Six Degrees of Scandal

by Caroline Linden

  He blinked rapidly. “I am sorry I was unable to oblige you, Mrs. Townsend, but my predecessor—”

  “Yes, Mr. Charters.” Olivia resumed her seat without waiting for an invitation. Armand remained on his feet a moment, hovering in indecision, before he closed the door, cutting off the smirking clerk’s observation. He strode around his desk to take his chair.

  “I understand Mr. Charters was the soul of discretion.”

  “He was,” said Armand at once.

  “Utterly devoted to his clients’ interest, of course.”

  “Of course. But Mrs. Townsend—”

  “And you lied to me yesterday.” Olivia smiled pleasantly at him. Her heart was pounding. She had practiced this speech during her walk from the coast, and so far, to her astonishment and delight, Armand was reacting exactly as Jamie had predicted. It sparked confidence in her breast, even though she still had doubts everything would work.

  At her accusation, Armand’s face filled with indignation. “You are upset and overwrought. Allow me—”

  She held up one hand. “You told me you burned everything belonging to my husband. We both know you would never do such a thing.”

  His mouth sagged open. “I assure you, I did,” he blustered, recovering.

  Olivia leaned forward slightly. “Did you? I think not, sir. I think you would never destroy anything so valuable and profitable.” Mr. Armand’s expression went blank. Olivia straightened, making herself smooth her skirt as if she hadn’t a care in the world. “I made an error yesterday in not presuming you were fully apprised of my husband’s enterprise. On the chance you truly had no knowledge, I thought it would be best not to reveal it. But on reflection . . .” She smiled. “On reflection I realized your position. Of course you wouldn’t assume the practice of another attorney without learning everything about it. And for that reason, I am quite certain you would never have burned all of Henry’s papers. Some, perhaps . . . but not all.”

  Armand gazed fixedly at her. “Be sensible, Mrs. Townsend. I told you I had burned your late husband’s papers because Mr. Charters requested it and Mr. Townsend agreed that it should be done.”

  Olivia returned his steady stare. “That would be a great pity, as I had hoped it would aid me in contacting Henry’s associates who were so vital to his business.”

  She held her breath, even though everything had gone very well so far. Jamie believed Armand wouldn’t have burned everything, either because he wanted to prove he had nothing to do with smuggling . . . or because he knew all about it and wished to conceal it, even participate in it. It had been her own idea to lead Armand into believing she wished to continue Henry’s smuggling operations. If Armand only wanted to prove himself innocent, there was little chance he would hand over the papers no matter what she said or did. Jamie had suggested they could break into his office and steal them, but Olivia thought he was joking about that—probably.

  Now that the scales had fallen from her eyes, though, Olivia doubted very much that Mr. Armand hadn’t known what Mr. Charters was up to; she wouldn’t be surprised if the smuggling had been a chief attraction. Jamie was right: “free trading” had been a very lucrative endeavor since long before the war, and some of it still went on. And if Mr. Armand knew about it, and had been drawn to this practice because Mr. Charters had established a reputation for being friendly to free traders, then he wouldn’t burn Henry’s papers, and he would quite possibly leap at the opportunity to profit from it some more.

  Mr. Armand’s face was a stony mask. Olivia just waited, a faint smile on her lips. He was likely following the same lines of thought she was. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

  She lowered her voice. “No? No doubt it won’t surprise you to hear that my husband did not leave a fortune. I’m tired of scrimping on my widow’s portion. Mr. Townsend left behind something far more valuable, though, and it would benefit more than myself if I were to . . . revive the operation.”

  The corners of his mouth twitched. “How do you propose to do that?”

  Too late Olivia realized the flaw in her plan. If Jamie was correct, Henry had been the man in the middle, neither choosing nor receiving illicit goods. For her to run things as he had done, she would have to say she had interested buyers standing by. Unless Jamie wanted to pose as one, she had nothing. “Perhaps reviving the entire business is overdoing it a bit,” she said, improvising wildly. “I should have been more specific. It had come to my attention that some of his clients were unpleasantly surprised by his death. At their direction, Henry laid plans to obtain what they sought, plans which were some time in the making and which required great delicacy of maneuvering. One gentleman in particular had arranged for a very specific piece to be located and delivered. Sadly dear Henry caught an inflammation in his lungs and passed away quite suddenly, but he had set in motion the efforts to secure this gentleman’s object. I believe his associates were so efficient, they most likely procured it and brought it to England, only to find that Henry had died and was unable to complete the transaction. No doubt it has been gathering dust since then, and I intend to deliver it and keep my husband’s promises.”

  Olivia didn’t even feel that she lied. Henry had been in the prime of life, only troubled by an affection for drink. His death had been swift and unexpected. He had surely run his smuggling ring right until the end, and that meant items would quite likely have been in transit when he died. Everything Jamie posited made perfect sense.

  Slowly Armand leaned back. His expression didn’t change, but Olivia could sense the calculation behind his steady gaze. “It’s been a long time since your husband’s death, madam.”

  “It has been,” she agreed. “You must understand that this gentleman was quite naturally reluctant to approach me on the matter.”

  “Naturally,” he repeated dryly. “But I’ve already told you, madam, I burned those papers—”

  Olivia wanted to throw something at him. She was sure he was lying. “I see. I had hoped you might have retained some part of them, as insurance if nothing else.” That shot hit home, she could tell. “However, if you’ve truly burned everything and my husband’s entire network is indeed lost, there is nothing that can be done.” She started to rise, then inspiration struck. “I shall have to tell the gentleman in question that you destroyed any information that might have led to recovering his object. He may wish to speak to you himself to be certain of the matter. For your own sake, Mr. Armand, deal cautiously with his lordship. He’s not the sort who likes to be denied or disappointed.”

  “What—I can do nothing, Mrs. Townsend!” Armand rose as she did. No longer patronizing and superior, now he sounded far more reasonable. “There is no reason you should give my name to this man.”

  “No, you don’t understand,” she said with all honesty. “I promised him I would do everything possible to find what he sought—I believe he advanced Henry a large sum of money, in anticipation of the difficulty there might be in acquiring it—but your actions have ruined that hope. I really wish you hadn’t done it.” She spoke with Lord Clary in mind. If there were any way she could divert Clary’s fury onto Armand, she wouldn’t mind doing it. If only her conflict with the viscount weren’t so disturbingly personal.

  Armand sighed. Now he was not just reasonable, but supplicating. “Mrs. Townsend, you must see that won’t do any good. I cannot help him. I burned everything!”

  “Did you?” She gave him a wry little smile. “The trouble is, Mr. Armand, I don’t quite believe you. But either way, you have prevented me from keeping my promise. I’m not going to bear the brunt of his lordship’s temper alone. You can simply explain to him that due to you, he has lost his item as well as the money he paid to procure it. Not that he wants the money, when there’s a very real chance his main desire was actually obtained and merely needs to be located.”

  The solicitor’s eyes darkened and for a moment, Olivia feared she’d gone too far. If he really had burned Henry’s papers, he had nothing
to give her, and she might have made yet another enemy. Mr. Armand leaned forward, bracing his arms on his desk. “Mrs. Townsend,” he said in a very low voice, “I am not involved in any of that. Nor will I be. If I am able to locate any part of Mr. Townsend’s papers, will that satisfy you?”

  She wanted to blurt out yes and demand the papers on the spot. Instead she heard Jamie’s voice inside her head: Ask for more. “Perhaps. If they contain enough information for me to locate this item.”

  “I can’t warrant anything . . .”

  Olivia sighed. “If you give me everything—everything—related to my husband, I will give my word not to mention your name, regardless of the intelligence in the papers. But if I doubt you’ve provided all of it . . .” She lifted one shoulder. “Please don’t lie to me again, Mr. Armand.”

  Armand’s eyes were bleak. He was caught and he knew it. He might not fully believe her threats, but he’d given away his knowledge of and complicity in hiding Henry’s smuggling ring. “I am loath to break a confidence.”

  She smiled gently, in victory. “But you’re not. My husband left me everything”—which was close to nothing—“and you are merely transferring your duty to him, to me.”

  “It will require some effort to locate any papers I may have . . .”

  “I’ll come for them first thing tomorrow morning.”

  Armand looked frustrated. “There is also an outstanding balance, if we’re to completely settle Mr. Townsend’s accounts.”

  “Very well.” Olivia drew on her gloves. “I’ll settle it for fifty pounds.”

  “One hundred seventy is owed.”

  “I’ll pay one hundred and not a penny more. You would have found me far more accommodating yesterday. Until tomorrow, sir.” She walked out without waiting for him to say another word. The sullen clerk was just scrambling back onto his stool, no doubt having been plastered against the door eavesdropping. Olivia beamed at him, too. “I expect to find my husband’s papers neatly boxed and ready by tomorrow morning. I’m sure you know precisely where they are.”

  The clerk scowled as Mr. Armand appeared in the doorway. “Do as she asks, Tompkins,” the solicitor said in a flat voice. “Good day, Mrs. Townsend.”

  Olivia gave him another sparkling smile as she let herself out. Jamie had said he’d meet her along the road to the cottage, near where she’d attacked him last night. She spent several minutes savoring how pleased he would be when he heard how well it had gone. She didn’t have the papers yet, it was true, but Armand had admitted he had some. She said a brief and desperate prayer that they contained something, anything, useful. It would be the ultimate insult if Henry had directed his solicitor to save bills of sale or mundane letters while burning the truly important information.

  She barely felt the cold outside, though the wind tugged at her cloak. It was tempting to skip and clap her hands with glee. For too long she’d had no choice but to accept what people—men—told her. Today she’d finally made her own demands and won her point. She wasn’t a natural liar, and it would probably take hours for her hands to stop shaking, but it felt powerfully good to emerge victorious for once instead of frustrated and anxious.

  On impulse she decided to stop at the baker’s. She had promised one hundred pounds to Armand tomorrow, but that left her almost eighty pounds of the money she’d borrowed from Penelope. She did blush a little over the thought that Jamie would probably insist on paying from now on; all the Westons were like that. But the memory of Jamie toasting bread over the fire for her filled her with warmth. The least she could do was provide him some decent food. She slipped into the shop and inspected the tray of savory pies. Or perhaps she should get some beef fillets, or a ham.

  The door opened behind her. “Have you got mincemeat pie?” demanded a male voice, just as the woman behind the counter asked, “What will you have, ma’am?”

  Olivia barely heard. That man’s voice was familiar. She dared a brief glance around the brim of her bonnet and almost forgot to breathe. It was Lord Clary’s manservant. He’d delivered notes from his master a few times. She remembered him, tall and fair and nearly as arrogant as his employer, waiting in her landlady’s tidy sitting room while she scrabbled for an answer to Clary’s latest demand.

  “Ma’am?” said the woman again, jolting her.

  “This, please,” she said softly, pointing to a loaf at random. It would seem odd to do anything else. Olivia said a desperate prayer that Clary’s man didn’t remember her face or voice very well, or that he was too occupied in ordering his pie from the baker, who’d come around the counter to serve him personally. Somehow she managed to count out the coins for her bread and exit the shop, trying to keep her head averted at all times. The man paid her no mind other than to move aside as she pushed open the door, and then she was outside again, already chilled before the wind hit her.

  Clary must be here. Nearby, at the very least. He could be sitting in a carriage across the street while his servant bought food. The thought made her chest seize. Her breath wheezed, and her hands shook. She wanted to look but couldn’t raise her gaze from the ground in front of her.

  Walk, she commanded herself. Jamie was waiting for her just outside of town—at her insistence, stupid as she was. Mechanically she forced herself to move along at a normal pace. She tugged the collar of her cloak higher around her cheeks and ducked her head, a perfectly normal action to take given the wind. But the pounding of her heart drowned out the sound of her own footsteps until she could imagine Clary creeping up behind her and snatching her off her feet, bundling her into his carriage and driving off so that no one would ever find her. And her nerves were wound so tightly, there was a good chance she’d simply faint away and not be able to put up a fight at all.

  The gatekeeper’s house seemed ten miles away now. She kept her cloak held close around her, the cursed loaf of bread squashed under her arm. Her eyes flitted anxiously from side to side. Where was Jamie? He’d said he had errands to do. What if he was late? What if Clary had already discovered her cottage? Perhaps she shouldn’t go back there at all . . . except that all her money and Henry’s damned book were there. She had to go back.

  By the time she reached the agreed-upon meeting point, she felt numb. Simply putting one foot in front of the other was as much as she could manage, and when Jamie stepped out from around the corner, she jumped in fright.

  “There you are.” He took one look at her face and his expression sharpened. “What happened?” he demanded.

  Her throat worked, but her lips barely moved. “Cl-Cl-Clary,” she stuttered.

  Jamie seized her and yanked her off the path, into the shelter of the hedgerow and out of view of anyone coming from Gravesend. It felt almost warm here, with the thick vegetation at her back blocking the wind and Jamie’s hands chafing her arms through her cloak. “Did you see him?” he asked urgently. “Did he see you?”

  She shook her head. Beneath her cloak she still clutched the loaf, which somehow restored her. As horribly frightened as she’d been, she hadn’t completely fallen to pieces. “His man,” she said, her voice ragged. “In the bakery.” She held up the bread, which he ignored.

  Jamie’s fingers dug into her elbows. “Olivia, did he recognize you?”

  Gradually her senses were functioning again. “I don’t know. I don’t think so. He came in and asked about mincemeat pies, and I left as quickly as I could, keeping my head down.”

  For a moment he seemed frozen, then with a start he released her and stepped back. “Right. We need to hurry. Is there another path to the cottage?”

  “Along the shore, but no one uses it in winter, according to Mrs. Mason, who owns it.”

  “Because it’s impassable or because it’s cold?”

  “Both.”

  “Good.” He had unwound the muffler from around his neck, and now he looped it around hers, tucking in the ends under her collar. “We’re going to the cottage and collecting everything of yours. I don’t want anything left to hin
t that you were ever there. But we must move fast. Can you do it, or shall you stay here and I go?”

  The thought of waiting here alone while Clary drew near almost made her heart stop. “I can go.” She met his gaze and nodded. “I can.”

  Without another word he started off toward the shore, setting a pace she could barely keep up with. Olivia didn’t complain. Even faster than her steps, her heart seemed to drum a quick march: Hurry hurry hurry. As they went, Jamie’s head swiveled from left to right and back again. He was plotting any places to hide or alternate routes away from the cottage, she realized, because Clary could be driving down the lane behind them. If the viscount began asking questions in Gravesend, it surely wouldn’t take long for him to hear word of a dark-haired woman from out of town, suddenly arrived and alone. In fact, he’d probably hear what her mission was, for she’d had to make inquiries to find Mr. Armand.

  Armand. Her heart leapt into her throat at the thought of Clary going to the solicitor before tomorrow morning. If Clary got his hands on Henry’s papers—and somehow Olivia thought Mr. Armand was much more likely to give them to Clary than to her—she would never solve the riddle Henry had left. Even worse, Clary might be able to find whatever it was he wanted before she could.

  Her thoughts stuck on that idea. If Clary found it, would he just disappear? Jamie said Lord Atherton was pressing for Clary to be arrested for what he did to Penelope, which meant the viscount couldn’t simply go home. If Olivia found herself in his position, she’d collect as much money as she could and flee.

  Her mouth twisted bitterly; that was essentially what she had done. And now she was running harder and faster than ever. If only Clary would do the same, in the opposite direction. If he did, after all, she could stop running . . .

  But Lord Clary had not shown himself to be the sort of man who let things go. Deep down Olivia was dreadfully certain he would keep pursuing her even if he located the most priceless work of art Henry had ever smuggled. She had refused him and thwarted him for months, and he would want revenge.