Lucas hesitated before approaching the door of her study.
Six hours. Jem and Davie had delivered the trunk to Spinner Street that morning and while Jem stayed to settle in at Spinner Street, Davie returned with the information that Miss Silverdale was at the house. Jem knew to send word when they left for Brook Street, but as the hours ticked by no word had come.
Which meant she was still there, in her study, and no doubt she had already festooned that wall of hers with whatever titbits she extracted from the remnants of his father’s pathetic life.
What would she do if he walked in there and tore the whole thing down, packed her into a post chaise under armed guard and sent her back north where she belonged? Probably wait until he was out of view and talk her way out of the post chaise and start all over somewhere else. The girl was relentless. From the beginning she got her own way on every front. Every concession she appeared to make was just another net tugging him along in her wake.
Relentless.
He looked down at the faded and scuffed floorboards outside her study, remembering the strange interlude at the ball last night. For a moment he had been certain she would faint, but whatever she said it was not her corset that drained her face of blood and her eyes of expression, but shock. Something he said had pulled the world out from under her and that was eating away at him just as much as her violation of his boundaries.
This was pointless, as useful as railing at the moon. Just go in there and see the damage, man.
She was watching the door when he entered, like an animal alert to a predator’s presence. But she must have known it was him because there was no fear on her face and no sign of discomfort. Her mouth was just hovering on the edge of a smile, between welcome, embarrassment and, worst of all, compassion.
Damn the girl. He was not an object of pity, no matter what she had found.
‘Well?’
‘Well what?’
‘Have you unearthed some dastardly plot? Perhaps a secret billet from Napoleon himself?’
‘I haven’t looked,’ she replied.
‘I beg your pardon?’
She indicated the closed trunk.
‘I haven’t looked.’
‘Why the devil not? It isn’t locked.’
‘I presumed it wasn’t, but I didn’t want to open it in your absence.’
He controlled himself with an effort.
‘That was the whole point of my sending it here. You wanted the blasted thing.’
‘Yes, I know. But I’m afraid you will either have to do this with me or take it back. Would you care for some tea?’
He had no idea what to do. Shake his fists at the sky? Walk out? Laugh? Kick the damn trunk into toothpicks and kindling and toss it into the fire? Take her upstairs and do what his body was clamouring for ever since that blasted kiss?
He sat on the sofa and ran his hands through his hair.
‘Brandy?’ she asked and he nodded. The scent of cinnamon permeated the whole house and he realised he hadn’t eaten in hours.
‘Is there anything to eat?’
‘Of course. I must admit I wasn’t quite certain I would approve of Jem, but Nora’s knee is bothering her, it always does before a frost, so it is quite useful to have someone who can help us with the fetching and carrying. He is helping her fix the window catches in the small back parlour so I shan’t bother him. I will go and ask Nora to prepare us a tray myself. Here.’
She handed him a glass of brandy and was gone before he could react. Something buffed at the back of his legs and grey eyes glinted at him as Inky slunk out from under the sofa and went to sit by the trunk like a sculpture of the Egyptian cat god Bastet beside a sarcophagus.
‘I think you’re the only sane one in this house,’ he said, but Inky merely widened her eyes and, very deliberately, inched the empty china bowl where Olivia sometimes dropped titbits for her towards Lucas’s boot. They viewed each other for a moment and then Lucas gently nudged the bowl back towards its owner. The sleek dark fur above Inky’s liquid grey eyes gathered together into a look that would have separated a beggar from his last rag, and again, even more slowly this time, the paw nudged the bowl, this time tapping it gently on the floorboards a few times before settling it against Lucas’s boot.
‘My God, did you take lessons in relentlessness from your mistress?’ Lucas muttered. ‘I don’t have anything but this brandy and I doubt I will be forgiven for encouraging you to tipple.’
Before either could continue their stand-off, the door opened and Olivia slipped back into the room.
‘There. Jem will bring it when it is ready.’
She went to stroke Inky and placed the bowl back in its place. She did not look at him as she moved towards the wall and then back to her desk. She was nervous, but for all her lack of artifice he had no idea what she was thinking this time. Nothing that boded well for him, no doubt.
‘I keep changing my mind,’ she said at last. ‘More than anything I want to help the Paytons, but not at any price. So I have been trying to think of other ways to go about this and I decided I shall visit the vicar, Mr Eldritch. Perhaps he can help me after all. I told Jem to take back the trunk when he has finished helping Nora.’
He put down his brandy and went to stare at the trunk. It sat and sulked and the thought of hauling it back into the attic at the Mausoleum felt...wrong.
‘Not everything can be tucked back into place, Olivia. Come. Let’s see what treasures we can unearth. At the very least a skull or perfumed billets from my father’s mistresses. Open it.’
It was cowardly to make her do it, but she didn’t question his command. With a brief look at him she sank to her knees by the trunk and raised the lid.
It was surprisingly neat for a trunk that stood untouched for twenty years. He wondered if Tubbs had dusted it inside as well as out before bringing it downstairs. Probably.
She touched one of the books with the tip of her finger and he felt a prickling on the back of his neck. He had given his father that volume of Hume’s The History of England. He could remember the feel of the cherrywood-coloured leather when he had chosen it at the bookstore in London the last time he had been there with his family, the year everything went wrong.
She looked at him and he crouched by the trunk as well and opened the book. The edges of the paper were a little frayed, soft from frequent reading, and the inscription on the front page was faded but legible. Even at that age his handwriting resembled his father’s. A little rounder, bold and large, to make a point.
She read his inscription, her voice fading at the end. ‘“I couldn’t find Volume One, but I shall buy it for you when I do. Mr Marley assures me you can begin here. Happy birthday, Papa.”’
He closed the book and put it on the carpet.
They took them out one by one. Most of them were books his father acquired in Boston and told him nothing but that his father loved history. Halfway through the process she went to the desk and brought back a notebook and pencil and began making a list of the books with the seriousness of a quartermaster-general facing a protracted siege.
‘Another list for the wall?’
She glanced up from a cumbersome copy of Burton’s Anatomy of Melancholy. ‘Lists help me think. If it bothers you I shall stop.’
‘Not at all. Pray continue; there should be some record of what my father left behind aside from more unwanted Sinclairs.’
She ignored his comment, which was probably for the best, and he returned to examining the books, handing them to her as he took them out. Beneath the books were sheaves of papers that looked like shipping documents and accounts.
He sighed and took a pile over to the sofa.
‘I will look through these, though I doubt there is anything of interest. You see if anything catches your eye in there. If you find evidence of his mistresses, feel free to toss it in the fire.’
‘What memorabilia do mistresses usually leave behind? Under duress Mr Mercer informed me that the only blatant signs of Henry’s mistress were embroidered pillows, a pot of dying flowers and some feminine garments which I hope Mr Mercer disposed of before Colin’s arrival. You are probably better versed in the tell-tale signs of a mistress given your substantial experience in those quarters. What evidence should I be looking for? Requests for baubles? Complaints about being used and then cast aside when they were no longer sufficiently entertaining?’
Her voice was light, almost funning, but it couldn’t conceal her bitterness and it took the sting out of her comments. Knowing how disappointed she was in her godfather, he should have been more careful.
‘I apologise for ever mentioning the word. Shall we agree to proceed without discussing mistresses?’
‘That might prove difficult. They seem to be rather at the centre of this conundrum, at least on the surface.’
‘You are the one arguing your godfather’s death wasn’t about mistresses at all, so take a leaf from your own book. Besides, I do not have a mistress.’
It wasn’t a lie. Still, he should have kept quiet. He didn’t look up from the papers he was examining, but could feel her watching him with the alert, curious look that portended ill.
‘What of Lady Ilford?’
‘For pity’s sake, Olivia! You cannot just ask a man outright about his private life. It is none of your concern. Besides, depending upon gossip for your information is not reliable. Lady Ilford and I are no longer...associated.’
‘You are right, Lord Sinclair, I apologise. It is none of my concern.’
Her tone was so proper he risked looking up, but she was bent over the contents of the trunk quite as if they had been discussing nothing but the weather. A lock of her hair fell over one shoulder, one curl shaping an inverted question mark over the modest bodice of her dress. She swept it back as she shifted position, settling more comfortably by the trunk, her skirts moulding to the shape of her backside and thighs. His imagination extrapolated from the memory of her waist during the waltz to what it would feel like to skim downwards, over the lush curve of her hip, but this time without gloves, without clothes...
He tightened his hold on the documents to counter their conviction they could already feel those curves, warm, pliant... He schooled his breathing, just as he did before facing danger, forcing himself into a controlled rhythm. He shouldn’t be surprised his mind was showing distinct signs of softening. It was a form of madness to be sitting here at all, going through the documents of a dead man, alone with a respectable if eccentric young woman who was subverting his life without even realising it.
‘Oh! Look!’
Her exclamation didn’t even register until she rose to her knees, holding a packet wrapped in string. Her gaze was wary as it met his and he felt a sting of embarrassment along his cheekbones. She couldn’t possibly know what he was thinking merely by looking at him, could she?
‘They are letters, but it looks like a woman’s hand. Would...would you like to see them? Or shall I put them back?’
‘No.’
She hesitated. ‘No, you don’t want to see them, or, no, don’t put them back?’
Just no. No to all of this.
He stood and went to uncork the brandy. ‘Who are they addressed to?’
‘To Howard. They are dated 1801.’
‘The year of his death. Does it say from whom?’
There was silence and then the rustling of paper. ‘From Tessa.’
He hadn’t expected to be relieved, but he was. Relieved and a host of too many other things.
‘My mother. Theresa.’
‘I will put them back.’
‘No. You wanted this. You read them.’
‘This is personal.’
He turned to face her. ‘This is personal? You have a talent for understatement, Miss Silverdale. Have we finally reached the limits of your audacity? Read the blasted letters.’
He had expected, wanted to shame her or make her angry, but her expression softened further. The insult of her pity and compassion was almost too much for him to bear, but before he did something he would regret further she looked away.
‘Very well.’
‘Aloud.’
‘There is no point trying to punish me for this, Lord Sinclair. It isn’t I who is likely to be hurt.’
‘Read.’
‘Very well,’ she said again, breathed in and began.
Dear Howard,
After my long letter just two days ago I have little of import to add and I do not even know if this will reach you before you sail, but I cannot resist just a few more words to speed you on your way back to us and to tell you that Lucas is home safely.
I am including a more visual greeting from Sam, who insists the green blotch in the centre is your boat being carried on the back of a dragon. A good dragon, apparently. It is to be hoped you do not encounter any such beasts, good or otherwise, on your way home.
We have been busy indeed on our side of the high seas. Now Lucas is down from Harrow he has taken on the task of preparing Chase for those hallowed halls next year.
I eavesdropped unashamedly on these lessons and you will be relieved to hear that they include not merely demonstrations of pugilistic skills, but also pointers on surviving mathematics and Latin, two areas in which Lucas appears to excel, though I have no idea how since neither you nor I are particularly skilled in those arenas and it is all I can do to make the household accounts balance. Perhaps he is, as you said, a little like your brother Oswald. Not in spirit, though, I am relieved to say.
I worried that the events of the past couple of years might change him, but it is not so. Sam ran to him and for a moment I was afraid he might consider himself too old for such displays, but in a moment the three of them were no more than a bundle of limbs and laughs rolling on the lawn.
Chase is in heaven. I think he has missed him most of all, but will show it least.
I decided not to tell them about your father’s and brother’s death. Even without discussing the less than flattering circumstances—wholly appropriate as far as I am concerned—I am only glad at least the females they were entertaining escaped unharmed. I felt it best to wait until your return. I hope Oswald’s letter informing you of the circumstances was not too great a shock but I cannot bemoan their loss. This can mark a new beginning for us.
I am near the end of this page and in a hurry to see it off to you. Hurry back, but above all be safe. Do remember to wear the flannel belt I made under your coat. It will be chilly on the ship and you must keep warm.
I daresay I should call you Lord Sinclair now, but I shan’t. And I dare you to call me Lady Sinclair.
My love with you always.
All our love,
Your Tessa
She was right. It hurt.
He remembered that day. Strange. He remembered precisely that image: Sam running towards him from the house, his mother on the steps of the little cottage. He didn’t remember rolling on the lawn, just the hesitation now that he was all grown up, battling with joy and relief that he was home. That little house in Burford had been more of a home than ever Sinclair Hall or the Mausoleum in London. But it lasted all of two years, perhaps less.
Lucas sometimes wondered if his memories of those two years were a childish fantasy, but his mother’s words were too vivid and real. To her it had been real. Whatever his father had done, she had been happy and still in love after more than a dozen years with his father.
He should give these letters to Chase and Sam. That would be the right thing to do.
Olivia sat with the packet on her lap, her finger touching the scrap of paper with Sam’s attempt at a boat. Then she folded it and put it back on the stack and secured the string and returned it to the trunk and walked out of the room.
For an instant he was too surprised to react. He caught up with her on the stairs to the upper floor.
‘Where are you going...?’ He stopped in shock. Tears were pouring down her cheeks.
‘I am so sorry,’ she whispered. ‘I never should have read that. You are right. About everything. I am so sorry.’
He wrapped his arms around her and because he wanted nothing more than to take her upstairs he led her back down. But he didn’t release his hold on her when he sat with her on the sofa. He handed her his handkerchief and she buried her face in it. Her shoulders were shaking and felt surprisingly frail. He risked touching the honey-brown curls loosely gathered into a knot that was in constant danger of slipping loose. They were feather soft and the scent of peaches reached him. He was particularly partial to peaches, to all summer fruit, but especially peaches, lush and juicy, almost too sweet but with a tart undertone. He resisted the urge to unfasten that knot and burrow into her.
Her voice was muffled as she pressed the handkerchief to her face.
‘She sounds so lovely. Your mother. I’m a horrible person to have forced this on you. This is all wrong.’
He didn’t answer. There was no point in denying the obvious. It was peculiar that this of all things should affect her so.
Before he could answer, the door opened and Jem entered, bearing a tray and followed by Nora. Olivia went to stand by the desk, her back to them, and Nora directed a murderous look at Lucas.
‘Anything else, my lord?’ Jem asked and Lucas shook his head.
Nora did not immediately follow Jem out. ‘He’s a good boy. He can stay if he likes. Good manners,’ she said, adding in a voice that carried a distinct snap, ‘You harm a hair on her head and I’ll have yours. My lord.’
He sighed as the door closed behind her. Olivia had at least emerged from the handkerchief, but she was staring at the wall with a distant look that didn’t reassure him in the least. The teapot clicked against the cup as he poured and she started, wiped her eyes and blew her nose, then came to the table and took the pot from him.
‘You are right—I am throwing myself at a wall and there is nothing behind it. I am only causing damage. I will miss this place.’
‘Why? Where are you going?’
‘I don’t know. I cannot return to Yorkshire and I cannot imagine returning to Guilford. Poor Elspeth. It seemed right at the time but now... But London isn’t right either. You are correct about me. I am not made for ball rooms and drawing rooms.’
‘I did not say that.’
‘You meant it. In any case, it is true. I will cause damage there, as well. I must find another way to help the Paytons. I should marry Colin. At least that way they will never have any material concerns.’
He kept silent and watched her pour the tea. Sometimes her movements were so fluid, unhurried, as if there was someone inside her just waiting for an invitation to let go. Be. She needed an outlet for all that pent-up energy, something other than making lists, playing knight errant and masquerading as a proper young woman. But those were dangerous thoughts and not appropriate at the moment. In fact, none of the thoughts that were crashing about in his head were worthy of being voiced. Still, he couldn’t prevent the return of the memory of her standing with young Payton in the church, her eyes closed as she raised her face to be kissed—tense and resigned. It was all wrong.
‘I don’t think you should act hastily,’ he said.
Some tea sloshed out of the cup she placed on the table by his side.
‘Abandoning my quest is acting hastily? You have been trying to convince me that this is precisely what I should do all along.’
‘I still think you will uncover no dastardly plot, but I don’t think you should make momentous decisions about your future based on grief and guilt and a conviction you have no alternatives. A woman of your character and means has quite a few alternatives. I suggest you explore them before you do anything rash like marrying a man for whom you have no more than a sisterly affection.’
He wasn’t even certain she was listening, her mouth still a downward bow as she inspected her wall.
‘I will put everything in the trunk by tomorrow and you can send someone for it.’
‘I think we should compromise.’
‘Compromise how?’
‘I have a constitutional dislike of leaving a task half-done. I don’t believe your suspicions are correct, but I still want to look at the letters my father sent to Henry Payton and I think we should finish reviewing the documents in the trunk. I am also willing to accompany you to visit that vicar, Eldritch. Once we have done that we can reconsider if we are chasing ghosts. Agreed?’
Olivia turned towards him. The fire chased away the green from her eyes, turning them into molten honey. Her face was as expressive as always—it reflected surprise, relief, a little fear, a gathering of resolution through the weight of weariness. But nothing he was searching for. No gratitude for a reprieve from the life she had described. No excitement, no...passion.
Not that it mattered. Whether she fully accepted it or not, those choices—either spent in social rounds with her ambitious chaperon or as Mrs Colin Payton—were wrong for her. Someone like her doomed to become a provincial matron in Yorkshire or a plodding peer’s wife in London... The mind boggled. It was just wrong. If merely by agreeing to continue he could postpone that fate, his choice was simple. Whether he wanted to or not he had assumed a degree of responsibility for this morass and its perpetrator and, whatever people said of him, he never shirked his responsibilities. Well, rarely.
She sipped her tea and put her cup on the table. ‘I think I shall have some brandy instead.’
‘Celebrating?’
‘I think so. Yes, yes, we are. You are quite correct; I am not ready to admit defeat. Thank you for being willing to see this through.’
He moved towards the sideboard. ‘Whatever you do, don’t thank me, Olivia. I only ever act out of self-interest. Don’t forget that.’
She shrugged and smoothed out her skirts. ‘I won’t. I shall even write it down. Lord Sinclair is irredeemably selfish. Perhaps even put it on the wall. That way I shan’t forget.’
‘I am serious.’
‘I know you are. You are very serious for a rake. I shall have to reassess my definition of the term. Or find a more appropriate label for you. Is that mine?’
‘No, this is yours.’ He handed her one of the glasses.
‘That is less than half yours!’
‘Because you are less than half my size.’
‘Nonsense. I would estimate I am just over half your weight and probably some three-quarters of your height. Besides, it is my brandy.’
‘If you finish this and can still compose a sensible list, you shall have more.’
‘I am twenty-four, you know.’
‘Almost. And I am thirty-two, so I still outstrip you. Now take your brandy and sit down so we can return to our business. This compromise is conditional upon you not arguing with me over everything.’
She sat and smiled up at him and he had the absurd image of going down on his knees for that smile. Putting brandy and lists and death aside and continuing what he had started, stripping her of her worries and controls and thoughts about the future and just...
He turned away, grasping for something to do to escape himself, and remembered the packet in his coat. He extracted it and tossed it on to the desk before going to warm his hands by the fire.
‘I forgot. This is for you.’
‘What is it?’ she asked as she went to pick up the packet.
‘New pencils. You are using the stubs. These are from Keswick, apparently—Borrowdale graphite. The stationer said they are best.’
She untied the string and smiled. ‘A dozen?’
‘Too few?’
She touched her finger to one of the wood-encased pencils. ‘No, this is perfect.’
He turned back to the fire and didn’t answer.
‘Thank you, Lucas. For all of this.’
‘You are welcome. I am merely contributing my share to our wholesale destruction of stationer’s supplies here. Now I want to look at those letters between Payton and my father. You mentioned you made a list of names mentioned in the letters and documents you have read so far. May I see it?’
‘Yes, I have a list where they are by order of number of times mentioned and a list by their connection to his different activities, and another by their chronological appearance, the latest first. I also marked all those I had heard him speak of at any point with an X. I presume most of those people are unrelated to our concerns so I made another list only of those who have the most points of connection...’ She stopped and looked up with sudden suspicion. ‘Are you laughing at me?’
He mastered his smile. ‘Not in the least. I am merely thinking how much my uncle Oswald would appreciate your methods. Show me that last one, please. We shall have to make similar lists for my father’s papers. See if anything ties them together.’
‘Do you think...? No.’
‘No, what?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Out with it, Olivia.’
‘Did your mother keep your father’s letters? These are just her letters to him.’
‘I don’t know. She might have destroyed them after what she learned. She was very upset. I don’t know.’
‘Never mind. I’m sorry. It was silly to ask.’
‘No, it wasn’t, but I don’t know. Even if she didn’t destroy them, they might have remained in Venice or even been lost. We left England soon after for Italy.’
‘Was her family from Venice?’
‘My grandmother’s family, yes. They have a monstrous old palace right on the Grand Canal. My cousin transformed it into a casino since we left so it is probably in better shape than what I remember.’
‘I would love to see Italy.’ She sighed. ‘It seems strange that my parents travelled everywhere, but I have only been three places in my life—London, Yorkshire and Guilford. I always thought it was terribly unfair they never thought to take any of us with them on their travels.’
‘Very unfair. Perhaps one day you will go there.’
‘Probably not. This is likely the most outrageous thing I shall ever do with my life. Never mind. Well, we shall make do with what we have here.’
She sounded so determined he smiled. He had a peculiar urge to put his arm around her and comfort her. He had no idea what for, but he knew it would probably lead down the wrong path. He was within a hair’s breadth of offering to take her to Venice. Best stick to business.
‘I’ll split this stack of letters with you and we can start writing down names and anything else of interest. I want you to list whatever information you have about your godfather. Anything at all you can think of. Can you do that?’
She nodded, her eyes lighting. He hated giving her false hope, but if he was going to pursue this phantom conspiracy of hers he might as well do it thoroughly. Besides, he wanted to know more about the man she so blatantly adored. Not clever, but there it was.