Six Degrees of Scandal (13 page)

The innkeeper directed her to a good-sized room upstairs, where the fire was already lit. Her valise as well as another bag that must be Jamie's were stowed neatly by the washstand. And just beyond that stood the bed, wide and inviting.

The sight of it made her stop.

For ten years she had tried to forget what it was like with Jamie. Three days in his company made her remember everything. Not only the physical pleasure—despite his youth and inexperience, Jamie had made love to her with astonishing enthusiasm and tenderness—but the joy and comfort of being loved so deeply and purely. Never had she found anyone else who cared for her that way. Abigail and Penelope were like sisters to her, but there were things she couldn't tell them. Jamie, on the other hand . . . She had always known she could confide anything to him, and she had trusted him wholeheartedly.

But as she had stood at the window that horrible day in Tunbridge Wells, brokenhearted and alone with a husband who was very much a stranger to her, watching the man she loved ride away, Olivia had thought herself the stupidest creature alive. If she hadn't been so trusting and honest with Jamie, he never would have been able to hurt her so badly. Then and there she vowed not to touch him, not to be alone with him, not to speak to him of anything beyond trivialities. She didn't even want to know about his activities; surely it was only a matter of time before he fell in love and married someone else, and Olivia wasn't sure she could bear that. It was easier to build a wall between them.

Suddenly she wished she hadn't done it. It had protected her wounded young heart, but at the cost of a friendship that had sustained her since she was a child. If she hadn't pushed him away, Jamie might have helped her endure her lonely, loveless marriage. Henry wouldn't have cared. And Olivia knew that, if she had asked, Jamie would have advised her when Clary started hounding her. The same pride that had kept her from telling him how desperate her father's finances were, ten years ago, had also kept her from telling Jamie—and all the Westons—that she was in serious trouble.

Olivia let out her breath. She wanted to solve her own problems, but by not asking for help when she needed it, she had only made things worse. And as soon as Jamie learned of it, he had come, focused and determined and willing to risk his own safety to help her.

There was no undoing the past, but she could learn from it. Olivia readied for bed, feeling a tendril of hope in her breast. It might be too late to hope for anything else, but three days with Jamie had vividly reminded her how easily they got on together. If she could manage to revive their friendship, it would be like restoring a piece of her heart. As she got into bed, she said a small prayer that he would feel the same.

J
amie sat by the fire for a long time.

Olivia had told the innkeeper they were married and would share a room. Jamie had to remind himself—repeatedly—not to make too much of that. She didn't want to be alone. She had been through unimaginable strain lately. If by some chance Lord Clary forged through the snow and caught up to them, discovered what room they had, and burst through the locked door in the middle of the night, it would be a very good thing that Jamie be there to protect her.

He scrubbed his hands over his face. That was as likely as Olivia throwing herself into his arms and letting him make love to her. He'd noticed—keenly—that she wouldn't touch him, not even when climbing through a hedge. No, her actions tonight were surely motivated by fear of being helpless and alone, and he had pledged himself to protect her, not add to her anxieties. Which meant his actions tonight would be motivated by decency and honor. If he took even the slightest advantage of the situation, he would be no better than Clary—worse, in fact.

The maid came to clear away the dishes. “Will you be wanting another bottle of wine, sir?”

It was tempting. He shook his head and levered himself out of the chair. “No thank you.”

“Good night, sir.” She let herself out, the door propped open in her wake as a hint that he ought to go upstairs. A glance at his watch showed the hour was late. When he opened the shutter over one window, he saw a field of white, the snow still drifting down on the deserted inn yard. On the slim chance Clary's servant managed to follow their trail, Jamie had spoken to the groom who helped him stable the horses about any visitors who might come after them. With the snow falling all day, albeit lightly, it was far less likely anyone could follow them—yet. It was some comfort that they could sleep easily tonight.

Well—as easily as possible, given the shared room.

He took a deep, resolute breath. If he could endure eight years of seeing Olivia married to another man, he could endure one night in the same room with her. Still, he finished every drop of wine before packing up the papers and heading for the stairs.

The room was dark when he let himself in. A single lamp sat on the mantel, the wick turned down low to provide a bare minimum of light. It was enough to show the pile of blankets neatly folded on the table, which filled him with a mixture of disappointment and relief. He hadn't really expected to share the bed with her, and yet the possibility had lodged in his mind like a burr.

There was a rustle of bedclothes as Olivia stirred. “Jamie?”

He set his jaw. So much for hoping she might be asleep already. “Yes.”

“Did you discover anything helpful?” Her voice was soft and drowsy, a little husky with sleep.

“No.” His mind fixated on the image of Olivia in bed, her long, dark hair curling over the pillow, her body relaxed and clad in only a nightgown—or less. He pictured her blue eyes, clear and sparkling, as she smiled at him in the morning. With a jerk he turned his back to the bed, realizing he was staring hungrily at her shadowed form while she was still worrying about Henry's criminal past catching up to her.

“I didn't expect you would,” she said, almost consolingly. “I fear it's all going to come to naught.”

He took off his jacket and sat down to tug at his boots. “I don't give up that easily.”

“Oh!” She sat up. He could tell by the creak of the bed ropes. “I didn't mean to suggest that. It just seems you were right about Henry; he didn't want anyone to find out, and he's made it nearly impossible.”

One boot came off; he set it near the hearth. “We've only begun. Don't despair.”

“I'm not despairing,” she said. “Merely . . . doubtful.”

Of course she would be. Olivia had had more than her fair share of things to doubt in her life—including him. Especially him, to be honest. Jamie set his second boot next to the first and went to work on his waistcoat buttons. “We're a long way from surrender. I sense those weather reports are the key to finding anything overlooked after Hen
ry's death. A trip to Ramsgate will put it to rest one way or the other.”

“Ramsgate is so far . . .”

“It'll be worth the trip if we find something. I think we should go.” He said it firmly and confidently, because they didn't really have an alternative. If there was a smuggled piece of art still missing, they were locked in a race with Clary to find it first. Olivia had suggested they visit Henry's London solicitor, but they could do that at any time. Once Clary found any contraband art, it would be gone. If the man had any brains at all, he would take his illicit prize and flee, never to set foot in England again.

Jamie didn't want that. Clary belonged in prison, not in a quiet villa in Italy living off the profits of a stolen masterpiece.

She was quiet for several minutes, until he began to think she might have drifted back to sleep. That was his hope, anyway. His imagination had more than it could handle, listening to her voice in the dark and knowing he would be hearing her breathing all night long. He pulled at his cravat, not sure if this was paradise or torment.

“Perhaps you're right. I'm sure it will sound better in the morning.”

In the morning. There was no question they needed to be off at first light, which would be much easier after a good night's sleep. The only problem was, how was he to get it, while listening to her every sleepy sigh and murmur?

It took only a few minutes to shake out the blankets and make a pallet on the floor in front of the fire. It wasn't comfortable but he'd slept on worse.
He stretched out his legs and closed his eyes and tried not to listen to the rustle of the bedclothes as Olivia moved around in bed.

“Jamie?” Her voice made him start. He looked up, right into her face, peering down at him over the side of the bed. “You must regret coming after me.”

“Not at all,” he said at once. “Don't even think that.”

She laid her cheek on the edge of the mattress. The long braid of her hair swung over her shoulder, the curling end hanging right above his head. Jamie tried not to stare at it in fascinated longing. “I realize how much effort and expense you've gone to, and I cannot express how deeply I appreciate everything—you would have been well justified in walking away after I hit you with a shovel.”

“That was an honest mistake.”

“And you nearly froze today, driving in the snow,” she went on. “You must be exhausted, and yet you want to go to Ramsgate tomorrow.”

He wasn't cold now—far from it—and he wasn't sure he could sleep a wink. A flood of memories, of that one golden sunny afternoon and of all the broken dreams he'd had to survive on since then, were playing through his mind, tempting, teasing, taunting. Perhaps a gentleman would be able to repress those wicked thoughts, but he didn't have it in him, not now. “Go to sleep, Olivia.”

“Of course.” She sighed. “I'm sorry. I tell you how tired you must be and how much you deserve a good night's sleep, but here I make you sleep on the floor and then chatter at you.”

He had to smile at that. “I've slept on far worse
floors than this, and I like your chatter. It feels so long since we really talked.”

“Doesn't it?” Her voice warmed. “I wish we had better subjects to discuss than—”

“Tell me about your family,” he interrupted. “I hope they are well.” What he really hoped was that her family had become kinder to her in the years since her marriage. His sisters had told him little of the Herberts.

“I believe so,” she said after a moment. “My sister married Lord MacLaren of Edinburgh. It was a splendid match for her. He was kind enough to grant my parents a small manor house in his possession. I believe they are quite happy there. So said my mother's last letter, a few years ago, when they took up residence.”

“You haven't heard from them in a few years?”

A curious expression, somewhere between disgust and relief, flitted across her face. “They sent their condolences when Henry died.”

He breathed through his nose. Sir Alfred sold his daughter to Henry Townsend for a few thousand pounds, and then abandoned her? Not even Jamie had thought that little of him. “Have they given up Kellan Hall, then?”

“I believe they took a tenant.” Her voice grew a little wistful. “I haven't been there in years. Even if they were there, I wouldn't have gone.”

“Because of Henry?”

The question came out before he could stop it. For years Jamie had told himself he didn't want to know about Olivia's husband and marriage. Of course, that deliberate ignorance had lulled him into thinking she was taken care of, doing well
enough on her own. Even once he knew better, he had tried to confine his investigations to Henry's illicit activities, not to anything personal. He shifted on the hard floor and told himself he ought to ask more questions, even about subjects he didn't like to dwell on. He couldn't allow any more misconceptions, about anything.

“Henry had nothing to do with it—well, not directly. He wouldn't have prevented me from going, but I suppose he's the reason I never wanted to.” The wistfulness had vanished from her tone. “My father used Mr. Townsend's money—my marriage settlement—to give Daphne a lovely Season. My mother told me of all the fine dresses she wore and all the suitors she had. Daphne became the beauty everyone expected her to be, and she was quite a success.” She paused. “I don't think you were in London that year.”

“No,” he said after a moment. “I wasn't.” After that soul-crushing day in Tunbridge Wells, when she wore another man's ring on her finger and told him they should keep any regrets to themselves, Jamie had gone home and told his father he wanted to be anywhere in the world except London, or any part of southeastern England. Surprised, his father had suggested he go to Devonshire and investigate reports of a coming boom in tin mining. So Jamie went and spent the next year there; his own fortune had been born, as he realized the significance of the find. Engineers had learned how to dig deep into hillsides and find deposits of tin in mines that had been abandoned for years. At the same time, a man in London had developed a method of preserving food in tin-
plated boxes, which sent the demand for tin soaring, especially from the army and navy, with their thousands of soldiers and sailors in need of provisions. Jamie threw himself into it, and learned how to strike partnerships with landowners and negotiate fair wages with laborers. It all paid off very handsomely. He still owned shares of some of those mines.

And it had kept him far away from Olivia and her husband.

“So your sister married well,” he said, shaking off the memories of that time. “I recall it was your mother's dearest wish that she marry a lord.” Lady Herbert must have wanted the same for Olivia, once upon a time. Not that it had moved her to prevent the marriage to Henry Townsend, who was most definitely not nobility of any sort.

“Yes, our mother was very well pleased with the match: an earl, you know. MacLaren was handsome and eligible, even if Scottish, and he had a large fortune. Everything Mother and Father wanted,” she said wryly. “Daphne seemed pleased with him as well. He was several years older than she, and he indulged her a great deal. I believe the only mark against him was that he preferred to remain on his Scottish properties. Daphne was certain she could persuade him to return to London for the Season every year, but to the best of my knowledge they haven't.”

He frowned slightly. “You don't know?”

She was quiet for a long moment. “I wasn't in great charity with my parents. My mother would come to call, especially after Henry took the house in St. James Square, which struck her as a
very fashionable part of town. She wanted me to be pleased at Daphne's triumph, but I found it . . . difficult.”

Because she'd been denied any similar success, to say nothing of choice. How could Lady Herbert have expected Olivia to take joy in her sister's marriage, when it had been made possible by the ruination of Olivia's own hopes and happiness? His hands were in fists again, and it took him several deep breaths to overcome the tide of loathing he felt for himself. Even as a young man he had known the Herbert parents weren't as kind and loving as his own, but he had left her to face them on her own. What a little idiot he'd been.

“Olivia,” he said very quietly, “was Henry kind to you?”

She didn't answer. The firelight flickered on her face, disguising her expression.

“I don't mean to pry,” he went on, “nor to resurrect unpleasant memories. But I have always . . . wondered.”

Her sigh was barely audible. “He was not unkind. If I wanted a new bonnet or a subscription to the lending library, he would agree without hesitation. He was generous with his funds. I'd no idea, of course, that he spent every last farthing during his life and left me nothing—” She stopped abruptly. “He never struck me or mocked me. In the beginning, we tried to be cordial, but before long we both knew it would never be anything more. Henry . . . He was very charming and witty, and he hated sitting at home at nights. A dinner party or a theater outing pleased him
much more, and a carriage race or a cockfight would enthrall him. His father told me directly that he hoped marriage would settle Henry, but he must have been sorely disappointed. I never had the sort of influence that would have swayed him. Mr. Townsend—his father—did; until his death Henry lived within his means and was somewhat conscious of propriety. But after Mr. Townsend died, Henry lost all interest in economy or moderation. And far from being able to prevent it, I didn't even realize it.”

“Do you think you could have stopped him, if you had?”

“No,” she said immediately. “But it would have put me on guard for what was to come. That's the only thing I cannot forgive him. When he died, I expected to live more simply. I never expected to be—”