The Fifth Kiss (10 page)

As the afternoon wore on, however, Olivia became more and more angry with Strickland, chaffing at the arrogant power he wielded over the household. She spent a part of the afternoon with her nephew in the schoolroom and found the boy unwontedly subdued. He didn't want to play their usual game and asked her instead to read to him from a history book. “Father says I should banish Sir Budgidore,” he said despondently. “He wants me to study about
real
people.”

She began to read, but when she looked up she saw he wasn't listening. He was staring out of the window. Down below, he could see the stable yard where his father was returning from a ride with little Amy on the saddle before him. Perry's expression as he watched was strangely empty and bleak. Olivia, standing beside him, felt her fingers curl into claws. Perhaps Perry didn't want to play King Othar today, but
she
would have liked to play Gorgana, the evil enchantress. There was someone down below upon whose head she would have liked to call curses. Or, better still, she would have very much liked to claw Strickland's eyes out!

chapter seven

Olivia realized, as she descended the stairs that evening, that she was more than half-an-hour too early for dinner, but since she was already dressed, it made little sense to stay cooped up in her bedroom. Besides, she'd finished the book she'd been reading and intended to spend the time before dinner browsing about in the library. She was about to turn the knob of the library door when a strange male voice assailed her ears.

“Right in the lobby of the
Commons
, I tell you! Saw it with my own eyes!” the man was saying.

“
Shot
? Perceval
shot
?” came Strickland's voice. “That's the most unbelievable tale I've ever heard in my life. Who'd want to shoot
Perceval
?”

Olivia froze. Were they speaking of
Spencer
Percevel, the
Prime Minister
? Was he
dead
? Why, that would be …
assassination
! Never in British history had a Prime Minister been assassinated.

“Fellow by the name of Bellingham,” the strange voice said.

“Bellingham? Who the devil's Bellingham? One of Grey's lackeys?”

“No, no. Not a Whig plot at all. The fellow Bellingham had been imprisoned by the Russians, and Leveson Gower, who'd been our representative there at the time, had done nothing for him. So when this Bellingham came home from abroad, bankrupt and mad as a marsh hare, he was looking for Gower's blood.”

“Then why didn't he shoot
Gower
?” Strickland demanded furiously.

“Couldn't
find
him!”

“Couldn't—!” He sputtered in an angry rage that could be heard through the door. “Couldn't
find
him? So he chose the
P.M
. instead? That is the most insane set of circumstances I've ever heard recounted.”

“Told you the man was unhinged.”

“And Perceval's dead? You're
certain? Dead
?”

“As a doornail, old boy. As a proverbial doornail. That's why you must come back to London
at once
! The government is in chaos, the Whigs are pushing at Prinny already, and the party is completely divided on the matter of a successor. Can you leave tonight?”

“Quiet down for a moment, Arthur, and let me think. Perceval dead! An
assassination
! It's not something one can take in all at once.”

There was a moment of silence, and Olivia could hear Strickland's tread as he crossed and crisscrossed the library floor. She couldn't tear herself away. Neither could she enter and interrupt a conversation as significant as this one. So she remained where she was and prayed that she would not be discovered.

“I'm afraid, Arthur,” Strickland said after a long silence, “I can't go back with you tonight. You'll have dinner with us, of course, and then go back yourself. I'll follow as soon as I can.”

“But, dammit, Miles, every moment may cost us a price. Grenville was going to see Prinny this very
afternoon
!”

“Don't panic, Arthur. The best Grenville will get will be a coalition, and even that is doubtful. Lady Hertford is a staunch Tory, bless her Evangelical little heart, and Prinny hangs on her every word. She'll see to it that Grenville's kept out of consideration.”

“But we
need
you, Miles. You may be the very person the party can rally round!”

Olivia almost gasped aloud. Strickland for
Prime Minister
? The country would be
doomed
!

But his next words dispelled her fears. “I? Don't be a fool! I'd make the worst possible Prime Minister. You know how I set up everyone's bristles as soon as I open my mouth. We need someone whose abilities are cohesive rather than divisive.”

“But, Miles, you could learn—”

“No, Arthur. When you get back, try to rally them around Liverpool.”

“
Liverpool
? Good God, man, why Liverpool?”

“He's not our greatest talent, perhaps, but Castlereagh is as abrasive as I am and would not find enough support. Nevertheless, Castlereagh himself will support Liverpool, and
that
support is what we need.”

“Yes, I see your point. But why can't you come with me? You can maneuver matters so much better than I can.”

“I shall not be more than a day behind you. I can't take such abrupt leave of my family at this time. My wife has not been well, you see … and there are some matters of estate business to which I must attend—”

There was a sound of footsteps on the stair, and Olivia drew away from the library door hastily. Walking to the foot of the stairs with elaborate nonchalance, she looked up to see her sister coming down. “Ah,
there
you are, Clara,” she said innocently. “I just came down and … er … thought I heard voices in the library.”

“Yes, love, you did,” Clara informed her. “Miles has a visitor from London, I've been told. Come along and let's meet him.”

She was about to tap on the door when the two men emerged. Strickland made his friend, Sir Arthur Tisswold, known to his wife and sister-in-law, and the group repaired to the drawing room to drink some wine before dinner. “Tell the ladies your news, Arthur,” Strickland urged.

Tisswold, with appropriate dramatic embellishment, recounted the dreadful story of the Prime Minister's assassination. The shock so upset Clara that she had to be helped to a chair. As Tisswold fanned her face with a newspaper, Strickland made her drink a sip of brandy, and Clara quickly revived. Her collapse had one fortunate consequence: in the stir, no one noticed that the news of the assassination was not as great a shock to Olivia as it should have been.

When the shock waves receded and Clara had recovered sufficiently to get to her feet, she led the way to the dining room, with Olivia following and the two gentlemen bringing up the rear. Just before the men entered, however, Arthur Tisswold pulled his friend aside. “Who's the pretty little chit?” he asked in a rumbling undertone. “That's not the little bluestocking who came calling at your quarters a few months ago, is it?”

Clara had sent Olivia to hurry the gentlemen in, and Olivia had been about to recross the threshold when she heard the tail end of Tisswold's remark and paused.

“Yes, I suppose so, since she's the only bluestocking with whom I'm acquainted,” Strickland responded.

“Why didn't you
tell
me she was such a taking little puss? I wouldn't have had to leave by the back stairs if I'd known,” Tisswold said with a chuckle.

Olivia, who suspected that Strickland's response would not be nearly so pleasant to overhear, interrupted them at that point to say that her ladyship was waiting. Sir Arthur gallantly offered her his arm, and they went in to dinner.

The subject of the assassination occupied their thoughts and their conversation all through dinner. After the ladies' curiosity about the details of the madman Bellingham's wild revenge on the English government had been sated, they turned their attention to the question of poor Perceval's successor. The two men explained the various choices available to the Regent in appointing a new Prime Minister, and Olivia took satisfaction in arguing heatedly in favor of the Whig, Lord Grenville, much to Strickland's irritation and Tisswold's amusement. When she thought about it later, Olivia had to admit to herself that, although the subject of the assassination was grisly and the prospect for the government grim, their dinner conversation that evening had been the most interesting she'd ever had in Strickland's company.

It was not until much later that night, after Tisswold had left for London and the household had retired, that Olivia began to recall the
other
events of the day. The political upheaval in London had made her forget all about poor Perry's misery. She felt a renewed bitterness toward her brother-in-law, whose arrogant decisions were made without the slightest challenge. It was fortunate for England that Strickland couldn't run the government in the same way he ran his household. He had enormous power in both places, but in the government he could only maneuver behind the scenes and was forced to face opposition and challenge everywhere he turned; whereas in his household, he had only to give his orders and he was obeyed without argument. What was even more irritating in
this
instance, however, was that he was just as likely to get what he wanted from the Prince Regent as he was to get his way at home. He would manage to maneuver the Regent into accepting Lord Liverpool as Prime Minister almost as easily as he would manage to force a tutor upon his helpless son. If the British government was not too great for Strickland to control, what hope was there for a little boy like Perry?

She found herself too disturbed to fall asleep. She tossed and turned for what seemed like hours. Finally, she sat up and lit a candle. She would have been soothed by reading, but she'd not managed to get into the library to select a new book. Feeling wide awake, and convinced that the entire household had by this time fallen asleep, she got out of bed with the intention of running down to the library to find a book. She slipped on a loose dressing gown over her nightgown and, in the dim light of the single candle and the dying fire, looked about for her slippers. But she could find only one of them, and, impatiently, she gave up the search. No one was likely to be about, she reasoned, and she recklessly decided to slip downstairs in her bare feet.

She flitted down the dimly lit hallway and stairs with quick, light steps, finding the corridors as deserted as she'd expected. But when she opened the library door and slipped inside, she discovered, to her embarrassment, that the room was occupied. Lord Strickland sat at the library table, a small oil lamp lighting a number of ledgers and papers spread out before him, a decanter of brandy at his elbow and a half-empty glass in his hand. “Oh!” she exclaimed, backing out of the door awkwardly. “I'm sorry. I didn't know—”

“Don't be an idiot, Olivia,” Strickland snapped. “I won't bite you. If you want something, come in.”

Not having any experience with men who imbibed deeply in spirits, she failed to recognize that he showed some symptoms (a ruddy color in his face and a certain glitter in his eyes) of slight inebriation. As for the rudeness of his manner, she simply attributed it to his natural temperament rather than the effects of the bottle. The sharpness of his tone had its usual effect on her. She put up her chin and entered defiantly. But he ignored the angry toss of her head and the rebellious set of her mouth. He merely took another swig of brandy from his glass. She was awkwardly aware of her dressing gown and bare feet. “I … couldn't sleep,” she explained. “I came down for a book.”

“Then go ahead and get it.” He gestured with his glass in the direction of the bookshelves.

“I don't wish to disturb you, my lord,” she said, hesitating.

“You don't disturb me,” he answered, turning back to his papers, “so long as you go about your business and don't stand there behind me staring at the back of my head.”

She drew herself up. “You
flatter
yourself, my lord. I don't stare at you at all!”

She crossed the room as purposefully as bare feet permitted and began to scan the shelves. But feeling his eyes on the back of
her
head, she hastily pulled out a book without really seeing the title and turned back toward the door to make a hasty exit. However, his lordship had other ideas. With a malicious smile, he put down his glass, got to his feet and barred her way. “Let's see what you have there,” he said rudely, pulling the book from her grasp. He looked at the book's spine, his smile widening to a leer. “
A Practical Treatise Upon Christian Perfection
?” he read. “Why, my dear
girl
! What need have you for
this
? I was under the distinct impression that you'd already
achieved
perfection.”

She reddened, but she met his leering eye with a rebellious look in her own and snatched the book back. “Yes, I have. Isn't it ironic, my lord, how this sort of work is always read by those who need it least?”

He guffawed. “And ignored by those—like me—who need it most, isn't that what you mean?
Touché
, dear sister-in-law,
touché.
” He walked back to the table. “Well, go along, girl. Don't let me keep you from your so-stimulating reading.” He picked up his brandy glass and held it out to her in a mocking salute. “I suppose I should bid you goodbye. I shall probably be gone by the time you rise in the morning.”

“Really?” she murmured with a touch of malice. “What a pity! We shall all be devastated by despair.”

He lifted his glass to his lips and eyed her over the rim. “Sharp-tongued little witch, aren't you?” He took a swig of brandy from his glass and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand with deliberate vulgarity. “It's a cruel blow to me, my dear, that you take delight in my departure,” he sneered, “but I shall try to bear it bravely.” Then, turning away, he added drily, half to himself, “There'll be wailing enough from the rest of the household when I leave.”