Fencing for Ladies (The Archer Family Regency Romances #5) (6 page)

“They wanted to come,” Olivia said lamely.

How could she explain that when she’d climbed into the carriage, Caesar had run out and jumped in, terrified of being left behind. And then the others had begun baying and escaped from the groom to make a mad dash for the carriage. Once they jumped inside, she couldn’t bring herself to force them out or see the look of disappointment in their brown eyes. It would have felt too much like betrayal to leave them after that.

Margaret took Lord Saunders by the arm and drew him into the hallway. When they’d gone, Olivia stooped to rub all the dogs, trying to be serious and chide them for upsetting her betrothed. But when Caesar and Titus rolled over onto her feet, waving their paws in the air, she couldn’t help laughing. The others soon pushed forward in their efforts to dominate her attention, and she felt a little of her grief and worry fade.

She should have felt badly about upsetting her betrothed, but somehow, when she saw the gentle remonstrance in his gaze, she only wanted to take the dogs and escape to the small grassy area behind the townhouse. Some of her grief returned, however, when she remembered poor Mr. Grantham.

What had happened to him? He’d been such a quiet, gentle man, and a cherished friend. Why had he gone to the academy? Her brow wrinkled. How had he entered without a key? Had he been meeting someone? Had he met Mr. Underwood?

The thought made her queasy, and she pressed a hand against her stomach. She didn’t want to believe Mr. Underwood had been involved, and yet his conversation with her brother and his presence near the academy haunted her.

So many questions. And worse, Mr. Grantham’s death seemed so senseless. How could anyone be angry enough with him to hit him with the first object that came to hand? He had been so inoffensive that it was impossible to imagine the circumstances that must have led to his death. The picture of the stained marble cherub resting on Mr. Grantham’s shoulder, obscuring his head, and the stickiness of his blood on the floor beneath her boots would not leave her. It spoke of brutal, senseless rage.

Uncontrollable anger.

Mr. Underwood had been angry. He’d seemed desperate when she overheard his conversation with her brother. Even more damning, he’d been near the academy soon after Mr. Grantham had died.

Should she report it?

No
. If anyone reported it, it should be Edward. He alone knew precisely what Mr. Underwood had said to him.

Once the motive was clear, she would feel more comfortable telling the authorities that he had been in the vicinity of the townhouse that afternoon.

Undecided, she did nothing, and even the dogs couldn’t brighten the rest of her day. She moved through her social duties in low spirits, writing letters, and accepting callers. As the afternoon wore on, she began to realize that the delicate questions of the ladies who visited could not mask the excited curiosity in their eyes. While they were quick to offer their sympathy, they all asked the same questions about the academy and Mr. Grantham’s state when Olivia discovered him.

How dreadful, they simpered behind gloved hands, their eyes bright with excitement
.

Olivia was almost relieved when the beagles escaped from their quarters twice more while ladies were visiting. Excited by the prospect of strangers in the house, the dogs bayed and dashed up the stairs and along the gallery with the footman running after them in close attendance.

Olivia calmly sipped her tea to cover her laughter.

“What is the meaning of this outrage?” Mrs. Roberts shrieked, jerking to her feet as Brutus sniffed at her overly ruffled hem. She stood quivering as the other dogs encircled her, sniffing and pawing at her dress. “I came here to lend a sympathetic ear and support, despite the evils of your situation, and I must say, I expected better of you, Lady Olivia.”

“I
am
sorry, Mrs. Roberts, and I fully appreciate your kindness. Perhaps you could overlook the dogs as simply evidence of my evil situation.” Olivia picked up the teapot. “Would you care for some more tea?”

“Tea?
Tea
? Surrounded by those brutes? I should say not, and I am sorry to say that your frivolous attitude does you no credit, Lady Olivia.” She swished her skirts away from Octavius’s inquisitive nose. “I am afraid I have another engagement. Good day, Lady Olivia.”

“Good day. I hope I have not made you late.” Olivia stood and gestured to the dogs.

For once, they obeyed her, and trotted calmly over to the fireplace. In a rare display of obedience, they sat in an orderly line in front of the hearth, wagging their tails in anticipation of another caller.

After Mrs. Roberts left, the few other visitors she received only stayed long enough after meeting Olivia’s beagles to plead other appointments and beat hasty retreats.

Olivia had never been so pleased to have her dogs nearby than she was that afternoon. Perhaps she ought to request their presence in the drawing room every day between one and three in the afternoon.

Her relief increased when the clock on the mantel chimed and she realized she could finally stop receiving guests. She took the beagles for a brief and well-deserved walk outside and then retired upstairs to change for dinner.

As their gloomy supper drew to a close, Edward carefully folded his serviette, placed it next to his plate, and said, “I propose we attend
Harlequin and the Magic Rose
at the Adelphi as we intended. What say you?”

Margaret shook her head, her eyes fixed on her plate. She had scarcely eaten a bite.

Olivia studied her with sympathy, wishing she’d sat close enough to give her sister’s hand a squeeze.

“I will stay with Lady Margaret,” Olivia said. After all the curious visitors she’d received that afternoon, she had no wish to meet even more inquisitive acquaintances at the theater.

Hildie and Peregrine, however, smiled, exchanged glances, and Hildie said, “Perry and I will come with you. I’m sick of this moldy old townhouse.”

“Before you go, may I speak to you, Edward?” Olivia said.

Her sisters eyed her curiously, but they didn’t comment as the two girls left together. Peregrine studied her, let out a long-suffering sigh, and exited as well, clearly exasperated by Olivia’s desire for privacy.

When they were alone, Olivia faced Edward. Her hands knotted together as she studied him, trying to think of a way to explain how she happened to overhear his conversation in the library.

“Well?” Edward prompted. “We must leave soon for the theater — can this not wait?”

“No — I…” Olivia halted, took a deep breath, and then plunged on. “I fell asleep in the library, earlier — the other day. When I woke up, you were conversing with Mr. Underwood.”

Edward’s chest expanded as he frowned at her. He was clearly unhappy about her admission.

Before he could say anything, she held up one hand. “I did not intend to overhear anything, truly, but I did not want to embarrass Mr. Underwood, either. He sounded so upset and serious.” She leaned across the table to lay her hand on her brother’s forearm. “And I did not hear everything. I only heard him mention Mr. Grantham.”

“And now you are wondering if he murdered him,” Edward said brutally.

“Well, I just…” She winced at her words. She just what? Thought that the soft-spoken Mr. Underwood had lost his temper and killed Mr. Grantham?

“Just what?” Edward’s eyes glinted with anger.

She sat back, shrugged, and shook her head. Her fingers twisted together so tightly that her knuckles were white.

“Do you truly believe Mr. Underwood would kill anyone?”

“There is no need to be angry with me,” she said in a small voice. “I just thought if Mr. Underwood were desperate enough.… Well, it might have been an accident. And you should inform the coroner — at the inquest.”

“I am well aware of my responsibilities, Lady Olivia,” Edward responded stiffly. “And if I believe my conversation with Mr. Underwood is relevant, I will notify the appropriate authorities. Now is that all?”

“Yes. I am sorry — I did not mean to interfere.”

His anger faded as quickly as it had arisen, and he smiled before he leaned forward to give her shoulder a squeeze. “You never
mean
to interfere. You simply do.” His expression grew serious again, however, as he studied her face. “Promise me you will not involve yourself in this matter. One man is dead — I would not see anything happen to you.”

“I will not.” Her smile twisted ruefully. “But I believe the coroner already thinks I stand right at the heart of the tragedy.”

“But Peregrine was with you.” Edward’s frown deepened.

“Not every minute, no.” She tried to sound confident, but her voice sounded plaintive even to her ears. “I was alone in my office several minutes before he joined me.”

“How long?”

She shrugged. “I’m not sure. Perhaps only one or two minutes. I went into the room, opened the wardrobe to check the equipment, and saw Mr. Grantham. I screamed, and Peregrine ran in just a few seconds later. That is all I remember — not very helpful, I fear.”

“No, it is not.” Edward’s dark brows drew down as he stared at her with a combination of aggravation and anger. Finally, he shook his head and turned away. “Cannot be helped now, however. I wish you had never started that ridiculous academy” — he held up one hand — “but as you did, we must do what we can to keep your name out of this matter. Just try to avoid any further difficulties.”

“I will, I promise,” she agreed with such a meek voice that Edward’s eyes twinkled.

His lips twitched, but he refused to smile. “Why is it I do not trust your promise?”

“Because you are wise beyond your years,” Olivia said before she slipped past him and retreated to the library.

An hour later, Edward, Peregrine, and Hildegard left for the theater, while Margaret retired to her room, pleading a headache. Olivia explored their library, picked out a book, and spent the evening ensconced in her favorite wing chair next to the fireplace. She couldn’t concentrate on reading, however, and kept thinking about Mr. Grantham and Mr. Underwood. Was Edward wrong? Was Mr. Underwood involved? Her thoughts swam in useless, repetitive circles. It was not long before she developed a tired headache like Margaret had and went to her bedchamber.

She had half-expected Constable Cooke to appear with additional questions that evening. As she prepared for bed, she had the uncomfortable feeling that their quiet day had simply been the lull before the storm.

Olivia was once again seated at her delicate white writing desk in the corner of the Ivory Drawing Room, writing a reply to the Duchess of Peckham’s kind letter, when Latimore rapped gently on the doorframe of the open door.

He cleared his throat.

“Yes? What is it?” she asked, sprinkling sand over her missive.

“Lord Milbourn, Lady Olivia,” Latimore announced.

She glanced at her desk, suddenly reminded of the note she’d written to him the day before. She pulled open the slim center drawer. It was gone.

What?
The picture of Margaret standing next to the desk yesterday filled her mind.
How could she take it upon herself to post my letter?
A sense of betrayal warred with her embarrassment.

Flustered, Olivia stood just as Lord Milbourn strolled around the butler.

“Lady Olivia,” he drawled. “I felt sure you wouldn’t mind an impromptu visit. Your surprising letter seemed a trifle urgent.” One dark brow soared in query.

“Thank you, Latimore.” Olivia nodded at the butler.

Latimore bent forward slightly as he gripped the doorknob. His bland expression couldn’t quite hide his concern at leaving Olivia alone with Lord Milbourn.

“Leave the door open,” Olivia said. “That will be all, Latimore.” One hand touching the curls of her loosely arranged hair, she glanced around and gestured toward a primrose-colored silk couch. “I apologize, I had not expected.…” her voice trailed off as she smoothed the gray folds of her dress. Her cheeks felt warm.

Why hadn’t she worn something more flattering? Her morning dress was an old gown of her mother’s that Olivia had found in one of her trunks. The fine silk was too good to give to her maid, so Olivia industriously remade it into a more modern gown to wear in the mornings. However, it was far from modish, and the muted color was not particularly flattering. For once, she regretted her thrifty impulse to save an old-fashioned gown most women would have given to their servants.

She looked up at Lord Milbourn, her breath fluttering.

Tall and well-built with wide shoulders and long, lean legs, Lord Milbourn’s tanned, saturnine face was as handsome as ever, with the black eyes and olive skin he inherited from his Spanish mother, and a strong, square chin. He looked like a dangerous Spanish lord, striding like a wild storm, whipping through the ivory and gold confines of the drawing room.

He smiled and waved away her apology as he wandered toward the couch.

Her beagles’ yapping echoed through the house in response to the sounds of a visitor’s arrival.

“Oh, no, not again.” Olivia sighed. “This is becoming a dreadful habit.”

Before she could say more, the beagles rushed into the room, baying with glee and searching for anyone willing to play with them. Bathsheba leapt up on Lord Milbourn, pawing his black trousers and leaving behind streaks of dust and dog hair.

He chuckled, rubbed her ears, and sat on the couch while Titus and Justinia sniffed at his trousers and tried to push their heads under his hand. Bathsheba immediately took advantage, jumped on the sofa, and laid her head in his lap. She stared up at him with adoring brown eyes as he smoothed her ears.

“Down, Bathsheba! Oh, don’t allow her to sit on the furniture. She knows she’s not supposed to do that,” Olivia said, trying to keep the other dogs from jumping up onto the opposite couch to join her. “Latimore!”

Lord Milbourn laughed and shook his head. “At least Bathsheba is pleased to see me.”

“We are all pleased. Oh, do push her down.” Olivia swept the other dogs out of the room just as the butler arrived, followed closely by the footman. “Latimore, how did they escape again?”

“I apologize, Lady Olivia.” Latimore grabbed Bathsheba bodily and carried the wriggling dog to the door. He glanced at the footman who was busy fastening leads to the rest of the animals. The butler cleared his throat. “It seems Caesar has learned to open the door to their quarters.”

The footman flushed and appeared unable to meet Olivia’s gaze as he accepted Bathsheba from Latimore. “Sorry, Lady Olivia,” he mumbled.

“Well, if he can open the door, I suggest you lock it. And don’t let him have a key,” she said with a bland expression.

The footman gaped at her before hurriedly dragging the dogs away. Latimore might not think it proper to laugh, but his eyes danced as he bowed his way out of the room.

“So,
mi niña bonita,
why have you sent for me?” Lord Milbourn asked.

My pretty girl
. She wished she felt flattered instead of annoyed.

“I am hardly a child at eight-and-twenty, my lord,” she answered. “And I didn’t send for you.”

He caught her gaze. One of his dark brows rose.

She felt her cheeks warm again. “I never meant to send that note. It was a mistake.”

“A mistake?” He seemed amused at her embarrassment as he leaned back and stretched one long arm along the back of the couch.

“Yes, a mistake. My sister —” she broke off and wriggled on the gold brocade couch opposite him. “It is unimportant. The point is that I apologize if we have inconvenienced you.”

“It is of no importance.” He waved away her apology again. “So this academy, how does it fair?”

“It is very successful,” she said. She glanced at the ornate clock on the mantelpiece and suppressed a sigh. The first class was scheduled to have begun a half hour ago, if there had been any students to attend.

“
Muy bien
,” he said, congratulating her with a small smile.

She smiled in return and studied him, sensing sarcasm and not completely trusting his benign expression. He was far too fond of irony and too keen on testing her mettle, as if he were always engaged in a subtle duel with her.

At least he would never kill her with kindness, she thought, suppressing a long sigh.

Another soft knock interrupted them. “I beg your pardon, Lady Olivia,” Latimore said from the doorway. He bowed, and when he straightened, his face was set in grave lines. “There are two gentlemen asking for you.” His voice, when he intoned “gentlemen,” indicated that in his opinion, the visitors were anything but gentlemen. His mouth thinned into a narrow line.

Olivia exchanged glances with Lord Milbourn. He remained relaxed on the couch, a glimmer of amusement in his dark eyes, completely unhelpful.

“I will see them here, Latimore.”

The butler disappeared and a few minutes later returned with two men. One man lagged behind the other, and Olivia immediately recognized the stout, bull-necked man as Constable Cooke.

“Mr. Matthew Greenfield, inquiry agent, and Constable Frederick Cooke, Lady Olivia,” Latimore announced sonorously, his head tilted slightly up with silent disapproval.

Olivia nodded. “Lord Milbourn, may I introduce Mr. Greenfield and Constable Cooke?” She performed the introductions mechanically, her hands already turning cold with anxiety.

“My lady,” Mr. Greenfield bowed. “I hope we have not intruded at an inopportune time.”

“Not at all,” Olivia answered.

At first, Mr. Greenfield’s wizened appearance made Olivia think he was quite elderly, until she caught the bright, inquisitive light in his blue eyes. He was small, particularly in comparison to his stocky companion, and his drab, dark green jacket with frayed cuffs and worn black trousers added to his well-aged air. His sparse gray hair fluffed around his narrow head like the downy feathers of a newly hatched chick, and his lined, gray-tinged skin wrinkled even more deeply when he smiled at her.

He bowed again, making him seem even more birdlike than ever. “The coroner’s inquest is tomorrow, my lady.” He glanced over his shoulder at Constable Cooke.

Cooke shifted from one foot to the other, frowning and staring at the back of his associate’s head.

“It would be kind of you to attend,” Mr. Greenfield continued. “The coroner would be most grateful for your statement.”

Olivia stiffened. The last thing she wanted to do was to relive her experiences at the academy. However, she knew her duty. “Certainly,” she said at last. “Give the information concerning the inquest to Latimore. He shall ensure I arrive at the appropriate time. Is that all?”

Mr. Greenfield tilted his head to the left. “How is it you arrived at the Cavendish Square townhouse when you did? It did not appear much used when I examined the premises.”

“I am opening an academy at that location. I wanted to make sure it was prepared for students.” Her throat tightened, and she paused. “It was purely by chance my brother and I arrived when we did.” She stared at Constable Cooke’s broad face. A smear of some greasy substance shone at the left corner of his plump mouth. Something about it made her suddenly feel queasy. “I believe I went over this already with Constable Cooke.”

The constable kept his gaze fixed on the back of Mr. Greenfield’s thin neck.

Mr. Greenfield didn’t turn to look at him. He smiled and nodded. “Yes, certainly. If you don’t mind a few more questions, my lady?”

“I thought these matters would be covered at the inquest.” Olivia locked her hands together in her lap. The couch’s back pressed against her, trapping her between the armrests. She moved restlessly and sat forward a fraction. When she glanced at Lord Milbourn, his sharp eyes were fixed on Mr. Greenfield intently, although the negligent lines of his body might lead one who didn’t know him well to believe he was disinterested.

“They will, indeed,” Mr. Greenfield concurred agreeably. He studied her thoughtfully for a moment and pulled a small black book from his pocket. Several pieces of paper had been shoved inside, although they didn’t precisely fit, and their ragged, crumpled corners stuck out. “But I have been hired by Mr. Grantham’s relatives to look into the matter, and I feel it important to provide them with a full report.” He cleared his throat and glanced at her. “What time did you arrange to meet Mr. Grantham at the academy?”

Olivia’s back tightened. She straightened. “As I already stated, I did not arrange to meet Mr. Grantham there, or anywhere, for that matter.”

“This is not your handwriting?” Mr. Greenfield extracted one small piece of creamy notepaper from his book. He held it out to her between two fingers.

“What is that?” Olivia’s heart fluttered, pounding against her breastbone. Her clasped hands remained locked together in her lap. She recognized the small sheet as a piece of paper from the private stock she kept in her writing desk.

He waved the note and nodded to her. “Please, Lady Olivia, perhaps you should examine it.”

She reluctantly took the note and unfolded it. One quick glance was enough to warn her of the contents. She held it in her lap and gazed at Mr. Greenfield in silence.

“Is that not your handwriting?” he repeated the question.

“Of course it is my handwriting,” she said. Her chin rose.

“It says —” Mr. Greenfield started to say before she cut him off.

“I can read it quite well,” she said. “It says,
Wednesday, Academy
. What of it?”

“We found it in Mr. Grantham’s pocket, Lady Olivia.” Mr. Greenfield held out his hand for the note.

Lips compressed, she handed him the piece of paper, proud to see that her hand did not shake.

“If you did not intend to meet him at the academy, why did you send him that note?” Mr. Greenfield asked.

Behind him, Constable Cooke’s grin widened. He rocked from heel to toe, gazing at her with all the pleasure of a hangman viewing a job neatly done.

“I did not send him that note — it was on my desk.” She gestured toward the escritoire. “It was a note to myself. I meant to add more to it, but I forgot.” Olivia rubbed her temple and then, aware of all the men watching her, she slowly lowered her hand. “I was distracted. There was a great deal to do for a project of that sort.”

Mr. Greenfield nodded. The sympathetic, thoughtful frown on his face and soft expression in his pale blue eyes were obviously meant to reassure her, to convince her to confide in him. But he was slowly and cunningly leading her into a trap.

She could sense the noose dangling in front of her, just waiting for her to slip her head through it.

“How do you suppose he got that note?” He carefully tucked the paper back into his black notebook.

She watched him with a growing sense of desperation. “I have no idea.” A sharp pain behind her right eye jolted her. She started to raise her hand to rub her temple again before she caught Mr. Greenfield’s gaze. She clasped her hands together. “I started that note, as I indicated, and left it on my writing desk.” She gestured at the desk again. “As I stated.”

“When was that?” Mr. Greenfield asked.

“Several days ago.”

His cold blue eyes sharpened. “How long ago? Do you remember?”

“I — I believe I started the list Monday. That would have been the eleventh, would it not?” She glanced at Lord Milbourn.

He nodded, but he offered her no assistance. She could read nothing from his bland expression.

“Then you have no explanation for the presence of your note in Mr. Grantham’s pocket?” Mr. Greenfield’s question could not hide the implication that she had sent that note to Grantham to arrange a meeting with him.