“A rude and vulgar boor,” she snapped. Then she reached for the latch on the adjacent French door, and before he could stop her, she fled into the night.
Olivia could scarcely believe the dilemma in which she found herself ensnared. Accosted in the library by some drunken lout. She paused to catch her breath behind a gnarled and twisted apple tree at the bottom of the narrow verandah. Her heart pounded still, though now with fury more than fear. Thank God he had decided not to pursue her. She wasn’t sure what she would have done then.
She peered around the tree trunk toward the house. Botheration! He was still there, silhouetted in the open doorway by the well-lit library, his widespread arms braced on the door frame. Olivia’s heart sped up once more, He was a big man, she saw, tall with wide shoulders and a reckless, dangerous air about him. Who was he?
Not a servant, she decided, now that distance gave her the opportunity to think. His waistcoat had been plainly adorned, but it had been a first-rate wool with a double row of carved silver buttons. Also, he spoke too well to be a servant. There were certain valets and butlers who spoke as well as their employers, but this man was no one’s valet. Of that she was certain. Besides, there was something of the Eton clip to his speech. He must be a gentleman.
She laughed, albeit unpleasantly. No, he might have been raised a gentleman. What he’d turned out to be, however, was an ill-mannered ruffian, a man not above accosting innocent females. That he obviously thought her a housemaid excused nothing. She’d always considered men who harassed servants to be of the very lowest sort, taking advantage of their position in life.
Just then he stepped out onto the verandah, and she gasped and shrank back. Did he mean to pursue her after all?
But he only patted his pockets, then pulled out a small rolled cheroot. When he turned back to the library to light it at a candle, Olivia made her move. Stooping low and dodging from holly to box to rhododendron, she angled away from him, squinting into the darkness to avoid running headlong into a low wall or clipped shrub or poorly placed bit of garden statuary.
Her only consolation was that if she could not see, neither could he. She had almost reached the corner of the east wing and safety, when his voice disavowed her completely of that notion.
“Be careful, Hazel, lest your nighttime meanderings foster tales of a ghostly presence on these grounds.”
Olivia halted, one hand on the brick corner. Ghostly presence? She frowned, then let out a little groan. Her pastel dress! Had he been able to see her all along?
“I apologize for frightening you,” he went on, his voice as dark and warm as the late summer night. “Twas hardly my aim to do so. If you are a kindly ghost you will allow me a second chance to prove myself. If you will not join me in what remains of this night, then please, I beg you, come again on the morrow. I’ll be here in the library until dawn.”
Olivia pressed a trembling hand to her chest. The man was going to give her heart failure. As if any respectable young woman, servant or otherwise, would welcome such a coarse and insulting invitation. Outraged by his gall, she plunged into the darkness around the corner of the house, unmindful of the shrubbery she trampled in her haste. She would get to the bottom of this, she vowed, and the first thing she must do is determine just who he was. Then she would have quite a tale to tell about him in her journal.
She tripped to a halt. Her journal! She’d left her journal lying on the table in the library.
She spun around in a quandary, her fists knotted in frustration. She could not allow her journal and its often unflattering commentary to fall into the wrong hands, for it could be more than embarrassing. Her mother had often warned her about that possibility. But she’d always been so careful—until now. She stifled a very unladylike oath. How could she get it back before someone discovered it?
She knew at once that she could not return to the library, not while he was still there. That meant she would have to wait and retrieve it later. But what if he found it first? Olivia rubbed her temple where it had begun to throb. He would not notice it, she reassured herself. Why should he? In a room full of books one drunken lecher was not likely to notice another slim volume.
But what if he did?
Olivia gritted her teeth. If he did she would simply have to deal with the repercussions. How bad could they be?
Neville turned away from the verandah. The auburn-haired beauty was not going to return—and why should she? She’d looked like an angel, yet he’d approached her as if she were a wanton. He scrubbed his hands across his face, disgusted at his own depravity. Was he that far removed from common decency and good manners that he could behave so?
He stared at the decanter of brandy he’d set upon the mantel. It was the drink that made his behavior so reprehensible.
Then stop drinking.
He clenched his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Bloody hell,” he muttered, disgusted with himself. But then, he’d been disgusted with himself for years now. He couldn’t blame his vile behavior on his drinking. Even drunk he knew when he was behaving abominably. Unfortunately, he’d long ago ceased to care what people thought of him, so long as he made it through the long, torturous nights. And he needed some sort of spirits to do that. Any sort.
The sad truth was that tonight’s little episode was not all that bad when compared to some of the other wretched sins of his past.
He headed for the brandy, planning to finish what he’d begun, when a slim volume lying on the center table caught his eye. It was a small book, tattered and well used, much like the other books in the library. But it was bound in cream-colored leather with gold filigree. Cream-colored leather in a library dominated by burgundies and browns and blacks. It stood out like a beacon, and it drew him as inexorably as a light drew moths.
It hadn’t been there before. He was sure of it.
He picked it up. Was it hers?
“‘Ex libris, Olivia B.’” He read the bookplate inside the cover. “Olivia,” he repeated, liking the ring of it. A classic name for a classic beauty. He thumbed through the pages, noting the curious angle of her penmanship. Probably left-handed. And definitely a busybody. He’d expected poetry, but instead every page contained a series of notations about different people.
Lord N. Known to be very generous.
Lord D. A legendary pinchpenny.
Mr. G. A lecher of the first magnitude.
He frowned, examining the pages more closely. Each page appeared to pertain to a different man. Lord this; the Honorable that. All men with not one woman mentioned.
Why would a housemaid keep such notations? Did it pertain to visitors?
Then it hit him like a blow to the gut. She was no ordinary household servant. He should have seen that at once. He looked down at the slender, damning volume he held. Only one sort of woman was likely to keep notes on so many men this way, and that was a woman of suspicious virtue.
Shaking his head, he flipped through the book slowly, from beginning to end. All men. Though it seemed unlikely that a woman of her sort would be able to write so well, what else could she be but a very astute lady of the evening? And this little volume must be her personal listing of her clientele.
He stared unblinking at the open French doors, struggling with that unsettling thought. Somehow she seemed too young—and too genuinely affronted by him—to be that sort of woman. With her cultured voice and hasty exit he could better believe her a young woman of the ton than an accomplished harlot. Added to that, Cummings did not seem energetic enough to bring such a woman inside his very own home, especially while his wife was in residence.
Then again, did anyone ever reveal who they truly were? Neville let out a cynical laugh. He certainly did not. Why should he expect Cummings to do so—or the innocent-looking Olivia B.?
He tapped the book against his open palm. It seemed clear that this Olivia was here at the behest of Cummings or one of his other friends. Why else would she be creeping about the house at night? He looked
back at the journal in his hand, seeing instead those autumn-colored eyes of hers. That she could appear so pure and lovely—and unsullied—after what must have been a long and energetic night in some lucky man’s bed was astounding.
How he wished that bed had been his.
He let out a muffled curse at the return of a powerful desire. Whether she was whore or innocent, it didn’t matter. He wanted her. With one thumb he ruffled the pages of her guilty little book, then grinned. He might not know precisely who she was, but he had something she would want back. He had only to wait for her to come to him.
Meanwhile he had another hour until dawn, and what looked like very interesting reading to help him pass the time.
Chapter 4
Olivia chewed her lip and stared out the bedroom window. Dawn had arrived at last, gray and moody. Below her Mr. Cummings and his guests ambled across the yard toward the stables. One and all they were dressed in riding gear. It appeared that despite the threatening weather, they meant to leave the carriage at home and instead take horses to Doncaster. Typical male behavior at a horse-racing weekend. Carriages that were considered a necessity in town were not manly enough here.
She let the lace panel fall back into place. So it had not been them in the yard before dawn. Had it been the man from the library? He was not among them now, she saw. So where was he?
Who was he?
After her narrow escape she’d returned to her chamber and lay fully clothed upon the narrow silk-upholstered settee, fuming over his vile behavior and his mysterious identity. The only guest not yet arrived was that fellow Hawke someone had mentioned last night. But if the cad was this Lord Hawke, wouldn’t he be on his way to Doncaster with the others? Conversely, if her unsavory acquaintance was not a guest and wasn’t on his way to Doncaster, that meant he could be anywhere—including the library where she had foolishly forgotten her journal. But who could he be? A relative perhaps? He’d certainly made himself comfortable in the library.
“Olivia?” her mother murmured from the next room. “Is that you? For heaven’s sake, child, pull the drapes to or close the door. You may be an early riser, but I am not.”
Olivia sighed and drew the ancient velvet drapes over the lace panel, then for good measure shut the door as well. Her mother would not rise until nearly noon, and if Penny Cummings were up, she was bound to be occupied with household matters. Olivia headed for the door. That meant she was left to her own devices for the next several hours. Normally that would suit her most agreeably. But with the possibility of that awful man roaming somewhere in the house, she was not certain what she should do.
In the hall she spied one of the upstairs maids. Though it was considered very bad form to quiz your hostess’s help, Olivia could see no alternative—not if she wished to retrieve her journal.
“Excuse me. Could you tell me, has the Cummingses’ last guest yet arrived?”
The mobcapped young woman bobbed a quick curtsey. “I cannot say, miss. We prepared his room yesterday but I haven’t heard whether he has arrived. Shall I check for you?” She gave Olivia a frankly curious look.
“Oh no. That’s not necessary, But I … ah … I do have an errand you might run for me. I forgot my book in the library last night. A little cream and gold book,” she added. “Could you fetch it for me?”
“As you wish. Shall I leave it in your room?”
“No. Bring it to me in the breakfast room. I’m going down now. Is Mrs. Cummings up?” she added with forced nonchalance.
“Milady usually sleeps till mid-morning and the men are already departed. I fear, miss, that you are forced to dine alone.”
“I am sure I shall not mind,” Olivia replied. So long as I truly am alone. She turned for the stairs. Alone was much better than being beleaguered by an amorous drunk.
Neville stared into the small dressing mirror. Three hours of sleep would have to suffice. He normally slept till noon after his long restless nights. But he had business this morning. He had deals to make and horses to sell. Most of all, he had races to win. For winning horses meant a winning stable, and a plethora of contracts to stud. He would need every shilling of that stud money if he were to maintain Woodford Court as his parents always had.
Fortunately, the horse stables had always been kept in good repair. But despite six months of extensive repairs, the main house’s elaborate slate roof still leaked in two places. The gutters needed releading too.
More important than the house, however, the sheep sheds, the shearing barns, and the shearers’ cottages required immediate attention. A win at Doncaster would increase the value of all his horses, which would increase his income and allow him to continue his improvements and thereby keep more of the strapped folks of the Cheviot Hills employed.
He pulled on a pair of mahogany brown riding boots and grabbed his frock coat and his flat-brimmed hat. Time to move on with his plan. But he paused when he spied the delicate little book lying on the bedside table.
Miss Olivia B. was quite the enigma. He’d read a number of her entries with amusement. She’d been careful to reveal no names, though with a little investigation he was certain the identities of her numerous male acquaintances could be ferreted out. But more fascinating to him than the entries was the woman who had made them. Such a beautiful enigma.
She’d been quite thorough in some of her entries. And completely candid. Any woman considering a man’s station in life and his acceptability as a protector would find her notations invaluable, though some of the men might find them insulting. To her credit, she’d not remarked on anyone’s prowess or personal sexual proclivities; a smart move, he conceded.
Still his jaw clenched rhythmically as an unsavory thought assailed him. Was it possible that auburn-haired beauty, so angelic in demeanor, had partaken of carnal relations with every one of those men?
On the one hand that possibility should encourage him. For if she were indeed a lady-go-lightly she should be easy enough to entice to his bed. He was not so penurious that he could not afford her services. Nevertheless, Neville felt an edge of distaste. How had a woman who appeared so innocent and refined become embroiled in such a base profession?
“That’s easy,” he muttered to himself. He plucked the book up and slid it into his pocket, then turned for the door. How did anyone end up in the situations they found themselves? By accident or bad luck—or God’s merciless humor. He grimaced. It didn’t matter why this Olivia B. had become a harlot. It was enough that she had—and that he was in need of her expertise. He would not have to seek her out, though. For he had her book and she would surely be anxious to recover it. He could afford to wait for her to come to him.
He patted his pocket, feeling the well-used journal there as he strode down the stairs. First breakfast, then business, then with any luck, tonight he would not spend the dreaded hours after midnight alone.
Olivia muttered an extremely unladylike curse. “He took it, the bounder. He must have.” The maid had intercepted her in the hall with the unhappy news that her journal was not to be found. But Olivia had to be sure. So she stood now just inside the library door, alert in case he should try once again to surprise her.
But the library was empty. The heavy burgundy draperies were drawn against the morning sun, and the wing chair he’d sat in had been turned around to face the room. The liquor tray was back in order, the decanters lined up, and the tumblers washed and neatly arranged. The only disorder was that of any library: more books than it could comfortably hold. Shelves jammed full, tables stacked high, and several large atlases lying in the corner on the floor. But not one sign of a cream and gold journal of no value to anyone but its owner. Why had he taken it?
Olivia scanned the room once more, her brow creased in aggravation. The housemaids had obviously been in. Perhaps one of them had already delivered it to the housekeeper. How embarrassing if the woman had read any of the entries.
Better the housekeeper, however, than that other nasty brute.
Co
mpletely out of sorts, she turned for the hall. The housekeeper was bound to look in on the breakfast table. Olivia would ask the woman then about her journal—and about the identity of her unpleasant companion of last night.
She found her way down the east wing hall, through the Cummingses’ grand foyer, and into the central hall, which she thought led back to the small dining room where a breakfast was supposed to be laid out.
This house was far too big ever to be comfortable, she decided as she headed down another endless hallway. Not at all like Byrde Manor with its large pair of drawing rooms and cozy surrounding rooms. She vaguely remembered the family taking breakfast in the kitchen there when she was a small child. Could that be right? Somehow she could not picture her mother consenting to dine in any kitchen, not even the huge one in Windsor Castle.
But the faded image of the fragrant kitchen at Byrde Manor would not go away. Soon enough she would determine how accurate her memories were.
She turned left into a small sitting room—not what she was looking for. Was everything going to go badly during this visit?
The unhappy answer appeared to be yes. For when Olivia backed out of the room and turned around, it was to find him, her nighttime nemesis, in the hall just behind her.
She sucked in a startled breath, then exhaled in a hiss. The shock of his presence was horrid enough. But he was staring at her now with the same insolent amusement as before. It was simply too much to be borne.
“Who do you think you are?” she snapped, though her heart thudded with fear. She placed her hands on her hips. “I suggest you cease this hooliganism, or I will summon Mr. Cummings to deal with you.”
“Mr. Cummings.” He grinned, then crossed his arms and leaned negligently against the wall. Somehow he seemed even bigger and more dangerous than he had last night. “So it is old Cummings you turn to for protection. I had wondered.”
The Matchmaker Page 4