Six Degrees of Scandal (21 page)

She found him in a small closet near the earl's study. The door stood open but Olivia hung back a moment. The Titian was propped up against the wall on the sideboard. A single lamp burned beside it, shedding golden light over the dragon,
who glistened like a monster from hell. St. George was lost in the shadows, more a silhouette than a portrait now. His upraised sword looked spindly and insignificant in the face of the dragon's bared teeth and spiked tail. Jamie had drawn a chair up directly in front of the painting and now sat, elbows on his knees and chin propped on his clasped hands as he gazed broodingly at it. Tentatively Olivia knocked on the door.

Jamie glanced over his shoulder. “Come in.”

She came to stand beside him. “I thought finding it would solve everything. I feel very naïve.”

“You shouldn't.”

Olivia stared at the painting for a moment. If Wellington wouldn't be the instrument of justice she had hoped, what did that leave them? What were they to do with this priceless work of art? “Perhaps we should hack it to pieces and deliver it to Lord Clary thus.”

He grunted. “That would be one way to thwart him.”

“I take it you don't see many other good choices,” she said after a full minute of silence.

“Good choices? No.” He sighed, flexing his fingers without taking his eyes off the painting. “But I expected all along we'd face bad choices. The only problem is, which one should we take?”

“What are the less dreadful options?”

He reached for her hand and pressed it to his lips. “Anything that allows Clary to go free. I fear Gray is right: Wellington won't be terribly motivated to call for the prosecution of one man over one painting, especially not if it could lead to evidence of more smuggling. The people who paid
Henry are likely to be influential and wealthy in their own right.”

“But Clary tried to kill Penelope!”

“He did,” Jamie agreed. “But that's a separate matter.” He pressed his lips to her palm. She sagged against the chair as his tongue traced a delicate circle on her skin. “I suppose I shan't share your bed tonight,” he murmured.

“No . . . ?” Her voice quivered as he continued making love to her hand.

“My sister cannot keep a secret. If she saw me slipping into your bedroom, the whole household would know by breakfast.”

He didn't want anyone to know they were lovers. Olivia thought of the nights—and mornings—they had spent in each others' arms, naked and uninhibited. He hadn't shown any hesitation then. But as soon as they returned to London, where anyone of consequence might discover it . . .

She forced the thought from her mind. Secretly or openly, she loved him. She wanted him. “Who says we must share a bed? I think we can make do very well with only this chair . . .”

Jamie gave a slow smile, his glittering gaze making her skin prickle with anticipation. “You're right. Lock the door.”

T
he ground was hard underfoot, the grass stiff and brittle in the cold. “Over there,” Jamie said, his breath white puffs on the frosty air. He pointed to a clearing in the woods. The two Stratford servants, both with rifles on their shoulders, nodded
and stamped off through the brush to make sure they were alone.

“Are you certain we have to do this today?” Olivia rubbed her hands together. She wore a luxurious cloak over a fur-trimmed pelisse, and thick woolen stockings under stout new boots. Penelope had opened her wardrobe and insisted Olivia borrow whatever she needed, which turned out to be warm clothing. Jamie was going to teach her how to shoot.

“I should have done it days ago.” He put down his pistol case on a large boulder nearby and opened it. “The first day, in fact, when you had to resort to using a shovel to defend yourself.”

“I'm very glad I didn't know, or have a pistol then,” she retorted. “I'd have shot you!”

“I hope you never need to use this, but you should still know how. Come here.”

Reluctantly she joined him. “The only person I want to shoot is Clary.”

“Then you'd better be able to hit him.” He tipped up her chin and kissed her. Dimly Olivia thought she shouldn't let him do that; after he kissed her she found it hard to argue with him about anything. “Although I would much prefer that you never have to lay eyes on that man again, it will set my mind at ease knowing you could defend yourself.”

For the next hour he taught her how to load the pistol and prime it, making her do it over and over until she could manage it with her eyes closed. While they were working the servants set up a dummy, stuffing an old coat with straw and wedging it onto a sapling. Someone stuck a hat
above it, and Jamie picked up the primed and loaded pistol. “Shoot.”

Olivia took a firm grip on the stock and held the pistol out. It was a beautiful gun, but heavy. She squinted at the dummy and pulled the trigger. With a flash and a bang, the gun fired, and she almost toppled over backward.

“Load it,” Jamie instructed, standing behind her with his arms folded.

Olivia strained to see the dummy. “Did I hit it?”

“No.”

She gave him an aggrieved look and went to the pistol case. “You see now why I didn't bother taking a pistol.”

“You can learn this. A little more powder, please.”

She tapped more powder into the muzzle and rammed home the ball and charge. “If I learn how to shoot, will it change how we deal with Clary?”

“What do you mean?”

Once more she stepped into position and aimed at the dummy. “Shouldn't we put it to use?” She pulled the trigger, and this time the dummy's sleeve fluttered. She lowered the gun with a pleased smile. “I hit it!”

“You hit the sleeve. Load again.”

“The sleeve is what I aimed for,” she protested, doing as he said.

“Aim here.” Jamie tapped the middle of his chest. Olivia paused, picturing the damage a shot to that spot would cause. “I mean it, Livie. Aim for the center. If you miss, you're still likely to wound. If you aim for the arm and miss, the shot goes wide and you're defenseless.” When she didn't
move, he came forward and took out the second pistol. “There's a reason a man travels with two pistols. There's not time to stop and reload if you're in danger. If you feel you must fire, do it seriously.” As he spoke he loaded the second pistol, his actions smooth and practiced. Without hesitation he raised his arm, pulled back the hammer, and fired. To Olivia it seemed he barely glanced at the target, but the dummy recoiled, and a dark hole marked the coat, just left of center, when the sapling stopped swaying. “If Clary comes at you, he won't be so delicate,” Jamie said gently, putting the pistol back down. “He'll mean to harm you. Aim for the center.”

She raised the pistol, hesitated, then lowered it. “How?”

He stepped up behind her and put his arms around her. His hands closed over hers on the pistol stock, and he settled his cheek next to her. “Imagine him pushing Penelope into the freezing cold river,” he murmured, guiding her to raise her arms. “Picture him catching you unawares. What would his face look like?” Olivia's hands started to shake as the image filled her mind. “Now picture him coming at you,” Jamie whispered. “Right there, in the dark green coat.” Her fingers twitched on the trigger. The flintlock snapped closed, and the pistol fired. This time the dummy lurched sideways. “Better,” said Jamie in approval.

Olivia stood holding the pistol. Her ears rang from the percussion of the shot, but the image of Clary coming at her stayed in her mind, a grotesque specter looming over her. “We need to set a trap for him, don't we?”

Jamie didn't say anything. She turned around. He was still right behind her, and she looked up at him until he sighed. “I don't know what sort of trap.”

“We have the painting,” she pointed out.

He looked away. “I'm afraid that's not enough. Benedict is certain Wellington will be outraged. He may be, but Gray is probably right that the duke won't be eager to prosecute the case. Without Wellington's firm support, the outcome is far from certain. Clary has connections, after all. I don't want to risk him going free.”

“But if we give the painting to Wellington—” she began.

“Clary would be even more enraged at you, for putting it out of his reach,” Jamie said softly. “And he would still be a free man.” He framed her face in his hands as her stomach knotted at the thought. “That only means we need a tighter trap—one he cannot escape. The painting is part of it. You must be part of it. It's the rest I haven't got worked out yet.”

What could ensure Clary's conviction? The answer came to her quite quickly: Henry's other diary, the one that showed his income. The smuggling diary hadn't been in code, just ordinary abbreviation. If she could get that other book, it should show who had paid Henry for the stolen art—and, if Jamie was correct, it should also show commissions paid to Clary for his help. Surely that would persuade Wellington that Clary had been an integral part of the plot and should be prosecuted.

And she knew who had that diary.

T
hey returned to London the next day, to the Weston home in Grosvenor Square. Olivia had been a visitor many times in this house, but never a guest. She'd batted aside every invitation, saying that it was silly when she lived so near. But this time she was installed in a large, elegant bedroom overlooking the square, and when she peered out the windows, it was hard not to marvel at the view.

“Will it do?”

“Of course,” she said with a smile. Jamie leaned against the doorway, his arms folded. “You must be glad to be at home again.”

He shrugged. “This is my parents' home. But it's safe and convenient. No one will be admitted without my permission, and the footmen will be watching the doors.”

“Where is your home?” She had never known where he considered himself home. It might not even be in London. He certainly left the city enough not to need a permanent residence here.

“I haven't got one,” he said. “I never stay in one place long enough to need one.”

Stay with me
, she thought in longing. But Jamie hadn't said a word about the future. Olivia had ordered herself not to expect that, when she told him she loved him; it was quite possible their chance for a happy life together had come and gone years ago. But every moment she spent in his company, every night she spent in his arms, made her more certain than ever that he was the only man she would ever love. He was the person she wanted to see every day for the rest of her life. It was only as time went on that she became unhappily conscious of the fact that he might not feel the same about her.

“I need to return to my lodging,” she said, shaking off those worries. “To retrieve some fresh clothing and personal items.”

“Didn't Penelope give you gowns?”

Olivia fiddled with a button on her dress—a dress borrowed from Penelope. “She did, but I would like my own.” Penelope's clothing was a bit tight in the bosom and a little short in the skirt. Lady Samantha had offered to share her clothes as well, but she was even slimmer than Penelope. Even though everything Penelope lent her was far nicer than anything Olivia owned, she wanted to feel normal again, even if just by wearing her own undergarments.

“Of course,” said Jamie after a pause. “We'll have to be quick, though. I'd rather not make our presence known to all of London just yet.”

“I understand,” she promised. “I only need a quarter hour.”

Two hours later they went. Jamie hired a plain closed carriage, and Olivia wore a veil over her
bonnet. The weather in London was far milder than it had been in Kent, but she still bundled herself into Penelope's thickest cloak. She got out her key as they turned into Clarges Street, and gripped the handle of her empty valise. Most of what she wanted would fit inside, and she didn't have the time to pack up everything anyway.

She jumped down almost before Jamie had stopped the carriage, and had unlocked the door by the time he tied up the horses. Her rooms were on the first floor, but the short, plump figure of the landlady came hurrying down the hall before they had made it up three stairs.

“See here,” cried Mrs. Harding. “Stop, I say! Stop where you—oh! Mrs. Townsend!”

“Yes,” said Olivia nervously. “I've only come for a moment, Mrs. Harding . . .”

“Well, it's about time! If I didn't know better, I'd think you were involved in something unbecoming.”

Jamie was nudging her to keep going. “It's a very long story, ma'am, but I haven't got time to explain now,” Olivia said, climbing another step.

Mrs. Harding waved her hands. “So many callers you've had since you left! Will you want your letters?”

Olivia froze. “Letters?”

Her landlady nodded. “A good number of them. I've put them all aside in my parlor, for I didn't know—”

“Who delivered them?” Jamie interrupted.

Mrs. Harding frowned at him in affront. “That is none of your concern, sir. And who are you? Mrs. Townsend, are you in danger?”

The letters had to be from Clary. What was he sending her? Or was he simply trying to find her? Olivia gave Jamie an anxious look, and he responded with a firm nod, his gaze steady. “This is my trusted friend, Mr. Weston. Will you show him the letters for me? He's entirely respectable and honorable.” It would save time if Jamie looked at the post. Already she felt her time ticking down. Merely being back in this house, where she had spent so much time parrying Clary's increasingly persistent advances, was making her tense.

Mrs. Harding looked doubtful. “I don't know, Mrs. Townsend, it doesn't seem right. I don't keep that sort of house.”

Jamie bounded back down the stairs and gave her a charming smile. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, ma'am,” he said with a bow, “but Mrs. Townsend is in a frightful hurry—did you say she's had a lot of callers recently?” He guided the older woman down the corridor, waving one hand over his head at Olivia:
Go
.

She ran. Her fingers shook as she unlocked her door on the upstairs landing, but the rooms looked just as she had left them. She hurried into her bedroom and stuffed as many things into the valise as she could. Jamie hadn't come up to fetch her yet, but it felt like she'd been here an hour already. She went back into the sitting room and opened the top drawer of the chest. She needed another thick shawl to replace the one Clary had ruined in Ramsgate.

Tucked inside the drawer, a bundle of pamphlets caught her eye. She paused. It was probably best to leave her collection of
50 Ways to Sin
here, but on the other hand . . . It was a notoriously naughty story about a widowed lady who recounted her amorous adventures across London. Even when she found them shocking, Olivia felt a keen interest in, and even an odd affinity, for Lady Constance, the authoress. Constance was never afraid, never bullied by men, and she pursued her own desires without regard for their impropriety. More than once Olivia had wondered what someone like Constance would have done when Clary began making lewd propositions; laughed at him, most likely. And then there were the men Constance took to her bed, for adventures that were ever more erotic. Before she could talk herself out of it, she pushed them deep into the valise.
Just something to read at night
, she told herself, to take her mind off her troubles . . . and perhaps inspire more pleasurable activities.

The only warning she had was the sound of a single footstep in the doorway. “My dear Olivia,” said the voice that had dogged her nightmares for months. “How very delightful to see you again.”

Olivia whirled, clutching a shawl defensively. Her heart shot into her throat and her hands started shaking. She felt like a fox, staring down the barrel of the hunter's gun as Lord Clary strolled into the room, his dark eyes gleaming and a smirk twisting his lips.

But no. She was not a helpless fox, and she was not going to let this man terrify her. Deliberately, even though it felt like her bones were cracking as she unclenched her fingers, she laid the shawl on the chest behind her. “Lord Clary. I didn't hear the maid announce you.”

“As if I'd wait for that stupid girl to come upstairs when I've been searching high and low for you for weeks now. How fortunate that I happened to be passing by when you finally returned home.” He started toward her, flexing his hands. His dark gloves made those hands look like talons, and Olivia repressed a shudder.

“You may call me Mrs. Townsend, out of respect for your bosom friend, my husband.” She knew he had no respect for her personally.

“That's right: Poor Henry, so sadly dead before his time, leaving behind a pretty, young . . .” He paused in front of her. “Helpless . . .” He leaned closer, his black eyes boring into hers. “
Foolish
widow.”

She forced her shoulders back, hoping she looked more poised than she felt. Just being this near him made her skin crawl, and she had to fight down the urge to flinch away. Of course he wanted that—he wanted to see her try to escape because he liked the chase . . . followed by the kill. Clary was the sort of man who fed on conquest. He wouldn't mind if she simply surrendered, but he'd be even happier if he had to overpower her. “How flattering,” she said evenly. “Not many would call a woman of my age young.”

One side of his mouth curled. “And yet you act like the greenest girl.” He clicked his tongue in a pitying way. “Did you really think you could run away from me?”

“I think she did quite well,” said Jamie's voice from the doorway. “Given that you've only now set eyes on her, when she returned to London on her own.”

Since his face was so near hers, Olivia saw how the viscount started, how his eyes flared. But the flash of fury was gone in an instant. He straightened and turned on his heel, raking a cold and dismissive glance over Jamie. “The accomplice. What is your name—Westly?”

“James Weston.” Jamie stared brazenly back. “Your reputation precedes you, sir.”

Clary's smirk returned. “I hope so. I hope you both keep it in mind.” He took a few steps away from Olivia, and she made herself exhale slowly, to keep him from hearing her gasp in relief. “I grew tired of waiting for you to answer my message, so as you see, I have been forced to come to you.” He eyed Jamie coolly. “Hand it over and we'll part on amicable terms.”

“Amicable?” Jamie raised his eyebrows, looking genuinely astonished. “How gracious. Particularly after shredding so much clothing.”

The viscount almost smiled at that. “We all have momentary passions. Sometimes one gives in, don't you agree?” He darted a glance at Olivia. “Perhaps by traveling as a man and wife, when you're no such thing.”

“Are you certain about that?” Jamie asked.

Clary's smirk vanished. Now he looked coldly furious. “I want it.”

“
It
,” repeated Jamie in the same mildly curious tone he'd used before. “What, precisely, do you mean? Since we're being so open and frank with each other.”

“You know what I want,” snarled the older man.

Deliberately Jamie looked right at Olivia. “I do.
And you shall remain disappointed for all eternity on that score.”

Clary inhaled, and Olivia braced herself for a furious outburst. Jamie appeared untroubled, but in spite of herself she measured the distance to the door, and the location of a heavy candlestick she could use in defense. But then Clary let out his breath and his shoulders eased. “Not
her
,” he said dismissively. “Henry's contraband. I know you fetched it from Thanet. Produce it at once.”

“If it was Henry's, by right it's now his widow's property.”

“Don't try to be clever,” snapped Clary. “It's mine.”

Jamie rocked back on his heels. “On the other hand, I seem to recall seeing a bill of receipt, in the Earl of Stratford's own hand, detailing a claim to the very same item you seek. So if anyone other than Mrs. Townsend has a right to . . .
it
, I believe it would be the new Lord Stratford.” He smiled. “My brother-in-law, as it turns out.”

A muscle twitched in Clary's jaw. “All right,” he said in a venomously soft voice. “That's the way of it? How unfortunate he survived.”

“Yes, he'd like to speak to you about that incident on the river,” Jamie said. “As would a magistrate.”

Clary sighed. “Such a waste of time that would be. What would he accuse me of? Murder? It's a capital crime. As a peer, I would be tried—if it ever came to that—in the House of Lords. Ponder my chances, for a moment. Who could accuse me? The new young earl, who has few connections? He saw nothing with his own eyes. His wife, the
nouveau riche heiress he married as a result of some scandal?” His smile was terrible in victory. “We all know I would never set foot in a prison. Even those who might wonder will look to my lineage and family and assure themselves that such a gentleman, one of them, could never be guilty of such a thing. You're a bigger fool than you look if you don't acknowledge the truth of all this.”

Olivia felt sick. Dear God. He was right—every word of what he said was true, just as Gray had warned them. She had feared Clary would call her a liar, but it was even worse. He would call Penelope and her husband liars, too, and all the pompous lords in Parliament would believe it. Jamie had worried about setting the right trap for Clary, but now Olivia saw that it didn't matter; they could set any trap they pleased, and Clary would still walk right out of it. And then he would be free to harass and bully her for the rest of her life.

But all Jamie said was, “Perhaps. Let's see how it goes.”

“On the other hand,” Clary went on as if Jamie hadn't spoken, “if you deliver the item to me, I shan't take out any humiliation on your family.” He clasped his hands behind his back and paced across the room toward Jamie. Both men looked calm and composed, but Olivia felt as if her insides had been twisted up like a spring. Again she eyed the candlestick and gauged how much force it would take to swing it like a cricket bat into Lord Clary's head.

“And I believe you're a man of business,” the viscount said, stopping in front of Jamie. “A man who knows a good deal when he's offered one.”

“Money plays no part in this,” said Jamie quietly.

“No?” Olivia just caught Clary's dangerous smile as he glanced at her again. “Perhaps you're a stupid fellow after all.” With a sudden movement, he charged, shoving Jamie backward with two hands to the chest. Jamie almost caught himself—one hand gripped the door frame before Lord Clary viciously banged the door on it, once, twice, until Jamie released it with a howl of pain. Quick as anything the viscount slammed the door shut and turned the key in the lock, and then he swung around to face her.

Olivia already had the candlestick in her hand. Seeing him hurt Jamie like that had jolted her out of all fear and anxiety. She was ready to kill this man, and she raised the heavy candlestick in threat. “If you try to touch me I'll bash in your skull,” she vowed. And her hands did not shake in the slightest.