The Mysterious Miss Flint (Lost Ladies of London Book 1)

by Adele Clee

  No one had accused him of anything.

  The speech was merely another attempt to shift all blame. Wild probably poisoned himself to give him an excuse to be absent from the office. And in his ignorance, he added more of the herb or plant to the teapot than necessary.

  Oliver came to stand next to Nicole, so close that the warmth of her body penetrated his clothes. He felt oddly connected to her, in a way he could not define. Together, they were a formidable opponent.

  “Hand it over, Mr Wild. Else you leave me no option but to call the constable.”

  Mr Wild simply stared.

  Various questions flitted through Oliver’s mind. Was Wild guilty of fraud? Had Mr Burrows rushed to the solicitor’s residence to warn him that their game was up?

  He was contemplating the scenario when the soft pads of Nicole’s fingers brushed his palm. Her hand slipped into his, and she squeezed gently. It was a gesture of support, of solidarity, and he wrapped his fingers tightly around hers, determined never to let go.

  “I believe Lord Stanton has the measure of you.” She directed the comment to Wild though she gazed into Oliver’s eyes.

  “Indeed,” Oliver began. “When three people enter a partnership to commit a crime, one always confesses first in the hope of saving their neck from the noose.”

  Mr Wild’s mouth opened, but he failed to form a single word.

  “Matilda Murray,” Oliver continued, “or Miss Flint as you would have had us believe, has a conscience. Mr Burrows was too late when he came to warn you. We were already here. We know the necklace she claims was a gift from my father is just as fake as the woman herself. The document that supposedly conveys my father’s wishes was obtained fraudulently by Mr Burrows.”

  It was all supposition, yet it was the only logical explanation.

  Wild shook his head.

  The tension in the room was stifling.

  “Whatever your reason for acting as you did, you may as well tell the truth now.” Jameson came to stand at Mr Wild’s side. “We can no longer work together. Indeed, you will be lucky if Lord Stanton doesn’t have you transported. Do you know how hard it will be for a man of your age to live amongst thieves and brigands?”

  With a sudden surge of energy, Wild jumped to his feet. “Forgive me, my lord.” He clutched his hands together in prayer. “It was Mr Burrows who came up with the idea. He told me your father had employed Miss Flint as a companion to Lady Rose. That you’d have no interest in an asylum.”

  “And what of Rose? How did she factor into your plan?”

  Wild wrung his hands. “Once Miss Murray was named owner of the manor, she was going to embrace her role as your father’s mistress and send Lady Rose home.”

  Just thinking about it all made Oliver’s head hurt. But one thing was clear. The need for vengeance coursed through his veins. He hated being made to look a fool. More so, he hated that the beggars had tried to steal from Nicole.

  “Of course I have no interest in a bloody asylum,” he cried. “I would not have even known the place existed had Mr Andrews’ not confessed to seeing my father visit Mr Jameson.”

  And that was just what his father had wanted.

  It might have been months until Rose learnt of their father’s death. Perhaps his father had left Miss Flint the house in the hope Rose would turn her back on her wayward brother and continue to live there.

  “I can forgive any insults directed at me.” The need to protect Nicole burned brightly in his chest. “But I cannot forgive the way you have treated Miss Flint. After what she has suffered, she deserved to have a home to call her own. Not to have it snatched away so three rogues could profit.”

  Mr Jameson handed him the files. “I must bear some of the blame too, my lord. Had I been given the opportunity to discuss the matter with your father, I would have insisted he make his intentions clear. There is a vast difference between a mistress and a paid companion.”

  Nicole frowned. “But you had the opportunity, Mr Jameson. When we were in your office yesterday, you said the earl had made his intentions clear.”

  She had a point. Something about Mr Jameson’s comment bothered him, too. “Yes. Did you not say that my father discussed the provisions made for Miss Flint?”

  Were both men equally untrustworthy?

  “He … he did. But not to me directly. I was detained with Lord Trench, and so your father conveyed his wishes to Mr Wild. I dealt with the purchase of the manor, nothing more.”

  They all turned to the pale-faced solicitor.

  “So, you knew about the Benting file all along?” The blood rushed to Oliver’s face. He despised falsehoods. “Lies infect the soul, Mr Wild. They leave a bitter taste in one’s mouth that sweet words cannot eradicate.”

  Nicole stiffened at his side and sucked in a breath.

  No doubt she was tired of the games, impatient for answers. Greed had almost robbed her of her inheritance.

  “My father came to you in good faith,” Oliver continued, though he cared not that they’d deceived his father. “He confirmed what Burrows had told you about Miss Flint and so you sought to steal the house from under her nose.”

  Wild closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead. “We did not set out to steal from Miss Flint. She would never have known about the property.”

  The fragile thread holding Oliver’s temper in check finally snapped. “Good God, man. Can you not accept responsibility for this mess? Can you not at least offer Miss Flint an apology for your disgraceful conduct?”

  Nicole placed her hand on his sleeve. As always, her touch soothed him instantly.

  “And what brought you here this evening?” Nicole gestured to Mr Jameson. “You were obviously looking for the file that names me as the benefactor. But why? It is too late to cover your tracks.”

  Mr Wild’s eyes appeared to sink deeper into his skull. He looked at Oliver as though one word from his aristocratic lips would reduce him to a pile of ash.

  “I can’t … I …”

  With lightning speed, Nicole darted forward and snatched the document from Mr Wild’s hand. She ignored his gasps and groans and scanned it numerous times.

  “What is it?” Curiosity burned in Oliver’s chest.

  She turned to Mr Jameson, held her body straight though it took a few gulps of breath before she spoke. “It appears the Benting file is worthless. Mr Wild was returning the original document signed by the Earl of Stanton, and no doubt sought to destroy the counterfeit.”

  Oliver’s mind was a muddle of lies and untruths. “What are you saying?”

  With a weary sigh, she handed him the sheet of paper.

  His gaze fell to the bottom, to the seal pressed into the wax. Only then did he note the name scrawled in ink.

  “Is this true, Wild?” Bile bubbled in his stomach. His throat burned. He had promised Miss Flint the world and could give her nothing. “Answer me, man. Is it bloody well true?”

  Mr Wild had the decency to hang his head. “It … it is, my lord. Miss Flint was never the heir to Morton Manor. The house is yours by rights as per your father’s instructions. I switched the documents before Mr Jameson returned from his visit to Lord Trench.” Wild cleared his throat. “The … the only stipulation made by your father was that you were not to be told of the manor until two months after his death.”

  Oliver blinked away his surprise.

  So the bastard had hidden Rose away in a property Oliver might never have found had it not been for Mr Andrews’ foresight. She would have been discovered eventually, locked in an old asylum owned by her brother.

  And therein lay the cruellest trick of all.

  A revenge carefully plotted and planned.

  Guilt wrapped its thorny vines around his heart. It was not enough that he’d failed Rose. Now, Nicole’s dreams were in tatters, too.

  “I’m sorry.” The whispered words fell from his lips as their eyes met. “It was wrong of me to give you false hope. Wrong of me to force you back to Town on an empty promi
se.”

  Nicole smiled, albeit weakly. “You were not to know. Pay it no mind. I had nothing when I entered the manor.”

  Oh, his father’s withered soul would be feeding, gorging on his son’s disappointment.

  “God damn you, Wild. I’ll not forgive you for this.” Oliver’s hands throbbed. He wanted to punch the man until he begged for mercy, wanted to tear the office apart until left with a pile of rubble. He thrust the document at Mr Jameson. “You will act as my solicitor hence forth, though I’ll not deal with you if Mr Wild remains here.”

  “I cannot work with a man guilty of such duplicity,” Jameson replied.

  Relief flashed in Wild’s face. “You mean you’ll not call the constable?”

  Oliver wanted to see the man in chains. Thirty years transportation. He wanted to don a black cap and bring down the hammer.

  But what good would it do?

  The case would become public knowledge. Everyone would come to know that the Earl of Stanton had locked his daughter away in an asylum. No one would look at Rose in the same way again. The rumours would crush her. Ruin every hope she had of salvaging something of her reputation.

  If they ever found her.

  “Should I lay eyes on you again, Wild, you will feel the full force of my wrath.” Oliver stared down his nose at the ghost-like figure. Had the crooks achieved their goal, Oliver might never have known about the manor, might never have met Nicole. The thought caused a deep ache in his chest. “I suggest you speak to Mr Burrows and Miss Murray. Should I find either of them in Town come dawn on Monday, I will not be held responsible for my actions. Now get the hell out!”

  Shoulder’s hunched, Mr Wild scuttled from the room. They stood in silence until the bell jingled and the wooden door scraped the floor.

  Oliver dragged his hand down his face. He’d left London to escape his father’s meddling. The old man might as well be breathing for he could still wreak havoc from beyond the grave.

  “Do not torture yourself,” Nicole said. As always, she was able to read his thoughts. “There is nothing to be done. If you don’t mind, I would like to go home.” A faint groan left her lips, and she clutched her stomach. “Home,” she whispered almost to herself. “I meant I should like to return to Stanton House.”

  The truth was, she had no home.

  But what was he thinking? What use did he have for the manor? He was the blasted Earl of Stanton, not the runaway son.

  With renewed optimism, Oliver straightened. “Jameson, I want you to do something for me.”

  Mr Jameson inclined his head.

  “I want to sell Morton Manor.” He turned and stared into Nicole’s dazzling green eyes. “I want to sell the house to Miss Flint for …” It would need to be a paltry sum.

  “My lord,” she gasped. “As you know, I do not have the funds to make the purchase.”

  If she were not so independent minded, he would gift her the property. But the last thing he wanted was her to feel beholden to him.

  But what could she give him in exchange?

  A rogue would ask for her virtue. One night with Nicole was a treasure worth more than a king’s ransom. Tempting as the thought was, she was a woman who deserved respect not to be treated like a common harlot.

  Jameson cleared his throat. “But the manor comes with a thousand acres of arable land.”

  “It is of no consequence.” Money mattered not.

  He’d give everything he owned just to see her smile. The sudden urge to give her the world came upon him. A carriage, dresses by the cart load, trips to the Continent, were but a few of life’s pleasures he would send her way.

  “The price is a one-time offer,” he said as his gaze drifted over her. “The price is a lock of your hair.”

  Her eyes grew wide. “My hair?”

  Why he wanted it was a mystery. Yet he imagined keeping it in a gold case in his breast pocket. Imagined running his fingers through the soft strands when he needed comfort and she was not there.

  “Let us make the deal now.” He was eager to claim his prize. Eager to banish the sudden sense of loneliness all thoughts of her departure caused. “The deeds for Morton Manor in exchange for one silky, red curl.”

  She smiled and pulled a tendril of hair loose from her coiffure. “Very well.”

  Oliver turned to Jameson. “There must be a knife around here somewhere.”

  With a smirk on his face, Jameson rummaged through the top drawer in his desk and removed a pair of scissors. “They’re in need of sharpening, but they should suffice.” He came around the desk and handed them to Nicole.

  “Lord Stanton must make the cut.” She held out the glossy strand, and his hand shook as he took hold of the scissors.

  Good Lord, he was taking a sample of her hair, not her virginity. With as steady a hand as he could muster, Oliver snipped, happy in the knowledge that some part of her would always belong to him.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “Now you will always have a place to call home,” Oliver said as he gripped the lock of hair between his fingers. “The decision is made. Morton Manor is yours now, and no one can take it away from you.”

  A lump formed in Nicole’s throat.

  Jeremy would find a way to stake his claim. He’d made it his life’s mission to see her unhappy. But then it occurred to her that she could leave London come first light and then he’d have no hope of finding her.

  “Are you not pleased?” Oliver searched her face. Two lines formed between his brows. “Nicole, you’ve sacrificed six months of your life to care for my sister. The manor is a fitting reward for your love and loyalty.”

  “To have a home of my own … well, it’s just a little overwhelming.” A range of emotions filled her chest: gratitude, hope, and fear.

  Did it matter that her real name wasn’t on the deeds?

  Was she guilty of committing fraud, too?

  She should tell Oliver the truth.

  “Surely it is not as simple as swapping a lock of hair for a house and a thousand acres?” she said.

  There had to be more to the process than that. Would Mr Jameson not need to check parish records? Would someone other than the beautiful man she’d deceived need to verify her identity?

  “I shall deal with all the necessary legal proceedings which should take a week or so,” Mr Jameson said. “But it is just a formality.”

  There was still time, then. She would make her confession tonight. Besides, in all honesty, she could not accept the generous gift.

  After putting the scissors on Mr Jameson’s desk, Oliver removed his pocket watch, flipped open the gold lid and placed the small curl on top of the glass face. The care with which he carried out his ministrations touched her. It was as though she’d given him a rare diamond and he feared another man might come and steal the priceless jewel from under his nose.

  “It … it was a thoughtful thing for you to do.” Her heart was beating so fiercely she struggled to form a coherent word. Other than her parents, no one had treated her with such care and consideration. The selfless act meant more to her than he could ever comprehend.

  “There is no need to thank me.” He closed the lid on his watch and slipped it back into his pocket. “You came to London when it was the last place you wanted to be. And you deserve some form of recompense for the appalling way my father behaved.”

  Was that the only reason he had made the magnanimous gesture?

  “Still,” she swallowed deeply, “your gift is more than generous.”

  Their gazes locked.

  “I'm confident I am the one with the greater prize.” His blue eyes twinkled with the same seductive charm she had thought dangerous at their first meeting.

  And she had been right. Oliver Darby was dangerous.

  He had crept up on her unawares and captured her heart. Love, it seemed, was blind to a couple’s differences. Love did not play by the rules, did not follow convention.

  She swallowed down a gasp as recognition dawned.
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br />   Was love’s sacred flame alight in her breast?

  Was Oliver Darby the gentleman she’d been waiting for her whole life?

  He was the knight who’d rescued her from the prison tower and beaten her jailers. The one who’d burst into the theatre box and wrestled her from the clutches of Lord Mosgrove. The one who’d saved her from making a perilous journey north with nothing but the clothes on her back. He was the one who had given her a home.

  How could she not love him after that?

  And when Jeremy turned up to make his ridiculous demands, she would ask one more thing of him. Indeed, he had done so much for her, and yet she had not told him the truth.

  “I shall help you cover the hole in the window before we leave.” Oliver’s comment to Mr Jameson dragged Nicole from her reverie. “Thankfully, we only damaged one small pane in our effort to discover the truth.”

  Mr Jameson held up his hand. “Leave it to me, my lord. It’s late. Take Miss Flint home.”

  “Very well. I want the matter of Morton Manor dealt with promptly. Miss Flint must be free to return there whenever she wishes.”

  Nicole found Oliver’s determination highly attractive. And while love filled her chest, she could think of nothing other than showing her appreciation with a kiss.

  “Rest assured. The documents will be prepared and dealt with as a matter of urgency.”

  Oliver inclined his head. “Thank you, Jameson. And you’ll keep me informed as to Mr Wild’s plans once the partnership’s dissolved?”

  “Certainly, my lord.”

  As they rode in the carriage back to Stanton House, neither of them spoke. Oliver stared at the passing shops and houses, contemplating heaven knows what. Nicole desperately wanted to know what he was thinking.

  In the morning, she would leave for Morton Manor. To remain in London would be a mistake. And should Rose return to her former prison, someone needed to be there to greet her.

  Fleeting thoughts of Rose entered Nicole’s mind. Were they kindred spirits? Were they destined to live alone? Destined for a life marred by a ruined reputation and a lack of love.