Colin didn’t offer a clarification. Instead, he flipped the paper over for a second or two, then back again. Finally, he lifted the magnifying glass again and slowly followed the edges of the document, then moved in to the lettering, tracing each one attentively.
Moments later he straightened once more and tossed the counterfeit license of marriage on top of his own pile of paperwork. “I’d have to see a recent signature from Edmund to know if he actually signed this. But aside from that, this document is real, and it’s been altered, making it a forgery, and a very expensive one. Of that I’m sure.”
Silence prevailed for a second or two, then Sam said thoughtfully, “Meaning someone spent a lot of money to enact this scam. Do you know anyone who could do this kind of work?”
“Personally?” Colin frowned, shaking his head. “No, not offhand. But I’ll think on it, check with some of my contacts if you’d like. It might take some time.”
Unfortunately, time was a luxury Sam was afraid he might not have. He ran his fingers roughly through his hair. “Do what you can. It might help.”
“So,” Sir Walter chimed in, turning his back on them and rounding the desk to stare out the window, hands clasped behind him, “are they not married, then? Or would it still be a legal marriage if done in the eyes of the Church, regardless of the signed document? I would think so.”
Sam’s stomach suddenly clenched uncomfortably; it had been the one question he’d been hesitating to ask.
Colin thought about that for a moment. “I think so, too, but it would depend upon who performed the ceremony. The name on this document means nothing.” He leaned forward to read the license. “Jean-Pierre Savant. I’m sure that’s a very common name in France, and it could be entirely made up.”
“Or it could be legitimate,” Sam argued.
“Yes,” Colin agreed. “And if the signature is that of a man of the cloth, ordained to perform marriages, then I’d have to say they’re legally wed, regardless of the document, at least in the eyes of the Church. And remember, witnesses always count.”
“But we must keep in mind,” Sir Walter said, turning back to consider them, “that actors and even witnesses can be purchased. If she is married to Edmund, even if only in the eyes of the Church, her money is his. He’s not then guilty of anything but abandonment.”
Sam groaned, once more rubbing his eyes. “Which would leave her my responsibility.”
Sir Walter let out a long, loud breath and shoved his hands in his pockets. “Probably. At least until an annulment is secured. Does she have family?”
Sam shook his head. “I’ve no idea. But I suppose the bright side is that she has no children from the union.”
“You can’t be sure of that,” Colin remarked softly.
Sam thought about that for a moment. Then, turning away from the desk, he strode toward the fireplace, his gaze falling on the burning embers. “I just don’t think so. She never mentioned a child, which would be the ultimate argument for my help, financial or otherwise.” He shook his head minutely and clasped his hands behind his back. “I don’t know how long they were married before he allegedly left, but if she had a child, I think she’d tell me for nothing more than just the sympathy.” He paused, then added, “And she’s also very… trim.”
“Trim,” Colin repeated almost pensively. “And spectacularly shapely, I should add.”
Sam ignored that, closing his eyes briefly to chastise himself. He shouldn’t have mentioned her figure. Her appearance was irrelevant as far as he was concerned. Or at least it should be.
With a deep inhale, he turned to face his friends once more, with stately bearing, his expression grave. “As I see it, gentlemen,” he speculated, “there are two possibilities here. She’s either telling the truth—as far as she knows it—and my brother married her under false pretenses and absconded with her… perfume fortune. Or she’s lying and has come here to extort part of my fortune. Now, if she’s actually telling the truth, and if Edmund actually took her money, they are either married or they are not. Either way, if she is being truthful about Edmund, then she probably believes they are. The only other scenario is that she and Edmund are in this together, in which case I could become the ultimate fool.” Though the thought made him almost physically ill, he also noted that he lacked any real surprise. Edmund’s manipulations had stopped shocking him years ago.
Sir Walter cleared his throat. “Well, to err on the side of caution is the prudent thing to do, of course. Until you understand the situation better, get to know her better, you can’t trust anything more than what she tells you, and only take that at face value.”
Sam nodded in complete agreement. The last thing he intended to do as far as Lady Olivia was concerned was to show her his hand, regardless of whether he bluffed.
“Want me to make a copy of the marriage document?” Colin offered, interrupting his thoughts.
“Can you do it quickly?” he asked, walking toward the two men again.
Colin lifted the forgery and gazed at it once more, front and back. “I suppose I can have a good copy done for you in a day or two.”
“That will do,” Sam said with appreciation. “I’ll invite her to dinner or some such thing in a few days. That should give her time to wonder what I’m doing about her announcement.”
“You don’t trust her at all, do you,” Colin stated rather than asked.
“Not for a minute,” he returned at once, “and for other reasons besides the fact that she’s a Frenchwoman.” Pacing in front of the desk, he noted for the first time that Colin had his study walls recently papered in a god-awful shade of brown. Not that it mattered. “Think of it this way,” he continued, his voice direct as his impressions of the situation began to solidify. “If she’s sincere, and truly believes she’s legally married, I have the upper hand with the knowledge that she’s been duped by my brother. If she’s not sincere, she’ll be forced to wonder how much I believe of her story, and whether I trust her or anything she says.”
“She’ll likely wonder that anyway,” Sir Walter remarked.
“True,” he acknowledged. He stopped pacing and gazed out the window to his left. “Which means my plan must be better than hers.”
“What plan?” Then Colin sighed, leaning back heavily in his chair, lacing his fingers together behind his head. “Tell me you’re not going to France.”
“No, I am going to France.”
“With her?”
Sam almost laughed at the priceless look of shock, even subtle envy, that Colin gave him.
“Of course.” He leaned over his friend’s desk, placing his palms flat on the scattering of paperwork. “Frankly, I don’t care who she is—if she’s only naive or lying with pleasure, or whether she’s working with Edmund or looking for him as she says. I want to find my brother—”
“And Claudette?”
Sam immediately stood erect, his gut burning again with a displaced anger and resentment he’d tried to hide for years.
“If she’s with him, perhaps.”
“For revenge,” Colin bluntly said for him.
“To set things straight,” he murmured in quick response, explaining nothing.
Colin slowly shook his head. Then sitting forward, forearms resting on the cluttered desktop, fingers interlocking, he gazed up at Sam’s face, his tone underscored with warning. “Nothing has changed in all the years he’s been gone. You know why he left, and although this beauty, who claims to be his wife, is part French—”
“And part English,” he cut in.
Colin blinked innocently. “Now you’re defending her?”
Sam didn’t know whether to be angry or grateful to Colin for helping him keep things in perspective. “I know what I’m doing.”
“Well then,” Sir Walter added, rubbing his palms along his wide chest, “I’d be careful if I were you. From what you’ve described of the Lady Olivia, she doesn’t strike me as a woman to be undermined. Especially if she’s toying with you.”<
br />
Sam nodded once, acknowledging the older man’s advice with an uncomfortable sense of foreboding.
“So you’d use her for revenge,” Colin maintained wryly.
Sam said nothing for a moment, then harshly whispered, “Opportunity.”
The rain suddenly intensified again, pelting the large window behind the desk, interrupting their discourse with a reminder of outside realities.
Colin stood and stretched. “Let’s eat, gentlemen. I’ve got a new cook and he’s marvelous with a hen.”
Back to realities indeed. “As are you, my friend.”
Sir Walter snickered; Colin laughed outright. “And yet you seem to attract the ones of exceptional beauty.”
“Who never belong to me,” he quickly countered.
“There’s always Edna Swan…”
He didn’t like that option, either.
Chapter 4
Olivia knocked impatiently on the front door of number 2 Parson’s Street, invitation in hand. She wasn’t certain if this was the Duke of Durham’s residence or only that of a friend with whom the man stayed while in the city. She’d learned from Lady Abethnot that the man spent most of the year secluded in his Cornish estate near Penzance. But he’d asked her here for dinner, in a hastily written note, to discuss their “mutual predicament”—whatever that was—and she had quickly consented to the summons. If dinner was to be served, all the better.
Her first impression of the outside of this rather large stone town house was one of amazement that a person could fairly “hide” a home of this size and elegant beauty in the middle of a busy city street. Granted, whoever owned the property lived in a very good neighborhood, but its deceptive appearance was no doubt caused by the manner in which the house stood back, well shaded by trees and sculpted shrubs that lined the cobblestone walkway from the edge of the drive, where she’d stepped from the cushioned coach he’d sent for her, to the gas-lighted entry way. The scents of spring were in the air, insects buzzing at the coming twilight, and she breathed deeply of the gentle fragrance of a wide variety of roses mixed with juniper and a tinge of leftover rainfall. Such intoxicating and refreshing scents would normally instill a moment of calm—if not for her extreme nervousness at seeing him again.
The door opened at that precise moment, startling her from her attempt at relaxing thoughts. She straightened her spine instinctively to acknowledge the butler, dressed formally in black on white, but before she could utter a sound or offer him her invitation, the man gave her a slight bow.
“Lady Olivia,” he said with wide, thick lips that hardly moved. “His grace is waiting for you in the dining room.”
“Thank you,” she replied, walking into the town house as he stepped aside for her.
She wore no shawl, as the day had been quite warm, and so she handed him only her bonnet, then smoothed wayward strands of hair into the uptwisted curls loosely piled atop her head.
“This way, if you please,” directed the butler, who still offered her no name of his own, as he turned and began to lead her down a dimly lit corridor.
Olivia didn’t hesitate; she wasn’t afraid in the least. Beside herself with nerves, perhaps, but definitely not afraid. She raised her chin, straightened her shoulders, and walked with confidence across a dark marble floor, expensive and covered with forest green and burgundy colored Persian rugs. The inside of the house awed her even more than the outside, decorated in various hues of gold, red, and bronze and containing a wealth, it seemed, of imported furniture and accessories, its style distinctively masculine. If there’s one thing she knew already about the Duke of Durham, it was that he had exquisite taste and plenty of money—or his friends did. He smelled good, too, even without cologne, something she’d never considered about a man before. Every man she’d ever known had worn cologne, including Edmund.
She shook herself of such ridiculous thoughts. Why on earth she thought of the way he smelled at a time like this was beyond her imagination. Tonight she needed, above all things, to remain focused.
With her stolen company funds and the precarious future of Nivan front and center in her mind, Olivia immediately forced herself to concentrate on the meeting ahead as she walked into the dining room. The aroma of oranges and roasted game struck her at once, as did the pleasing atmosphere of thick burgundy carpet, painted walls of teal and brown, polished furniture in dark cherry wood, and the warmth of a slow burning fire.
Then she noticed him, and her heart actually skipped a beat or two—before it began to race with a tinge of discomfiture and a flair of uncertainty.
Focus, focus, focus.
The Duke of Durham stood next to the grate, one elbow of his very tall frame resting on the thick, oak mantel, holding a half-filled glass of amber liquid between his long fingers, the other hand in the pocket of his trousers, which managed to push his frock coat away from his body. Her gaze naturally fell there first, to his expensive, white silk shirt pulled tautly over a strong, broad chest. His clothes—black over white—were expertly tailored to fit his unusually large body, his cravat the only piece of color to adorn him in a shade of emerald green, and of course everything he wore only spoke of quality. She now knew to expect nothing less from this man, and for the first time she began to wonder why Edmund felt the need to go to great lengths to steal her fortune when his brother had such a good one of his own. Then again, maybe that was just precisely why.
At last she glanced to his face, and thoughts of her husband instantly vanished. Although he looked like Edmund in mere physical appearance, the Duke of Durham was nothing like his brother in expression or bearing. Where Edmund was jovial and friendly, this man exuded power and intensity, a force to be regarded with the gravest of purpose. Both men were handsome beyond words, but where Edmund was flirtatious, this man certainly wasn’t, in any manner.
He looked at her, his gaze suddenly locking with hers in a frank, marked intention to intimidate, radiating an energy of its own that almost startled her.
Olivia shivered within, pausing with rapid clarity of thought. He didn’t trust her at all, she realized from that one, biting glare from his deeply brown eyes. He didn’t trust her—and yet he asked her here tonight, which meant he believed that she knew his brother, whatever their relationship might be. She had hoped for more, but, at the very least, his obvious acceptance of her, however uncertain, was a start, she supposed.
Tensely, attempting to overcome her mounting anxiety by taking a deep breath, Olivia allowed her wide satin skirts to clear the doorway and fall gracefully around her as she stepped farther into the dining room, nodding once to the man whose gaze began to scan her very, very slowly from head to foot.
“Good evening, your grace,” she said as pleasantly as she could, wanting to set a congenial tone, like a brother-to-sister discussion, though her voice sounded tight to her ears and her cheeks felt overly hot from his candid inspection of her person.
“Olivia,” he drawled, making her very ordinary name sound far too… sensuous.
She squirmed a little in her stays and laced her fingers tightly together in front of her. “Thank you for the invitation to dinner.”
One side of his mouth curled up. “It is the least I can do for the woman who claims to be married to my brother.”
Claims? She’d given him the marriage license to inspect, for heaven sake. What more proof could he possibly need? And his obvious use of the word “woman” instead of “lady” piqued her even more. If he’d been any other man, she would have put him in his place. He wasn’t stupid, and such careful usage implied that she lied. And that was an assault on her character. Watching him now solidified her argument that he wasn’t to be trusted any more than he evidently trusted her.
Standing rigidly, her expression flat, she remarked, “My goodness, your grace, you are such a flatterer.”
He blinked quickly, visibly surprised by such a comeback, and to her great amusement he looked genuinely confused. That made her smile in satisfaction. If he ex
pected her to be like every other female he knew, intimidated and frightened into submission by his haughty… dominion, then he was in for a wickedly sad treat.
Gently lifting her skirts again, she sauntered toward him, her expression tepid despite her nerves. “Is this lovely home yours?” she asked, her tone as mundane as the question.
He took a swallow of his drink, his gaze never wavering from hers. “No. It belongs to a friend.”
“Ah. Of course.”
His brows drew together fractionally at that. He had no idea what she implied by that comment, but he refused to ask. Stubborn man. But then he looked stubborn.
“Would you like a sherry?” he offered flatly, pulling away from the fireplace at last.
“Please,” she replied, stopping short as she approached him.
With a final glance down her form, he turned and walked to a large, polished sidebar behind the dining table that was already set beautifully for two in burgundy lace and white Sèvres china.
“Is he also Edmund’s friend?”
“He was.”
She watched him reach for a decanter, lift the top and begin to pour a small amount of amber liquid into a sherry glass. The man certainly wasn’t gifted in the art of conversation. “What is his name?”
He didn’t answer for a moment as he put the crystal decanter back in its place. Then he turned and moved toward her again, her drink in his outstretched hand. “Colin Ramsey, the gentleman you met at the ball, but I don’t suppose Edmund ever mentioned him or you would have acknowledged that.”
She frowned minutely as she accepted refreshment from him, mindful not to touch his fingers as she did so. “No, Edmund never mentioned anyone in England save you, and even then you were only the vague older brother whom he said remained jealous of his good fortune. I just assumed you were old and married, living in the country and caring for a brood.” She paused, then added almost insolently, “He never said you were a twin.”
“And you didn’t find that rather odd?” he asked seconds later.
“That you aren’t old and married, or the part about being a twin?”
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