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

by Amy Corwin

  “Oh, Lady Olivia, I am so sorry.” She grabbed Olivia’s hand and clasped it tightly between her cold, damp palms. “I never meant to — honestly — I never would have done so. But he came up here when I was brushing the mud off your good pelisse, and he saw it fall from my hand onto the floor. I couldn’t do anything — honestly.” Her voice broke under a deluge of tears. She gulped and sniffed between gasping out in desperate phrases, “I never meant — I would never do such a thing — truly — you have been so kind to me — you must believe me!”

  “I do, and you must believe me, Farmer.” Olivia hugged her before wriggling her hand out of the maid’s grasp. “I am not angry and will not let you go. Who else would make such wonderful face creams and possets? We would all be lost without you. Now please, stop this nonsense. Your future here is quite safe.”

  She studied Farmer as the maid dug through the pockets of her apron and pulled out a large handkerchief. She blew her nose and murmured a confused series of damp expressions of gratitude from behind the folds of the linen square.

  “You know I am innocent, do you not?” Olivia asked.

  Every twitch, every sob stopped with such sharp suddenness that Olivia blinked several times. Even Farmer’s breathing desisted. In that appalled silence, Olivia knew with absolute certainty that her maid believed she had killed Mr. Grantham.

  Olivia went rigid with the deep sense of betrayal. But she had told Farmer she wouldn’t let her go, and she meant to keep her word.

  The only question that remained was why the maid wished to continue working for a murderess.

  “Oh no, Lady Olivia. I would never believe such a thing,” Farmer said awkwardly, her eyes flicking left and right before focusing on the floor.

  There was little to be gained from trying to convince her of Olivia’ innocence. Protesting only made one seem guiltier, not less. The thought had barely ceased echoing through her mind before she felt the tickle of an idea, something about the murders, that refused to coalesce. She shrugged it off. The notion would return, fully formed, when it was ready to do so. She could not force it.

  “Never mind. I mended the flounces on two of my dresses, however, there is still the lace on my white satin gown that needs repairing. Please attend to it.” Olivia patted Farmer on the shoulder, grabbed her cashmere shawl, and made good her escape.

  She managed to avoid the necessity of an escort by the simple expedient of brushing past Latimore in a flurry of words that granted him no opportunity to send for a maid, or one of her brothers.

  Walking rapidly, she had one foot in mid-air, about to step off the curb at the first intersection, when the thought that had escaped her earlier shook her like a strong wind. She took a step back and frowned. The unpleasant notion grew stronger and terribly unpleasant.

  All of her previous suspicions had centered around men, or rather one man, Mr. Underwood.

  What if a woman had murdered Mr. Grantham, the way Mr. Greenfield thought she had? She remembered Cynthia shoving her during their first match. That hadn’t been the first time Cynthia had hit someone.

  Her stomach churned. When they were younger, Cynthia had given one of their grooms a resounding slap across the face when she thought he grew too forward in his attentions.

  What if she had gone to the academy searching for Olivia, and Mrs. Adams had let her in? She could have met Mr. Grantham — though why he was there was still a mystery — and he might have grown a bit too familiar. Cynthia could easily have misunderstood his kindness for flirtation, the same way she’d mistaken the groom’s actions.

  Olivia could see the two of them standing in her office, a frown of disgust on Cynthia’s broad face. Without thinking, Cynthia could have reached out, picked up the marble cherub, and hit him over the head. Then far below, the front door creaked as Olivia and Peregrine had arrived.

  Panicked at what she’d done, Cynthia might have shoved Mr. Grantham into the wardrobe. She was certainly strong enough to manhandle his body. Then, as Olivia and Peregrine walked to the main staircase, Cynthia could have dashed down the servants’ stair at the back of the house.

  It wouldn’t take her long to realize she had blood on her clothing and needed to avoid being seen. If she ran into Mrs. Adams in the kitchen, the older woman would surely have exclaimed about the stains. Fearful of being caught, Cynthia might have hit her, too, with one of the old utensils left behind by the previous tenants.

  Cynthia had already have been overwrought and upset over what she had done, and she never knew her own strength. Consequently, the blow might have been more than necessary to render Mrs. Adams unconscious. And again, terrified of meeting Olivia or Peregrine, Cynthia could have dragged the charwoman away and hid her body in one of the small buildings behind the townhouse.

  Once rational thought returned and Cynthia realized what she’d done, she could have returned Mrs. Adams’s body to the kitchen so that it would be discovered and given a decent burial.

  That would account for her lack of interest in Grantham’s journal. It had nothing to do with his death. And knowing Cynthia, her crimes had to be weighing heavily on her conscience. Perhaps that was why she wanted to see Olivia; she wanted to confess.

  Wait! She stumbled over a curb and regained her balance at the last moment.

  “Isn’t that your friend, Miss Denholm?” The echo of Peregrine’s words rang through her mind. She and Peregrine had both seen Cynthia, striding away down the street.

  So there was proof that she’d been in the vicinity of the academy when the murders occurred. The only thing that changed in her theory was that Cynthia had left before Olivia and Peregrine arrived, not after. It was an insignificant detail, and the rest fit so neatly she didn’t know why she hadn’t seen the answer sooner.

  Olivia tried to find flaws, anything to prove that she was wrong. She liked Cynthia and didn’t want to think of her committing two senseless murders. There were certainly some holes, perhaps enough to give her hope that her theory was incorrect.

  After all, there was the matter of Mrs. Adams’s missing key. Cynthia would have no reason to take it. That suggested that someone might have killed the charwoman in order to obtain the key, otherwise, they would have found it by now.

  So Olivia could be wrong. Thankfully, someone else had to have murdered Mr. Grantham and Mrs. Adams. And she was no further along in her private inquiry, except for the feeling that she’d noticed some clue at some point and knew more than she thought she did. She only needed to let that notion float forward into the light, like a feather floating from the shadows to a beam of sunlight streaming through the window.

  When the tall, gray building housing her academy rose into view, she paused, demoralized anew. She couldn’t help feeling that she’d touched off this terrible series of events when she recklessly decided to start her fencing school. She’d flouted the rules of Polite Society in doing so and had gone her own way like a refractory horse, wild and stubbornly refusing to take the bit into her mouth. All because she wanted to share the exhilaration she felt when her blade found its mark and the sizzle of excitement burning inside her.

  Maybe if she hadn’t invited Cynthia Denholm to join her, Mr. Grantham and Mrs. Adams might still be alive. Even if Cynthia weren’t the murderer, their deaths might never have occurred had Olivia not done such a nonsensical thing.

  Give in and give it up — I’ll have to, now. It’s too scandalous. I should have recognized that before this.

  What was once only outrageous, was now dark and bloody with tragedy. It was time to end it before anyone else suffered. Be the sweet, biddable lady she should have been all along.

  By the time she stepped up to the academy’s door, she felt coldly chastened and heavy with bleak hopelessness. Her dreams were well and truly shattered. There seemed nothing left for her to do but smile politely and conform to expectations. Marry the next fool who asked her. Forget the feel of fire in her veins, the challenges, and the exhilaration of crossing swords with an opponent.
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  Settle down. Be sensible. The words crushed her with their unbearable weight.

  Hand on the doorknob, she pushed the door open, vaguely surprised that it was unlocked. With a shrug, she remembered the authorities coming and going at random, as if staring at the filthy floorboards would answer all their questions. Reminding them to lock the door had little effect.

  But though leaving the door unlocked was not the best situation, there was so little in the building to steal that it seemed silly to worry about it. Mr. Greenfield would be done soon enough, one way or the other.

  Then she could hire appropriate servants, preferably a husband and wife, to take care of the property and keep it secured.

  Or rather she would have found servants, if she were to continue the academy. That possibility seemed ridiculously remote.

  So much I should have done, so many small details overlooked.

  She should already have made those arrangements, but she’d put them off, thinking Mrs. Adams would suffice. Olivia sighed, drowning in guilt and shame. If she’d hired a couple as she’d initially planned, perhaps Mrs. Adams would still be alive. But the agency had sent Mrs. Adams, and Olivia had been too lazy and careless to interview more servants.

  That fact simply proved she was unfit to run an academy in the first place. Unfortunately, it was too late for such regrets. But she could correct the untenanted state of the townhouse, so the place would be cared for until her brother rented it to someone else.

  She’d simply have to make another appointment with the employment agency and find a suitable man and woman. Today would have been ideal, of course. Perhaps she ought to have Latimore send one of the footmen over to stay at the academy tonight. That would provide temporary help until she could hire more appropriate staff.

  Walking into the dusty hallway, Olivia glanced around. The hushed silence made the building seem abandoned. A chilly breeze lifted a small curl at the nape of her neck. In the dim light, she shivered and held her breath, trying not to think about ghosts.

  She cocked her head to one side, but she couldn’t even hear the whispers of shoes sliding across the floor, or the voices she should have heard if Cynthia and the Peterson sisters were already practicing.

  “Miss Denholm?” she called, removing her bonnet. She dropped her white leather boots on the floor, and held her hat by the ribbons as she threw off her shawl and draped it over her arm. “Miss Peterson?”

  Perhaps they were upstairs in her office. She’d left the masks and foils on her desk, not wanting to use the wardrobe again, although it had been cleaned.

  Her thoughts returned to the problem of servants as she climbed the stairs. No doubt she’d have difficulties. Few would want to work here when they realized that two people had been killed in the townhouse. Many might refuse to stay overnight, for fear of being murdered in their beds. Or the horror of seeing a ghost leaning over them as they slept.

  She shivered and rubbed her arms. That wasn’t the worst of it. The murderer hadn’t been found and still had the key. Even if Mr. Greenfield locked the door, the killer could come and go as he pleased. She’d be lucky if she could find anyone willing to stay here under those conditions, until she had the locks changed.

  The floor above her head creaked. She halted and glanced upward at the shadowy landing, her nerves fluttering.

  She was scaring herself. There were no specters — it was daytime, after all. She took a deep breath. “Miss Denholm? Are you there?”

  No response. Where was she?

  Olivia frowned and climbed the rest of the way up the stairs.

  The door to her office was partially open, and a fan of grayish light glowed across the floor, showing puffballs of dust, and grains of sand in stark relief against the dark wooden planks. Despite the sunlight, the room felt gloomy and cold, with a hushed quiet that made Olivia think of the tense silence of someone hiding and holding her breath. She glanced around uneasily, almost willing to believe that hauntings were real and not simply the result of a sensitive person’s own fears.

  “Miss Denholm?” She pushed the door the rest of the way open and stepped into the room.

  The grainy sunlight leaking through the dingy windows behind her desk glinted off the foils tangled in a heap on the scarred, wooden surface. The room appeared to be empty. It wasn’t until she walked closer to the desk that she noticed a slumped heap of skirts in the shadowed corner behind the large piece of furniture.

  “Miss Denholm?” Her voice rose shrilly with shock. She pressed a hand on the edge of the desk, her heart pounding.

  Cynthia sat on the floor, her head lolling against the wall to her left. One hand rested in her lap and the other lay, palm up and fingers curled, on the floor beside her. She still wore her thick, black pelisse over a dark brown dress, and stout walking boots. Her bonnet hung askew over her right ear, and with her mouth hanging partially open and her eyes closed, she appeared to be peacefully asleep.

  Edging quickly around the corner of the desk toward her friend, Olivia flinched when something jabbed into the center of her back. She dropped her bonnet in surprise.

  Then, without thinking, her new empty left hand reached out and clenched the hilt of one of the foils resting on the desk. The heavy shawl draped over her arm slid over the desktop with the motion, hiding the surface.

  “Don’t turn around,” a man ordered as she jerked forward again at another vicious jab into her back. Even though she couldn’t see him, he sounded as if he were smiling maliciously — she could hear it in his voice. “Where is it?”

  “Who are you?” she asked sharply, ignoring his question. “What have you done to Miss Denholm?”

  “Where is it?” He thrust her forward sharply.

  Her hip hit the corner of the desk, and she almost sprawled over the surface. Clenching her jaw, she pressed her lips together and pushed off the desk, spinning around to face the intruder. She took a step back, flicked the foil from her left to her right hand, and brought up the unprotected tip.

  A man stood in front of her, his face covered by a dark cloth with two holes cut out, showing his glittering eyes. He wore a large, wide-brimmed black hat and a dark coat. In his hand, he held a walking stick with an elaborate gold knob.

  She drew a sharp breath. She recognized that stick. “Mr. Belcher!”

  Suddenly, Mr. Grantham’s cryptic notes in his journal made sense. Crispin Belcher had been Isabella Bron’s other lover. Mr. Grantham must have been blackmailing him.

  With a flamboyant gesture, Mr. Belcher pulled off his hat and the attached mask, and threw it on the desk with a taunting bark of laughter. As he did so, a large brass key clattered to the floor.

  She stared at it. It was the key she’d given to Mrs. Adams.

  “So you guessed,” he said. “Well, it matters naught.”

  “What did you do to Miss Denholm?” Olivia leaned against the edge of the desk, her legs hardly able to support her.

  “That cow?” He chuckled and pulled his walking stick apart to reveal the sword inside. “Unfortunately, she is not dead, though she may wish she were when she awakens.”

  He backed up a few feet to assume a fighting stance, a look of disdain on his face. He touched her blade with his.

  “Why? Why are you doing this?”

  “That is not the question, Lady Olivia.” He studied her. His contempt giving way to anger. His golden brows thrust together. “Where is the journal?”

  “I don’t have it.” As quickly as she could, she took the measure of the room. Her office was not as large as the room they used for the fencing lessons. The furniture took up valuable space. However, obstacles could be useful.

  She eased away from the desk, seeking more space to maneuver.

  “Don’t lie.” He lunged forward, almost slipping under her guard.

  She parried and tried to control her harsh breathing. Panic fluttered in her chest, squeezing out the air.

  Think! What are his weaknesses?

  Her brothers had
discussed dueling techniques and the relative strengths and weaknesses of their friends — she’d heard them countless times. Edward had once remarked that Mr. Belcher was a decent swordsman. That tepid praise meant that, in fact, Mr. Belcher was good — most likely, very good.

  “I am not in the habit of lying,” she replied coldly, moving past the wardrobe. She didn’t want to be trapped in the smaller space between the desk and that large piece of furniture. “I do not have it.”

  Smiling grimly, he teased and tested her blade, his blue eyes fixed upon her, searching for an opening. “That cow found it and gave it to you — what did you do with it? Hide it? I assume you read it.”

  “I gave it to Lord Milbourn,” she said, retreating a step and watching his movements. Her ragged breathing and rapid pulse made her reactions shaky and graceless. She took a deep, steadying breath.

  Cool indifference.

  It sounded so easy, but it was difficult to achieve when she faced an opponent bent on killing her.

  “Milbourn?” He lunged again, slipping in under her guard and nearly disarming her. “That blind fool. It will be as useless to him as it was to you.”

  She managed to swirl out of the way and slid her foil under his to force him back. When she stepped back, a burning pain over the ribs on her left side told her that he’d been more successful than she realized. He’d sliced through her Spencer and nicked her. Warmth trickled over her waist and hip.

  “It will be of some use, however. And I am sure Mr. Greenfield found it very interesting,” she said smoothly.

  Mr. Belcher’s grin widened and grew more spiteful. “Interesting or not, it won’t do you much good now, my little dove.”

  A breathy moan from the corner behind her desk reminded her of Cynthia. Why hadn’t he killed her? Suddenly, she remembered the first lesson she’d given her friend and how Cynthia had nearly killed her.

  “You are going to blame this on Miss Denholm — are you not?” Her voice sounded harsh to her ears.

  “Very good, Lady Olivia. I fear your lessons with Miss Denholm will shortly come to a sad end.” He scornfully tested her blade again.