The Fifth Kiss (5 page)

“Rubbish,” Strickland said shortly, trying to concentrate on the dangerous cleft in his chin. “With Fox dead, whom can he choose? Certainly not Grey or the other Foxites—they've antagonized him past repair. And I've already explained about Grenville's stand on Catholic emancipation—Prinny would never accept that. So please, Arthur, go about your business and let me be.”

Sir Arthur Tisswold, older than Strickland by at least a decade, studied the younger man with admiration. It was wonderful how shrewdly Miles was able to evaluate even the most complicated of political situations. He would have liked to pursue the subject, to get Miles' view of Grenville's position in greater detail, but it was obvious that his friend was growing impatient. Tisswold frowned at Miles' reflection in the mirror and passed a hand over his own chubby, smoothly shaven cheeks. “Don't see why you have to shave yourself in any case,” he remarked peevishly. “There's your man standing right there at your side, ready and willing to do the job. Why don't you let
him
shave you, as any right-minded gentleman would do?”

The valet nodded vigorously. “That's what I've been tellin' his lordship these past twelve years, Sir Arthur. I've told him time and again, ‘Why must you stand there leanin' down into the mirror,' I've said to him, ‘when you can be sittin' down, all nice and easy, while I—'”

“Stubble it, Gaskin,” Strickland said shortly. “You haven't been able to persuade me to change my habits in all these years, so don't think because you've found an ally in Sir Arthur here, that you'll change me now.” He wiped the long razor blade carefully with a cloth, pushed it into the handle that doubled as a sheath, and handed it to Gaskin in exchange for the towel. “I've been shaving myself since I was a lad, and I don't intend—”

A discreet knock on the dressing-room door interrupted him. “Come in,” he said in annoyance, patting his nicked chin carefully.

Walker, the butler who ran his establishment here in Mount Street, put his head in the door. “There's a lady downstairs to see ye, me lord,” he said, a look of disapproval quite plain on his face.

“A lady?” his lordship asked, his eyebrows rising in surprise.

“Yes, sir. An
unescorted
lady.”

Strickland frowned. No ladybird of his acquaintance would be so bold or so foolish as to call on him here. “Did she give a name?”

“Yes, me lord. Miss Matthews, she said.”

“Matthews?
Olivia
Matthews?” Strickland's brows rose higher.

“She didn't offer 'er Christian name, me lord. Do ye wish me t' ask?”

“No, no. It must be she. I wonder what the chit—! Just tell her, Walker, that I'll be down directly.”

The butler withdrew, the valet turned and busied himself with the cleaning up, and Arthur picked up his hat and stick with a grin. “Have you found yourself a
new
one, old fellow? I thought you'd taken
La Delicieuse Binard
under your protection.”

“So I have. My caller must be my sister-in-law. I wonder what the blasted little bluestocking wants with me.”

“A bluestocking, is she? You have my sympathies,” Arthur remarked.

“Keep your sympathies for yourself, old fellow, for you'll have to meet her on your way out,” Miles taunted.

“Eh? What's that you say?” Arthur's smile vanished instantly. “Don't wish to meet her at all! Never know what to
say
to those literary females. If you don't mind, Miles, old chap, I'll take my leave through the kitchen door. Can't abide ladies of excessive cultivation, y'know. Never could. If you ask me, ladies should never even be taught to
read.
”

Strickland gave a snorting laugh. “A sentiment worthy of a true Tory mind. You're the archetype for the breed, Arthur—a veritable pattern-card!”

Arthur Tisswold ignored the touch of irony and bowed deeply. “I take that as a compliment, my lord, and I thank you for it. What better breed is there in all the world?”

“What indeed! Well, good day to you, Arthur. Gaskin will show you down the back stairs, if you're determined to retreat in this cowardly way from the attack of a mere slip of a girl. I'll see you tonight, at White's.”

After the door had closed behind Sir Arthur and the valet, Miles' ironic smile faded. His brows drew together in a puzzled frown. Olivia Matthews was the last person in the world he would have expected to pay a call on him. In all the eight years of his marriage, she had never done so. In fact, they barely managed to be civil to one another. Miles had sensed from the first that the pedantic little chit disapproved of him. Whiggish and literary, she was an ardent reformer and had no patience with his Tory views. The fact that he was a force in the Lords and a man of considerable influence in governmental circles made no impression on the girl; she judged all Tories to be either self-serving knaves or thick-headed fools, and he didn't know—or care!—into which group she placed him.

He, for his part, disliked her every bit as much as she disliked him. He found her to be officious, smug, pretentious, crotchety, and so unconformable as to be positively eccentric. The girl had a rather pretty face (and a graceful, even admirable, figure under the puritanical clothes she chose to wear), but even a head of springy curls and a pair of fine, intelligent eyes did not make up for her sanctimonious manner and sharp tongue. He could understand why his wife was so attached to her (for Clara had been almost a mother to the girl), but he could not bring himself to show the slightest affection for his sister-in-law. He hoped that she would find a good, strong fellow to wed—one who would handle her with the proper firmness and beat her into submission. But such an eventuality was not at all likely. She would more readily marry a meek, scholarly, bespectacled weakling who would instantly submit to her overbearing and shrewish domination and find himself imprisoned in a life of henpecked misery.

What was even more likely, however, was that the girl would not marry at all. She'd been “out” for two seasons and had not deigned to accept any of the offers she'd received. The strange creature obviously preferred to remain single, to pursue the life of a literary eccentric, and to leave herself free of the encumbrances of wedlock so that she might pay long visits to her sister at Langley Park whenever the spirit moved her. He positively abhored her visits to his country home. She had a way of staring at him disparagingly from across the room that he found quite disconcerting, a way of arguing politics at the dinner table with such passion that he found his appetite quite deserting him, and a way of suggesting changes in his manner of running his household that he found infuriatingly meddlesome. No sooner would she arrive at the Park than he would find an excuse to take off for London.

But never before had she sought him out here in his London house. Her brother James had occasionally dropped by to ask for a loan, and Charles (who was a rather good sort despite his Whiggish views) had visited once or twice to discuss governmental matters, but Olivia—what could
she
possibly want to see him about?

Good lord! Was it
Clara
? Had something happened to Clara? No, that was unlikely, for Clara had dropped him a note just yesterday, saying that she was returning to Langley. But … could she have had an accident on the way? No, he reasoned … if that had been the case,
he
would have been the one notified rather than the Matthewses.

However, the possibility made him uneasy, and he snatched up his coat. Running quickly from the room, he pulled it on as he clattered down the stairs. He found Olivia in the drawing room, standing before the window and gazing out on the gray, drizzle-shrouded street. “Has something happened to Clara?” he asked hastily.

She turned round and faced him with an expression of cool disdain. “My, my!” she drawled sarcastically. “Such sincere concern for your wife quite touches me. I would
almost
feel impelled to shed a few tears, except that I couldn't help but notice that you called at our house only twice during her entire visit.”

Miles gritted his teeth. The girl was infallible in her ability to set him on edge. “From your tone of voice,” he said coldly, “it is obvious that you have
not
come to bring me tragic tidings. In that case, we may as well be comfortable while you come to the point. Won't you, dear sister-in-law, take a seat?”

“No, thank you. I shall not be staying long.”

“As to that, you may please yourself, ma'am. But
I
should like to sit down, you see, and since I cannot do so while you stand, I'd be quite obliged to you—”

“I have no wish to oblige you, sir,” she said, nevertheless crossing the room to the sofa, “but I
shall
take a seat in order to avoid further discussion of this piddling subject.” And she sat down stiffly at the edge of the sofa, as far from him as she could place herself.

With a smirk of satisfaction, Miles took the armchair opposite. “Now, Olivia, you may come to the point. To what do I owe the honor of this visit? It must be a matter of some urgency to have brought you here unescorted.”

“My lack of escort has nothing whatever to do with the urgency of my visit. I
never
go about with an escort in the daytime.”

“Really?” He looked at her with a pitying smile. “It is my understanding that
proper
young ladies are taught to refrain from going about unescorted at
any
time. Surely your abigail could serve—”

“I have no need, my lord, of instruction on ladylike behavior from
you
. I am quite well looked after by my family, and if
they
see nothing to disapprove of in my behavior, it is completely inappropriate for
you
to concern yourself with it.”

“Very well, my dear. We shan't spend another moment discussing your behavior. Can you tell me just what it is we
shall
discuss?”

“
Your
behavior, my lord,” she said bluntly.

His lordship's right eyebrow shot up, giving his face an expression of icy disdain. “
My
behavior, ma'am?”

Meeting his eye, Olivia felt a twinge of misgiving. Strickland had a glinty expression which could freeze her to the marrow. His steely gray eyes, under their heavy black brows, gave the impression of being able to look right through her. His face was long, the cleft chin strong and his cheeks were etched with lines that deepened when he frowned. He had thick, unruly black hair which was shot with streaks of gray and which tumbled untidily over his forehead even when he was most carefully groomed (which at the moment he was not). His face, in repose, might be considered by some to be—as her sister always claimed—fatally attractive. A line of Shakespeare's flew into her head: “
Oh, what a goodly outside falsehood hath
!”

Yes, she supposed he was handsome in normal circumstances, but when he was angered, as now, Strickland's face had a decidedly menacing aspect. It was no wonder that, in a recent political cartoon, the artist had characterized him as a hawk sitting on the Prime Minister's shoulder and whispering into his ear. Since then, the
cognoscenti
had been calling him the
Tory Hawk
, and Olivia could now see that the appellation was perfectly fitting. She clenched her fingers in her lap and, forcing herself to keep her gaze steady, answered him bravely. “Yes, my lord. Your own reprehensible behavior.”

Keeping his eyes fixed on her face, he leaned back in his chair and smiled sardonically. “If you are referring to the infrequency of my visits to Clara this past week, may I remind you of your own words a moment ago—if Clara sees ‘nothing to disapprove of in my behavior, it is completely inappropriate
for you
to concern yourself with it.'”

Olivia flushed. “Your point, my lord, your point … even though it is not
that
behavior which brings me here.”

“Oh?” He looked at her with a sudden air of interest. “My dear child, while I admit to being consumed with curiosity about just what it is I
have
done to occasion this unexpected visit, I should like to bring to your notice that my point applies equally to
any
misconduct of mine: it is completely inappropriate for you to concern yourself with it.”

“Nevertheless,” she persisted stubbornly, “I am convinced that it
is
my concern … in a way.”

“Well, then, go on, if you must,” he said with a shrug.

Olivia's fair complexion gave mute evidence of her discomfort—she flushed again. “I've given a great deal of thought to … just how I should say this, my lord … but in the end I decided that a simple and direct statement would be best,” she said, valiantly trying to keep her eyes steadily on his.

“By all means,” he nodded, his lips curling with a slight trace of amusement. “A direct statement is always better than roundaboutation.”

“Well, then,” she said firmly, taking a deep breath, “I saw you last night … from my carriage window. You were standing on the street, and you were … er … engaged in an intimate encounter with a … female …” Her voice petered out as she watched his expression change from amusement to stoniness.

There was a moment of icy silence, during which Olivia was sure that the beating of her heart could be heard all over the room. His steely eyes never left her face, but his face took on the menacing, hawkish look that had so frightened her before. “So,” he said when the silence threatened to become unendurable, “you
saw
me. What do you expect me to say now? Did you think I would make a denial? I haven't the slightest intention of doing so.”

“There would be little point in your doing so, my lord. I saw you quite plainly.”

“Then what is it you hope to gain by telling me this?”

“The answer should be obvious. I hope to gain your promise to … to
stop.
”