A Stranger's Kiss (Lords of Chance Book 2)

by Tarah Scott

  He had to solve her cousin’s dilemma, first, and for that, he needed the truth. If the man who fathered her child was marriageable, he would play the role of negotiator.

  If he wasn’t, he’d find one that was…and then? He did chuckle aloud. Then, he would make Olivia his.

  Chapter Ten

  Guilt

  A raindrop struck the tip of Olivia’s nose as she reached for the knob of the shop’s door. She shot a quick glance at the dark clouds overhead as a gust of wind blasted her face. No doubt, it would be another night for the pots.

  The day had been a horrible one in all respects. She’d lost every penny she’d saved. While, with hard work, she could recover, it was still a terrible blow. And Nicholas? From the moment he’d arrived, her pulse hadn’t stopped racing. What kind of woman was she? She couldn’t harbor feelings for her cousin’s soon-to-be husband…but then, Deborah hadn’t responded as expected on that score. She’d acted as if she hadn’t wanted Nicholas there.

  She must visit Deborah, soon— when their grandfather wasn’t there—to clear the confusion. Olivia clenched her jaw. Her grandfather. Nae. She wouldn’t waste a single moment of her time thinking of that cantankerous old man—especially when she had a roof to fix and a concert to organize.

  With her thoughts in circles, she hurried to the parlor.

  “Good evening, child,” Mrs. Lambert greeted as Olivia stepped inside. “I am afraid it’s bad news. The night watchman’s been down with a fever this past week, and the neighbors have noticed naught a thing.”

  Olivia grimaced. Of course, such would be her luck. Her money was as good as gone. She didn’t even want to think of her mother’s locket.

  “Still, you mustn’t give up hope,” Mrs. Lambert said. She tilted her head at the window. The rain had begun to fall in earnest. “It’s not all bad news. ‘Tis raining something dreadful.”

  “That isn’t bad because?” Olivia scowled. Her shoulders ached. She couldn’t bear the thought of lugging even more tiles onto the roof.

  To her surprise, Mrs. Lambert chuckled. “Then, you haven’t noticed.”

  Olivia glanced around the tiny room. Nothing had changed. Her father still sat at the piano, locked in his own world. Puzzled, she turned back to the woman. “Noticed?”

  “I shan’t spoil the surprise then, lass.”

  Olivia shook her head, bewildered, but when no more information was forthcoming, she shrugged and joined her father at the piano. This night, he didn’t respond when she dropped a kiss on the top of his head. He stared into the distance, his fingers running over the keys. The melody was a sad one. Mournful. Tears misted her eyes. She knew what it meant. His thoughts dwelt upon her mother.

  Olivia turned away.

  “You will need me in the morning, lass?” Mrs. Lambert asked gently.

  “Early, if you can.” Olivia dug in her reticule for the shillings and dropped them in the old woman’s hand. At least, she could still pay that small debt. She yawned and cocked a rueful brow at the steady beat of the rain outside. “I still have a roof to repair.” Then, music to print and deliver, musicians to pay…and an opera singer to find. She sighed. “Is William still here?”

  Mrs. Lambert hefted herself from her chair and began packing her darning into her basket. “His mum came and fetched the lad. His da’s gone and broke his leg on the farm. He’s needed at home, child.”

  Olivia frowned, frustrated, although she couldn’t deny a sense of relief. As far as shop boys went, he did precious little for his pay. Most likely, he’d saved her the trouble of letting him go.

  “You will be a sight faster without him, lass,” Mrs. Lambert commented with a nod, her mole hairs bobbing in agreement. “Well then, I’ll be off.”

  As the door closed behind her, Olivia led her father past the kitchen to his bedroom on the other side. At the door, she paused and breathed deeply of the faint rose and lavender scent. Even after nearly four years, the room still smelled like her mother. It was almost as if the curtains, counterpane and rug didn’t want to let her go as much as they didn’t.

  With a sigh, she guided her father to the bed. He sank against his pillow and expelled a long breath himself, but then, for the briefest of moments, a lucid gleam entered his eye.

  “You need to oil the Devil’s Tail, lass. I can hear it squeaking all the way into the parlor.”

  Olivia blinked. She’d noticed the sound from the printing press’s handle just that morning.

  “And check the tympan alignment. There’s a knocking that’s worrisome.”

  Olivia held her breath. Knowing she had only a fleeting moment, she looked deeply into her father’s eyes. “I love you, Father.” Before she’d even finished, he was already fading away.

  “Olivia, child, my how you’ve grown,” he murmured absently.

  His moments of clarity were so few and far between, mostly serving as a painful reminder of what she’d lost. Sometimes, she wondered if she’d rather not have them, at all.

  Tears robbed her of speech. She was grateful for the wind, rattling the shutters and driving the rain against the slats. It was loud, like the pattering of thousands of tiny feet. She waited for the rain to subside, and then composure regained, squeezed her father’s hand.

  “Good night, Father.”

  “Good night, my child.”

  He was asleep before she left his room.

  She paused to inspect the kitchen shutters. She’d have to replace them soon. The hinges had nearly rusted through. Olivia expelled a long breath. The townhouse was falling down around her. She scowled. Why did everything require so much money to repair? Shoving the worries of the day aside, she tiredly padded up the stairs to her tiny room and with a sigh, quickly undressed and slipped into bed.

  Ten minutes passed before she finally noticed.

  The rain still drummed against the windows, rattling the shutters and pinging on the cobblestones, but the pots in her room were oddly silent.

  Curious, she rose from bed and held out her palms.

  Nothing.

  Her roof had been repaired.

  * * *

  “Paid,” the roofer, Mr. Tisdale, said.

  “Paid?” Olivia asked for the third time, still unable to believe her ears.

  “His lordship paid for the entire roof. Now, if you have opinions, you will have to speak with Lord Blair, Miss Mackenzie. I have work to do.” The wizened man nodded firmly, his patience at an end. He always reminded Olivia of an elvish sprite, slight, spry and with twinkling blue eyes, yet the fingers he lifted to the corners of his mouth were calloused from years of hard work. He let out a shrill whistle.

  Three heads poked over the rim of the roof above.

  “Aye?” three voices chorused.

  “Step down, lads. The tiles have arrived.” Mr. Tisdale nodded his pointed chin toward the front of the townhouse, then turned back to Olivia. “Now, if you will kindly stay out of the way. I am not one to have womenfolk underfoot. These stone tiles can be dangerous. Wouldn’t do to have you hurt, now.”

  Olivia suppressed a snort from her perch on the back stoop. She could hardly harass the man simply because Nicholas had decided to barge into her affairs.

  “Very well, then,” she muttered, and closed the door behind her with a bang.

  “What a surprise.” Mrs. Lambert looked up from the kitchen stove. “And a nice one, after…”

  Olivia scowled, hardly needing a reminder of the theft. Would the problems never end? Nicholas had no business paying for her roof—especially an entirely new one. Of course, a man of his wealth wouldn’t understand the hardship she’d incur in repaying him. Lord knew, she couldn’t afford even a handful of tiles with the contents of her box lost.

  “Are you sucking on a lemon, lass?” Mrs. Lambert chuckled.

  Olivia shot her a sour look and reached for her gloves draped on the back of a kitchen chair. “I cannot accept such charity, but I have Lady Winthrop’s event to attend. Perhaps, Lord Blair will be there.”<
br />
  “Best of luck to you. I will mind the shop while you’re gone.”

  Olivia smiled her thanks and swept down the narrow hall.

  She could only spare Nicholas so much thought. If he was at Lady Winthrop’s, she’d take up the roof matter, at once. If he wasn’t…well…even though she hadn’t a clue where he was staying, no doubt, he would show up soon enough as Deborah’s plight was, as yet, still unresolved.

  Right now, she had far more pressing matters. She had to find Louisa. Desperately. The aspiring young soprano, Elena Goodman, had contracted to sing Softly, My Heart at Lady Winthrop’s charity event. Perhaps she knew of Louisa’s whereabouts. They were, after all, the closest of friends.

  Olivia collected her hat from the shop counter and left the shop. The day was bright; all traces of last night’s storm had vanished. A pleasant breeze played with the ends of her long hat ribbons as she hurried down the cobblestone street, nodding greetings to each passerby.

  Gaily dressed folk strolled the paths of Glasgow Green as she entered the park. She’d gone no more than ten yards before she spied Mr. Pitt with his wife on his arm. Olivia altered course at once, but spared a quick glance at the dowdy woman at his side. As usual, she walked with her chin high, but with a perpetual look of disappointment on her face—but then, with Mr. Pitt as a husband, such feelings were entirely understandable.

  “Move along, Mrs. Pitt,” Mr. Pitt said, his voice carrying across the green. “Move along, right quick.”

  Olivia rolled her eyes and hurried down the woodland path. Lady Winthrop’s house wasn’t far, just down the lane that bordered the eastern side of Glasgow Green, overlooking the river. Though newly built, the tidy establishment still held an older-world charm with its arched doorways, diamond-paned windows, and rough-hewn beams.

  Carriages lined the drive, horses stamped lazily in their harnesses under the tall, nearby oaks. The coachmen laughed and played a game of battledore and shuttlecock. They waved as Olivia passed and ducked inside the servant’s entrance at the back of the house.

  “Lawks, there you are, Miss Mackenzie.”

  It was Elena. The young brunette hovered by the door, plucking the feathers sewn on her dress, her soft, brown eyes worried.

  Relief flooded through Olivia. “I am so pleased you’re here. We need to speak—”

  Elena grimaced and grabbed her arm, pulling her close. “That’s just it, Olivia,” she whispered. “I shouldn’t be here, at all. Louisa will be furious.”

  Anger flashed over Olivia. “Do you know where she is?”

  The young singer shook her head and glanced away, looking almost guilty.

  So, she did know. “Please, tell me. I must speak with her.”

  “She’s not going to sing for your concert, Olivia. Not anymore,” Elena whispered.

  “But, but I have contracts.” Or, she had, but Elena didn’t need to know that.

  Elena hesitated, then confessed in a rush, “I cannot sing for you anymore, either, Olivia. I feel so very dreadful over the matter, but she’ll ruin me and she has connections. I had to tell Lady Winthrop I suffer from a sore throat. I brought Marie. She’s in the drawing room, now.”

  Olivia blinked. Another betrayal? And Marie? Marie Geertz. She worked closely with Foster and Sons’ Publishing House. They specialized in the classics, not the lighthearted ditties that she printed.

  “I am sorry,” Elena choked. “I really am.”

  Olivia sucked a deep breath. “But you signed a contract yourself—”

  “I cannot. I really cannot.” Elena blanched, then pushed past Olivia to run out of the house.

  Olivia closed her eyes, battling the sudden urge to bang her forehead against the wall.

  Why bother with contracts? The singers treated them like discarded letters from a scorned lover. But then, perhaps they knew she didn’t have them any longer. She drew a sharp breath. Had Louisa had a hand in the robbery? Stolen her mother’s locket?

  The sounds of Mozart’s “O zittre nicht, mein lieber Sohn” drifted from the floor above, intruding upon her thoughts. Of course, it was music she never printed.

  She left the house. Lady Winthrop wouldn’t miss her. The women of society tolerated her presence at their charity gatherings out of pity and respect to Lady Blair. Blowing her hair out of her face, she headed for a row of willows that bordered the banks of the River Clyde. The wind rustled the long, sweeping branches as she walked through them.

  She needed a new plan. She still owed Mr. Pitt fifteen pounds and another five for the musicians. The concert was in a month. She had a month to convince Louisa to return or she really would be out on the streets, as a true charity case of her own.

  Olivia closed her eyes and rubbed the back of her neck. Was this really over a man? And of all men…Lord Randall? Something about him made her hackles rise. He spoke so smoothly and in far too polished a manner—almost as if he had something to hide.

  “Miss Mackenzie.”

  Olivia jerked and glanced over her shoulder. There he was, as if summoned by her thoughts. The man himself: Lord Randall. He stood just a few yards away, elegantly dressed in tanned breeches, fine polished black leather boots and black velvet top hat.

  “Are you avoiding me, Miss Mackenzie?” he teased.

  Did wishing to avoid him now count? Olivia forced herself to smile—he was a customer, after all. “Nae, my lord.”

  “Every time I visit the shop, I find you’re not there,” he explained, even though she hadn’t asked.

  He’d been coming to the shop? Why did she find that disturbing? “How can I help you, my lord? Are you looking for something in particular?”

  He smiled, an easy smile, and one obviously of the flirtatious kind. “Perhaps, I did not visit for the music.”

  Olivia took an unwitting step back. The slight muscle twitch on his jaw informed her he’d noticed.

  “Miss Mackenzie,” a new voice hailed her from behind.

  Nicholas ducked under the trailing branches to join her and looking handsomer than ever in his gray breeches and a dark silk cravat, intricately tied.

  “Randall.” His tone announced it was scarcely a greeting.

  “Blair,” Lord Randall acknowledged through clenched teeth.

  The two men stared at each in grim distaste. Clearly, something stood between them, but that was no business of hers. She had pressing matters of her own.

  Olivia cleared her throat. “If you will excuse me, gentlemen? I must be going.”

  Nicholas’s eyes shifted to hers, at once. “My carriage awaits.”

  “Allow me, Miss Mackenzie,” Lord Randall said at the same time.

  “I can walk on my own, thank you.” She stepped through the willow branches.

  Nicholas caught up with her before she got halfway across the lawn. “I shall accompany you, Olivia.”

  She didn’t need to turn around to know Lord Randall watched her by the willows. She felt his eyes boring through the back of her head.

  “Shall we?” Nicholas offered his arm.

  She should have merely thanked him, of course, and then promptly left, alone, but then, he looped her arm through his. The muscles resting beneath her fingertips were stone hard, warm, and imbued with the power to sweep all other thoughts away—even the most worrisome ones. A flush of warmth snaked down her spine as they left the grounds, heading back to Glasgow Green.

  At the edge of the park, she regained her presence of mind. “Thank you, but truly, I have no need for an escort.”

  “I quite disagree.”

  He towered over her. She’d known he was tall, of course, but now, he seemed doubly so. She frowned at her beating heart and schooled her thoughts. He was meant for her cousin. He belonged to Deborah. As much as she found it depressing, it was time to distance herself, set boundaries.

  “I understand.” She adopted a formal tone. “Soon, we will be family, will we not? As my cousin, you will—”

  “That’s utter tripe,” he interrupted with a
snort.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  He stopped in his tracks and peered down at her, looking rather irritated. “You know very well I am not the father of her child.”

  Oh, how she didn’t want him to be. Desire flared. She grimaced. That wouldn’t do. “The roof.” The words had scarcely left her mouth before she winced. Why was she speaking of the roof, precisely now?

  “Aye?” Nicholas cocked a brow.

  She licked her lips, nervous, feeling quite unlike herself. “I will repay you, after the concert.” Providing she wasn’t a beggar on the streets by then. She glanced up into his face.

  His gaze dropped to her mouth before meeting hers once again, and something in his eyes made her heart skip a beat.

  “I assure you, that is quite unnecessary,” he said.

  Unnecessary? It took her a moment to remember the subject. Ah, the roof. “I do not accept charity, sir. I will be able to pay my debts, soon.”

  His sea-blue gaze returned to her lips.

  It was dangerous to stand there, so close to him. A little on edge, she dipped her head. “Good day, my lord. I can find my way home from here.”

  She’d taken only three steps before he reached her side.

  “If I didn’t know better, I would think you are running from me.” He chuckled.

  “Hardly,” she murmured as he once again captured her arm. “I merely wish to free you from an unnecessary obligation.”

  “Escorting you is neither unnecessary nor an obligation, lass,” he replied in amusement. “Allow me to see you to your door.”

  She fell silent, keenly aware of his lithe, muscular form striding so easily at her side as they crossed the park. It was only when they stopped in the street before her music shop that she spoke again.

  “There is the door,” she said, tilting her head to the side, “scarce ten feet away.”

  Nicholas gave an easy laugh. “As politeness decrees, I should pay your father my respects ere I leave.”

  Olivia tensed and searched his face. “Surely, you have gathered my father isn’t well, my lord.”