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For a moment he contemplated taking her to his uncle. Oswald would see through all the girlish dramatics and probably reveal her as the clever trickster she was, because although Oswald was as cursed with curiosity as any of their fated Sinclair tribe, he was never swayed by sentiment. Lucas usually wasn’t either, but as much as it galled him to admit, even to himself, mentions of his father’s demise still had the power to sink their talons into his flesh. He could stride over most matters without much compunction but the moment she spoke those words he stumbled. Just a little, but enough. He couldn’t walk away without at least trying to understand what was afoot. Which meant he had to find out the nature of the peculiar beast sitting opposite him.
Not today, though. However offended she appeared to be by his accusation of entrapment, her voice and demeanour were clearly those of a well-born young woman and every moment spent in her company as night descended was a moment of precisely the kind of danger he did not enjoy.
‘Where do you live?’
‘Why?’
‘Because as tempting as the thought is, I can hardly leave you in the middle of London in the dark. I presume you do live somewhere. This might be a fantastical story, but you appear discouragingly corporeal.’
For the first time her eyes shifted away from his. She was about to lie, which was interesting in itself.
‘Spinner Street.’
‘Spinner Street? Isn’t it around the corner from the church where you summoned me?’
‘Yes.’
‘Stranger and stranger. Is that sad neighbourhood populated by occultists now? At what number are you perpetrating your masquerade?’
‘Fifteen. But... Does this mean you won’t help?’ she demanded as he tapped the wall of the carriage and it slowed to a halt on the empty street and a postilion jumped down to take his directions.
‘It means it is nearing your bedtime, Miss Silverdale. I will consider what you told me. That is all I can offer for now.’
Again her expression changed, or rather it leached away, leaving her face blank just as they slowed and the gaslight filled the carriage. Now at least he could see what she looked like in repose. She reminded him of a painting he had once seen in Venice. It was a depiction of the biblical tale of Ruth, with Naomi seated on a stone cradling a very unattractive babe and Ruth standing, her hand on the older woman’s shoulder and, unusually for such a painting, looking straight at the viewer. She, too, had worn no expression, but the message was clear. Beware. I guard my own.
‘If this is a polite way of telling me you have no intention of pursuing this puzzle, I prefer you tell me so outright,’ she said as she raised the hood of her cloak over her bonnet. ‘Heaven forfend I waste any more of your precious time which could be spent so much more profitably in gaming hells and brothels like Madame Bern—’
Her haughty lecture ended on a squeak when he caught her wrist as she opened the carriage door. He should have kept his calm and sped her on her way. If he needed anything to convince him to have nothing more to do with her fantasies, it was a lecture. His temper had borne quite enough that evening.
‘I don’t need you to put words in my mouth and I sure as hell do not need your lectures. You do either again and that will be the last you see of me, Miss Silverdale. I said I will think about it and I will. That is all for now. Now run along before I decide to demand compensation for your ruining what had promised to be a very pleasant evening by fulfilling your worst suspicions about my character. Unless that is what you are looking for? Is that tortuous little mind of yours curious about that as well?’
He brushed his fingers lightly across her lips, as much to test his question as to warn her. They were soft and warm and as they shifted under the pressure his gaze caught on them as well, making the question rather more complicated than he had intended. But before he could pursue the thought she drew away so abruptly she bumped into the frame of the door and for the first time he saw real fear in her gaze and something beyond it which surprised him. Revulsion was not the usual reaction to his overtures, but then he never made overtures to proper little virgins and they never made appointments to meet him in a darkened church and proceed to tell him the world was made of cheese and rode along on the back of a turtle.
He opened the door.
‘Run along, little miss.’
She didn’t run. The blank watchdog expression returned and she drew down her veil and jumped down nimbly from the carriage, ignoring the postilion who stood by to assist her.
Chapter Two (#ubceaf13f-ee3b-5c03-8afd-35ac7a714692)
Olivia looked around the respectable interior of St George’s, smiling at the gall of the man.
She might not quite have Lord Sinclair’s measure, but she knew without doubt his choice of arranging this meeting in a church in midday was an ironic riposte rather than out of any concern for propriety. The man was living up to his reputation as a care-for-nobody.
Well, not quite. She had expected someone more...spoilt. Indulged and self-indulgent. Not...
Well, whatever he was.
For two days she had heard nothing from him, her already meagre hopes foundering and leaving her even more depressed than before. When her old nurse, Nora, appeared that morning in Brook Street, bearing a sealed note she said was delivered to Spinner Street by a proper footman, Olivia’s first reaction was almost stifling relief.
The relief faded a little as she read his note. It was succinct, listing nothing more than a time, a place and a bold, scrawled ‘S’.
‘At least you are prompt.’
She rose on tiptoes in surprise at the deep voice directly behind her, her stretched nerves bursting into an agitated dance. How had he managed to cross the whole church without her hearing? Blast the man for putting her at a disadvantage again. She turned, gathering her dignity. The windows were small, but the sun that broke through the winter clouds was directly overhead and sunlight bathed him like a benediction, making it clear she had missed a great deal in the darkness. Two days ago he had been a figure of the dark—a shady hulk towering over her, menacing but indistinct. Now Gypsy Sue’s words came back to her and she could understand fully why the Sixth Earl of Sinclair was referred to as the sinfully seductive Sinclair. It wasn’t merely that he was handsome. She couldn’t even get enough distance from the impact of his aura to judge his looks. It was something completely different—his presence chased away everything else, like the sun coming out from behind a cloud with sudden brutality—harsh and demanding a reaction.
She searched for her scattering wits and managed to gather enough to speak his name.
‘Lord Sinclair.’
‘Miss Silverdale.’
The silence stretched and she felt the edges of her mouth rise against her will. It must be nervousness, understandable given what was at stake. There was nothing amusing about this situation.
‘Lord Sinclair,’ she repeated, and the humour she suspected gleamed in his eyes and tugged at the corners of his mouth as well. He bowed with all the formality of a London ballroom.
‘Miss Silverdale.’
Inspired, she brandished the note she held and tossed back his words from their first meeting. ‘You sent this quaint little note?’
He plucked it from her fingers. ‘You’ve mangled the poor thing. Have you been poring over it all morning?’
Blast the man. It was close enough to the truth.
‘No, it is merely that I had to rescue it from the cat.’
‘I am sorry you had to fight over me.’
‘Over the address. There are a dozen St Georges in town and I forgot which one you mentioned. It would have been a little embarrassing to send a note to Sinclair House explaining the cat lunched on your note. I felt my pride was worth a few scratches.’
His black brows twitched together. ‘Then you are as foolishly stubborn as I suspected. You should be more careful. Did the cat really scratch you?’
She blinked at the transformation, hoping the heat she felt in her chest would not bloom into a blush. She hardly managed to make the transition from annoyance to humour and now he was undercutting her with utterly misplaced concern based on her nonsensical embellishment. She shook her head and hurried forward, trying to cling to what mattered.
‘Well?’ she asked. ‘Do you agree to help me?’
‘No.’
‘Oh. Then why are you here?’
‘Because two days ago I met a delusional young woman making outrageous claims about my father’s death. I told you I don’t like being coerced, managed, threatened or interfered with and this qualifies as most of the above. So I came here to say that should I find that you are making any enquiries that involve my family name I will stop you. Am I clear?’
‘You are many things, Lord Sinclair, not all of which can be spoken aloud in polite company. You don’t like being threatened? Well, neither do I. If you plan to stop me I suggest you begin today because aside from your delightful billet this morning I also received a request from Mrs Pendle. She assures me she is eager for another session with her dear departed and I invited her to Spinner Street tomorrow at five. So I give you fair warning I shall discuss whatever I see fit.’
She marched out of the cloistered entrance, angry with him, but far angrier with herself at the depth of her disappointment at his rejection. She had so been looking forward to sharing her thoughts with someone intelligent, and Lord Sinclair, though he might try a saint’s patience, was plainly intelligent and probably resourceful. For a moment the concern in his voice and the softening lines of his beautifully carved mouth had lulled her into believing he could be an ally.
Well, he wasn’t her ally. He was an arrogant, cloddish, opinionated...
‘Miss Silverdale! Olivia!’
Olivia froze halfway to the carriage where Nora was waiting. Of all the bad luck—the last person she expected to see in London was Henry Payton’s son, Colin.
‘Colin! I thought you were in Harrogate with your mother and Phoebe.’
‘I came to consult Mr Ratchett about the will and see about extending our mortgage. At least until probate is granted...’ His voice wavered and she reached out, briefly touching his sleeve. She knew Colin as well as her own brothers and she had never seen him so pale and beaten.
‘I’m so very, very sorry, Colin. What can I do to help?’
‘I did not mean to worry you, Olivia. We are not on our last legs, though Mr Ratchett did tell me in confidence that Sir Ivo is putting pressure on the bank to foreclose. Still, he assures me they see no need to take such drastic measures as we have always honoured our commitments and he did count Father his friend, despite the...unpleasantness. Still, I think it would be best to sell and remove from Gillingham. I cannot see Mama returning there, not with all the gossip.’ He rubbed his hand over his forehead. ‘I never guessed... I don’t understand any of it. Father always seemed so...reliable. I cannot comprehend why...’
‘I don’t either, Colin. It makes no sense.’
‘Nothing makes sense at the moment. I went by Brook Street, but Lady Phelps said you were visiting this church with Nora. I thought she is your chaperon, Olivia. You should not be here on your own.’
‘I am not on my own. Nora is awaiting me in the carriage.’
‘Nora is hardly an adequate chaperon in London.’
‘It is merely a church, Colin. Not Vauxhall Gardens.’
His eyes widened. ‘I trust Lady Phelps is not taking you to such places, Olivia. They are not at all the thing, you know.’
‘That was a figure of speech, Colin. If you must know, we do not go about much.’
‘Then why not come to Mama and Phoebe in Harrogate?’
‘There is some important business I must address in London.’
‘Surely Mr Mercer can...’
‘No, Colin. He cannot. Please let us not argue. How is Phoebe faring?’
‘Still in shock. It is doubly hard for her. She has barely begun to recover from Jack—’ He stopped. ‘I’m so sorry, Olivia. I know Jack’s death was painful for you as well.’
Olivia resisted the swiping claw of anger that demanded she strike out at his unknowing cruelty. She was accustomed, a little, to people presuming her friend Phoebe was the greater sufferer from Jack’s death. There was no point in trying to explain that the loss of a twin brother might be even more devastating than the loss of a fiancé. What mattered was that Phoebe herself never presumed her loss was greater. She knew how close Olivia and Jack were. Had been.
‘Please don’t apologise, Colin. I hate that people won’t talk about him with me. It makes it worse. He feels even more dead that way.’
He clasped her hand, shaking it a little. ‘You always say the strangest things, Olivia; if you’re not careful you will end up like one of those bluestocking quizzes.’
She smiled a little stiffly. ‘Then I shall have to school my tongue. When must you return?’
‘Tomorrow. I do not like leaving Mama for long. Phoebe tries, but Mama needs me there as well. When will you complete your...your business?’
The barely veiled condemnation in his voice struck home. She hated not being there to support Mary Payton and Phoebe during their mourning, but she hoped once they knew she was acting on their behalf they would forgive her defection.
‘Very soon, I hope. Please do come dine with Lady Phelps and me this evening, Colin.’
She clasped his hand briefly, but as she let go he grabbed it and pulled her back towards the church. She wanted to resist, but her guilt made her weak and she followed. The church seemed smaller now, a little stifling.
‘What is it, Colin? You know it isn’t proper for me to be here alone with you. I told Nora I would only be a moment.’
‘I believe that is the first time you preached propriety to me, Olivia; I cannot recall the number of times Mama had palpitations because of you and your brothers. I am glad to see you are finally growing up.’
‘That is one way of phrasing it, certainly.’
‘Couldn’t you convince Lady Phelps to come with you to Harrogate? We... Mother and Phoebe missed you these past two years since you left Gillingham. I never understood what happened between you and Bertram and of course we followed Father’s lead and stood by you, but the truth is I admit I am glad you jilted him. He was never right for you and I must say I don’t think the heiress he married last year is very happy with him either, if that makes you feel any better. But the point is I...we all miss you since you left.’
‘I will come as soon as I am able, Colin.’
‘What if I tell you I would like you to come?’ He moved even closer, taking her other hand as well. ‘Everything is so upended and somehow you always made the strangest things seem...commonplace. Coming to visit you with Father over the past two years while you were staying with Lady Phelps I have come to... I hardly had any idea how much I depended upon your presence until... I cannot say anything, under the circumstances, but once we are out of mourning...’
She forced herself not to move, not to pull her hands from his. This wasn’t Bertram, this was Colin, there was no reason to feel so stifled. It was not as if she had not contemplated this solution to her conundrum. She had noted Colin’s migration from friendship to admiration during his visits with Henry. If she could not redeem Henry Payton’s name and reputation by any other means, marriage to Colin would grant him access to her fortune and he could provide for Phoebe and Mary Payton without them suffering any qualms of conscience.
But as he pressed her hands between his, the gap between good intentions and reality widened and she struggled against the need to pull away.
‘You will come soon?’ he prompted and she breathed deeply and nodded. He bent to touch his mouth to her cheek and she held herself still even as his lips slid and settled on her own. It is only Colin, she reminded herself. This is not Bertram and you are no longer a gullible fool. No one will ever take advantage of you that way again. Ever.
He drew back, his blue eyes warm and his cheeks pink, and finally she allowed herself to move, pulling her hands from his.
‘I must go or Nora will worry. Please tell your mama and Phoebe... Tell them I will see them soon. Be strong, Colin.’
She hurried outside to the awaiting hackney, narrowly missing a pushcart piled high with casks. Inside, she tugged off her gloves and kneaded her palms, trying to chase away the stinging pressure that always came when memories of Bertram returned.
‘I’m so sorry I kept you waiting in this horrid weather, Nora. You will not believe who is in town...’
‘I saw Master Colin approach you, Miss Olivia. I told you this was foolishness itself. You aren’t twelve years old, hiding in trees so you can listen to your brothers’ talk unseen. And you needn’t tell me to save my breath, I know you won’t listen. Just put this shawl over your legs, it is almost as cold as back home. I take it you didn’t tell Master Colin the truth?’
‘I cannot, you know that. I may uncover nothing and I do not wish to give him false hope.’
Nora sighed, but didn’t answer, and Olivia turned to look out the window and caught herself as she rubbed again at her cheek, as if she could wipe away the underlying memories of her disastrous betrothal.
She did not regret jilting Bertram—marriage to that deceitful wretch would be far worse than heartbreak and ostracism—but she deeply regretted telling Henry Payton the truth and then swearing him to secrecy. Poor Henry had taken her side and then faced the fury of Bertram’s family without complaint, even when Bertram’s father Sir Ivo made it impossible for Henry to work in Gillingham. She did not even try to escape her culpability—it was her fault he had to spend so much time in London away from his wife, therefore her fault he sought solace with other women, therefore her fault he was dead.
None of this was Colin’s fault, but when he kissed her the mocking memory of her fateful confrontation with Bertram surfaced, as sharp and vivid as the reality. Bertram had dismissed her rejection, trying to placate her by the same means he achieved everything—seduction. She had once enjoyed his kisses, convinced they were signs of his love. But that evening the embraces she so looked forward to became unbearable. She could still see his face bearing down on her, feel his wet lips seeking her mouth, the weight of his body pressing her against the wall... Everything she looked forward to in their union became a sign of her gullibility. Colin was nothing like Bertram, but perhaps now and for ever any contact with a man would bear Bertram’s taint and that of her disgust with her blindness. All her passionate hopes capsized by the weight of his horrible deceit.
She shook herself. What mattered now was Henry. She had come to London and opened herself to the world again because of him and she would see her task through.
If Lord Sinclair wouldn’t help, she would do it alone. She would prove the Henry Payton she knew and loved had existed, even if he was dead. She would stand by him as he had stood by her.
Chapter Three (#ubceaf13f-ee3b-5c03-8afd-35ac7a714692)
Lucas waited until the young man exited the church before leaving the shadow of the pillars separating the nave from the chancel. He was tempted to go after him and tell him precisely what foolhardiness his little friend was engaged in. Perhaps a few judicious words about her activities would have her family remove her before she caused real damage. To herself or to others.
He walked outside into the gloomy winter morning, juggling what he knew about her. He was accustomed to making quick judgements about people, but this girl was proving a bit of a puzzle. Perhaps it would be a good idea to discuss this with Chase. They rarely discussed the past, but his brother was not only good at puzzles but this concerned him as well. Not that he would show it, or much else for that matter. Chase went through life as lightly as possible. Lucas considered going to Chase’s apartments near St James’s, but thought better of it. This discussion had best be held at Sinclair House where they would be assured of privacy.
‘This place grows more cavernous every time I enter it. Shouldn’t you consider replacing the carpet on the stairs? I sounded like a herd of stampeding camels on the way up,’ Chase said as he entered Lucas’s study at Sinclair House. Lucas looked up from his papers and smiled at his younger brother. They were of a height and had often been mistaken for twins once out of school, but Chase’s eyes were grey rather than black, as if transitioning between their mother’s Italian blood and the Sinclairs’ northern heritage. He was still brown from his recent trip to the east, adding to the Latin impression.
