True Story (The Deverells, Book One) (24 page)

He scratched his temple. "You could
make a new frock. Something...not the color of a
puddle."

Instantly her hackles went up.
Shoulders back, head high, she exclaimed, "What, pray tell, is
wrong with this gown? You have something against my
clothes?"

Yes
, he wanted to say,
you're wearing
some
. He longed to see her bare arms
again, as he did by accident on the first evening. But to suggest
that would most certainly earn him one of her scowls. Besides, he
was thinking of her for his son, not for himself. So he must be
content replying, "Don't you have anything
less...melancholy?"

"Mr. Deverell, I am still in half
mourning."

Oddly enough it hadn't occurred to
him. He tended to be thinking too much lately about what was under
her gown, rather than why she was wearing it."Surely you've done
your duty for the dead. Time to get on with the living. You'll
marry again one day, won't you? You're still young."

Her eyes suddenly looked anxious, but
she did not reply.

He cleared his throat. "I know my son
Storm is fond of the color blue. You could get yourself some good
silk at the market."

"Silk? There is nothing
more impractical. What use would
I
have for silk?"

Frustrated, he gave up. "Do as you
will, woman. You can wear a bloody hessian sack for all I
care."

His secretary did go to the market
that day, and he did slip money into her embroidered purse, but if
she bought new material he heard nothing about it. She returned
with a brighter color in her face that day and a bit of a smile on
her wary lips, so it must have done her good to get out, in any
case.

When she tried to return the money he
feigned ignorance of how it came to be in her purse.

"Mr. Deverell, I wasn't born
yesterday," she said.

"Mrs. Monday, I am well aware of that
fact and neither of us are getting any younger. Now can we get on
with the work for which you were hired, or must we discuss the
contents of your ugly purse for another tiresome hour?"

Most evenings they spent working on
his story until late. True went back over his childhood as a feral
stray, picking over it for anecdotes, his memory prompted by her
questions and encouraged by the intrigued spark that warmed her
eyes from time to time.

His mind was freshest at night. In the
mornings he was too active to sit for long, his blood pumping with
the need to be out and about. This clearly frustrated his
secretary, who preferred to work at an earlier hour of the day, but
he liked to have her company as the dark night closed in and the
heavy drapes were drawn to keep the chill out. Sitting with her by
his library fire was something he began to look forward to all day.
A far cry from his previous nighttime adventures and
preferences.

He watched her closely for
signs of interest in his eldest son. But although she was always
pleasant to Storm and conversed easily, her countenance never gave
anything away, never showed any special attraction. She might have
been just as interested in
him
.

On the morning she injured her ankle,
and while she was confined to the kitchen talking to Jameson, True
had taken the sly opportunity to peep into her bed chamber. He
hadn't meant to do it, but after dressing to ride, his feet took
him down the corridor toward her door. He told himself he wanted to
check for dust on the console table again— to ensure Sims had done
something about it.

Then he could not resist opening her
door to look inside. Why shouldn't he? She was his damned employee
and he was paying her very well. Besides, with a twisted ankle she
wasn't able to follow him about, so she need never know he was
curious.

As the door opened, a faint wave of
her perfume wafted under his nose, reminding him of the pleasant
burden he'd carried into the house that morning. Her bed was neatly
made, the curtains open to let sunlight spill across the worn
carpet, highlighting all the shabby threads and bare patches. She
had placed two pictures on the mantle— one a small, oval
silhouette, the other a framed, amateurish painting of a
sinister-looking cottage with an obsessively neat garden hedge and
blobs of garish color growing up the walls.

Some books sat upon her bedside table
beside the lamp. Her battered trunk rested at the foot of the
narrow bed, her initials O.W.O. P. M. scratched into the side. The
first two letters were larger, the others all different
sizes.

Apart from these few items there was
little reflection of the new occupant's personality, but True
didn't need many clues.

There were two candles in holders on
the mantle, but although both wicks were blackened, only one was
burned down a few inches. The other must have been extinguished
soon after he left her there on the night of her arrival. No other
candles from the box had been put into use yet, so she was
certainly using them sparingly. The hearth was swept clean, not a
sign of stray ash; the bed cover straightened to leave not a single
crease. The books by her bed were neatly stacked and a man's pocket
watch— the case engraved with G.W.— sat atop the towering pile. A
non-working watch, he discovered when he opened it.

The room looked rather sparse, he
thought. Should have made more effort for her. She deserved
better.

Then his son called impatiently from
the hall below and he could explore no further. He simply laid the
purple flower of catmint on her pillow— the stalk she'd picked and
left on the rock earlier— and closed the door.

* * * *

Deverell shocked her one evening at
dinner by saying quite suddenly, "I will ask Sims to move you to a
better room in the family wing. It was Lady Charlotte's and has
more modern decoration."

After a startled pause, she replied,
"I am happy where I am, sir. I would rather not be moved now I am
settled."

"In the old nanny's room? That was
only a temporary arrangement. No, no, it is drafty and the
furnishings are sparse. I should have moved you before now,
especially with winter on the way."

"Sir," she assured him firmly, "I
could not be comfortable in your wife's room."

"Why not? She seldom used it herself,
so you needn't feel awkward. You will find it far more
comfortable."

Olivia remained adamant and would not
move. The nanny's old room was far more typical of accommodation to
which she was accustomed.

He scowled at her in frustration. "I
can have the door sealed off to my dressing room, if that would
make the idea more palatable to you."

It had not even occurred to her that
there would be anything to connect the two rooms, but of course, if
they were made for a man and his wife, then there would be a
passage of some sort to allow private access between them. She
stared. "I shall assume, sir, that this was another of your teasing
jests and we will say no more about me moving rooms. I can only
imagine what the other staff would make of it."

"There's only Jameson and Sims here at
night and they know where their loyalties lie. No reason for them
to tell anyone about your sleeping arrangements."

"Even so, it wouldn't
be...proper."

"Fine. As you wish. Sacrifice your
comfort for a little senseless propriety." He snorted. "I suppose
the temptation of my proximity would be too much for you,
eh?"

"No, sir, but I would have
imagined
my
proximity might make things difficult for you," and then she
felt her face grow hot as she realized how that sounded, "should
you wish to entertain...in the evenings...in private. That is
all."

"Entertain?"

"In your chamber."

"I am puzzled, Olivia. Who would I
entertain, in private, in my chamber of an evening? What can you be
suggesting? Surely nothing vulgar. I'm surprised at you for letting
such wickedness fester in your very proper mind."

"It was just a thought, sir. You did
mention to me that you are a red-blooded male in need of lovers
occasionally. And you are not dead yet, as you pointed out then
too."

His gaze, reaching for her between the
tall candelabra, was hard and unblinking. "Indeed, I am not dead.
Despite a few swift-aimed bullets and other projectiles. Although
no one has yet tried to assassinate me with their sharp tongue. Is
that why you're here?"

She sighed heftily. "It is best that I
stay where I am to avoid any uncomfortable encounters with your
female guests in the passage. That is all I was trying to say, sir.
I like to be where I am. Out of the way."

He leaned his elbows on the table and
picked at his teeth with a slender piece of bone. "But you don't
wander about at night, surely?"

"No." Although she sometimes slept
lightly, especially when her thoughts were full of him, as they
were all too often of late.

"Well, perhaps you are
right. I wouldn't want to keep you awake with my
entertainments
and
female guests. Of which you must have heard there are legions of
trollops."

"I make no judgments, sir. What you do
is no concern of mine."

"But all that...banging about,
swinging from the chandeliers and screaming in ecstasy...wouldn't
do for the ears of a parson's widow from Chiswick."

The reply shot out of her before she
could stop her tongue. "It couldn't be very good for you either, at
your age."

His eyes flared like shooting stars.
With one savage stab of his fork he speared a boiled potato
—without looking at it—as if the hapless vegetable was his arch
nemesis. "I keep myself agile and limber. As you know. Certainly
never had any complaints."

She touched a napkin to her lips and
looked away with studied indifference.

"Should you ever change your mind
about your sleeping arrangements," he added, "and feel desirous of
a little excitement, you know where to find me."

But she wouldn't
know
when
, she
mused, thinking of the odd hours he kept. Did the man ever
sleep?

"Something troubles you, Mrs.
Monday?"

"I was just wondering if you pester
your bedmates for compliments, the same way that you do for Mrs.
Blewett's pork pie."

He snorted. "Never needed
to."

No, she was sure he wouldn't.
Impossible man.

"Know what ails you, Mrs. Monday?" he
exclaimed suddenly, holding the speared potato aloft on the tines
of his fork and pretending to examine it.

"I wasn't aware of
anything ailing me."
Apart from
you
, she thought.

"Your hair is too tight. You ought to
wear it looser. Or down."

"Down? That wouldn't be proper for a
woman of my age. It would look ridiculous."

"No one need see it but me. And I
won't tell." He thrust the potato into his mouth and spoke as he
chewed. "As long as you bribe me not to give you away."

"I have nothing to bribe you
with."

He cast her a sinister, sideways
glance. "Oh, yes you have."

If only it was that simple. "You
should not speak with your mouth full. Don't you remember what you
told Damon? That this is your chance to learn how to behave, not to
make a fool of yourself around a proper lady?"

"I remember that I said it
was
his
chance.
It's too late for me. My clay is dried in the grotesque form you
see before you."

"Is that the excuse you always
use?"

"Yes. Why not?" Stuffing another
potato into his mouth, he laughed at her through those unearthly
eyes.

"If it's all the same to you, I'll
keep my hair in the style I've always worn it, Mr.
Deverell."

"Suit yourself," he muttered, reaching
for the wine decanter that Sims had left beside his plate before he
withdrew, "I've got a good imagination and that'll have to tide me
over." He licked his lips. "I shall imagine how it curls and
ripples like a waterfall. All the way to the cheeks of your
behind."

Olivia hastily resumed her own dinner,
not wanting to read his teasing gaze any longer.

And then he set the decanter back
without pouring from it and he shook his head, "Perhaps it is just
as well you sleep well away from me. For both our
sakes."

Chapter Eighteen

Autumn settled in on Roscarrock
island, leaves abandoned the trees and birds gathered to fly south,
but they still had not progressed far with Deverell's story. Olivia
lay awake at night to think about the abandoned little boy who grew
up wild. It was a sad tale, but he did not see it that way. He
spoke of his poverty and hunger as if they were old friends. Almost
as if he missed them now that he no longer knew either.

He claimed he wasn't afraid when
growing up without friends or family, but he must have been,
surely. Sometimes a person felt the need to say they were not
fearful. As if words would make it so. Olivia knew all about
that.