Page 28 of With Good Grace
‘Certainly I have not. Parker is already on his way to Pollock’s to try and ascertain who ordered the ship to be delivered to you.’
She sent him a sultry smile that failed to disguise her relief. ‘Thank you.’
He reached across the space that separated them and briefly touched her hand. ‘You are entirely welcome. There is every chance that the toy was sent to you by one of my enemies and has nothing to do with the business we are engaged with.’
‘Thank you for trying to reassure me, but we both know that is unlikely.’ A fine tremor rocked her body. ‘I hate the idea that someone has been watching me.’
‘You and Tom are safe here, and we shall soon discover who is trying to unnerve you. Never doubt it.’
‘I am sure you will.’
‘I considered returning your husband’s boxes to Cheyne Walk, once we have searched them of course, and waiting to see if anyone tries to get to them whilst you are here in Grosvenor Square.’
Olivia nodded. ‘That might be effective. That is why you wanted us to make it so obvious we were leaving on a trip, I suppose.’
‘Yes, and as you say, the plan might have worked, but I have decided against it. We know that the thugs who killed your husband were hired by someone else; someone who had hidden his identity behind several layers of intermediaries and whom the killers could not give up because they didn’t know who he was.’
‘And so, by laying a trap for them, we would be showing our hand for no good reason?’
‘And by not doing so, we will prevent your home from being violated.’
‘I would not mind that if I thought it would see an end to this business.’ Olivia rubbed her forehead with the tips of her fingers, as though trying to ward off a headache. ‘Poor Margaret. I never thought the day would come when the difficult woman would elicit my sympathy, but still, I cannot help feeling sorry for her. It is not her fault if she was brought up to consider herself superior to the rest of us.’
‘Save your sympathy, Olivia. If the situation was reversed, you would not have got past her front door.’
Olivia tilted her head and flashed a wry smile. ‘You are right, of course. You often are. It is one of your most aggravating traits.’
The corners of Jake’s mouth curled indolently. ‘Anyway, we have other avenues to explore before we consider inviting burglars into your home. I have sent another footman round to Cheyne Walk to support Finch. I have told them to make their presence obvious so that anyone thinking of breaking in has second thoughts. Parker also has people watching for watchers, if you see what I mean.’
‘I think I see perfectly. Rather than capture the would-be burglars, you intend to have them followed and see where they lead you.’
‘It seems like a more logical approach.’
They had finished their tea and Olivia made shooing motions with her hands. ‘Off you go to ask your questions, Jake. I have boxes to sort through.’
‘Until later.’ He stood, raised her hand to his lips and kissed the back of it. ‘I have not forgotten that we did not conclude our earlier conversation, but that might be better deferred until we have resolved this wretched business and are without distractions.’
?
You distract me.The thought span through Olivia’s head on a continuous loop as she watched him leave the room. He turned back to look at her over his shoulder, smiling that somnolent, suggestive smile of his that never failed to agitate her passions. She remained in her chair, her own smile gracing her lips as she thought of their recent exchange. She was convinced that Jake had not intended to kiss her and had done so because he couldn’t help himself. Jake losing control of his…well, of his iron self-control. Now that really did give her cause for optimism.
Theywouldcomplete their conversation regarding their future together—if there was the slightest possibility of their having one—before she left this house; on that score she was fiercely determined. If they did not, she would not put it past Jake to disappear again for weeks at a time and her nerves simply could not withstand another prolonged separation—at least before she knew what was in his heart. Really, he was such a dolt. She had seen him in dangerous situations on several occasions and he had always remained calmly, dispassionately in control. Fearless. And yet, when it came to her, he was reduced to an indecisive contradiction in which passion warred with duty; instinct with caution, no clear winner in evidence.
‘We shall just have to see about that, Lord Torbay,’ she said aloud.
Thus resolved, Olivia stood and made her way towards the table beneath the window that contained her husband’s boxes. Before she started looking through them, she quickly penned a note to Margaret about the missing paintings. She rang the bell and asked the footman who answered it to have the letter sent immediately. If Margaret replied by return they could expect a response as early as third post the next day.
With that duty performed, Olivia sat down and emptied one of the boxes onto the table. Its contents spilled in all directions; an avalanche of paper that, from her initial examination, appeared to have nothing in common other than the fact that it all pertained to the original establishment of Marcus’s management agency. That could be important, Olivia decided, so she reined in her wandering attention and sorted through the papers more methodically, stopping to read every document. There were several from actors declining his offer of representation. And…oh sweet lord, highly inflammatory love letters from a famous actress whom Marcus did not represent—well, not professionally. Their relationship had been of a decidedly more intimate nature.
‘Further proof that Marcus was not true to me,’ Olivia said aloud, even though no proof had been necessary. He had made no effort to hide the fact that he enjoyed his pleasures with other women; he even seemed annoyed when she showed no jealousy.
But why keep these letters? She tapped one of them against the side of the table; blushing as she considered its graphic contents, wondering if some of the activities it described were actually physically possible. She chuckled. Jake would know. Olivia was aware that the lady in question had made an advantageous marriage a year or so before Olivia was destined to languish in a prison cell and had promptly quit the stage. Could it be that Jake was right and Marcus really was a blackmailer? If so, the contents of those letters would have kept him in vintage claret for years. The lady’s husband might accept that she had consorted with men before her marriage but would not want such explosive written accounts of those trysts appearing in the public domain.
Why had Hubert not taken these letters? Green was the only servant whom she had brought with her from Belgravia and it was him she had charged with packing up Marcus’s papers. She made a note to ask him where he had found these particular ones. Presumably Marcus had hiding places that Green knew of—what good butler was unaware of such secrets in the household he ran?—and Hubert did not.
Olivia continued to sift through the papers diligently. The only other items of interest in this particular box was correspondence from Madame Céleste regarding Marcus’s management of actors billed to appear at the Adelphi. It seemed that Madame Céline Céleste had used her influence to push actors into accepting Marcus’s management, in return for him putting financial backing into some of her productions. But had she not achieved fame and fortune as a dancer, adored in America, before returning to Europe and becoming and actress, then theatre manager? Why would she enter into such an arrangement with Marcus, or had the original suggestion come from him? It was hard to tell when she only had Madame Céleste’s side of their correspondence available to her. Olivia would have to ask Jake how theatres obtained backers. He would probably know the answer to that, as well.
She reached the end of the first box. One pile of documents was for the fire, which is where she placed them, watching as the flames curled around the sides of the paper and incinerated them with a loud whooshing sound as sparks flew up the chimney. The second pile was for Jake to look through, including the inflammatory love letters from Miss Emily Black, now Lady Marchant. By far the smallest pile contained a few pieces she felt she ought to keep—personal letters received by Marcus that had nothing to do with his business affairs but which Tom might want to see when he was older. Olivia could look at them with detachment and unmitigated relief—not because Marcus was dead, she was not quite that cynical—but because he was no longer a part of her life.
