Will headed toward his nemesis. A sense of calm settled over him. He’d waited far too long for this moment. He would finally meet the Duke of Sandhurst as an equal. Not in social standing, but in something much more important—power. And then one day, one day soon, he would kill him.
He stopped directly behind the blushing young girl, certain Sandhurst could not help but notice his presence.
His Grace looked up, and their gazes met. The duke stumbled over his words.
A slow smile curving his lips, Will nodded in acknowledgement and walked away. Sandhurst knew he had gained entrance to his world. And for tonight, that was enough.
Drifting from one group of people to another, he listened to the conversations, hoping to learn something useful about his enemy. Even with Hargrove’s introduction, he was treated with distant politeness. He knew he only had to let it be known that he possessed a modest fortune, and he would be as fawned over as the Prince Regent himself.
Unfortunately, he didn’t want that information bandied about. Especially now that he was trying to leave his criminal past behind. Having to explain how he had amassed those first few hundred pounds would ruin his reputation as a legitimate businessman.
“Excuse me, sir.” A hand tapped him on the shoulder.
Will turned.
“Mr. Prescott?” the footman asked.
“Yes.”
“I have a message for you.” The footman held out a folded sheet of parchment.
Will glanced at the servant’s outstretched hand. “Do you know who it is from?”
“His Grace, the Duke of Sandhurst.”
“This should be enlightening,” he murmured, taking the note.
The footman bowed and walked away. Will moved to the edge of the ballroom. He flipped the folded sheet of vellum over. There was nothing written on the outside. For a long moment, he stared at the wax seal depicting the duke’s crest.
The lion standing on its hind legs, a bird crushed under one paw reminded him of a time he’d rather forget. He rubbed at the sudden burning sensation at the back of his neck and closed his eyes for a brief moment. He hated the insignia almost as much as the man it stood for.
Feeling curious and a small sense of dread he refused to acknowledge, he snapped the wax seal in half and unfolded the message.
“Laz—”
Will looked up at the sound of Olivia’s voice. “Mr. Prescott,” he corrected quietly.
“Mr. Prescott.” She glanced toward the doors leading to the terrace. “I wonder if I may beg a favor of you,” she finished in a rush.
Fear lurked in her eyes, her face pale. Her agitation was palpable.
“What has happened?” he asked.
She looked to the French doors again.
He reached out to touch her arm, remembered at the last moment that the familiarity of the gesture wasn’t proper, and dropped his hand.
“Would you be so kind as to allow me the use of your carriage?” She twisted her fan in her hands. Will heard the delicate ivory ribs snap and doubted she was even aware of it.
“You don’t have a carriage of your own?”
“Lady Riverton sent her coach to pick me up. I was to spend the night.” She stared into the night before meeting his gaze, her blue eyes imploring. “Please. I need to leave.”
He shoved the missive from Sandhurst into his frock coat pocket and maneuvered her through the crush of guests and out of the ballroom. “Did someone make improper advances?” he asked in a low voice.
She shook her head.
Taking her pelisse from the waiting footman, he helped her into it. He shrugged into his own coat and ushered her out to his carriage.
The wind whistled through the newly blossoming trees. Thunder crashed overhead. Olivia jumped back with a whimper, nearly colliding with him as he followed behind. He put his arm around her waist and hurried her to the coach, propriety be damned.
“Take us to the St. Germaine residence,” he said to the driver, closing the door behind him.
As the carriage moved forward, he lit one of the interior lamps. Olivia sat huddled in the far corner, her eyes squeezed closed, her lips moving soundlessly.
“Miss St. Germaine. Miss St. Germaine.” He raised her chin with gentle fingers. “Olivia, tell me what happened.”
She opened her eyes and stared at him. Only she wasn’t looking at him, she was looking through him. It was as though he wasn’t there. A crack of thunder filled the silence, followed by a flash of lightning. She clutched at his hand, her lips moving faster.
It dawned on him then. She was afraid of the storm, of the thunder in particular. He ducked his head to hide a smile of relief and moved onto the bench beside her.
The thunder rolled overhead while rain battered against the roof of the carriage. Olivia covered her ears with her hands and rocked back and forth. Putting his arm around her, he pulled her close, trying to offer the comfort of his presence. As a child, he had always been less afraid when he wasn’t alone.
Realizing she was still whispering to herself, he leaned closer.
“It’s only thunder. It’s only thunder. It’s not cannon fire. It’s not cannon fire. It’s not cannon fire,” she repeated over and over.
Chapter Six
Cannon fire?
Will didn’t know what she meant by that. He watched over her, not sure how else to offer comfort from the storm.
The carriage pulled to a stop, and he sent up a small prayer of thanks that the St. Germaine townhouse was not a great distance from the Riverton home. Once he saw her safely inside with a cup of tea, Olivia should be fine. He looked down at her white face as the footman opened the door, an umbrella in hand to shield them from the elements. Tea be damned, she needed a bracing glass of brandy.
Will stepped down from the coach and helped her out. Making certain the footman was keeping her sheltered from the rain, he pulled up the collar of his coat and followed them. They entered the townhouse just as a loud crack of thunder bellowed overhead, shaking the timbers of the building.
Olivia whipped off her pelisse and strode down the hall. “Ellie, where are you?” she called. “We must hurry. They will be arriving soon.”
“I’m here, Mum. I’ve already started with the bandages.” The young maid who’d helped out the night he’d arrived injured handed a stack of white linen folded into small squares to Olivia.
Bandages? Will shrugged out of his great coat, handed it to the footman, and walked down the hall.
“Good. I know I can count on you to keep a level head.” Olivia opened the door off to the left. “We’ll have them put the wounded in here. Remember, I need to see the most serious injuries first.”
Ellie bobbed her head. “Yes, Mum.”
Wounded? Will glanced at Olivia and then the maid. What was going on?
“I’ll need my instruments,” Olivia called over her shoulder as she climbed the stairs.
“I puts them on a table next to the cots.” Ellie gave Will a wary glance, then dashed up the stairs after her mistress.
Cots? Instruments? Who was she expecting that would be wounded? Was she like her brother after all? Taking advantage of those who could ill afford proper medical care? Will took the stairs two at a time. He reached the top just in time to see the two women disappear into a room near the end of the hall. He quickened his stride.
Stopping in the doorway of the room, which from the décor could only be the library, he took in the scene before him. Elaborate cabinets with glass doors guarded rows upon rows of books. A plush blue carpet lay underfoot while matching drapery hung at the two windows on the far side of the room. A fire burned low in the hearth.
Olivia stood near a credenza, sorting the folded linen into small piles while Ellie hovered in the background. Will spied a sideboard with various decanters. Olivia may not need a brandy any longer, but he did.
“Stop!”
Will froze. He’d taken no more than a few steps into the room when she shouted the command. He watched her weave her way across the room as though she was walking around objects in her path.
She stopped in front of him, her gaze roaming over him. “Are you injured?”
He looked at her. His bullet wound was healing, but she knew that. “I do not believe so,” he answered carefully.
She let out a sigh of relief. “Oh. Then you must be here to help.”
“I...” Will didn’t know what to say. She acted as though she had no idea who he was or why he was there.
She pulled him along behind her as she threaded her way back to the waiting piles of linen. Placing a handful of the folded squares in his hand, she glanced around. “Here, this man needs pressure applied to his wound.” Olivia walked away.
Will stared after her. What man? The room was empty save for the two of them and the maid.
Olivia stopped and looked back at him. “Hurry.” She turned away only to look at him once more. “You don’t suffer from the vapors at the sight of blood, do you?”
Not certain what was happening, he shook his head. She moved back to where he stood and grasped his wrist, leading him to a spot a few feet away. Taking a few of the linen squares from him, she pressed them down against nothing but thin air.
“This will help stop the bleeding. Do not worry about hurting him. You must keep pressure on the wound.” She placed his hand over hers, then slid hers out from underneath.
Will grabbed at the cloth, not wanting it to fall to the floor. He worried how she would react if that happened. He looked over at her. She smiled and nodded and moved off to help another man who didn’t exist. He wasn’t certain how long he stared at her as she moved around the room, applying bandages and sewing wounds that only she could see.
A tap on his arm drew his attention. The maid stood near him, a wad of linen in her hand.
“Ellie—”
“Bridget. Me name is Bridget.”
“What’s wrong with Miss St. Germaine?”
“I don’t know. She acts like this sometimes when it be stormy.”
“Ellie.”
Bridget jumped and turned away. “Yes, Mum?” she asked, hurrying to her mistress’s side, though mindful enough to move around the imaginary cots of wounded men.
“I...” Olivia blinked, gave a slight shake of her head, then looked down at her hands.
The faint sound of thunder in the distance drew her gaze to the window. She bit her lip. “It happened again, didn’t it?” she whispered.
“Yes, ma’am,” Bridget said in a somber voice.
Olivia glanced around the room, her gaze settling on Will. He returned her gaze. He heard tales of men returning from war who relived the experiences they suffered there. Could that be what happened here? Her cheekbones flushed with color, and she turned away.
“Will you help me to my bedchamber?” she asked.
Bridget put her arm around Olivia and led her from the room. She looked back over her shoulder, her gaze pleading.
Will nodded. He would keep her secret.
“Should I be asking Mr. Jennings to bring ye a wee bit of brandy to help ye sleep?” Bridget guided Olivia out of the room.
“That might be best.” Olivia sighed and allowed the servant to usher her down the hall.
Will stared at the empty doorway. He turned away, determined not to let the appearance of her fragile mental state deter him from implementing the plan that had grown like a seed in his mind. A seed planted by Lady Amanda Riverton this very evening.
He had planned on striking a bargain with Miss Olivia St. Germaine. One she wouldn’t be able to refuse if she valued her reputation. She would help him gather information from her acquaintances in the
Ton
about Sandhurst, and he wouldn’t expose the fact that she had spent time with him and Fingers without a proper chaperone, though he was injured at the time.
The idea had blossomed as he listened to Lady Riverton’s tirade regarding her friend’s association with the wrong sort of people. Olivia may not be aware of it, but he knew Lady Riverton wouldn’t hesitate to treat her like a social pariah should any more scandal attach itself to the St. Germaine name.
Given Lady Riverton’s status, he had no doubt the other members of Society would follow her lead. He guessed Olivia was only accepted now due to her ladyship’s good grace. And it wouldn’t take more than the veriest whiff of the wrong sort of gossip to change that.
One last faint rumble of thunder drew his gaze to the entryway. The hall stood dark and silent. Olivia had sounded so...lost.
He turned away, running a hand through his hair. He couldn’t let himself be deterred from blackmailing her into helping him. He had already waited too long to get close to the duke to let such an opportunity simply slip away.
Remembering the note he’d received from Sandhurst just before leaving the Riverton ball, Will pulled the crumpled sheet of parchment from his pocket. He smoothed the folds and held the sheet under the wall sconce. The note was brief, to the point.
Do not do something Mary would hate you for and you would regret.
Sandhurst
The words mocked him. The bastard had all but admitted he knew where Mary was. The missive only hardened his resolve to find his sister and make the duke pay. Pay with his very life.
****
Olivia dropped her quill onto the desktop and stood. From the sound of the commotion coming from the entrance hall, the man known as both Lazarus and Mr. Prescott was not going to be put off any longer. Smoothing her hands over her skirts, she rounded the desk and headed out of the room. She came to a stop at the top of the stairs.
“Miss St. Germaine is not receiving callers today, I tell you.”
“And I am telling you, I will not leave without seeing her.”
“I would prefer not to have you put out, but if you insist on this course, I’ll have no alternative.” Jennings signaled to the footman to come forward.
“It’s all right, Jennings,” she called. “I will see him.” She turned on her heel and strode back to the study. She needed a few minutes to compose herself before facing the man.
Touching a hand to her forehead, she paced behind the desk. What could she say to explain her actions of the night before? Footsteps in the hall sounded his arrival, and she quickly sat. He may have insisted on seeing her, but she would do her best to control the meeting.