True Story (The Deverells, Book One)

by Jayne Fresina

  True Deverell had known Chalke a great many years and entrusted countless secrets to his care. If the fellow was not so ancient and had a less shaky hand, he could have taken on the task of penning True's memoirs himself and that was the original plan. Until Chalke wearily suggested he wasn't up to it.

  "I'll find you a secretary," he had warbled. "I believe I know just the person."

  Despite his enthusiasm it had taken a considerable amount of time to find someone for the post.

  "Why did you send her to me?" True demanded, seated across from the old solicitor. "You knew what you were doing, I have no doubt. You're a cunning old crab, Chalke." At first the man feigned innocence, but True persisted. "I mean to know. If you want to keep me as a client, old man, you will tell me why you sent Olivia Monday into my lair, knowing what she would do to me."

  Chalke snuffled with laughter and shook his head. "It was quite by chance."

  "Chance? You wanted to get her away from the stepbrother, is that it? Because she was in love with him? Or he with her?"

  "Oh no," finally Chalke confessed, "it was nothing like that. It was much worse."

  "Worse?" He didn't know how it could be worse than Olivia falling for another man. She wasn't the sort to fall lightly.

  "I suspected Christopher Chesterfield of unpleasant intentions— and deeds— but I had no proof and so I thought it best for Olivia to be out of his reach, as far as I could put her. The lady's father, you see, was a dear friend and he had begged me to look after his only daughter. I considered it my responsibility."

  True leaned forward, every muscle and tendon now on alert, ready to spring into action. "She was in danger? In what way?"

  The old man groaned deeply and steepled his gnarled fingers to his lips. "I was sworn to secrecy. My colleague, Westcott, wanted no one to find out, for he feared his daughter would become the target of fortune hunters. He did not even want Olivia to know."

  "Know what, for pity's sake!" he cried.

  "That when Olivia celebrates her thirtieth birthday she will inherit her maternal grandmother's estate and considerable fortune."

  True felt his world falling away, everything he'd previously imagined about Olivia suddenly lost to his grasp. "And she...she knows nothing of it?"

  "Nothing. It was her father's decision that it be kept from her. He didn't want it to cloud her judgment or change her in any way. His daughter was his whole world. He told me once, over a bottle of very good port, that Olivia wanted to marry for love. He worried that her grandmother's money would change things for her, make her prey to men with unworthy intentions. So he decided not to tell her about the inheritance that would come her way."

  "Did she know her grandmother was wealthy?"

  "It is possible she knew something of it, but Olivia's maternal grandmother had disowned her daughter for marrying against her wishes. Marrying for love, was frowned upon by that bitter, rich old lady and she refused to accept the union of her daughter with a humble solicitor. She only saw her grandchild once, just before her daughter's funeral. But when she herself died only a few years later she left her estate, in its entirety, to Olivia."

  Slowly True let the pieces settle. Money. Yes, he knew how it changed people. It was more often a curse than a blessing. "But what has this to do with her stepbrother?"

  Chalke sniffed nervously and eyed his port decanter. "I came to suspect that my dear friend had, in a moment perhaps of starry-eyed lust, mentioned the inheritance to his second wife, who then informed her son. They were very close— the mother and son. Almost, it must be said, uncomfortably so. At least, that is the impression I formed. And Christopher Chesterfield has something in his manner that I do not trust. He is almost... too charming." The old man laughed dourly. "I suppose it takes an ugly, despised creature like me to see through such a disguise." He reached for the port and poured it. "Master Chesterfield has expensive tastes and no real inclination to find employment. I daresay, had he known about Olivia's inheritance before his mother married her father, he would have scooped her up as a bride. But once they were stepsiblings he could not, of course, marry her. Instead, he had to hope she would remain unwed, leaving herself and her future fortune under his purview.

  When Olivia married the first time, I hoped she would be safe, but that was over before it had hardly begun. Then the second...well, by then my suspicions about Master Chesterfield had grown. He was always most eager to have his stepsister back again, always making plans for her future, as if he had some right to do so. I did not like it. I tried to warn Westcott, but he could not see through his stepson's artful ways. I was quite sure that Master Chesterfield, knowing all about the inheritance, planned to keep Olivia under his roof, to collect her fortune once it came to her on her thirtieth birthday. Each husband, naturally, had to be disposed of, but the determined woman kept finding another." He chuckled and sipped his port. "After William Monday, I saw I would have to step in and get her away."

  "So you sent her to me."

  "Who else could keep her safe? I had a feeling she would put you in your place too."

  True shook his head. "You're an old scoundrel."

  "Yes," he readily agreed, smacking his lips. "And you are a younger one. Which is why we get along so well."

  "That, and the constant supply of port I deliver to you." He looked at the old fellow and felt exceedingly grateful that Olivia had been sent to Roscarrock. He couldn't even be angry about the reason being kept from him. After all, he might have looked at her with different eyes, if he knew the truth from the beginning. Yes, her father had been right about that. Olivia would be prey to fortune hunters if her situation was generally known. And she, being a wide-eyed believer in love, might easily be drawn in by an unscrupulous rogue.

  "Now, of course," said Chalke, reading his mind in his usual cunning fashion, "you can't marry her, or I'll know you're doing it for the money."

  He sniffed. "For your information, I already asked— thinking her a penniless, difficult wench— and she refused me." Ah, it hurt to admit that.

  Chalke's eyes became bright. "Has she really? Goodness!"

  "And once she has money, she definitely won't want me. Bloody woman. I've nothing to give her, nothing to offer."

  "True."

  "What?" he snapped.

  Chalke laughed. "I was agreeing with you."

  "Pah!" He crossed his arms angrily.

  "That's what becomes of giving yourself such a silly name."

  "There is nothing silly about it."

  "Suit yourself. Nicholas Alejandro Duquesne."

  True leaned across the desk again and said with lethal politeness, "You tell another soul that name and I'll never send you another bottle of that very good port you enjoy at my expense."

  Chapter Thirty-One

  They got as far as Exeter the next day. Again Christopher refused to pay full price for the only available room at the coaching inn, and Olivia was smuggled up the stairs like a hunted woman. Or a prostitute.

  She suspected her stepbrother had some experience of cheating inn-keepers and smuggling women into rooms. He was certainly a natural at it.

  While he slept in his chair that night, overcome by ale and weariness, Olivia took her chance. Christopher had always underestimated her— and women in general. She went through his pockets for coin and then left the inn to find a man with a private chaise for hire. There was no point to going back toward Roscarrock, she realized, for that is where Christopher would expect her to go. Instead she would travel onward to London.

  "I can pay half your fee now," she told the coachman, "and my husband will pay the rest when you get me there safely."

  It was a very good thing she wore her tidy, expensive new boots, for the man looked her up and down, no doubt deciding whether she could be trusted to come up with all the money. To her immense relief, she passed inspection.

  "I'll get the horses ready, Madam," he said. "You wait here."

  Olivia bounced on her heels, rubbed her hands
together and looked around nervously, anxious to be on the road again before Christopher woke and found her gone.

  It was still dark out, but lanterns by the inn door cast a bronze light over the front of the building and rush torches along the stable wall lit the fat puddles of the yard, making them glisten and sparkle where fresh rain drops peppered the surface. She blew out a cloud of white breath and watched it evaporate.

  She wanted to shout, Oh, do hurry! But she held her patience and her composure. This was no time to bring attention to herself.

  Several private carriages were being readied for departure across the yard, horses hooves scraping at the cobbles, eager to be off. As she watched them a figure suddenly stumbled out through the door of the inn. Lantern-light shone on his golden hair and then on his white face, as he stared directly at her.

  Olivia backed up against the stable wall, her heart racing, blood pumping. Should she make a run for it? Where to? She was trapped.

  He seemed to know this too, for he laughed nastily and lurched toward her. Of course he had his umbrella in hand— wasn't likely to leave that behind again, she thought darkly.

  But as he moved forward he jerked to an abrupt halt. Something was caught...the point of his umbrella was stuck in the iron grate over the drain, into which rainwater ran from the cobbled yard.

  She heard him curse.

  The more he struggled, the faster his umbrella became stuck in the grate.

  He didn't see the coach and four heading his way and apparently the driver was distracted, or in too much hurry to notice the man wrestling with his umbrella.

  Just as Christopher pulled free and stepped out, the horses were upon him.

  He was plowed over, first by hooves and then by wheels that bumped and churned his head into the cobbles. It happened in the blink of an eye, the sound a sickening crunch she would probably never forget. Somebody screamed, but it wasn't Olivia.

  The crumpled figure lay still under the wheels as the coachman drew his vessel to a halt. Folk came running and a voice called out for a doctor, but anyone could see it was too late. Rivulets of scarlet blood ran between the cobbles and with it went the life of the man under the wheels.

  "Poor gentleman was traveling all alone," she heard a woman exclaim. "Such a charming, handsome gentleman too! Such a tragedy!"

  Oh yes, indeed it was. She'd suffered several of those in her life. Really, by now she shouldn't even bat an eyelid. Olivia turned, stepped up into the private chaise, and as Mrs. Arthur King, traveled onward to London.

  Christopher should have traveled by railway, she mused, for she'd heard it was a safer mode of transportation.

  * * * *

  True went to Inspector O'Grady.

  "I know you have your opinion already set, and I am merely a lucky gambler in your eyes— a bastard who came from nothing— but I can tell you that Olivia Westcott is not to blame for these murders."

  "And you'll tell me who is?" O'Grady replied sardonically. "It's been years since she started murdering good men. You didn't know her back then."

  "But I've known her since. And I came out of it unscathed."

  "That's all well and good. I expect she pulled the lace over your eyes too."

  "She doesn't like lace."

  The detective looked sorrowful. "I regret, sir, if you've fallen under her spell too. But you're not the first."

  Fallen under her spell. Oh, yes.

  He was in love with her. Deeply and irrevocably in that painful state of love.

  Damn her. And Chalke

  Now he knew "love" was possible, which meant he had to pay twenty-five bottles of vintage port to Abraham Chalke. It was a wager they'd had. The only wager True Deverell ever lost.

  "You may wish to inquire about a Master Christopher Chesterfield," he told the Inspector.

  "The stepbrother?"

  "Yes. I believe, if you bother to question a solicitor by the name of Abraham Chalke, he might tell you where you've been going wrong with your investigation. He has some confidential information regarding Chesterfield's possible motive. If he is reluctant to share it, just tell him I sent you. Oh, and tell him he won't have to worry about Mrs. Monday's safety any longer. That's up to me now."

  * * * *

  The moment he received Storm's rushed message, True set out toward the west country, hoping to find her on his route. She was in trouble and he could not bear to think of what might happen to her in Chesterfield's hands, but he took a sprig of comfort from the wording of her message, "Give little Arthur my love."

  Hope shining amid the darkness, like those ribbon snowdrops in her hair.

  At a coaching inn somewhere between London and Exeter, he heard a woman complaining about the slush and her new boots. He would know that voice anywhere. And there she was.

  True ran across to save her — and her boots—with his new umbrella.

  She looked up, startled, pale but for a bruise on her cheek. "Oh, there you are."

  "Where else would I be?" Damn you, woman, I don't know where I am with you. From the first moment I was lost. But he kept a civil tongue in his head and tried not to stare at her lips.

  "Well, you did leave me behind."

  He wanted to kiss her, so very badly. In front of the coachman who had just helped her down. "I had business to tend. You knew that."

  "But you are supposed to be polite and say goodbye to a person when you're leaving them behind."

  "Why should I? I was coming back again, woman."

  She shook her head. "You have a lot to learn."

  "And you can teach me." True carefully touched a finger below her bruise. "What's this?"

  "The past," she said firmly.

  Anger flexed its claws within. "Where's Chesterfield?"

  Olivia blinked. "I don't know who you mean, dear. Oh, I almost forgot, you owe the coachman half the fee. And," she tugged on his sleeve, "your name is Mr. Arthur King. Don't look at me like that. It's not the first time you've used a false name, is it?"

  He had to laugh at her prim expression. "I've missed you."

  She smiled. "And I you. Let's hurry home."

  "Home?"

  "To Roscarrock, of course."

  True dare not yet believe that she was staying forever. They'd have to take it one day at a time. He didn't want her to feel trapped.

  As he helped her up into his own carriage, she said, "You ought to marry me, you know."

  Jumping up behind her and closing the carriage door, he wasn't certain he'd heard her correctly. He fell back into his seat and she immediately moved across to sit beside him, wide eyes regarding him earnestly. "Because you need me."

  He thought for a minute, his pulse speeding recklessly. "You turned me down, Olivia the Merciless."

  "Well, yes." She reached up and tapped on the carriage roof as a signal to the driver. "But ladies do change their minds occasionally. It's a well known fact."

  The horses set off, the carriage bouncing and rumbling back toward Cornwall.

  True took her hand and kissed it. "I think we should wait."

  She scowled. "For what?"

  "For two years. When you turn thirty, I'll ask you again. You may decide by then, that you don't want me.”

  "Why, for pity's sake?"

  "Your situation might be different. You might have met some other man who—"

  She leaned over and kissed him.

  The carriage went over a bump that bounced her right into his lap. And he held her tightly, keeping her safe, as he always would.

  "In the meantime, it will be up to me to court you properly."

  She laughed. "Good lord, do you know how?"

  "No. You'll have to teach me, Olivia." He kissed her chin and her ear and then made his way down the side of her neck. "I'll be a very good pupil. Very diligent. Very determined."

  * * * *

  He had not asked her anything more about the bruise, or about Christopher, and for that she was grateful. Instinctively he knew when to let a matter drop, wh
en it would cause more pain to discuss it. Most men would not understand that, but True Deverell was not "most men".

  Of course, there were other ways to fill their time on that journey home.

  It was January the twelfth in the year 1843. A Thursday and, according to her father's mended watch, it was just after half past three in the afternoon.

  He was wearing a very fine coat, butter soft under her fingers and he smelled of spice, tobacco and warm leather. His eyes, mercurial in color and temperament, swept over her like a rain shower, cleansing and magical.

  And that was the moment when True Deverell finally said, "I love you."

  * * * *

  Two Months later...

  "My love, we're never going to finish your memoirs, if this is how things continue," she muttered as they lay together by the fire in his library, both naked and wrapped in a fleece-lined blanket. "We have written precisely six sentences tonight."

  But True was too busy counting the colors in her hair, until, in his corner vision he spied her hand, on the end of that long, elegant arm, crawling out of the fleece in search of her father's watch.Again.

  He reached over and caught her fingers, bringing them to his lips. "I'm beginning to wish I never got that damn thing fixed for you. What was I thinking?"

  She chuckled. "It's a good thing you did, for that was when I knew for sure that I was in love with you, sir."

  "Sir? Back to that again are we?"