Robin Lee Hatcher (29 page)

“Miss Olivia, I wonder if I might ask something of you.”

She met Sophie’s gaze in the mirror. “What is it?”

“When you go to England after the wedding, I was wondering if you might take me along as your maid? You see, my grandmother still lives there. I haven’t seen her since I was a little girl. Now that my parents have both passed on, I’d like very much to see her again. She’s all the family I’ve got left in the world.”

Maybe she could trust Sophie with a message to Remington, in exchange for helping her get to England. Maybe this was the opportunity she’d been hoping for.

“I’ll do what I can, Sophie. I promise.”
But with any
luck, you’ll go to England without me.

Upon Alfred and Lillian Cameron’s return from their European honeymoon, they set up housekeeping in a modest four-story brownstone on Lexington Avenue, a few blocks from the Episcopal Church of the Epiphany. Eighteen and pretty, Lillian welcomed Remington Walker to the Cameron house with a nervous smile and the look of a new bride who feared she might fail as a hostess.

“Thank you for joining us, Mr. Walker. I appreciate your graciousness.”

“It’s my pleasure, Mrs. Cameron.”

Ten minutes later, when Libby appeared in the doorway, her hand on Spencer Lambert’s arm, Remington chanced to find himself alone, which gave him the opportunity to watch her with an unfettered gaze. The gown she wore was exquisite, as was the emerald necklace gracing her throat. Her complexion was milk white, without even a hint of freckles on her nose and cheeks.

I miss your freckles, Libby. And I hate the sadness in
your eyes. Am I the only one who sees it?

As if she’d heard him, she looked up. Their gazes met and, for a breathless moment, held. Remington expected her to turn away. He did not expect a tentative smile.

But there it was, curving her mouth at the corners.

She whispered something to the viscount, then drew him across the room toward Remington. “Mr. Walker, it’s a pleasure to see you again.”

Was this some sort of joke?

“May I introduce Spencer Lambert, Viscount Chelsea.”

Was this how she intended to punish him for his perfidy, by flaunting her fiancé in front of him?

She glanced at the man beside her. “Spencer, this is Remington Walker. His father, I’ve heard, raised some of the finest horses in the South before the war. Mr. Walker has continued the tradition since his move to Manhattan.”

Remington scarcely looked at the viscount as the two men shook hands.

“It’s always a pleasure to meet one of Olivia’s friends,” Spencer said. “Perhaps you’ll show me your livestock one day.”

“Yes. To be sure.” Who cared about horses at a time like this? What was it he saw in Libby’s expression?

She swept her gaze over the room. “Oh, look, Spencer. There’s Penelope and Alexander.” She faced Remington again. “Please excuse us, Mr. Walker, but we must say hello to the Harrisons.”

“Of course.”

The couple started away, but Libby stopped and turned back, whispering, “I must talk to you. Alone.”

The evening was long and torturous as Remington awaited the opportunity for that talk. It came after supper when the gentlemen went off to smoke and the ladies retired to the parlor. With only a glance exchanged between them, Remington and Olivia slipped away from the others and up the stairs. They met in a small sitting room on the second floor. A gas lamp, turned low, provided a source of light as they faced each other.

Olivia, her stomach aflutter with nerves, was suddenly uncertain how to begin. Finally she asked, “How is Sawyer?”

“He’s fine. He misses you.” His eyes studied her with increasing intensity.

“Remington, I . . .” She licked her dry lips with her tongue. “Remington, I . . . I want you to tell me again what happened. Between you and my father. I . . . I want to know the truth, and this time I promise to listen. I want to know everything. I
need
to know.”

He reached for her hand, but she took a step backward, out of reach, as if his touch might cause her fragile hope to crumble, to shatter into a thousand pieces.

When he spoke, his tone was gentle. “All right, Libby.” He motioned toward two chairs. “Come and sit down. It’s a long story.”

She led the way, settling onto the edge of a carved rosewood chair while her heart thumped a deafening beat.

Remington raked the fingers of one hand through his hair, a small frown drawing his brows together. “It’s hard to know where to begin.”

Tell me you love me. Begin there.
But that would be the wrong place to start. She needed the truth even more than words of love.

“Did you know our fathers were business acquaintances years ago? Friends even. At least my father thought they were friends.” He didn’t wait for a reply. “That was before the war.”

She listened as he recounted the story of Northrop and Jefferson, about the years before and after the Civil War, about Jefferson’s despair and suicide. She wasn’t shocked by the part her father had played in the ruination of Jefferson Walker and the JW Railroad.

“When your father called me to Rosegate and asked me to find you, I thought at first it was because he knew who I was. I thought it might be his way of making some sort of amends. But I believe he’s forgotten my father. When I demanded the bonus if I found you before the end of a year, I never expected him to agree, but once he did, I knew this was my chance to exact revenge. I couldn’t destroy him as he destroyed my father, but I could hurt him. I could take his money. In time, I could buy enough stock in his company to endanger his control.”

An invisible band tightened around her chest, making each breath she drew painful.

Remington stared into a dark corner of the room. “When I awakened at the Blue Springs and saw you for the first time, I knew even then that it would be hard to send you back to your father. I could see you were content there. But I’d promised the memory of my father that I would seek retribution. I wanted to get well and send that telegram and return to New York. I wanted to get out of Idaho as quickly as possible.” He brought his eyes back to meet hers. “But I fell in
love with you, Libby, and money didn’t matter anymore. Revenge didn’t matter. It’s like God reached down and cut that need right out of my heart. Nothing mattered except being with you. When I went to Weiser with Pete Fisher, I sent your father a telegram saying I’d failed, that you couldn’t be found. I told him to give up his search.”

“How did he find me, then? Why did he try to pay you that money?”

“He had me followed. He hired another detective to find me when I didn’t send my usual report.” His eyes narrowed, sparking with anger. “And he gave me that check to make sure you wouldn’t stay with me. He’s a shrewd man, your father.”

It sounded plausible. It could be true. “Why wouldn’t you marry me right away?” she whispered, then swallowed the sudden tears that burned the back of her throat. “Why did you put it off?”

“I didn’t want your father to come between us. I didn’t want to owe him anything, not even the fee he paid me before I left Manhattan. That’s why I was going to sell everything, including my house. To pay him back. I wanted things to be right before we married.”

“But you didn’t tell me the truth. You didn’t tell me who you really were. You let me believe you lived at Sunnyvale. You let me believe so many things that weren’t true.”

He leaned forward. “No, I didn’t tell you the truth, and I was wrong. I shouldn’t have kept silent. I should have explained everything. But there were so many lies between us, and I was afraid you would hate me when you learned the truth, so I put it off.”

“You were afraid?”

“Afraid I’d lose you.” He took hold of her hand, and this time she didn’t pull away.

She closed her eyes. “I’m afraid too.”

His fingers tightened. “I love you, Libby. I want to marry you. I want to take you back to the Blue Springs. We were happy there. We could be happy again.”

She looked at him. He’d lied to her about so much, but then, she was guilty of lying too. Wasn’t she as much at fault as he? Could they put everything behind them? Could she learn to trust him again?

God, what should I do?

She slipped her hand free of his and rose from the chair. “I’d better return before I’m missed. Father watches my every move.”

“Don’t let him force you into a marriage you don’t want, Libby. Even if you can’t love me, don’t let him do that to you.”

I do love you
, her heart confessed. But she couldn’t tell him so. Her father controlled her fate. Better not tell Remington she loved him if they would never be together.

Olivia shook her head slowly, then turned and left the room.

Rosegate was quiet, the windows darkened, by the time the Lambert carriage brought Olivia home. Spencer escorted her into the entry, where he helped her out of her cloak.

“Is something troubling you, Olivia?” He took hold of her elbows and turned her to face him. “You’ve been inordinately quiet this evening.”

She couldn’t meet his gaze. “No, Spencer. I’m simply tired.”

“Well, then, I shall let you retire.” He gave her a perfunctory kiss on the cheek. “Sleep well, my dear.”

“Thank you. Good night.”

As soon as the door closed, Olivia picked up the lamp that stood on a table in the entry and started up the stairs. But she paused before she’d gone far.

“I sent your father a telegram saying I’d failed, that you
couldn’t be found . . .”

She looked down the hallway toward her father’s study.

“Olivia, Mr. Walker didn’t lie to you about the telegram.
I saw it . . .”

She descended the stairs.

The study was her father’s sanctuary, his most private domain. He allowed neither Olivia nor her mother to enter the room unless summoned there. With an unsteady hand, Olivia turned the knob and pushed open the door.

A flood of bad memories washed over her as she stared into the dark room. She saw herself as she’d once been, a lonely child, seeking her father’s approval and affection. She saw the wounded girl who wondered why her father couldn’t love her.

It’s not my fault.

Her pulse quickened.

It’s not my fault he can’t love me.

She stepped into the room, moving toward the massive desk.

Father doesn’t love anyone. He loves only money and
power. It’s not my fault.

A sigh whispered through her lips, and with the corresponding intake of air, she felt a sudden release. Fear of the future—and of her father—seemed to flee from her. No matter what she found tonight, she didn’t have to be afraid anymore.

She sat in the large chair behind the desk, placed the lamp on the desktop, and pulled open the top drawer. She drew in another deep breath, then began her search.

It was nearly four in the morning before she found the two telegrams, both of them folded and wrinkled.

She read the first through a blur of tears:

no sign of olivia in idaho stop trail is
cold stop suggest you forego further
search stop walker

She skimmed the second telegram, her heart racing with joy as she read the only words that mattered: