Page 57 of House of Thorns
“Well enough, I suppose,” Olivia obliged as they crossed the street. “Soon, I shall pay Mr. Pitt his fee.”
“And your opera singer?”
Olivia thinned her lips. “I am sure I will hear from her soon.”
So, the woman still played games, did she? Olivia’s concert deserved far better than the likes of Louisa. He’d never cared for the woman, though she’d tried to entice him more than once. Thoughts of Louisa reminded him that he’d yet to hear from Florinda. Perhaps, he should send Mr. Timms to Paris.
A pleasant silence fell and Nicholas found himself drawn into the present. Truly, what more could a man desire than the warm sun on the back of his neck and a woman, such as Olivia, on his arm?
All too soon, the white stone-faced building housing the circulating library loomed before them. Nicholas paused and waited for a lumbering coach to creak past before escorting Olivia up the half dozen steps to the brass-handled doors.
“Shall I leave you—" he began.
“Lord Blair!” a soft voice whooshed in surprise at his elbow.
Nicholas glanced down to see Deborah only a few paces behind.
“My lady.” Nicholas politely touched the brim of his hat.
Deborah searched his face, as if expecting more. Then, her eyes darted to Olivia.
“Deborah.” Olivia sucked in a breath. “Let’s speak in the lounge, shall we?”
“Certainly, to be sure.”
“Then, shall I leave the two of you now?” Nicholas smiled, reaching for the brass handles.
Deborah choked. “Heavens no, youmustcome, Lord Blair,” she whispered, again searching his face. “I’ve a private lounge, ready and waiting. It’s…time, isn’t it?”
Time? Nicholas bowed and opened the door, allowing them to pass before him.
Books surrounded him on every side, along with a plethora of young ladies, most giggling and gossiping behind their fans.
“This way,” Deborah murmured as she led them past the large desk in the center of the room.
She stopped before the door of a private lounge behind the staircase spiraling to the floor above. The room was small, affording only two settees with a table between them upon which already burned an oil lamp.
A large oil painting of a woman in a pink dress, reading a book by a fountain, took up a large portion of the facing wall. Nicholas raised a brow. The painting was obviously a fake, and an ill-painted one—but then, what else did one expect of a circulating library?
The door had no sooner clicked shut than Olivia grabbed Deborah’s hands. “I’m so sorry, Deborah. It’s theletter. I lost it.”
“What do you mean?” Deborah asked faintly.
Olivia shook her hands. “I mean that I…I lost the letter.”
“Lost it?” Deborah frowned, and then darted a glance at Nicholas. “But…he’s here?”
Both women looked at him, both puzzled.
“Pardon?” he queried.
Deborah blanched and turned back to Olivia, this time taking Olivia by the hand. “You lost my letter?” she repeated faintly, turning white.
“I…forgot entirely about it. When I remembered, I looked for it everywhere.Everywhere. I couldn’t find it.”
Deborah burst into tears.
“What letter might this be?” Nicholas frowned.
