Simon wanted to rage about that imposing on his hospitality—he wanted the damned woman to come to him with her problems! He just wasn’t certain why. Damn. Until he was clear about his own motives, he had to let the lady go her own way.
Disgruntled, he glared at the man approaching. Sir Harvey had received honors for his courage in warfare. Simon could use a good battle about now.
The wind whistled through the bare trees, whipping the branches, reflecting Simon’s mood.
“The viscount is threatening charges for assault,” Sir Harvey announced hurriedly, perhaps reading Simon’s expression. “He is furious about Miss McDowell’s presence, rightfully so, I must say. Perhaps it is time for her to be on her way.”
Miss McDowell? Unfamiliar with the name, Simon wrinkled his brow in puzzlement, but in context. . . Olivia’s maiden name was McDowell. Was the bastard still accepting the viscount’s lies about her marriage? Simon’s fury multiplied to explosive. “Are you talking about Lady Hargreaves? Are you mad, man? The lad is all aboot in his heid if he thinks the lady will be leavin’ after the way he’s treated his tenants and staff. I’ve a notion to bring the law in on him myself.”
He had no idea if he could do that, but it sounded ferocious, and he was all for calling in the sheriff if it would do any good. Sir Harvey backed up a step—whether from Simon’s expression or the icy wind now whipping the evergreens.
“She’s bewitched you already, I see, as she did the late viscount. You’ll be sorry. I’m only trying to warn you as a friend and neighbor.” The portly knight scurried away.
Not daring to bring out his flask in the churchyard, Simon tamped a lid on his fury. He ordered his children into the carriage with his aunt and crossed the churchyard to Miss McDowell. He hadn’t given a damn about Olivia’s title until now. Her land made more sense than useless names. But if the viscount was childishly pushing that piece of disrespect about the lady’s marriage lines, Simon would personally rip the whelp’s tongue out.
This wasn’t just whispering about witches. This was outright slander.
Simon nodded at the grocer’s wife and the other ladies who had gathered, made excuses, and gripped Olivia’s elbow. She offered a hurried apology about the children and followed, although Simon was fairly certain she was steaming as much as he was.
“I want to meet the Hall’s steward,” she demanded before he shoved her into the carriage.
He nearly dropped his hold on her arm in surprise. “What would you do with the man?”
“I don’t know yet.” She yanked her skirts inside and was swallowed up by children.
Simon glanced at the lowering sky. He’d like to stay in the village, see if the viscount was still about, but he wouldn’t risk the carriage traveling without him in this weather. Maybe Olivia was right. Maybe marriage was wrong. He didn’t have time to juggle family and business—or patience. He wanted everything resolved right now, right this minute. Families didn’t allow for that.
If he’d thought that way when younger, he wouldn’t have the bairns. He couldn’t imagine a life without his children.
The wind howled all the way home, freezing icicles on his nose as he rode outside, but the snow held off. Last winter, after Letitia’s death, they’d had blizzards and been snowed in for weeks.
The children piled out of the carriage the instant the door opened. Simon handed over his horse to a stableboy so he could be there to assist his aunt and Olivia down. The lady wasn’t smiling.
He pulled her hand through the crook of his arm and all but hauled her into the house. “Talk to me,” he demanded, while the rest of the party spilled noisily into the side foyer.
The lady’s eyes flashed sparks. Olivia might call herself a rabbit, but she raged with the same fires as he did.
A footman rushed to take their outerwear—he had a footman. Simon shrugged out of his coat and threw his gloves and hat on the table and was ready once Olivia had been unfolded from her fol-de-rol. Not even bothering with excuses, he dragged her down the hall.
In seconds, she was pulling ahead of him. He’d meant to go to his study. She aimed for the little workroom in the back of the house—women’s territory and not his. She fought dirty.
Ever since the carriage accident, he’d despised confining spaces, but he squeezed in anyway. She slammed the door after him. He wished for his flask. His shoulders practically filled the prison wall he leaned against. He sprawled his legs into the little space remaining.
“You do not pull me about like a child, do you understand?” the lady all but shouted. “I may be smaller than you, but I am a full-grown adult. Would you have dragged a man like that?” She paced in the small space in front of his boots.
Simon gave her totally irrelevant, irrational question some thought. “I’ve done so,” he decided. “When I thought they were in danger. I’ve yanked them out of brawls and flung them in carriages or horse stalls or whatever came to hand. More often, I fling men against walls. I don’t do that with women.”
She gave him an incredulous look, and he thought perhaps a hint of smile tugged her lips. Then she returned to scowling. “So, you thought I was in danger? From whom?”
“That’s just it—I don’t know! They’re ganging up on you, and I don’t know who or why! Hargreaves has even Sir Harvey believing you didn’t marry his brother. Why? He has the title and the land. Why would he care if you were married or not?”
“He knew what was in those documents?” she suggested. “He fears there’s a copy he’s not destroyed? That’s no reason to haul me about like a piece of furniture.”
“It was necessary. You don’t want to be on the wrong side of Brown. He’s a mean. . . Not a gentleman,” he amended before calling the tavern owner what he really was. “What did you find out about the wench?”
“The viscount’s steward had his way with Lily, then threw her out when she carried his child. They say the bastard spends a great deal of time at Brown’s tavern, gambling and wenching. I think I mean to kill him.” She paced furiously. “Or maybe I should kill Hargreaves first.”
“Or the black-hearted earl,” Simon suggested, almost enjoying this side of the rabbit. “But the bairns would not like to see you go to the gallows, so let’s stay with attacking them legally, please.”
She sent him another one of those wide-eyed incredulous looks. “You don’t really believe we will succeed when half the people in town believe I’m no better than poor Lily and a witch or worse? And that I’ve bewitched you? They’d probably think they’re doing you a favor to run me out of town.”
“You’re being ridiculous.” Simon’s brain had been fermenting all the way home, and her words pulled his thoughts together. “Last night, all was fine. The ladies and gentlemen welcomed you. Your former staff followed you here. It was only Hargreaves who disturbed the peace. And today, it was a weak man like Sir Harvey who dared insult you. People only side with the viscount if he has something to hold over them.”
“The Hall pays the bills of half the village,” she reminded him. “They can’t afford to side against a viscount, although I assume it’s the steward or the elusive estate agent who deals with them on a regular basis since Hargreaves is seldom here.”
“They can and will side with you if you give them time, especially since I pay my bills and Hargreaves apparently doesn’t. But that doesn’t mean I’ll not hunt down Ramsay and strangle him with my bare hands if he’s been assaulting women.”
“Ramsay? That’s his steward? Have you learned the estate agent’s name yet? I’ll write my aunts, see what they can find out. Our family is rather extensive.” Olivia swept past him to open the door.
Simon stepped in front of her. “You’ll leave Ramsay to me. I don’t need to know his family. His actions speak for him. I’ll verify them, report him to the authorities, and if nothing is done, I’ll lock him out in the cold as someone did to your poor minister.”
She covered her mouth in shock. “That was deliberate?”
He hadn’t meant to say that. He couldn’t take it back now. “I asked aboot a bit. That gate was never locked. There was no lock on it. Someone added it recently. Do ye really think that milksop Hargreaves even knows he has a kitchen gate?”
Olivia drew in a sharp breath and turned pale. Only her eyes gave away her rage. They turned an electric blue.
“My aunt says the snow will hold off,” Emma said matter-of-factly, pulling off her gloves as she entered the closet Olivia had claimed as a workroom.
“Your aunt?” Phoebe glanced up from the sketch Olivia had made of the Hall’s floor plan.
“She’s a weather witch.” Emma shrugged from her cloak and studied the map over Phoebe’s shoulder. “The carpenter has taken the coffin to the chapel for fear the storm will come early. He always has a few ready. I hear the Jamesons have the staff you sent working hard, thinking visitors will be early too.”
“I hope someone is digging a grave before the ground freezes.” Olivia worked through a selection of old keys, trying to remember the size of the one in Owen’s desk. Most old locks could be jiggled a bit, if she had the right size.
Emma chuckled and hung up her coat. “I like that neither of you questions my aunt’s talent. It’s almost like talking to Letitia.”
Olivia set aside her task to hug the girl. “I keep forgetting you lost a sister to monsters. I know I can’t take her place, but I hope you’ll talk to me as you did her.”
Emma hugged her back. “Letty felt it her duty to scold and correct me. You’re more like a good friend who encourages my mischief. What are you doing now?”
“We thought with all the activity at the Hall, we might have a chance of slipping in unnoticed by Hargreaves or his guests.” Olivia pocketed a few keys. “If people are already arriving, we should go now.”
“May I come with you?” Emma asked eagerly.
“You want Mr. Blair to throw me out on my head?” Olivia asked wryly. “You can help by keeping the children occupied.”
“I’m good with costumes,” Phoebe said cheerfully, folding the map. “I just never thought to see the day that prim and proper Olivia would stoop to my level.”
“Costumes,” Olivia scoffed, glancing at her cousin’s bright red—crinoline-less—gown. “You’ve always looked like a housemaid, except for the colors, of course. Mrs. Susan has a few maids’ dresses she’s hemmed up for us. But even pulling on caps won’t help if the louts discover us. We need to be quick.”
“Sgian-dubhs in your waistbands, ladies,” Emma warned worriedly. “Hatpins in your caps. Take good strong brooms with you.”
“We’ll look quite the sight arriving like that. Does Simon have a pony cart? And where might I find a sgian-dubh?” Phoebe leaped up, ready for action.
By the time they were dressed, with the cart readied, the winter sun was nearly lost in clouds. Olivia knew the back lanes better than she did the fields, but she still felt icy cold wrap her heart as they set out.
“Mr. Blair really will fling me out if he finds out what we’re doing,” Olivia said as she sent the pony trotting.
“It’s confusing if you call both Simon and Drew Mr. Blair,” Phoebe warned, pinning her hat on better. “You’ll notice the men aren’t sticklers for etiquette.”
“I am trying to abide by propriety. Men are able to disdain etiquette because they’re strong enough to walk into the Hall and toss the drunkards out. I’m not. I suppose it’s to their credit that the Blair men don’t use their strength to bully.”
“When women and children are suffering, bullying should be allowed,” Phoebe replied grimly. “Although I suppose that would make them as bad as the drunken louts. It’s a perplexity.”
She rattled the acorns in her pocket and fell into a frowning silence.
Until recently, Olivia had not known her distant cousin well, but she was learning. She glanced up at an owl swooping from a bare oak and flying ahead of them. She didn’t think its appearance coincidental.
As they approached the back of the Hall, a flurry of rooks screeched and settled on the roof.
“Rooks? Really, Phoebe?” Olivia stopped the pony cart in the company of several wagons. A young boy ran from the stable to take the reins. Apparently, Hargreaves didn’t have trouble keeping stable help.
“The kitchen be that way.” The boy helpfully pointed to the stairs.
“Ho, our disguises are working,” Phoebe whispered as they clattered through the garden in old boots, carrying brooms.
“We’re female and we didn’t arrive by the front door,” Olivia countered. “People see what they expect.”
Jameson and his wife knew who they were, however. They frowned in disapproval and followed as Olivia and Phoebe shed their coats and headed upstairs.
“Leave us to finish cleaning the withdrawing room,” Olivia suggested to the elderly housekeeper. “Send the others to finish cleaning and setting up the buffet.”
The Jamesons had been with the family since Owen’s grandmother lived here. They both no doubt knew about the hidden stairs. They frowned but did as told, taking up a position in the hall to direct the extra staff.
“I wish we dared take the stairs to the next floor,” Olivia muttered. “But they come out in the master suite.”
“One step at a time,” Phoebe whispered, lifting the tapestry. “Once we drive out the leeches, we’ll be able to use the front stairs. They’ll be safer.”
“Do you think we can spread rumors that Willingham is haunting them?” Olivia eased open the hidden door.
“They’ll think of that all by themselves.” Phoebe tossed her acorns into the shadows of the stairwell. “Does this continue on to the attic?”
“I confess, I never set foot in there. I didn’t relish turning my petticoats into a giant dust mop. Do we close the door or leave it open wide enough for your creatures? I think the tapestry would conceal it.”
“The roof appears to have holes—the squirrels have already found their way in. But we need them to find the staircase for the full house effect.” Phoebe frowned up the darkened steps, obviously contemplating climbing them.
“Let’s ask Jameson,” Olivia suggested, steering her impetuous cousin away from trouble.
“Yes, there are exits on each floor,” Jameson answered their question. “I’ll open the attic one myself. We have warned both Mr. Ramsay and Mr. Glengarry that the leaks are rendering the upper stories uninhabitable, but they are not interested.”
Olivia didn’t need to read his aura to know his disapproval was thick and dark. The maids slept upstairs—or once had, before they all left.
Glengarry. That must be the elusive estate agent. Now she had another name to write to her aunts about.
Mrs. Jameson joined them, wringing her apron. “They’re still setting up card tables in the parlor. We’ve told them about the death and expected visitors. We’ve told them the barrels are empty. They don’t care. One of them plans to ride into the village to see what spirits can be found.”
“He’ll not be returning,” Phoebe said cheerfully.
The Jamesons stared but didn’t question their betters. Olivia was afraid to ask what animal Phoebe meant to use. As far as she was aware, these barren hills hadn’t concealed wolves or other predators in centuries, unless one counted hawks and the like. She hoped the gentleman didn’t mind walking into the village if Phoebe’s creatures actually made his horse throw him.
Would the fools be foolish enough to leave in a snowstorm if they had no alcohol?
“Do you think you might have someone mop the front hall and prevent his lordship’s guests from entering this part of the house for a short while?” Olivia asked, diverting the servants’ curiosity.
Husband and wife exchanged identical frowns, then nodded curtly at the same time.
“We’d planned on retiring soon anyway,” the butler said, stoically accepting whatever blame fell on his shoulders. “We’ve put a tidy bit by, and our daughter would welcome us. The house isn’t the same as it was.”
With that little speech of resignation, Jameson set off on his tasks, while his wife set the maids to mopping.
Phoebe grinned as if this were a grand adventure and waited for direction. More cautious, Olivia only fingered the keys in her pocket and waited until she was certain the study was guarded.
Once maids busily scrubbed the hall, guarding the study, she led the way to Owen’s desk.
“We could jimmy the drawers open,” Phoebe suggested, examining the solid wood. “We have these lovely little knives.”
Olivia sat on the desk chair and began wiggling keys in the lock. “We’ll save that until the guests are gone. I’d rather not leave evidence yet.”
As she worked, she became aware of a clacking noise and murmured voices through the half-bare walls.
Phoebe leaned her ear against the place an oil painting had once hung. “Billiards,” she whispered. “They’re just on the other side of this wall.”
Olivia shivered. Giving up on the keys, she pressed her ear against the plaster.
“I think we’ve talked him over,” a gruff male voice said, followed by the clicking of a ball. “He’s no blunt left. He’s in debt to us up to his ears. We just need to promise the earl won’t hear of it.”
“Not from me,” A smooth baritone replied. “I simply report to the old man that all is fine, and he’s content.”
“If Lancaster doesn’t find liquor, we’ll need to bring in girls,” the first man muttered. “We need to skin as much blunt from the lordlings as we can to restock the barrels. They’ll be flocking here by next winter once word gets ’round of the pleasures to be found.”
“Whisky, women, and cards, and we call it a hunting party,” the smooth voice said with a chuckle. “If only Hargreaves was an earl. A minor Scottish title isn’t enough to draw the wealthier sorts. We’ll need bigger titles.”
“That’s your task,” the gruff voice said. “I don’t hobnob with toffs.”
“And your task is to find better females than the village wenches,” the smooth voice sneered. “A high-end establishment requires women who speak the King’s English.”
“Like the witch who lived here?” the rougher voice asked with a laugh. “Where do I find them?”
The clack of several balls colliding startled Olivia from her horror. She stared at Phoebe, who was already backing away in shock.
What kind of establishment required well-speaking women, along with cards and whisky?
A brothel?