chapter seven

Olivia realized, as she descended the stairs that evening, that she was more than half-an-hour too early for dinner, but since she was already dressed, it made little sense to stay cooped up in her bedroom. Besides, she’d finished the book she’d been reading and intended to spend the time before dinner browsing about in the library. She was about to turn the knob of the library door when a strange male voice assailed her ears.

“Right in the lobby of the Commons, I tell you! Saw it with my own eyes!” the man was saying.

“Shot? Perceval shot?” came Strickland’s voice. “That’s the most unbelievable tale I’ve ever heard in my life. Who’d want to shoot Perceval?”

Olivia froze. Were they speaking of Spencer Percevel, the Prime Minister? Was he dead? Why, that would be … assassination! Never in British history had a Prime Minister been assassinated.

“Fellow by the name of Bellingham,” the strange voice said.

“Bellingham? Who the devil’s Bellingham? One of Grey’s lackeys?”

“No, no. Not a Whig plot at all. The fellow Bellingham had been imprisoned by the Russians, and Leveson Gower, who’d been our representative there at the time, had done nothing for him. So when this Bellingham came home from abroad, bankrupt and mad as a marsh hare, he was looking for Gower’s blood.”

“Then why didn’t he shoot Gower?” Strickland demanded furiously.

“Couldn’t find him!”

“Couldn’t—!” He sputtered in an angry rage that could be heard through the door. “Couldn’t find him? So he chose the P.M. instead? That is the most insane set of circumstances I’ve ever heard recounted.”

“Told you the man was unhinged.”

“And Perceval’s dead? You’re certain? Dead?”

“As a doornail, old boy. As a proverbial doornail. That’s why you must come back to London at once! The government is in chaos, the Whigs are pushing at Prinny already, and the party is completely divided on the matter of a successor. Can you leave tonight?”

“Quiet down for a moment, Arthur, and let me think. Perceval dead! An assassination! It’s not something one can take in all at once.”

There was a moment of silence, and Olivia could hear Strickland’s tread as he crossed and crisscrossed the library floor. She couldn’t tear herself away. Neither could she enter and interrupt a conversation as significant as this one. So she remained where she was and prayed that she would not be discovered.

“I’m afraid, Arthur,” Strickland said after a long silence, “I can’t go back with you tonight. You’ll have dinner with us, of course, and then go back yourself. I’ll follow as soon as I can.”

“But, dammit, Miles, every moment may cost us a price. Grenville was going to see Prinny this very afternoon!”

“Don’t panic, Arthur. The best Grenville will get will be a coalition, and even that is doubtful. Lady Hertford is a staunch Tory, bless her Evangelical little heart, and Prinny hangs on her every word. She’ll see to it that Grenville’s kept out of consideration.”

“But we need you, Miles. You may be the very person the party can rally round!”

Olivia almost gasped aloud. Strickland for Prime Minister? The country would be doomed!

But his next words dispelled her fears. “I? Don’t be a fool! I’d make the worst possible Prime Minister. You know how I set up everyone’s bristles as soon as I open my mouth. We need someone whose abilities are cohesive rather than divisive.”

“But, Miles, you could learn—”

“No, Arthur. When you get back, try to rally them around Liverpool.”

“Liverpool? Good God, man, why Liverpool?”

“He’s not our greatest talent, perhaps, but Castlereagh is as abrasive as I am and would not find enough support. Nevertheless, Castlereagh himself will support Liverpool, and that support is what we need.”

“Yes, I see your point. But why can’t you come with me? You can maneuver matters so much better than I can.”

“I shall not be more than a day behind you. I can’t take such abrupt leave of my family at this time. My wife has not been well, you see … and there are some matters of estate business to which I must attend—”

There was a sound of footsteps on the stair, and Olivia drew away from the library door hastily. Walking to the foot of the stairs with elaborate nonchalance, she looked up to see her sister coming down. “Ah, there you are, Clara,” she said innocently. “I just came down and … er … thought I heard voices in the library.”

“Yes, love, you did,” Clara informed her. “Miles has a visitor from London, I’ve been told. Come along and let’s meet him.”

She was about to tap on the door when the two men emerged. Strickland made his friend, Sir Arthur Tisswold, known to his wife and sister-in-law, and the group repaired to the drawing room to drink some wine before dinner. “Tell the ladies your news, Arthur,” Strickland urged.

Tisswold, with appropriate dramatic embellishment, recounted the dreadful story of the Prime Minister’s assassination. The shock so upset Clara that she had to be helped to a chair. As Tisswold fanned her face with a newspaper, Strickland made her drink a sip of brandy, and Clara quickly revived. Her collapse had one fortunate consequence: in the stir, no one noticed that the news of the assassination was not as great a shock to Olivia as it should have been.

When the shock waves receded and Clara had recovered sufficiently to get to her feet, she led the way to the dining room, with Olivia following and the two gentlemen bringing up the rear. Just before the men entered, however, Arthur Tisswold pulled his friend aside. “Who’s the pretty little chit?” he asked in a rumbling undertone. “That’s not the little bluestocking who came calling at your quarters a few months ago, is it?”

Clara had sent Olivia to hurry the gentlemen in, and Olivia had been about to recross the threshold when she heard the tail end of Tisswold’s remark and paused.

“Yes, I suppose so, since she’s the only bluestocking with whom I’m acquainted,” Strickland responded.

“Why didn’t you tell me she was such a taking little puss? I wouldn’t have had to leave by the back stairs if I’d known,” Tisswold said with a chuckle.

Olivia, who suspected that Strickland’s response would not be nearly so pleasant to overhear, interrupted them at that point to say that her ladyship was waiting. Sir Arthur gallantly offered her his arm, and they went in to dinner.

The subject of the assassination occupied their thoughts and their conversation all through dinner. After the ladies’ curiosity about the details of the madman Bellingham’s wild revenge on the English government had been sated, they turned their attention to the question of poor Perceval’s successor. The two men explained the various choices available to the Regent in appointing a new Prime Minister, and Olivia took satisfaction in arguing heatedly in favor of the Whig, Lord Grenville, much to Strickland’s irritation and Tisswold’s amusement. When she thought about it later, Olivia had to admit to herself that, although the subject of the assassination was grisly and the prospect for the government grim, their dinner conversation that evening had been the most interesting she’d ever had in Strickland’s company.

It was not until much later that night, after Tisswold had left for London and the household had retired, that Olivia began to recall the other events of the day. The political upheaval in London had made her forget all about poor Perry’s misery. She felt a renewed bitterness toward her brother-in-law, whose arrogant decisions were made without the slightest challenge. It was fortunate for England that Strickland couldn’t run the government in the same way he ran his household. He had enormous power in both places, but in the government he could only maneuver behind the scenes and was forced to face opposition and challenge everywhere he turned; whereas in his household, he had only to give his orders and he was obeyed without argument. What was even more irritating in this instance, however, was that he was just as likely to get what he wanted from the Prince Regent as he was to get his way at home. He would manage to maneuver the Regent into accepting Lord Liverpool as Prime Minister almost as easily as he would manage to force a tutor upon his helpless son. If the British government was not too great for Strickland to control, what hope was there for a little boy like Perry?

She found herself too disturbed to fall asleep. She tossed and turned for what seemed like hours. Finally, she sat up and lit a candle. She would have been soothed by reading, but she’d not managed to get into the library to select a new book. Feeling wide awake, and convinced that the entire household had by this time fallen asleep, she got out of bed with the intention of running down to the library to find a book. She slipped on a loose dressing gown over her nightgown and, in the dim light of the single candle and the dying fire, looked about for her slippers. But she could find only one of them, and, impatiently, she gave up the search. No one was likely to be about, she reasoned, and she recklessly decided to slip downstairs in her bare feet.

She flitted down the dimly lit hallway and stairs with quick, light steps, finding the corridors as deserted as she’d expected. But when she opened the library door and slipped inside, she discovered, to her embarrassment, that the room was occupied. Lord Strickland sat at the library table, a small oil lamp lighting a number of ledgers and papers spread out before him, a decanter of brandy at his elbow and a half-empty glass in his hand. “Oh!” she exclaimed, backing out of the door awkwardly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know—”

“Don’t be an idiot, Olivia,” Strickland snapped. “I won’t bite you. If you want something, come in.”

Not having any experience with men who imbibed deeply in spirits, she failed to recognize that he showed some symptoms (a ruddy color in his face and a certain glitter in his eyes) of slight inebriation. As for the rudeness of his manner, she simply attributed it to his natural temperament rather than the effects of the bottle. The sharpness of his tone had its usual effect on her. She put up her chin and entered defiantly. But he ignored the angry toss of her head and the rebellious set of her mouth. He merely took another swig of brandy from his glass. She was awkwardly aware of her dressing gown and bare feet. “I … couldn’t sleep,” she explained. “I came down for a book.”

“Then go ahead and get it.” He gestured with his glass in the direction of the bookshelves.

“I don’t wish to disturb you, my lord,” she said, hesitating.

“You don’t disturb me,” he answered, turning back to his papers, “so long as you go about your business and don’t stand there behind me staring at the back of my head.”

She drew herself up. “You flatter yourself, my lord. I don’t stare at you at all!”

She crossed the room as purposefully as bare feet permitted and began to scan the shelves. But feeling his eyes on the back of her head, she hastily pulled out a book without really seeing the title and turned back toward the door to make a hasty exit. However, his lordship had other ideas. With a malicious smile, he put down his glass, got to his feet and barred her way. “Let’s see what you have there,” he said rudely, pulling the book from her grasp. He looked at the book’s spine, his smile widening to a leer. “A Practical Treatise Upon Christian Perfection?” he read. “Why, my dear girl! What need have you for this? I was under the distinct impression that you’d already achieved perfection.”

She reddened, but she met his leering eye with a rebellious look in her own and snatched the book back. “Yes, I have. Isn’t it ironic, my lord, how this sort of work is always read by those who need it least?”

He guffawed. “And ignored by those—like me—who need it most, isn’t that what you mean? Touché, dear sister-in-law, touché.” He walked back to the table. “Well, go along, girl. Don’t let me keep you from your so-stimulating reading.” He picked up his brandy glass and held it out to her in a mocking salute. “I suppose I should bid you goodbye. I shall probably be gone by the time you rise in the morning.”

“Really?” she murmured with a touch of malice. “What a pity! We shall all be devastated by despair.”

He lifted his glass to his lips and eyed her over the rim. “Sharp-tongued little witch, aren’t you?” He took a swig of brandy from his glass and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand with deliberate vulgarity. “It’s a cruel blow to me, my dear, that you take delight in my departure,” he sneered, “but I shall try to bear it bravely.” Then, turning away, he added drily, half to himself, “There’ll be wailing enough from the rest of the household when I leave.”

The arrogant conceit of that last remark made her furious. “Perhaps not as much as you’d like to believe,” she retorted viciously.

“What?” An eyebrow rose sharply. “What do you mean?”

“Not everyone will be wailing, you know,” she went on, unable to control her tongue. “Your son will not be sorry to see you go.”

His eyes darkened, his jaw tensed, and she saw with cruel satisfaction that she’d made a hit. “Oh?” he asked, setting his glass down carefully. “Are you trying to suggest that there is some conflict between my son and me? I was not aware of it.”

“No, I don’t suppose you were,” she taunted, turning to go.

“Just one moment, ma’am!” he commanded harshly, his voice stopping her in her tracks. “If you have something to say to the purpose, say it! I can’t abide these womanish hints and innuendos.”

“Very well, my lord, since you ask so nicely. You have, with your usual sensitivity and tact, managed to disparage the boy’s studies, uproot his routine, destroy his imaginary playmate, darken his good spirits, and threaten to force upon him a tutor and a course of study which are completely unnecessary and for which he is completely unready. In short, you’ve made him utterly miserable!”

He stared at her. “What sort of jibberish is this? Uprooted his routine? Darkened his spirits? Made him miserable? Have you lost your mind?”

“No, I’ve neither lost my mind nor my heart, both of which faculties I find no evidence of your having used in dealing with your son.”

Strickland clenched his teeth in fury. “By what right,” he demanded, his eyes turning icy, “do you venture an opinion about my dealings with my son?”

“No right, I suppose. Except that I love the boy.”

“What damnable presumption!” He fixed her with a look of frozen scorn. “And who are you, ma’am to wave your love for him in my face?”

“I’m his aunt!”

“And I’m his father!” His fury changed his icy glare to an angry, heated flash that seared her through. “Love!” he muttered mockingly, turning away in disdain. “You’re merely using the word as an exoneration—a sentimental and mealy-mouthed excuse for interfering in matters that are not your concern!”

She felt herself waver against the force of his scorn. “Perhaps I am interfering where I shouldn’t … but I’ve spent more time in Perry’s company during these past few weeks than you’ve probably spent with him this past year! And therefore—”

“Confound you, woman, have done!” he burst out, wheeling around. “First you sermonize about my character as a husband and now as a father! Is there no limit to your effrontery?” He slammed his fist down on the table with such force that the glass toppled over, and the brandy seeped out on the papers and began slowly to drip down to the floor. “I don’t need you to moralize about my conduct, ma’am! Do you hear me?”

“Yes, I do hear you,” she answered, a sudden awareness that he might be somewhat foxed making her strangely calm. “And so, I imagine, do the servants. Lower your voice, my lord. And stand aside, if you please. Let me mop up that brandy before it ruins the table and stains the rug.” She pushed him aside and, pulling a handkerchief from the bosom of her nightgown, began to wipe up the spill.

“Hang the table, and hang the rug!” He came up behind her and snatched the handkerchief from her hand, tossing the sopping square of lace-edged dimity across the room so precipitously that she gasped in surprise. Before she could recover, he seized a handful of her curls and, with cruel fingers, forced her head around so that she faced him. She gasped again, in shock and pain, finding herself staring up into his furiously burning eyes. “I want no help or advice from you on any matter—is that clear?” he demanded, spitting out each word with devastating precision.

But she couldn’t answer him. She could neither move nor speak. His fingers held her hair in so tight a grip that the pain seemed to pull tears from the corners of her eyes. His arm was pushed against her back, inexorably forcing her body to twist around and fall against him.

“Is that clear?” he asked through clenched teeth, his eyes hotly angry and his mouth hard.

She made a frightened sound in her throat—a pleading little moan that begged him to let her go.

But he ignored it. “I hope you fully understand this, ma’am. I shall not permit any more of your blasted, infernal meddling,” he went on ferociously. “You are not to concern yourself with my life … or with the lives of the members of my family. Find yourself something else—something in your own life!—with which to concern yourself … instead of tampering with mine!” He glared down at her as if he would have liked to crush her in his hands. “Damnable spinsterish busybody!

She stared up at him dumbfounded, noting the fiery eyes, the taut mouth, the angry muscle working in his jaw. She could no more tear her eyes from his face than her head from his grasp. Yet she was no longer aware of the pain of her hair being pulled. She could feel only a pulse beating wildly in her neck, and a constriction in her throat as if her breath had frozen within. “Let me go,” she begged in a choked voice.

There was no sign that he’d heard her, although his eyes were fixed on her face with an almost unbearable intensity. His voice, harsh and threatening, lashed at her once more. “What you need,” he growled, “is a man—a husband—who’d beat you daily! Daily! Who’d bend you over his arm, like this, and who’d handle you as a wench should be handled—like this!” She found herself being lifted forcibly from the floor until her face was level with his … and his lips were pressed hard against hers.

How long she lay in his embrace she couldn’t tell. Time seemed to freeze as her blood seemed to freeze. She felt no pain—only the pressure of his chest against hers, his arm against her back, his fingers twisting her hair, and his mouth on hers. She felt neither anger nor disgust. Instead, she seemed to be living through some sort of cataclysmic experience—like a driving storm or a tidal wave—which, while it filled her with the terror of imminent destruction, offered her also a sense of being completely, totally, shockingly alive. And she thought, wildly, as one does in a storm when surrounded by lightning and with the boom of thunder in the ears, that she would come through it—if she came through it—somehow enlarged.

All at once, the fingers in her hair loosened, and he let her go. As soon as her bare feet touched the floor, she fell back against the table, shuddering, stunned, and waiting for her whirling brain to steady itself. He was staring at her with eyes as dazed and shocked as hers. Then, muttering a curse under his breath, he swung himself around, turning his back on her. “Let that be a warning to you, girl,” he said hoarsely. “Stay away from me!”

“W-Warning?” she echoed stupidly, still shaken.

“Stay out of my affairs!”

She stared at his back while, all unaware, she rubbed the back of her hand over her mouth which seemed suddenly to have been spread with a burning and deadly poison. “Good God,” she thought in horror, “this is my sister’s husband!” An overwhelming feeling of revulsion, which had somehow been kept at bay since the first moment he’d taken hold of her, came sweeping over her. “You … blackguard!” she whispered, appalled.

He turned to face her, lifting his hand in a gesture she couldn’t read. He seemed about to say something, but changed his mind and walked unsteadily to the table, where he righted the glass, picked up the brandy decanter and poured out a generous drink. Leaning on the table with one hand, he lifted the glass with the other—unable to hide a slight tremor as he did so—and drank the brandy down in one gulp. “Go to bed,” he said quietly, not looking at her.

Without another word, she turned and ran to the door, her feelings churning inside her in chaotic confusion. Nevertheless, she was sharply aware that his eyes were on her. At the door, she turned and faced him again. “You are a blackguard,” she repeated in the same quietly horrified voice. “A decadent, villainous, devilish monster!”

Then she walked out, closing the door silently behind her. Standing alone in the hallway, she began to tremble from head to toe. There was no question in her mind that the words she’d just said to him were completely justified. He was a monster. Then why, she wondered, did she, herself, feel so dreadfully, frighteningly, sickeningly guilty?