Lady Olivia To The Rescue (2 page)

Olivia threw back her head, took a gulp of air, and leaned forward again, beginning to laugh out loud. He frowned fiercely, his manner changing in an instant from apology to affront.

As he stepped away from her, she clutched at his coat and shook her head. While he pried loose her fingers, she finally managed, “I am not really injured, my lord. Only laughing at the absurdity of the situation. Please, do not take offense.”

She saw his dark eyes change in a flash from ice to warmth. He smiled at her, and Olivia almost gasped at the magnetism of his expression. She had never before seen the cynical man smile with anything but disdain, a mere curling of the lip. But this was different. Then the warmth was gone, and she wondered if she had merely imagined it.

In the bustle of regaining her dignity and composure, of smoothing her gown while he collected his fallen cane, and of assuring her aunt that she was fine and no longer in need of having her back assaulted, the moment of intimacy was completely erased. With a courteous bow from Lord Sheridan and a slight curtsey from Olivia, they parted company.

Olivia was quiet all the way home. When her maid had dressed her in her night rail, she wandered around the elegantly appointed bedchamber for several minutes.

Finally she climbed into bed.

It really was a shame that the Marquess of Sheridan was such a gloomy sort of fellow. He was always frowning despite the fact that he attended balls, routs, and even picnics—and despite the fact that he had such a wondrous smile. Though she hadn’t given him much thought before, she had occasionally wondered why he bothered.

Tonight, however, she had glimpsed a different Lord Sheridan. Perhaps there had been a time, before his wife died in childbirth, that he had been a different sort of man. Perhaps he had been quite jolly. Olivia chuckled then she leaned over to blow out the candle. What an absurd image. Lord Sheridan laughing gaily and capering around the dance floor. How ridiculous!

Her raggedy little cat hopped on the bed and found her hand, butting his head against it until she began to pet him.

“Yes, I know you are tired from your nightly wandering. So am I. That must be why I cannot settle my mind and go to sleep.”

“Meow,” said Hawkeye, turning over on his back and batting at her fingers.

Scratching his chin, her thoughts returned to the handsome marquess. She must have seen him at dozens of balls over the years, but she had never even seen him dance. Perhaps he simply did not know how. No, that was ridiculous.

Still, he must attend them for some reason.

Sighing, Olivia shut her eyes and resolved that she would have to look into this matter of Lord Sheridan. Perhaps he needed her help. After all, it was not just the poor who needed a helping hand. Lord Sheridan was rumoured to be as rich as Croesus, but he might still welcome some happiness into his dull life, and happiness was her specialty.

“What do you say, my lord? Should I send this H. Pelham a bank draft?”

“No, wait until Butters has a chance to check out his story. Go to Bow Street and see Butters at once.”

“Very good, my lord. And the others?”

“Send them the usual—except that Mrs. Turner. Since the losses at Waterloo last year, the number of soldiers’ widows has risen terribly. They deserve better than to be forgotten. Oh, and the vicar at home. Don’t forget him. He’s distributing the funds to the soldiers.”

“Really my lord, I believe giving the men and their families roofs over their heads should be quite sufficient,” protested the marquess’s secretary.

Sheridan grinned at the young man and shook his head. “Getting stingy with my money?”

“Oh, no, my lord, I would never presume…”

“I know, Fitz, my boy. I was only making a small joke. I appreciate your careful marshalling of my affairs. You do a capital job. With you in charge, I never worry about any of my business concerns.”

“Thank you, my lord,” said the conscientious Mr. Fitzsimmons, blushing a fiery red.

“Then you will send the widow and the vicar twice what we normally do.”

“Very good, my lord,” said the young man, sitting down behind the desk once more as Sheridan turned and walked to the door.

The secretary popped up again when he paused and turned. With a smile, Sheridan said, “Only do send them a note saying that this is not a permanent increase.”

“Certainly, my lord.”

“Oh, and one more thing. Send some flowers to a Lady Olivia Cunningham. I don’t know her address. Enclose a note saying that I hope she has suffered no lasting harm from our encounter, etc.”

“Immediately, my lord.” The secretary removed his spectacles and stepped around the desk.

Sheridan grinned. “It is not as urgent as all that, Fitz. Any time this morning will do.”

“Oh, I thought…”

“No, no. Nothing of the sort. I dropped my cane, and it sort of landed on the lady. No doubt the bird-witted creature has already forgotten the incident, but I won’t have it said that I do not know how to behave in polite society.”

“Certainly not, my lord.” The secretary returned to his chair, waiting patiently for him to depart.

With a wave, Sheridan picked up his cane—today it was the one with the hand-carved lion’s head—and made his way down the hall. The footman threw open the front door, bowing slightly when his master thanked him.

Gratified to see the blue sky peeking through the clouds, Sheridan hummed a little ditty under his breath as he strolled along the pavement. He walked from his house through the busy London streets to Hyde Park. It was not yet noon, and the park was quiet, another fact that lightened his usual gloomy expression.

His daughter had once asked him why he never smiled, and he had replied with one but she had not been satisfied. Her childish goal had then become to make him smile at every encounter—at least once—and she had succeeded. His princess would always get her way, if her father had any say in the matter. But that summer had ended. Rebekah had gone away to school for the first time, and when she returned, she was no longer his impish little girl. Rebekah had changed into a serious young lady, one who had no time to make her father smile.

But she was a beauty! As beautiful as her mother, though he hoped her nature would make her kinder than his late wife had been. He supposed only time would tell.

Sheridan sat down on a bench. Sitting back, he scratched his chin with the cold ivory handle of his cane. He put down the cane, leaning it against the wooden bench.

And then there was Arthur, his heir. There had never been any camaraderie between them. The boy was bookish. He hated riding and shooting and fishing—all the things Sheridan loved. Arthur preferred living through the characters in his storybooks. His classes at Eton were easy for him, but living with other boys was proving much more difficult.

Still, it had been a month since Sheridan had received another wrenching letter, begging him to allow the boy to go home and be tutored privately. Sheridan wondered every day if he had made the right decision, forcing him to remain at school. Perhaps this time, his decision had been for the best.

Sheridan sighed. Children really should come with directions. If truth be told, he knew nothing about them, and without a wife to help, he floundered around most of the time until he hit upon some solution to whatever problem they happened to present. It was hardly an efficacious way to go about the business of rearing one’s offspring.

A young lady trotted by on her pony, eyeing him out of the corner of her eye. Her groom followed on another pony at a respectful distance. The young lady turned to see if Sheridan was watching her, and he grimaced. Even though she was probably only a year or two older than his own daughter, she was sizing him up as if trying to decide if he was marriage material.

Blast! What a dreadful thing this was, this thing called The Season. And here he was, joining in, more or less just to keep up his contacts so that his own princess could have her Season when it came to her turn.

The thought of her…but there he was again. Thinking about Rebekah becoming one of those young ladies. He had promised himself he would not, but it was becoming more and more difficult each year, as she grew another year closer to it.

Whatever had happened to those ivory towers where a fellow could lock up his damsel and keep her to himself? With another grimace, he rose and stretched. Even if he had a tower, it wouldn’t be strong enough to hold Rebekah. She was as stubborn as her father. Besides, all she would have to do to secure her release would be to turn those soulful brown eyes on him and say
please
. Her doting father would be lost instantly.

Sheridan glanced up at the cloudy sky. The sun had disappeared, and dark clouds loomed in the distance. He returned to the gates of the park and waited for a break in the carriages before crossing the pavement. Finally, he made his way to his club where he discovered Richard consuming a huge meal.

“Have a seat, Sheri. Another plate,” he called to the waiter, but Sheridan waved the servant away.

His friend shrugged and said, “I don’t know how you can deny yourself. That beggarly supper buffet at Lady Pinchot’s last night has worn completely away.”

When this complaint brought no response, Richard laid his fork on the table and studied his friend.

“I say, Sheri, you’re looking particularly glum today.”

“No more than usual. I was thinking of Rebekah and the fact that in only a year—or two, if I can put her off that long—she will be making her bow into society. I cannot like the idea.”

“No father likes it, I believe. Can you not leave that to your mother?”

“My mother? Do you not remember my mother? She is the one who never leaves the country, never comes to town. Why the devil do you think I am here? All my mother does is tell me I had better come to town and keep up my contacts in society if I want Rebekah to have a successful Season. My mother certainly has no intention of helping. So here I am, attending every demmed ball and rout for the past two years, trying to pave the way for my daughter. What I really want is to lock her in her room and bar the door to every jackanapes who so much as looks at her!”

“Fascinating,” murmured his friend. “I had no idea fathers felt that way. Not that it would have changed my, uh, habits. But never mind about me.”

“It is your sort who makes me want to lock her up and throw away the key,” said Sheridan, signalling to the waiter to bring another glass.

“True, but you cannot lock her up. Granted, I have no experience in this matter, but I would imagine that it is rather like taking one’s favourite horse to Tattersall’s and putting him on the block. Not a joyous occasion. I mean, you know you want to sell the beast. That is what you have brought him there for, but when someone has bought the nag, another part of you wants very much to draw the fellow’s cork.”

Sheridan chuckled and nodded. “Though I think most ladies would be revolted by your analogy, I think it quite suitable. The thought of some young puppy coming to me and asking my permission to court my daughter…it makes me quite blue-devilled.”

The waiter brought another glass, and Sheridan picked up his friend’s bottle of wine and filled the glass to the top.

Raising it, Sheridan said heartily, “To our ladies and our horses, the two things a gentleman values the most.”

“Here! Here!” said Richard, lifting his glass to his lips.

Chapter Two

P
oking her head into her aunt’s chamber, Olivia said, “Aunt Amy, after I have done my other errands, I am going out to the shops. Might I bring you something?”

“No, I don’t think so, m’dear,” said the older woman from her bed where she sipped her chocolate. “Nothing I can think of so early in the day.”

“But it is one o’clock in the afternoon,” protested Olivia with a laugh.

“Precisely, and after seeking my bed at four o’clock this morning, it is much too early for the serious contemplation of shopping.” She put out her hand and picked up a pair of spectacles from the bedside table. Eyeing Olivia, she said, “Going to the shops dressed like that?”

Olivia glanced down at her modestly cut navy blue gown and said, “I see nothing wrong with it. Would you prefer I wear silks and satins when I visit the poor?”

“Do not be absurd, child. No, but you are going to the shops, too.”

“Yes, but I am not attending the opera or a ball, and if I happen to meet any of my friends, they will simply have to take me as they see me—which I’m sure they will.”

“You sometimes place too much faith in people’s judgment,” commented her aunt as she removed the spectacles.

“So, you still cannot think of anything you need?” asked Olivia.

“No, no, you run along, but do take Harold and your maid with you. My qualms about your fashion sense aside, one can never be too careful of one’s reputation, my dear.”

“Pansy has caught a chill, so I have ordered her to bed for the day, but you know I never go anywhere without Harold. Rest well, dear Aunt.”

Olivia closed the door as her aunt replied, “A husband would be much more suitable company.”

Chuckling, Olivia padded silently along the carpeted corridor of her town house and tripped down the steps to the front door. The butler appeared, and she spent several minutes consulting with him before leaving the house. Outside, the coachman on the box tipped his hat when she appeared.

“Good morning, Mr. Pate. I hope the threatening rain does not trouble your rheumatism too much.”

“Not too much, my lady. Thank you. And th’ rain will wait until tonight, I think.”

“Let us hope you are right.”

“Will it be the usual round today?”

“Yes, but I want to begin with the widows’ home so that we may deliver those boxes.”

“Very good, my lady.”

She stepped to the rear of the carriage where a small, wizened face appeared, grinning from ear to ear.

“How are you today, Rattle?”

“I’m just fine, bless you, m’lady,” said the youth. “The good Lord is in his heaven. All’s right with the world. Amen.”

“Yes, well, thank you, Rattle.”

Olivia then turned her smile on the huge servant by the carriage door, waiting patiently to hand her inside. When she was settled on the forward-facing seat, he climbed inside, too, taking the rear-facing seat opposite hers.

“How are you today, Harold?”

“I’m very well, thank you, m’lady,” he replied with grave formality in his curiously high-pitched voice.

“How is Rattle faring?”

“He’s fine. He likes workin’ in th’ stables, and since he found religion, he spends most of his spare time helping out at th’ church.”

With a chuckle, Olivia said, “Who would have thought a climbing boy named Rat would ever have changed to this extent?” As the carriage lurched forward, she added, “You may begin.”

The large man removed a small book from his pocket and began to read. “The king look…ed, looked at his son and said, ‘Let me he…huh…hip…he lip’?”

Olivia leaned across and glanced at the book. “Help. All the letters run together, you see.”

“Help,” the giant echoed. “Let me help you with your suh...kuh…crown.”

Olivia listened with half an ear as her servant continued his lesson. She was pleased with Harold’s progress. He was proving an apt pupil. If only the children would work as hard as he did.

Silence answered this unspoken thought, and she glanced up in surprise. Harold was looking out the window with a puzzled frown on his face.

“Oh, I forgot to tell you,” she said. “We are going to end with the school today. Don’t worry, I didn’t forget that you are going to teach the children a new letter today.”

He smiled, his gaping teeth lending his face a rather frightening aspect, but the faded blue eyes above his misshapen nose were tender.

“I am teaching them the letter
f
today my lady.”

“And what words are you going to use for that?” she asked.

Harold’s background as a prizefighter had led him to use several colourful words to illustrate the letter
b—belting, bruise,
and
bung
. The boys had loved his demonstrations, but the headmistress of their little school had been horrified and threatened to leave if Harold ever used similar words in her presence. Secretly, Olivia had thought him rather resourceful. After all, the former boxer had held the small group of restless boys mesmerized as he playacted hitting his opponents, bruising them, and “bunging their peepholes” shut.

From then on, the boys had clamoured for more, but after Olivia’s protests on behalf of the headmistress, Harold had steadfastly refused to humour them. He had spit on his palm and pressed it to his heart when swearing that he would not break his word to his mistress, and he had not. For all that Harold Hanson had led a colourful life, he was a man of honour.

“I thought I would use
funny
,
farmer
, and—if you think Mrs. Priddy wouldn’t object—
fighter
, because I was one.”

“I think that is perfectly acceptable as long as your playacting does not become too, uh, real.”

“Oh, no, my lady. I’ll be ever so polite about it.”

“Then those words should all be fine, Harold. I’m very pleased that you are teaching those young scamps their letters. The girls don’t seem to mind sitting down and learning, but the boys are much more active.”

“They’re just full of fun, my lady. They’re not sweet like those little girls. Most of them boys lived too long working hard just to get by. It makes them restless to have everything given to them.”

Olivia frowned. “Yes, it is a problem. I am glad you suggested that the children should make themselves useful around the school by doing chores. I was going to hire more maids, but I think your idea was better for everyone concerned.”

The big man beamed at this praise. The carriage came to a stop before a dark brick building. The servant opened the door and jumped down, glancing around him before reaching his hand up to help Olivia descend. When she was safe inside, he returned to the carriage where Rattle had opened the boot. Loading their arms with boxes, they brought them inside, too.

“Here they are, Mr. Mullins. I think the ladies will find plenty to keep them busy,” said Lady Olivia when Harold and her tiger entered, the boxes stacked so high they could barely see over them.

“Why don’t we take the boxes into the workroom?” said Mr. Mullins.

A man of medium height, his bearing was as crisp as the uniform he had once worn. With a sweep of his arm, he ushered Olivia through a dark hallway and up a narrow flight of stairs.

“How is old Mrs. Arvin doing?”

“She is still quite ill, I’m afraid. Her granddaughter is sitting with her. We cannot get her to eat anything, and the doctor holds out little hope.”

“I am sorry to hear that. I will stop in to see her before I leave.”

The reserved man pushed open a door to a spacious room filled with sunlight. The ladies looked up from their chairs and nodded, but they didn’t rise. After several months, Olivia had finally been able to persuade them that this act of servitude was not required. She proceeded around the room, speaking to each woman by name, putting her hand on a shoulder here and admiring their handiwork there.

At the end of her promenade, she announced, “As always, your work is amazing, ladies. You will be pleased to know that your little business is becoming quite self-sufficient. Harold and I have brought you more clothes to remake and something extra, too.”

She signalled to her servant, and he put the largest box on the table in the centre of the room and popped it open.
Oohs
and
ahhs
rippled through the spacious workroom. Several of the older women left their seats and came forward to lift the lengths of fabric to their cheeks in appreciation.

“They are beautiful, my lady. Such fine fabrics I never have seen,” said one of the women.

“They are that. The lengths of cloth are not new, but they have never been used. One of my acquaintances discovered all of these wonderful fabrics in some attic trunks. She had no use for them and thought of you. She has been very generous in the past, but as I told her, this donation is nothing short of a treasure.”

“What do you want us to do with them, my lady?”

“You must decide that for yourselves, ladies. I have also brought some of the latest copies of Ackerman’s fashion plates for you to study. Or perhaps you prefer to make children’s garments. Mr. Mullins will help you sell them, and you may share whatever profit your work yields.”

“I think we should take all the profits and buy more fabric,” said one of the younger women, whose two children lived in the country with her widowed mother. Missing them, she was more ambitious than the others. “We could become dressmakers in our own right.”

Olivia smiled. “You already are, Mrs. Tatman.”

“Ladies, ladies, we must think this through very carefully,” said Mr. Mullins. “Each of you has certain things you want to achieve for yourselves or your families. This could indeed be the beginning of a whole new enterprise, but we must think it through.”

“I know you will make wise decisions, Mr. Mullins. Indeed, I have confidence in all of you. Now, I will leave you to it. Harold and I have other stops to make.”

Practically coming to attention, the former soldier said, “Of course, and thank you, my lady. We will not disappoint you.”

“I never dreamed that you would, Mr. Mullins.” Turning and including all of them in her smile, she said, “Not any of you.”

Olivia and Harold left the room. After stopping by the dying Mrs. Arvin’s room, they returned to the carriage and set forth for the school. Harold squirmed with excitement in his seat.

Glancing out the window, he suddenly twitched all the curtains closed.

Frowning, Olivia asked, “What are you doing, Harold?”

“There’s bodies out there a lady oughtn’ see.”

“Bodies?” She leaned over and peeked outside.

The carriage continued through another rather seedy part of the city. On the corner, she spotted the bodies Harold was trying to hide. Two scantily clad females were talking to a red-nosed young man, their hands stroking his chest.

Dropping the curtain, Olivia said firmly, “I have seen that sort of female before, Harold. I am not likely to be shocked by such a spectacle.”

Sitting back once more, she frowned. After several minutes, she said, “I have to wonder what might happen if those women had the same opportunities…”

“No, my lady. You cannot mean…”

“Well, it is hardly their fault, is it? I mean, they were innocents once, weren’t they?”

“I doubt it,” he grumbled.

“Still, I do see that it would be quite a challenge. I have helped one or two in the past, but it would be impossible to reach enough of them to make any real difference in the face of the city.”

“That’s right, my lady,” said the servant, relaxing against the squabs again. He pulled out his book.

“I cannot help but speculate, though. Surely, there has to be someplace they gather, some central spot where I might…”

In response to his sigh, Olivia grinned and relaxed against the soft velvet cushions.

The big man relaxed again, biting at his lip as he worked to decipher the next word. He would not have been nearly as complacent had he seen her determination.

Their next stop took them to the edge of the city where the carriage pulled up before a neat brick building surrounded by an iron fence. Their arrival was heralded by a boy of about ten, who raced down the steps to greet them at the gate.

“They’re here!” he shouted over his shoulder, bobbing up and down like a bouncing ball. “They‘re here!”

With ponderous steps, the caretaker ambled up to the gate and turned his key in the lock. He stood to one side to allow them to enter.

“Good morning, Mr. Tucker,” said Lady Olivia. “I trust you are well.”

Another retired soldier, the man gave her a warm smile and nodded respectfully. “Thank ye, m’lady,” he said, his voice a whisper.

Olivia masked the pity in her eyes and smiled brightly. Wounded on the Peninsula, the man had survived a sabre wound to his throat, but his voice had never been the same.

Holding out her hand to the boy, Olivia said, “Good morning, Bobby.” He wiped his hand on his breeches and took her gloved hand, bowing from the waist. “Oh, very well done. I can tell you have been practicing your manners.”

“I practice with Mrs. Priddy and Mrs. Server every day, my lady.” With an impish grin, he bowed again, though not as low this time. “Good morning, Mr. Hanson.”

“Good morning, young Bobby.” Harold shook hands with the boy, and they followed Olivia into the building.

The interior here was much like that of the widows’ home. There was light everywhere. A row of more than twenty stair-stepped children lined the hall. Dressed neatly, they awaited Olivia’s inspection. As before, she spoke to each child by name, tousling hair and shaking hands, and in the case of one small toddler, taking her up in her arms.

“And you, my bright Penny. How are you today?”

“Fine,” came the grave reply. With a final squeeze, she set the child down again and turned her attention to the headmistress who was dressed in dove grey, a soft colour that belied her iron will.

“Good morning, Mrs. Priddy.”

The woman curtsied and so did her subordinates. “Good morning, my lady.”

“I thought we could talk in your office while Harold gives his lesson to the little ones.”

“Certainly. Mrs. Server, why don’t you and Mr. Hanson take the children to the schoolroom?”

“Yes, ma’am,” said the younger version of the headmistress, though her regard was less severe.

When the headmistress and Olivia were alone with a teapot between them, Mrs. Priddy relaxed and smiled. “How are you, my dear Lady Olivia?”