The Fifth Kiss (2 page)

Clara's eyes clouded. “Miles is so very busy with his political activities at this season,” she murmured apologetically. “You know he has to be here in London at this time.”

“Yes, I know. And he's so busy that he hasn't bothered to see you more than twice since you've arrived,” her sister answered, unable to keep the sharp edge from her voice.

Clara leaped to his defense. “Come now, Olivia, be fair. Miles knows I came to town to see my
family
, not to visit with
him
. I know you don't like Miles very much, but you mustn't find fault where none exists.”

“If neglecting you and your children is not a fault, I don't know what is,” Olivia responded sullenly.

Clara studied her sister with her ever-patient indulgence. “
I
don't think he neglects us, and if
I
have no complaints, I see no reason for
you
to provide me with any.”

Olivia opened her mouth to retort, but she bit back the words before she could utter them. “I'm sorry, Clara. I didn't mean—”

“No, of course you didn't,” Clara said with instant forgiveness, squeezing her sister's hand warmly.

“It's just … that I shall have had you with me for so short a time,” Olivia apologized. “It's very disappointing.”

“Yes, I know. But don't look so crestfallen. If you can tear yourself away from your cultural and intellectual pursuits long enough to pay
me
a visit, I shall make it up to you. Besides, Perry has been asking for his Aunt Livie, and Amy will forget you completely if you don't come to visit her soon again.”

Olivia nodded, gave her sister a somewhat forced smile of acquiescence and looked away. Poor Clara! She was so serene in her contented acceptance of the conditions of her life that she seemed to Olivia to be almost bovine! Olivia put a fluttering hand to her forehead. It was unkind to think of her sister as cow-like, but what else was she to think when Clara was positively
eager
to spend her life buried away in Langley Park—a huge country manor house far away from civilization, with no companionship but two demanding children and a few aging servants—and never uttering a complaint while her supposedly-doting husband spent his days in London without her?

And what was worse, Clara considered herself the most fortunate of women! She truly believed that she was the beloved wife of the most wonderful man in the world—a man universally admired not only for his wealth and titles but for his striking appearance, his sharp wit and his gift for politics. Clara, poor thing, had not an inkling of a suspicion of what Olivia now knew to be true—that Clara's life with her husband was, at bottom, an utter sham.

Suddenly the carriage began to roll, and by the time Olivia felt brave enough to glance over her shoulder again she found, to her intense relief, that Strickland and his paramour were no longer visible. She leaned back against the cushion with a deep sigh. Thank goodness Clara had not turned round to discover for herself that her adored husband, the so-brilliant, so-striking, so-gifted Miles Strickland, the Earl of Langley, had been standing back there on the street, brazenly—and with disgusting fervor—embracing a tart!

chapter two

Olivia slept fitfully that night, troubled to the depths of her being by indecision. On the one hand, she felt disloyal to her sister by not revealing what she'd seen. On the other, she was revolted by the prospect of having to play the role of tale bearer—and of such an ugly, distressful sort of tale as that.

Besides, she knew herself well enough to understand that she was not at all comfortable in dealing with matters of the heart. She'd had no experience of love herself, and she knew nothing of married life, not even as an observer. She was vaguely aware that she'd been brought up in an abnormal household. She had no recollection of her mother, and she had difficulty imagining her father in the role of a loving husband, although she'd been told he'd been a devoted one. As a father, Sir Octavius Matthews was a failure, not so much from a lack of warmth as from a pervading absentmindedness and lack of interest. It was as if his Greek studies absorbed so much of his emotions that there was nothing left for his family.

It was not at all the case that Olivia felt neglected or unloved. Her sister had been a most affectionate mother-substitute, and her brother, Charles, a wise and fond surrogate father. Even Jamie, self-centered and hedonistic as he was, treated her with playful affection. Nevertheless, Olivia realized that she had never experienced the normal relationships which existed in a household presided over by a happily married couple who showered each other and their offspring with natural and loving attention.

Olivia had never felt sorry for herself and only rarely yearned for a more conventional existence. But she'd never missed having a real mother as much as she did this night. How comforting it would have been to be able to confide in a sensible, thoughtful, mature woman. But the Mama of her imagination was too vague and indistinct a person to offer advice, and Olivia got out of bed the next morning no more certain of a course of action than she'd been the night before.

The morning was cold and wet, but the weather had evidently not daunted Clara. From across the hall, Olivia could hear the telltale sounds of Clara's stirrings as she packed to leave. Olivia dressed quickly and started across the corridor to assist her, but some instinct kept her from knocking at the door.
Perhaps
, she thought as she turned away,
it would be best to avoid Clara until I've made up my mind about what to do
.

Seeking some sort of help or advice, she wandered down the stairs and into her father's study. Although it was not yet eight, he was already bent over the papers on his desk, hard at work on his translation of Thucydides'
Melian Dialogue
. She crept up behind him and planted a light kiss on the top of his head. “Will you come to breakfast with us, Papa?” she asked as he looked up at her, blinking distractedly. “Clara's leaving this morning.”

Sir Octavius looked at his daughter through his spectacles, his eyes foggily revealing his struggle to concentrate on the Athenian envoys in the book before him rather than on this unwelcome interruption. “Is she leaving already?” he asked absently. “I thought she intended to remain for a few more days.”

“She's been here over a week, you know,” Olivia explained patiently.

“Has she?” He shook his head and lowered his eyes to the pages before him. “I don't know where the time goes.”

Olivia persisted in her attempt to gain his attention. “Leave the Athenians for a few minutes, Papa. I want to talk to you.”

“Yes, yes, but let me jot this down first. The Melians are saying, ‘It is natural in our position to indulge in imaginings.' But ‘imaginings' does not truly reflect the quality of the Greek. It should be more like ‘phantasies,' I think. Look here, child … what do you think? Shall I use ‘phantasies' instead?”

“I think ‘imaginings' sounds perfectly clear. But if you are unsatisfied with it, why not try ‘fancies'?”

“
Fancies
?” He gazed up at her with a smile she could almost have called affectionate. “That's very
good
! Very good indeed!
Fancies!
” He turned back to his paper and scribbled in the word rapidly. Then, as if his daughter were not there, he went right on reading.

Olivia determinedly perched on the desk in front of him. “Now that you've found your word, Papa, can you not talk to me?”

“Yes, of course, my dear,” he said, not looking up. “What is it?”

“I was wondering, Papa, if you … that is … er … have you a liking for Strickland?”

“Strickland?
Clara's
Strickland?”

“Yes, Papa. Clara's Strickland.”

“Well, of
course
I like him. Fine fellow, Miles. Very clever on the subject of tariffs and finance.”

Olivia snorted impatiently. “I'm not speaking of his Tory politics, but of—”

“Of course,” Sir Octavius mused, lifting his head and chewing the tip of his pen thoughtfully, “he's perhaps not expert in Greek philosophy, but if he gave it some real attention, I'm sure … but really, Olivia, must you sit just
there
? You're crushing my papers!”

“Sorry, Papa.” She slipped off the desk and straightened the pile of closely written notes. “I wasn't speaking of his
mind
. I meant his
character.
”

“Whose character?” her father muttered absently, having returned to his papers again.

“
Strickland's
! Your son-in-law's!” she said in complete annoyance.

“Oh, yes. Fine fellow. Already said so. Now here, in this next line, shall I say ‘council' or ‘conference'?
Council
connotes a meeting of a body of men who meet regularly—wouldn't you say?—while
conference
sounds like a more spontaneous assemblage. ‘Conference,' therefore, seems closer to the facts, I think. Yes, ‘conference' it shall be.”

Olivia frowned irritably at his bent head. She should have known better than to expect any help from him. Sir Octavius Matthews had a marvelous mind, but not for family matters. “But you
will
come to see her off, won't you, Papa?” she asked as she walked dolefully toward the door.

“Eh? See whom off?” he murmured.

“Oh,
really
, Papa!
Clara
! She's leaving right after breakfast.”

“Well, Olivia, I'm at a crucial place just now.” He didn't look up from the page before him. “Tell her goodbye for me. Love to the children … good trip and all that.” And he waved her away.

She closed the study door behind her and sighed. Her father was a strange sort. He was not a bit gregarious—
living
people didn't seem to interest him. Only dead Greeks engaged his mind. Even at dinner, the only time of day he joined the family, he scarcely ever engaged in conversation; his mind was still occupied with the books that had engaged him during the day—the
Poetics
, or Plato's
Republic
or his favorite
History of the Peloponnesian War
. She was foolish to have expected to receive any assistance from him in dealing with
real
problems. If Thucydides hadn't recorded it, if Aristotle hadn't codified it, or if Plato hadn't ruminated on it, the problem had no reality for him.

She had to turn elsewhere for advice, but she was not sure where. The logical choice should be Charles. He was the most sensible, well-rounded member of the family, despite the fact that he was a thirty-year-old bachelor and so promising a scholar that it was expected he would some day surpass his famous father. But although his head was crammed with learning,
his
feet were planted firmly in reality. She should really talk to
him
. But something made her hesitate.

It was Charles' unfailing, uncompromising honesty that caused her to pause. What if she revealed the story of Strickland's infidelity to Charles, and then they decided
not
to tell Clara? Charles would not be able to hide the truth. He was so straightforward that whatever was on his mind would be reflected in his face. He would try to say nothing to his departing sister but a simple goodbye, but Clara would immediately sense that there was something wrong. Charles was as transparent as glass. Olivia could not afford to chance it. It would be better to speak to her brother James.

Dear, pleasure-loving Jamie! He was not the sort to whom one would ordinarily turn for advice. Although he was the complete antithesis of his father in that he was
all
gregariousness, he was the most superficial and selfish creature in the family. He was so completely occupied with his cronies and the relentless pursuit of pleasure that he came home only to sleep. He had realized early that he had little interest in the subjects that absorbed the rest of the family, and he'd left school as soon as he could. A substantial inheritance from his mother made it possible for him to live a life of dissipation: sporting and gaming with his friends. However, it occurred to Olivia that he might be just the one to help her now. Perhaps his dissipated life had given him the sophistication in worldly matters that Olivia now needed.

She hurried up the stairs to his bedroom and knocked at the door. Of course he didn't answer; he'd probably been up quite late the night before and was undoubtedly still deeply asleep. She pushed open the door and went in. The room was still dark, for the drapes were closely drawn against the light, but through the darkness came the sound of gentle snoring. She went to the bed and shook his shoulder firmly. “Jamie, wake up,” she said loudly. “I must talk to you.”

Jamie shuddered, turned his head toward her and opened one eye. “Go 'way,” he muttered thickly.

“But I need your advice. Urgently. It's about Strickland.”

“Don't care if it's 'bout the Prince Regent! Go 'way!”

“Oh, Jamie, don't be such an indolent slugabed. I
need
you!” And she ruthlessly tore the comforter from around him, exposing him to the cool air.

He shivered and groaned. “Give that back at once!” he demanded, huddling into a quivering ball. “I'm freezing!”

“I'll give it back to you if you sit up and talk to me,” Olivia bargained, throwing open the heavy draperies and letting in a stream of bleak, grayish light.

Jamie groaned again, heaved himself into a sitting position and reached eagerly for his comforter. As soon as he'd pulled it about him, he cast a bleary eye at the window. “What an odious start for an odious day,” he muttered. “By whose leave do you come barging into a fellow's bedroom?”

“By my own leave,” his sister declared, perching on the bed. “I think I've stumbled upon a family crisis, and I have no one to turn to but you.”

He raised a suspicious eyebrow. “Since when have I been considered useful in a family crisis?”