Miss Goldsleigh's Secret (12 page)

“Nothing.” Dalton felt twelve years old. “Actually, I’m perusing the bouquets.”

Her eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “You’re snooping.” At that perfect moment, Warren and Helen stepped from behind the arrangements. “You two? I’m quite certain Mr. Bailey is missing you. Back to your studies.” The little traitors scurried away, but Dalton couldn’t blame them. His skills as a lookout had sorely diminished from the days of his youth. “Why are you reading your sisters’ cards?”

“I’m not reading my sisters’ cards.” It wasn’t a lie. He had no interest in his sisters’ cards whatsoever.

“Really? Henry, this is beneath you.” She shook her head. He’d always hated that
I-expect-better-from-you
look.

“I wasn’t reading Cassie or Penny’s cards.” When she looked pointedly at the arm crooked behind his back, he blurted out, “I was looking at Olivia’s cards.”
Unbelievable.

His mother held out her hand, and Dalton placed the card in her palm. She glanced down and read the poem, and her face softened. “Oh, that’s lovely.” Dalton snorted. “Why are you reading Miss Goldsleigh’s cards?” He did not miss the emphasis she placed on their houseguest’s correct address.

“I have every right to know what is coming in and out of my house.” Why did he sound so childish when he said it? “This is preposterous. I’ll be in my study.” He turned on his heel and strode down the hall, leaving his mother standing in alone with a bewildered expression.

You, Henry Cavendish, Marquess of Dalton, peer of the realm, responsible older brother and son, and Member of Parliament, are an absolute horse’s ass.

Chapter Seventeen

As soon as they reached the promenade, Penelope suggested they walk and mingle. Olivia strolled along the path, smile plastered on her face, nodding acknowledgments to greetings—all of it such a waste of time. She had planning to do, and socializing in the park wasn’t furthering her escape plans at all.

Cassandra and Penelope were such dear girls, and she cherished their friendship, but their incessant chatter about the flowers and the record-breaking number of deliveries plucked at her already frayed nerves. Honestly, she wished there was nothing else to think about other than which flowers came from the handsomest man and who wrote the most eloquent sentiment. The flowers were lovely, and she was flattered at the attention, but it was all a moot point. The flowers were of no use to her since she couldn’t sell or trade them for passage to America or the Continent.

Penelope let out a little squeal, bringing Olivia back to the present. “Look, it’s Moreau.”

“His poem was so dreamy,” Cassandra replied on a sigh.

Olivia looked around at the strolling crowd. “Which one is he again? There were so many gentlemen last night.”

“There.” Penelope motioned with her head. “The one with the purple waistcoat.”

“Ah, yes.” Olivia remembered the man. He was exceedingly generous with his flattery and, she was willing to admit, a handsome man. However, his compliments paled next to those of Lord Dalton during their waltz. And his swarthy good looks were pleasing indeed, but compared to the godlike beauty of the marquess, he may as well have been a toad.

Olivia had woken with a headache this morning that was getting worse as the day went on. She hadn’t been able to eat any breakfast, and the nausea kept building. She blinked hard and willed away the pressure.

She had wanted to remain angry at Lord Dalton. His apology last night had seemed sincere. If she were able to stay in London, if she were a normal girl having a normal season, if she wasn’t a murderess, she would set her cap for Lord Dalton in a heartbeat. His touch was like a bolt of lightning through velvet.

Olivia shook her head. She couldn’t afford to go down that imaginary road, but there was no way she was able to stop her mind from wandering there. Not when her lips were still swollen from his kisses and her breasts still bore the rash from his beard. She’d never imagined kisses could lead to such mindlessness. But Lord help her, she’d welcomed it. She yearned to go to the place again where someone else was in charge. Where the turmoil she felt was centered on arousal and not where she and her brother were going to sleep that night.

In the reality of the sunshine, there was no place for fantastical dreaming and longing. That’s not the way the world worked, as she was only too aware.

Dalton told her she and Warren were under his protection, but that was because he didn’t know the whole truth. Protection was not something he could offer once he discovered the men following her were looking to take her to Newgate Prison, not to haul her back to her cousin. Besides, she could never bring harm to this family. They were too dear, too trusting, too wonderful. Unfortunately, she still had no idea how she was going to get away. She didn’t have enough money to take a hackney to the dock, much less buy passage for her and Warren. The situation seemed helpless. The more she thought about it, the more her head ached.

“He’s coming this way,” Cassandra whispered, her face alight with excitement. “Everyone stay calm.”

“I am calm.” Penelope laughed at her sister. “You stay calm. You look like you’re going to take flight.”

“Shhhhhhhhh,” Cassandra hissed, and plastered a polite smile on her face.

“Beautiful
mademoiselles
.” Moreau approached their little trio. “The park is that much lovelier with the three of you in it.” Olivia was drawn into the little tableau when he grasped her hand and brought it to his lips. “
Tres belle
, Miss Goldsleigh.”

“Good morning to you.” Olivia nodded and extracted her hand. The smell of his cologne ratcheted up her headache another degree. She retreated backwards a step to give her some fresh air and breathing room.

“I do so hope I can count on a waltz from you at this evening’s ball.” Moreau looked to the Cavendish sisters as if to include them in his broad request. “May I make my request known now,
chérie
?” He closed the gap she’d placed between them, causing her to breathe through her mouth in an effort not to take in the overpowering aroma of his cologne.

“I don’t know that will be possible, sir.” Her head pounded. “I’m not sure if I’ll be out this evening.” There was too much to do, too much to plan, and now this headache growing with each passing minute, she’d be useless anyway. Going to a ball was too frivolous to consider.

Penelope looked to her friend in concern. “Olivia, why would you even consider staying in tonight of all nights? The Harcourt Ball is tonight, and it’s a very important social occasion. I know Aunt Evelyn is excited about presenting you there.”

“Besides,” Cassandra added, “it would be bad form to disappear after receiving all those flowers. Are you ill?”

Now she was cornered. Other friends who saw the little group were approaching, and soon there would be a dozen or more ladies and gentlemen crowded around them on the grass. “Actually, my head is pounding,” she confessed.

“Then you must return home straightaway and take care of yourself.” The Frenchman took her by the elbow as if he planned to escort her home himself. “I shudder to think how many
les juenes hommes
will be disappointed if your beautiful face and esprit are not there this evening. Please, I beg of you.”

Olivia gently removed her arm from his grasp. If he planned to take her all the way home, she was sure to vomit on his boots, and if her staying away from one ball caused him such distress, imagine what ruining his gleaming Hessians would do.

“Perhaps that would be a good idea.” Penelope must have picked up on her distress because she skillfully insinuated herself between Olivia and the gentleman. “We’ll be quite all right, sir. In fact, I see one of our footmen just there on the path. He will see that we arrive safely home.”

“Until tonight then.” Moreau seemed to seal her fate.

Cassandra stepped to Olivia’s other side. “We will count on it, sir.”

Olivia fervently hoped, as the three of them plus the addition of the huge footman made their way back to the house on Cavendish Square, that this headache would do her a favor and kill her.

You couldn’t possibly be that lucky.

***

She wasn’t. Dead that is. Why had luck forsaken her altogether?

She awoke from a nap in the early afternoon, and her headache was significantly diminished. The minute they’d arrived home from their jaunt in the park, Cassandra and Penelope had hustled her up to bed, forced her to take a headache powder she suspected was laced with laudanum to make her sleep, and closed the curtains to shut out the light. The housekeeper arrived minutes later with cool compresses for her nape and a pillow of crushed lavender to lay her head upon. Olivia had only minutes to complain to herself about the highhandedness of it all before she succumbed to a deep, restorative sleep.

She stared at the ceiling, blindly fixated on the plaster mouldings, and contemplated how clean and comfortable the bed was and the fact that she couldn’t hear rats scrambling around in the walls. Her last migraine had ended with a night spent sleeping in an opium den after she’d become delirious from the pain. That was the night Warren had been recruited by the house-breaking crew. The next morning, Olivia had vowed to get them out of the slums and two days later she’d collapsed into Lord Dalton’s arms on Bond Street.

She turned to her side and curled around a pillow, hugging it tight to her middle. Perhaps if she begged Lord Dalton, he would see fit to allow Warren to stay for a while until she could get settled somewhere and send for him. It would be much easier to make her way alone than with an injured boy in tow. That was another consideration entirely. Traveling now might be very dangerous for Warren.

She’d seen the man watching from across the street when she’d gone out with Penny and Cassie to the park this morning. Now that Lord Dalton had told her about them, she was watchful, and she wasn’t at all surprised to see him there. He was a rather rough-looking sort, and she thought it odd that he didn’t appear more official. Perhaps he was an underling, a man hired by Bow Street to do the dirty work. What did she know about the officials anyway? She’d spent the last weeks hiding from men she suspected were watching her for the purposes of bringing her to justice, not studying them like a science experiment.

Olivia tossed the pillow aside and levered herself up from the bed. Nothing would get done by pouting. She straightened her day dress, but it was hopelessly wrinkled from sleeping in it. One look in the mirror told her what she already suspected; her hair was a disheveled mess. She raked her fingers through the loose strands, trying to marry them up by tucking and twisting them in with the masses of blonde hair still in the pins. If she ended up going to the ball this evening, then Natalie would redo it, and if she didn’t attend, then what difference did it make? She looked in the mirror and shrugged, not really caring.

The hallway was empty all the way down the corridor to her brother’s room. Warren wasn’t in his room either. His bed was made, the covers pulled tight and the pillows piled high. Shutting the door, she went in search of her brother.

Her feet seemed to naturally wind themselves through the rooms and passageways until she found herself outside Lord Dalton’s study. With the door ajar, Dalton’s and Warren’s voices drifted into the hall.

“…drank a lot and then he would,” her brother’s voice told Dalton.

“Often?” Dalton questioned. “How often? Once or twice a month?”

There was a brief pause before Warren answered, “No, every couple of days.”

“Days?” Dalton replied, incredulous. “For how long?”

“I don’t know, about three or four weeks I guess.”

“You’re telling me your cousin got drunk and beat you and Olivia for weeks?” Olivia heard something slam down hard on wood. “Goddamn it all to hell.”

“Well, he wasn’t really my cousin, exactly. He was Livvy’s cousin,” Warren explained.

“How did you get away?” Dalton asked from somewhere closer to the door than he had been earlier.

That question was enough to galvanize her into movement. “That’s quite enough, Warren,” she announced and strode through the door. “I’ve been looking for you all over the house.”

Warren’s smile was broad and genuine when he stood from the enormous chair he occupied. “Hello, Livvy.”

“You must be feeling much better.” She avoided eye contact with Lord Dalton. She knew he watched her—she felt his heated gaze—but after last night’s lust-filled and angry exchange, she couldn’t meet his eyes.

“My arm still hurts, but staying in bed is boring. Lord Dalton’s valet helped me get dressed.” Warren swept his hand down in front of himself, displaying his trousers and shirt.

Olivia couldn’t help but smile. “Very nice. I do think it’s time to leave Lord Dalton to his work, though. Don’t you?” She looked at her brother pointedly.

“Oh,” He clearly understood and seemed chagrined at how much he’d already said. “But, Livvy, what if he can help us?”

Olivia didn’t answer. Lord Dalton had already helped them more than she could ever repay.

A deep voice resonated behind her. “Warren was telling me more about your situation. Olivia, let me help you.” She noticed right off that he was using her Christian name.
I guess we’re still stuck on that, are we?

“I heard. Warren, will you excuse the marquess and me, please?”

Warren stared at her for several long seconds before he spoke. “I didn’t say anything. I promise.”

“I’m not angry at you, honey, but I need to speak with his lordship privately.”

Warren cast her a frustrated glance and snorted a disheartened breath before glancing at Lord Dalton. Obviously, the marquess wasn’t going to undermine her request, and the boy trudged out of the room. She followed him to the door and shut it behind him. She was alone with the man, which flew against all her good sense, but Olivia had much to accomplish in the next day or so, and she couldn’t worry about frivolous things like social conventions and the unseemliness of being alone with a man in a closed room. Besides, how much worse could it end up than it had the night before?

She turned to face Lord Dalton.
My word, he’s beautiful.
She marshaled her emotions and tamped down the heat that threatened to flare just by being the object of his undivided attention. “I thank you very much for all you and your family have done. Your assistance is more than I deserve.” When he started to speak, she held up a quieting hand. “My lord, there is much you don’t know about the situation, things I can’t tell you, and I wish you wouldn’t pry into our lives or ask Warren about it. He’s just a little boy, and that’s not fair.”

“Olivia, I’m not trying to pry. Let me help you.” Lord Dalton reached for her hands, but she clasped them tightly together at her waist. It was difficult enough to have this conversation and ask what she needed to ask without adding the confusion of his touching her. Rebuffed, Dalton withdrew his hands, but he didn’t step back. “Warren is the most mature ten-year-old I’ve ever met.”

“Yes, he is,” she agreed, “but he’s still a little boy, and it’s my fault he’s had to experience so much…awfulness.”

“You’re being much too hard on yourself.” He advanced another step toward her, but she didn’t retreat this time. “You don’t need to do this all on your own. I can help you.”

“You
can
help me, if you’re willing.” Olivia swallowed hard, and darn it all if she didn’t feel the annoying pinpricks of tears behind her eyes. She rushed the words from her mouth in an effort to control her emotions. “It’s more important than ever I leave as soon as possible.”

Dalton shook his head with finality. “You’re not going anywhere.”

She looked at him. “There are reasons I can’t stay here any longer.”