Six Degrees of Scandal (6 page)

Olivia's eyes went wide. “What? The man she loves—no, she despised him only a month ago!”

Jamie clicked his tongue sadly. “Am I the only one who pays attention? The more vigorously Penelope denies something, the truer it generally is. I daresay she said she hated him, and may have even tried to hate him, but make no mistake: if Penelope hadn't wanted Atherton, nothing on earth
could have brought about that marriage. My sister would run away with pirates first.”

For the first time there was no trace of anxiety in Olivia. She looked nonplussed. “Well! I hope you're right . . .”

“Hope!” Jamie snorted. “As if I don't know my own sister. Let me guess. Pen told you she despised—
loathed
—Atherton, in great detail and frequency. But somehow she always seemed to be running into him and having yet another interaction she could relate in scathing tones. We both know she would hide behind statues and climb out of windows to avoid someone she actually despised so heartily.”

Olivia's lips twitched as if she were fighting off a smile. “But Lord Atherton—does he care for her?”

“I'd say he's mad for her—as any man would have to be, to marry Penelope.” Olivia gasped indignantly, and Jamie laughed. “I mean it in the best possible way. Atherton is devoted to her. He jumped into the Thames and risked his life to save her when Lord Clary pushed her overboard.”

The name seemed to freeze Olivia in place. The dawning smile slid from her lips, and the light in her eyes turned into stunned horror.

“Lord Stratford, Atherton's father, was very insistent they sail with him on his yacht from London to Richmond, but not until they were under way did Penelope and Atherton discover Lord Clary lying in wait for her belowdecks.” He paused, but Olivia sat like a statue, hollow-eyed and still. “He wanted to know where you were, Livie. When she wouldn't tell him, Clary pushed her over the side of the boat.”

“Dear heavens—he could have killed her.” Her body hunched convulsively, as if she would be ill, and she seemed to age before his eyes.

“He tried,” Jamie agreed bluntly. Olivia flinched, but he didn't—couldn't—relent. If she didn't know how truly dangerous that man was, she needed to. “And he very nearly succeeded. The Thames is freezing at this time of year. If Atherton hadn't spent his youth swimming back and forth across the river . . .” He lifted one shoulder. “Needless to say, Atherton and Penelope want Clary's head on a pike.”

“Would that they could get it!” she said in a sudden burst of animation. “I never thought—”

“That he was so determined?” Jamie shook his head impatiently. “I think you did. Why else are you out in Gravesend, trying not to call attention to yourself, when no one in London knows where you are? Help me, Olivia. Clary tried to kill my sister. He's wanted in London for that, as well as on suspicion of causing the death of Lord Stratford.” Olivia's eyes widened. “The shock of seeing his son and heir leap into the Thames, apparently to his death, was too much for the earl. He dropped dead, or so Lord Clary told people. Atherton suspects his father was in league with Clary, which puts him in position to expose Clary. But it appears you know even more about Clary's activities, and Atherton—or should I say, the new Lord Stratford—told me to implore you to help him. And since I daresay it wouldn't upset you one whit to see Clary rotting in prison or swinging from a rope, I sincerely hope you'll trust me and tell me what the devil he's holding over your head.”

B
efore he left London, Jamie had tried to answer three vital questions.

The first one involved Henry Townsend. Years ago, right after Olivia married him, Jamie had inquired just enough to satisfy himself that Olivia would be taken care of. He made sure the man had a comfortable income and no serious stains on his character, and then he quit looking. That had been his own fault, his inability—unwillingness—to think too deeply about her with another man.

This time he wanted to know everything, and there turned out to be a lot to know. Far from being the upstanding gentleman Jamie had presumed, Townsend had run with a fast crowd, which included the notorious Lord Clary. Clary came from a famous and illustrious family, the son of an admiral and the brother of a decorated commodore. He married the daughter of a duke and moved through the very best society with a commanding arrogance that earned him a great deal of deference but very few friends . . . except for Henry Townsend. And ever since Henry died, Lord Clary had been very attentive to his widow.

That had led into Jamie's second question. What could Clary's interest in Olivia be? He didn't doubt the obvious one; Olivia was a beautiful woman, even lovelier than she'd been as a girl. Despite his arrogance, Clary was reputed to be persuasive and charming when he wished to be, and many women thought him quite handsome. Their descriptions put Jamie in mind of a hawk: sleekly magnificent, powerful and ruthless. But somehow he didn't think Olivia would have begged Penelope for two hundred pounds and fled London if Clary was merely trying to seduce her.

The third question, though, had yielded the most sobering information. He knew Olivia had given up her house in the fashionable part of town after Henry's death; to make the most of her widow's portion, he assumed. But it turned out Olivia had almost no income at all. The annuity that should have kept her in comfort had been quietly canceled soon after the elder Mr. Townsend died, and Henry lost the capital at the races. Henry lost quite a lot at the races, Jamie learned, although he also spent freely on clothing and theater boxes and kept a very fine table. By Jamie's rough math, Henry had probably spent his entire inherited fortune in the course of three or four years—and yet continued to live in the same high style for two more years without accruing much debt. That alone was suspicious. When added to the mystery about Clary, it made a far darker picture. Whether Henry was coldhearted or simply feckless, Jamie couldn't tell, but there was no question that the man had left his wife penniless and at the mercy of a dangerous man.

The greater question was why. Thanks to Atherton, Jamie thought he knew the answer, but he would need Olivia's help to prove it.

“Are you ready to talk about Clary?” he asked gently.

She shoved back her chair and leapt to her feet, bending over the fireplace grate to check the warming slice of pie. She brought it back to the table and took her time arranging her cutlery and refilling both mugs of tea, even though his was almost untouched. “I don't suppose I can persuade you that this is not your problem and you have no obligation to get involved,” she said at last.

“Rubbish.” He leaned toward her. “He tried to kill my sister. Do you honestly believe I'd walk away and let him try the same to you?”

She flinched again at the mention of Clary's attempt on Penelope's life. James didn't care. He was relieved beyond measure that his sister and her husband were both alive and well, but he felt, deep in his bones, that Clary wouldn't leave things to chance if he got his hands on Olivia again. Pushing Penelope overboard had probably been an impulse when she refused to answer his questions. Olivia, though . . . Whatever the man wanted from her, he was willing to risk everything to get it.

“You once trusted me,” he went on. “I came for no other reason than to help you, as one friend to another.”

“I know.” She paused as if struggling for words. “I would never forgive myself if anything happened to you because you tried to help me, though.”

“Then you know how I feel,” he replied. “Should I step back and let you bear all the risk? Could I forgive myself if I did nothing and Clary did you a great harm? No. Besides . . .” He winked, trying to lessen the tension. “Atherton told me things that may help us put the noose around Clary's neck. Don't forget that: I'm not just offering my manly brawn but also useful intelligence.”

Slowly she smiled. As it always had, it made him want to smile back. There was something about Olivia's face that changed when she smiled; it was the spark of humor in her eyes, or perhaps the endearing little quirk to the left corner of her mouth, or even the way her chin went down a bit. Whatever it was, it had entranced him for nearly twenty years, and still did. “How could I resist such an offer?”

“Of course you can't,” he agreed with a straight face. “No one could.”

She ducked her head and poked her dinner with her fork, but the smile lingered. “What can I tell you? You may know more than I do.”

“What does Clary want from you?”

“I don't know,” she said. Jamie cocked one brow and she flushed. “Well—yes, I thought I knew what he wanted, originally. After Henry died, Lord Clary was almost kind. He offered to help sort out Henry's affairs, see that debts were paid, and so on. I had Mr. Brewster—Henry's London solicitor—so I assured Lord Clary that I was content to leave things in Mr. Brewster's competent hands.”

She put down her fork and folded her hands in her lap. “Then his lordship offered me other
things: his box at the theater, his carriage if I ever needed one.” She hesitated. “When he wishes to be, Clary can be almost charming, in a rather overbearing way. But eventually he must have got tired of his offers being refused. He called on me one day and made a blunt proposition: he wanted me to be his mistress. He offered a house in St. John's Wood, a staff of servants, credit at the finest shops . . .”

Jamie eyed his pistol and somehow kept his mouth shut. How could Olivia not have told someone Clary was harassing her?

“I refused as politely as I could.” Her eyes grew stormy. “He didn't believe it. How could anyone in my position not want him? I suspect Clary is rarely denied anything he wants, and he thought I was being coy, or teasing, and he promised me anything on earth my heart desired if only I could accept him . . . but he did it in such a way that was almost threatening. I had never before been frightened of him but that day I was, and he saw it. From then on I tried to avoid him, but he would turn up from time to time and catch me off guard. He never asked me to be his mistress again—”

Thank God
, thought Jamie grimly.

“—instead he did worse. He told me Henry had owed him a great deal of money, and since we hadn't been able to reach an
amiable solution
”—she almost spat out the words—“he had no choice but to ask for it back. Of course I didn't have the sum he named, but he didn't believe me. After I refused all his offers of money, he must have thought I had a private fund hidden somewhere.”

Or he wanted to terrify you even more
. “Did he show you proof of Henry's debt?”

She gave a scornful laugh. “Of course not! I asked him to stop calling on me and conduct any business through Mr. Brewster. He said he would if I gave him Henry's things.” She paused and tilted her head to look at him for the first time since he'd asked what Clary wanted from her. “Now why would Lord Clary want Henry's papers? Henry hardly kept any papers. Mr. Brewster paid all the bills. Henry had little correspondence; he hadn't the patience for sitting at a desk writing letters. I never saw him read anything other than the racing report or a sporting newspaper.”

Clever fellow
. Jamie had an idea what Henry had been up to, and scads of letters would have been dangerous.

“Lord Clary didn't believe me any more about that than he did about the rest.” She returned her gaze to her untouched plate of dinner. “I still don't know what he wants, but I fear he'll hound me until I'm dead.”

“Penelope said she interrupted a confrontation between you and Lord Clary in London.” He phrased it carefully and spoke gently, but Olivia flinched.

“Yes.” She sounded choked. “It was more of an—an assignation. Lord Clary grew more and more insistent that he'd sue me for the debt and I'd be thrown in prison. He kept insinuating I had something valuable, which he obviously felt some claim on, but I don't! Finally I agreed to meet him one evening to explain once and for all, but he clearly thought I was weakening . . .” A lock of
hair fell forward to hide her face as she bowed her head. “The truth is . . . I was. I thought it might pacify him and show him I was nothing to him, or at least nothing he really wanted. But then . . . Penelope opened the door. And like a coward I fled, so fast I didn't realize until later that she had not followed. Clary hadn't
allowed
her to follow. I abandoned her to his fury, and—”

He held up one hand to cut her off. “Penelope does not blame you.”

Olivia closed her eyes and looked physically ill for a moment. “Only because Lord Atherton was there to save her.”

“We all need someone to save us at times,” he said gently.

Hesitantly, almost warily, she raised her eyes. Jamie could only return her questioning look with one of quiet confidence and hope she believed him.

“What did Clary do that sent you fleeing to Kent?” he asked.

Olivia's deep blue gaze didn't waver from his. “Nothing directly. Unexpectedly, I received a very odd package from a solicitor in Gravesend, Mr. Armand. He wrote that he'd recently acquired the practice of another solicitor, now deceased, and in the process of sorting old files, he had discovered a diary belonging to Henry, which he enclosed. I was very startled, because I'd never heard Henry mention another solicitor. Mr. Brewster had been employed by Henry's father, and he handled everything I knew of. The Townsends came from Kent, though, so it was possible this other solicitor, Mr. Charters, handled their business in the country.

“But the diary was very . . . odd. Not only was it unlike Henry to keep a diary at all, it didn't contain the usual things a gentleman would record. Mr. Brewster had taken a holiday to his cottage outside London, but I was so curious I went to see him there. He professed not to know anything about it, though I'm not certain he was truthful.” Her mouth thinned. “I missed Penelope's wedding because of that, and I learned nothing.”

“Do you still have the diary?”

She nodded. “When Mr. Brewster told me nothing, I decided I should come see Mr. Armand, who would be able to tell me more. At the least, I could reclaim any of Henry's property and perhaps learn something from it. And . . . I confess I was very eager to escape Lord Clary's attention for a while.” Her voice hardened. “But the vile solicitor not only told me he'd burned everything, he asked me to return the diary! He sent it in error, he claimed.” She scowled. “Mr. Charters left detailed instructions for what to do with his clients' papers after his death, and Henry had agreed everything should be destroyed. He was never in the habit of explaining his intentions to me, but I can't believe he meant to leave me to Lord Clary's mercy, without a farthing to my name!”

Jamie stretched out his legs. He had a feeling Henry Townsend hadn't spared much thought at all for Olivia's situation. He'd spent a fortnight ruthlessly mining every source of gossip, rumor, and illicit knowledge he could tap. His sister Penelope, and especially her husband, had given him a good starting point, and everything he'd heard since then had only confirmed it. Noth
ing Olivia said tonight contradicted his research, either.

What he had to tell her was not going to improve her opinion of her late husband, and as of yet he wasn't entirely sure how it would help rid her of Clary. The only thing he was truly certain of was that he and Olivia could solve it together.

“It's a good thing you confided in Penelope as much as you did,” he said. “It was another rare stroke of luck that she married Stratford's son. When the earl died Atherton suddenly became privy to all his father's secrets, and unlike Henry, the Earl of Stratford kept papers. Atherton is only beginning to sort them out, but it's clear to him so far that Clary was deeply involved in helping his father acquire a great deal of artwork by dubious means. Given Clary's interest in you after Henry's death, I suspect your late husband was part of the operation as well.”

Olivia's face scrunched up in confusion. “What operation?”

Jamie smiled ruefully. “Henry was a smuggler.”