Six Degrees of Scandal (22 page)

Clary came a step closer but no more. From outside the room, Olivia dimly heard Jamie shouting, and Mrs. Harding's worried shrieks. She kept her focus on Clary.

“I'm not going to take you here and now, my dear,” he said. “But I
am
going to have you. You're going to come to me, bare yourself, and go down on your knees. I've spent too long panting after you, and by God I will not be denied.”

“I'd sooner drown myself in the Thames.”

He sneered. “We both know that's not true. We both know you want to live a long, happy life with your own Sir Lancelot outside the door there.”

There was a dull thud against the door.

“He's going to give me the painting to spare his sister from being exposed as a manipulative little whore,” Clary said, “and you're going to give yourself to me to preserve whatever is left of your reputation.”

Olivia snorted in disgust. Something hit the door again, this time with a great cracking sound. Jamie was going to break the door down, and it couldn't happen fast enough for her. Her fingers flexed around the candlestick.

“Because if you don't . . .” Clary took a step nearer. “I'll unmask you for the debauched purveyor of sin that you really are. Very careless, my dear, to leave the evidence about for anyone to find. And when Sir Lancelot discovers that the quiet widow leads a scandalous double life . . .” His eyes traveled over her once, lingering on her breasts before moving lower. “Well. Let's just hope you learned enough on your wicked adventures to persuade me not to tell everyone your little secret.”

Olivia blinked, confused. Unmask her as a purveyor of sin? What did that mean? He had been in their room in Ramsgate. She was quite sure Clary had ripped up her clothes because he suspected that she and Jamie were lovers, which would cause a minor scandal if everyone knew, but it was hardly a sign of wicked debauchery.

But that was the moment something struck the door once more, and this time the wood exploded. Splinters flew everywhere, and when Olivia looked to the doorway, there stood Jamie with a fire axe in his hands.

“Lord Clary,” he said, breathing heavily, “if
you're not out of my sight in the next minute, there will never need to be a trial in Parliament.”

Clary eyed him for a moment. “No matter,” he said coolly. “I'm done here.” He glanced at Olivia, then walked out the door. Jamie stepped aside for him, but not much, and he raised the axe as the other man brushed past him.

Neither of them moved until they heard the door below. “Mrs. Harding,” called Jamie sharply.

“Yes, yes, sir, he's gone,” called the landlady, her voice fluttering. “Oh my, is Mrs. Townsend hurt?”

“No,” he replied before shoving the ruined door shut. It bounced off the jamb and hung ajar. “No thanks to you,” he added under his breath. “I suspect your henwitted landlady has been encouraging him to hang about waiting for you to return. Christ!” With a sudden movement he flung down the axe. Olivia jumped as it crashed to the floor, skidded across the floorboards until the blade bit into the leg of a table and arrested its slide. “Did he touch you?”

She set the candlestick back on the table. “No. But he threatened me.”

Jamie's eyes had an eerie, deadly glow about them. “How?”

She took a deep breath. “I don't quite know. He said he would expose my scandalous secret as a purveyor of sin. I've no idea what he means, but he said he would ruin me unless . . .”

“Unless we give him the painting?”

She wet her lips. “No. He wants . . .” Jamie wasn't going to take this well. “He wants me to surrender to him.”

For the first time his gaze focused on her. “What?”

“He wants me to . . .” She made a suggestive motion. A corner of paper sticking out of her valise caught her eye, and suddenly it dawned on her what Clary meant. Her mouth dropped open in astonishment. “Oh! Or else he'll tell everyone—I think he believes I'm Lady Constance, who writes those naughty stories!”

Jamie seemed turned to stone, his face a blank mask. Olivia couldn't keep back a gasp of laughter. It was more hysteria than amusement, but still. She clapped one hand over her mouth and turned her back.

“The hell he will.” Jamie stalked across the room and spun her around. He took her face in his hands. “I'm sorry—I never thought he would be sitting here waiting for you—Livie, he could have hurt you—”

“He didn't.” She wrapped her hands around his wrists, feeling the tension in him. It was strange; normally she would have been the one unable to breathe and stricken with alarm at Clary's threats. But Jamie had come to her aid with an axe. He chopped down the door to get to her. Even now he was taut and furious and would probably go after Clary with the axe again if she bid him to. It was so unlike the Jamie she knew, unflappable and always ready with a plan or an idea. “Thanks to you.”

For a moment raw emotion blazed across his features. He pulled her to him and kissed her as if he thought it might be the last time. His hands shook and he held her almost roughly. Olivia surged against him, thinking what would have
happened if he hadn't come with her today. “I could have killed him when I saw him in here with you,” he said, his voice a dark growl. “And I would have.”

“I know.” She ran her fingers into his hair. “Thank heaven you didn't have to.”

“Right.” He exhaled and hung his head for a moment until his forehead touched hers. She could almost feel him gather himself, and when he spoke his voice was noticeably lighter. “So. He plans to denounce you as Lady Constance? I don't imagine that would go any better for him than the last bloke who tried it.”

“Someone already tried it?” she said incredulously. “I never hear the best gossip . . .”

As hoped, Jamie grinned. The tension dropped from his body, but not the intensity or focus. “Some poor fool thought he'd sorted out Constance's true identity. He accused a woman in front of a ballroom full of people.”

“Did people believe it?” she said anxiously.

Jamie snorted, but with a hint of laughter. “Not for a moment! He'd been set up, of course, but he made himself a laughingstock and slunk out of town the next day.”

“What happened to the lady so unjustly accused?”

“You'll enjoy the story,” he said. “She received a marriage proposal that very night—and accepted it. It caused quite a stir.”

It brought a wistful smile to her face. “I certainly approve—provided it was accepted with delight and not in shame, to repair a stained reputation.”

“By all accounts she could only have accepted because her brain was addled by the deepest love. You'll have heard of the gentleman; his sister is fast friends with Abigail and Penelope. Mr. Douglas Bennet.”

Olivia gaped. She thought he'd been teasing about the marriage proposal. But she did indeed know of Mr. Bennet, who was one of the most notorious—and elusive—bachelors in London. How many times had she listened to Abigail and Penelope giggle with their friend Joan about her brother's lack of interest in decent women? “And who was the lady?”

“Madeline Wilde. She'll not be bothered by a little scandal. Lord Clary, on the other hand . . .” He put his hands on his hips and stared out the window. “That's his great threat? You, Lady Constance!”

Olivia drew back, pretending to be insulted. “Well, I'm not sure I like that you find it hard to believe. Constance is regarded as a very adventurous and capable lover. Lord Clary seems sure everyone will believe I'm she.”

He grinned, almost restored to his normal humor. “Never doubt my appreciation of you as a lover. I merely meant you would never write such unbelievable stories.”

Her face warmed, thinking of the pamphlets hidden in her valise. “I quite enjoy some of those stories,” she murmured. What did he mean, unbelievable? He certainly didn't mind her interest in that sort of thing when they were in bed together.

But Jamie had begun pacing, his expression dis
tant yet focused. “Perhaps that's an idea, though,” he murmured.

“What?” Olivia put her hand on his arm. It was almost alarming how unafraid she was of Clary. He'd threatened to do much less before, and she'd fled London, terrified and desperate. Now she felt only a deep certainty that somehow she and Jamie would prevail. Even if every word Clary said was true—no magistrate would bind him over for trial, and no peer in Parliament would believe Penelope over him—Olivia felt strong enough to defy the viscount now. He could point at her in front of all society and call her out as Lady Constance, and somehow she felt she would only laugh.

A cunning smile stole over Jamie's face. “His lordship has given me an idea for how we can bring him down.”

“What is it?” She seized his arm. “Jamie, what?”

He started at her touch. “Ah—he wants a painting. He doesn't know exactly which painting. Perhaps all we have to do is give him a painting.”

“I doubt he'll be fooled by an ordinary picture. It must be old, or a famously valuable work—” She stopped, remembering the conversation at Stratford Court. “Or a
copy
of a famously valuable painting.”

His smile grew hard and fierce. “Exactly.”

A
fter Clary surprised them at Olivia's rooms, Jamie spoke to all the Weston servants, strictly warning them about Clary or anyone else who might try to gain entrance to the house. Thankfully Olivia didn't seem terrified by the encounter—in fact, when Penelope arrived the next day, she wanted to go shopping.

“Shopping?” Jamie frowned. He knew women, especially his mother and sisters, were fond of shopping, but now? He hadn't thought Olivia was as devoted to the pursuit of new bonnets.

“I need a few things,” Olivia said.

“It's perfectly safe,” Penelope put in. “Benedict has armed the footmen, if you're worried about Clary.”

Jamie continued to frown. He didn't like it, but he had no good reason to protest. It wasn't as though he had been able to prevent Clary from getting close to Olivia and threatening her. And she looked so eager to go; both she and Penelope were sitting on the edge of the sofa, hands clasped in identical poses of supplication. It would probably be good for her to get out and do something
normal with one of her closest friends, and he knew Penelope was right. Benedict had informed him before they left Richmond that all his servants were under strict orders to keep Lord Clary far away from Penelope, and that any servant who happened to shoot the viscount in the course of protecting the countess would be neither sacked nor punished, and might well receive a reward.

“I can't stay locked up in the house all day, afraid to set foot outdoors,” Olivia said gently, proving she could read his thoughts. “I refuse to let that man ruin my life, and I feel very safe with Penelope and her servants.”

“Of course not.” He had no right to keep her in Grosvenor Square, Jamie reflected. Trying to do so would do him no good. “Buy something handsome.”

“Splendid!” Penelope beamed. “We'll take care, I promise.”

Olivia gave him a brilliant smile. She must be ready to see a face other than his, he thought with a pang. The two women left in a swirl of cloaks and happy chatter, leaving the house quiet and empty when they had driven off in the Stratford coach. Jamie stood at the window and watched it roll toward Bond Street, the footmen standing tall on the back.

And while Olivia was enjoying a day of shopping with his sister, he should get to work on the plan he hadn't felt like sharing with Olivia.

He went to see Daniel Crawford. He hadn't heard from Daniel in several days, which could mean anything, or nothing. No one answered his knock at the Crawfords' house, so he went around
the corner to the Blue Boar tavern. There he found his friend, a tankard of ale in front of him.

“Well!” Daniel gave him a lopsided grin. “Welcome back to town at last.”

Jamie pulled up a chair. “I hope you haven't been here since I left.”

“Not entirely.” Daniel swirled his ale before taking a long sip. “But there's little else to do.”

He felt that dig. He and Daniel had been friends since university, but only recently become business partners. Then Jamie had hared off after Olivia on only a moment's notice, and instead of bellowing at him for abandoning his responsibilities, Daniel had wished him well and offered to help. “I know. I've been working—”

“Thank God.” Daniel leaned forward, and some of his lethargic veneer slipped away. “It's been over a fortnight, sellers are clamoring at my door. Bathsheba persuaded me to fill any orders we can get, but . . . When can I tell them we'll have something new?”

“Not that,” Jamie muttered. “Well, not entirely that. Did you know Lord Clary was back in London?”

Daniel sighed, the sharp eagerness fading from his face. “I heard a rumor. By that time, you'd sent word you were leaving for Richmond, so I knew I'd be seeing you soon.”

“Tell me everything.”

His friend gave him a long look. “First I have to know—
have
you been working? I understand this matter trumps all else, but it would help—”

Jamie pushed his hands through his hair. “I was,” he said in a low voice. “But Clary stole it.
He tracked Olivia to the inn where we were staying and ransacked the room. So I have nothing to give you, and every reason to want to see Clary destroyed.”

Daniel cursed. “How many pages?” He cursed again when Jamie told him. “That ruddy sod!”

“Exactly,” he agreed. “But it's given me an idea. I need to know what Clary is doing, though.”

The other man huddled over his ale again. “He's staying very quiet. I've heard he's been to visit a few people—largely family connections—but he's not staying at his house. No one is quite certain where he's living, but it's not at home with his wife, who continues to profess that he's gone to Wales. I daresay she knows very well that he's in London, but her servants are every bit as tight-lipped as she is.”

Visiting family connections. That sounded like Clary was taking pains to assure his allies that he was innocent of anything Benedict might say about him. Jamie didn't care about that—he'd never expected to persuade Clary's own family of his guilt—but it meant he needed to put things in motion soon, before public opinion had hardened. So far Benedict had persuaded a magistrate that Clary should be brought in for questioning, but that was a far cry from a conviction. “Any word of him in the gossip? Anything about his finances or personal habits?”

Daniel shrugged. “It's not hard to find rumors of financial trouble, so I've heard a few things, but nothing ruinous. Personal habits . . . I presume you mean women? I haven't found a mistress yet. He prefers brothels and none of those girls want
to talk about him. It hardly reflects well on the man, but neither does it convict him.”

Jamie brooded over that. What was driving Clary to pursue Olivia so fixedly? It wasn't just the painting. Clary wanted the Titian
and
Olivia.

“What is your idea?” Daniel's voice punctured his thoughts. “You said you had one, thanks to this bloke. What?”

He was still working it out, but it was starting to become clearer. “I'll let you know.”

With only a brief stop on the way for supplies, Jamie went back to Grosvenor Square. He was glad his parents were out of town and had given him the use of the house. The elder Westons had gone to their country home, Hart House in Richmond, to be near their daughters. Penelope, at Stratford Court, was only across the river, and Abigail was even closer, as her husband owned the neighboring property, Montrose Hill. Jamie knew his mother loved life in town, but even more she loved her family. He walked through the spacious, elegant hall and wondered if they would give up this house and take a smaller one, if they meant to spend more time in Richmond. His father wouldn't want to; Thomas Weston liked a big house, and Jamie knew he had his eye on hosting fashionable society parties as well as family gatherings, with grandchildren running up and down the stairs.

Slowly he ran one hand over the banister railing. It was wide and smooth, curving gracefully toward the upper floor. If they'd had this house when he was a boy, he would have mastered sliding down it. When he had a son, he'd have to show the boy how it was done . . .

Twice already he'd barely stopped himself from asking Olivia to marry him. He knew she would say yes; even worse, he knew she was waiting hopefully for him to ask. If only he had known sooner that she would feel that way. It could have saved her from Clary, and him from entanglements that now tied his hands and kept him from falling to one knee. If only he'd been able to dispatch Clary quickly and permanently, proving that at least he was capable of protecting a wife.

His hand balled into a fist on the banister as he castigated himself. What sort of maudlin idiot was he to stand here regretting things instead of trying to right them? He released the banister and took the remaining stairs two at a time. There was work to do.

O
livia returned to Grosvenor Square that evening breathless with excitement and pride.

“I hope this helps,” said Penelope for the sixth time as they rolled up to the Weston house. “It must! It was so exciting!”

“Wasn't it?” Olivia laughed. She still couldn't believe everything had gone so splendidly. She peeked out the window and watched one of the Stratford footmen bound up the steps and ring the bell. “Thank you for helping me, Pen.”

“Of course! How could I not?”

“I hope Jamie's not too upset that we lied to him.”

Penelope rolled her eyes. “Trust me, Olivia, he'll forgive you at once. Hasn't he always?”

No
, thought Olivia with a tremor of doubt. Nor had she always forgiven him at once. But it was too late for that now; the deed was done. She hoped her success would mitigate any disapproval Jamie might feel.

The butler opened the door of the house, so she gave Penelope one last hug and climbed down. “Good luck!” her friend cried from the window as the coachman drove off.

Olivia waved back, then hurried into the house. “Is Mr. Weston at home?” she asked the butler, removing her cloak and bonnet.

“Yes, ma'am. He has been working in the library all day.”

“Thank you.” Clutching her prize, she headed for the library. She tapped at the door, then turned the knob, too eager to wait. The Weston library was a grand and impressive room, with a high ceiling and tall windows that overlooked the garden in the rear of the house. The sconce lamps were all burning brightly, illuminating the room. The long velvet drapes had been drawn already, and fires crackled in the grates of both fireplaces, warming the long room. A wide table near one fire was covered with papers and held Jamie's battered writing desk, still bearing the scars of Clary's attack, but there was no sign of the man himself.

Disappointed, she came into the room. He must have spent the day here, catching up on correspondence and other business matters, from the sheer volume of paper. Some of it was clearly drafts, with parts marked out and blotches of ink in the margins. Olivia drifted toward the fire, still
chilled from the long carriage ride. It felt delicious next to the fender, and she turned to warm her backside, too.

For several minutes she indulged in the warm glow of the fire and the anticipation of Jamie's reaction when she showed him what she'd located. Olivia let the small, leather-bound book fall open in her hands and read the scrimped writing with deep pleasure. Henry's payment diary, kept in Mr. Brewster's own hand, indicated exactly which members of society had paid for smuggled art from France.

Olivia had warned Penelope it would be a gamble when she proposed the plan, before they left Richmond. But once her friend heard the complete story, Penelope agreed it was a gamble worth taking. Benedict was vowing to hunt Clary down and kill him, if a magistrate couldn't be bothered, and Penelope did not want to see her husband in jeopardy of prison. Both of them agreed that neither Benedict nor Jamie needed to know about the mission until after it was over.

Mr. Brewster had been very startled to see her on his doorstep again. Even more startling, judging from his expression, was the way Olivia calmly laid a pistol, borrowed from one of the footmen, across her lap. She marveled at how well the gun focused his attention and changed his demeanor. Within an hour Mr. Brewster had completely reversed his course, from blustering that he had no idea what she was talking about to handing over the diary. This time Olivia read it right there, to be certain it held useful information.

Jamie, of course, was right again. Lawyers didn't throw out valuable papers.

Olivia was sure they had enough to hang Clary now. Unlike the abbreviated notations in the other diary, Mr. Brewster had meticulously documented every penny Henry received and spent. One thousand pounds for a Madonna and child. Six hundred twenty for a painting of St. Sebastian, two thousand two hundred for a statue of Venus, one hundred fifteen for a bronze figurine of Apollo. Great artists were listed along with ones she'd never heard of, and some of the pieces were presumably so old, no one knew who had crafted them.
Ancient
, read the notation next to those. And every expense was documented, from five shillings for canvas to wrap pictures to the hundreds of pounds paid to Lord Clary, always noted as
Commission
. Even doing very hasty arithmetic Olivia could see that Henry had raked in a fortune, and that Clary had shared in it.

She was sure Jamie would forgive her for lying to him about shopping when he saw the diary. It hadn't escaped Olivia that this was taking a toll on him; the guilt on his face when Clary caught her unawares still ate at her. The night he slept on the floor, he had told her she was stronger and more capable than she knew. Olivia wanted that to be true, so much that she decided to make it true.

Happily she closed the cover and leaned forward to put it on the desk. When she dropped the diary, it dislodged a stack of papers close to the edge. One, then another page drifted off, down toward the hearth. Olivia grabbed them on in
stinct. But as she moved to put them back on the desk, her eyes caught on the words.

Dear Reader,

If nothing I have related thus far has shocked you, I regret that my story on this occasion may very well leave you speechless. This time I write of my encounter with two men: one the very best sort of gentleman, and one the very worst . . .

Olivia was stunned speechless. Wide-eyed, she read that page twice, then the other. It was unquestionably an issue of
50 Ways to Sin
, written in a neat, unfamiliar hand. Where did Jamie get this? And how?

The door opened as she stood there, confounded. “Livie,” exclaimed Jamie. “I didn't know you were back.” She looked up in time to see his eyes lock on the pages in her hand, and his expression go curiously blank.

“Yes.” She shook her head in mute question. “What is this?”

“What do you mean?” He pushed the door closed behind him.