Six Degrees of Scandal (7 page)

O
livia thought she'd heard wrong. “What?” she said again, stupidly. She shook her head before he could explain. “No, Henry barely left London. He couldn't be smuggling . . .”

“And when he did leave town, he came home to Kent, didn't he?” Jamie nodded. “To visit the family home, pay his respects to old friends . . . perhaps check on the network of people who brought his particular cargo into England.”

Her heart started to pound. That diary, full of entries that looked like payments. A secret solicitor in Kent, with orders to burn everything. The generous income that inexplicably vanished at Henry's death. “What do you mean?” she whispered.

Jamie leaned back in his chair. The light of the lamp glinted off his dark hair, tousled by the wind into a wildly attractive mess of waves. An unexpected flood of longing swamped her as he tilted his head and gave her a wry smile. “I don't actually know anything for certain. Some of this is purely guessing. But it fits together, and I daresay Atherton will be able to answer more questions as he catalogs his father's collection.”

“Tell me your guesses,” she said.

His eyes met hers, filled with sympathy. “It's not very flattering to the late Mr. Townsend.”

“It couldn't be worse than what I've already contemplated,” she replied honestly. Her worst guess had been blackmail. Henry had kept company with a very fast set, and he must have known some of their secrets.

Jamie's mouth quirked. “No doubt.” He nodded toward her untouched dinner. “Don't let it get cold.” Surprised, Olivia looked at her food, then picked up her fork. The prospect of some answers, or at least information, revived her appetite.

Jamie was quiet for a moment, his gaze distant as if he were sorting his thoughts. “Very well. I'll start with Lord Stratford, because this is the part I heard first from Penelope and Atherton. Stratford was a well-known patron of the arts. He had an eye for promising artists, and his estate at Stratford Court is filled with exceptional pictures and sculpture. Atherton said the earl also had a private gallery, so private no one save Stratford himself was permitted to view it. Atherton saw it a few times as a boy, before his father decided his taste for art wasn't refined enough, but now of course he's master of Stratford Court and able to visit it at will. As fine as the collection around the house is, it's nothing to the works in the private gallery. One of Atherton's sisters married an artist, so he's been able to confirm that several pictures are extremely valuable, yet have no provenance. There are no bills of sale in the earl's records, nothing to indicate where they came from, which is odd for art. Normally there would be correspondence
with a dealer or prior owner or even the artist himself. It's as if the pictures just appeared at Stratford Court.

“The other thing of interest Atherton told me was about a small cave, right on the river near his estate in Richmond. When Clary tried to kill my sister and Atherton jumped in after her, they made it to shore and took shelter in this cave. In the light of day, Atherton found crates suitable for holding paintings. The cave is on a piece of property the old earl acquired years ago, yet never cleared, sold, or even visited. It was let go back to wilderness, and Atherton thinks it might have been to provide cover to this cave. Any paintings could be sent by ship right into Richmond, deposited in the cave, and then retrieved by the earl or a loyal servant at a more convenient moment. No one would remark a small boat crossing the river, after all, and it's a short enough journey it could be made at night.”

“But Henry didn't know Lord Stratford,” Olivia pointed out. “Viscount Clary was one of his most elegant friends; I'm sure I would recall an earl.”

Jamie tapped his temple. “Right you are. But Clary knew both of them—and before he pushed Penelope off the yacht, Clary said you had something he wanted, and what's more, Stratford wanted it, too. I think Clary was the conduit between the smuggler—Henry—and the buyers—such as the Earl of Stratford.”

She still had trouble believing it. “Perhaps . . . But how did Henry get these smuggled items? How did he know what to smuggle in the first place?
He never showed any interest in art.” Henry had the usual gentleman's education, which meant he'd spent a brief time abroad as a young man, but if it had made an impression, Olivia hadn't seen evidence of it. Her husband's interests had been principally ones of pleasure and comfort; he kept a cellar of fine wines and expected her to host a good table. He paid more attention to the horse races than to anything in politics or news or literature, although he was always well turned-out sartorially. Often Olivia had retreated to her room with a good book while Henry went to Vauxhall or the theater.

“This is pure conjecture, and may be utterly wrong,” Jamie warned. “But Lord Clary's brother is a decorated navy commodore, and when the war ended he was assigned to Calais. The smuggling trade was still in full roar, and if an English commander of the port could be persuaded to look the other way while some contraband was loaded onto a British ship bound for England . . .” He shrugged. “An easy trip to Gravesend, which holds more than her fair share of smugglers. Once unloaded in Kent, items could be discreetly sent all over England.”

“But what is this contraband?” she asked again. “That's a plausible theory for how things would get to England. Where did they come from?”

“Paris, most likely. Bonaparte's great museum, filled with the treasures of every state he conquered. Wellington ordered the plundered artwork returned, but hundreds of pieces had already gone missing by the time he made that decree. No doubt several collectors in England
gnashed their teeth when he did that, and would happily seize any opportunity to get their hands on some of that art.”

Olivia shook her head numbly. “You're describing a vast network of thieves and smugglers and liars. I never thought Henry was a man of unimpeachable morals, but this . . . I cannot believe it.”

“I could be wrong, of course,” said Jamie easily, which only convinced Olivia that he knew far more than he was telling her, and with more certainty.

“Even if I could prove any of that, what would it get me? Clary is still well-connected. It would be my word against his, and all his family's. And if you're correct that British citizens—wealthy and influential citizens—are benefiting from this smuggling, that only makes it harder to believe anything will happen. Lord Atherton might be willing to expose his father's role, but I doubt other men will be so inclined. They'll call me a wicked liar.”

For a moment Jamie didn't reply. “To be quite honest,” he finally said, almost cautiously, “I don't give a damn about them, whoever they may be or however many of them there are. My goals are simple: to see Clary in prison, and to free you from all remnants of Henry's scheme. Any other participants can go hang, in my opinion, or scuttle into the darkness and stay there with their stolen pictures.”

She gave a despairing laugh. “Simple! I wish I shared that view.”

With a sudden motion Jamie shot to his feet, sending his chair flying over backward. He braced
his arms on the table right in front of her, pinning her in place with a fierce look. “Don't doubt me,” he commanded. “Whatever it takes, I
will
see that man punished for what he did to you, and I swear that you will be free of this mess. If only—” He stopped abruptly, and his arms flexed as if he would toss the table aside and seize
her
. “We'll solve this, Livie,” he said in a calmer voice. “I give you my word.”

Wide-eyed, she managed to nod.

Jamie watched her closely for a moment, then retrieved his chair and sat back down. “You said the solicitor sent you a book. Do you have it with you?”

“I—yes.”

“Shall we have a look and see if we can puzzle out anything, with this new theory in mind?”

Her heart was still thudding from his sudden intensity and nearness. Olivia slid off her chair, trying to recapture some of the distance between them, although she had a feeling things would never be the same. He'd caught her off guard and now she couldn't erase the sight of him looming over her, his hazel eyes glittering with passion, his arms very nearly embracing her. It was the closest she'd been to him in years.

She led the way to a corner of the room where a rough cabinet held dishes and linens. “I found this by accident,” she said, kneeling beside the cabinet. She put her finger into a knot in one of the floorboards and lifted. It only came up an inch, but then she slid it straight out, revealing a narrow hollow in the stone beneath the house. There lay the little book Mr. Armand had sent her. She took it out and replaced the loose board.

Jamie put out his hand to help her up, but Olivia climbed to her feet without it, pretending she hadn't seen the gesture. As it was he stood much too close to her, and she thrust the book at him. “It's a ledger,” she said. “Even I can see that much, but I couldn't make any sense of it.”

He flipped it open. “I don't suppose Clary's name is in it.”

“No.” Her voice came out in a squeak. He hadn't stepped away, and she was trapped between his body and the cabinet behind her. His attention was focused on the book, but Olivia's every nerve seemed tense and alert to him. Helplessly she stared at his hands as he turned the pages. His beautiful hands that had once held her so tenderly and passionately. Out of the blue she remembered that he was adept with each; as a lad he had amused her and his sisters by writing silly messages with one hand, and equally ridiculous replies with the other. Now he absently flexed one hand every few minutes, still shaking off the effects of being hit by a shovel—wielded by her.

With some effort she tore her eyes away. Her private vow not to touch him again had been a hard one to make, but a necessary one. Even a simple touch, purely out of courtesy or friendship, would be a searing reminder that he had once been so much more than her friend.

“I believe this is going to be a godsend,” Jamie murmured, startling her. While she had been trying to hide how much he affected her still, he'd been reading the diary, trying to solve her problem.

“Really?” Olivia mustered a smile. “I hope so. My luck is sure to turn soon.” Too late, she winced at the words. Henry used to say that, with great confidence, and he'd been spectacularly wrong.

Jamie just grinned. “I'm staying here tonight.”

She jerked backward in alarm. “What?”

“No, no,” he said quickly. “Not . . . that. I should have asked. I meant to say, you shouldn't be here alone. If Clary, or anyone else, came along and discovered you, there's no one nearby to come to your aid.”

“I hoped I wouldn't be here long enough for him to find me . . .” But Jamie had. He was clever and resourceful and he knew her well, but Clary was ruthless and determined. If Jamie could find her, Clary could as well. Suddenly she felt every whistling draft in the isolated cottage, and the enormity of her task loomed over her.

“Let's hope not,” Jamie said, “but just in case, I would feel better if you let me sleep by the fire.”

By the fire. Of course. Color flooded her face as she realized her mind had immediately jumped to the thought of sharing the only bed with him. Of course he didn't mean that. “Very well.”

There was a pallet upstairs, rolled up under the eaves. Jamie carried it downstairs and laid it near the wide hearth. Olivia tidied up the remains of her dinner as Jamie organized the room to his liking. He barred the shutters and door, then pushed the table so it stood squarely between the pallet and the door. He checked his pistol and put it at the ready. Olivia fetched as many blankets and pillows as she could spare and made up the bed on the floor. She gave it a rueful glance. The
pallet was surely meant for the children of the house, and it looked ludicrously small for someone of Jamie's height. “I fear it's not going to be comfortable,” she said in apology.

“Out of the wind and near the fire: that's comfort in my book.” He had brought one of the chairs near the fire. “Thank you, Livie.”

She closed her eyes. After she'd disappeared without a trace, putting his sister in danger, then assaulted him with a shovel when he came after her—to help her—Jamie thanked her for letting him sleep on her floor.

“It's late,” he added gently. “You should go to bed.”

She hesitated, then nodded. It had been a long day and she was suddenly exhausted. For weeks now she had felt as if a dark cloud hovered menacingly above her, creeping closer and closer until she could barely breathe from fear of being choked by it. In the course of the last few hours, though, it had receded somewhat, driven back by Jamie's forceful confidence. He'd made her laugh. He'd eased her worries about Penelope. And now he had sworn to help extricate her from Henry's tangled affairs, whatever they might be, and sweep away that dark cloud forever. It was almost too much to comprehend in one day. Besides, she'd already read Henry's diary and made little sense of it. Perhaps it was best for Jamie to view it uninfluenced by her frustration. “I will. Good night.”

She went upstairs and readied herself for bed. When she had blown out her lamp and lay in the darkness, listening to the now-familiar wind howling mournfully past the eaves, she could
hear something else. His footsteps below. A soft thud, then another; his boots coming off.

Unbidden her brain called up memories of Jamie pulling off his coat, his waistcoat, his shirt and trousers. But her memories were of the stripling young man, still lean and lanky, disrobing in the hazy sunlight of a summer afternoon. Jamie of today had filled out, broad-shouldered and strong. Against all her wishes, her mind dwelled on what he would look like now, without his shirt on. How he might look at this very moment, stretched out on the pallet before the hearth, the firelight painting his skin gold. How different her life would have been if only . . .