by Tarah Scott
“Soon, my lady,” Olivia promised.
“Pray tell, you are not encouraging this foolish venture, Lady Blair?” a testy voice rasped from behind.
Lady Blair rose swiftly to her feet. “Your Grace,” she murmured, her eyes locked over Olivia’s shoulder.
Olivia turned as a craggy-faced man with salt-and-pepper hair joined them, tall and distinguished in his green plaid kilt. Judging from his black brows drawn into a scowl and the way his jaw jutted, he was greatly displeased. Olivia dropped a quick curtsey and began backing away.
The man’s eyes narrowed into slits. “Olivia,” he grated, his lips barely opening as if speaking through clenched teeth.
Olivia blinked. He knew her name? She’d never met him in her life. He was obviously wealthy, a noble of repute. The smallest of the rings glittered on his knobby fingers in testament to his wealth. Never had she seen so large a sapphire. No doubt, he mistook her for someone else.
“My lord.” She inched away.
“Olivia,” he said, again.
Bobbing again, Olivia cast a puzzled glance at Lady Blair for guidance, but to her shock, Lady Blair appeared almost stricken. A meadowlark landed in the lilacs behind her, its chirp unnaturally loud in the silence that had fallen over the tent.
“Olivia,” the stern man repeated.
Olivia faced the man again. His eyes, so very green and so very cold, narrowed as she frowned. “My lord?”
When he didn’t answer, Lady Blair cleared her throat. “My dear Olivia, may I introduce His Grace, the Duke of Lennox.”
Lennox. Olivia stared into the man’s eyes for a full five seconds before recognition struck.
Lennox. The Duke of Lennox.
Lord save her.
He was her grandfather.
Chapter Two
Of Dowries and Ignoble Lords
“Olivia,” the impressive Duke of Lennox repeated her name for the fourth time, slowly, as if acquainting his tongue with a foreign word.
Olivia couldn’t move. As a child, she’d imagined her grandfather as a cruel, hawk-nosed man with a presence so overpoweringly evil that even the woodland animals scattered before him in fear of their lives. Now that she stood in his presence, she realized she’d erred. Her younger self had forgotten to account for the chill of his eyes.
“Olivia.” This time, the name slipped from his lips a bit easier.
She drew a steadying breath. What was she to say? This man had broken her mother’s heart. He’d refused to acknowledge his own daughter even in death. He hadn’t even written a letter of condolence. What did he expect from her? That she would trip over her feet to curtsey just because he’d finally learned to pronounce her name? Nae, she’d never bend her knees to him—never again. Olivia lifted her chin and eyed him warily. Something gleamed in the green eyes locked with hers—a spark of anger? She didn’t care.
The duke’s head swiveled to the side. “Deborah,” he barked.
The voices in the tent buzzed, soft and low, as a young, rosy-cheeked brunette popped up from a nearby table and rushed to join them.
“Deborah, this is Olivia.” The duke’s chilling eyes latched onto Olivia’s once more. “Olivia is leaving. Now. Go with her.”
Fortunately for him, she didn’t want to stay a moment longer in his company. With the barest dip of her chin, Olivia spun on her heel, keenly aware of the gasps spreading through the tent. No doubt, by morning, even London would know how the duke’s disowned granddaughter had publicly snubbed him—courtesy of Lady Kendrick. No doubt, the woman maintained a secret flock of carrier pigeons at her command.
Olivia marched through the tent and out into the lawn. She was halfway to the manor house when she noticed a timid tug to her sleeve. She stopped and whirled.
The rosy-cheeked Deborah stood there, twisting her fingers nervously. “It’s…it’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Cousin Olivia.” She gulped.
Olivia stared, still stunned at the sudden turn of events. Deborah winced, then bit her bottom lip and waited with downcast eyes. She was obviously a shy, nervous thing, but then, living under the shadow of a man such as their grandfather, how could she be anything else? Sympathy surged through Olivia, along with a sense of awkwardness. Just what did one say to long lost cousins?
“So, your mother is Arlene?” Olivia winced. Of course, her mother was Arlene. Her own mother had had only one sister.
Deborah laughed nervously, then looked away. “Mother passed away last year…in New York.”
“New York?” Olivia blurted. Then, belatedly held out her hands in sympathy. “I am sorry, so sorry, Deborah.”
Deborah shrugged but gripped Olivia’s fingers tightly with her own. “Yes, New York. Grandfather disowned her several years ago,” she answered with a nervous giggle that clearly held back an onslaught of tears.
Disowned? Olivia snorted in disbelief. Just how hateful was the old man? And why hadn’t she heard a hint of the matter—not even from the source of all gossip, Lady Kendrick?
“She…well, Grandfather was furious over the gambling debts… Oh, please, can we not speak of something else?” Deborah squeezed Olivia’s fingers tighter. “I cannot tell you how grateful I am to finally meet you, after all these years.”
The sadness in her cousin’s eyes pulled at Olivia’s heart even as she marveled at the similarities in their lives. Deborah had lost her mother—a disowned one, no less—and her father, as well. According to Lady Kendrick, the man had died from scarlet fever when Arlene was a child.
Olivia gave her cousin a warm smile and clasped her hands in turn. “I am delighted to meet you, as well, I assure you.” With the initial shock waning, her throat threatened to close at the mere thought of another family member—at last.
“Do come visit me, will you?” Deborah asked eagerly. “Tomorrow? I am staying at Grandfather’s townhouse on Kintail Strand, near the river.”
Olivia hesitated. She had type to set, ink to make, and the Devil’s Tail on the press needed mending, but at her cousin’s crestfallen look, she heard herself ask, “Teatime?”
For the first time, Deborah’s smile lit her eyes. “Until tomorrow, then.”
“Tomorrow,” Olivia promised.
With a last nervous bob, Deborah scurried away. Olivia watched her go, still somewhat dazed. After a moment, she collected her thoughts and hurried to the carriage drive. She had work to do. It was time to deal with Louisa. Cousins and cold-hearted grandfathers would have to wait.
Olivia arrived at Louisa’s carriage only to be told by the coachman that she’d already left Wedderburn Manor in the company of Lord Randall. She lifted a brow at memory of Lady Kendrick’s chimney sweep comment. Perhaps, Louisa didn’t know of the man’s black temper?
“She left the carriage at your disposal, Miss,” the coachman said, and hopped down to hand her in. “Where to?”
Olivia suppressed a sigh. She was sore tempted to return straight home, but such an act was a poor way to repay Louisa’s generosity. Besides, she couldn’t afford to offend the woman—not when she relied on her so heavily to sing her father’s songs.
“Louisa’s townhouse, please,” she forced out.
With a sigh, she settled onto the leather seat. This visit would have to be a short one, bordering on scandalous. Olivia quirked her lip. If anyone, Louisa shouldn’t mind; she and scandal lived hand-in-hand.
The late afternoon sun slanted over Glasgow’s rooftops as the carriage rolled up to Louisa’s townhouse. Olivia dashed through the carriage door and up the narrow walkway before the horses had barely clopped to a stop.
The dour maid greeted her with a surly nod. “Miss Louisa is in the drawing room, Miss.” She nodded over her shoulder. “That way. Last door on the left.”
Tugging the fingers of her gloves, Olivia guided herself down the narrow hall.
Muffled laughter penetrated the closed drawing room door. Olivia discerned at least a dozen voices—maybe more. She hesitated with a hand on the doorknob. Would Loui
sa even notice her absence? She’d half turned away when the door suddenly opened.
She couldn’t see who opened the door. They vanished behind it in a rustle of silk. The room was dark. Louisa had drawn the thick brocade drapes over the windows, blocking nearly all light from the room. Only a thin line of grey sunlight filtered through at the very top. Then, her eyesight adjusted to the dim light.
She’d never been to a bordello, but she couldn’t imagine it would look much different than the scandalous scene before her. Shamefully dressed women lounged next to high ranking society men on overstuffed couches, men Olivia often saw in Glasgow Green, strolling with their wives and children. Their wives would be furious to see them now, sprawled at these women’s sides, nuzzling their necks or kissing them outright. Several had their hands down the front of the women’s gowns, fondling their breasts.
Olivia pursed her lips. She’d obviously erred in accepting Louisa’s offer. The sooner she left, the better. She stepped back when the brocade drapes shifted, enough to let a shaft of sunlight slip through.
She saw the woman’s face first, or the bottom half, anyway. Her lips parted to accept a spoonful of something from a crystal glass, a lemon ice, perhaps. The man leaned forward and dragged the spoon over the woman’s lip in a way that made Olivia exceedingly uncomfortable. Then the man’s face entered the beam of light.
Olivia drew back, shocked. It was Mr. Pitt, owner of the Theatre Royale. Lord save her, she was as good as ruined if the man saw her here. She turned and fled down the hall. She nearly collided with Louisa as she rounded the corner.
“Heavens, what happened?” Louisa gasped.
“Mr. Pitt,” Olivia hissed, rattled. “Louisa, you know he can’t see me here.”
“Oh, don’t be such a nitwit.” Louisa rolled her eyes and gave a tsk of disapproval. She’d changed into a shockingly lowcut, pink silk gown and had loosened her hair, so that the locks fell in curls over her bare shoulders. “Surely, you know there’s only one thing keeping you from that loan?”
Olivia scowled. “Must you bring up Timothy now?” She’d been so distracted by her cousin that she’d scarcely remembered Timothy in the garden—or, for that matter, the mysterious stranger.
“Timothy?” Louisa’s eyes widened with surprise. “Are you truly that dense?”
Olivia’s scowl deepened. Whatever was the woman going on about? A husband was the only thing that prevented the banker from releasing her much-needed funds.
Louisa arched a perfectly plucked brow, then she grabbed Olivia by the arm and stepped forward, as if to pull her back to the drawing room.
Olivia twisted free from her grasp. “I would much rather go home, Louisa. It is high time I checked on father. He gets upset if I am gone too long.”
Louisa planted her hands on her ample hips. “Mrs. Lambert is watching him, is she not?”
“Of course, but I cannot afford to pay her the entire day.”
Louisa pointed down the hall at the drawing room door. “If you trotted down the hall and let Mr. Pitt have his way with you, you’d have more than enough to pay Mrs. Lambert every day of the week.”
“Pardon?”
“Oh, do not play the fool, Olivia.” Louisa eyed her incredulously. “Come now, surely, you cannot say you didn’t know?”
“Didn’t know?” She hadn’t, but she was certainly beginning to understand now.
“Mr. Pitt has a particular taste for curves. It’s clear he’s hankering after yours. Let the man fondle a little. You might even enjoy yourself. Just close your eyes and pretend he’s someone else—Timothy, if that is who you want.”
Twice affronted, Olivia narrowed her eyes. “I have no interest in becoming a toy. I am doing a fine enough job of taking care of myself. Thank you.”
“Truly?” Louisa smirked. “Have Glasgow’s theaters, assembly halls, and publishers agreed to promote your sponsorships, then?”
Olivia averted her gaze.
“As I thought,” Louisa gloated and then leaned close. “Find a sponsor of your own, Olivia. Give up the shop. Publishing music belongs in the world of men.”
The world of men? Olivia clenched her jaw and shot her a rebellious scowl.
Before Louisa could reply, the dour-faced maid stepped into view. “You have a visitor, ma’am.”
Louisa turned to leave.
“Wait.” Olivia caught her arm. “I want to go home. If you could just call your carriage now?”
“Fine,” the opera singer huffed, “but you’re making a mistake. Soon, you will have to swallow your pride.” With a lift of her chin, she hissed, “Just like the rest of us.”
Not bloody likely. She’d live on the streets and beg before she let a man like Mr. Pitt touch so much as a toe, but she knew better than to object and alienate Louisa further.
“Louisa?” a man’s deep baritone called from the entryway.
With a wide smile, Louisa picked up her skirts and nearly bowled Olivia over in her haste to greet the man. Olivia rolled her eyes and stalked to the nearby sitting room to wait for the carriage. She’d give the man twenty minutes before heading home herself. The last rays of sunlight cast a warm glow over the rose-painted walls. To her relief, the room was empty. She crossed to the large, comfortable leather wingback chair and leaned over the back to peer through the window at the darkening sky. Even if she left that precise moment, she still wouldn’t get home before nightfall.
She drummed her fingers on the leather. With the amount of type left to set, she’d have to burn the oil lamps tonight. She knew better than to hope the shop boy had already set the pages. He was near useless, but, please God, surely, he’d kept the windows shut? Twice in the last week alone, he’d opened the shutters, complaining of the heat, and the scholar’s cat, Mr. Peppers, had slipped inside. The last time, he’d gotten into the ink and left a trail of pawprints on the music she’d set out to dry. She’d lost an entire day’s work.
“Beautiful,” a man’s soft voice murmured.
Olivia whirled. A man towered in the gathering gloom behind her, halfway between herself and the door. Dressed in dark clothes, he easily merged with the shadows, but the silver handle of his dapper walking stick glinted in the stray rays of light. Odd. She hadn’t heard him enter. Apparently taking her silence as an invitation, he joined her by the chair, moving with the silence and grace of a cat. Olivia shivered. She would have truly thought him a bodiless spirit until the pleasant scent of cedar and mint swirled about her.
The last remnants of the day’s light played over the face of the man staring down at her. He was handsome, virile, with intense blue eyes and a smile that curled the corner of his lip that seemed more than a mite suggestive. No doubt, he thought her one of the drawing room women.
“Beautiful,” he whispered this time. He trailed his gaze slowly over her body, then added, “The sunset, so beautiful.”
“Then, should you not be looking out the window, my lord?” she asked in arched tones.
His brows lifted, surprised, but the interest in his eyes only deepened. “Pardon me. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Lord James Randall. You are?”
Lord Randall, the man with a temper blacker than a chimney sweep, and a man that apparently caught Louisa’s fancy. If they weren’t already lovers, no doubt, they would be soon.
Lord Randall leaned close, his eyes hooded. “And you?” he repeated, deepening his voice.
Olivia cleared her throat. “Olivia. Olivia Mackenzie.”
He shifted and something about him changed. “Olivia Mackenzie,” he said. His tone now took on a formal cast. “Granddaughter to the Duke of Lennox?”
It was Olivia’s turn to be surprised. “How did you know?”
A look of amusement flashed over his face. “Glasgow society has spoken of no one else but you tonight, my dear.”
Olivia frowned. Of course, with Lady Kendrick involved, no doubt everyone in London already knew, as well. “Then, I fear Glasgow society will find their evening a disappointment.�
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“Why would that be, Miss Mackenzie?”
Miss Mackenzie? He looked down at her with only respect now. His suggestive manner had vanished entirely.
“Olivia?” Louisa barged through the door. “I have been looking…” The words died on her lips as her gaze fell upon Lord Randall.
Olivia stepped back at once, lest Louisa misunderstand. “If you will excuse me,” she murmured to Lord Randall, then turned toward the door. “I am ready, Louisa. Is the carriage here?”
“You can wait on the step,” she replied.
The coolness of her tone couldn’t be missed.
“Surely, you don’t have to leave so quickly, Miss Mackenzie?” Lord Randall queried as he followed her into the hall.
“Yes, she does,” Louisa answered in her stead. “She has an ill father to attend, my lord.” Eyes locked with Olivia’s, she rubbed her palm over Lord Randall’s chest in a blatant statement of ownership.
“Yes, I must go,” Olivia quickly agreed. “Good evening.”
She’d be foolish to stay a moment longer, not with the way Louisa stood there, marking her territory like an angry cat.
“Good evening,” Louisa replied with a firm nod. With a flutter or her lashes at Lord Randall, she cooed, “The card table is ready, my lord. Shall we?”
To Olivia’s horror, Lord Randall shook Louisa free with an irritated clench of his jaw and stepped forward.
“Allow me to see you to your carriage, Miss Mackenzie.” He offered his arm.
“That isn’t necessary, my lord,” Olivia said. She didn’t have to glance at Louisa to know she was furious. “If you will excuse me, I must be going.”
She marched to the door, keenly aware of Louisa’s venomous glare boring through the back of her head. The dour-faced maid stood by the open door.