She placed the pen back into its holder with a sigh. The silence of the house settled its oppressive weight on her once more.
I’ve done all I can, Constance, please leave me in peace.
THE MORNING DAWNED overcast. Olivia decided to risk the walk to the inn to catch the coach to Truro, rather than wait for it to pass by the end of the Kenstec Manor. She was in sight of the Trellows’ tavern when the heavens opened.
If she stopped to open her small umbrella, she would have been wet through, so Olivia clutched her leather reticule close to her chest and ran the last few yards. By a miracle, the door opened as she approached. Olivia ran straight inside.
“Thank you,” she said to the unseen doorman while she attempted to wipe down the worst of the drops from her cloak.
“The pleasure is mine, Miss Collins.”
The flush started instantly. “It was very good of you to do so, Mr. Hardacre.”
She ventured a look up at him. He was dressed for town, dark blue breeches, a white shirt and matching blue jacket that was tailored for his broad shoulders and trim waist. Hazel eyes watched her fuss with her maroon cloak while she contemplated the idea of sitting for two hours or more beside the man who had besieged her dreams last night.
She opened her reticule to make sure her letters were dry. The sooner she secured herself a new position and had something more productive to do with her days, the better.
Olivia listened to the long, drawn out sigh from the man beside her.
“It’s going to be a long trip if you don’t speak to me,” he said.
“I should think that after yesterday, you’d hardly entertain the idea of speaking to me at all.” Yes, her voice was priggish and peevish – two characteristics Olivia detested hearing from women – least of all herself.
Hardacre laughed, a sound of genuine mirth, and her heart warmed a little at it. He didn’t hate her after all.
“Perhaps we should stick to safe topics.”
“Like the weather?” she asked, allowing a smile to play on her face. “And how is the weather today, Mr. Hardacre?”
With great exaggeration, Adam peered around her at the open door through which they could see the steady fall of rain.
“It’s wet, Miss Collins.”
The tension broke, like a long-anticipated summer storm.
Through the open door, Olivia heard the sound of the coach approaching. She looked outside and wondered how she might avoid the rain crossing to the carriage.
“Miss Collins…”
She turned back and those hazel eyes held her fixed once more.
“Please, call me Olivia,” she insisted.
He acknowledged the regard with a nod of head.
“Olivia? I want to apologize for my behavior yesterday. I had always hoped…imagined…that Constance had gone on to live a full life. So to learn that our summer was…” Adam halted. He shook his head as though abandoning the thought. “Anyway, thanks to you, she won’t be forgotten and, for that, I’m grateful.”
Before Olivia could respond, Jory and Will appeared at the front door wearing oilskin coats and brandishing large umbrellas.
“We got a couple of these,” said Jory, “but there’s a lot of water on the ground. I’m not sure how ye’re goin’ to keep the hem of yer dress dry, Miss Olivia.”
“I have an idea,” Hardacre answered.
Before Olivia could draw breath, she found herself swept up and into his arms. Adam strode toward the door with her as though she weighed nothing.
“Mr. Hardacre! Adam! What on earth are you doing?” she gasped.
“Keeping your skirts dry. Jory and Will can use the umbrellas over us. Now, put your arms around my neck. I’m going to take this at a run.”
Will Trellow whooped with delight.
Before she could utter a word of protest, Adam had steadied himself and waited for Will and Jory to form the escort, umbrellas held aloft like some kind of exotic honor guard. Olivia held on to his shoulders, tucking herself close to his chest to avoid any splashes or collision with the coachman who waited until just the last moment to open the door. The coach lurched with their inward momentum and the horses shifted to steady themselves. The door closed behind them just as quickly and Olivia found herself gently deposited on the seat.
Adam laughed. So did Olivia and she waved through the glass at the grinning faces of both Will and Jory as the coachman climbed aboard.
The carriage jolted forward. Olivia reached for the leather grab strap to steady herself and smiled easily at the man seated opposite her. She picked up her furled umbrella and, with a regal set to her chin, tapped Adam once on each shoulder.
“I dub thee, Sir Walter Raleigh,” she said. “My knight protector!”
Chapter Ten
A KNIGHT…ADAM RATHER liked the sound of that.
Not a modern knighthood – where they seemed to award such things to every Tom, Dick, or Harry who wrote a pleasing poem or pranced on a stage – but rather a prize won on the field of honor.
He also rather liked the look Olivia gave him although he was hard pressed to describe it.
She smiled and laughed with him, at ease in his company although he could give her a hundred reasons why she should not be. Moreover, she treated him as an equal, not a glorified servant.
And she was considerate. Adam was beginning to feel like a bit of a cad to have ever suspected her motives.
Due to the inclement weather, the coach made a slow pace but steady. No one waited at the exposed byways and the next stop before Truro was Devoran. They had the coach to themselves for more than an hour.
To his surprise, the conversation flowed freely. He struggled to recall a time he’d ever felt so at ease in the company of a woman. He learned about Olivia’s childhood as the youngest child and only daughter of a merchant in Yorkshire and her earliest memories of the dales. She painted a beautiful picture of the moors, the windswept hills, and the stone cottages; she spoke of the lines of low stone walls crisscrossing a verdant landscape, the stark ruins of nearby Bolton Abbey.
He could not match her prowess for imagery but he did his best, describing life aboard the Andromeda, the feeling of exhilaration as a mighty ship with nearly a thousand souls aboard rode the monstrous swell of a storm-tossed sea; the bond and camaraderie of men who sailed into battle together in the full knowledge they might be killed on the morrow.
And damn if she didn’t still pretend to be interested when he described how he and the other ship’s carpenters managed to repair a major break to a mizzenmast while in the heat of battle. Olivia had asked ever more detailed questions, as though she were trying to create the experience in her own mind.
Why on earth would a woman be interested in such a thing?
Doubt nagged at him again, but Adam tamped it down as the coach pulled into Truro. The rain was clearing and they disembarked under the portico.
Olivia was finishing an amusing story about her misadventure on horseback while accompanying her charge, when he heard a call.
“Miss Collins!”
Adam turned to see a distinguished man raise his hat in greeting. It was Olivia’s previous visitor, likely the Denton’s solicitor – yes, he’d confirmed the man’s identify from Polly who knew everything about everyone.
Perhaps Ridgeway ought to approach her for his espionage games.
“Mr. Fitzgerald,” said Olivia. “What an unexpected surprise. I had thought to stop by your office in the afternoon.”
“Then I’m glad to have saved you the trouble and met you here.”
Adam watched the man, observed him closely, but most of all waiting for the solicitor to acknowledge his presence. He did not.
Fitzgerald took another step forward, in fact; a not-so subtle attempt to cut him out. And since Olivia hadn’t dismissed his presence, Adam planned to stay right where he was. Right where was.
Olivia glanced his way and took a step to the side to include him in their little circle.
“Mr. Fitzgerald, I don’t believe you’re acquainted with Petty Officer Hardacre. Mr. Hardacre, this is Mr. Fitzgerald, the Denton family solicitor.”
He felt the older man’s evaluation.
“Mr. Hardacre recently retired and has returned to Ponsnowyth,” Olivia added.
Adam took up the conversation. “Family connections bring me home. I’m looking to purchase in the area. Miss Collins was kind enough to recommend you.”
Adam had the advantage of seeing the faces of both Olivia and Fitzgerald as he spoke. His fabricated story of Olivia’s recommendation for business seemed to have the desired effect. The solicitor seemed mollified by the explanation; he visibly relaxed. That was interesting in itself. Whether it was acknowledged or not, the middle-aged man felt some proprietorial claim over the governess.
Olivia, on the other hand, had covered her surprise well.
Fitzgerald pulled out a card.
“I’d be happy to advise you, sir. Just make an appointment with my clerk, but not today,” he said with a nod of his head toward Olivia. “My day is fully occupied.”
Adam didn’t miss the set of Olivia’s mouth change for a moment, as if to suggest that her monopoly of Fitzgerald’s time was news to her.
“I shouldn’t want to intrude on business, Mr. Fitzgerald,” she said.
“Your visit is the highlight of the day, my dear,” he said. “Did you bring the copies of the household receipts we worked through together yesterday?”
Adam heard the slight emphasis the man placed on the word “together.”
Olivia retrieved a sheaf of documents from her leather bag and presented them to him.
“I shouldn’t like to detain such an important man,” she said sweetly. “I have plenty to occupy my morning. Perhaps Mr. Hardacre would like to join us at the White Hart to dine at two?”
Adam was tempted to accept, just to see whether Fitzgerald would lose his well-disguised temper, but that would hardly be fair to Olivia. So he paused just long enough to make the man believe he was considering it before shaking his head.
“Thank you for the kind offer, Miss Olivia, but sadly I have pressing engagements of my own today. Another time, perhaps.”
He bowed to her, pleased to see a sparkle of amusement in her eyes. He acknowledged Fitzgerald with a nod of his head and headed away down Quay Street.
Adam continued nonchalantly along the rain-soaked street, keeping his senses attuned. He was under the impression that Fitzgerald watched for a good long moment. He’d not yet gotten a sense of the man and realized his opinion was clouded by disdain for Fitzgerald’s interest in Olivia.
He shrugged. While a pissing match might be amusing, it could only serve to be a distraction. And he could not afford distractions.
Adam went to the stable yard to chase down recommendations on purchasing a horse. Having his own transportation may prove useful and, besides, he didn’t entirely create a fiction from whole cloth. He would be interested in putting down roots after so long at sea. Somewhere on the water; a place by the river at Flushing, perhaps, that would give him easy access to the sea?
Having made the arrangement to view some horses over the next week, he headed toward Charteris House. One of the problems with his little daydream of a cottage, and a bit of land of his own, was that it came with the desire to settle down, to marry…Polly was right.
He shook his head. No, not for him. A life like that was for other men.
He made his way via the map door up to the top floor. Ridgeway was there reading through dispatches. Bassett, and two other men to whom he had not been previously introduced, were poring over a large mapping table. A glance at it revealed detailed coastlines of France and England, and the Channel that separated them. One of the cartographers was filling in details of Guernsey and Jersey.
“Hardacre, I didn’t expect to see you again so soon.” Ridgeway got to his feet. “Are you settling in?”
He decided to get straight to business. “I’ve been approached.”
“Have you now?” Ridgeway’s blue eyes lit up. “Bassett, come join us. Take a seat and tell me everything from the beginning. Bassett will take it down.”
SIR DANIEL WAS thorough in his interrogation. Adam had always prided himself on his attention to detail but, even so, it wasn’t until he was thoroughly questioned that he appreciated how much more attention he needed to pay.
Did Major Wilkinson have any scars? What were the make of his boots? Did he wear a watch chain? Did he have an accent? If so, from which county?
“No detail is too small to be discarded,” Ridgeway told him.
Adam took to the lesson as he had done with everything else. He was not so proud – or so old – as to believe he could no longer be taught something.
“You’ve done well,” said Ridgeway. “My recommendation is that you don’t report here for a good few days after your meeting with the Society in Falmouth. They’ve reached out to you, but they’ll be watching you carefully. Give them no reason to be suspicious.”
Adam stood to attention when Ridgeway got to his feet. The chains of command are not easily broken.
“Is there anything else we can provide you with?”
Adam started to shake his head then paused.
“Spit it out, man.”
“It has nothing to do with the business at hand…”
Ridgeway shrugged his shoulders. “Ask anyway.”
“I need some information from St. Thomas’ Hospital in London. It’s about a woman who was an inmate there twenty years ago.”
“Why?”
The question was direct and obvious, but it still caught Adam by surprise.
“It’s a personal matter.”
The clear blue eyes regarded him with silent censure. “A matter which happened twenty years ago…a criminal matter?”
“Not unless siring a bastard child on the squire’s daughter is a hanging offense.”
“Twenty years ago?”
Hardacre nodded.
“Why the concern now?”
“Because I’ve only just been apprised of the fact.”
“By whom?”
He hesitated in answering; to do so would involve Olivia.
Ridgeway lowered himself back into his seat and Adam felt similarly obliged.
“We all have a past, Hardacre, that’s why we’re here – so you’ll get no judgment from me. But skeletons have a nasty way of dancing out of the closet at the most inconvenient times. It won’t have been the first time that a nice piece of blackmail has brought a good man to heel. This is not a game. I will not be blindsided or have our operation here compromised. And you can start by giving me the name of the woman who told you.”
“What makes you think it’s a woman? I never said such a thing.”
“True. But it usually is.”
*
OLIVIA SKIMMED THE address on the envelope.
St. Thomas’ Hospital
Westminster Bridge Road
Lambeth
She slid the envelopes across the bench along with the coins to pay for her postage and fought a twinge of conscience. None of this was her business. She had no right to meddle in the lives of her social betters. Having uncovered the mystery, she ought to bury it and be satisfied enough with establishing what happened to the mysterious Constance, and yet if she did not remember, then who would?
The rain had cleared and the clouds which had brought the morning downpour were breaking up by the time she came to the corner of King and St. Nicholas Streets. She paused as a horse and dray laden with furniture blocked the crossways while two men from the department store opened the delivery gates wide.
A large sign swung into view.
Furnishings ~ Removalists and storage ~ Land and house sales registered Monthly.
Kenstec House would be one of those properties registered. The removalists from Criddle and Sons had already been through the house once and many of the finest pieces were gone to storage until Mistress Denton call
ed for them.
Even now, the thought she might have to leave Ponsnowyth or even Cornwall itself was something that was not quite real. Was she afraid of adventure? She had known no one when she first arrived to teach Miss Denton and yet she had managed to survive.
And she would again. Who was to say she would not fall in love with another part of the country just as much? If she was wise and continued to save, she might be able to retire with a small cottage and a pension when she was fifty.
Inwardly, she shook her head. None of that would happen if she just stood there.
SOON, THE ROAD was clear and she still hesitated. There was still plenty of time. She’d only just sent off her applications. It could be weeks – perhaps even a month or two – before she received a new posting. It would be time enough then to think about leaving Cornwall.
She needed a distraction – something to take her mind off Constance. And Adam.
Olivia spied a bookstore ahead and went in. The owner was delighted to show her the latest releases. She picked one up by Elizabeth Gunning with the intriguing title called The War-office, and another by her favorite author, Mary Meeke, A Tale of Mystery, or Celina.
“Are you sure I can’t tempt you to buy one more,” asked the shopkeeper, “just unpacked this morning.”
He held up the title, The Unexpected Legacy by Rachel Hunter.
She hesitated over the expense – the book was seven shillings and sixpence, and the two volumes in her hand already came to seven.
“Go on, Miss. Hours of pleasure in each one – forget your troubles, explore the world in the comfort of your armchair.”
The man’s sales pitch proved irresistible.
PETER FITZGERALD WAS a very punctual man. He was already waiting for her at the front of his office. As they walked toward the park by the river, he took a glance at the brown paper-wrapped package under her arm.
“A productive day’s shopping, my dear?” he inquired.
“The bookseller had a new shipment and he was quite persuasive,” she said.
“Edifying works, I trust. I certainly hope you’re not one of these unserious young women who throw away good money on those dreadful gothic titles.” The tease in his tone belied the censoriousness of his words.
Live and Let Spy (The King's Rogues Book 1) Page 9