Six Degrees of Scandal (10 page)

The door opened behind her. “Have you got mincemeat pie?” demanded a male voice, just as the woman behind the counter asked, “What will you have, ma'am?”

Olivia barely heard. That man's voice was fa
miliar. She dared a brief glance around the brim of her bonnet and almost forgot to breathe. It was Lord Clary's manservant. He'd delivered notes from his master a few times. She remembered him, tall and fair and nearly as arrogant as his employer, waiting in her landlady's tidy sitting room while she scrabbled for an answer to Clary's latest demand.

“Ma'am?” said the woman again, jolting her.

“This, please,” she said softly, pointing to a loaf at random. It would seem odd to do anything else. Olivia said a desperate prayer that Clary's man didn't remember her face or voice very well, or that he was too occupied in ordering his pie from the baker, who'd come around the counter to serve him personally. Somehow she managed to count out the coins for her bread and exit the shop, trying to keep her head averted at all times. The man paid her no mind other than to move aside as she pushed open the door, and then she was outside again, already chilled before the wind hit her.

Clary must be here. Nearby, at the very least. He could be sitting in a carriage across the street while his servant bought food. The thought made her chest seize. Her breath wheezed, and her hands shook. She wanted to look but couldn't raise her gaze from the ground in front of her.

Walk
, she commanded herself. Jamie was waiting for her just outside of town—at her insistence, stupid as she was. Mechanically she forced herself to move along at a normal pace. She tugged the collar of her cloak higher around her cheeks and ducked her head, a perfectly normal action to take given the wind. But the pounding of her
heart drowned out the sound of her own footsteps until she could imagine Clary creeping up behind her and snatching her off her feet, bundling her into his carriage and driving off so that no one would ever find her. And her nerves were wound so tightly, there was a good chance she'd simply faint away and not be able to put up a fight at all.

The gatekeeper's house seemed ten miles away now. She kept her cloak held close around her, the cursed loaf of bread squashed under her arm. Her eyes flitted anxiously from side to side. Where was Jamie? He'd said he had errands to do. What if he was late? What if Clary had already discovered her cottage? Perhaps she shouldn't go back there at all . . . except that all her money and Henry's damned book were there. She had to go back.

By the time she reached the agreed-upon meeting point, she felt numb. Simply putting one foot in front of the other was as much as she could manage, and when Jamie stepped out from around the corner, she jumped in fright.

“There you are.” He took one look at her face and his expression sharpened. “What happened?” he demanded.

Her throat worked, but her lips barely moved. “Cl-Cl-Clary,” she stuttered.

Jamie seized her and yanked her off the path, into the shelter of the hedgerow and out of view of anyone coming from Gravesend. It felt almost warm here, with the thick vegetation at her back blocking the wind and Jamie's hands chafing her arms through her cloak. “Did you see him?” he asked urgently. “Did he see you?”

She shook her head. Beneath her cloak she still
clutched the loaf, which somehow restored her. As horribly frightened as she'd been, she hadn't completely fallen to pieces. “His man,” she said, her voice ragged. “In the bakery.” She held up the bread, which he ignored.

Jamie's fingers dug into her elbows. “Olivia, did he recognize you?”

Gradually her senses were functioning again. “I don't know. I don't think so. He came in and asked about mincemeat pies, and I left as quickly as I could, keeping my head down.”

For a moment he seemed frozen, then with a start he released her and stepped back. “Right. We need to hurry. Is there another path to the cottage?”

“Along the shore, but no one uses it in winter, according to Mrs. Mason, who owns it.”

“Because it's impassable or because it's cold?”

“Both.”

“Good.” He had unwound the muffler from around his neck, and now he looped it around hers, tucking in the ends under her collar. “We're going to the cottage and collecting everything of yours. I don't want anything left to hint that you were ever there. But we must move fast. Can you do it, or shall you stay here and I go?”

The thought of waiting here alone while Clary drew near almost made her heart stop. “I can go.” She met his gaze and nodded. “I can.”

Without another word he started off toward the shore, setting a pace she could barely keep up with. Olivia didn't complain. Even faster than her steps, her heart seemed to drum a quick march:
Hurry hurry hurry
. As they went, Jamie's head swiveled
from left to right and back again. He was plotting any places to hide or alternate routes away from the cottage, she realized, because Clary could be driving down the lane behind them. If the viscount began asking questions in Gravesend, it surely wouldn't take long for him to hear word of a dark-haired woman from out of town, suddenly arrived and alone. In fact, he'd probably hear what her mission was, for she'd had to make inquiries to find Mr. Armand.

Armand. Her heart leapt into her throat at the thought of Clary going to the solicitor before tomorrow morning. If Clary got his hands on Henry's papers—and somehow Olivia thought Mr. Armand was much more likely to give them to Clary than to her—she would never solve the riddle Henry had left. Even worse, Clary might be able to find whatever it was he wanted before she could.

Her thoughts stuck on that idea. If Clary found it, would he just disappear? Jamie said Lord Atherton was pressing for Clary to be arrested for what he did to Penelope, which meant the viscount couldn't simply go home. If Olivia found herself in his position, she'd collect as much money as she could and flee.

Her mouth twisted bitterly; that was essentially what she had done. And now she was running harder and faster than ever. If only Clary would do the same, in the opposite direction. If he did, after all,
she
could stop running . . .

But Lord Clary had not shown himself to be the sort of man who let things go. Deep down Olivia was dreadfully certain he would keep pursuing
her even if he located the most priceless work of art Henry had ever smuggled. She had refused him and thwarted him for months, and he would want revenge.

As they approached the cottage, Jamie slowed, checking for signs of disturbance. “The wool is still there,” Olivia whispered. She pointed to the threadbare bit of cloth stuck above the latch.

He took the key. “Fetch everything,” he said quietly. “As fast as you can. I'd prefer to leave this cottage looking as if you never set foot in it.”

Olivia nodded. With one last sweeping glance around, Jamie stepped up the door and opened it. “Go,” he told her.

She was already dashing across the room and scrambling up the narrow stairs. In the bedroom she grabbed her extra dresses and undergarments from the shelves and stuffed them into the valise that still sat under the window where she'd left it. Thankfully she hadn't brought much with her, although her reasoning there had been to keep the valise light so she could carry it easily. But now it paid off as she packed in a matter of seconds. Jamie had carried the pallet upstairs that morning, and she quickly put the extra blankets back into the trunk they came from. Mindful of his admonition to leave the room as if she'd never been there, she tugged the covers on the bed smooth before bolting back down the stairs, valise in hand.

Below, Jamie had already put away the few breakfast dishes and thrown dirt on the banked fire, smothering it. Winter air streamed through the wide open door, stealing the last traces of warmth. She set her valise on the table and hur
ried to retrieve her small purse of money hidden behind a loose stone of the fireplace.

“You've got everything?” Jamie asked, slipping her loaf of bread inside the valise and hefting it in one arm.

Olivia took one more look around the room and snatched her woolen shawl from the hook behind the door. “Henry's book,” she said, turning toward the loose floorboard.

He patted his pocket. “I took it with me this morning, just in case. Let's go.” She flung the shawl around her shoulders, over her cloak, and followed him out the door. Only at the last moment did she feel a pang, as she locked the door for the last time. She'd hired the cottage for a fortnight, and spent barely four days there. That extra rent money would have been useful.

Again Jamie walked almost too fast for her, but as soon as she fell a step behind, he would pause. When he raised his brow in question, she nodded to assure him she was fine, even though her shins burned and there was a stitch in her side. In silence they hurried down the dirt track, heads bowed against the wind. Only when they came within sight of the main road into town did Jamie slow enough for her to catch her breath.

“Where are we going?” she finally thought to ask.

“I've been trying to work that out,” he replied, giving her an unpleasant start. “I think we've got little choice—in fact, only one.”

“Where?” she asked, when he didn't explain.

He didn't answer. His eyes were fixed on a point in the distance, and she realized he was listening.
Despite straining her ears, she heard nothing but the whine of the wind and the nervous thudding of her own heart.

Suddenly, without a word, Jamie pushed her off the path. He pointed, and Olivia got the message. She ran, clutching her cloak and skirts, until they reached the shelter of the wild hedge that meandered toward the gatekeeper's cottage. Jamie pulled aside a branch of it and she flung herself through the gap. He stepped after her and let the hedge spring back, just as a horse came around the abandoned gatehouse.

J
amie held his breath as the horse paused, right at the spot where Olivia had hit him with the shovel. The man astride seemed to be checking his bearings; he peered in all directions before starting his mount forward again, into the lane that led to Olivia's rented cottage.

Thank heaven she'd stopped to buy bread. All too easily he could imagine what would have happened had she not: they would have walked to the cottage, built up the fire, made some tea. They'd probably be sitting at the table, studying Henry's diary while Olivia reported on her visit to the solicitor, unaware that they were about to be interrupted—or worse, spied upon.

The horse came closer, offering a better view of his rider. The man wore a long coat, dark gloves, and had a scarf wrapped about his lower face, while his hat was pulled low on his brow. As the wind from the sea hit him, the horse shied, and the rider gave a clearly audible curse before urging his mount onward.

Next to him, Olivia crouched tense and silent. Gently he nudged her.
Was that the man you saw
in town?
he mouthed when she darted a glance at him. He was fairly certain it wasn't Lord Clary himself, just from the man's nose.

She sat forward, staring intently. Her brow wrinkled and her lips parted, but then she sank back. He didn't need to see the apology in her eyes as she turned to him and lifted her hands in uncertainty.

Well. That meant they were in for a bit of a wait. He lowered himself to the ground and motioned to Olivia to do the same. The earth was rocky and as cold as ice, and the hedge wasn't doing a good job of stopping the wind. He pulled his collar up around his ears, since Olivia still wore his muffler, and settled beside her. He told himself it was for warmth and safety, but he knew it was partly also for his own selfish wishes. He leaned toward her. The scent of her skin made his stomach tighten, and he tilted a little closer. “Could it be Clary's man?” he whispered, so near her ear he could almost brush his lips against her cheek.

Olivia shivered. “Yes, but I'm not sure. I know it's not Clary.”

Their gazes met. This close, Jamie could see every tiny variation in the blue of her eyes, dilated with anxiety. Running across the field had brought a bloom of color to her skin, and she was still breathing hard. Her heart must be racing, as his was—although he doubted it was for the same reason. For a moment the urge to gather her into his arms almost overwhelmed him. He wanted to pull her to him and swear he would protect her and seal his promise with a kiss . . .

But then she pulled her head back—barely an
inch, but it might as well have been a yard. He had no right to feel so desolate, but there was no other word for the feeling. Under pretense of checking the road again, he shifted away, colder than ever.

“There's nothing at the end of this road but the cottage, is there?” When she shook her head, he nodded. “It may only be someone who's lost.”

Uneasily she glanced down the lane. “Shouldn't we leave while he's out of sight?”

“We can't move as fast as a man on horseback can. If he's merely lost, he'll realize his mistake and come back soon enough. If he's not . . .” He gave a wry smile. “I'd rather have a safe hiding spot to watch him go.”

Her shoulders eased. “That makes sense.”

It also left them exposed to the cold for longer, but it was worth the risk, if Clary had sent his servant to hunt down Olivia. Jamie wished he'd had Hicks arrange a place for them to stay tonight. He hunched his shoulders and resisted the impulse to move closer to her again. “What happened with the solicitor?” he asked to distract Olivia, keeping his voice low but calm.

“Oh!” She brightened. “It went perfectly. He admitted he hasn't burned everything, and he agreed to give me what he has for one hundred pounds. I said I would return tomorrow morning to collect it.” A shadow fell across her face. “But if Clary
is
in town, he might locate Mr. Armand as well. If he gets Henry's papers first—”

“Tell me what you saw of his servant,” Jamie interrupted. “Did you meet him face to face?”

“No—not really.” She sighed. “I was so pleased with myself, after dealing with Mr. Armand. I
stopped in the bakery, thinking I would purchase something for dinner. But then he came in, right behind me, and demanded pies. I hope he thought I was just another housewife fetching bread. I bought the bread and walked away as calmly as I could, even though I wanted to run because I imagined Clary watching me the entire way.” She shivered again and huddled deeper into her cloak.

“Very good,” said Jamie approvingly. “I wonder if he's here alone.”

She shrugged. “He could be, although he's Lord Clary's personal servant. He used to deliver Clary's messages and he would wait outside for my response, so I couldn't avoid giving one. I can't imagine he would be far from his master for long.”

There was very little reason to think that man would ride down this lonely path purely by chance. Still, Jamie wanted to see how determined he was. He made a mental tally of how long it would take to ride to the cottage and back, and slipped out his watch to see how long their visitor stayed.

“Jamie?” Olivia gazed at him with worry in her eyes. “Do you think Armand would give Henry's papers to Lord Clary?”

“I doubt it,” he said, “although it's possible.” Unlike Olivia, Clary wasn't above threatening people to get what he wanted. “It seems Clary is primarily searching for you, not the solicitor.”

“But if he asks about me, he might discover I was looking for Mr. Armand. Clary may realize what I'm after.”

He very well might, but there was nothing they could do about it now. “Armand doesn't know
where you are, and we'll be out of Gravesend tomorrow in any event.”

“What if Mr. Armand doesn't give me the papers tomorrow?”

“We're still leaving.” Given the unpleasant surprise of Clary's servant, Jamie would be happy to leave right now. Grudgingly he acknowledged they would be much better off with Henry's things, and they didn't have a carriage yet anyway.

“Where are we going to stay until tomorrow morning?” Olivia's voice was getting tighter. “We can't sit in the hedgerow all night.”

Nor could he take her back to the inn with him. For all he knew, Clary might be staying there as well. “I made some arrangements,” he told her, even as he said a silent prayer Mr. Hicks could be counted on for more than he'd already asked. Jamie had really thought he was further ahead of Clary than this, and it was a rude shock to realize that the viscount was nipping at their heels already.

To keep Olivia from thinking about it, he asked more about her visit to the solicitor. By the time he saw the horse come back down the lane, he'd nearly run out of questions, and he couldn't feel his feet. Olivia must be even colder, although she'd tucked her skirts beneath her. He made a motion to her to be quiet, and they watched the horse and rider head back into town, this time at a brisk canter. Jamie checked his watch; the fellow had been at the cottage close to twenty minutes, enough time to make a thorough search, and now he was wasting no time heading back to town. Jamie's instinct was to follow and see where the man went, but he
couldn't leave Olivia to fend for herself. When the rider was long out of sight, he clambered stiffly to his feet and held out one hand.

As usual, Olivia pretended not to see it as she stood up. She never took his hand or his arm. It was just another subtle but unmistakable sign of rejection, a faint signal that she didn't want him.

As if he needed another reminder.

“Did you pack a veil?” he asked, pushing away the thought. When she nodded, he opened the valise. “You should wear it until we're away from Gravesend.”

She fished it out and draped it over her bonnet, wrapping the ends around to secure them. “Where are we going?” she asked, her features barely visible through the net.

“You're going to have to trust me.” He pulled back the hedge so she could step out.

“Haven't I done so thus far?”

He smiled at the wry twist to her tone. “That you have.”

He took her to Hicks's house, keeping a sharp eye out for any sign of Clary or his man the whole way. This time the door was opened by one of the girls who'd been tending the fire earlier. When he asked for her father, she shook her head. “He's gone out.”

That was unfortunate. Before he could react, though, the door opened wider and Mrs. Hicks, sans toddler, appeared. “Why is the door open?” She saw Jamie and gasped. “Sir, come in! Grace, let the gentleman inside!”

Gratefully he urged Olivia into the house. Mrs. Hicks was sweeping slates and primers off
the benches around the wide table. “Come in by the fire, sir—and madam,” she added as she saw Olivia. “Grace! Put the kettle on.”

“I hate to intrude on you again,” Jamie began, but the woman held up both hands, her thin face wreathed in smiles.

“My husband told me Lieutenant Crawford sent you. Will's gone to see about some of your requests, sir. Anything you ask, I'll do my best to give.”

James hesitated, looking at Olivia. The veil hid her expression. Too late he realized he ought to have told her his plan, but since he didn't see any other option, it wouldn't have mattered much. “It is a very great favor I've come to ask this time, but an urgent one. My friend—this lady with me—needs a safe place to stay tonight.”

Olivia made a startled movement. “No—”

“I'd give you my own bed, m'lady,” said Mrs. Hicks fervently. She took one look at Jamie's face and bobbed a rough curtsy. “I can see you want a moment alone. Grace, come with me, child.” She herded her daughter away with a flurry of whispers.

Olivia tore off her veil. “What are you doing?” she demanded, her voice throbbing with anxiety. “Stay here? Do you know this woman?”

He held up his hand, urging quiet. “A friend—a man I trust entirely—put me in touch with her husband and vouched for him. I can't take you to the inn where I have a room, and if Clary's man is asking after a single woman in town, how long do you think it would take him to find you at any other inn?” There were only two others anyway,
which Olivia must know. If she went to any of them, Clary would discover her before midnight. “We're leaving as soon as you visit Armand tomorrow; it's only for one night.”

She looked away from him, toward the stairs where Mrs. Hicks and her daughter had gone. She twisted her veil in a white-knuckled grip. “You're not going to stay here, are you?”

It was a statement, not a question, but it made his heart leap. She sounded unhappy about that. “I want to find out how near Clary is, and it might attract notice if I avoid my own bed at the inn two nights in a row.”

“I know.” With an effort she raised her chin. “Very well. I suppose there's not much choice.”

Unfortunately not. For a moment Jamie felt it weigh on him. On one hand, it seemed that he'd found her just in time, if Clary's man had traced her this far. On the other hand, he wasn't doing a very good job protecting her, forcing her to stay the night with people who were strangers to them both. He vowed to do better, beginning now. “It's safe for you here. I'll be back first thing in the morning.”

She gave a jerky nod, staring into the fire. He set down her valise, then hesitated. He longed to touch her—just once, in comfort—but didn't think he could bear it if she recoiled. She looked so isolated and lonely, her arms wrapped around her waist. With a simple nod of farewell, he jammed his hat down on his head and went to the door.

“Jamie?” Her whisper stopped him. He whipped back around, taut. “Will you leave Henry's book with me?” Her pale cheeks had grown
rosy in the warmth of the fire, but she still barely looked at him. “Since we're running out of time, I'd like to read it again.”

“Of course.” Unreasonably disappointed, he handed it over, and this time she let him leave without a word.

He headed back toward the center of town, passing by the livery stable, where he managed to intercept Mr. Hicks, fresh from hiring a traveling chaise and pair for the following day. He invited the man to share a drink in a nearby tavern, where they sat at a table away from the meager crowd and Jamie told him what awaited at home. Hicks just nodded upon hearing a strange woman would be spending the night in his home. He made a minor protest when Jamie gave him more money, under the table, but took it when Jamie said it was for a fine dinner that evening. Olivia needed to eat. The fact that he had handed over enough for a month of good dinners meant Hicks wouldn't hold back.

“It's a right spot of trouble you're in, isn't it?” asked Hicks.

James smiled grimly and tipped his mug to his mouth. “What makes you think so?”

The other man gave him a knowing look. “Not like we all haven't had our moments. The lieutenant wouldn't shy away from anything.”

“No, he wouldn't.”

Hicks turned his ale around and watched the foam slosh. “Is he well?”

James thought of Daniel Crawford, whom he'd known since university. Daniel had always been daring and adventurous to a fault, whether it was
playing pranks on a dean or sailing into enemy fire aboard one of His Majesty's ships in the Royal Navy. Jamie had never seen him happier than when engaged in something covert or forbidden. Daniel relished intrigue and subterfuge, and a wild race to locate stolen goods and catch a murderous viscount was just the thing to pique Daniel's interest. “I'd say so.”

Hicks nodded. “He was on the
Charlotte Alice
when we were sunk off Corfu. I've only got my leg still because he managed to keep hold of his pistol and threatened to blow a hole in any surgeon who cut either of us.”

James blinked. Daniel had been badly wounded at Corfu, and the surgeons had most definitely cut him, removing his left arm at the elbow. “Oh?”