by Anna Randol
Dedication
To my sister, who told me this was her favorite book even when it shouldn’t have been. And as always, to my husband, who I’ll love forever and three days
Contents
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Epilogue
About the Author
Romances by Anna Randol
Copyright
About the Publisher
Prologue
Swift Paper Mill, England, 1807
Olivia crept around to the back of the mill, the note held tightly in her hand. “Clayton?”
No answer. Perhaps he hadn’t expected her to understand his code so quickly. Although he should have. The note was short. None of his usual words of adoration. It had taken her only five minutes to figure out that he wanted to meet her at their tree behind her father’s mill.
She leaned back against the trunk and adjusted the hem of her dress so she was quite artfully arranged. Feeling rather daring, she edged the bodice an inch lower, too. Clayton’s birthday was next week and she had promised him a rather special present. She saw no reason not to give him a small preview.
“Olivia?”
Her heart tangled and flopped in her chest as it always did at the sound of his voice. She was running to him before she remembered her plan to remain by the tree. But she closed the distance anyway and wrapped her arms around his neck.
He didn’t swing her about and kiss her. Instead, he held her fiercely and buried his chin in her hair.
“Whatever is amiss, Clayton?” She drew back slightly and ran her hand along his jaw. She loved it when there was just a hint of a beard there. None of her father’s other clerks could even grow beards yet. “If Tom has been complaining about delivering your notes again, you can just tell him that if he wants to remain a footman—”
“This isn’t about Tom.” His dark brows drew down, making him appear far older than his seventeen years.
Heavens, but he gave her delicious shivers.
She peered up at him from under her lashes. It always made him laugh. He said it must be difficult to see anything that way. He was looking far too serious for a tryst. “Well then, whatever could you want to see me about?”
He cupped her cheek. “I wish I’d brought you here for kisses. I wish I could just carry you away.”
Clayton was often too serious, but she’d never seen him distressed. “Your mother? Did she have the gall to come home?”
“No.” He stepped back and ran a hand through his dark hair.
He’d stepped away from her? He never wanted distance between them. He always wanted to be holding her hand, kissing her, or stroking her hair. “Clayton?”
He reached into his plain black waistcoat and pulled out—a banknote? She couldn’t help her sigh of disappointment. If that was his idea of a gift, he’d failed miserably. After all, the mill printed banknotes for the Bank of England. She’d seen so many she thought she’d go cross-eyed. She much preferred her gifts to be shiny and wearable.
Clayton handed her the money. It was a fifty-pound note.
She blinked. That was far more money than he’d make in a year.
“It’s not real,” he said.
She turned it over. “Yes, it is.” She knew enough to recognize the mill’s work.
He took it back. “I need your word you’ll tell no one what I’m going to tell you.”
“Very well.”
“No. Truly, I need your solemn promise to keep this secret no matter your temptation to speak.”
Her stomach grew hollow. “I already promised, did I not?”
He closed his eyes, his forehead wrinkling in pain. “This banknote is real, but it shouldn’t exist. The mill was contracted to print a thousand notes in this amount. Yet we printed one thousand and ten.”
“That must have been an oversight.”
“I went back over the records. This isn’t the first time Swift Mill has made more banknote paper than the number of notes we need to print.”
She was the one who took a step back this time. “Surely, in case there are errors or . . . or . . .” But she could think of no more reasons.
He closed the distance between them. “Listen to me carefully.” He cleared his throat. “Your father is the one who does the final count of the banknotes. I found this and nine others in his office.”
Papa? Clayton must have made a mistake. Besides, Papa was already wealthy. He’d have no reason to steal banknotes.
He held her close when she would have jerked away.
“You must be mistaken.”
“I’m not. I’ve had my suspicions for months, and now I know your father is responsible. I have the proof I need.”
She shoved at him, but he wouldn’t let go. “The proof you need for what?”
“I have to go to the magistrate. This is theft.” His voice shook. “And treason. Listen, Olivia. I’ll do my best to shield you from this. I’ll marry you, carry you away from the scandal.”
He’d marry her? Olivia Campbell. Olivia Campbell. She’d practiced saying it so often that the name tumbled through her head a dozen times before the rest of his words registered.
Scandal. Her father. Magistrates.
Her hands trembled and it was suddenly difficult to swallow. To breathe.
He pressed a kiss to her lips. “I’m sorry to burden you with this. But I couldn’t stand the thought of you finding out any other way. You must understand I have no other choice. I have to do what’s right.”
She might have said something. She might not have. She honestly had no idea as she watched him stride away.
Clayton was wrong. The foolish boy. She pressed her hands to her icy cheeks. He’d be humiliated when the magistrate uncovered whatever the real truth of the situation was. Her father would dismiss Clayton and it would be far more difficult for him to see her.
She didn’t doubt he’d found something. Clayton was brilliant and far more clever than anyone she’d ever known. But he was mistaken in this.
Perhaps her father had suspicions about what was going on at the mill as well. That would explain why he had the banknotes.
That made perfect sense. She’d just have to ask her father what he knew about the money in his office. He’d probably be impressed that Clayton had such keen insight into the workings of the mill.
She ran all the way to her father’s study.
Chapter One
Swift Paper Mill, 1817
Olivia Swift straightened her spine and glared down at the squinty-eyed man. As much as she rejoiced in what each new hire meant to the success of the mill, she loathed that she had to prove herself each and every time. “My father gives his ord
ers to me and I bring them to the mill. If you have issue with that, you’re welcome to seek employment elsewhere.”
Grimmon’s eyes narrowed until they were mere slits in his face. “I don’t see why your father don’t hire a man to deliver the orders. There’s better places for a woman to be.” His leer clearly demonstrated where he thought that was.
Then his face cleared, his expression sliding into a crude semblance of subservience. “But if that’s how things are run here, I suppose I can handle it.”
Olivia didn’t need to look to know that Thomas, the mill’s chief machinist, was standing behind her. But while she might resent the instant respect the huge, bald man received, she wasn’t fool enough to reject it. After all, finding a skilled vatsman like Grimmon at the wages she could afford had proved nearly impossible. She had to at least give this man a chance to come to terms with the unusual arrangements at the paper mill before she threw him out on his offensive, smirking face.
But one chance was all he’d get. “You’d best handle it. It might be difficult to find another mill owner willing to overlook your fondness for the bottle.”
Grimmon tugged once at his limp neck cloth and nodded.
After he’d walked away, she finally turned to Thomas. “You shouldn’t do that. I need to know the men will follow my orders when you’re not around.”
Thomas shrugged, the stiff motion tugging at the scar tissue that covered half of his face and neck. “Doubt that time will ever come. They don’t have to take orders from you for much longer.” He had that warning look in his eye again. Thomas was one of the few men who’d remained at the mill all along, even during the rough years before she’d become involved. Even when the mill had been reduced to making paper by hand and its only customers had been a handful of dry goods stores in neighboring towns. As quick as he was to support her, he’d made it clear that as soon as the mill was capable of fulfilling its contracts, he’d hold her to her promise to hire a manager to run the mill.
Olivia wanted to rub the ache at the base of her skull but refrained. He was right. Her presence complicated things for the men. Raised too many questions about her father’s health. Yet she couldn’t turn the mill over to a foreman. Not yet. Not when success was still uncertain. “I will remain until the contract with the Bank of England is secured again.”
Olivia strode past the hissing, clanking machines. She paused for a moment at the huge metal cylinders that slowly carried the drying paper to the end of the line. Each fresh, white inch was a pound in the pocket of the town. Proof that she’d succeeded in restoring the mill.
“Miss Swift! Miss Swift!” Colin, the junior clerk, scurried toward her. His spectacles had fogged in the perpetual damp from the steam engines and slurry vats. He yanked them off and scrubbed them against his sleeve, then replaced them with practiced ease. “I just received a missive from the Treadmine Stationers. They’ve canceled their order.”
“All of it?” Olivia rested her hands on the pipe that carried water to the boiler. “Did they say why?”
Colin shoved his spectacles back up his nose. “No, just that they had no desire to do business with us any longer.”
That made the second cancellation today. She took a deep breath. All businesses were plagued by setbacks. She’d been expecting difficulties. She didn’t fear them. And she wouldn’t let them stop her. But perhaps she should cancel her plans to attend the town festival and go to London instead. “I’ll visit them this afternoon—”
“Miss Swift!” Her lead vatsman ran to her side. “The headbox is near empty, and the rags haven’t arrived.”
“None of the shipments?” Without the rags, it didn’t matter whether they had contracts or not. If they lacked the cloth to break down for fibers, they wouldn’t be able to make paper at all.
The vatsman shook his shaggy head of red hair. “Nae a single solitary thread.”
“This has to be a simple mix-up,” she said. “Or they met with an accident along the road. Colin, send one of the ragboys out to see—”
A well-dressed man stepped between her and Colin. Not now. She didn’t need any stationers arriving unannounced to examine the quality of the mill’s stock. Or worse, someone from the Bank of England. She’d answered all their questions perfectly last week.
But she pasted a bright smile on her face. Looming disaster or no, she couldn’t afford to offend potential customers. Her eyes slid up a gray waistcoat, across a surprisingly broad chest, and fixed on a set of piercing, steel blue eyes.
Eyes that belonged to a dead man.
She stumbled back a step. Only Colin’s awkward grab kept her on her feet.
The dead man took her other arm with his strong fingers. And even though he wore black leather gloves, his hand was definitely warm. “Miss Swift has been overcome by the heat. She’ll recover in her office.”
Colin shifted, clearing his throat. “Who exactly might you be?”
The deep voice that had haunted her nightmares for the past ten years spoke. “Clayton Campbell. I used to work here.”
And with that simple statement, her madness was assured. Her vision blurred and grew dark around the edges, but she couldn’t afford to let her employees see her weak—not twice in one day—and so she managed to remain upright. “It’s fine, Colin. I’ll be in my office.”
She let Clayton escort her inside. As soon as the door shut, she lifted her hand to his face. The tall, angular boy she remembered was gone, replaced by a lean, hardened man. His cheekbones were more chiseled.
He’s alive.
The slight shadow of stubble on his jaw, dark. She hadn’t allowed herself to imagine how he might look as a grown man. But even if she had, she wouldn’t have imagined this. He was at once more flawed and yet utter perfection.
He’s alive.
She traced the line of his nose. The shell of his ear. She wanted to explore every change and remember a hundred details she’d forgotten. Examine him closely enough to convince herself this wasn’t a dream.
He. Is. Alive.
The man she’d condemned to the gallows.
Clayton hadn’t moved. Not once since she’d touched him. She finally met his gaze. His eyes were dark, cold. “Remove your hand from my person.”
She stumbled to a hard wooden chair and sat, staring up at him. “Clayton, where have you been? I thought you were—”
“Dead?”
And with that one icy word, she knew she shouldn’t have sat down. He’d towered over her when they were young, but now he dominated. His face twisted in disdain.
This might be a miracle, but it wasn’t a joyous one.
“Where have you been?” She clutched edges of her gray woolen skirt in her fists.
Clayton lifted a brow, the look that had been quizzical and endearing on him as a young man now condescending. Cruel. “Hell.”
“But they hung you. My father saw it.”
“Did he?”
The lead in her stomach expanded until it also encased her heart. Her father had lied about that, too. Another lie. Another— Sweet mercy. “Have you been in prison all this time? Or”—her words seemed to stick in her throat—“transported?” Could she have done something to help him? Gone to the authorities and told them the truth?
“I didn’t come for a reunion.”
But that didn’t mean she could let the question go. She’d loved him once with everything she’d possessed. She had to know.
Know what she’d caused.
She forced herself to stand. “What happened?”
“You gave up the right to ask that question.”
“What happened that night—”
“I wish to speak to your father.” Clayton spoke right over her, as if she hadn’t just been about to speak the words that haunted her every thought. Influenced her every choice.
“Clayton—”
“Do not flatter yourself that I’ve spent my life dwelling on your betrayal. Or that I want to revisit it now.”
“I do.
”
“You don’t always get what you want, Diamond.”
How dare he. How dare he say those things, then use that name. She’d loved it when he’d given it to her as her code name. Sparkling. Bright. Precious. But now in his scorn it meant pampered, shallow, greedy.
She was none of those things any longer.
“Shall we go meet with your father?”
His words grounded her back in reality. “You cannot.”
“So I discovered yesterday.”
Olivia gave thanks for the discretion and stubborn loyalty of her butler. “My father isn’t a well man. He sees no one.”
“He saw the representatives from the Bank of England.”
How did Clayton know that? “That was an exceptional case.”
“Returning from the dead might also be considered rather exceptional.”
“I won’t allow it.” She would tell him what she told all the others. “Whatever you need to say to him can be said to me. I’ll relay the information.”
“Still his loyal watchdog, I see.” His gaze was derisive.
But she would not flinch, not from his disdain. Not from his anger. While she was no longer loyal to her father, she was loyal to this mill. “Do you have a message to relay or not?”
Clayton smiled, a slow stretch of his lips over gleaming white teeth. “Tell your father that I’m here for justice. Everything he has will soon be in shambles at his feet.”
“This mill has crumbled over the past ten years. Isn’t that shambles enough for you?”
“Bad luck isn’t the same as justice. The mill is set to begin printing for the Bank of England again, is it not?”
She couldn’t deny it when he already knew the truth. “Yes.”
“That is what brought me back. Not you. Your father may have stopped me from speaking the truth when I was younger. But he will not repeat his crimes.”
“He won’t.”
Clayton rested his shoulder against the door frame. His relaxed pose was completely at odds with the intensity of his gaze. “As I recall, you were certain of his innocence last time as well. The Swift Paper Mill will never print banknotes again.”
