by Cara Elliott
His son nodded solemnly. “Miss Sloane would be in great trouble if it became known that she helped us, wouldn’t she?”
“Yes. But that isn’t the only secret you must keep. You asked me to meet Lady Loose Screw,” continued John. “And I have.”
Olivia went very still.
“It is Miss Sloane who wrote those letters. She is your unknown correspondent.”
Silence. And then his son’s mouth quirked up at the corners. “Oh, I’ve known that for ages, Father.”
“But…” John straightened in surprise. “How?”
“Miss Caro—Miss Sloane’s sister—told me,” answered Prescott. “She explained that I must keep it a Very Private Secret, and be patient because there are always many daunting obstacles in the way of True Love.” A pause. “So I didn’t even tell Lucy.”
“I think that I shall lock away my sister’s books of romantic poetry,” murmured Olivia. “And throw away the key.”
“An excellent idea,” said John. “There is a very deep lake at Wrexham Manor. With lots of thick, slimy mud at its bottom.”
Prescott did not appear discouraged by the exchange. “Indeed, Miss Caro said her sister Anna, who is very knowledgeable about all things concerning romance, felt that the two of you were well suited and it was only a matter of time before you both came to realize it.”
“Forget the key. Is your lake big enough for two bodies?” inquired Olivia under her breath.
“So.” Prescott fixed them with a curious stare. “Have you found a path around the obstacles?”
John cleared his throat.
“It’s not that simple,” said Olivia very carefully.
“That’s what Lucy said when I first wrote the advertisement,” intoned his son. “She said marriage is very complicated for ladies and gentlemen of the aristocracy. They must marry for practical reasons and not for love.” He made a face. “I’m not sure I want to be an earl when I grow up if it means I have to live with a lady who wears a steel corset.”
“As I said, Lucy is a very wise little girl,” Olivia. “It is hard to explain but, well, things are not quite so black and white as she paints—”
Another cough, this one louder, cut her off.
“You need not worry about living within the strictures of a steel corset, Scottie,” said John. “After long deliberation, I have come to the conclusion that it would be wrong of me to make an offer to Lady Serena. Lucy is only partly right. Ladies and gentlemen of the ton do indeed have an number of practical reasons to consider when thinking of marriage.”
He looked at Olivia, trying to discern what spark of emotion might be hiding beneath the scrim of her lashes. “But that does not mean that the heart has no say in the matter. I do not love Lady Serena, and I don’t believe that she loves me. Mutual respect may be enough for many couples, however I have decided that I want to feel more than a lukewarm feeling for the lady I ask to be my bride.”
Prescott expelled an audible whoosh of relief.
Olivia’s reaction was impossible to gauge.
That, John decided, was an obstacle to hurdle at a later time. For now, it was probably best to simply deal with the immediate ruts in the road.
“Speaking of Wrexham Manor,” he said, after taking a long moment to pour himself another cup of coffee. “Unless the two of you are too exhausted to travel, I should like to leave for Shropshire within the hour.”
The announcement drew an enthusiastic endorsement from his son. “That’s a thumping good idea, Father! I want Lucy to see my eye before it fades to boring black.”
“Yes, an excellent suggestion,” agreed Olivia. “But won’t logistics present a problem now that there are three of us?”
“I’ve arranged a way around that,” answered John. “Lord Lumley will not be needing a wheeled vehicle for the next journey he will be taking.” He quickly explained the reasoning behind his decision, feeling it important that his son understand why justice had to take a roundabout route.
“So we will make use of the viscount’s coach to return to the Manor,” he finished. “The innkeeper has agreed to lend us a stablehand to drive us, and I will send Wilkins back with him to retrieve the cabriolet.”
“Ah.” Olivia traced a pattern of small squares on the waxed wood tabletop. “It seems you are already thinking three moves ahead of me.”
Strategy. John wished he felt confident about his plan of attack for the coming days. There were still too many pieces on the board to know how this particular chess game would play out.
Chapter Twenty-Five
The trip back to Shropshire was a good deal more comfortable than the helter-pelter dash in pursuit of the villains, mused Olivia as she tucked the carriage blanket around her feet and snuggled back against the borrowed coach’s plush leather squabs.
Padded seats, protection from the elements—and sleep, blessed sleep! Though pressing the pace, John was allowing them more than a few snatched hours of rest at night. To avoid scandal, he was still traveling as a mere “mister” rather than the Earl of Wrexham. But Lumley’s innkeeper, ever anxious for whatever goodwill he could buy, had been happy to augment their dwindling purse, so the lodgings had been comfortable, even though they had deliberately avoided the fanciest establishments along the way.
“We should be home before dusk,” said John, looking up from teaching Prescott the fundamentals of chess on his travel set. The carnelian pawn had been found lodged between the floorboards, undamaged save for a tiny chip on its rounded helmet.
A battle scar was a mark of valor, John had announced, dismissing the suggestion of purchasing a new set.
“I shall not be unhappy to see the last of the coach, comfortable as it is,” she replied.
As to what would come next…
Olivia watched Prescott consider the board and then carefully move his knight. He appeared unmarked by his ordeal, she noted, offering up a silent prayer of thanks for the resilience of youth. Indeed, he had been more angry at having his London interlude with Lucy interrupted than frightened, for he had never doubted that his father would rescue him.
“Have a care, Scottie,” murmured John, gesturing at the chessboard. “You must look carefully at the dangers, even when they are not staring you right in the face.”
“Oh.” The lad studied the positions of his father’s forces and then nodded. “Your knight is poised to attack my rook.”
“Precisely.”
Prescott made a face. “Chess is complicated.”
So is life, mused Olivia with an inward sigh. The earl’s announcement of his intentions regarding Lady Serena Wells had occupied her thoughts for much of the journey.
John doesn’t love the Steel Corset.
A flutter, soft as the beating of butterfly wings, started to rise from the depth of her ribcage. But a ruthless slap of reason sent it plummeting back down into the darkness. That the lady wasn’t going to marry him was neither here nor there.
For neither am I.
Olivia recalled her response to his proposal with piercing clarity. Even now, the force with which she had uttered the word “NO” made her wince. What man in his right mind would ask again? John could rightfully feel that honor had been satisfied and turn his attention elsewhere.
Rejection, as she knew all too well, was painful.
She turned her gaze to the mullioned window, where a passing shower was pattering the glass with rain. Rat-tat-tat—the staccato sounds echoed her own unsettled mood.
Rejection. Yes, the past was a painful memory. For years, she had refused to admit just how much her erstwhile lover’s abandonment had hurt. Devoting her passions to abstract ideas rather emotions seemed oh-so-much safer. She had been determined never to let love anywhere near her heart again…
“A penny for your thoughts,” murmured John.
Looking around, she replied lightly, “They aren’t worth a farthing.”
He smiled, but a pinch of concern seemed to linger between his brows. “On the cont
rary, they are always of value to me.”
Olivia watched a flicker of light from the carriage lamp dance along the sensuous curl of his mouth. What a fool she had been to blithely believe that the head was so much smarter than the heart. Too late—she had realized too late that she loved him.
Now it mattered naught.
“You’ve far more important things to occupy your mind. The parliamentary debate is only several days away.” He would make it in time to give his speech, but only by the breadth of a hair.
That left no margin to moon about love, and her regrets for keeping it at arm’s length.
“Whatever the ultimate outcome of the vote, your speech shall show that the voice of Reason and Right cannot be silenced by threats and intimidation. That in itself is a victory.”
“I shall do my best to rise to the occasion,” said John quietly. “I am very aware of being naught but the messenger. The message comes from…” He hesitated, darting sidelong glance at his son. “…From a far more powerful force than me alone.”
“Yes, there is an army of learned philosophers from both the past and the present whose ideas on justice have served as inspiration.” The coach swerved sharply, and Olivia used the sudden play of shadows to shift her gaze back to the shades of drizzled gray outside the windowpanes.
John seemed just as willing to let the subject drop. Turning his attention back to Prescott and the chessboard, he placed the lad’s rook back in its previous position.
“I shall allow you to replay your move, Scottie. Look carefully and see if you can spot the other dangers lurking close by…”
Yes, I must keep my eyes open, too, mused Olivia. Her own errant moves on the checkered tiles could not be reshuffled, so going forward, she must be extra vigilant about guarding her emotions.
“Thank God you are all safe!” Cecilia enfolded Prescott in a fierce hug as he clamored down from the coach. “I can’t tell you what a relief it was to receive your note in yesterday’s mail assuring me that all was well,” she went on, looking up at John with a radiant smile. “Of course, I am now agog to hear what happened.”
He descended the iron rung steps and turned to assist Olivia. “And so you shall. But let us do it over tea and sustenance, if you please. We’ve not been traveling quite as swiftly as the Royal Mail, but I daresay we are all feeling a bit tired and bruised from the rigors of the road.”
“Of course—”
“Look, look! I’ve got another shiner, Aunt Cici,” piped up Prescott. “And Miss Sloane assures me it’s even more gruesome than the first one.” He swiveled his chin to give her a better view of the mottled purples. “I can’t wait to show it to Lucy.”
“You look truly awful,” agreed Cecilia. “And as for Lucy, her father and I thought it best that she remain here at the Manor until you arrived and assured us that the dangers were truly over. So you are in luck—”
“Scottie!” Lucy’s excited shout interrupted the explanation. A moment later, she came bolting out of the manor’s main entrance, trailed by the earl’s huffing and puffing valet.
“Hold yer horses, Missy!” he bellowed. “That’s no way te greet His Lordship—”
“At ease, Withers,” called John watching his son race to meet his best friend. “I think in this instance we may dispense with formalities.”
“Yes, sir!” The burly former batman slid to a halt and snapped a smart salute.
“And Withers…” Prescott and Lucy’s animated voices rose above the helter-pelter flapping of skirts and shirttails. “From now on, try to loosen up a little—there’s no need to wear a steel corset.”
“Corset?” The valet blinked. “Yes, sir!—Er, no, sir!”
Cecilia raised a brow but refrained from comment. Turning away, she linked arms with Olivia. “Please come this way, Miss Sloane. We’ll leave the Scottie to regale Lucy with the tale of his adventure, but I’m sure you would welcome the chance to sit on a seat that isn’t bouncing and partake of some refreshments.”
“Thank you.”
“You, too, John. For of course, I am dying to hear the full story of Scottie’s rescue.”
“Of course,” he murmured, though there would be some judicious editing of the parts pertaining…to personal matters.
Once they were settled on the facing drawing room sofas, Cecilia went through the ritual of pouring tea and passing fresh-baked pastries as she listened to his report.
“Good heavens, how very brave and resourceful of you, Miss Sloane!” she exclaimed after he recounted the part about Olivia knocking Lumley unconscious with sling and stone. “I cannot thank you enough for all your help—without your courage and cleverness from the very beginning, Scottie might well still be in the clutches of those dastards.”
“Anyone in my position would have done the same,” murmured Olivia.
“Indeed they would not.”
John picked up where he had left off, yet he couldn’t help but note that a strange tension seemed to be tightening its grip on his sister. As she shifted against the sofa pillows, her expression turned more and more distracted. On her plate, the sultana muffin was now reduced to naught but a pile of buttery crumbs.
He paused in explaining his punishment of Lumley and took a sip of his tea. “Before I go on, Cecilia, has something occurred here at the Manor that I ought to be aware of?”
“As a matter of fact, yes,” answered his sister. “And as I was informed that the matter was urgent, I feel ought to tell you of it without further delay.” With an audible sigh, she put aside her plate. “There is a letter for you in your study. It was delivered yesterday by one of Lord Seabury’s servants.”
Lady Serena’s uncle. John felt his chest constrict.
Without a word, he rose. “Please excuse me.”
The thud of his boots on the parquet floor of the hallway seemed to ring with a foreboding echo, and the rasp of the door hinges swinging open took on a sinister growl. Entering his study, he slowly crossed the carpet and took a seat at his desk.
Centered on the leather blotter sat the missive, stark white against the dark leather.
What the devil could it hold?
Had he been recognized on the road? Was malicious gossip already making the rounds about his traveling with Olivia? Was Seabury now demanding a formal declaration to quash any rumors that might tarnish his relative’s sterling reputation?
John stared for a moment longer, then steeled his nerve. No matter what is inside, I will stick to my guns, he vowed. No cajoling, no threats would force him to alter his decision. His love for Olivia was all that mattered.
Taking up his letter opener, he slowly broke the wax wafer.
The paper crackled…there were actually two sealed messages inside the outer wrapping. One was addressed to him in a light feminine hand, the other in Seabury’s bold scrawl.
“In for a penny, in for a pound,” he muttered, making himself open Lady Serena’s note first.
It was brief and took less than a minute to read.
After a small shake to clear his head, he read it again.
The words did not alter on the third time around. “Hell’s holy bells.” And with that, John let out a peal of laughter.
Cecilia waited until he was gone from the room to explain. “Lord Seabury is Lady Serena Wells’s uncle. She is…well…
“I know who she is,” said Olivia, putting a quick end to Cecilia’s embarrassment. “She is Wrexham’s intended bride.”
His sister made a face. “Apparently there is no formal agreement between them, but John seems to have some misplaced sense of honor about it. I do hope he comes to his senses, for it is clear to me that the lady in question would not make him happy.”
“No?” Olivia felt it was not her place to respond with anything more. The earl had changed his mind once. Perhaps he might do so again.
“No indeed,” said Cecilia decisively. “His show of steely reserve is naught but a suit of armor to protect…” She hesitated. “To protect a yearning t
hat I don’t think even he dares to admit.”
Olivia longed to ask what yearning, but she swallowed the urge along with a sip of her now-tepid tea.
Cecilia rearranged the silverware next to the tea tray. Twice. “May I ask you a question, Miss Sloane?”
A reluctant nod.
“Do you love my brother?”
Yes or no?
“Yes,” admitted Olivia, feeling that John’s sister deserved nothing less than complete honesty. “But in truth it doesn’t matter. He offered marriage, but as the circumstances were somewhat tenuous, I turned him down flat.”
“My brother is too experienced a soldier to be daunted by a small setback,” replied Cecilia thoughtfully. She drummed her fingertips together. “And if he is, then he doesn’t deserve you.”
“I…” What to say?
“Leave it to me,” began Cecilia.
“Oh, you mustn’t—”
“Ha, my brother is not the only one who possesses some skill in battlefield strategy.” She winked. “And I have a feeling that he is more than willing to surrender.”
Crouching low, Prescott peeked through the slivered crack. “Hurry,” he mouthed, gesturing to Lucy to come join him in the shadows behind the half-open drawing room door.
Together, they inched a little closer to the decorative molding.
“That,” whispered Prescott, “is Lady Loose Screw.”
Lucy studied Olivia with a critical squint. “Hmmm. She doesn’t look like her corset stays are made out of steel.”
“No, no—she’s as flexible as one of the acrobats at Astley’s,” assured Prescott.
“Hmmm.” Lucy cocked an ear and listened for a long moment. “I like her laugh.”
“So do I,” said Prescott.
“She has mud on her boots—that’s promising.” A note of skepticism still shaded the little girl’s voice. “Do you think she can toss a stone through the hoop hanging in the oak tree?”
“Ha! Better than that—she can knock a villain flat on his arse with a stone from a sling.
At that, Lucy looked duly impressed. “Well in that case, she sounds excellent.”