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“I can’t imagine why you think that I am right for marriage. I have never had the slightest success with men.”
Kyria looked at her. “Being an accomplished flirt and being a good wife are entirely different things. Trust me. You are exactly the kind of person who makes an excellent wife, someone whose life is completed by having a husband and children. You are sweet and kind and generous, utterly loyal and enormously loving.”
“But so are you,” Olivia protested.
Kyria let out a light laugh. “That you think so, my love, is an indication of your sweetness, not mine.”
Kyria went through Olivia’s clothes, sighing now and then or shaking her head. “Honestly, Livvy, must you always choose such plain things? Where is that shawl I gave you last year?”
Olivia opened a drawer and pulled it out, caressing it as she handed it to Kyria. It was a beautiful silk shawl, patterned in golds and browns, with brown tassels hanging from it.
“Now, this will dress up your brown silk,” Kyria told her, draping it over the aforesaid gown.
“But, Kyria, I won’t be needing anything so—so fancy.”
“Why not? You will need nicer than this, my dear.”
“But it will not be a—a festive gathering,” Olivia said. “I—he—we merely have common interests. And it is a small group. His brother, you know, died not long ago.”
“A year. They are out of mourning by now. I’ve seen the girl at parties—small ones, of course. I suspect there will be a party or two, at least. There always is. And there is supper every evening. You have to dress for that, after all.”
“Well, yes, I suppose....” Olivia cast a look at the gown and shawl. It warmed her a little to think of wearing them, of looking, well, if not beautiful, at least not drab. After all, this was an occasion where she really did not have to look professional. They were hiding what she was doing under the guise of a house party. She was supposed to look like nothing other than a woman enjoying a social occasion.
“This gown will do, as well, I think,” Kyria went on, taking out an emerald-green evening gown, “though Joan will have to pull out all this lace in the bodice.”
“But the neckline will be far too low!” Olivia protested.
“The neckline will be fashionable,” Kyria countered. “And you have a very nice bosom. It’s time you showed it off a little.”
Kyria’s maid, Joan, a thin, plain girl with a haughty manner, came into the room. She was, according to Kyria, a jewel, having an excellent sense of color and style and being handy with a needle, as well as possessing a deft hand when it came to arranging one’s hair, and Kyria was much envied by other young women and matrons for having her. However, there was little chance of any of them being able to entice her away from Kyria, since Kyria had plucked her out of an orphanage at the age of thirteen, recognizing her artistic bent, and had taken Joan’s younger and rather slow-witted sister, as well, when Joan had pleaded that she could not leave without her. Joan was intensely loyal to her mistress and quite proud of her position as personal maid to the daughter of a duke, a far higher rung up the ladder of employment than she had ever hoped to reach.
With Joan’s help, Kyria went ruthlessly through Olivia’s clothes, pulling out the pieces she thought would do and deciding how to give them the desired “spark”—a smattering of lace at throat and cuffs to soften too severe a line, or a brooch or necklace to brighten a dull color, or a bit of embroidery to color a pale gray bodice. But nothing that Olivia owned satisfied either Kyria or Joan as a gown to wear to a dance or party, and they at last brought in two of Kyria’s own gowns—a peacock-blue satin and a dark gold silk that were both so beautiful that Olivia could not imagine them on herself—and Joan set to shortening and tucking and taking in here and there to fit Olivia’s shorter, slighter frame. Joan, Kyria assured her, was a marvel and would have the dresses done in time for her trip.
“Or she can finish one of them while you are there, of course,” she added casually.
“What?” Olivia stared at her. “What do you mean, while I am there? Joan will not be with me.”
“But of course she will. You must have someone to do your hair, after all, and since you haven’t a maid of your own, this will be the perfect solution. She’s an absolute wizard with hair. You’ll see.”
“But I don’t need a maid. That is precisely why I haven’t one. I can do my own hair, and all my gowns are made so I can fasten them without help.”
“Yes, I know you are very independent and self-sufficient,” Kyria said. “But you simply cannot go to a house party without even one servant. How would it look to Lady St. Leger?”
“As though I am sensible?” Olivia retorted. “No one needs the full-time services of a maid, least of all me.”
“Yes, yes, I know your views on the subject. But just this one time? For me?” Kyria smiled persuasively at her. “And think of Joan—she would love a trip, wouldn’t you, Joan?”
Joan looked faintly surprised but quickly agreed. “Oh, yes, my lady, a trip would be lovely.”
Olivia sighed and, after a few more token protests, gave up. A maid was unnecessary, and she did not, after all, need to appear any lovelier than she really was, but...she could not help but think with pleasure of how she would look in the made-over dresses and wonder what Lord St. Leger would think of the changes.
So it was that when she set off the next week for her trip to Lord St. Leger’s estate, she carried in her trunks two stunning gowns made over from Kyria’s stock and a number of her own clothes remade into far prettier frocks, and was accompanied on the train ride by two supposed servants. It was pure vanity, she knew, that she could not help but admire the new look of her travel-durable plain brown gown, now softened by a collar that framed her throat gracefully and decorated at the shoulder with a jaunty bit of gold braid. Joan had insisted on doing Olivia’s hair this morning, and though she had kept the general style of a bun at the nape of her neck to which Olivia was accustomed, she had somehow made the hair around her face softer and fuller instead of pulled back tightly into a knot. It was strange, Olivia thought, how she could look so much the same and yet so much prettier. She was unaware of how her own inner excitement had added a glow to her cheeks and a sparkle to her brown eyes.
Her little party was met at the train station in the village by St. Leger’s carriage and coachman. Tom helped the coachman stow their bags, then climbed up to the high seat to ride with him, while Olivia and Joan got inside. The plush seats were comfortable and the carriage well sprung, and Joan soon nodded off as the coach swayed rhythmically along, but Olivia was far too tense and excited to rest. She pushed back the curtain nearest her and looked out at the countryside that rolled by, eager to catch her first glimpse of Blackhope.
Finally she saw it, its light stone walls glowing almost golden in the rays of the setting sun—a sturdy Norman keep with steep blank outer walls, castellated at the top, and behind them the taller upthrust of the round tower, its stone walls broken only by narrow archer slits in the traditional shape of a cross. She drew in her breath sharply, some deep emotion stabbing into her chest.
For a moment the image shimmered before her, and then, as she blinked, it was gone.
Olivia stared in amazement, her heart picking up its beat. The house that lay on the hill in the distance was no ancient castle built for warfare but a sprawling stone mansion of differing levels, obviously added onto and enlarged, its only resemblance to the keep she had seen a moment before the fact that it was built of the same sort of light stone warmed by the dying light of the sun.
She leaned closer to the window, scarcely able to believe her eyes. She closed her eyes and reopened them slowly. Still the more modern house lay there. There was no ancient Norman keep.
Olivia sat back, clasping her hands together in her lap. She was glad that Kyria’s maid was not awake to see the doubtless stunned expression on her face. What had she just seen?
She could picture the castle in her mind’s eye—flags fluttering from the top of the battlements, the drawbridge down and huge gates open. It had been so clear, so real! Olivia leaned over and once again looked out the window. Still no castle sat on the horizon, only the graceful house.
As they drew nearer the house, she stared at it intently, trying to determine how her eye had somehow been tricked into thinking that she had seen an early Norman castle. She had spent too many years around her great-uncle Bellard not to recognize the type of castle she thought she had seen. It had been typical of the sort of structure erected seven or eight hundred years earlier, during the period after the Conquest—a castle built in times of war and unrest, the main purpose of which had been the defense of the lord of the castle, his family and men and the local villagers. Raised over the course of many years on a hill or some other easily defensible land, they were made of stone, with thick, strong walls and sturdy wooden gates, an outer wall surrounding the house itself, which was made of the same thick stone, a single tower rising higher than the rest.
The ancestral home of the St. Legers was clearly not such a castle. There was no outer wall, only the walls of the mansion, one end of it a blocky, almost castlelike structure with a squarish short tower on one end, with another wing added on to it in a style Olivia recognized as Elizabethan, and yet another wing running perpendicular to that one. It was a mixture of at least three different periods and styles, and yet somehow it blended into an attractive whole. Ivy covered one side wall, cut away from the windows and extended its tendrils partly across the front of the house, and despite its size, Blackhope Hall exuded a sense of warmth and hominess quite at odds with its sinister name.
As soon as the carriage pulled up in front of the house, a footman hurried out to open the carriage door for Olivia and help her down. “Welcome to Blackhope, my lady.”
He escorted her inside, while the carriage pulled around to the kitchen entrance to unload their trunks and let out Joan and Tom. Olivia walked through the front door into a large high-ceilinged room, which she recognized as having once been the great hall of the original medieval house. A more recent addition of a wide staircase rose to a landing, then split and gracefully arched in opposite directions up to the second floor. Lord St. Leger was coming down the stairs toward her, a smile on his face.
A thrill ran through Olivia, and she realized with some astonishment just how much she had been looking forward to this moment. She wasn’t sure why. She had met other men as attractive as Lord St. Leger—certainly others with smoother personalities—but she had never felt this excitement upon seeing any of them. She thought about her travel-stained appearance—crushed skirts and stray soft hairs no doubt escaping from the softer hairstyle into which Joan had fashioned it—and she wished she had been able to freshen up before facing Lord St. Leger.
“Miss Moreland, welcome to Blackhope.” He extended his hand to her as he came forward, taking the hand she held out to him. The same sort of jolt ran through her as it had the first time he had taken her hand, a sense of heat and something more, a sort of recognition.
Olivia didn’t understand it any more than she had the first time it happened, but she could not deny that she liked the feeling. “Lord St. Leger. Thank you for inviting me. You have a beautiful home.”
She did not mention the flash of vision she had had of the old castle; that was exactly the sort of thing that had given her family its common epithet. The sort of thing her grandmother had talked about that had always frightened Olivia as a child.
“I’m deuced glad you came,” Stephen confided in a lower voice, his hand still curled around hers, his gray eyes gazing into hers. “I was afraid you might decide not to.”
“Nonsense. Of course I came,” Olivia replied quickly. It occurred to her that her voice sounded much too eager, and she continued pragmatically, “I am looking forward to this investigation. It isn’t often that I have such an opportunity.”
“Yes. Naturally. I am fortunate you feel that way.” He sounded more formal now, and Olivia regretted her words. Why was she always at such a loss socially?
“Allow me to introduce you to my family. They are quite looking forward to meeting you.”
He offered her his arm and led her up the stairs and along a gallery to the double doors of a formal drawing room. There were several people in the room, and all turned toward them with an air of eager curiosity as Stephen and Olivia entered. For a moment, in Olivia’s natural shyness, there seemed to be a crowd, blurred and overwhelming, but as Stephen introduced her, they resolved themselves into individuals.
“Mother, allow me to introduce you to the Lady Olivia Moreland. Olivia, this is my mother, the Dowager Countess St. Leger.”
His mother, Olivia saw, was a pretty middle-aged woman, her dark hair having turned almost entirely white. Pleasant and plump, she wore the black clothes of mourning, including a black cap, its severity relieved a little by a row of black lace. Lady St. Leger greeted Olivia with a smile, her blue eyes lively with interest. It occurred to Olivia that St. Leger’s family must have the same sort of suspicions about his inviting her to this house party that her own family had, and she blushed a little as she returned the countess’s greeting.
“My brother’s widow, Lady Pamela, the Countess St. Leger,” Stephen went on flatly, indicating the woman sitting on a chair just beyond Lady St. Leger. She was a marked contrast to Lady St. Leger, her dress cut in smart lines and of the pale gray color indicative of reduced mourning, decorated with bands of black lace, and her face coolly beautiful and unlined with pain or sorrow. She was a blond-haired, blue-eyed beauty, the sort of woman who made Olivia feel clumsy and plain, and Olivia could not help but wonder why Lord St. Leger had not mentioned this woman before. She did not seem the kind of woman who would slip one’s mind.
“Lady Olivia.” Lady Pamela’s voice was cool, and there was a look of amused disdain in her eyes. Olivia colored faintly under her gaze, acutely aware of her own travel-stained state.
“And this child jumping out of her skin in eagerness is my sister, the Lady Belinda St. Leger.”
“I am not a child,” Belinda protested, directing a look of mock anger at her brother. Dark haired like her brother, she had bright eyes of a dark gray-blue, and she smiled merrily, fairly vibrating with youth and high spirits. She turned to Olivia, taking her hand and saying candidly, “I am so happy to meet you. We’ve all been dying to see you.”
“Belinda!” her mother said reprovingly. “Lady Olivia will think you have no manners.” But the doting smile she turned on her daughter took any sting out of her words.
“You know it’s the truth,” Belinda responded irrepressibly.
“Allow me to introduce my dear friend Madame Valenskaya to you,” Lady St. Leger said, turning toward the woman who sat beside her on the couch.
“I am ferry happy to meet you,” Madame Valenskaya said, inclining her head regally to Olivia, her voice surprisingly deep for such a small woman, and thickly accented.
Olivia responded, her eyes taking in the woman with interest. Madame Valenskaya was short and stocky. Sharp, button-black eyes, small inside the fleshy face, peered out at Olivia, and Olivia had the impression that Madame Valenskaya was sizing her up just as much as Olivia was analyzing her.
“And this is Irina, Madame’s daughter.” Lady St. Leger indicated a small, colorless young woman sitting in a chair somewhat removed from the others.
The girl gave Olivia a brief nod and an unaccented “Hello,” then glanced away. Olivia was unsure whether Irina was shy or simply rude.
“And Mr. Howard Babington,” Lady St. Leger said, smiling toward the man standing beside the window.
He had turned toward Olivia as she entered the room, and he gave her a polite smile and greeting now. This, Olivia knew, was Madame Valenskaya’s sponsor into society. Olivia did not know him, which was not unusual, as she did not go out much, but when she had asked Kyria about him, her sister had not heard his name, either, which meant that he was certainly not a member of the upper echelons of London society, if he was even a gentleman at all and not just a pretender like Valenskaya herself.
Mediums commonly had such sponsors, people who invited them into their homes and introduced them to their friends, who allowed them to conduct their séances in their houses and under the aegis of their good name. Some such sponsors were merely dupes, as fooled by the mediums as their other victims. Others, Olivia knew, were accomplices of the mediums, aiding them in perpetrating their frauds. She had no idea which Mr. Babington was.
A slight man of medium height, he had a pale, narrow face made even thinner by a pointed goatee. His hair was a light brown, as was his beard, and his eyes were hazel. He was, in general, a rather nondescript-looking fellow, neither handsome nor plain, and when he spoke, his voice was as nondescript as the rest of him. He was the kind of man, who, whether through intent or simply by nature, was easy to ignore and even easier to forget mere moments after one saw him.
“Such an honor,” he murmured, taking Olivia’s hand limply and letting go almost immediately.
“I am sure you must be tired after that long ride from London,” Lady St. Leger said kindly. “No doubt you would like to go to your room.”
“Thank you, my lady.” Olivia accepted the offer gratefully.
“I’ll show her to her room,” Belinda said cheerfully, popping up from her seat. She led Olivia out of the drawing room, then along the gallery and down another hall.
Belinda linked her arm companionably with one of Olivia’s and, leaning in, confided, “We were all agog to meet you. I hope you won’t take offense at our curiosity. You see, it is the first time that Stephen has asked a woman to the house. Well, I mean, since—well, since he’s been home this time.”
Olivia felt her cheeks flush hotly. “Oh, no, you mustn’t think—I mean, Lord St. Leger and I are merely friends. There is nothing to—well, to warrant any particular interest in me.”
She felt embarrassed by the St. Leger women’s assumption that Stephen was interested in her as a female and guilty that she was lying to them, or at least hiding knowledge from them. Yet she could tell them the truth about why she was here even less than she could have told her own family. Lady St. Leger would be horrified and insulted by Olivia’s real reason for visiting.
“Of course, Stephen has scarcely left the estate since he returned. He says he has too much to do, learning all the estate affairs.” She grimaced. “I don’t know. Sometimes I think he’s a little uncomfortable here. He was in America for almost ten years. But, then, no doubt you know that. How did you meet him? We’ve all been wondering like mad. It must have been when he was in London to fetch us, I suppose. But I didn’t think he went to any parties. He positively refused to go with us. It must have been romantic.”
“Oh! Oh, no, it wasn’t—we are merely friends,” Olivia repeated lamely. “We—uh, I met your brother through my brother, Reed. Lord St. Leger came to call on him, and I happened to be there.”
Olivia thought to herself that she would have to remember to tell Lord St. Leger about their chance meeting. It had been foolish of them not to have dreamed up a story in advance. Naturally his family would be curious—and would not be distracted so easily, as her own family had been, by a diversion into the issue of equality for women. There were definitely advantages to having a liberal-thinking—and vague—group of relatives.
“So you see,” Olivia went on, “it was more prosaic than romantic. Lord St. Leger invited us both, but Reed could not come.”
Belinda looked at her assessingly, and Olivia thought that she was not completely dissuaded from her romantic notions by Olivia’s story, but then she shrugged and said, “Oh, well. At least it put Pamela’s nose out of joint.” She smiled a little at the thought.
“Lady St. Leger?” It was Olivia’s turn to look at her companion curiously. “What do you mean?”
“Oh! Well...” Belinda hesitated, then finished, “I mean, just that she’s used to being the lady of the house. You know, the most important female. And you’re the daughter of a duke, so of course you outrank her.”
Olivia, looking at the young woman’s guileless countenance, had the definite suspicion that Belinda’s explanation had not been her original thought. However, she could scarcely press her about it, so she merely smiled.
Belinda stopped at an open door. “Here is your room, my lady.”
“Oh, please—I do so dislike titles. I usually go by Miss Moreland,” Olivia protested uncomfortably.
The girl’s eyes widened, “Oh, but I could not call you that! Mama would be furious with me if I were so rude.”
“Well, then, perhaps just Olivia?” Olivia suggested.
Belinda goggled even more. “Truly?”
“Yes, of course. To tell you the truth, I do not feel much like the daughter of a duke.”
Belinda’s smile flashed across her face. “You are not high in the instep at all. I knew I would like you. I just felt it!”
Olivia chuckled. “The feeling is mutual.” It would be, in truth, hard not to like the girl’s fresh and candid manner.
If possible, Belinda grew even sunnier, and she gave Olivia’s hand a quick squeeze. “This is your room. I hope everything is satisfactory. If not, Mama would be happy to change you around.”
“Oh, no. It is a lovely room.” It was indeed a pretty place, spacious and elegant, with a set of windows on either side of the bed looking out on the rear garden.
Belinda left soon afterward, closing the door behind her, and Olivia sank down with relief onto a chaise longue. It was more tiring to play a part than she would have imagined, she realized. Nor could she completely stifle a twinge of guilt over the fact that Stephen’s mother and sister assumed her to be a woman for whom Stephen had feelings. Well, she had done her best to set Belinda straight about that, she reminded herself. She could not make them believe differently.
There was a knock at the door, and Joan bustled into the room, followed by Tom with her trunk. Joan set about unpacking the trunk and putting away Olivia’s clothes, while Tom and Olivia held a low-voiced conference. He was, he assured her, settled into the servants quarters, and he had great hopes of soon being in the know of all the gossip. He had already heard that neither Madame Valenskaya nor her daughter had brought a maid nor Mr. Babington a valet, which caused St. Leger’s servants to hold them in disdain.
“I’m not sure that the lack of a maid is something we can hold against them,” Olivia commented.
“Aye, well, the maids as are ‘avin’ to do double duty hold it against ‘em.”
“Oh. I see.”
“Yeah. Two of the upstairs girls were arguin’ somethin’ fierce over which one of ’em had to go help the Valenskayas dress for dinner.” He sighed. “Makes my job harder, too. I was ‘opin’ to get some gossip from their maid.”
“Well, perhaps it’s an opportunity. What if you were to volunteer to act as Mr. Babington’s valet?”
Tom looked none too pleased at the idea at first, but as he thought about it, his expression brightened. “Aye, that’s a cunning thought, miss. He might let somethin’ slip to me, and it’ll set me up right with the lot downstairs, too.”
Tom went off with renewed eagerness, and Olivia turned back to help Joan unpack. Joan, however, looked clearly affronted by Olivia’s offer. “It’s resting you should be, my lady. Dinner is at eight, so we shall have to do your hair and dress in another hour or so. You lie down while I get the wrinkles out of your dress.”
Olivia gave in, too tired not to, and she awoke thirty minutes later feeling much refreshed. She arose and washed up just in time for Joan’s entrance with her dinner gown, freshly pressed. It was her own emerald-green satin gown on which Kyria had lowered the neckline to what seemed to Olivia a scandalous degree by ripping out the lace trim above it. Still, she had to admit, when she was in the dress, her hair artfully arranged into curls by Joan’s nimble fingers, that she did look, well—rather pretty.
Her pride in her appearance lasted only until Lady Pamela St. Leger swept into the dining room after all the rest of them had gathered there. There was no way she herself could compete, Olivia knew, with the woman’s narrow waist and the smooth expanse of white chest and bosom revealed by the low-cut black gown. Why, she wondered, looking at Pamela, had she ever worried that her own gown revealed too much bosom?
