Six Degrees of Scandal (5 page)

She hated Clary. He hated her, too. If he didn't want under her skirt so badly, he probably would have already engineered some sort of “accident” to dispose of her. For all she knew, he'd finally got over wanting her and now just wanted to get rid of her.

An abandoned building was just ahead. It had
once been a gatehouse, but the tall fences keeping people from the marshes behind it were long gone, and the cottage itself was crumbling into rubble. Just beyond it lay the way to her rented cottage, up the winding path and over the hill. But in the desiccated remnants of the overgrown hedge, the moonlight picked out a familiar and welcome shape: the handle of a shovel.

Her eyes riveted on it. The thick shadows swayed and fluttered with every burst of wind, and if she looked away she might never locate that shovel again. Footsteps still followed behind her, not gaining but not receding, either. Perhaps her pursuer was waiting until they were unquestionably out of sight of the town; once she rounded the gatehouse a sprawling hawthorn hedge would hide her from sight of every window in Gravesend. Not that anyone would be watching, but there would be no hope of help, let alone rescue. This lane was deserted, dark and lonely with a frosty wind blowing in her face. Clary could do what he willed with her and no one would even discover her body before spring.

But that shovel stood there, haphazardly propped against the stone wall. She said a quick prayer it still had a blade and wouldn't fall apart the moment she touched it. Things tended to do that when left out in the open air this near the sea. It was her only hope, though, and she meant to use it in any way possible.

She waited until she was only a few steps away. Thus far she'd moved at a brisk walk but no faster; now she bolted, letting her cloak fly out behind her. Fearful that the shovel would be stuck in a
mass of undergrowth, she seized it and yanked, almost stumbling when it came free without protest. She whisked around the corner of the house and flattened herself against the wall, trying to still the loud rasp of her breath.

The footsteps paused. She gripped the handle, her heart pounding viciously and her eyes fixed on the place in the lane where her pursuer must step if he meant to follow her.
Go away
, she silently begged. As much as she wouldn't mind seeing Clary dead, she didn't know if she had the stomach to beat him to death herself.

He spoke. The whining wind blew away his words, scattering them among the clattering of the bare branches, but it was unquestionably a man's voice. His steps crunched closer.

Cold sweat trickled down Olivia's temple. She raised the shovel as one might hold a cricket bat. Her arms shook, and she clenched her jaw to steady herself.
Only one of us can walk away from this
, she reminded herself. If she swung at him and missed, Clary would probably kill her on the spot with this same shovel.

The light faded as a cloud blew across the round face of the moon. She would be harder to see, but so would he. Olivia carefully braced her feet for balance, wishing the man would either prove himself innocent and walk away, or prove himself guilty and come around the damned house. Standing there waiting, poised in terror, was torture.

A step, then another. A tall, shadowy shape appeared around the corner of the house. His hat shielded his face, but there was just enough
moonlight to gleam on the barrel of the pistol in his hand.

Olivia sucked in a deep breath and swung with all her might.

He was tall and standing on the path, while she was not as tall and stood in the hollowed shell of the cottage garden. The shovel cracked squarely into his arm with an impact that almost knocked her off her feet. The pistol flew out of his hand and into the darkness. The man cursed and doubled over. Frantically Olivia jerked the shovel back, bringing it up to take another swing. She had to keep him from locating the gun.

“Stop,” he cried, flinging up his hands as he collapsed to his knees. “Wait!”

Arms raised, heart racing, Olivia registered the voice just in time to keep herself from slamming the shovel into him again. Not Clary. Not anyone who would hurt her, in fact. “J-Jamie?” she stammered in disbelief.

He tilted back his head as the cloud drifted past the moon and gave her enough light to see his face beneath the brim of his hat. “Good evening, Livie,” said James Weston with a crooked smile. “Lovely to see you again.”

N
ot for the first time, James Weston wished he could wind back the years and beat some sense into his younger self.

Ten years ago none of this would have happened. Olivia would have been happy to see him. She wouldn't have kept dangerous secrets and she wouldn't have run off alone on some mad, risky scheme. Ten years ago she would have come to him before her circumstances grew dire, and asked for help because she trusted him.

Of course, ten years ago she
had
done that—and he failed her. Even worse, it seemed she was still suffering the consequences of that failure. Jamie had suspected that all along, but not until tonight had he realized just how much she was suffering. He didn't blame her for attacking him with a shovel.

Olivia dropped it as if the handle scalded her hands. “What are you doing here?”

Jamie climbed back to his feet. “Looking for you,” he said, shaking his arm. It was tingling and weak from the elbow down, and he could barely feel his fingers.

Her breathing wheezed with panic. “How did you find me?” She retreated into the deepest shadows, her face stark white. “Who knows where I am?”

That fear nicked him where it hurt. He knew whom she feared. His sister Penelope had told him an incredible story about Viscount Clary pursuing Olivia for unknown, but unmistakably sinister, purposes, and for once she hadn't exaggerated. Olivia was terrified, even all the way out here in lonely Gravesend. And that meant Jamie had failed her yet again, because Penelope also told him that Olivia tried to see him before she fled London. She was out here alone, reduced to defending herself with a shovel, because he hadn't been there when she needed him.

“No one,” he said in reply to her question. “Penelope gave me a few clues, and I made some guesses.”

“And that was enough for you to find me.” She drew a rough breath. “I must have made a mistake somewhere . . .”

“You're overlooking the chance I was fiendishly clever,” he said mildly.

As brief as a flash of lightning, a reluctant smile crossed her face. Some of the tension drained from her rigid figure. “My mistake.”

He gave a nod. “I didn't think you were hiding from me.”

“No,” she murmured. “Did I hurt you?”

Jamie peeled off his glove and held up his hand to the moonlight, flexing his still-numb fingers. “My penmanship won't be the same for a while.”

“I'm sorry.”

“So am I.” He winced as he pulled the glove back on. “You have a strong swing, by the by. Where did the pistol go?”

Her eyes widened. “Oh! I don't know. Over there, perhaps.” She pointed across the road.

“Since I presume you were merely alarmed, and I'm not the person you're hoping to kill, we'd better find it.” He stepped into the dried grass that rustled along the opposite shoulder of the lane and paced back and forth, his eyes sweeping the dark ground.

“If you hadn't followed me like a murderer, with gun in hand, I wouldn't have hit you.” Olivia joined him as he waded into the growth.

“I only drew it on the chance there was something—or someone—else out here giving you fright.” A glint of metal caught his eye, and he bent down to retrieve his pistol. “I did call your name, hoping to set you at ease.”

“I didn't hear it over the wind.”

Jamie didn't doubt that. The wind had been picking up since he spotted Olivia, hurrying through town with her hood pulled over her face. It whistled through the barren trees and made the area seem even more desolate and isolated than it was. “No matter. You ought to defend yourself against anyone who follows you in the dark.” He checked the pistol and slid it back into his pocket. “Aren't you going to invite me in for a cup of tea?” It was rude, but he had no intention of letting her brush him aside.

Olivia hesitated, then sighed. “Of course.”

He fell in step beside her and they walked in silence. The path climbed, and in the distance he
could hear the sea. When they crested the hill, revealing a humble little cottage near the edge of the marsh, the wind gusted strong enough to make Olivia stagger. Jamie made a motion toward her, but she put her head down and burrowed into her cloak.

The closer they got to the stone cottage, the less he liked it. It sat near the edge of a low cliff overlooking the ocean—or really the mouth of the Thames, where the broad open water of the estuary narrowed into the familiar river that rushed through London, some thirty miles away. A rambling hedge and a few scrubby trees served to break the wind, but the cottage itself stood alone, commanding a good view of the river.

His steps slowed as they reached it. Olivia fumbled in her pocket, but Jamie raised one hand to stop her. “It's quite lonely out here.”

“I know.” She pulled out the latchkey.

“Are you sure it's safe?” The cottage was isolated and difficult to find, but once located, there was no help within sight.

She gave a bitter huff of laughter. “Not at all, but it's no worse than anywhere else, I suppose.” She motioned at the door. “I leave a scrap of wool in the door. If it's still there when I return, I assume all is well.”

There was a bit of blue cloth peeking out at the latch. Jamie was not reassured. “Then you don't object if I have a look around, in case someone decided to use a window instead of the door?”

She opened her mouth, then simply shook her head. Jamie took the key and let himself in, his pistol in hand. It took only a few minutes to visit
every room in the tiny house; there was one on the ground floor and another above it, up a narrow stair that was almost a ladder. Every window was either wedged shut or boarded over, and there was no place anyone could be concealed, lying in wait, not even under the bed. That explained why she wasn't more concerned.

When he returned to the main room, Olivia had stirred up the banked fire and lit a pair of lamps. “How did you get this place?” he asked.

“It's a fisherman's cottage.” She took the kettle to the water barrel in the corner and filled it. “He was lost at sea several weeks ago. His widow hasn't given up hope yet and doesn't wish to sell the cottage, but she moved her family into town. It was too lonely, I expect, and too hard to live here without him.” She hung the kettle on the hook over the reviving fire. “Fortunately for me, she was happy to let it for a few weeks.”

Olivia still wore her cloak, and Jamie felt no interest in removing his coat, either. It was quite cold in the cottage, and he noticed the stock of wood was low. “I'll get some more wood. We may need more than one cup of tea.”

Outside he scanned the terrain. Split wood was piled not far from the cottage, but he walked past it to the edge of the cliff and peered over. Ten or twelve feet below, a narrow path unfurled through a salt marsh, the tidal grasses rising and falling like a wave in the relentless wind. The sea was a distant black expanse, broken only by the crests of waves catching the moonlight. At high tide, Jamie wouldn't be surprised if shallow boats could glide right up the edge of the cliff. He had a
feeling this cottage had been used for more than fishing.

He loaded his arms with wood. It bothered him that Olivia had come all the way out here. She might feel safe because of the isolation, but if Lord Clary discovered her, he could easily accomplish whatever ill will he wished. Jamie resolved never to leave her here alone. He let himself back in and stacked the wood just inside the door.

“Would you like some dinner?” Olivia had set out two cups for tea, and now she uncovered a plate to show some slices of meat pie. “Humble fare but it smells good,” she added with a tentative smile.

In the light of the reviving fire, he finally got a good look at her. It had been nearly two months since he'd had the opportunity to do so. Olivia had made a point of hiding any upset or distress, even when Abigail and Penelope reported in hushed tones that they thought her situation was growing strained. But there was no concealing how pale and drawn her face had become, and the sight sent a bolt of worry through him.

“Tea will be enough for me, thank you,” he said. He'd had a hearty meal at the inn before heading out to find her, and if anyone needed an extra slice of meat pie, it was Olivia. “But I insist you have your dinner.”

Her face eased gratefully. She put a slice of the pie on a plate and set it on the grate to warm, while the kettle began to steam. She busied herself with preparing the tea as Jamie hung up his coat by her cloak. Then he sat down and watched her, trying to mask both his fascination and his guilt.

It had been a long time since he and Olivia were alone together. For the first few years after her marriage that was very much his preference; the sight of her had been an arrow lodged in his heart, a nagging wound that should have been fatal but somehow wasn't, and he had avoided seeing her as much as possible. Eventually circumstances brought her back into his orbit, even though his sense of loss had only dulled. Deep in his heart, Jamie suspected Olivia would always have some hold over him. He had known her almost all his life, and loved her for nearly as long. When they met again, after she had been married four or five years, he couldn't help wondering if the same spark of affection might still burn in her breast.

He was soon set to rights on that score. On every occasion when they met and were forced into any sort of proximity—standing beside each other at a party, or waiting outside a shop for one of his sisters—Olivia kept the conversation firmly fixed on polite but mundane topics. Nothing of any intimacy was ever permitted. They might have been any pair of near-strangers, only passingly acquainted, and not two people who had once meant the world to each other.

That left him with nothing but a bitter burden of guilt. If he had been more responsible as a young man, less convinced of his ability to manipulate everything to his liking, Olivia never would have married Henry Townsend, who then never would have brought Lord Clary into her world.

The mere fact that those two men had been friends should have put Jamie on alert, once Henry died. He knew damned well that Clary was some
one to avoid. But Olivia had rebuffed every tentative overture he'd ever made in the last decade, and kept her problems with Clary hidden not just from him but from his sisters as well. She hadn't wanted his help—and why should she, when she had good reason to doubt him? The fact that she had gone looking for him before she fled London, though, indicated something had changed—for the worse.

That thought made him get up and fetch his pistol from his coat pocket. “I realize the shovel was chosen on a moment's inspiration, but if you don't want to be followed, you really ought to arm yourself properly.” He laid the pistol on the table as she poured tea into the mugs. “You should keep this.”

Olivia shuddered, keeping her eyes away from the gun. “I don't want it.”

“It's more effective than a shovel.”

“Do you wish you had a hole in your chest right now?” She set a bowl of sugar in front of him. “I've no milk.”

Jamie waved it aside. “I'm rather relieved you didn't have a pistol earlier, but if you must defend yourself, you shouldn't leave it up to chance encounters with shovels. Do you know how to shoot?”

“Yes.” She sighed. “Mostly.”

“Mostly?” The sugar bowl was nearly empty. He took a tiny spoonful.

“I know how to load a gun and pull the trigger. My aim is terrible, though, and the report tends to knock me over. In the event I managed to get off a shot, I'd probably miss and wind up flat on my
back, coughing on gunpowder and completely helpless.”

He darted a quick glance at her. “Then you don't really know how to shoot. We'll work on that.”

“That won't draw attention to me at all,” she said under her breath.

“Hmm.” Jamie glanced up through his eyelashes as he stirred the sugar into his scalding tea. “And we don't want that . . .” His unspoken question hung in the air like smoke from the lamp:
Why not?

Olivia fidgeted, looking unhappy. “You must know I don't want that,” she finally said in a low voice. “Not now.”

“Care to tell me why?”

She arched one brow. “Don't you know? If you managed to find me and follow me, I thought you'd know everything else as well.”

He grinned at her tart tone. He did know quite a bit, possibly more than Olivia herself, but he wanted her to tell him—to trust him. This time, he wasn't going to let her down. This time, he wasn't leaving her until Lord Clary was in prison and every nasty, dirty secret of Henry's had been exposed and burned, and Olivia lost that worn, tense expression. And if she could be persuaded to give him another chance, he wasn't going to let her go, either. “Everything? How Penelope would laugh at that idea. Even I wouldn't dare claim to know
everything
.”

Her lips parted, and for a moment he thought she would burst out laughing. Then the surprise faded from her face, and she seemed to subside in her chair. “How is Penelope?”

Jamie recognized the dodge, but decided to allow it for the moment. “Quite well, the last I saw her.”

“Is . . . is she happy? With Lord Atherton, I mean. I—I know she was pressured into marrying him because she tried to help me, and I've been racked by guilt ever since . . .”

Ah, right. Penelope had warned him Olivia would probably be worried. A few weeks ago she had inadvertently rescued Olivia from an apparent assignation with Lord Clary, and in revenge, Clary had spread ugly rumors about Penelope that culminated in her hasty marriage to Lord Atherton. Jamie was both appalled by and grateful for his sister's fearless devotion and loyalty to her friend.

Penelope also admitted that she might have given Olivia the impression that she was not overly fond of Atherton. Jamie knew the exact opposite was true, but Olivia had undoubtedly been too caught up in her own worries to realize it. He leaned forward, happy that he could dispel one of Olivia's fears entirely. “Penelope is as happy as I've ever seen her, married to the man she loves. When I left them, Atherton had his arms around her and she looked victorious over the world.”