by Candace Camp
“You see?” Brookman asked somewhat plaintively. “She’s not here. Now, if you were to give me back my property, I might—”
“I’ll put the bloody thing in your casket with you if you don’t tell me where Vivian is right now!” Oliver roared, doubling his fist.
“Oliver!” Gregory, who had wandered over to the bed, bent down and picked up something. “Look at this.” He held out a strand of fiber. “Doesn’t this look like a bit of rope?”
“Really, gentlemen, this is beyond everything!” Brookman began, then jumped at the sound of a sharp bark behind him.
“Pirate, hush!” Camellia said automatically.
Oliver, however, swung around and looked at the dog. Pirate was standing facing a blank wall across from the bed. His rear end was wriggling, his stump of a tail wagging. He let out another bark or two before he trotted over to the wall and sat down in front of it, lifting a paw to scratch at the wall.
“Here.” Oliver all but threw Brookman to Gregory and strode over to where the dog sat.
The other three watched Oliver as he rapped his knuckles against the wall in several spots, then ran his fingers lightly over it. “There’s a crack here. I think this wall is hollow.” He swung back to Brookman. “There’s a hidden space here, isn’t there? Open it.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Oliver turned to Camellia. “Did you happen to bring your knife this time as well?”
Camellia reached into her pocket and wordlessly extended the knife in its scabbard. Oliver took it, whipping out the small but lethal-looking weapon from its case. Striding over to Brookman, he took him from Gregory’s grasp and shoved him hard against the wall, twisting his arm painfully up behind his back to hold the man still.
“Now.” Oliver’s voice was emotionless and implacable. He raised the knife, laying the point just beneath the other man’s eye. “Tell me where the catch is to open that hidden door, or I am going to take you to pieces, bit by bit, starting with your eyes.”
Brookman began to tremble so hard that the point of the knife pierced his skin a little and blood began to trickle down his cheek. “B-behind the wardrobe. Waist high. There’s an indention; just stick your finger in it and pull.”
Oliver released him and returned to the wall, where Pirate sat patiently, reaching up now and then to scratch at the plaster. Oliver slid his hand behind the wardrobe until he found the indention, then pulled. A lever popped out, and a section of the wall opened. Vivian lay on her side in the narrow room, her hands and feet bound. Another small section of rope, obviously cut, lay on the floor beside her, along with a hatpin.
“Vivian!” Oliver went down on one knee beside her limp form, lifting her up. “Wake up. My love, are you—”
She turned her head, her eyes still closed, and let out a little sigh. A red, abraded spot was on the side of her face that had been turned away from them. It was already beginning to swell. Higher up, beside her temple, was another reddened swelling.
Oliver whipped his head around, murder in his eyes. “You hit her!”
“No! No!” Brookman gibbered, cringing away as far as he could with Gregory’s hand clamped around his arm. “It wasn’t me! It was Kilbothan!”
“Oliver?” Vivian murmured.
He turned back. Vivian’s eyes fluttered open.
“Oliver!” she said again, and smiled faintly. “You found me.”
“Of course I found you. Did you think I wouldn’t?”
“I was a bit worried.”
His laugh was shaky. “It’s all right now. You’re safe.” He bent to press his lips to her forehead and murmured, “I’ll take you home, love.”
Chapter 23
Vivian leaned closer to the mirror above her vanity table, turning her head for the best view of her bruises. As bruises went, she thought, they were magnificent. A bluish purple stain spread across her cheekbone, with a distinct line of dark purple beneath her eye. The bruise at her temple reached down so that the two almost met, giving it the look of one continuous mark. All around the bruise and down that side of her face almost to her jawline, her skin was swollen, giving her a faintly lopsided look.
She looked, she thought, as if she had been in a mill. Of course, she supposed that she had been. She poked tentatively at the bruise and was rewarded with a twinge of pain. Not as sensitive as it had been yesterday morning, however, so there was hope.
The bruise gave her an eminently reasonable excuse for not going to Admiral and Lady Wendover’s ball tonight. No one would expect one of the leading beauties of the ton to appear at a major function looking as if she had gone a few rounds at Gentleman Jackson’s Boxing Saloon. It had also given her a perfect reason for staying in her room and not going down to greet Oliver when he came to call yesterday and today. She could not, she told herself, bear to let the man she loved see her like this.
But that, she knew, was not the real reason she wouldn’t see Oliver—or, rather, like one of those intricate puzzle boxes, the true cause of her discomfort and confusion was hidden within that reason. She could not bear to face Oliver because he was the man she loved. For days she had been tiptoeing around the idea, her mind skittering away from the truth whenever her emotions brought it to the forefront. But the other night, when Oliver had pulled her out of the dreadful little closet, when he had wrapped his arms around her and told her she was safe, all her defenses had simply melted away. Her whole being had been filled with love.
It had been wonderful. There was no denying that. She had lain in a blissful daze in his arms as they drove home. Snuggled against his chest, his strength and warmth all around her, the rumble of his voice beneath her ear, the steady beat of his heart, she had known that he did not need to take her anywhere. She was already home.
However, the next morning, when she woke up, she had realized how dreadful her situation really was. Far more painful than her bruises was the knowledge that she loved a man who did not love her—who would never love her. Oh, yes, he had called her “love” when he discovered her—and he had proven more than once that he desired her. But a careless word spoken in the heat of the moment was not a true indicator of his feelings. And passion was not the same thing as love.
Vivian was not the sort of woman with whom Oliver would fall in love. She was flighty, impulsive, rebellious, careless of others’ opinions of her, and given to thoughts and behaviors that went against what was accepted. In short, she was the opposite of Oliver. While she might have fallen in love with Oliver despite all those things, Oliver was far too reasonable and practical a man to make the same mistake.
He wanted a woman who matched him in outlook, taste, and intellect. He had told her so. A sedate and settled woman—tactful and modest, with a firm moral sense. Definitely not someone whom he regarded as a hoyden—and who had proven the instability of her moral fiber by entering into an affair. It wouldn’t matter that the affair had been with Oliver himself or that she could not now imagine doing such a thing with anyone but him. Men, in her experience, did not think that way, especially someone as staid as the Earl of Stewkesbury.
The sad truth was that Vivian did not know what to do or what to say to Oliver. How could she see him, knowing how she felt about him, and not give herself away? How could she continue in this affair, loving him without being loved in return? She had set out the rules, had blithely been sure she was uninterested in love or marriage. She had insisted on an affair without entanglements.
Now she wanted to break all those rules. She didn’t want to see him whenever they could manage it without anyone’s knowing. She didn’t want to pretend in public that they were simply friends, with nothing romantic between them. She wanted to be with him all the time, to see him at the breakfast table, to feel him lying beside her in bed at night, to laugh and talk and share their lives. She wanted, in short, to be married to him.
It was impossible. Unthinkable. Vivian knew that. But it was also unthinkable to simply keep on with their affai
r, knowing how everything had changed. Neither could she bear the thought of cutting herself loose from him, ending their affair and not seeing him again. Every avenue that presented itself to her led only to heartbreak. So she had simply refused to face it, taking to her bed and telling the maid that she did not feel well enough to see Lord Stewkesbury.
It had been cowardly, and it had made her so lonely that she had wound up crying into her pillow anyway, which was, she told herself, unbearably foolish.
It was also cowardly, she knew, to use her bruises as an excuse for avoiding gossip. But she was doing that as well. She had realized yesterday that no one had called upon her all day long except for Oliver, Eve, and Camellia. It was most unusual, especially given that her disappearance at the Cumbertons’ party had been announced to one and all by Dora Parkington. Vivian would have expected to have had several gossip-loving women of her acquaintance dropping in to find out exactly what had happened.
Since they hadn’t, she concluded it must mean that she had finally done something so outrageous that she was in disgrace with the beau monde. It had taken some doing, but she had wormed the truth out of Eve and Cam today when they came to visit her again. Vivian’s escapade had become a major scandal. Not only had Vivian left the party alone in the company of a man, but she had also spent a good part of the evening alone in the man’s living quarters. Worst of all, that man was not even a gentleman, but a person engaged in trade.
“The vultures!” Camellia had exclaimed, her cheeks flushed with anger. “I told them that you had been abducted! It wasn’t as if you’d chosen to do it. And Lady Penhurst said that only made it worse, that you wouldn’t have gotten into the situation if you weren’t always putting yourself into precarious situations.”
“I suppose she’s right about that,” Vivian had said with a shrug and a smile. “What can one do? That’s the way people are.”
Inside, however, she could not feel quite so unaffected by the matter. Vivian had flouted convention for years, and she had never gotten into serious trouble for it. She supposed that she had come to feel that she could do what she wanted with impunity. She had shrugged off Oliver’s warnings of what could happen, believing him to be too fussy, too staid. But he had been right. Vivian had finally gone beyond the bounds of what the ton would accept, even if she was a duke’s daughter.
She could not help but wonder what would have happened if she had gone to the Wendover ball tonight. There would have been talk, of course—a great deal of it. She would have had to face down whispers and sideways glances and looks of barely contained glee from those who had long wished to see Lady Vivian finally get her comeuppance. Was it possible that she might even be given the cut direct?
It was a sobering thought. If someone had told Vivian a few days ago that this would happen, she would have laughed and said it didn’t matter. But it did matter. She would not enjoy being ostracized by her peers. Lady Kitty’s fate would not be one she looked forward to. She liked the whirl of parties and dinners and social calls. She loved to dance, to wear beautiful clothes and jewels. She enjoyed the way she lived. It was more than a little frightening to think of losing it.
Perhaps she should have been more careful. Perhaps she should—
Vivian stopped and looked at her image in the mirror. What was she thinking? Yes, perhaps she should have been more careful—not only about the stolen jewels, but also with her heart. But did she really regret what she had done? Should she not have looked for the jewel thieves? Did she wish she had not fallen in love with Oliver?
Of course not. It might cause her more pain than she had ever before experienced, but she would not have given up what had happened with her and Oliver for any amount of peace. Nor would she have refused to help Lady Kitty, either that first day or the other night. Maybe she should have been more careful, but she had helped expose a ring of thieves and a murderer. Wasn’t that more important than being whispered about?
And what, she asked herself, was she doing sitting here hiding from those who were attacking her? If they wanted to say something about her, then let them say it to her face. If she was going to lose out on love, she was certainly not about to just surrender.
Squaring her shoulders, Vivian considered her somewhat battered image in the mirror. She had never backed down from a fight before, and she wasn’t about to start now. Jumping up, she strode over to the bellpull and rang for her maid.
When the girl came rushing in a few minutes later, Vivian had already discarded her dressing gown and was brushing out her hair. “Get out a dress for me, Sally. I am going to a party.”
Camellia circled the floor in Gregory’s arms. She loved dancing as long as Gregory was her partner. Parties, too, were much more enjoyable when he was there. She smiled up at him, then felt a little guilty about her own happiness.
“I’m sorry Vivian isn’t here,” she said. “Is she feeling any better?”
“I think so. Her bruises look worse, but she assured me that she was not in as much pain. I was actually a bit surprised she didn’t insist on accompanying me tonight. She hates to miss a ball.”
“It might be because everyone’s being so hateful about what she did.” Camellia cast a dark glance around the room. “I nearly told Lady Kirkpatrick to shut up tonight when she said something about Vivian, but Eve pinched my arm, so I didn’t.” Camellia grinned as she went on, “Then Eve delivered a perfectly acidic comment about something in Lady Kirkpatrick’s past. I didn’t understand what it was, precisely, but it certainly made Lady Kirkpatrick go quiet.”
Gregory chuckled. “Good for her.”
“I hate it. People are being so unfair to Vivian.”
“You’re a loyal friend.” He smiled down at her. “But don’t worry. Once she’s back to herself, Vivian will take care of them. I’ve never known her to be bested by anyone yet. You’ll see. Pretty soon, they’ll be eating out of her hand again.”
The music wound to a close, and they started off the floor. Gregory led Camellia toward the door. “I have something I wanted to say to you.”
Camellia glanced at him, surprised. “All right.”
“Alone.” They emerged in the hallway, and he glanced around before whisking Camellia down the corridor. He caught sight of the library and smiled. “Ah, here’s the perfect place.”
“The perfect place for what?” Camellia asked as she followed him into the room.
“We first met in the library at the Carrs’.”
“I remember.” She grinned. “When you tried to pretend you weren’t an almost-duke.”
“I didn’t,” he protested, then saw the smile on her face and relaxed. “All right. I admit that I am an almost-duke. And as such, it’s quite important, you know, for me to have an almost-duchess.”
Camellia frowned, pulling her hand from his. “What do you mean? What are you saying? You—you need to find a proper girl to marry?”
“I’ve already found her.” He reached out and took her hand back. “I know I’m probably speaking much too soon, and you don’t have to give me a definite answer if you’d rather not. I just want to know if there’s a hope, if there’s any possibility that one day you could see your way to . . . that is to say, that you might consider my suit.” Camellia stared at him, and a blush started in his cheeks. “I know I’ve rushed this. But I—I have no idea if you like me at all, at least in that way.”
“In what way?” Camellia looked at him intently. “Gregory, what are you saying?”
“I’m asking you to marry me.” He waited, his face tense, watching hers.
“Gregory! Are you serious? But . . . but . . . you haven’t thought! I’m not right for a duchess.”
“You’re right for my duchess.”
“But—I don’t know how to do any of those things I’d be supposed to. I’d be sure to say or do something wrong. You know I would.”
“I don’t do any of the things a duke is supposed to,” he pointed out. “And it doesn’t matter if you get the precedence
wrong at a dinner party or talk to someone that a duchess would ignore. I don’t care about any of those things. All that matters, all I care about, is how you feel about me. Because, you see, I’m frightfully in love with you. I don’t want to think about what my life would be without you. So if you aren’t sure, then just don’t say no, please. If you think you could get used to the idea or grow to like me, I can wait, and we can have this conversation another time. You see—”
Camellia let out a laugh and threw her arms around Gregory’s neck. “Oh, Gregory, sometimes you offer entirely too many options. I’m not the sort of girl to wait and think, you know. I know how I feel. Yes, I’ll marry you. I love you.”
“Really?” He looked at her in delighted amazement. “Because I think I’ve loved you from the first moment I saw you.”
“I can’t say that. But I knew I loved you that night you walked me over to see Cosmo, when I told you what I was doing—and you didn’t try to dissuade me or tell me that I was rash or making a mistake or any of those things that people always say. You just said all right. And walked along with me. And I knew that you were the first man who’d seen me for what I was—and still liked me.”
“I can’t imagine seeing you for what you are and not liking you. Not loving you.” Gregory looped his arms loosely around her waist.
“You see? You’re doing it again.” Camellia smiled and went up on her toes to kiss him.
Some moments later they pulled apart, startled by the sound of footsteps running down the hall. They half-turned toward the doorway as a girl darted into the room. Her face was red, her eyes bright with anger.