by Amy Corwin
Mr. Greenfield nodded. The sympathetic, thoughtful frown on his face and soft expression in his pale blue eyes were obviously meant to reassure her, to convince her to confide in him. But he was slowly and cunningly leading her into a trap.
She could sense the noose dangling in front of her, just waiting for her to slip her head through it.
“How do you suppose he got that note?” He carefully tucked the paper back into his black notebook.
She watched him with a growing sense of desperation. “I have no idea.” A sharp pain behind her right eye jolted her. She started to raise her hand to rub her temple again before she caught Mr. Greenfield’s gaze. She clasped her hands together. “I started that note, as I indicated, and left it on my writing desk.” She gestured at the desk again. “As I stated.”
“When was that?” Mr. Greenfield asked.
“Several days ago.”
His cold blue eyes sharpened. “How long ago? Do you remember?”
“I — I believe I started the list Monday. That would have been the eleventh, would it not?” She glanced at Lord Milbourn.
He nodded, but he offered her no assistance. She could read nothing from his bland expression.
“Then you have no explanation for the presence of your note in Mr. Grantham’s pocket?” Mr. Greenfield’s question could not hide the implication that she had sent that note to Grantham to arrange a meeting with him.
“It certainly appears, sir, as if the poor man got that note all unsuspecting and met someone in that office,” Constable Cooke interjected his opinion, watching Olivia all the while with a knowing grin. “He must have forgot himself, them being alone and all. And that unknown person hit him on the head with that marble statue. And when she saw what happened, she shoved him into that cupboard, along with the weapon, before she was interrupted by her brother. Or some such.” He rocked back on his heels and then forward again to his toes, hands clasped behind his back. “And she never noticed she left her shoeprints in his blood, fresh blood, mind you, as was still flowing as it were. Or that her note was still in his pocket.”
“Thank you, Constable Cooke,” Mr. Greenfield said, never glancing at his associate. “The circumstances are indeed clear to see. Now, the note, Lady Olivia? Have you an explanation?”
“I cannot enlighten you, Mr. Greenfield,” she replied coolly. “I imagine anyone could have picked it up from my desk after I wrote it Monday morning.” She smiled at him. “It complicates matters, of course, and inquiries will have to be made. I am sorry I can’t offer more assistance.”
“Did you have a great many visitors Monday and Tuesday, Lady Olivia?” Mr. Greenfield persisted.
“There are always a great many visitors when we are in town, Mr. Greenfield. You might ask our butler, Latimore, for a list. If he remembers.”
“How many guests would you have entertained those days?” Once again, Mr. Greenfield seemed intent on maneuvering her into a corner.
She lifted one hand in a vague gesture. “A few, certainly. We generally use this drawing room. However, anyone may have come up here — visitors often enjoy coming up to the second floor to admire the paintings along the gallery, even briefly while waiting to be announced. Anyone could have come in here and seen the note. I am afraid it may not be easy to trace the path that missive took on its way to Mr. Grantham’s pocket.”
Mr. Greenfield studied her for a minute before opening his little book to write something in pencil on one of the pages. “Did any of your visitors have any reason to harm Mr. Grantham?”
“I am unware of any reason to harm Mr. Grantham. None of us argued with him. He has long been a friend of our family,” she stated firmly, feeling more confident. They couldn’t possibly think she had a reason to murder such an old and dear friend. The idea was ludicrous, and once they interviewed other members of the family and servants, they would understand just how ridiculous their suspicions were.
At least, she hoped so.
Her thoughts fluttered around the image of Mr. Underwood again. Apparently, he’d had reason to be upset with Mr. Grantham. Had Edward already spoken to Mr. Greenfield about it? Should she say anything?
No. Best to let her brother handle that matter. She didn’t know the context or content of the discussion between Mr. Underwood and Edward, so she couldn’t really give them a full report, only her impressions.
Mr. Greenfield’s thoughtful expression suggested he was unconvinced. “You had no argument with him?”
“No,” Olivia replied impatiently. “As I stated, I had absolutely no reason to wish him ill. No one in this family had any reason to have wanted such a terrible thing to befall him.” She stood. When Lord Milbourn followed suit, she nodded at the corner of the room. “Would you be so good as to ring for Latimore, Lord Milbourn? I believe we have answered all of Mr. Greenfield’s questions, have we not?” She stared at him, daring him to disagree.
“Very good, my lady.” Mr. Greenfield tucked his notebook back into his pocket and bowed. “Any additional information we require may be obtained at the inquest. Thank you for your patience with us, Lady Olivia. We are in your debt.” He bowed again and began the process of backing out.
Latimore arrived so quickly that Olivia suspected he had been waiting nearby in the gallery. He waved for Constable Cooke and Mr. Greenfield to precede him down the hallway, clearly determined to keep both men under his keen scrutiny.
Their footsteps had barely faded when Lord Milbourn returned to stand in front of the fireplace. A small frown creased his dark eyebrows. “You did not indicate you were in such a difficult position, Lady Olivia.”
She flushed and looked back at the open door. She didn’t need him to bring the awkwardness of her position to her attention. She couldn’t have been more uncomfortably aware of it than she already was.
Chapter Six
Before Olivia could reply to Lord Milbourn’s comment about her awkward position with regards to Mr. Grantham’s murder, Latimore returned. He cleared his throat gently in the doorway and waited for Olivia to notice him.
Unfortunately, the woman following him was far too impatient to wait to be announced. She breezed past him, saying as she entered, “That will be all, Latimore. No need for introductions.”
Oh, no, not Cynthia Denholm! I cannot manage — I can’t talk to her — not right now. Olivia felt the strong urge to break into tears and run from the room. There was only so much bracing encouragement she could tolerate.
While Olivia and Cynthia had been friends since they were old enough to slip out of their leading strings and escape from their hapless nannies, Cynthia had always been, to put it mildly, overwhelming.
And she had grown from an energetic child into an impressive woman. At six feet tall, she towered over most men. She was broad-shouldered and strapping enough to be mistaken from the back for a healthy lad if her skirts were hidden and she was only seen from the waist up. From the front, her well-endowed figure was the epitome of the Amazonian warrior women. All she needed was a bow and quiver of arrows slung over her muscular shoulder.
When Cynthia took a deep breath and opened her mouth, Olivia quivered and prepared for the worst. From experience, she knew that Cynthia’s booming voice could be heard quite clearly from the street outside, no matter which floor she occupied.
Nonetheless, it was difficult not to like her. She was so cheerful, and her florid, round face, with its snapping blue eyes and red cheeks matching her flaming hair, were vibrantly attractive. It was just that her boisterous manner simply crushed any quieter personages nearby, and today, Olivia felt very quiet.
“Lady Olivia, Miss Denholm,” Latimore intoned from the doorway, refusing to concede control until he had completed his duty.
Cynthia threw her head back and barked out a laugh that hurt Olivia’s ears. “Oh, Latimore, as if Lady Olivia does not know me. At ease, man, and be gone. We will rub along well enough without you.” She laughed again and shook her head at Latimore’s pained expression.
“That is all, Latimore,” Olivia said. “You may go.”
When she glanced again at Cynthia, her friend was staring at Lord Milbourn with an avid, hungry look on her face. Cynthia’s plump, red lips hung open, and her eyes glittered as if she were contemplating a particularly scrumptious cake.
“So.” Cynthia chewed her lower lip and stepped closer to Lord Milbourn. Her gaze traveled from his smart boots up to his well-tailored jacket. “Where were you, Lady Olivia? I went to the school, and it was locked up tighter than a nunnery at night. Must not be late, eh? Not on the first day. Though I cannot complain if you have used the time to recruit Lord Milbourn.” She stepped forward as if to give him a playful hit on the shoulder, but he managed to sidestep her and ease behind the couch Olivia had previously occupied.
When he glanced at her, his face wore a lopsided grin.
Olivia clasped her hands together in front of her to keep from throwing the small china shepherdess sitting on the occasional table next to her at Cynthia to draw her attention.
“Lord Milbourn is not one of our teachers,” Olivia stated firmly.
Cynthia frowned. “Well, that is too bad, is it not? Might have managed to attract a few more students.” She waved a hand, dismissing the topic. “Too bad, really, but we must make do. Come on, then. There is still time for our first session.”
“First session?” Olivia gaped at her. “Have you not heard?”
“Heard?” Cynthia frowned, her ginger brows jutting out over her blue eyes. Her plump red lower lip thrust out in a near pout, preparing to quiver at the first sign of cruel disappointment. “Heard what?”
“Why…?” Olivia stumbled to a halt and glanced at Lord Milbourn.
He shrugged unhelpfully, his dark eyes glinting with sardonic amusement.
“Well?” Cynthia prompted. “Surely it is not this murder nonsense.”
A stifled snort came from the direction of Lord Milbourn.
Olivia frowned at him, but his bland expression didn’t help in the least. “A man was killed at the academy,” Olivia said.
“They don’t usually leave them lying about forever — I’m sure his body has been removed by now.” Cynthia glanced in the direction of the door with impatience. “And bloodstains don’t worry me.” She laughed. “Might add a few drops ourselves.”
Olivia looked at Lord Milbourn, feeling overwhelmed at the thought of conducting lessons now, after everything that had happened.
He merely shrugged and smiled cruelly.
“It would not be right to continue with fencing lessons at this point,” she objected lamely, unable to think of a better excuse for avoiding the academy.
Apparently, Cynthia couldn’t understand the sheer horror of returning to the place where Olivia had found a good family friend murdered.
Her last view of Mr. Grantham returned unbidden. She shivered, the musty smell of the old building laced with the sharp, metallic scent of blood caught at the back of her throat. She remembered her last view of him, his body, slumped in the corner of the wardrobe with the marble cherub peering up at her from his shoulder, and his blood leaking onto the worn, dusty floor. And her small footsteps tracking across the floorboards from the crimson puddle.
Her stomach clenched at the thought of returning to her office.
Cynthia guffawed. “What is it? Public opinion? Don’t give in, my dear Lady Olivia. What does public opinion matter? One must be above such things. Ignore it,” she advised in a loud, bracing voice. “Get on with it, post haste. It is the only thing to do.”
“But the authorities,” Olivia said, trying one last objection to Cynthia’s determination to receive her first fencing lesson at the agreed upon time and place. “They may not wish to have us there. After all, the inquest is tomorrow.” One last notion struck her, and she flung it at Cynthia. “And the place has yet to be properly cleaned. I was going to send Mary to clean —”
“Dust?” Cynthia threw her head back and laughed loudly enough to interrupt Olivia and make her wince as the windows behind her rattled. “Come now, Lady Olivia. We have an agreement, do we not? Time for my first lesson, and proprieties be damned. If I were interested in such paltry things, I would never have subscribed to your academy in the first place.” Her bright blue eyes flicked from Olivia to Lord Milbourn and back to Olivia, daring her to offer any further objections.
“Very well,” Lady Olivia said, surrendering to her friend’s overwhelming force. She straightened her slumped shoulders, exhausted but determined not to give in to her desire to run upstairs to her bedchamber, lock the door, and crawl into bed. “Will you join us, Lord Milbourn?”
He nodded, his dark eyes glinting with amusement. “Of course, mi niña bonita. I would not miss this for the world.”
Chapter Seven
Alexander Bron, the Baron Milbourn, cast quick glances at Lady Olivia’s pale face as they threaded their way through the crowded streets. He found it difficult to see her as anything other than the awkward young girl of eighteen she’d been when he first saw her, hanging about the doorway as he attempted to teach her even younger brothers the rudiments of fencing, the dance of death.
Her brothers had found it amusing to include her in the lessons, expecting her to give up after the first grueling hour. She had not, and Alex had found it much less diverting when he saw the innocent devotion glowing plainly in her wide gray eyes each time she glanced at him. It was inappropriate, and she was the daughter of an earl. At the time, he’d been poor and had no expectation of inheriting a title, so he could not expect her parents to be pleased.
They didn’t seem to object however, even when he was sure they knew she was more fascinated by the teacher than with fencing. All he could do was keep her at a distance and hope she would grow bored. However, she didn’t, and she certainly tried valiantly enough to learn the art. But her heart was too soft for the sport. She had no instinct to discover an opponent’s vulnerability and exploit it, and ultimately, he feared she would only be harmed.
Thankfully, the lessons had ended, and she had gone out of his life like the glow of a candle blown out on a dark night.
That she was still unmarried at eight-and-twenty and still stubbornly pursuing the art of fencing only proved that his initial fears about her had been correct. She should have outgrown her puppy love for him, should have found a worthy man, married, and had a passel of children clinging to her skirts instead of a pack of dogs, no matter how beguiling the dogs were.
And now, his failure to exclude her all those years ago, or put an end to her interest in fencing, had exposed her to murder. While her position as the older sister of an earl offered some degree of protection, it was clear to him that it would not grant her complete impunity from prosecution if the evidence were strong enough.
At the moment, the evidence appeared very strong, indeed.
The faint, worried V between her brows and dark shadows under her eyes showed that she was as aware of this vulnerability as he was. Whether she meant to send it to him or not, her note to him also betrayed her fears. She would never have written to him otherwise.
However, while any man would be flattered to receive her missive, it only rubbed salt into the old wound that should have healed by now. She needed to find another man to champion her. Not him.
Never him. He might be a baron, but he wasn’t the man for her.
And yet, he couldn’t find it within himself to ignore her plea for aid. Nor could he ignore the fact that Greenfield, while appearing to be intelligent enough, seemed interested only in scraping together enough evidence to furnish a higher court with reason to prosecute her for the murder of Grantham. Greenfield had closed his mind to other possibilities.
That was clearly unacceptable, and regardless of his feelings in the matter, Alexander could not let that happen t
o Lady Olivia.
Miss Denholm set a cruel pace, and they soon arrived at the townhouse in Cavendish Square. He halted for a moment, contemplating the desolate, abandoned air of the Georgian building. Two of the shutters on the second floor were hanging loosely, their top hinges no longer supporting their weight. Alexander’s gaze followed the roofline, which sagged toward the middle and appeared almost crushed between the two taller building on either side of it.
While the Earl of Wraysbury would never allow his sister to use a building that was unsafe, and therefore the bowed look of the roof must be an illusion created by its position between two taller structures, Alexander was uneasy. He saw a building that needed a great deal of maintenance, not to mention several quarts of paint.
Lady Olivia deserved something better than this wreck.
“This is your academy, mi niña bonita?” he asked.
Already on the stoop, Lady Olivia fumbled with the large brass key. The lock protested with a rusty squeak before finally grinding open. She pushed the door inward before finally glancing over her shoulder at him.
“Yes. This is the Fencing Academy for Ladies.” Her footsteps on the marble entryway crunched from the sand and debris filming the pale stone. She held the door and waved Miss Denholm and Alexander inside.
“It could do with a bit of dusting, eh, Lady Olivia?” Miss Denholm cast an avid glance around, walking past Lady Olivia to the staircase.
“Yes. I believe I mentioned that,” Lady Olivia answered with a grimace.
Miss Denholm placed one stout half-boot on the bottom step and stared up at the first floor landing. “Well, you will get it straightened out eventually, and it does not bother me. Where do you hold lessons?”
“The ballroom.” Lady Olivia cast an uncertain glance at Alexander, her forehead wrinkled and her eyes shadowed in the dim hallway. “That is the largest room. And there are mirrors to check your form.”