Fencing for Ladies (The Archer Family Regency Romances #5) (19 page)

“Yes,” Olivia agreed hastily, before Cynthia could launch into a more strident lecture about the evils of poverty and her determination to create an orphanage for the unfortunates in London.

It was a laudable goal, and Olivia had promised to help and had even given Cynthia her entire allowance on several occasions to fund the school, but she’d heard the speech so many times that her head rang with it. She wanted Cynthia to succeed, but in one small matter, the two ladies differed greatly. Olivia preferred simply to
do
something without a great deal of discussion and planning, while Cynthia seemed to discuss, bully, and consult endlessly, forever running around in vigorous, excited circles without accomplishing much of note.

Of course, if Olivia had done the same with her academy, her brother might have rented the townhouse to someone else, and her procrastination might have saved Mr. Grantham’s life.

She glanced at Cynthia and noted that her gaze was growing unfocused. Her plump, red mouth was opening and shutting in preparation to launch into her favorite lecture.

Hastily, Olivia cut her off by saying, “Why did you not return it to Mr. Greenfield?” She held up the book by the dry corner.

“Didn’t know what it was until I got home and opened it.” Cynthia shrugged and looked wistfully at the empty plates on the table. Once more, she licked the tip of her index finger meditatively, but then appeared to think better of picking up the remaining crumbs because she finally clasped her hands together in her lap. A droopy, disappointed expression remained on her face, however.

“You read it?” Olivia asked.

“Naturally.”

“Then why bring it to me? Why not return it to Mr. Greenfield? You must know it may contain information important to his investigation,” Olivia said, watching her friend curiously.

Although she had previously wanted the journal, she now found herself reluctant to touch it, much less read it. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know what Mr. Grantham had written about all of them, especially Mr. Underwood. The book seemed dangerous and tainted with more than melted snow.

Cynthia’s gaze focused on Olivia’s face, her blue eyes filled with sympathy. She sighed lustily and shook her head. “Thought you should read it. You wear your heart upon your sleeve, Lady Olivia. Always did. Too soft.” She shook her head again, her red curls bouncing around her round face.

“I was not in love with Mr. Grantham!” Olivia exclaimed. “Why would you think such a thing?”

“Grantham?” Cynthia laughed and waved one hand back and forth in front of her face. “Not Grantham, no. That fencing chap — calls himself Lord Milbourn now.”

“He does not
call himself
Lord Milbourn. He
is
Lord Milbourn,” Olivia said frostily as she straightened.

Cynthia gestured at the book. “Read that, Lady Olivia. It mentions others of your acquaintance. Sad, really.” Her hefty shoulders lifted up and down as she sighed. “Shouldn’t like to see that information made public. Bad. Very bad.”

“Why don’t you just tell me what it is you believe you’ve discovered if you think it is that important?” Olivia’s heart battered against the walls of her chest. She wanted desperately to read the journal, and yet she was afraid of the contents. What had he said about her brothers, or about Lord Milbourn? She didn’t want to know their boyhood misdeeds, didn’t want to go through that dismay such knowledge would bring, even if she could forget later.

She wanted to believe the best about them, and about herself. Whatever mistakes Mr. Grantham had recorded were better left in the dark.

“No need to kill the messenger and all that.” Cynthia grimaced, the pinched corners of her eyes betraying her discomfort. For once, she seemed reluctant to blurt out whatever she was thinking. “Thought you should know. Not a nice surprise. Your Mr. Grantham—”

“He is not
my
Mr. Grantham,” Olivia interjected. Her fingertips ran over the top of the journal. The leather felt old and flaky, already starting to decay where it was not still damp. “You must have — he wrote something about Mr. Underwood, did he not?”

“Underwood?” Cynthia frowned at her. “There was a letter. Concerned his wife.”

“He was here the day it happened. He was distraught,” Olivia whispered, staring down at the book.

“As well he might be if he knew what Grantham had. At least he is above suspicion, or that alone would have condemned him.”

“Above suspicion?” Olivia asked, her gaze searching Cynthia’s face hopefully.

Cynthia nodded. The red curls framing her face shook loose, and she brushed one long strand out of her eye and tucked it behind her right ear. “Thought you knew — his wife had a baby. He only left briefly to fetch a physician—”

“I saw him on the street,” Olivia interrupted.

“Yes, but he was not gone long enough to do ought else but find a physician. So he was there that day and the next — still there for aught I know. They lost two babes before, but this one is alive. So far. A boy.”

Edward had known. That was why he had not mentioned his conversation with Mr. Underwood to Mr. Greenfield.

But Mr. Underwood hadn’t been home the entire time. Olivia’s gaze searched Cynthia’s face. “Mr. Underwood did leave his house. I saw him, spoke to him. He was walking past the academy.”

Cynthia nodded, clearly unimpressed by the revelation. “Went to fetch the doctor. He was only gone a short time — barely long enough to find a physician and return home.”

That explained the panic in his eyes and strain on his pale face. Mr. Underwood had been in a desperate hurry to fetch medical assistance for his wife.

While part of her was relieved and pleased to hear about the new arrival in Mr. Underwood’s house, she also felt a great, gray emptiness seeping into her. If Mr. Underwood was not guilty, then.… Her grip on the journal tightened. She couldn’t imagine who else might have wanted to see Mr. Grantham dead. That lack placed her even more firmly at the top of Greenfield’s list.

Perhaps the journal might still hold some other name, another answer. She studied Cynthia’s expectant face before asking, “Did the journal mention someone else? Someone who might have done such a terrible thing to Mr. Grantham?”

“Yes. Grantham had an affair with Isabella Bron — bragged about it in that journal.” Cynthia flicked her hand in the general direction of the diary again.

“Isabella Bron? Who is Isabella Bron?”

“Apparently, she was Lord Milbourn’s wife — before he inherited his title. Sensuous and quite insatiable by all accounts. Spanish, you know. Passionate. According to Grantham, that is.” Cynthia shrugged. “Never knew her, myself.”

Lord Milbourn’s wife had an affair with Mr. Grantham?

Olivia felt numb, her mind empty of all thoughts except Cynthia’s stark statement. The words circled round and round, making it difficult to concentrate.

“Wh-what?” she stuttered. She couldn’t think. Why couldn’t she
think
?

“I suppose that’s why he killed him.”

Olivia stared at Cynthia. “Killed him?”

“Why Lord Milbourn killed Grantham,” Cynthia repeated patiently. She stared at the empty plates again, licked the tip of one finger, and picked up a few globs of icing and some crumbs. She cleaned off two plates before she said, “Thought you should know. Knew you wouldn’t believe me, so I brought you the journal.” A look of sympathetic concern wrinkled her forehead. “Stay away from him, is my advice. Dangerous.”

“I don’t—” Olivia stuttered to a halt.

“That will be best. And as for the journal, it’ll look better if you return it to Greenfield.” She grinned. “Might make him trust you a bit more and look to the real culprit, Lord Milbourn.”

“I don’t know what to say,” Olivia said at last.
Lord Milbourn?
He couldn’t possibly be guilty. She could hardly breathe, and her heart felt as if a giant hand were squeezing it until her entire chest ached.

No, he couldn’t have killed Mr. Grantham, he just couldn’t. She refused to believe Cynthia’s conclusion. If Lord Milbourn had done such a thing, he would have admitted it. He was an honorable man. He would have accepted blame before allowing even the slightest suspicion falling upon her.

She remembered his hand clasping hers at the inquest and his words, “Steady,
mi niña bonita.
” He couldn’t have shown her such sympathy if he were to blame.

And if he had wanted to kill Grantham, he would have challenged him to a duel — there were foils in the room. He wouldn’t have hit him over the head with a marble cherub. It made no sense.

Unless he’d lashed out in hot anger after discovering Mr. Grantham had cuckolded him. But why now? Why would Mr. Grantham admit such a thing to him after so many years?

No
. The sharp denial steadied her. That supposition didn’t explain Mrs. Adams’s death, and Olivia refused to believe there were two murderers. The deaths had to be connected, and they had to have been planned. Coldly planned.

Lord Milbourn could be cold. Distant. And he knows how to develop a strategy. Find the weaknesses in an opponent. That’s why he was a fencing master.

Doubts nagged her, biting and itching like a swarm of fleas infesting the nape of her neck. Her pulse thundered in her ears. For a second time, a sure sense of
wrongness
steadied her. It could not be him — it didn’t
feel
like him. She refused to accept the theory.

“What other reason could there be for Grantham’s death?” Cynthia asked, tilting her head to one side. Her shrewd gaze challenged Olivia.

“I don’t know,” Olivia said, opening the journal and flicking through the pages. Skimming the entries, her brow wrinkled. There were no names — just enigmatic abbreviations. “Surely this affair was not recent — I understood Lord Milbourn’s wife died a number of years ago.”

Cynthia nodded in agreement. “Ten years.” Again she gestured at the diary. “Read it.”

“How can I read it? There are no names mentioned — at least none I recognize.”

Cynthia laughed and flung her hands up as she shrugged. “It is not hard to interpret — you will puzzle it out as well as I did. It is not difficult.”

“It is ridiculously obtuse — can you not simply translate it for me?”

“You give up too easily, and I have already told you the gist of it. Milbourn’s tragedy is described, as well as several youthful escapades that your brother participated in. You will certainly recognize those and from there, the rest of the entries become clear.”

Olivia shut the book with a frustrated flick of her hand. Why couldn’t Cynthia just provide her with a key? Why did she have to be so difficult? “But—”

“Grantham thought Milbourn might have pushed his wife down the stairs.” Cynthia studied her. “That is the important point. Killed her. Probably knew about her affairs. A young hothead. Impulsive. Dangerous, as I said.”

“He was never accused, never arrested,” Olivia said, leaning forward. Her hands twisted in her lap.

“He is a slave to his impulses.” Cynthia reached over the table to clasp Olivia’s forearm and give it a squeeze. “Best to be prepared. Dreadful thing, but it’s got to be faced. Stay away from him — best to be safe.”

Olivia shook her off and sat back. “I need to think — to consider this information.”

“Naturally.” Cynthia stood and sighed, her gaze drifting one last time over the decimated tea tray. “Read the journal before you return it to Mr. Greenfield. Best to face the facts. Sorry.” She leaned over and gave Olivia’s shoulder an awkward pat. “Must be off.” She hesitated a second before adding, “And burn that letter concerning Mrs. Underwood. It’s an ugly thing — arranging to get rid of an unborn baby. Must have been a year or two before she married. Can’t blame her. Terrible position. No wonder she’s had two miscarriages after that experience. Sheer butchery.” She heaved a sympathetic sigh and shook her head as she stood. “Almost burned it, myself. Don’t know why I didn’t. A man wouldn’t understand. Terrible to be alone and with child. Good thing you have Lord Saunders. He will support you — make you forget. You’ll see.”

“Lord Saunders?” Olivia rose to her feet and stared at Cynthia, feeling deserted.

“You’re next to betrothed, are you not? Best thing for you. Forget Milbourn — the devil take him. Now, I must be off. Good day to you, Lady Olivia, and don’t forget the journal. Read it. Best to face the truth now than cry about it later,” she said before striding through the door and disappearing from view, leaving Olivia with Mr. Grantham’s journal resting, heavy and cold, in her hands.

The clammy feel of the stained leather cover was not the only reason Olivia stared down at it with distaste. She wanted to remember Mr. Grantham as a kind, gentle man who was always happy to provide a listening ear when one felt overwhelmed and needed a strong measure of sympathy. The fact that he might have then gone home and written about all their little foibles and tales of woe made her queasy with a sense of betrayal.

But if there was something in the diary that could provide a clue as to who had murdered him, she needed to discover it. Flipping through the pages again, her frustration mounted. She hated puzzles, particularly when others, like Cynthia, found them so easy to interpret. Olivia stopped to read a few passages here and there as her anger with her inability to understand Mr. Grantham’s cryptic references burned. But after a few minutes, she found several events that were familiar to her from her brothers’ accounts. She could not claim complete victory, however, because Mr. Grantham had referred to the participants by names like M. Dull, M. Somber, and M. Simple. And her brothers had never shared all the details with their sisters, so Mr. Grantham’s appellations made it very difficult to decide precisely to whom Mr. Grantham referred.