The Heiress Effect (39 page)

Oliver stood behind the house where Jane’s uncle
liveed. The morning had been taken up with their journey to
Cambridge by rail; it was mid-afternoon by the time they’d arrived.
In the early summer heat, the residents had retreated inside to the
cool. By his count, Dorling would just be meeting his cart driver.
In a few hours, all would be over, but for now…

Oliver had taken off his shoes and his coat.
A bit of ivy climbed the walls—a few pale, unhealthy strands,
nothing he’d care to trust his weight to.

The past few days were beginning to catch up
with him. It felt almost as if he had been woken briefly in the
middle of the night and was being sucked back into the dream. Yes,
he cared for Jane. More than he wanted to think.

And he’d volunteered to climb into her
sister’s room in the middle of broad daylight.

“Why am I the one doing this again?” he
asked.

“Because,” Jane whispered next to him, “I’m
wearing skirts.”

He was going to get shot. Or captured.
Or…

Or maybe he wasn’t. He hadn’t felt like this
in…oh, years. His pulse beat with excitement. The house was
silent.

“Don’t worry,” Jane said. “The kitchen garden
hardly produces because my uncle doesn’t like setting snares for
rabbits. If he discovers you, the worst he’d probably do is demand
an explanation. A lengthy one.”

“And I’ll say, ‘don’t mind me, I’m just here
to steal your niece. There’s nothing to worry about; I’ve made away
with one of them already, so two will hardly slow me down.”

“Precisely.” She smiled at him, and suddenly,
the climb to her sister’s window didn’t seem quite so long, nor the
possibility of discovery so painful. He clambered up onto the
window ledge on the ground floor, used it as a stepping stone, and
then swung up to the top of the window frame.

The drainpipe buckled; he readjusted his
weight, shifting onto the slick stones. He made his way up the wall
carefully, until he could hook his hands over the window ledge that
Jane had promised belonged to her sister.

He tapped quietly on the window and
waited.

Nothing. He didn’t even hear anyone stirring
in the room.

“Emily?” He didn’t dare speak much above a
whisper, but his breath scarcely fogged the window. He tapped
again, this time more firmly. “Miss Emily.”

“She’s not a heavy sleeper,” Jane whispered
loudly, just below him. “And she never sleeps during her afternoon
naps.”

“Well, I don’t see anyone inside.” He rapped
his knuckles against the windowpane. “Emily,” he tried a little
louder.

Nothing.

Nobody. He could see the bed from here, and
while the shadows somewhat obscured his view, it didn’t even look
as if there were a telltale lump.

“Jane,” he said softly, “when was your uncle
going to have your sister taken away?”

He could hear her breath suck in. “Not so
soon,” she said slowly as if trying to convince herself. “Surely
not so soon. He would want to make certain I was out of the way
before he moved. I’m…I’m almost positive of it.” But her voice
wavered on the
almost,
and he suspected she wasn’t as sure
as she felt.

He would have guessed it would take longer.
But then, he’d been wrong before.

“Might she have gone out for the afternoon?”
he asked.

“No, of course not. Titus never lets her, and
if she had slipped out herself, she would have left the window
ajar.” Oliver tried the edge of the window; it was closed all the
way, but it hadn’t been fastened on the inside. It was difficult
work, getting the leverage he needed to hoist it up a few inches;
the window squeaked in the casement. But he finally managed to
raise it.

“She really isn’t in here,” he reported. He’d
already completed the
breaking
portion of breaking and
entering. No point stopping now. He climbed through the window.

“Look in the clothespress,” Jane called from
the ground. “See if her valise is there.”

He crossed the floor, treading as softly as
he could in hopes that the floor would not squeak. It didn’t, but
the clothespress door made a soft noise of protest when he opened
it.

There were a few items of clothing inside,
scattered about in a mess, but no valise. Oliver returned to the
window. “Is your sister generally a tidy person?”

“Yes.”

“Because someone has tossed her things
around. Much of it, I gather, is gone. There is no valise, and what
clothing remains is strewn about. It looks like someone packed in a
hurry.”

“Oh, God.” On the ground, he could hear the
fear in Jane’s voice. “On the desk—look on her desk. Is there a
small green cactus?”

“No.”

“She’s really gone. Oliver. What are we going
to do?”

He’d never met her sister, but he’d have
panicked if any of his sisters had been in similar straits.

“In an hour or so,” Jane was saying, “Dorling
will arrive back in Nottingham. It’s only a matter of time until
Titus gets a telegram. He’ll know that I’ve disappeared.”

Oliver shook his head. “I am going to climb
down. And then we are going to talk. Rationally. For one, if he’s
already removed your sister, it doesn’t matter what he knows of
you. The strategy changes.”

“Right.” She nodded. “Right.”

He started making his way down.

He could see her pacing on the ground out of
the corner of his vision.

“This morning… What was I thinking?”

“Wouldn’t have made any difference,” he said,
shifting so that he could brace himself against the side of the
house.

“But if we had—”

“We couldn’t have made the trains run any
faster, and we were on the first one out. Don’t blame yourself
whatever has happened.” Coming down was trickier; he couldn’t see
his footholds, and it made for slower going. But when he was within
a few feet of the ground, he pushed off the wall, jumping the last
little bit.

He landed and turned to Jane. It was wrong,
what was going through his head. He should have been in full
sympathy with her, for whatever it was that had happened to her
sister.

But he didn’t feel sorry. He was selfish, so
damned selfish. He didn’t care about her sister at all.

All he could think was that she’d said this
would last until they found Emily.
It’s not over. It’s not over
yet.
He’d have more of Jane.

“But if I—”

He took her hand.
It’s not over yet. It’s
not over yet.
He shouldn’t be smiling. And yet he couldn’t keep
a hint of triumph from his voice.

“Maybe the worst has happened,” he said, “and
maybe she’s been put away. But what has been done can be undone.
All we need to do is find out where he’s sent your sister, and from
there…”

“Titus will never tell me,” Jane said. “And
even if he did, how would we proceed?”

“There are ways of finding out,” Oliver said.
“But in this case, I think the direct route might work best. We’ll
just have someone ask him. Someone who could get the whole story on
the matter.”

Jane frowned up at him. “But there is no such
person.”

It isn’t over. It isn’t over.

Oliver smiled. “Actually, there is.”

“…So you see,” Oliver told Sebastian, “what we
really need is to find Titus Fairfield, to trap him into a
situation where he feels he cannot just walk away. Ask him where
Jane’s sister is being held. And…”

Sebastian was examining his nails as Oliver
spoke, but he had a small smile on his face. He didn’t look well.
He hadn’t shaved yet, although it was three in the afternoon, and
there was a bloodshot quality to his eyes.

But if he had been up late the night before,
it didn’t show on anything other than his features.

“And trick him into telling you where she’s
being kept?” Sebastian shrugged. “I can do it. I’m giving a lecture
this evening. I’ll invite him, and then we’ll see.”

“Thank you,” Jane told him. They were the
first words she’d spoken since the initial greeting, but she said
them fervently. “Thank you so much, Mr. Malheur.”

But he simply shook his head at her. “No,
Miss Fairfield,” he said. “Don’t thank me yet. Hasn’t Oliver told
you that my help always comes at a cost?”

She shook her head. “Whatever it is, I’ll
pay—”

“Not that kind of cost. When you ask me for
help, you get help.” His smile widened. “You get help
my
way.”

The lecture seemed interminably long. Perhaps it
was because Oliver knew what the stakes were. He’d caught a glimpse
of Titus Fairfield in the back rows of the hall.

Perhaps it was because at the moment, Oliver
could not dredge up the least interest in what Sebastian was saying
about peas and snapdragons and the color of cats.

Perhaps it was because Jane wasn’t here, but
she was close. In a room nearby. So close that the yards between
them seemed to whisper of all the things they hadn’t done, the
kisses they hadn’t exchanged, the months they hadn’t spent in
bed.

No. Not the time to think of that. He peered
at Sebastian and tried to pretend interest. Sebastian had always
been in his element talking to a crowd. He gestured as he talked.
But today, it seemed different. His gestures were too wide, almost
wild. As if he’d lost his balance and was trying to regain it.

Next to Oliver, Violet Waterfield, the
Countess of Cambury, leaned forward, and Oliver glanced at her.

He’d never known Violet the way Robert and
Sebastian had. She’d been Sebastian’s neighbor, and Oliver had
never been invited to Sebastian’s home during the summer. He’d
heard of her, but he hadn’t met her until he was almost nineteen.
By that time, she’d been a countess already, cool and
intimidating.

She didn’t look intimidating tonight. Her
usual calm demeanor had evaporated. She was watching Sebastian with
rapt attention, her eyes opened wide, her lips spread in a
welcoming smile. Oliver had never seen her look at anyone that way.
Watching her was almost intimate—as if he were discovering a secret
she had. As if she were in love, and in the moment, unable to hide
it.

That was an unsettling thought. Sebastian had
always insisted that he and Violet were friends and only
friends—nothing more. Sebastian looked at anyone and everyone in
the audience, making eye contact with even the men seated in the
back who glowered at him with folded arms. He looked at everyone
except
Violet, and that was when Oliver began to realize
that something was deeply wrong.

That sense lasted through the lecture. During
the questions, Violet sat on the edge of her seat, leaning forward,
her whole body focused on Sebastian, nodding to herself at his
answers, as if he held the key to the universe. It lasted through
the moment when Sebastian gave a final bow, and Oliver made his way
up to him to put the second part of their plan into action.

“Good sense, Malheur,” a man was saying,
clapping Sebastian across the shoulder. “Always learn something new
from you.”

“Thank you,” Sebastian said. “That means so
much to me.” His voice was warm, and he looked in the right places,
but there was something mechanical about his delivery, as if he
were scarcely paying attention.

Another audience member grabbed his sleeve.
“Malheur, you slime.” This man’s eyes narrowed; he made a fist at
his side, as if he were contemplating punching Sebastian in the
face. “You are going to hell for all you’ve done, and I hope you’ll
burn for eternity.”

“Thank you,” Sebastian said warmly, making
eye contact with him. “That means so much to me.” He gave the
fellow a pat on the shoulder—a friendly little pat, as if they’d
just exchanged pleasantries—and moved on.

“I hope someone slits your puny little
throat,” a gruff, whiskered fellow muttered at Sebastian.

“Thank you very much,” Sebastian replied.
“That means so much to me.”