Six Degrees of Scandal (4 page)

“Jamie,” she began, then stopped. She mustn't think of him that way any longer. “Mr. Weston. I hope we can remain friends. Anything else between us”—her voice shook, and she paused—“would be improper.”

In the days since her wedding, she'd had time to
think about whether she wanted to shut Jamie, and all the Westons, out of her life. It might be easier, but they had been everything to her for years. Her own family had never loved her as much as the Westons did, and now she could barely stand to think of her parents.

But to keep her friendship with Abigail and Penelope, she would have to maintain a civil relationship with Jamie. The only way she could do that was to keep him at arm's length, now and forever. To lose her love was terrible, but to lose everyone she cared about was unbearable.

She'd told herself this several times over the last few days, and wept each time. Odd how it hurt far more now that she had to tell him.

“This is not how I hoped our relationship would change,” she went on, forcing out each word, “but what's done is done. It would be best if we kept our regrets to ourselves.”

He raised his head. His eyes were dead when they met hers. “Yes. If that is what you wish, Mrs. Townsend.” The name sounded leaden and ugly on his lips, and sent another spasm of anguish through her. “I apologize for disturbing you. As you say, what's done is done.” He paused, his gaze searching, almost as if waiting for her to beg him to carry her away with him. And Olivia's resolve wavered. God help her, if he said they should run off, propriety be damned . . .

“I suppose that's all there is to say,” he said instead. “Good day.” His steps sounded heavy as he turned and left.

A few minutes later Henry strolled in. “Who was that?”

Olivia had retreated to the window. Below her, Jamie collected the reins of his horse and swung into the saddle. Without once looking up, he turned and rode off. Pressure built inside her chest until she thought she would suffocate. He was leaving, and all her hopes and dreams lay in ashes in his wake. She laid her palm against the pane of glass as if she would draw him back to her side

“Are you unwell, Olivia?” Henry asked absently. He was reading the racing report and didn't even glance at her. “Did the fellow upset you?”

She swiped a stray tear from her cheek. Down in the streets below, Jamie turned a corner and disappeared from view. “No,” she whispered in reply to her husband's question. “I'm fine. It was only an old friend.”

And nothing more. Never anything more.

They know not I knew thee,

Who knew thee so well—

Long, long I shall rue thee,

Too deeply to tell.

—Lord Byron

1822

Gravesend, Kent

T
he clock above the clerk's desk had stopped, and so had time itself, in Olivia Townsend's estimation.

“Will Mr. Armand be much longer?” she asked. Her back ached; she'd been sitting on the hard wooden chair for hours. She had no idea how many, because the clock had stopped, but it felt like a dozen at least.

“I don't know,” replied the clerk without looking up from his task. “He's a very busy man, madam.”

Olivia supposed that was true. While she had been sitting here, at least three other clients had come and gone, each one shown directly into Mr. Armand's private office on arrival. The clerk had bowed and simpered for them, but otherwise he left his stool only to put more coal on the fire or to fetch a mug of ale from the tavern across the
street. Since the fire was across the room from her and he hadn't offered to fetch her a drink, neither of these actions improved Olivia's opinion of him. She was beginning to imagine snatching the quill out of his hand and breaking it before she stormed into the inner office and confronted the solicitor. The last client had left some time ago and no other had appeared. Unless the clerk lied to her, Mr. Armand had been aware of her presence, and duly ignored it, since midday.

The clerk turned a page, his pen scratching endlessly across the ledger. He must be transcribing a history of the world, Olivia thought in aggravation.

“Would you please remind him that I am waiting?” She didn't bother hiding the edge to her words.

The clerk peered at her over his glasses. He was an older man, paunchy and graying, and there was no mistaking the disapproval in his glare. “He is aware of it, madam.”

“I think he must have forgotten,” she exclaimed. “I've come in response to a package
he
sent
me
. He was my husband's solicitor for many years—”

“Mr. Charters was your husband's solicitor, Mrs. Townsend,” interrupted the clerk. “Mr. Armand merely took over the practice.”

“If he no longer handles the work, he may as well deliver all my husband's files and records to me.” Olivia smiled at the clerk's dour expression. “Since my husband is dead, I'm sure they're only collecting dust. Give them to me and I shall be on my way without troubling Mr. Armand.”

He turned back to his writing without the
courtesy of an answer. Olivia's fraying patience snapped. She stood up just as a door at the end of the room opened. “Mrs. Townsend,” said the gentleman in the doorway. “Won't you come in?”

Forcing down her temper, she dipped a polite curtsy and went past him into a large but disordered inner office. Pale rectangles on the walls marked missing pictures, and bookcases stood empty. Mr. Armand murmured an apology as he dusted off a chair for her. “I apologize for the delay. I did not expect you to come yourself.”

That softened her irritation somewhat. “Of course. But I was astonished to learn you have some of my husband's papers. Henry has been dead for almost two years now. I confess myself very eager to reclaim anything of his.”

“Indeed,” said Mr. Armand slowly. “Mrs. Townsend . . . Did you not receive my letter? The second one?”

“Why, no,” said Olivia after a startled moment. “Only the one.”

He sat behind his desk and looked pained. “Mrs. Townsend, I sent you a book—”

Olivia nodded, every scrap of her attention focused on the solicitor. “That's why I'm here.”

That book was why she had dropped everything to come to Gravesend in winter. After Henry's death it became more and more obvious that he had kept secrets from her, very large and significant ones. That alone didn't surprise her; their entire marriage had been rather distant, like two acquaintances living in polite proximity. Henry never confided in her about his affairs, and since the bills were always paid, Olivia never pressed.
She'd supposed they were living on his inheritance from his father, which had been substantial.

But when Henry died, her income inexplicably dried up, even though there should have been an annuity to provide for her. The solicitor, Mr. Brewster, could only tell her that the accounts were empty and her annuity had been canceled. He had no idea where Henry drew his funds, and without Henry himself, those funds seemed to vanish. As the money disappeared, so did Henry's purported friends. Olivia hadn't minded that; she knew she was nothing like her charming and gregarious husband, and his friends had no time for a widow of plummeting income and status. In fact, she wished all of Henry's friends had drifted away, but one in particular—Viscount Clary—refused to go away, and that had started all her troubles.

Her pulse spiked just at the thought of him, threatening her composure. With some effort, Olivia focused her attention on Mr. Armand. Three weeks ago, out of the blue, she had received a package from him with a letter indicating that he had taken over the practice of the late Richard Charters, who had apparently been one of Henry's solicitors, and had discovered the enclosed book in Mr. Charters's files labeled with Henry's name. The book looked for all the world to be part diary, part ledger, with a steady stream of payments in Henry's distinctive handwriting. The recipients were only identified by initials, though, and the notations were very suspicious.

Thanks to Lord Clary's intimations, Olivia had begun to suspect her husband was up to some
thing illicit, even illegal, and this book seemed to confirm it, if not explain exactly what those activities were. If she could decipher what Henry had been up to and how Clary was involved, it should help her turn the tables on the viscount and persuade him to keep his distance from her.

Or so she hoped. If not, she had no idea what she would do.

Mr. Armand shuffled his feet and scratched his chin. “About that book, yes. It's been a monumental task sorting out Mr. Charters's files. He practiced for over forty years, you see, and maintained quite a stock of information for his clients—”

“I understand,” said Olivia quickly. “You must be eager to be rid of it. I'm here to collect anything my husband left in Mr. Charters's possession.” There must be more than the diary. There had to be.

“Ah. . . . You see, Mrs. Townsend . . .” He paused. “I ought not to have sent you the book at all. It was done in error, and if you would be so good as to return it—”

“What?”

The tips of his ears flushed at her exclamation. “Quite right, you're surprised; I apologize profusely. It had fallen from one crate into another, probably whilst being moved, and therefore I didn't immediately comprehend the nature of the information within.”

“What is that nature?” For the first time Olivia was devoutly glad she'd left the book hidden at her leased cottage. For a while she had considered bringing it along, in case Mr. Armand offered to help her understand it, but some instinct
had made her conceal it beneath her floorboards. She'd expected Clary would be the one seeking it, though, not the solicitor who sent it.

Mr. Armand gave her a placating smile. “I must insist, madam, on having it back.”

“No,” she said indignantly. “
I
must insist on claiming my husband's property. If he left a debt, I'm prepared to pay it.” Her palms were damp. She'd borrowed a large sum of money from Penelope Weston for just this purpose, but she still hoped she wouldn't have to use it. She had absolutely no idea how she'd ever repay her friend.

“It's not about a debt. As soon as I realized the mistake, I wrote to you, requesting its return.”

Olivia's jaw firmed. “It contains my husband's handwriting. Do you deny it was his?”

“I see this conversation is upsetting you, as I feared.” He held up one hand as she opened her mouth. “I sincerely apologize for my error in sending the book and unsettling you. Mr. Charters kept his clients' information strictly confidential, and he meant that protection to extend beyond the grave. That book was in a box of items that Mr. Charters instructed should be destroyed upon his own death.”

The floor seemed to drop from beneath her. “Mr. Armand,” she said carefully. “If I had any idea my husband left personal and private belongings with Mr. Charters, I would have claimed them months ago. Those papers belong to
me,
not to Mr. Charters or to you. Please tell me you have them still and can give them to me now.”

The solicitor leaned forward. “Madam, you do not understand. The papers were to be kept confi
dential. Mr. Townsend must have wished it so, or Mr. Charters would not have left such an instruction.”

“That is your assumption,” she replied. “I promise you, sir, that my husband would not want to keep them from me.” Olivia had no idea if it was true or not, but she wasn't about to tell the solicitor that. Henry hadn't been the best husband but neither had he been a terrible one. She
was
certain Henry wouldn't want Clary to intimidate and hurt her, and now this mysterious book, and any other papers that clarified it, might be the only way to stop him.

“Nevertheless, Mr. Charters's instructions were quite clear: everything was to be burned. And it was.”

She blinked. “You burned it already?”

He nodded. “And I must ask for the return of that book, so it can also be destroyed.”

Olivia stared at him in disbelief. “You can't be serious.”

“Mrs. Townsend, I only want to spare you any trouble. Mr. Charters's notes indicated that anything related to that book would be at an end with Mr. Townsend's death, which means it can only cause you upset and renewed grief. I recommend you return it to me and put it from your mind.”

No. Not an answer to her prayers but only another mystery, another question that couldn't possibly have a good answer. Stiffly she got to her feet. “I cannot do that, sir.” If Henry had been entangled in something so terrible that he wanted all proof destroyed after his death—something Lord Clary may also have been deeply involved
in—there was a chance the viscount would speak to Mr. Armand about retrieving that book. And if Clary traced her to Mr. Armand's office . . .

She had to throw the solicitor off. He thought she was a woman easily led and susceptible to emotion, so she might as well ladle it on. She pulled out a handkerchief and bit the inside of her cheek until tears welled up in her eyes. “I think you misunderstand the nature of a woman's grief, Mr. Armand. Far from wishing to forget everything about my husband, I cling to his memory. Anything of his, even those things so mundane you obviously think no one could care about, is more dear to me than ever because it was once his, and he's now lost to me forever.” Not only that, it seemed Henry would take his secrets to his grave, and leave her to face the consequences. Henry himself grew less and less dear to her every day, but she would have given almost anything to see his papers that might solve her current problems.

Olivia let some hysteria creep into her voice. “If you ever lose someone so beloved, you'll understand what I feel! My husband's papers belonged to me, and you had no right to destroy them—certainly not peremptorily. I would say the same thing to Mr. Charters, if he'd had the decency to notify me that he had them. I cannot approve of a solicitor who would deprive a widow of her husband's property, and I wonder what Mr. Charters was trying to conceal by burning it!”

Mr. Armand rose as well. “Mrs. Townsend,” he said in a voice filled with both condescension and warning, “you are impugning an honorable man. I fear you are overwrought—”

“Perhaps I am,” she cried. “I am dreadfully disappointed that my dear husband's last belongings were destroyed without my permission. Good day, Mr. Armand.”

She pressed her handkerchief to her mouth and walked out of his office, ignoring the clerk's smirk as she snatched up her cloak and left. The nasty little fellow must have known all along that his employer would give her bad news.

Outside, the bitter wind sliced through her dress. Olivia tugged up the hood and pulled on her gloves. An entire day wasted, and even worse, she didn't know what to do next. She'd read part of Henry's book, but it was infuriatingly mysterious—her hopes were pinned on whatever papers the solicitor had. Surely they must have contained a wealth of information about the money, all that money that Henry noted so carefully. And if that much money had gone through the solicitor's hands, she reasoned, he must know more about it. Well, it seemed Mr. Charters
had
known much more, and now Mr. Armand had burned the evidence. She'd better read the book more closely, since it appeared to be her only source of illumination.

The town was buttoning up for the night. Lamps glowed in windows along the main street, and the smell of roasting meat made her lift her nose more than once. She had purposely taken a small cottage out of town, but now her rumbling stomach and cold hands made her heart sink; she had a long walk ahead of her before she would be savoring her own dinner by a cozy fire. She hunched her shoulders against the wind and started up the road headed north, toward the coast.

She heard the footsteps behind her as she reached the last turn toward her cottage. She caught her breath and listened: it was a heavy tread, a man in boots whose longer stride was gaining on her. It could be anyone hurrying home after a long day, and yet . . . Her heart nearly stopped and her lungs felt crushed as other possibilities streaked through her mind. If Lord Clary had somehow found her, followed her, and discovered her here alone, in this narrow lane at the edge of town . . .

Her hands fisted in the folds of her cloak.
No, no, no.
If she let herself think too much of that, he would win. The man had spent months trying to seduce her, with increasing degrees of coercion and intimidation. If he'd tracked her to Gravesend in the middle of winter, he wouldn't be refused again.

Now her blood was running and her feet sped up as anger flowed freely through her veins. She was so tired of this—a decade of her life had been ruined by men manipulating or forcing her into doing what they wanted her to do, with no thought at all to her wishes. First her father, then Henry's father, blasted Henry himself, that unctuous solicitor, and now the devil incarnate, Lord Clary. Olivia had had enough.