by Lara Temple
‘Then listen instead of being so...aggravating! This is important to me and you keep...’ Her voice cracked and she stopped before she crumbled completely. She was shaking, from cold and weariness and the aftermath of tension and fear. She pulled the rug towards her and shoved her hands into its warmth, feeling like a pathetic fool.
He didn’t speak, just knocked against the carriage wall and it drew forward. Olivia gasped and reached for the door again, but he put his arm out, barring it.
‘Calm down. I won’t touch you and I will take you wherever you ask once we are done. But though I don’t care for much, I care for my horses and I won’t keep them standing further in this cold. Fair enough?’
She nodded warily.
‘Good. Now, what is your name?’ he asked.
‘My godfather’s name was Henry Payton.’
‘I asked for your name, not his.’
‘Olivia, Olivia Silverdale.’
‘Olivia Silverdale. Sounds as fanciful as your tale. Now begin at the beginning. Who is this Marcia Pendle and how did you trace her?’
He had changed again—more businesslike but no less ruthless.
‘I told you. Marcia Pendle works in a...a house of ill repute in Catte Street.’
‘Catte Street. Madame Bernieres’?’
She raised her brow contemptuously. Obviously he would know about the brothels of London.
‘I think that was the name. She calls herself Genevieve, but she is really Marcia Pendle from Norfolk.’
He shook his head briefly, but there was no negation there, only a kind of focused confusion as he watched her. Stripped of mocking or anger, he looked more human but no less unsettling.
‘So. Marcia Pendle is Genevieve. How and why did you trace her and why on earth would she tell you she was involved in your godfather’s death?’
‘I traced her because I had my man of business hire a Bow Street Runner, a Mr McGuire. He was present at the inquest into my uncle’s death. Apparently Marcia gave a masterful performance about a long-standing relationship where they would meet at the leased house where he died. When she left the inquest he followed her and after some discreet investigation discovered her true identity and occupation. He also discovered she is very superstitious and every week she visits a gypsy fortune-teller near Bishopsgate who is no more a gypsy than Marcia is French, but one Sue Davies from Cardiff. So, I went to see Miss Davies...’
‘You went to Bishopsgate to visit a fortune-teller.’
‘Yes. And after we had a little conversation and understood one another tolerably well, I paid Gypsy Sue, as she is called, to tell Marcia she must consult an occultist.’
‘A what?’ he asked. The sardonic edge had left his voice completely. All she could detect there was a kind of fascinated shock.
‘Have you never heard of them? Apparently they are quite popular of late. There is very much a demand for communication with dead loved ones on The Other Side. In any case, the gypsy, or rather Sue Davies, told me how Marcia was obsessed with someone named George whom she loved and mourned and that she asked Sue...’
‘Wait one moment... Hell, never mind. I will reserve my questions for the end.’
‘Thank you. So I had my man of business lease a house in an unassuming part of town where such an occultist might credibly have her lodgings and Sue Davies helped me set the stage, so to speak. Like Marcia Pendle she was once an actress and was very useful in procuring the correct clothes and artefacts. Then she sent Marcia Pendle to me and under the guise of my occultist’s persona I questioned her about her relations with Henry.’
‘Good lord. A vivid imagination doesn’t even begin to cover it. So we are now at a consultation between a masquerading occultist from Yorkshire, a French madame from Norfolk and a fraudulent gypsy from Wales. Charming. Proceed.’
‘How did you know I was from Yorkshire?’
‘I have an ear for accents. Proceed.’
‘Very well. During this session, Marcia Pendle revealed she never even met my uncle, let alone became his mistress.’
He held up his hand again.
‘Revealed. A doxy and practised blackmailer just handed you this information. Just for the asking...’
‘Not quite. I told you she is very superstitious. I told her the fellow she wanted to reach could not meet her in the afterworld unless she revealed all and cleansed her soul.’
‘You exposed yourself to a woman who you believe might be involved in murder and she believed a young girl is her gate to the afterlife. I don’t know which of you is more unbalanced...’
‘Of course I didn’t allow her to see me. I was heavily veiled and I wore a rather vulgar dress Sue gave me and she even showed me how to paint my face so that should my veil slip I would not be recognisable. Sue did offer to act the occultist instead of me but I had to be the one asking the questions. I could hardly prompt Sue all through the session, could I?’
‘I see,’ he said carefully. ‘I was apparently right about your imagination. I’m impressed the powers that be have no issue with Marcia Pendle being a doxy, only with her lying to the authorities.’
‘There are apparently different degrees of depravity.’
‘That is very true, there are. So back to your discoveries—I presume you asked her who paid her to engage in this deceit?’
‘Of course. That was where I ran aground. She did divulge that his name was Eldritch, but she was so overset by her communications with George she became quite hysterical with weeping and I felt horrid and halted the session and told her George was being summoned back, but we could try again in a few days once her soul was calm.’
‘And she accepted that?’
‘Apparently George was never fond of crying females so in fact it strengthened her belief in my powers. So you see, I need to find out who this Mr Eldritch is, but Mr Mercer had no luck and I do not know how to proceed.’
‘You surprise me. But before we proceed to Mr Eldritch, I’m curious why you are so certain she was not your godfather’s mistress in the first place?’
‘I just knew. And I was right.’
‘An intuition, in fact.’
The sardonic inflection was back and she shrugged. She had told him enough. It was time to see if he would be of any use at all or whether he was merely enjoying treating her like some freakish fair exhibit.
‘Will you help or not?’
‘Help with what?’
‘Help find out who this Eldritch is and why he paid to defame my godfather and whether it is in any way connected with Henry’s suspicions about your father’s death.’
‘Why?’
‘Why?’ She threw up her hands in disbelief. ‘Because I, for one, will not sit by while someone out there is ruining people’s lives. My godmother, Mrs Payton, is in shock and in pain not only at the loss of one of the most wonderful men I have ever known, but at the discovery that he had betrayed her and his family. I must find out who is behind this and make them pay for what they have done to the Paytons. And I don’t know how to do that on my own! That is why!’
Lucas stifled a sigh at her outburst. He wished he had tossed her note into the fire rather than succumbing to the siren’s pull of curiosity. If he had an ounce of sense he would send her on her way—she was probably either mad or a very creative liar and he didn’t have time to indulge in such nonsense, he was already running late for his meeting with his uncle at the War Office. But as his brother Chase always told him, curiosity was likely to be his downfall, which was rather ironic because Chase was just as bad.
For a moment he contemplated taking her to his uncle. Oswald would see through all the girlish dramatics and probably reveal her as the clever trickster she was, because although Oswald was as cursed with curiosity as any of their fated Sinclair tribe, he was never swayed by sentiment. Lucas usually wasn’t either, but as much as it galle
d him to admit, even to himself, mentions of his father’s demise still had the power to sink their talons into his flesh. He could stride over most matters without much compunction but the moment she spoke those words he stumbled. Just a little, but enough. He couldn’t walk away without at least trying to understand what was afoot. Which meant he had to find out the nature of the peculiar beast sitting opposite him.
Not today, though. However offended she appeared to be by his accusation of entrapment, her voice and demeanour were clearly those of a well-born young woman and every moment spent in her company as night descended was a moment of precisely the kind of danger he did not enjoy.
‘Where do you live?’
‘Why?’
‘Because as tempting as the thought is, I can hardly leave you in the middle of London in the dark. I presume you do live somewhere. This might be a fantastical story, but you appear discouragingly corporeal.’
For the first time her eyes shifted away from his. She was about to lie, which was interesting in itself.
‘Spinner Street.’
‘Spinner Street? Isn’t it around the corner from the church where you summoned me?’
‘Yes.’
‘Stranger and stranger. Is that sad neighbourhood populated by occultists now? At what number are you perpetrating your masquerade?’
‘Fifteen. But... Does this mean you won’t help?’ she demanded as he tapped the wall of the carriage and it slowed to a halt on the empty street and a postilion jumped down to take his directions.
‘It means it is nearing your bedtime, Miss Silverdale. I will consider what you told me. That is all I can offer for now.’
Again her expression changed, or rather it leached away, leaving her face blank just as they slowed and the gaslight filled the carriage. Now at least he could see what she looked like in repose. She reminded him of a painting he had once seen in Venice. It was a depiction of the biblical tale of Ruth, with Naomi seated on a stone cradling a very unattractive babe and Ruth standing, her hand on the older woman’s shoulder and, unusually for such a painting, looking straight at the viewer. She, too, had worn no expression, but the message was clear. Beware. I guard my own.
‘If this is a polite way of telling me you have no intention of pursuing this puzzle, I prefer you tell me so outright,’ she said as she raised the hood of her cloak over her bonnet. ‘Heaven forfend I waste any more of your precious time which could be spent so much more profitably in gaming hells and brothels like Madame Bern—’
Her haughty lecture ended on a squeak when he caught her wrist as she opened the carriage door. He should have kept his calm and sped her on her way. If he needed anything to convince him to have nothing more to do with her fantasies, it was a lecture. His temper had borne quite enough that evening.
‘I don’t need you to put words in my mouth and I sure as hell do not need your lectures. You do either again and that will be the last you see of me, Miss Silverdale. I said I will think about it and I will. That is all for now. Now run along before I decide to demand compensation for your ruining what had promised to be a very pleasant evening by fulfilling your worst suspicions about my character. Unless that is what you are looking for? Is that tortuous little mind of yours curious about that as well?’
He brushed his fingers lightly across her lips, as much to test his question as to warn her. They were soft and warm and as they shifted under the pressure his gaze caught on them as well, making the question rather more complicated than he had intended. But before he could pursue the thought she drew away so abruptly she bumped into the frame of the door and for the first time he saw real fear in her gaze and something beyond it which surprised him. Revulsion was not the usual reaction to his overtures, but then he never made overtures to proper little virgins and they never made appointments to meet him in a darkened church and proceed to tell him the world was made of cheese and rode along on the back of a turtle.
He opened the door.
‘Run along, little miss.’
She didn’t run. The blank watchdog expression returned and she drew down her veil and jumped down nimbly from the carriage, ignoring the postilion who stood by to assist her.
Chapter Two
Olivia looked around the respectable interior of St George’s, smiling at the gall of the man.
She might not quite have Lord Sinclair’s measure, but she knew without doubt his choice of arranging this meeting in a church in midday was an ironic riposte rather than out of any concern for propriety. The man was living up to his reputation as a care-for-nobody.
Well, not quite. She had expected someone more...spoilt. Indulged and self-indulgent. Not...
Well, whatever he was.
For two days she had heard nothing from him, her already meagre hopes foundering and leaving her even more depressed than before. When her old nurse, Nora, appeared that morning in Brook Street, bearing a sealed note she said was delivered to Spinner Street by a proper footman, Olivia’s first reaction was almost stifling relief.
The relief faded a little as she read his note. It was succinct, listing nothing more than a time, a place and a bold, scrawled ‘S’.
‘At least you are prompt.’
She rose on tiptoes in surprise at the deep voice directly behind her, her stretched nerves bursting into an agitated dance. How had he managed to cross the whole church without her hearing? Blast the man for putting her at a disadvantage again. She turned, gathering her dignity. The windows were small, but the sun that broke through the winter clouds was directly overhead and sunlight bathed him like a benediction, making it clear she had missed a great deal in the darkness. Two days ago he had been a figure of the dark—a shady hulk towering over her, menacing but indistinct. Now Gypsy Sue’s words came back to her and she could understand fully why the Sixth Earl of Sinclair was referred to as the sinfully seductive Sinclair. It wasn’t merely that he was handsome. She couldn’t even get enough distance from the impact of his aura to judge his looks. It was something completely different—his presence chased away everything else, like the sun coming out from behind a cloud with sudden brutality—harsh and demanding a reaction.
She searched for her scattering wits and managed to gather enough to speak his name.
‘Lord Sinclair.’
‘Miss Silverdale.’
The silence stretched and she felt the edges of her mouth rise against her will. It must be nervousness, understandable given what was at stake. There was nothing amusing about this situation.
‘Lord Sinclair,’ she repeated, and the humour she suspected gleamed in his eyes and tugged at the corners of his mouth as well. He bowed with all the formality of a London ballroom.
‘Miss Silverdale.’
Inspired, she brandished the note she held and tossed back his words from their first meeting. ‘You sent this quaint little note?’
He plucked it from her fingers. ‘You’ve mangled the poor thing. Have you been poring over it all morning?’
Blast the man. It was close enough to the truth.
‘No, it is merely that I had to rescue it from the cat.’
‘I am sorry you had to fight over me.’
‘Over the address. There are a dozen St Georges in town and I forgot which one you mentioned. It would have been a little embarrassing to send a note to Sinclair House explaining the cat lunched on your note. I felt my pride was worth a few scratches.’
His black brows twitched together. ‘Then you are as foolishly stubborn as I suspected. You should be more careful. Did the cat really scratch you?’
She blinked at the transformation, hoping the heat she felt in her chest would not bloom into a blush. She hardly managed to make the transition from annoyance to humour and now he was undercutting her with utterly misplaced concern based on her nonsensical embellishment. She shook her head and hurried forward, trying to cling to what mattered.
<
br /> ‘Well?’ she asked. ‘Do you agree to help me?’
‘No.’
‘Oh. Then why are you here?’
‘Because two days ago I met a delusional young woman making outrageous claims about my father’s death. I told you I don’t like being coerced, managed, threatened or interfered with and this qualifies as most of the above. So I came here to say that should I find that you are making any enquiries that involve my family name I will stop you. Am I clear?’
‘You are many things, Lord Sinclair, not all of which can be spoken aloud in polite company. You don’t like being threatened? Well, neither do I. If you plan to stop me I suggest you begin today because aside from your delightful billet this morning I also received a request from Mrs Pendle. She assures me she is eager for another session with her dear departed and I invited her to Spinner Street tomorrow at five. So I give you fair warning I shall discuss whatever I see fit.’
She marched out of the cloistered entrance, angry with him, but far angrier with herself at the depth of her disappointment at his rejection. She had so been looking forward to sharing her thoughts with someone intelligent, and Lord Sinclair, though he might try a saint’s patience, was plainly intelligent and probably resourceful. For a moment the concern in his voice and the softening lines of his beautifully carved mouth had lulled her into believing he could be an ally.
Well, he wasn’t her ally. He was an arrogant, cloddish, opinionated...
‘Miss Silverdale! Olivia!’
Olivia froze halfway to the carriage where Nora was waiting. Of all the bad luck—the last person she expected to see in London was Henry Payton’s son, Colin.
‘Colin! I thought you were in Harrogate with your mother and Phoebe.’
‘I came to consult Mr Ratchett about the will and see about extending our mortgage. At least until probate is granted...’ His voice wavered and she reached out, briefly touching his sleeve. She knew Colin as well as her own brothers and she had never seen him so pale and beaten.