"She wasn't in shock," Ruan sighed in annoyance, and set his now empty glass on the table. "A woman in shock wouldn't have had the mental capacity to take my signet ring on her way out the door."
Black's own face was a perfect picture of shock at this news, his mouth hanging open in a round "O" of surprise.
"You'll catch flies like that," Ruan grunted, and the young man immediately snapped his mouth shut.
"So what you're saying," Black said slowly, as though his mind were still trying to digest what Ruan had told him, "Is that Her Grace, rescued you from drowning and then disappeared. Purposefully."
"That's about the sum of it, yes," Ruan agreed, waving for the tavern-wench to refill his glass. He did not know how to feel about Olive's desertion; yes it pricked at his pride, but another part of him admired her temerity. She was feisty, and brave, two of the exact reasons he had married her. His loins stirred at the memory of the way that she had responded to his kisses; she had been unsure and innocent, but even that had not stopped her from reciprocating his passion. Ruan growled in annoyance, he had nearly had her but had been too gentlemanly to bed her on a ship. Well, that wouldn't happen the next time he saw her. Even if they met in a hay-barn, he would throw her down on the straw and make her his completely --chivalry be damned.
"What's the plan from here, your Grace?"
The young Captain interrupted his thoughts, which had drifted to rather licentious images of Olive, tousled and wanton on a bed of hay.
"Find her," Ruan cleared his throat, and tried to look more controlled than he felt. "Offer a reward for her capture. One thousand pounds. Let it be known at the docks, for she might turn up there looking for passage abroad."
"As you wish," Captain Black inclined his head, though his lips quirked with amusement. "Perhaps though, your Grace, I shall offer the reward for her safe return, and not her capture. It sounds less romantic when you word it that way."
"Romantic?" Ruan arched an eyebrow, "Never heard of the word."
"Well that's obvious enough," Black laughed heartily, and stood to leave, donning his hat. He paused before he left, and gave the Duke a thoughtful look. "It's not all doom and gloom, your Grace."
"And why is that?"
"Well, she could have let you drown..."
Ruan snorted into the fresh ale that had just been set down before him. Captain Black was right; his wife could have left him to drown, and found herself a wealthy widow as a result. It gave him pause for thought; Olive didn't wish him dead, which given his history, was about as romantic as it got.
"Four hundred pounds."
The closed faced man in the pawn shop did not blink, as he offered Liv a most extraordinary amount of money for the ring she had placed on the counter. Her lips parted to say yes, but her whirring mind stopped her before the words could leave her mouth. This was his first offer, and it was obscenely high, surly that meant that the ring was worth more to him than four hundred pounds?
"Seven hundred," she replied boldly, her eyes meeting his. He blinked, and she saw his lip curl in annoyance.
"Madam I could not possibly offer you more than four-fifty," he said, affecting an air of great sadness. Liv bit back a giggle; he was a most remarkable actor, his face portraying genuine regret, though he was overdoing it a tad.
"And I could not possibly accept any less than six-hundred, for such a treasured heirloom."
Her own acting skills were as hammy as the pawn-shop proprietor's. He arched an amused eyebrow, her sentimentality obviously making little impression on his hard nose.
"I'll tell you what, young lady," the man leaned forward on the counter, as though he were going to whisper a secret in her ear. "I'll give you five-hundred, not a penny more, and I won't ask you how you came to be in possession of this ring."
"Deal," Liv replied firmly, her cheeks flushing. Would he call the magistrate? She began to fret and fidget nervously, but she needn't have worried, for the man disappeared into a back room, and came out with a wad of pound notes, which he laboriously counted out on the counter, before handing them to her with a false sigh.
"Thank you, sir," Liv inclined her head toward the man, making to leave.
"No," he gave her a sly smile, "Thank you, young lady. I would have paid double if you'd pushed me."
He waved her away with a laugh, and while for a moment Liv felt as though she'd been cheated, when she exited the shop onto Market Street, a sense of giddy elation overtook her.
Five hundred pounds!
Never, in all her life, had Liv been in possession of such an enormous sum. It was enough to live on for years, she thought happily, skipping into a drapers and purchasing two day-dresses, a pair of sturdy boots, a fresh set of undergarments and a bag to hold them all. She was ready to begin her new life, the only trouble on the horizon being that she had no idea where to go.
As she strolled down toward Packet Quays, where Falmouth Packet ships filled the harbour, she fell into step behind two sailors. They were of the merchant navy, wearing the bleached clothes of tars, but among the crowds Liv also spotted a few gentlemen in impressive, uniforms, their gold buttons gleaming in the sun. Falmouth was one of the busiest ports in all of England, and for now she was safe, blending amongst the crowds.
"He's offered a reward of one thousand pounds for the man who finds her," one sailor was saying to the other. Liv's ears pricked with interest, for she had an idea who the unnamed man they were speaking of was.
"A thousand pound?" the other sailor exclaimed. "If I'd a thousand pounds to throw away I'd spend it on one thousand lightskirts, not one miserable wife."
His friend guffawed appreciatively, whilst Liv resisted rolling her eyes.
"No one'll find her," the first sailor said with a shrug, "She drowned as far as I can see. That's two dead wives now, by my count. Wonder if he staged the whole thing, to hide the fact that he killed this one too?"
The men descended into a deep conversation, about the peculiarities of the aristocracy, which Liv half listened to as she trailed them to the Quays. If Ruan had offered a reward for her safe return, then surely she was not safe here, she had to leave as quickly as possible.
At Packet Quays, where mailboats from every corner of the British Empire docked, there was a plethora of stagecoaches to chose from.
"Which one is leaving first?" Liv asked of the man at the office of the stagecoach company. The bald headed man looked over at a driver, who was imbibing a large tankard of ale on a wooden bench.
"'Ere Greg," the man called, and the driver looked up, his face a picture of unhappiness. "When's you leavin'?"
"In about ten minutes," the driver gave a dark scowl. "Just waiting on my passenger to finish their business."
The fearful way that he spoke of his missing passenger, made Liv think that he was ferrying a hardened criminal through the Cornish countryside. Reluctantly she bought a ticket to St. Jarvis, which was where the coach was headed, thinking that it was best to make her escape quickly, even if she had to share her carriage with a deviant.
Ten minutes later, Liv boarded the rickety, old carriage, that was to take her to her new home. She looked longingly at the other, well sprung vehicles which lined the road, but they were reserved for passengers headed to London, or Bristol; St. Jarvis seemed decidedly more low key. After a minute alone in the dark compartment, the door was opened by the driver, who ushered his wayward passenger inside. Liv steeled herself, expecting a coarse drunkard or a light-skirt, but instead she found herself looking at a young, bespectacled woman, who blinked at her owlishly from behind her glasses.
"Why, hello," the young woman said earnestly. In her hands she held a broadsheet, which had left her fingers covered in ink, and her nose was covered with similar black smudges. "The driver said I'd have a companion for the rest of the trip. I've been sitting up front with him since Truro. He was completely fascinated by a paper I'm writing on the moralities of the Romans, but insisted I keep you company for the rest of the journey. I've pro
mised him I shall post him a copy of my essay when it's done."
The woman beamed, though her smile faltered a little, when the driver took off with great speed, causing her to fall backwards onto her seat. Liv bit back a grin, so this was the wayward passenger that had made Greg the driver so unhappy. He did not seem like a man who would be interested in anyone's morals, let alone those of a long dead civilisation; the woman had obviously missed her target audience.
"Jane Deveraux," she said to Liv with a smile, holding out her hand to shake, but then glanced down and gave a howl of dismay as she saw that it was black with ink.
"Oh, dear," she sighed, taking out a hankie and wiping her grubby digits, "I'm afraid I'm always doing this. Usually I wait until I'm home alone to read the papers, but the headline today was so interesting, that I just had to read it straight away."
Olive paled, she had an inkling what the main story in the Falmouth Daily Chronicles was.
"Elizabeth Sinks: New Duchess Missing," the young woman read breathlessly. She looked up at Liv, her wide eyes looking almost bug-like behind her bottle-top glasses. "How awful. Poor Everleigh, I never did believe that he killed his first wife."
"Do you know him?" Liv asked with surprise, for her new companion did not have the look of someone who mixed with the gentry.
"Oh yes," the woman nodded so earnestly, that her glasses fell down her nose. She propped them back up with her finger, and when she took her hand away her nose was black with ink. "His Cornish estate lies not fifty miles away from my family's. He was close with my brother when they were young, and is a great supporter of a charity I am involved in, which educates young girls."
Liv smiled faintly at this; she had not pegged Ruan as a charitable sort of man.
"Are you visiting with family in St. Jarvis?" the girl asked, changing the subject away from the missing Duchess. "If you are I might know them, I know everyone in the village!"
"Not exactly," Liv replied, trying to sound honest despite the fact she was lying through her teeth. "My husband died, a short time ago, drowned at sea. I am seeking to make a new life, and St. Jarvis was suggested to me as a safe place for a woman alone to live."
This was made-up balderdash of course, but Jane beamed at her praise of the village.
"Oh it is," Miss Devereaux nodded sincerely, "It has always been a haven for young women, ever since the novelist Mrs Baker opened her boarding house. Such a pity she has passed, for in the summer months it was filled with women of an intellectual temperament and guest speakers giving lectures."
"And is the boarding house now closed?" Liv asked curiously, for she recalled having heard of Mrs Baker, one of the original, trailblazing Bluestockings of the previous century. Liv had not known that she had retired to Cornwall, but then she did not run with the intellectual set. She didn't run with any set at all.
"Yes," Jane responded sadly, "My brother fears he will never let it out, and the village misses the boarders, for they brought a lot of money to the local shops."
She sighed, and looked out the window, overcome by melancholy at the loss of Mrs Baker. Liv, on the other hand, smiled at this little nugget of information. She had five-hundred pounds in her purse, but needed a job as it wouldn't last forever. Running a boarding house was bound to be hard work, but Liv was undaunted.
"Do you think your brother would be interested in letting the property to me? I should like to carry on with Mrs Baker's mission, for I was a most ardent admirer of her work." She spoke slowly, hoping that her expression did not betray how much she wanted Jane to say yes, whilst also praying that Jane would not wish to discuss any of Mrs Baker's novels. Liv's reading preferences tended toward the Gothic, which though not very high-brow, were most entertaining.
Her companion blinked happily at her question, and bounced up and down on her seat with excitement.
"Oh, oh, oh," Jane gasped, clapping her hands with glee. "Oh, that's just the most perfect idea. We shall ask Julian the second we arrive. He couldn't possibly say no. Although..."
Jane trailed off uncomfortably, her cheeks flushing.
"What's wrong?" Liv reached out and took the other woman's hand in her own, for she looked most flustered at the mention of her brother.
"It's just, my brother detests bluestockings, he thinks my mixing with Mrs Baker is the reason that I remain unwed - despite my enormous dowry." she confided, "And if he thought that you were going to carry on housing them in St. Jarvis, I'm afraid he might say no."
"Then we shall lie," Liv said firmly, what was another fib on top of the ones she had already told? Jane broke out into another grin at this news, and Liv had the definite feeling that she and the young Miss Deveraux were going to become as thick as thieves.
"How wonderful Mrs - oh, I'm sorry I never caught your name."
"It's Olive," Liv replied automatically, without thinking. She cringed inwardly, why had she not prepared for this part of her tale? If she was going to start a new life, she would obviously have to adopt a new moniker, to go with her assumed identity.
"Olive Black," she finished lamely, for Jane had been waiting for her to speak her surname, and that was the only one that would form on her panicked tongue.
"That's so funny," Jane said distractedly, and Olive waited for her to make a joke about the fruit, but instead she reached for the newspaper that she had cast aside. "The missing wife of the Duke of Everleigh was called Olive Greene, what a coincidence!"
Liv gave a nervous laugh so high pitched she thought that it might summon a pack of dogs.
"How strange," she agreed with her new friend Jane, "But unlike the poor Duchess of Everleigh, I was not lost at sea."
I was found there instead, she thought with a triumphant smile.
Julian Deveraux, Viscount Jarvis, was not what Liv had expected from his sister's description of him. In her mind's eye, she had pictured him as a fussy, older gentleman, but the young man who greeted her was handsome, and no more than thirty years.
Jane had insisted that she visit with Julian straight away, in their home on the edge of the quaint village of St. Jarvis. It was only as the two women were walking up the sweeping drive to the imposing house, that Liv had realised that Jane Deveraux's family were aristocrats. Judging by the size of the Palladian fronted mansion, they were very well to do aristocrats.
Liv had felt a moment of panic when she was introduced to the Viscount, what if Lord Deveraux recognised her from her season in town? But she needn't have worried, for it soon became apparent that they young blood thought of little bar himself. A shy, wallflower like Olive, would not have caught his attention in Almack's - if he ever deigned to attend. For, Lord Deveraux did not have the look of a man who would willingly attend the stuffy assembly. He had the look of a Rake.
"This is my good friend Mrs Black."
Jane made the introduction, beaming at Olive, while her handsome brother regarded her with a surly expression.
"Mrs Black is most interested in opening up the vacant boarding house," Jane continued, her face flushing somewhat. She was not a good liar, Liv deduced, for her expression betrayed her nerves.
"Is that so?"
Lord Deveraux arched an eyebrow, and his dark gaze raked Olive from head to toe, in a most impudent manner.
"Yes," Olive decided that the best way to treat a man like Julian, was to speak firmly, adopting the same tone that one would use with an unruly child. "Your sister has informed me, that you are struggling to find someone to take up the lease, and that as a result the village is suffering."
Julian scowled at his sister, presumably for underselling the value of the boarding house. Jane flushed again, and refused to meet his eye, instead opting to stare fixedly at the carpet on the floor of the library.
"It's a fine building, one of the grandest in the whole village," he declared, his gaze challenging Liv to disagree.
"I should hope so," she replied sweetly, adopting a sickly sweet tone of innocence underscored with a steely note. "For I mean to bui
ld a thriving business, my Lord, and should hate to start off in anything less than perfect."
Lord Deveraux gave a harrumph of annoyance, he was not a man who liked women dictating to him, and Liv's confident tone seemed to be upsetting him.
Good, she thought to herself, for she did not like this Lord Deveraux. The way that he spoke to his sister was dismissive and rude, and he was faring no better with Liv. She knew instinctively that a man like Julian would like all women to live by the rule of being seen and not heard, but Liv didn't give a fig. She lived by her own rules now.
"The lease is worth fifty pounds a year," Deveraux snapped, clearly tired of the charade.
"I'll give you thirty," Liv smiled, "For as I understand the building has lain idle for some time, and will be in need of considerable repairs."
"Thirty? I might as well give it away for that price."
"I'd be more than willing to accept that offer too, my Lord," she gave him a glacial stare. "The village is suffering from a lack of visitors, it would be terrible if I was to let it be known in the tavern that you refused a poor, young widow's request to reopen it."
Jane, standing behind her brother, gave Liv a shocked smile. She had probably never witnessed anyone stand up to his bullying.
"Fine," the Viscount growled, raking a hand through his dark hair in agitation. "But I don't want to see it filled with the same riff-raff like that crackpot Mrs Baker entertained."
"I'd hardly call ladies of an intellectual disposition riff-raff," Liv answered evenly. "They're hardly the demimonde."
"Would that they had been," Julian glowered at his sister, who visibly shrank under his censure. "Then maybe dear Jane would have developed an interest in men, like a normal woman, and not dusty old books."
An uncomfortable silence fell, in which Liv regarded the Viscount with what she hoped was a most disapproving look. Poor Jane, red faced, remained silent, her attention still fixated on her feet.
The Duke of Ruin: Reluctant Regency Brides Page 6