by Cheryl Holt
"It's now or never, Livvie," he murmured, escalating the pressure to an unbearable degree. "What say you?"
He extended his hand, beseeching her to seize it. It hovered there, in the air between them, a lifeline, a reprieve, a salvation.
Take it! her braver self shrieked. Grab hold! Don't let go!
But she was paralyzed, unable to respond or react.
"Don't do this to me. Please," he begged. "Don't marry my father. Don't break my heart."
"Olivia," Margaret called, once more.
Frantically, Olivia peered back and forth, between the door and the spot where Phillip tarried, imploring her.
She needed more time! More space! More options!
But though she was silent, Phillip heard her with a stunning clarity.
"So be it," he spat out. "I hope you'll be very happy!' Whirling away, he climbed out the window. In a flash, he'd disappeared.
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On the inside, she screamed and cried out his name, and she imagined him acknowledging her shout, that he was reaching for her, smiling and glad at her boldness. She saw herself as courageous and assured and running with him across the yard. Laughing and joyous, she felt him lift her onto her mount, felt the wind in her hair as they dashed away through the darkness.
"There you are," Margaret snapped from behind her, irritated at having had to search. "Your guests have arrived, and the earl is waiting for you to attend him."
Olivia shut her eyes, letting it sink in, that blissful vision of what might have been. Then she shuddered, wrestling with a despair that was killing her.
Almost in a stupor, she turned and followed Margaret into the hall.
Chapter Twenty
Phillip strode down the London street, cursing under his breath every step of the way. He hated the crowds and the noise and the smells, but this was where any employment opportunity would be located.
He wasn't sure what type of position he wanted. Of course, it would never hold the prestige of managing Edward's stables, but he was confident he could find something palatable.
With valorous military service to his credit, and work experience for a respected lord as his reference, there had to be somebody who would hire him. But whatever the post, he prayed it would be out of the city. If he wound up having to labor in the middle of town, he wouldn't last long before the swarm of the metropolis drove him mad.
His first stop had been to parley with his old commander, Stephen Chamberlin, whose father was the Earl of Bristol, but he'd been disappointed to learn that Chamberlin was still convalescing at the familial estate. Spain had been a bloody, messy rout, and the battle had rendered many of his colleagues crippled and maimed, with the ill-fated ones left behind, buried on foreign soil, without a marker to denote the spot. At least Stephen was alive and had the chance to recover.
Well, there were other fellows about; he was convinced of it. His regiment had been full of the third and fourth sons of the aristocracy. Those who'd been fortuitous enough to come home had incomes and horses.
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and he intended to prevail on the friendship of every one of them.
There had to be a man who could use his skills and assistance.
Luckily, he had sufficient money to tide him over through his search. Edward had paid him a decent salary, and when he'd resided at Salisbury, there'd been no need to spend any of it. The cash guaranteed that he could rent a room, bide his time, and pick his situation, without having to hurry.
If worse came to worst, he could always pack it in and travel to his sister Anne's house in Bath. Much as she'd grumble, she'd welcome him.
Anne operated a women's health emporium and bathing spa, and he grinned, attempting to picture himself hauling mineral water and filling tubs for the rich, obese patrons who frequented her business, but the image wouldn't gel.
A group of boys ran toward him, and he pressed his coat to his chest, ensuring that their nimble fingers couldn't lift his wallet as they flitted by.
How he abhorred seeing so many homeless waifs! Though he'd been raised by his mother, with no support from Edward, they'd had a roof over their heads and food in their bellies.
Who birthed these urchins? Who abandoned them so that they wandered like wild animals?
At the corner, he dawdled, assessing his direction, when a girl approached and held out an orange.
"Would you like one, sir?"
With a fair complexion and auburn hair, she must have once been fetching, but she was skinny as a rail, appearing half-starved, and so grubby that he was loath to touch the piece of fruit. A very tiny girl stood at her side, silent and detached. With white-blond hair, and the
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biggest blue eyes, she looked like a little doll, and his heart went out to her.
Who could have forsaken such a precious lass?
"Is she ill?" he asked the older child, gesturing toward the other.
"No. She doesn't like to talk." She offered him the fruit, again. It was wilted and inedible. "The orange, sir?"
Just then, the young one peered up, her gaze piercing into him so sharply that he felt it probing and jabbing inside him. The sensation was eerie, and he shuddered, wanting only to be away. The pair made him terribly uncomfortable.
"Keep your orange," he said to the older one, and her enthusiasm faltered. "Sell it to another."
Overwhelmed by guilt, he slipped several pound notes into her hand. It was a fortune for someone as downtrodden as she, and if any of the other street scavengers espied what he'd given her, she'd be robbed.
The girl gaped at the money.
"This is too much." An honest soul, she tendered the wad of bills, trying to decline the boon.
He wrapped her fingers around it, shielding it from passers-by. "I have plenty more," he affirmed. "I'm happy to share."
She studied him. "Thank you."
"Hide it, and guard it carefully."
"I will."
He started off, when the mute stared at him once more. Her keen regard had unsettled him, and he was inordinately affected by their plight. She had him pondering Olivia's niece, who was also mute, but safely lodged in the Hopkinses' grand town house in Mayfair.
Even with the trappings of the nobility, Helen had a difficult future. What would it be like to have less, to be unable to converse, but as a poverty-stricken vagrant?
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The depth of his worry emphasized that his final quarrel with Olivia had rendered him overly emotional.
He never should have gone back for her!
From the moment he'd heard about her engagement to Edward, he'd been angry and hurt, and his initial impulse had been to depart and never return. His temper had invariably been his most unruly trait, and it had regularly landed him in trouble. Once again, he'd let it guide his actions, and he'd ended up alone and tormented.
After the horrid scene with his father, followed by the miles of riding uirough the quiet countryside, he'd calmed and begun to reflect rationally upon what had occurred.
With an abiding certainty, he'd concluded that a dreadful calamity had transpired at the manor, that Olivia had been dragged into the betrothal against her will. During their last tryst, she had sworn to him that she would never marry Edward, and he'd trusted her.
Only a catastrophe could have forced her to break her vow.
He'd traveled back to Salisbury, prepared to rescue her, merely to discover that she was in no predicament. That she didn't need saving. She was content with events, and ready to proceed to matrimony.
When he visualized the two of them—his father and his beloved—strolling arm in arm around the estate grounds, accepting the congratulations of the servants, he gnashed his teeth. When he envisioned them chatting and enjoying a romantic meal on the verandah, he yearned to smash something.
Though he'd wanted it to be otherwise, Olivia's composed capitulation wasn't feigned, and the actuality hadn't hit home until he'd embarrassed himself by begging her to elope.
; He couldn't say what had him more chagrined: the fact that she'd refused him, or the fact that he'd made
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such a complete and total fool of himself. Whenever he recalled his asinine profession of undying devotion, he blushed with shame.
What had he been thinking? It was obvious she didn't love him! Despite her tepid claim.
How had he convinced himself that she could harbor an affinity for a common bastard? The sole explanation he could devise was that his feelings for her were authentic and true, potent and unwavering, so he'd blindly discounted the realities of their stations.
She was the daughter of an earl, born and bred to the Quality, and her trifling with him had been naught but a fling. While it had been easy for her to pretend affection while they were together, when push came to shove, she'd gravitated to her own kind.
He sighed. He should have expected nothing less, but lust had rendered him oblivious.
Up ahead, he detected the notorious Stevens brothers' gambling hall for which he'd been searching. Previously, he'd amused himself there, sowing his wild oats before hieing off to the madness in Portugal and Spain. The establishment was popular with the aristocracy, and he hoped some of his old chums would be drinking and wagering inside.
He entered the lavish foyer just as another person was exiting, but he'd been so fixed on his destination that he wasn't paying attention, and they collided. Glancing up, he was surprised to note that he'd bumped into a female.
As she was wearing a hat, with a veil that shielded her face, she wasn't eager to be recognized.
"Pardon me," she said, stepping away so he could move past, then she gasped. "Phillip Paxton? Is it really you?"
"Yes." Narrowing his focus, he strove to peek through
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the weave of the veil. "Winnie Stewart? I thought you were still in the country."
A grim smile flitted across her lips. "I came back a bit early."
He remembered that peculiar afternoon, when he and Edward were in the garden, and they'd encountered her. She and Edward had been so awkward, making it clear that they had a relationship of which others were unaware.
Had Edward sent her away? Or had she fled when she'd been apprised that he was to marry Olivia?
He felt a kinship with this woman whom Edward hadn't wanted. He, himself, had endured a lifetime of Edward's fickleness as to who was worthy of an association and who wasn't, and he'd never tolerated Edward's mercurial rejections with much grace.
It had to be awful for her, to ascertain how inconstant Edward's fondness could be, and he wanted—in some small way—to alleviate her anguish.
"Was it because of the wedding?" he broached.
'The wedding?" Aghast, she clutched a fist to her chest as though her heart were aching.
"You didn't know?"
"No." She was shaking. "Margaret maintained he would propose, but I never believed her."
"It was announced Monday."
"The day after I left," she murmured. "When is the ceremony?"
"Friday."
'Tomorrow..."
On hearing the news, the air seemed to rush out of her, and, afraid she might collapse, he gripped her elbow, steadying her. An alert footman was hovering nearby, and he also approached.
"The lady's had an upset," Phillip advised the man.
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"Might we have a private room, while she collects herself?"
"Yes."
The servant escorted them to an adjacent salon, and as Phillip guided her to a sofa and eased her down, the footman poured her a brandy, extended it to Phillip, then slipped out, shutting the door behind him.
Phillip pulled up a chair and offered her the glass. She stared at it, then lifted the veil on her hat, grabbed the beverage, and drank it down in a long swallow. The large quantity of alcohol had an immediate effect. Her trembling abated, and she set the glass aside.
"You loved him," he suggested.
"If I did or didn't, it hardly matters now, does it?"
"I guess not." A becoming blush colored her cheeks, and he realized how pretty she was, how wise and mature. He wished Edward wasn't such a snob, that he'd had the good sense to marry her instead of Olivia. She would have been an admirable partner for him.
"Would it soften the blow," he volunteered, "if I confessed that I was madly in love with Olivia?"
"Really?" She chuckled, but without humor.
"Yes. I actually tried to persuade her to cry off, to elope with me."
"She never would have, Phillip," she gently stated. "She wouldn't shirk her responsibilities to the family."
"I understand that." He grinned. "If it's any consolation, I've been wondering whether Edward intended to propose. With the speed that the wedding's looming, maybe some misadventure coerced him into it."
"Ahh..." she mused. "Margaret must have concocted some ploy to snag him."
"That could very well be."
"She was bound and determined to have them wed. At any cost."
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The assessment was sound, though it didn't make Phillip feel any better.
They were silent, reflective, when Miss Stewart ruefully said, "We're a pitiful pair, aren't we?"
"Yes, I'm definitely licking my wounds."
"They heal," she counseled, "as I've learned from prior experience." She exhaled a heavy sigh. "I didn't need this on top of everything else. I can't tackle another disaster."
"What's happened?"
"Nothing with which you need concern yourself."
"Tell me, Miss Stewart."
"Winnie, please," she urged.
"Perhaps I can help, Winnie." He scrutinized the elegant decor, but it was a club for males, where women weren't allowed—and with valid reason. There was a nude painting hanging on the wall behind her. What could have induced her to enter such a disreputable place?
"May I inquire as to why you're here? It was quite a shock to stumble upon you."
"Yes, I suppose it was." She studied him, to evaluate if he could be trusted, and ultimately decided he could be. "I'd come looking for a friend about a problem that developed while I was at Salisbury."
"But he wasn't here?"
"No."
"What is it?"
"Olivia has a niece—" she started.
"Helen, yes. Olivia told me all about her."
Winnie raised a brow, as if his possession of this information elevated him in her esteem. If Olivia had confided in him about Helen, then they had truly been close. "She disappeared while we were away. I've tried to get a straight story from our servants, but they have
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differing tales about when and how she went missing."
Helen lost? He couldn't process it. Such appalling events never befell the offspring of the rich. This was the sort of debacle that occurred in the life of the poor.
"Have you notified Olivia?"
"I hadn't a penny to post a letter, but our housekeeper claims that Margaret was advised, and that she retained a gentleman"—she rummaged in her bag, found a scrap of paper with a name scribbled on it—"a Mr. Lassiter, who has been hunting for her."
"Have you spoken to him?"
"He wouldn't meet with me, so I was hoping to prevail upon my male acquaintance to conduct an interview for me. I presume that a man might have more success in dealing with him."
"Do you know where his office is located?"
"Yes."
He rose and held out his hand. "Let's go."
"You'll assist me?"
She gawked at him, as though she couldn't credit his overture, and he scowled. What was it about the women in this family? Why did they automatically infer he was a laggard?
Tough nuts to crack, he thought, amused and aggravated by her reticence.
"Of course I will. Now, let's be off. Time's a-wasting."
Within minutes, they were clopping down the street in a hired hack, then halting at the brick building where Mr. Lassiter's business was lodged. It was a pr
osperous structure, near the courts, and packed with solicitors, accountants, and other men of commerce.
He left Winnie in the coach, with strict instructions to stay put, then he went inside, examined the directory, and barreled up to the second floor. As he burst into Lassiter's office, the man's secretary jumped to his feet.
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"I'd like an appointment with Mr. Lassiter."
The thin, snippy employee frowned over the rim of his spectacles. "And you are . . . ?"
"Viscount Salisbury," Phillip lied. And why not? He was dressed to the nines, and strutting in as if he owned the accursed place. For extra import, he added, "Son and heir to Edward Paxton, Earl of Salisbury."
The titles had the fellow snapping to attention. Income was about to be generated! "I'll see if he's available."
"You do that. And be quick about it."
He slithered into the inner office, and after some extensive whispering, peered out. "Mr. Lassiter is available."
Phillip marched by the secretary without giving him another glance. Lassiter stood behind his desk, an obese, weaselly character, with balding pate, rotund stomach, and seedy disposition. He was the type who would cheat and rob you while smiling, so that you wouldn't notice when he was stabbing you in the back.
Phillip detested him on sight.
"Lord Salisbury," he greeted him fawningly. "What an honor. What can I do for you?"
"Where is Helen Hopkins?"
Lassiter faltered, but swiftly regrouped. "Helen Hopkins ..." he brooded, tapping a finger against his lip. "Helen Hopkins . . . hmm . . . I've never heard of her."
"Let me refresh your memory." Phillip rounded the desk. He was much taller than Lassiter so he towered over the smaller man, severely and effortlessly unnerving him. "She vanished while the countess and Lady Olivia were in the country. Where is she?"
"I have no idea—"
Phillip grabbed him by the lapels of his jacket and yanked him off the floor, the shoulder seams popping. "Where is she?"
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"I don't... she's ... you're ..."
Gulping, stammering, he was terrified of Phillip and what Phillip might do, and Lassiter was wise to be afraid. After the humiliations Phillip had recently suffered, he felt capable of any dastardly deed. He'd be thrilled to vent some of his frustration on a despicable villain who clearly deserved it.