Six Degrees of Scandal (14 page)

She stopped speaking, but Jamie could guess the next word:
poor
. “Didn't your family offer help?” he asked, hoping against hope she hadn't been too proud to ask them. The Herberts certainly owed her that much. He knew she had often resisted the help his family, particularly his sisters, tried to give her.

Her reply was so long in coming, he began to think she wouldn't answer. “No,” she said at last, in a tone he hardly recognized from her: flat and expressionless. “Even if they would have helped me—something I doubt very much—I don't want it. On the day I wed Henry, I swore I would have as little to do with them as I could. My father couldn't even look me in the eye that day. He knew very well what he was doing, and I was furiously
glad that it embarrassed him. It pleased me to see Lord MacLaren keep them under his thumb. He gave my parents a manor house at Daphne's pleading, but it's off in the wilds of Scotland, far from anything elegant or entertaining. My mother fretted over that, and my father muttered about MacLaren's cheeseparing ways, for he only gave them the use of the house, not the income.” Her short laugh was bitter. “I find it hard to feel sorry for them. They got precisely what they wished for: a wealthy, titled son-in-law. They assumed he would be malleable and generous, but that was their mistake.”

Jamie silently agreed. He knew he'd been fortunate in life, economically, but his father had been a self-made man, an attorney who used his wits to build a fortune out of very modest beginnings. Nothing had prevented Sir Alfred Herbert from doing the same. Instead the man gambled at the races and relied on his daughters' marriages to save him from penury. Jamie did not feel sorry for him at all, with the free use of a manor house and rents from his estate in Sussex.

“But how I've rambled on when you must be exhausted.” Olivia sounded a little embarrassed. “And about such dull topics.”

“I was glad to listen,” he said honestly. “I have long been curious, and none of it was dull.” Infuriating, but not dull. Talking to her was never dull.

“Truly?” She draped her arm over the side of the bed, cushioning her cheek on her hand. “You led a far more interesting life. Abigail and Penelope told me.”

He scoffed lightly. “You should take anything my sisters said with a large dose of skepticism.”

She smiled. “Yes, I always thought the truth must have been more risque. I daresay you never told your mother and sisters the best parts.”

Jamie frowned in mock affront. “I have no idea what you're talking about.”

“Penelope told me you dove into a flooded mine to help rescue the miners.”

Years ago. He was surprised she knew about it. “Once. It wasn't flooded too deeply but some of the men couldn't swim.”

“And that you rode a steam carriage.”

He grinned. “I did. Tremendous fun it was, rolling along without aid of horses or men. I predict great things will come of steam carriages.”

“Great things? They're dangerous! A normal coach won't explode!”

Jamie shrugged. “Steam carriages don't usually, either, if operated correctly. The economies are too great to ignore: one man can run a machine able to transport goods—or people—that would require a half dozen wagons. Better manufactories and skilled operators will make them safer, and then everyone will use them.”

She shook her head, smiling. “I can't imagine it! But if you say it will be so, I believe it.” She wet her lips. “They also told me once they thought you were in love with a French vicomtesse. Abigail said she was beautiful.”

Jamie pressed his mouth closed. How had his family heard about Marie? Their affair had been very discreet. “My sisters are fond of silly gossip.”

“Then you were never in love with her?”

“No,” he said shortly. Never in love, not with Marie or any other woman. Not that he wanted to talk about it with Olivia. He drew breath to change the subject, but she forestalled it.

“May I ask an impertinent question?”

Warily he jerked his head yes. What could be more impertinent that asking about his lovers?

“I've always wondered,” she said slowly, “why you never married.”

“No one would have me,” he replied at once. That was an easy answer. “I have no appeal to ladies of taste or discernment.”

“The real reason, not what Penelope teases you with.” There was reproach in her voice, but also something tentative and curious.

He turned his head and stared at the coals glowing in the grate until his eyes hurt. Another flippant answer withered on his tongue. Finally, very softly, he said, “You know why.”

It took her a moment to react, and even then he barely heard her soft inhalation. “But I was married . . .”

Jamie closed his eyes in resignation. “It turns out that made no difference.”

He braced himself for reproach or even a silent withdrawal. She had made it clear over the years that there must be distance and propriety between them. And since she had maintained that distance, she would have to be the one to breach it, either in words or in action . . .

He flinched at the touch on his shoulder. Her fingers were tentative, as if she might snatch back her hand at any moment, but it was the first time
she'd touched him in years. Before she could reconsider he clasped her hand in his, as if it were a lifeline that might drift away. Her fingers were smooth and cool, and his throat felt tight.
Ten years.
For ten years he had dreamed of her, and now something as simple as the touch of her hand threatened to unman him.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

Guilt pierced him to the core, stronger and deeper than ever before. “No—”

“Thank you for coming after me,” Olivia went on. “If you hadn't, I would probably be at Clary's mercy by now. I couldn't make any sense of Henry's diary, that solicitor refused to help me, I would have been utterly helpless when Lord Clary's man rode out to the lonely cottage I foolishly chose—”

“Stop!” He rolled onto his side to see her better and squeezed her hand, still clasped in his. “
You
attacked me with a shovel when you thought I was Clary.
You
persuaded the solicitor to give you Henry's papers.
You
recognized Clary's servant in town and gave us a chance to elude him. You are more capable than you think, Olivia.” He reached up, holding his breath in case she shied away, but she didn't move as he cupped her cheek, his fingers barely brushing her skin. “Never underestimate yourself. I certainly don't.”

“You're too kind.” A rueful smile curved her lips.

His heart took a bounding leap. He went up on his elbow, bringing his face closer to hers. “I am not too kind,” he said quietly. His fingers stroked her cheek almost of their own volition. “You're strong, Livie. You held off Clary this long with
nothing more than your wits and determination. You fled London without anyone being the wiser; it was devilishly hard to track you down. Your only fault was in thinking too well of Henry. Otherwise you would have guessed what he was up to.”

She lowered her eyelashes, but he could tell his words were striking home. “I thought he might be blackmailing people . . .”

“See?” Jamie smiled. “You'd have worked it out eventually. I certainly didn't solve the mystery on my own; Atherton gave me the idea. Although I'm perfectly willing to take the credit for it, if you insist.”

As hoped, she laughed, shaky but real. “But only you came after me yourself.”

“Would you prefer Atherton?” he asked mildly. “I thought Penelope did her best to give you a complete disgust of him, but I can write to him . . .”

“No!” Her smile was wide now. “Of course he should stay with Penelope.”

And I should stay with you, forever
. The thought burned in his mind, like something branded on his very soul. He was still cupping her cheek, and only a few inches separated them. For a moment it felt as though the intervening decade hadn't happened, and he wavered. He wanted her to bridge the gap, but really, he was close enough to kiss her . . .

Ruthlessly Jamie tamped down the thought. “Go to sleep. We ought to leave early.”

“Of course. Good night, Jamie.”

But she didn't move. No, she turned her head slightly as if nestling into the touch of his hand.
For a moment he reveled in it, then slowly, reluctantly, he withdrew his fingers from her cheek. Braced for any sign of retreat, he clasped her hand again. “Good night, Livie,” he whispered. She watched with wide blue eyes as he raised her hand and brushed a kiss on the back.

And then he released her. His heart thumped as if he'd run a mile and his skin felt alive, tingling from the touch of hers. In the dim firelight they stared at each other a moment longer.

Trust me
, Jamie silently urged.
This time I won't let you down.
He hardly dared to hope she might do more than trust him, but . . . she touched him. She let him kiss her hand. She told the innkeeper they would share a room and she thanked him for coming after her. It was a start.

“Good night,” she whispered again, and her face disappeared. Jamie listened to the rustle of bedclothes as she rolled over and rearranged the pillows. She must be exhausted. He, on the other hand, felt strung as tight as a bow, and thought he'd rather lie on hot coals spread over the floor next to her than sleep in the softest bed in the finest hotel in the world. And he'd give his right hand for Olivia to lean over the edge of the bed and whisper an invitation in that husky voice that had tormented his dreams since he was nineteen.
I want you to make love to me
, she'd said that glorious day by the pond.
I love you, Jamie
.

He had tried over the years to forget her, or at least to stop caring that he'd lost her. Avoiding London was easiest; the less he saw her and spoke to her, the fewer nights he spent awake and yearning. Throwing himself into work or adventure
helped as well. If he wore himself out physically, his mind had less energy to wander back to her and wonder what she was doing, or if she ever thought longingly of those few happy days when they had been engaged, if she was unhappy with Henry and would consider running away with him. A string of lovers had taken the edge off his physical desires, but not the loneliness. No one ever replaced Olivia in his affections, although as an angry and heartbroken young man he had tried his damnedest to find a woman who could.

All of that was out the window now. He couldn't—wouldn't—avoid her presence until they resolved the threat Clary posed. That was also the only problem occupying his brain at the moment, and as for lovers . . . He had long since admitted Olivia was still the only woman he wanted.

An hour or more must have ticked away as he lay on the floor, listening to her breathing and trying not to imagine lying beside her, touching her, making love to her. At long last he gave up on sleep and rose silently. He might as well get something done tonight. He lit the lamp but kept it turned down as low as he could, then took out his notebook. He paged past Olivia's chart, past the letters from Daniel and Bathsheba, and opened to a fresh blank page.

Olivia stirred with a breathy sigh that made him freeze. Pen already poised, Jamie glanced at the bed, but she slept on. In the dim light he could see the shadows of her eyelashes on her cheeks, the way her fingers curled suggestively over the buttons at her neck. His heart beat a savage tattoo
inside his breast, and his fingers cramped. How easily he could lean down and kiss her, slip loose those buttons, and drive away the worry and fear that plagued her for a few wicked hours, leaving them both spent and sated . . .

Don't be an idiot
, he warned himself. Thinking about it was one thing; doing something about it was another, and the surest way to wreck the fragile connection growing between them again. If anything else were to happen between them, it would have to be at her invitation.

She rolled over again, giving him her back, and Jamie tapped the ink from his pen and got to work.

O
livia awoke to a moment of disorientation. She was in a strange room, for the second morning in a row. She turned her head and caught sight of the table next to the fireplace, where Jamie's writing case rested, and that led her eye down to the man himself, sprawled across the floor, deep in sleep.

Quietly she slid to the edge of the mattress and drank in the sight. He lay flat on his back, his face turned away from her with one arm thrown above his head. His hair was a rich brown against the white pillow, but she knew it would glint auburn red in the sunlight. The shirt he wore was loose at the neck, gaping open and giving her a view of his throat and chest where the blankets had fallen away. Olivia's eyes riveted on that bare skin, rising and falling with his every breath, and curled her hand into a fist to keep from reaching out to touch him again.

She'd been right: being near him was dangerous to her heart. Their conversation last night in the closeted intimacy of a darkened bedroom had only revived the connection forged so long ago.
For years she had expected—hoped—it would wither away, but this morning she acknowledged it had not; she had denied it and ignored it, but it was still there.

And now she no longer regretted that. When he confessed that she was the reason he had never married, her heart nearly leapt out of her chest. When he kissed her hand, she almost burst into tears. Whatever it was that drew her to him, he felt the same thing—still.
It's not too late
, whispered a joyful little voice inside her.

She knew that didn't mean they could simply start where they'd left off. No matter what their feelings were, years of distance and regret lay between them. They might discover their longings were based on memory more than truth, that they had both become such different people, a reconciliation was doomed. There was also the matter of Lord Clary and whatever mysterious treasure he wanted, and the fact that they were running into the unknown, without any knowledge of what they sought, where it might be, or even who might help them locate it.

All in all, it was a terrible time to be distracted by matters of the heart, and yet she couldn't stop gazing at Jamie like a giddy, love-struck girl and feeling happy enough to sing.

Eventually it occurred to her that the room was cold, and if she thought it cold, Jamie might well have frozen on the floor. Carefully she slipped from the bed, thinking to get the fire going, but the first faint squeak of a floorboard under her foot made him jerk awake. “What?” he growled, bolting upright.

“Nothing,” she whispered. “It's cold . . .” She gestured at the banked fire.

Jamie blinked at her, his face endearingly puzzled. He rubbed one hand over his eyes and tossed off his blanket. “I'll do it.” His voice was rough and gravelly from sleep.

“No, really . . .” Her voice dried up as he rolled to his feet. His undone shirt hung loosely from his broad shoulders. One leg of his trousers had ridden up, exposing his bare foot and leg to the knee. Dark stubble covered his jaw, and his hair tumbled over his forehead as he stretched his arms and back. Then he glanced at her, standing and watching him raptly.

“Good morning,” he murmured.

She had to wet her lips. “Good morning.”

Neither moved. One thought pulsed in her mind: they were alone, in a bedroom, she in her thin, worn-out nightgown, he half undressed . . . and enormously aroused. Intellectually Olivia knew such a thing was common for a man upon waking, but as Jamie's gaze drifted over her, she forgot that she was cold, or that they had anything else to do today except—

He cleared his throat, looking away. “The fire.”

“Oh! Yes.” Blushing, she scrambled out of the way, ducking behind the narrow screen in the corner as he knelt on the hearth and clattered the poker in the grate. Cold again, she whisked a blanket off the bed and folded it around her shoulders while giving him privacy to dress—although it felt belated to worry about privacy now, after they'd slept a few feet apart and she'd stared at his bare chest and was still thinking how aroused he'd been.

Even worse, how aroused she was.

“Did you sleep well?” he asked.

She could hear the rustle of clothing. “Yes,” she replied. It was true. Knowing he was near had allowed her to sleep better than she had in weeks. “And you?”

There was a thump, then another. His boots, she thought. “Well enough. I had some letters to write, I hope I didn't wake you.”

“No.” Letters to whom?

“I've got a friend in London who's keeping an ear out for news that might help us. I wrote to let him know where to find me next.”

Olivia clutched the blanket closer. “I see . . .”

“He's completely trustworthy,” Jamie added. “But if Clary does anything in London or the surrounding areas, even quietly, we'll hear of it.”

She didn't say anything. If Jamie trusted the fellow, she would, too, and yet . . . Her gaze drifted to the window again, where the empty road stretched over the downs toward London, like a rope unspooling behind her, ready to reel her back at a moment's notice.

Jamie must have sensed her unease. “If the roads are clear we should be able to reach Ramsgate by nightfall. I'll send for the carriage so we can leave as soon as possible.”

Olivia pressed her face to the window. Everything was dusted with white, but the sky was clear, a stark and icy blue. Her breath condensed on the windowpane, and she shivered. “The snow has stopped.”

“A promising start.”

She smiled nervously and dared a glance
around the screen. He was fully dressed now. When he saw her, he flashed a quick grin as he did up the buttons on his waistcoat. “I'll order breakfast. Can you manage?” Olivia nodded, and he pulled on his jacket before leaving.

The room seemed very still and quiet—or perhaps that was just her heart, reacting to his absence. As if in a daze, she moved around the room, washing her face and combing her hair, dressing and packing her nightgown back into the valise. There was nothing else for her to do; Jamie had tidied his things and left his writing case and valise by the door. As always he had been thorough and prepared, and she felt ashamed of herself for doubting him, even a little.

Her eyes landed on the pile of blankets he had slept in, and tendrils of heat went through her. With a sudden movement she scooped them up, inhaling deeply of his scent before she spread the blankets on the bed and plumped his pillow next to hers. Her hand lingered on it as she smoothed the linens.

Tonight . . . she hoped he would sleep beside her.

T
hey drove out in a different carriage. Jamie wanted to sow as much confusion as possible about their movements, and to that end he signed the register with an unintelligible scribble. The new carriage was open at the front but it allowed him to sit beside her while he drove, and Olivia thought it a vast improvement. The air was still
frosty cold and snow floated in sparkling clouds where the horses kicked it up, but the roads and the skies were clear.

Jamie had his muffler wrapped around his face, which made talking difficult. That also suited Olivia. It left her free to revel in the closeness and warmth of his body next to hers, and to daydream about what the future might hold.

As if he could hear her thoughts, Jamie took her hand in his and squeezed it. They both wore gloves, and he had to release his grip a moment later to control the horses, but the gesture made her heart flutter and sing. She looked up at him, and he winked, his hazel eyes twinkling above his scarf. Olivia snuggled a little closer to his side, feeling that this moment was the happiest she'd known in a decade, in spite of the frigid air in her face and the threat of Clary pursuing them. In fact, she deliberately blocked all thoughts of the viscount from her mind. She was too full of joy, driving through Kent in the cold, to let him steal it from her.

Thanks to a well-maintained turnpike, they reached the outskirts of Ramsgate in good time and stopped at a respectable-looking coaching inn. A neat sign proclaimed it “The Three Sails,” and in the distance one could hear the faint bells of ships lying at anchor in the harbor. “Take a room for at least two nights, and a parlor for dinner,” Jamie told her as he unloaded their valises. “We might as well stay here while we hunt for Charters's daughter and the mysterious Captain P, and I'm not sure I can drive another mile in this cold.”

“I'll order hot tea at once,” she promised. Now
that he mentioned it, her legs were numb. The hot bricks at their feet, which Jamie had replaced every time they stopped to change horses, had long since grown cold, and her boots weren't up to the Kentish winter.

Clutching the writing case, Olivia hurried inside. This time she didn't hesitate to give the innkeeper a new name: Mr. and Mrs. Collins desired a room for the next two nights. If they changed names and carriages every time they stopped, Olivia reasoned, it would be that much harder for Clary to locate them.

Given the way they'd fled Gravesend, in addition to the snow and general cold weather, the viscount must be at least two days behind them. With any luck, Mr. Armand would give him a ridiculously wrong idea and sent him on the wrong path, or refuse to tell him anything at all. Even if Clary managed to learn they had left Gravesend, he had no way of knowing which way they were heading. Thanks to the weather, the roads were nearly empty. No more than a half-dozen carriages passed them all day.

Of course the cold also worked against them. In fine weather Jamie probably would have pushed straight on to Ramsgate the day before. For a moment she considered how they might have put that time to use, finding Charters's daughter or the unknown Captain P, who might hold the key to everything. Olivia wondered what the mysterious object would gain them. Jamie was certain it would draw out Clary and lead to his arrest, but she wasn't fully convinced. For one, she knew the viscount better than Jamie did, and doubted he
would fall into so neat a trap. Clary was a monster but not an idiot. He must have been quite certain there was something to find before he began hounding her. That didn't mean she and Jamie would be able to find it, though, which could leave her right where she had begun: unable to persuade Clary she didn't have it.

Jamie came in, shaking snow off his shoulders, before her thoughts could grow too grim. “Have we a room?”

“We do, Mr. Collins,” she said firmly.

He didn't even blink at the name. “Very good, my dear.” The porter took away the baggage, and the innkeeper, Mr. Hughes, showed them to a private parlor, followed soon by a maid with a tray of tea and dinner.

This evening was strikingly different from the last. Tonight it seemed they were on the brink of real progress. Surely it couldn't be a coincidence that Mr. Charters's daughter lived here, or that Henry had considered weather reports off this coast important enough to save when all his other papers were burned. The answers must be near.

Olivia didn't let herself think anything else.

“I hope this hasn't cost you too dearly,” she told Jamie as they ate dinner. “Coming after me must have been a terrible inconvenience.” She knew he traveled a great deal and had business interests all over England. Penelope had said more than once that her brother was only interested in rambling around making money. Olivia didn't think that was true, but it did nag at her that he was neglecting everything in his own life to go on this mad chase with her.

“Never call yourself an inconvenience to me.” He poured more wine. “I'm sorry I wasn't in town when you went looking for me.”

“Oh. Yes.” She grimaced ruefully. “I hated to ask Penelope.”

“She loves you like a sister,” said Jamie. “She and Abigail both.”

“And I do them as well,” Olivia exclaimed. “Since we were children! But . . . I didn't want to involve her in any of this. Clary had already done too much to her.”

“And I know my sister would never have forgiven you if you went off without asking for her help, when she was so willing to give it.” He paused. “What would you have asked of me, if I had been there?”

She ducked her head and studied the tablecloth. There was a faint stain beside her wineglass, and she rubbed it with her fingernail. She had asked Penelope for money, and refused to say why she needed it. That had been for Penelope's own safety—not that it spared her Clary's wrath. “Advice,” she said in a low voice. “Assurance.”

The chair creaked as Jamie leaned forward. “Why not more?”

“More?” She looked up in astonishment. “What more?”

“Help,” he said, his eyes intent on her. “Did you not want my help, or did you think I wouldn't give it?”

“Neither!”

“Advice and assurance would have done little,” he pointed out.

“I had nothing at the time, so even a little would have been valuable.”

“But you wouldn't have asked of me what you asked of Penelope.”

“Money? No.” She smiled ruefully. “Would you have simply given me two hundred pounds and wished me well, as she did?”

“Of course not.”

“That's why I wouldn't have asked for it.”

He was quiet for a long time. The firelight flickered over his face as he stared somberly into the flames. “I let you down once. Horribly. I have regretted it ever since, Olivia, more than I can ever express. I'm sorry.”

She could hardly argue. His failure to secure their betrothal, even an informal one, had overshadowed her life. “Don't mention that. I don't like to think about it.”

“Nor do I, stupid little fool that I was.”

Olivia sat motionless. “Why did you leave?” she asked after a long moment, her voice very soft.

Jamie drew a deep breath and squared his shoulders. This was his chance to explain himself—knowing there was no excuse—but he
owed
her this. “Everything in life had gone as I wished,” he began. “It never occurred to me that something would interfere with my plans—and I had so many plans. First, obviously, I would make a fortune with the funds my father promised me, then marry you, and together we would travel and make love and do as our fancies dictated.” He ran one hand over his face, realizing how arrogant it sounded—how arrogant he'd been. At the exalted age of twenty, he'd thought everything in the world was his for the taking. “Somewhere along the line I pictured a country
manor, a band of children, the company of intelligent and interesting people . . .”
And you
, he finished silently. All his dreams included Olivia, wrinkling her nose at him in amusement and smiling at him across the table, making love to him at night.