Chapter Thirty-Nine

Oliver reached for the whisky decanter then cursed as he realized it was empty. The springs of his chair squeaked in protest as he pushed it back and rose in agitation. He wrenched open the study door.

“Burk!”

The butler appeared. “Yes, my lord.”

Oliver raised the decanter. “More whisky. Now.”

The look of concern on the proper butler’s face grated on Oliver’s nerves. It had been a week since the awful affair at the Malverns’ home, a week since he’d numbed his mind, his body, his senses with alcohol. For the first time, he understood why his brother’s friends indulged on a daily basis.

“Perhaps you should hold off on more,” Burk said.

Oliver rubbed his chin, his whiskers scraping his palm. He hadn’t shaved in a week. He’d discarded his coat and waistcoat and was dressed in his shirtsleeves and a limp cravat. “What the devil for? Need I remind you that I pay you well to fetch me things?”

“Do not be an arse.” The unexpected female voice which sounded behind his butler had the effect of nails grating on a chalkboard.

“Good grief. She’s here?” Oliver’s tongue suddenly felt thick in his mouth.

His butler did not say a word as the much-shorter dowager appeared from behind the man.

“Yes, I am here.” His grandmother’s keen gaze raked him from head to toe before turning back to his butler. “Forget the whisky, Burk. Bring strong tea.”

“Yes, my lady.” Burk bowed and sprinted from sight with the speed of a man half his age.

His grandmother marched inside the study and shut the door. Her eyes narrowed and her lips pursed in disapproval—the same look of disapproval that she’d given him when he’d filled his brother’s best riding boots with sand after one of their childhood brawls.

“You look awful. Has your valet left you?”

“Have you come to insult me?” Oliver returned to his chair behind his desk. Best to put some distance between them.

Undeterred, she marched into the room. “It’s been a week, and I have not heard from you. I thought I’d never see the day that you would behave in a similar fashion to your father and brother.”

Oliver stiffened. It was the worse insult she could give him and had the same reaction as a slap in the face. He’d knew he’d drunk too much, but he had an excuse, dammit.

A good one, and if she didn’t understand, then he was best left alone.

He lifted his glass to his lips, then grumbled when he remembered it was already empty.

“You are frightening the female servants and agitating your butler,” she said.

“Leave, then.”

“Why? So you can sulk in misery?”

He slammed down his glass on the desk. “I’m not sulking. I never sulk. Why must you insist on insulting me?”

Harumph. His grandmother approached his desk like a vulture ready to scavenge off of what she’d aptly named his misery. “I take it your sudden change in behavior is due to Miss Gardner. Or Miss Woodbridge.” She waved a hand. “Or whichever name she prefers.”

He did not want to talk about Ana. A nagging guilt burned in his chest and left a sour taste in his mouth. For as long as he lived, he’d remember the look of despair on her face as she turned to him after she’d been dismissed from her position. He’d been convinced of her subterfuge and had not believed her.

“I know you tried to search for her years ago. You have a good heart, my boy. You always have.”

“It does not matter now. I never found her.” Oliver let out a held-in breath. He never approved of his father’s lack of morals. If he had found Ana all those years ago and tried to right his father’s wrongs, would things have been different between them?

The dowager sat in a chair across from his desk and pursed her lips. “Life has a strange way of throwing the past into our present. Perhaps God made her Lady Penelope’s companion for a reason.”

“God had nothing to do with it,” he snapped.

He hadn’t met her through the Malverns, not initially. He’d first set eyes on Ana at a notorious brothel. It wasn’t something he’d discuss with his grandmother. He’d thought about that first meeting a thousand times over the course of the week.

Had Ana known he would be at the Silver Chalice that night? The more he thought about it, the more he’d come to the conclusion that it was highly improbable. Even he wasn’t sure he’d accompany his brother’s friends until the last minute. And even more compelling, Ana’s reasoning to be at the brothel and to dress as Lady Scarlet had nothing to do with his presence there. She wanted to experience passion before her thirtieth birthday, she’d said, and he’d been lucky enough to be the one she’d chosen to accomplish the task.

She couldn’t have planned that encounter.

“You may not agree with me that fate put her in your path, but does it really matter how you two became acquainted?” the dowager asked.

It mattered if, once she’d learned his identity, she had agreed to an affair for the sole purpose of revenge. God only knew she had sufficient motive to hate his father, his brother…and himself. He’d been ignorant the entire time Ana had been at Rosedown.

What must she have thought, have felt, to revisit her home yet not be the mistress there? He’d even taken her to the greenhouse. Looking back, no wonder her eyes had been full of longing and adoration as she’d identified each rosebush, each exotic flower. She wasn’t taken with the greenery; she was reminiscing about precious time spent with her mother.

Fate was a cruel bitch.

He rubbed an ache in the center of his chest. He needed more whisky. Now.

“I may have been at fault.” His grandmother circled the room, then sat on the chair across from his desk.

“How?”

“In my ambition to see you settled as the new earl, I overlooked your happiness. I admit I desired an heir to the earldom before I died—I still do—but I do not want you to repeat your parents’ mistake of a loveless and empty marriage.”

“I do not blame you. I know you meant, and still mean, well.”

“Then you should know that I saw love in Ana’s eyes.”

Oliver’s fingers tightened on the edge of the desk as he looked at his grandmother. “You are mistaken.”

She rose, pressed her hands on the surface of the desk, and met his gaze with one of ferocious intensity. “No, Oliver. I am not mistaken. You may believe me old as a dried turnip, but I loved your grandfather. Our marriage was a rare and passionate match, unlike your parents’. I know love when I see it.”

His chest tightened as if a giant hand reached inside and squeezed his heart in a vice. Had Ana told the truth? Was she about to confess all when they’d been interrupted in the music conservatory?

Did she love him?

He was miserable, and the harder he tried to ignore the truth, the more it persisted. He loved her, truly loved her, and that was the most fearful emotion of all. For a man who’d sworn duty was more important than the foolish notion of love, it was frightening. A man who’d never viewed marriage as anything more than a required nuisance and a businesslike affair, Ana had turned his world upside down and the thought of losing her was unbearable.

He needed to see her, to explain, to apologize.

“Even though she was disguised as a companion, she is the daughter of Lord Woodbridge. A true lady,” the dowager said.

A lady. He understood the implication. Was his grandmother encouraging a match between them after all that had occurred?

She read his mind as she rose and went to the door. “You must make your own decision, my boy, but do not waste precious time drinking whisky. Need I remind you that the lady has a knack for disappearing?”

A knock at the study door rudely interrupted Oliver’s response.

“Ah, it must be the tea,” his grandmother said as she opened the door to find the Duke of Warwick standing in the doorway. “Impeccable timing, Your Grace. I was just leaving. I hope you enjoy tea because my grandson needs it,” she said on her way out.

“Good day, my lady.” Warwick’s lips twisted in humor as he waved, then shut the door. He then turned to eye Oliver. “You look like dung.”

Oliver cringed but knew it was true. His grandmother had already pointed out his appearance, although she’d phrased it a bit more eloquently than the duke.

“Why are you here?”

“It’s our afternoon to meet at White’s, remember? I was going to tell you about my newest inventive success.”

That felt like a lifetime ago. “There have been complications.”

“By complications, I can only assume it involves your lady. Whatever it is, I do believe I predicted the outcome.”

His throat was as dry as if he’d sucked on cotton. He groaned and leaned over his desk, his head in his hands. “Not exactly. Ana and I were discovered together by Lady Malvern and my grandmother. Turns out Ana is the long-lost daughter of Lord Woodbridge. She was dismissed from her position.”

“Lord Woodbridge’s daughter, you say? Well, that explains the whisky. How much have you consumed?”

He glanced at the empty decanter on the corner of his desk. “Too much. I need to sober up and find her.”

“The dowager talked some sense into you, has she?”

“Don’t tell me that you’re here to do the same.” He looked up and scowled at the duke.

Warwick chuckled. “From the looks of you, I don’t need to punish you. You have succeeded in making yourself miserable all on your own.”

Oliver pushed back his chair. “What are friends for? Now if you really want to help, I need to find Ana. I have no idea where she ran off to.”

“Lucky I’m here, then. I ran into the trio of idiots while waiting for you at White’s,” the duke said.

That got Oliver’s attention. His eyebrows drew together in a frown. “My brother’s friends?”

“For the first time, their endless gossip turned out to be valuable. They say there is a new croupier at the Silver Chalice—your Lady Scarlet.”