Barely a Lady (26 page)

On the third afternoon, Olivia found herself in the stillroom helping Mrs. Harper store herbs. Lady Kate was having an at-home, and Olivia knew to keep away.

She was working by rote, her mind on the memory of how wonderful the morning had been. It had been unusually clear for London, cooler, with a capricious breeze drifting in through the open windows. That first sunlight, so soft and faintly coral, had crept across Jack’s face to caress each angle and hollow with warmth. Olivia had awakened with the first sounds of the house, as she had every morning here, just for that moment.

Jack never knew. He slept soundly until she all but kicked him awake. Dawn was Olivia’s private time, the only moments she could hold her beautiful husband wholly to herself. When she could be perfectly selfish and unforgivably happy, because for that brief, brightening moment at dawn, Jack was hers.

“Olivia?”

Startled, Olivia turned to see Grace standing in the doorway. She was frowning, and suddenly Olivia felt nervous.

“Does Lady Kate need me?”

Grace shifted on her feet. “She wanted me to warn you.”

Her hands deep in feverfew, Olivia stilled. “Is Gervaise here?”

“Worse.” Grace’s smile was painful. “Mrs. Drummond-Burrell.”

“The Almack’s patroness? From everything I’ve heard about her, I believe I’m more than happy not to meet her.”

Alongside her, Mrs. Harper set down her mortar and pestle and wiped her hands on her apron. “Well, that’ll mean a tea tray, now, won’t it? I’d better go light a fire under that prissy Belgian’s arse.”

Olivia grinned as she watched the big woman leave. “Poor Cook. Mrs. Harper does so love to rile him. Now, then, Grace. Which room do I need to keep clear of? The green sitting room?”

“She’d prefer, um, that you”—Grace took a breath—“stay where you are.”

Olivia nodded. “It’s all right. I can understand that Lady Kate doesn’t want her guest to see me. Most people don’t know my face, but…” There was no real change in Grace’s face, but Olivia knew she’d tensed. “What?”

Grace looked absolutely miserable. “I’m afraid that Mrs. Drummond-Burrell knows who you are. She has just informed Lady Kate that she’s been told your real name.”

Olivia didn’t think to answer. She just pulled off her apron and started to walk out.

“Olivia!” Grace protested, hurrying after her.

Olivia shook her head. Her heart was thundering, and she felt sick with inevitability. “Stay here.”

Grace grabbed her arm. “You can’t mean to confront her.”

“Of course not.” Olivia knew her smile was terrible. “Not unless she becomes unreasonable.”

And with her chin raised to battle levels, she stalked out.

Memory was such an odd thing. Jack had never thought to question it. It was just there, coloring everything that came after it. That place was lovely, because he and Livvie had snuck off to cuddle beneath the oak tree. This food was awful, because his old nurse had forced it on him when he was ill. But now, with his memory sputtering like a spent candle, he couldn’t trust the memories that came to him or the ones others said he should have.

For instance, he remembered Mimi. He remembered thinking that his time with her was better than it had ever beenwith Livvie, and how could that have been? Especially after the three nights he’d just passed, wrapped so tightly aboutLivvie that he shouldn’t have had enough room to breathe. How could any joy have outmatched his when she’d first come apart in his arms after what seemed to be years?

And even though he knew better, he distinctly felt it to be autumn of 1810. There had to be at least a year missing, a giant hole that undoubtedly colored what had come after. Like the word
lions.
It felt important, but he didn’t know why. Like the fact that he felt strangely anxious to find out what had happened to Mimi, as if he’d held her in his hand and misplaced her.

It should have been enough that he hadn’t forgotten Livvie. That his family was well. That he was back on British soil. Somehow, it wasn’t. And all he knew was that it had something to do with his missing memory.

Well, he couldn’t wait any longer to recover it. Even without Braxton, he had to contact Whitehall. He had to speak with his family. But he could do neither without basic information, like what the real date was. What he’d been doing since that time at the hunting box. Why he had new scars and odd bits of insight. Until he found out, he continued to pose a risk to everyone in this house.

Somewhere in the last months, he must have learned to care for himself, because it didn’t even occur to him to wait for Harper to help him dress and shave. He must have overcome the small pride he had in his own looks—good Wyndham features—because the sight of his scars didn’t distress him. Or maybe he’d only needed to see Livvie’s reaction to know how little they meant.

She hadn’t wept or flinched. She’d kissed him, down the length of each and every scar she’d found. She’d assured him that they must have come honorably, for he was one of the most honorable men she’d ever known.

Why did that make him feel even worse?

Stealthily he opened his door. Satisfied that he wouldn’t be seen, he took the servants’ stairs down to the kitchens. He had to admit he was impressed by Lady Kate’s home. Not just the Sheraton and Chippendale with which she furnished it but with the pragmatism in which she kept it. She’d even painted the servants’ hallway and stairs a lemony yellow with the trim picked out in white, which made it easier to see down the steep stairwell.

The kitchen, when he pushed his way into it, spread across the back of the ground floor, an arching, echoing room painted in soft blue to repel flies and fitted with the latest closed stoves. He could even hear the potboy humming as he worked.

“My lord?” the cook asked, stepping forward.

A thin, intense Belgian with bulging eyes and bristling mustache, the man appeared to be defending hard-fought ground. Jack eyed the cleaver he clutched to his chest and smiled.

“I was just escaping from what sounded like a flock of ladies up in the drawing room, Maurice. Would you mind if I snuck a couple of ginger cakes and a cup of tea?”

For so thin a man, the cook had a magnificent frown. “You are too skinny, you, and tea is
pffft
.” He gave a wave with the cleaver. “I give you ale. Build you up. And cheese. Good cheese from Belgium I have none. So we settle for this cheddar, yes?”

Jack situated himself on the bench and allowed the chef to fuss. “How long have you been with the duchess?” he asked.

“Since my last master, the toad of a
comte
, thought himself poisoned.” The cleaver hit the table with a thump. “The magnificent duchess, she take me right away before I am doing damage to the old dog’s house.”

Jack fought hard to hold in a smile. “Good of her.”

Maurice slapped a mug of ale in front of him. “Only for her do I stay. A man of Maurice’s talent should not have to fight off witches.”

“He means me.” Mrs. Harper suddenly spoke up from the larder, sounding suspiciously amused.

Maurice jumped as if he’d been poked and flashed the sign of the evil eye before turning away. “Witch, be bringing his lordship some cheese.”

Jack thought he heard her rumbling laugh. “Ah, and won’t it be a treat to see you walkin’ on y’r hands, Mr. Maurice, if you call me witch one more time?”

At that, Maurice stiffened. “Four years I stay with the dowager, since her
cochon
of a duke die, and I say nothing of anything. But no more, you evil woman. You I will not endure.”

“Ah, don’t fesh y’rself, little man,” Mrs. Harper said as she clumped in with a board of cheese and bread in her hands. “We’ll be gone soon as Miss Grace has enough of y’r snooty ways.”

“Then Miss Fairchild does have a home?” Jack asked, eyeing the cheese with delight.

Good cheddar. God, he couldn’t remember the last time…

His head shot up. “Four
years
?” he demanded, on his feet before he realized it.

Both Maurice and Mrs. Harper were staring. It was Maurice who nodded. “
Oui.
Four years. Do I not count every day in my gratitude?”

“Since the duke died.”

The two actually looked at each other. This time Maurice looked less sanguine.
“Oui.”

Four years.

The last Jack remembered, the old duke had been hale, hearty, and unhesitatingly belligerent. Jack had never understood how the gorgeous duchess had settled for such a gargoyle. She was, after all, the daughter of a duke herself. Considering how powerful her father had been, it had undoubtedly been a dynastic connection.

Which had been over for
four years.

Suddenly, he sat down. “What year is this?”

“1815,” Maurice said.

“Now you be shuttin’ y’r gob, you heathen,” Mrs. Harper demanded, striding up. “You’ll do injury to the lad.”

But Jack wasn’t listening. The words sparked a sense of panic. 1815. It was 1815. He’d been having enough trouble understanding that he’d lost a year or two. But
five
?

“You’re sure?” he asked needlessly.

Mrs. Harper considered him a moment. “Oh, aye,” she finally said. “For haven’t I spent every day of those years following Miss Grace and her da across the battlefields of Europe?”

Absently he nodded. “What else can you tell me about the last five years?”

Which was, evidently, too much for the good lady. “I think you should ask the missus, sir. No offense and all. But it’d be worth more than my job to go against their wishes.”

Jack stared at the table, trying desperately to justify the real time that had passed with the remembered time. He gulped down his ale and ate his beloved cheddar and didn’t taste a thing. And then, realizing that the kitchen staff thought him absolutely mad, he walked stonily out of the room and through the baize door, intent on confronting his wife.

He didn’t see her at first. He opened the door into the first-floor hallway to find it deserted of everyone but a suspiciously stiff Finney, who stood by the open door of the Green Sitting Room as if ready to jump to someone’s defense. Jack was about to ask what was going on inside when he heard the voices of women who made no effort to be discreet.

“My dear duchess,” came the cloying sound of aristocratic hypocrisy at its best, “You must understand that when the news came to me this morning, I was forced to venture forth.”

“I understand no such thing,” Lady Kate drawled. “How is my household of any concern to you, Lady Brightly?”

“Cat,” he distinctly heard Lady Bea sniff.

There was a titter and a shuffling as if someone were ill at ease. “It is the concern of every Christian woman to alert a friend that she harbors a fallen woman beneath her roof.”

Jack, standing in the shadows, suddenly felt cold. Something awful waited in that room, and he didn’t want to hear it. And yet, he couldn’t seem to move away.

“Fallen?” Lady Kate asked. “From what? I’ve heard of no such accident.”

Then a new voice, thinner, sterner. It sounded just like Mrs. Drummond-Burrell. God knew that harridan loved nothing better than looking down on her fellow woman. “Levity can hardly benefit you, Your Grace. You must know the consequences of taking in someone as notorious as Lady Gracechurch. Why, the divorce alone puts her outside the bounds of good society. Considering everything else…”

Divorce? Suddenly Jack couldn’t breathe. He started rubbing at the ache that had bloomed beneath his injured temple.

“Indeed,” Lady Kate was saying. “I don’t suppose Gervaise Armiston shared this diverting tale with you.”

“Why, it’s in every drawing room in London. Dear Duchess, if you thought your newest companion was respectable, you have been cruelly deceived. Nothing could be further from the truth.”

“Pharisee,” Lady Bea snapped.

“Indeed, dear,” Kate said. Jack heard the impatient rustle of fabric. “As much as I appreciate your doing your civic duty,” the duchess said, her voice as cold as winter, “I’m afraid you’ve gone to all this trouble in vain. Lady Gracechurch made it a point to alert me as to who she was back in Brussels. That would have been while she was caring for wounded from the battle. Something I can only assume puts her further beyond your notice, since it was a most charitable act of great courage.”

“But she cuckolded her husband with her own cousin!”

For some reason, this sent Lady Kate off into peals of laughter. But Jack was no longer paying attention.

Olivia’s cousin?
Tristram
?

Suddenly, he remembered. Only a bit, a slice of time caught against the jagged edges of fury. Him slamming open the door of the old crofter’s cottage where he and Olivia escaped to when they wanted to be alone.

Only Olivia wasn’t alone. He saw her standing with her arms around Tristram. He heard foul obscenities coming out of his own mouth. He saw Livvie, his Livvie, the love of his life, just where they’d said she would be. With whom they said she’d be.

She’d reached out a hand to him, he remembered, her face deathly pale, tears streaking her cheeks, her sherry-brown eyes huge with entreaty. But her hair had been tumbling down, that exquisite corn silk he couldn’t keep his hands out of, and her dress was pulled awry. And her cousin, her loathsome cousin, whom he’d trusted in his home, was shouting at him.