Six Degrees of Scandal (8 page)

Olivia pulled the blankets over her head to muffle any more provocative sounds—and thoughts—and somehow managed to fall asleep.

W
hen she awoke after a surprisingly deep slumber, the sun was slanting through the tiny windows under the low roof. Something made her lie still, hardly breathing. A thud sounded faintly up the stairs, the front door opening or closing, and it all came back to her. Jamie was here.

Olivia exhaled. She was glad of it, really she was. It was nerve-racking to be alone, always worried that Clary would walk around the corner at any moment with his terrifying smile and menacing air. Jamie's presence also wound her nerves tight, but for different reasons. She had nothing to fear from him. And while he couldn't prevent Clary from finding her, his company gave her
courage that she could survive such an encounter.

When she went downstairs, dressed and composed, he looked up with a grin. “Good morning.”

She had to smile. He crouched before the fire, newly built up, angling bread over the flames with a toasting fork. Gratefully she came to the edge of the hearth—it was cold enough to see her breath upstairs—and inspected his cooking. “Bread with cheese?”

“No ordinary bread with cheese.” He pulled the fork from the fire and shoveled the bread onto a plate. “Taste it, but beware: the cheese is hot.”

Gingerly Olivia took a tiny bite. The cheese, crowned by crispy brown bubbles, had melted into the toasted bread. “It's delicious,” she mumbled, taking another bite.

“I know.” Jamie took the second piece of bread from the fire. “When I was a sad and lonely university student, far from my mother's table, my mates and I would roast anything over the fire when we were hungry. Apples and pears were best. Bread was also good, but the day we put cheese on top of it . . .” He closed his eyes and bit into his bread, making a throaty noise of pleasure as he chewed, his expression one of rapture.

A shiver went through her. The intimacy of breakfasting with him suddenly seemed to thicken the air. All these years, this could have been her life—this, and more. Yet again the weight of all she'd lost pressed on her heart.

Jamie opened his eyes. “Besides, there was precious little in your larder.” If he felt any charge in the atmosphere, he didn't show it. “Eat, Livie.”

She ducked her head and obeyed. It was dis
concerting to think that she was still haunted by things he appeared to have tactfully forgotten. After all, she had been the one to insist they could remain friends, and she had been very careful to keep it so. She even wanted it to be that way. It was too late for anything else, and she would have to remember that.

“I read Henry's book last night.” He paused to catch a bit of cheese before it fell from his bread. “If he wasn't a smuggler, he was engaged in some very shady dealings of another sort. By my rough tally, he paid out more than two thousand pounds over the last two years of his life.”

Olivia choked. “
How
much?”

He pushed a mug across the table, filled with warm tea. “Twenty-two hundred pounds. There's no income, but I daresay Mr. Brewster has that book.”

“He said not . . .”

Jamie shrugged. “I wouldn't admit it, either. If the price of transporting goods was two thousand, I imagine the income from the sales exceeded ten or twelve thousand.”

She put down her bread. “That is impossible.”

“We'd have to review Mr. Brewster's books to know, and I wager he's hidden them very carefully by now, if not destroyed them.” He stopped at her expression. “Impossible for a man to spend ten thousand in two years? Think, Livie. You know it's not. Especially when one considers all the people who must be paid for their silence. Not that it matters now.”

Her mind raced. Bitterly she thought of her canceled annuity. If Henry had that much money
flowing through his hands, he hardly needed her pittance, and yet he'd taken it, too. “Why not?”

“I thought about it all night. Why would Clary come after you? It seems Henry was a vital piece of the operation and once he died, the chain was fatally broken. Every other friend of his vanished from view, you said; only Clary kept prowling around. Aside from any . . . er . . . repulsive propositions, he wanted something from you. He conspired with Lord Stratford to get my sister on a yacht where she couldn't escape his demands for information about you, and he told her Stratford wanted to find you as much as he did. Stratford himself told his son you had information he wanted. Since you never met Lord Stratford, it couldn't be something personal that he wanted. Clary and Stratford must have been referring to something else, some object Clary thinks you have.” Jamie paused as the color bled from Olivia's face. “I believe Henry smuggled something into England right before his death, but failed to deliver it, and they want it.”

“Oh, that's just too much!” she exclaimed furiously. “Of course I don't have anything but they'll never believe that!”

“We're not going to
persuade
Lord Clary to leave you be,” Jamie retorted. “This item—if it exists—doesn't belong to him at all. Even if you did have it, you would hardly invite him to take it and wish him well.”

“You're right.” She calmed a bit. “But I know you must be thinking of using this mystery item in some way. How?”

“You know me too well,” he said in admiration. “Or is my devious nature becoming more obvious?”

She laughed reluctantly. “The former, I hope! Although a little deviousness would be helpful now, too.”

His eyes darkened and his smile slipped, and something like pain flickered over his face. But it was gone in an instant, and when he spoke his voice was the same. “I never could hide anything from you. Still, this isn't the best plan I've ever had.” He held up one hand, ticking off on his fingers. “First, no such piece may exist; Clary could be utterly mistaken and as you say, it would be nigh impossible to convince him of that. Second, even if it does, we don't know the slightest thing about it. Third, we haven't got it or anything remotely close that could be used to dupe Clary into revealing himself. And fourth . . .”

“Fourth?” she prompted as he fell silent.

“Fourth . . .” Jamie avoided her rapt gaze. “Looking for it could attract even more attention. There's no telling who else might suspect Henry had things hidden away.”

Oh. Olivia sat back, the black cloud billowing around her again. As if Clary weren't bad enough, there might be more people waiting to see if she had any of Henry's smuggled valuables. “Perhaps I should flee to America,” she said darkly. “It can't be any more daunting than this.”

“It never hurts to have a plan in reserve.” Jamie pushed the book into the center of the table, where Olivia eyed it with displeasure. Perhaps she ought to throw it on the fire after all. “But I think we have good odds. What was the solicitor's name who turned you away yesterday?”

“Mr. Armand. But he said he burned every
thing from Mr. Charters, who was Henry's real solicitor.”

Jamie nodded. “I'm sure he told you that. My father used to be an attorney. They don't destroy clients' papers blithely. If anything, most solicitors are guilty of keeping things far longer than they ought. It's tedious to sort out what should be destroyed and what should be kept, and it's far easier just to pack it all away. Even if Mr. Armand knew he had proof of illegal activity that his client wanted destroyed, he might still keep parts of the record—to prove himself innocent, if nothing else. Think of the suspicion he would be under: he bought the practice of Mr. Charters, who turned out to aid and abet smugglers. Did he know that when he bought it? Was that, perhaps, part of his desire to have it? Perhaps he wanted entree to those smugglers for his own purposes . . .”

“Well,” Olivia managed to say. “That certainly
is
devious.”

“With this much money at stake, never rule it out.”

She simply hadn't thought of it. She could barely comprehend the sum Jamie mentioned. Her mood grew dark as she thought of all the liars and cheaters she had to deal with. Henry, the selfish, lying cad. Clary, odious and cruel. Mr. Armand and possibly even Mr. Brewster, deliberately lying to her, uncaring of the danger—and poverty—they exposed her to, all to cover their own actions.

“Livie?” Jamie's soft voice broke through the black haze of fury enveloping her. She blinked and focused her gaze on him. “You went away,” he said. “Don't despair. It's not hopeless.”

If not, it was only thanks to him. As wary as Olivia was, she couldn't deny that she stood a much better chance of outwitting Clary with Jamie's help. Only he believed she could save herself from this mess, and was willing to risk his own safety to help her—even after she whacked him with a shovel. A little voice inside her head whispered that she was risking all her hard-won detachment by doing this, and that she might rue this day for years to come if Jamie broke her heart again. But at this moment, Olivia thought it was worth the gamble. She had kept her head and her poise around Jamie for years, after all.

She leaned forward and fixed a determined gaze on him. “What should we do? I presume you have an idea, hopefully a very devious and underhanded one.”

His brows rose with pleased surprise. “Hopefully?”

“If Mr. Armand and Clary and all the rest can deceive and bully me, I feel no qualms about lying to them. What shall we do?”

His grin grew wider. “I like the way you reason. We're definitely going to tell some lies. And they are never going to bully you again.”

T
he plan they conceived was both brilliantly simple and frighteningly brash.

Jamie had stayed up late reading Henry's diary from cover to cover. Nothing in it contradicted his theory that Henry had been a smuggler, but nothing confirmed it, either. Every entry listed a payment made to someone else, but not a single payment received. There had to be a book recording income, which must list Henry's customers. If Lord Stratford and Clary were a representative sample, that could be dangerous knowledge, but Jamie thought it was better to know than not, if only to guard against any other lurking threats.

Plumbing the depths of a ring of smugglers, though, wouldn't necessarily help Olivia. It was unlikely that Clary would take such risks if he only wanted Henry's personal papers. The logical answer was that he wanted something else, something far more valuable, but he needed the papers to find it. That meant Olivia had to get them before Clary could.

“And those are the papers Mr. Armand kept,” Olivia guessed when he pointed it out.

Jamie held up one hand. “Perhaps. I still think the London solicitor knows more than he told you.” Her jaw firmed, and her eyes flashed. Something inside Jamie sparked to life at the sight of her temper; it brought color and animation back to her face, and banished the anxious air that clung to her. “But Armand is closer, so we'll deal with him first. Obviously he wouldn't have sent you this book if he'd realized what it is. This documents at least two years' worth of smuggling.”

Olivia threw a malevolent glance at the little book. “I still can't believe it . . .”

“I could be wrong,” Jamie allowed, but he doubted it. There were only so many explanations for entries like
Ten Pounds, six shillings to Capn. B (Madonna).
Henry Townsend had been one bold fellow, openly recording his payments to local contacts who either hid or transported the illicit goods. Jamie appreciated that now, as it would make his and Olivia's task much easier.

“But you think he hasn't burned everything else,” Olivia said, returning to the main point. “You think Mr. Armand still has useful information.”

“If we were wagering, I'd lay a large sum he does.”

She pressed her lips together. “He lied to me.”

“Probably.”

“He won't do it again,” she vowed. “I'm going back to his office.”

Jamie grinned. That was his plan, and he was pleased Olivia agreed. “We should. I think we can—”

“No.” She avoided his startled gaze. “Not
we
, Jamie. I can do this.”

Instinctively he scowled. “Of course you aren't going alone.”

“Why not?” She picked up the diary and seemed to weigh it in her hands. “I've managed thus far.”

Primed to argue, Jamie had to clench his hands into fists to keep his mouth closed. Of course she was right. Not only had she borne up under Clary's intimidation and Henry's neglect, she had taken her fate into her own hands when she slipped away from London in secret to conduct her own investigation—and then defended herself violently when she felt threatened. There was steel in Olivia, more than most people recognized.

As for him, his desire to leap to her aid and spare her any more unpleasantness might feel noble, but he had to remind himself that he had no right to overrule her. Even more, if he wanted to win her trust again, swooping in to order her about was not the way to do it. Olivia hadn't liked that when she was a child, and he had no doubt she would put him in his place if he tried it now. As little as he liked it, he had to give way.

“If you prefer,” he said. She darted a wary glance at him, and he nodded in grudging concession. “It might be best to keep our acquaintance quiet. Clary doesn't know me, which means he won't be attuned to anything I do.” It also occurred to him that the viscount's likely reaction to any man helping Olivia would probably be a pistol shot to the back of the head. The more anonymity Jamie had, the more useful he could be.

But that didn't leave many options for getting
anything from Armand, so in the end they decided on a bold, simple strike. Olivia put on her cloak and bonnet, looking determined and confident, and set out for town. Jamie followed her from a careful distance until she reached the edge of Gravesend, almost within sight of the solicitor's office. He might agree that she could face the man alone, but he'd be damned if he'd allow her to walk about unprotected while Clary was free. If anything happened to her, Jamie would never forgive himself.

She turned the corner, heading up the main thoroughfare into town, and Jamie went the other way, tugging his muffler higher around his face. The first thing he had to do was get Olivia out of that isolated cottage. If he could find her there, so could anyone else. Penelope had given him a little information, when he set out to find Olivia, but the biggest clue by far was that the Townsends had come from Kent, specifically Rochester. That had narrowed his search considerably, but it was hardly a great secret. It was a stroke of luck that Mr. Armand had turned out to be relatively near London, and not in one of the many smuggling villages scattered across the entire Kentish coast. But it was a stroke that could cut both ways, and the sooner Olivia quit Gravesend, the better.

He headed around town along the coast road, finally stopping at a small house at the end of a row of narrow cottages, cobbled together piecemeal and in various states of shabbiness. Jamie rapped at the door and waited. Smoke puffed from the chimney, but the paint on the door was peeling and the curtains were drawn. After sev
eral minutes a woman opened the door. She balanced a drooling toddler on one hip and looked a little frazzled, even though it was still morning.

“Is this the home of Mr. William Hicks?” he asked.

“Aye,” said the woman slowly. “Who's asking?”

In reply he handed her a folded note. She looked at it sideways, then disappeared into the house. Barely a minute later the door was yanked open, this time by a man about Jamie's own age. A long scar, badly healed, ran along the side of his face from his chin, past his severed ear, into his hair. “Come in, sir,” he said, opening the door wider and gesturing with a hand missing three fingers.

James stepped inside the house. It was warm but the air was thick, as if the house had been closed up too long. The woman was bundling the toddler and another small child up the narrow stairs at the rear of the large room, while two girls of about eight or ten stoked the fire and stirred the contents of the kettle hung over that fire. Limping heavily, William Hicks swept aside some schoolbooks on the bench and offered Jamie the chair at the head of the table. He murmured quietly to the two girls, and they moved the pot to a hook outside the hearth before following their mother up the stairs.

“Thank you for speaking with me,” James said, taking the chair with a nod.

“Anything Lieutenant Crawford asks, I'll give,” said Mr. Hicks at once, straddling the bench. He laid the unfolded note on the table.
Render this man all aid within your power, as a favor to me—Lt. D. Crawford
, it read. “You've only to ask, sir.”

Jamie didn't look at the paper. “I know what he wrote, but I'm not here to ask for favors. I'm prepared to pay handsomely for your inconvenience.”

“No inconvenience at all, not for a friend of the lieutenant.” Hicks sat with military straightness, his gaze trained on James's face. “What can I do for you?”

“I need three things.” He held up his fingers. “A closed carriage, as fast as you can find that will also allow travel with some privacy, along with a good horse or two to pull it.”

“I'll have one by tomorrow morning,” Hicks vowed.

“No one must know it's for me, or hear my name.”

Hicks shrugged. “I don't know your name, sir.”

Jamie grinned. “Exactly. I also need a hamper of provisions, enough to feed a man for three days at least. Can you stow it in the carriage?”

“I can and I will.”

He nodded in approval. “And the last thing I need is information. I understand there's a solicitor named Charters in Gravesend.”

“There was,” said Hicks. “Dead now—must be nigh on four or five months.”

“Yes. What sort of fellow was he?” He saw Hicks hesitate. “A man of discretion?”

“Aye,” was the immediate reply. “That he was.”

Jamie leaned forward and lowered his voice. “The sort a free trader might be able to trust?”

Hicks looked wary at the mention of smugglers, but gave a slow nod. “Might have been. I didn't have much business with him.”

“But you heard things, surely.” When Hicks hesitated again, Jamie dropped his voice another level. “The man is dead. I mean no harm to him or his memory. Did he leave a widow?”

From his expression, Hicks was struggling with his conscience. Jamie waited. Daniel Crawford, his friend and source of information in London, had sworn Hicks would rise to the occasion, but the pull of loyalty to home was strong. “No,” said his host at last.

Damn. That cut off one main source of hope, that there could be evidence hidden with the original solicitor's family. “A brother?” Jamie pressed. “A mother? Did he have anyone at all?”

“He had a daughter,” said Hicks after a moment's thought. “Out near Ramsgate, I think, but no other family I heard of.”

That was a link, however slim. “Do you know her name?”

After a moment Hicks shook his head. “She married a vicar, is all I remember.”

“What do you know of the man who assumed his practice?”

Hicks relaxed. “Horatio Armand. He come from Rye, I believe.”

Another smuggling haven. “Is he cut from the same cloth as Charters?”

The other man's mouth opened, then closed. He lifted one shoulder, his expression unreadable.

Jamie altered his approach. “I don't intend to use this information against anyone. In fact, it helps me less if both men were upright and law-abiding supporters of the customs collector. But
someone's safety, perhaps someone's life, hangs in the balance.”

Hicks sighed. He frowned at the note on the table. “I can only repeat some gossip, aye? I had nothing to do with any of it myself.”

“Of course not.” Jamie even knew it was true. Hicks had been away at sea, a midshipman under Daniel Crawford's command, until two years ago, when he suffered his disfiguring injuries in the East Indies. He'd come home to recuperate and been unable to find a place on another ship in the navy when he was well. Daniel had spoken of him as the most responsible and capable man to have onboard, though.

“There was a good bit of free trading in this area during the war,” Hick said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I expect you know that. It ain't nothing to what went on decades ago, before the Riding Officers started patrolling. Anyone who partakes of that needs a good man ashore to help cover his tracks, aye? Charters might've been one such man. I can't swear to it, but I wouldn't doubt it, either. It's hard to believe he'd sell his practice to any other sort, but I know nothing directly about Armand.”

That fit with the picture coming together in Jamie's mind. “Did you ever know of a family called Townsend, from Rochester?”

Hicks frowned in thought. “Nay, can't say I do.”

He hadn't really expected Hicks to say yes, but it was worth asking. “I'm also interested in knowing if a certain man has been in Gravesend, at any time in the last several years but especially in the last few months. He's an aristocrat and looks it. About my height, around forty years of age. Dark
hair, pale skin, a prominent nose. He'd be seeking Charters as well, most likely, and someone called Townsend.”

“I've not noticed him about town, but I can ask,” said Hicks. “His name?”

This time Jamie hesitated, but it was too important to know if Clary had traced Olivia this far. “I don't want you asking for him by name. Don't mention it unless strictly necessary.”

“I won't, sir.” Hicks grinned. “I expect the lieutenant told you I can be trusted to hold my tongue.”

“That's why I'm here.” Jamie grinned back. “The man's name is Simon Clary—Viscount Clary. He's a dangerous fellow and is likely to be desperate.”

“Got it.” Hicks's eyes gleamed. “Are you chasing him or running from him?”

“Avoiding him at all costs. If you chance to hear anything of him, or any man who fits his description, I'd like to know it.”

Hicks nodded. “Where shall I report, sir?”

“I'll come tomorrow morning for the horse and carriage.” He pulled a purse from his pocket and set it on the table. “I hope that's adequate.”

Hicks picked it up and peered inside. For a moment his lips moved as he counted, then he jerked up his head in astonishment. “'Tis several times adequate!”

“For your inconvenience.” Jamie got to his feet. “And your discretion.”

“Entirely yours, sir,” said Hicks fervently. “Thank 'ee dearly.”

Jamie picked up his hat, then paused. “I expect to leave town tomorrow, but if you should hear
anything after that, about Clary or anyone called Townsend, would you write to your lieutenant and tell him? He'll get word to me.”

“I will indeed, sir. But what if I need to contact you before?”

“I'm staying at the Stag and Hound tonight,” said James. “Under the name Daniel Crawford.”

Hicks started, then a slight smile touched his face. “I'll not forget that name.”

Tucking his muffler higher around his neck, James said farewell and went back out into the cold. Now that supplies and transportation were arranged, he went to the inn. Olivia had told him to wait for two hours; she explained the solicitor had made her wait for hours the previous day. Not liking the idea of her sitting docilely in the very spot where Clary might seek her first, Jamie argued against that. Finally they had agreed on one hour, which gave him just enough time now to shave and change his shirt.