady Olivia—”
Lady Olivia straightened and opened her mouth.
However, before she could speak, her brother shook his head. “Not at all. You misunderstand us, Lord Milbourn. We do not believe you are involved. But a man like Greenfield — or others who do not know you as well — might not understand.”
“Understand what, exactly?” Alexander studied Archer, before transferring his gaze to Lady Olivia.
She flushed and glanced down at her hands, twisting them together in her lap. She looked up, caught his gaze, and her blush deepened. “Perhaps it would be better if you were to read it for yourself.”
“I hope you will allow me to do so,” he replied dryly. “However, in the meantime, you could grant me the favor of telling me what has caused you such distress.”
Archer cleared his throat. “Very well. It is indelicate, Milbourn, and I am sorry. Perhaps Lady Olivia should leave?”
“Let her stay,” Alexander answered abruptly.
“Very well. It seems that Mr. Grantham had an,” he cleared his throat and cast an uncomfortable glance at Lady Olivia, “affair with your wife.”
So that was what they were discussing with such intensity: his wife’s charming lack of loyalty.
“Indeed,” Alexander said coolly. He leaned back and hooked an arm over the back of his chair and crossed his right ankle over his knee. “Old news, I’m afraid. Grantham didn’t mention why he thought this would trouble me now, did he?”
“No,” Archer answered. “And as you say, the events happened a long time ago.”
“Do not take it to heart, Lady Olivia,” Alexander said when she refused to meet his gaze. He smiled bitterly. “I am sure such sordid things will not trouble your marriage. Lord Saunders is not the sort to stray.”
“Why should that trouble me?” she asked in a sharp voice. She straightened and stared at him, her mouth tight and her eyes flashing with irritation. “I have not the slightest interest in Lord Saunders’s affairs, although I suppose loyalty to my sister, Lady Margaret, should make me somewhat concerned for the sake of her happiness.”
Alexander studied her bright, angry eyes and flushed face before he chuckled. “Cried off, did he?”
“He did not cry off,” Lady Olivia replied, turning away to stare at the floor. She still refused to meet his gaze.
Archer cleared his throat, frowned in consideration, and finally said, “Merely a misunderstanding. But as an old friend of the family, you will soon hear anyway. Lord Saunders has signed a marriage contract.”
“I see. And his bride?” A slow, lopsided grin twisted Alexander’s mouth as he looked at Lady Olivia.
“Lady Margaret,” Archer said. His brows drew together as a brief wave of irritation passed over his features. He flicked a hand as if he could brush away his annoyance. “We were all surprised.” He shrugged and fixed his gaze on the floor with the uncomfortable air of avoiding his sister’s eyes. He seemed unaware that she was staring at the floor with equal intensity. “Well, all of us, except for Lady Margaret, of course. And Wraysbury, who officially accepted Saunders’s offer. The two are well suited, and both seem eager for the match.”
“Then please, offer my sincere congratulations to both parties.”
“The nuptials are planned for next month.” Archer’s face twisted. “It seemed preferable to Lady Margaret’s notion to proceed posthaste to Gretna Green to avoid the annoyances of banns and licenses.”
No wonder Lady Olivia had appeared stunned when Alexander arrived. Her younger sister had snatched Lord Saunders right out of her grasp. He studied her face. Her irritation had faded, leaving a relieved twinkle in her gray eyes and a soft smile curving her lips, when she finally raised her gaze and shyly looked at him.
He’d never seen her look more alive. Or beautiful.
“Mr. Edward, sir,” Latimore’s voice came from the doorway. “You have a visitor.”
“Who is it?” Archer asked, an annoyed look tightening his face at the interruption.
“Mr. Underwood, sir. I have shown him into the library.”
“Oh, yes. It is that matter of his son, I suppose. Tell him that I will join him in a minute.”
“Very good, sir.” Latimore bowed and disappeared, his quiet tread gradually growing more distant as he descended the stairs.
“Beg your pardon, Milbourn. A small matter I must attend to. Perhaps you will allow Lady Olivia to offer you some tea?” Archer moved toward the door and paused to glance over his shoulder. Without waiting for a response, he nodded. “I will send Mary up with a tray.” Then he was gone, the leather soles of his shoes clattering firmly across the marble floor of the gallery.
Alexander could have sworn that Lady Olivia groaned.
“What is it, mi niña bonita? Are you disappointed?”
“I am afraid I am not overly fond of tea, and I have had far too much of it of late.” Her
low laugh drew an answering smile from him.
“And what of Lord Saunders?” he asked, rising and moving to stand in front of the fireplace.
“He was sweet, but the beagles would never have approved of him.” Her eyes shone with a mischievous gleam as she stood and looked up at him. “And I am sure Lord Saunders will adore Lady Margaret’s rabbits just as much as she does. My brother is correct; they are very well suited.” She moved nearer and rested a hand against his chest as if to feel his thundering heart.
Slowly, she leaned against him. The fragrance of lavender filled the air around her soft brown hair. The warmth of her palm against his chest radiated through him. This close, her skin looked as smooth and fine as cool marble with a faint pink flush coloring her cheeks and lips.
She tilted her head up and paused. When he failed to move, she pressed a soft kiss against his mouth.
He drew in a sharp breath and looped his arms around her to draw her closer, deepening their kiss.
His feelings, denied for so long, threatened to overwhelm him. This was what he had longed for, what he had wanted for years. And it was what had caused him so much pain.
Once again he felt a rush of that tortuous brew twisting through his gut, an emotion that had never quite faded since that terrible night, ten years ago. His wife had fallen to her death, and as he had stared down at her tumbled body, his first emotion had been relief. The guilt, and then grief, had only come later, when he’d checked for a pulse in her rapidly cooling wrist and remembered their daughter. How could he explain it to Maria? How could she trust him to protect her if he could let this happen to her beautiful mother?
He pushed Lady Olivia away gently. She deserved something better, nobler than he. And she would find a man to love, given time.
Isabella’s ghost stood between them, the same old malicious smile curving her red lips. She would always be there, intent on destroying anything of value in his life.
