Six Degrees of Scandal (19 page)

Olivia looked agonized, but she obviously reached the same conclusion Jamie did: they had nothing to lose by telling him all now. “Yes, Lord Clary is the man after me. He feels entitled to—to whatever it is! Even
he
doesn't know because he's not the person who wanted it, nor is he the man who paid for it. But that man is dead, and Clary wants it now.”

Pike leaned forward. “So Clary thinks to seize his chance now the original client's dead, and he'll get it without paying for it?” He gave a
tsk
. “No one likes a man who won't pay.”

“He thinks I have it and he's demanding I give it to him.” Olivia shook her head, her face implor
ing. “Please, Mr. Pike,
please
tell me you know something that can help me.”

“I?” He raised his brows. “Mrs. Townsend, I know plenty that could help you. But just like sea legs, secrecy's bred into every Thanet man as well. You're a fetching lass, but it takes more than a pretty face to cozen a Thanet man of all his secrets.” He rapped his knuckles on the table. “Let me show you something, though.”

Olivia's shoulders sank in defeat, but she rose. Mr. Pike offered his arm, and she took it with a strained smile. Jamie, though, had been watching Pike. Their host looked too pleased with himself. Pike wasn't going to
tell
them anything, but Jamie would have bet a large sum, right this moment, that he
was
going to help them.

“I can't abide seeing a woman in trouble,” Pike said as he led them through the house, up a flight of stairs. “No man should raise his hand to a woman unless she's holding a knife to his throat. But when that man's a cheat as well . . .” He shook his head and opened a door.

It was an ordinary study, in Jamie's quick assessment. A desk stood near the windows. The view outside overlooked the cliff and then the sea, where the waves glittered blindingly bright in the sun. A pair of sparsely populated bookcases and a worn settee were all else that occupied the room. Pike closed the door behind them.

“A man's oath is his bond,” he said quietly, “but when a fellow dies . . .” He shrugged. “I allow some duty is owed to the chap's widow.” He went to the wall near the fireplace and bent down. “I left the trade years ago—too hard on the back.
But it's a hard thing to give up, like drinking, and when a profitable opportunity arises, well, there's no need to be a fool.” Jamie couldn't see what he was doing, but after a moment Pike rose to his feet. He pushed on the paneling of the wall, and then slid open a section.

Jamie barely heard Olivia's gasp. In the narrow space behind the panel hung a painting. As Pike pushed the panel farther open, the light illuminated an armored knight on horseback, sword raised in battle over a crouching, snarling dragon. The beast's scales were green-black, its teeth gleamed white; its long tail glistened with small spikes. The knight's sword shone like polished silver, and he wore a cross upon his breast as he regarded the dragon with implacable resolution. Even the horse was fierce, its front hooves pawing the air before the dragon's face.

“St. George,” said Pike, studying the painting with his hands on his hips. “Quite fond of him, I am. Most times I di'n't look too close at the shipments, but when no more instructions come regarding this one, I had a look. Then come word Townsend was dead and everything was over.” He shrugged again. “No one ever asked for it. My fee was paid, so I kept him.”

“Then he's been here for two years?” Olivia asked in a choked tone.

“Nearly,” Pike agreed. “Two Februarys past.”

She wet her lips. “Henry died two years ago this January.”

“I expected as much. And if Clary thinks to intercept him . . .” Pike noticed Olivia's start. “I know of Lord Clary—or rather, Commodore Clary, whose lax inspections allow the trade to
flow free. Coincidence, that a man of that same name thinks to catch a shipment paid for by another.”

“Who . . . ?” Olivia's voice shook. “Who painted this?”

Pike squinted at her. “One fellow called him Teezun. Not sure who that is.”

Titian, the great Italian master. Jamie barely kept his mouth from falling open in shock. He and Olivia had called their missing object a lost treasure without any idea of how great a treasure it really was. Jamie had no great eye for art, but he'd traveled on the Continent and dutifully viewed the masterworks of every country he visited, so he had a passing familiarity with most prominent artists. This painting wasn't familiar to him, but even he could tell it was very like other works by Titian.

This had to be what Clary wanted. A true Titian would be priceless.

“I don't fancy him being sent back to France, if that's what you've got in mind, but I always kenned he weren't mine to keep.” Pike reached into the open panel and lifted the painting off the wall. “Even free traders know what's fair.” He held it out to Olivia, who seemed transfixed. Reverently she took it and held it to the full light of day.

It was painted on a thin panel of wood, a little over two feet in height and a little less than that in width. The colors were subtle but rich, and every line was precise and strong. The frame was primitive but protected the work perfectly.

“Are you giving it to me?” Olivia's wide-eyed gaze jumped from the painting to Mr. Pike.

“Aye.” He folded his arms across his chest and
smiled ruefully. “I think you'll do right by it. It shouldn't be hidden in a closet where only an old goat such as myself can see it.”

“I haven't much money,” she began, but Pike waved his hand.

“I was ne'er promised anything beyond a fee to hold it. Others brought cargo in, and others come to collect it. All I did was mind it for a bit.” He winked again. “Never say smugglers haven't got any honor, Mrs. Townsend.”

“Thank you,” said Jamie quietly. Olivia looked overwhelmed, holding the painting at arm's length as if it might be dangerous.

“Truthfully, I'm mighty glad to send it on at last,” Pike confided. “A man always sleeps a bit better when the cargo is out of the house.”

Jamie could believe it. Even now he felt the tension of searching give way to anxiety about the next steps. They were far from through with this endeavor.

“It took me a while to conclude whether the greater kindness was giving it to you or denying anything about it.” Pike paused until Olivia looked up and met his gaze. “But you're a stalwart lass. I couldn't leave you to face your dragon unarmed.” He chuckled. “When you said you didn't want to give the treasure to the dragon, I thought you must know what you sought.”

Slowly a smile crossed her face. “Mr. Pike, I had no idea—none at all.”

“I realized that. And that's why I thinks you should have it.” He gave her a small bow. “May St. George guard and protect you, Mrs. Townsend, all the rest of your days.”

T
hey returned to the inn in an ebullient mood. “I can't believe it,” said Olivia for the fourth time as they drove into the yard of the Three Sails. The painting was wrapped in oilcloth in her arms, too precious to release even to store in the carriage boot.

Jamie laughed. “But you felt lucky!”

“Not because I thought he had the painting,” she protested. “Because I couldn't believe it existed at all! I was so sure—”

“What?” he prompted when she stopped. He pulled the horse up as a groom came running.

“I was so sure Henry would have taken steps to prevent it.” She shook her head. “It seemed he'd done everything else to keep me from discovering anything.”

Jamie jumped down and then helped her alight, carefully. “He couldn't have planned for everything.” He turned his head and spoke to the groom about the horse, then led her toward the inn. “Remember that: no plan is foolproof.”

Olivia just shook her head. “Yours seem to be! Have you been wrong a single time?”

He grinned. “As much as I enjoy dazzling you, I'm as astonished as you that my guesses turned out to be correct. Well—it must be admitted I was utterly wrong about the necessity of finding Miss Charters.”

“Only in that we found Captain P himself instead—and he had what we hoped he had.” She lowered her voice as they reached the inn door.

“And thank God for it.” Jamie opened the door. They headed directly for the stairs, to spirit the painting out of sight. Olivia hunched her shoulders, draping her cloak over the oilskin, and Jamie stayed close beside her. Just as they reached the stairs, though, the innkeeper stepped in front of them.

“Good day, Mr. Collins.” He nodded at Olivia. “Ma'am.”

“Good day, Mr. Hughes.” Jamie gave the man a nod, impatient to be upstairs.

“Was your errand successful?” The innkeeper's eyes were fixed on Olivia—too fixed. It brought Jamie's guard up, even before the man glanced pointedly at the panel peeking out of her cloak and added, “Did you find what you were looking for?”

Olivia's cheeks were red. Her mouth opened but no words came out. “We did indeed,” said Jamie evenly, giving her a gentle nudge of warning. “A fine memento of our trip to Thanet.”

“Hmm.” The innkeeper squinted at Olivia. “Are you well, madam?”

“Oh yes.” She flashed a nervous look at Jamie. “Why wouldn't I be?”

“I can't say. But you look rather pale and upset,
Mrs. Collins.” He paused, and Jamie braced himself instinctively. “Or perhaps that's not the right name?”

As pale as snow, Olivia whispered, “Collins. Our name is Collins, sir.”

For the first time in a minute, Mr. Hughes looked directly at Jamie. “I'd like a moment alone with the lady.”

He put a protective hand on Olivia's waist. “For what reason?”

“I have reason to suspect you're not her husband.” The man crossed his arms, showing off well-muscled forearms. “Has this man abducted you from your family, ma'am?”

Olivia gasped, as if letting out a breath she'd been holding for hours. “What? Of course not! This is my husband!” She stepped closer to Jamie. “Why on earth would you think otherwise, sir?”

“And is he your husband of your own free will?” Now the innkeeper bent a dangerous glare on Jamie.

“Before God, he is!” Olivia's voice rang with conviction as she recovered from her surprise and alarm. She stripped off her glove and thrust her hand forward to show the gold ring she still wore. “See there? Well worn to my finger, where it's resided many years! What is the meaning of this inquisition?”

Mr. Hughes's expression eased. “I beg your pardon, ma'am. I had to be sure. If you weren't with him of your own will, it would have been my duty to step in and restore you to your family.”

“Where did you get the idea she was not my wife?” asked Jamie quietly. The door was at their
back and no one had come in, but anyone could be lurking in the taproom or around the corner in one of the private parlors. He slid his hand into his pocket and curved his fingers around the butt of his pistol. He probably wouldn't have time to cock and fire it, but it was a heavy piece and would make a good cudgel, if need be.

“The lady's brother was here, searching for her. He said she'd been persuaded to run off with an adventurer and he wanted only to be certain she was safe.”

Bloody hell. It could only be Clary. Jamie eased backward a step, taking a swift glance into the taproom. “Is that gentleman still here?” If they could catch the viscount by surprise, this might not be a disaster. He didn't see any sign of the man, though.

“No, sir, he waited for you a half an hour, then took his leave, saying he would return later.”

“What did he look like?” asked Olivia, her lips barely moving. The indignant flush had faded from her face. “Mr. Hughes—I do not have a brother, nor a brother-in-law. Whoever that man was, he lied to you.”

Doubt shadowed the innkeeper's face for the first time. “Not meaning any disrespect, ma'am, but are you sure? He described you in every detail; said you were his younger sister Olivia, a genteel and reserved lady who disappeared from the family home. He said your parents were frantic and feared a fortune hunter had persuaded you to run off.”

“All lies,” whispered Olivia, shaking her head in tiny, jerky motions. “I have no brother, nor have
I lived in my parents' home for many years. Was he tall—about my husband's height? With dark hair combed back? A prominent nose and a lordly air?”

“Aye,” said the innkeeper slowly.

“Did he say where he was staying?” Jamie demanded, gripping his pistol. Perhaps he could still catch Clary. “How long ago did he leave?”

“Close to an hour ago,” said the innkeeper, to Jamie's disappointment. “He didn't say where to find him, only that he would return tonight to see . . .” He hesitated. “To see Mrs. Collins.”

Olivia inhaled, almost like a whimper. Jamie released the pistol and threw his arm around her, pulling her against him. “No,” he whispered fiercely. “Do not. He will never touch you.” Still trembling, she gave a tiny nod.

Now the innkeeper looked uncertain. “Who is the fellow? I take it you know him . . .”

“We do,” said Jamie over Olivia's head. She pressed her face into the front of his coat and gripped his jacket. “To our everlasting dismay.”

Mr. Hughes cleared his throat. “I . . . I let him wait in your chamber.”

Jamie's eyes narrowed. Even if Clary had been a friend, the innkeeper had allowed a stranger into a guest's room. “How odd,” he said in a frigid tone. “I distinctly recall paying for the
private
use of that room until tomorrow at the earliest.”

The innkeeper flushed. “I didn't want any shady business in my inn,” he muttered. “And the gent insisted on seeing if his sister might have stayed behind. When I knocked on the door and got no reply, he commanded me to open it, and then he
pushed in . . . Perhaps I ought to have asked him to wait below.”

“Perhaps, indeed.” Jamie glared at him. “Did you wait with him? How did you know he wasn't a common thief?”

“No,” the innkeeper confessed after a long pause. “He didn't look like a thief . . .”

Jamie jerked his head toward the stairs. “Let's go see if I've been robbed and ought to summon the local constable.”

Realizing now that he was fully in the wrong, Mr. Hughes kept talking as he led the way upstairs, trying to explain his well-intentioned though perhaps, in hindsight, mistaken actions. Jamie barely heard a word the man said, nor did he much care. Thank God Olivia held the long-sought prize in her arms, still concealed beneath her cloak. If Clary had come this evening, or if they'd found the painting yesterday . . .

In the corridor outside their room he nodded at the innkeeper again. “Open the door.”

Mr. Hughes cast an alarmed glance at the pistol Jamie drew from his pocket, but after one look at Jamie's expression, he turned and put his key in the lock. Gently Jamie pushed Olivia to the side, directly behind the innkeeper. Quietly he cocked the pistol and raised it.

The door swung ajar under Mr. Hughes's hand. Jamie slid inside, scanning the room from side to side, neither surprised nor disappointed that it was empty. He uncocked his pistol and threw the door open all the way. “Do you still think the fellow was my lady's brother?” he said grimly.

Mr. Hughes blanched. Everything in the room
had been thrown about. Two of Olivia's dresses lay on the bed, ripped into ribbons; the crown of Jamie's spare hat had been punched through. His writing case had been smashed open, leaving the polished mahogany splintered and the ink bottle broken, and papers were strewn across the floor.

Olivia peered around him and gasped. Jamie gave her a warning glance, and she went quiet. “Go fetch a constable,” he snapped at Mr. Hughes.

“Oughtn't you see if something is missing first?”

“I'll do that while you fetch the constable.” Jamie shoved him out of the room and closed the door. Then he ran his hands through his hair and cursed vividly.

“What are we going to do?” Olivia whispered, staring at the wreckage. “He was here—he tore apart my clothes—Jamie, he must have read all of Henry's papers—”

“Perhaps.” He stepped over those papers and took the painting from her. “But he didn't get this, which I suspect is why he vented his frustration on our possessions. Olivia, he did not touch either one of us, and he
will
not,” he repeated.

“But he's
here
,” she said in anguish. “In Ramsgate. We weren't clever at all—he managed to find us—Jamie, how can we make it back to London ahead of him? How can we hope to slip out of town without him pursuing us? What if he's come back and is below at this very moment, waiting to finish what he began?”

He set the painting on the floor and dropped the bar across the door. Then he laid his gun on top of the chest of drawers and took out the pistol
case. He opened it and began loading the second pistol. “By God, I hope he is. I'm ready to be done with that man once and for all.”

“No!” She grabbed his arm. “The constable is on his way! You can't shoot Clary without being arrested.”

Jamie stood rigidly for a moment. It was still tempting. But that would leave Olivia alone at the outermost reaches of Kent, in possession of the painting that made her a target. Clary might not be the only person who wanted it. He sighed. “I won't shoot him unless I must. Gather up what can be saved and leave the rest. Mr. Hughes is going to spend the rest of the night replacing what we need most urgently, or I'll see him prosecuted for collaborating with a thief.”

With a nod, Olivia began picking through the remains of her clothes. Aside from his hat and writing case, nothing of Jamie's had been touched; it seemed Clary had bent his destructive impulses on her belongings. Jamie packed his things into the valise and was gathering up the scattered papers when Olivia's voice made him freeze.

“Jamie.” She sounded like she was choking.

He dropped what he was holding and lunged to catch her, thinking she might faint. But she held up a paper. It had been torn from his notebook, Jamie realized, but the writing was not his own. In large, jagged handwriting was a threat:

You know what I want. Don't make me hunt you down again. Deliver it to my home in London within one week's time, or you will
be very, very sorry you tried to cheat me, dearest Olivia.

“Does that mean he isn't coming back tonight?” Olivia gripped his arm. “Are we safe for tonight?”

“Perhaps.” And perhaps not. Jamie didn't trust a word Clary said. “But we
will
be safe tonight—if not here.”

In silence they finished packing. Olivia left her ruined dresses where they lay in stark testament to Clary's violence. Jamie flipped through his papers, trying to think of anything that might aid Clary in tracking them again. Daniel's letters were still there, as was Bathsheba's, although both were phrased obscurely enough they must have seemed insignificant to a third party. The letters of credit from his banker were still in his coat pocket, next to Henry's diary; Jamie said a silent thanks to his father, who had advised him never to leave important documents like that lying around. The bundle of Henry's papers was gone, but Jamie had expected as much. A grim smile crossed his face. Those papers were useless now, but he hoped Lord Clary tore out his hair trying to make sense of them.

He picked up his common book, from whence Clary had torn his note, and riffled through the pages. There was Olivia's chart, with the dates of Henry's letters and the location of the weather reports. That would have helped Clary more than the rest, if the viscount had only realized what it was. Of course, since Mr. Pike no longer had the painting, even the chart was worth little.

He was about to shove the book into his valise
with the rest of the papers when it fell open to a place near the back. Several pages had been cut out, but roughly. Ragged scraps bore traces of handwriting, and his heart seemed to turn to stone as he realized what those pages held.

Clary had taken all his work.