True Story (The Deverells, Book One) (37 page)

"I was not in your company at the
time."

"But they must have seen you were with
me." His lips strained over his teeth.

"Quite. I'm afraid that gave them
cause to think me a woman of loose morals."

Before she could remind him that she
had managed the incident perfectly well without his assistance, he
took her arm and led her back inside, demanding that she identify
the miscreant. She refused, but even without her help it was not
difficult to spot leering Joe, who still nursed his injury and now—
since he thought it was safe to do so— loudly complained to anyone
who would listen.

"I believe what they say about her
now," he grumbled. "Every word. I shouldn't be a bit surprised if
she did 'er 'usbands in. Every one o’ the buggers!"

Olivia looked on in some mortification
and anxiety. So that was what they were all thinking when they
looked at her. They, like Inspector O'Grady, thought there was
something more deliberate than a curse in her past. She could not
get away from the gossip, even here.

Her stomach churned with renewed
nausea.

Deverell walked up to the other man
and tapped him on one burly shoulder. She wanted to turn away and
leave again, but her feet would not move. Faces turned to watch and
the tavern noise drained away like the last drip of wine from a
jug. The would-be molester paled, eyes drawn into tight slits,
shoulders rounded.

If anyone at The Fisherman's Rest that
afternoon expected thrown fists, they were destined to be
disappointed, however.

The villain was calmly brought over to
Olivia and commanded, in a cool tone, to beg for her
forgiveness.

On his knees.

One might have heard the proverbial
pin drop.

Despite the large man's earlier
bluster, he was remarkably cowed by True Deverell, whose unruffled
demeanor held just as much menace as a pointed pistol. Olivia had
already felt the aura that surrounded her employer, of course—
something like the warning posture of a wild dog ready to protect
to the death. And people knew he did not live by the rules, so in
that sense he was unpredictable.

"Tell this lady you were mistaken in
your assumptions about her."

Slightly appalled, she watched while
the big man— yes, bigger in stature even than True— reluctantly
complied, struggling down onto his stiff knees and muttering under
his breath.

"I was mistaken, ma'am," he grumbled.
"I'm sorry."

"That's better. I would make you kiss
her shoes, but you are unfit to touch her." Then he cast a slow
look around the tavern and said, "Mrs. Monday is a respectable lady
I have employed as my secretary. For those of you who are curious,
I asked her to be my mistress and she's not in the least
interested. She is, therefore, deserving of your admiration, not
your scorn. Next time you see her, remember that."

He held the door open, bowed his head
and waited for her to walk through it. Somehow she managed to do so
without laughing at all the shocked faces they left
behind.

This was his idea of making the
situation better?

As he helped her up onto his horse
behind him again, he said, "See, fear is more powerful than that
love you talk about."

She put her arms around his waist. "I
don't fear you. I would never fear you."

But he didn't hear her for she spoke
very quietly and the horse's hooves drowned her out.

True turned his face to look over his
shoulder. "By the way, what I told you about Sally White and her
sisters was a lie. I never shared a bed with her. Don't even know
if she has sisters. I told you that to shock you, or get some
reaction. I might have known it wouldn't make a dent in your
armor."

Astonished, she did not reply. Why
this? It was not necessary for him to tell her that, yet he did. He
conceded defeat in that low voice, contrite and warm.
Self-effacing.

He went, just like that, from striking
fear into the heart of a great, stupid bulk of man, to lifting his
palms to her in confession.

She wanted to ask about his wife, but
could not find the words.

"Are you ready to work this evening,
Olivia?"

"Yes." No hesitation. She would be
ready to help him whenever he needed it. For as long as he needed
her. Gripping his waist tightly again for the ride home, she closed
her eyes against the cold air, until all she saw and felt was the
glow that seemed to surround True— and her too, when she was in his
presence. The dreadful rumors and Christopher's angry letter were
unimportant, cast aside.

She had seen his wife, who was indeed
beautiful and everything Olivia was not. But it was over and he
returned to her.

No one could do or say anything to
hurt her anymore.

Even the rain had ceased to trouble
her and she felt like a young girl again, as she was when she loved
to walk out in it and did not care how wet it made her. Before she
had any bad memories of death to cloud the simple
pleasure.

She had sand in her hair and under her
fingernails, yet she didn't care. He had the same.

The air was new, shining with
expectation. Like a barrel of rainwater, it hovered, stretching at
the brink, waiting for one more drop to fall and make it
overflow.

* * * *

He knew better than to believe his
wife.

Or he should.

But as they rode home to Roscarrock,
he thought back over Olivia's little deceptions— beginning with the
fact that her spectacles were merely glass.

He had seen her in the hall one
afternoon, handing Sims a book. "I hear you are fond of reading. I
thought you might like this."

Still and impervious as a stone
monument the butler had stared down at the little woman and her
offering.

"It's a very good book. Don't worry,
it's not a silly romance. It's a history book. I think you'll find
it fascinating." She paused. "You don't have to thank
me."

Finally the butler accepted it from
her hand. "I suppose I can peruse it, when I have some spare
time."

"Yes, and I would love to discuss it
with you in the future."

"You have an interest in
history?"

She nodded eagerly. "And I understand
you can tell me all about Roscarrock castle. Mr. Deverell did try,
but you, I am told, are the expert."

"I...have some knowledge of the local
area, madam."

"Then I would be intrigued to hear it,
whenever you have the time. I know how busy you are."

Thus she succeeded in thawing a little
of the chill from his butler's expression. It would take more than
one book to befriend Sims, but the foundations were laid now on
common ground.

At that time True had wondered why she
cared to make the effort. What was she up to in his house? Helping
his cook, flattering his butler, kissing his handyman...

He did not know what to make of
it.

"Father," Storm had laughed, "you and
I simply have to get accustomed to the idea of a woman with no
ulterior motive. Not a bad one, anyway."

But the seeds of doubt were planted,
and suddenly there was a sinister color to everything she
did.

He'd known from the beginning that
there was much more to her story than she would tell him. A woman
who insisted on hiding herself behind pretend spectacles and
deliberately unflattering gowns was clearly trouble. Over time,
taken in by her wide eyes and reluctant smiles, he'd let her become
too important in his life.

True had a great deal to think
about.

* * * *

When they got back to the castle, she
suggested making hot chocolate in the kitchen to chase the damp
chill away. He was rather quiet, she noticed. It was unusual for
him.

"Mrs. Blewett has been busy making
mince pies," she said, to break the strained silence. "She's
excited, I think, that the young Deverells will be home soon. You
must be too."

"Must I?"

"And they will be looking forward to
seeing their father, no doubt."

"Hmph. My children won't care if I'm
here or not, as long as Mrs. Blewett feeds them well and the beds
are aired." When he looked at her, his eyes were very dark, two
rain clouds ready to break. "My family is very different to your
own, Olivia. As you will see."

"In what way?"

His reply was a curt, "You'll
see."

Oh, his wife. Whatever she had told
him it had put him in a bleak mood.

She put her hands behind her back. "I
have no family left except my stepbrother."

"But you are close."

"I suppose so."

"You've known each other a long
time."

"Twelve years."

"And now he's getting married...I
believe you said."

"Yes." Olivia wondered at this sudden
interest in Christopher. But not for long.

"Is that why you left
Chiswick?"

There was no point in denying it had
some part in her leaving her home. "There were certain reasons
connected to that," she said carefully. "As I told you, I wanted to
be of use, to find a purpose, not to be a burden on my
relatives."

"On Christopher. You said he is your
only relative now."

"Well, yes."

"You are fond of him."

"Of course. As a brother."

"As a brother. But he is not your
blood brother."

"No."

There was a pause and then he snapped.
"You look flushed."

"Because this is strange questioning
and I do not know what has prompted it."

He shook his head, scattering
raindrops from his hair. “You don't?"

She pulled her shawl tighter around
her shoulders. "If there is something you wish to ask about
Christopher, please do so."

"Are you in love with him?"

"In... love?" Olivia gasped. "Of
course not." It was too ridiculous to comprehend.

"But you kept that picture he painted.
You write to him with an excessive use of curls in your
handwriting—"

"I am fond of him as a sister should
be and so I write to him. Is that troubling to you?"

He was grinding his jaw, staring at
her. "I do not know what troubles me the most about you and the
things you don't tell me."

She waited a moment to see if he was
teasing her again, but the anger did not fade and his face did not
soften. It made no sense to her that he should bring this up now.
"For all your much-vaunted talents of perception, sir, you failed
this time. You know nothing about love, of course, so you could
have no idea what the signs might be, but I can assure you that one
letter and a painting, kept because of the subject matter, do not
constitute a grand love affair."

"Now I am sir again?"

"Yes. While you question
me as if I have committed some crime, I shall call you
sir
." The words flowed
out now on a flood, her voice getting louder with every syllable.
"I could call you many worse things after you left me unescorted in
a tavern for half an hour or more, while you met with your wife in
a private room. And I wonder if you knew she would be there all
along and that you went to meet her, which means it was not merely
a pleasant ride we took together after all. But I have not asked
anything about it because I am being ladylike and composed and
keeping my chin up, trying not to care, because you would
say
so what
, and
tease me. And no I am not in the mood to help you write your
memoirs tonight, I changed my mind."

Anxious for something to do with her
hands, she poured out the hot chocolate.

"Would you like some or not?" she
shouted at him in the same cross tone.

After a pause, he
corrected her quietly, "
Former
wife. I met my former wife. And I told you before
that you may ask me any question. I will always give you an
answer."

Still holding the chocolate pot, she
said, "Then what did she talk to you about? What did she want that
has changed your mood?"

"We talked of my daughter Raven. We
talked of the memoirs, about which she had somehow heard. And we
talked," he paused, "about you."

"What about me?"

She had never seen him as still as he
was now, hands at his sides, feet planted solidly, shoulder-width
apart. "It seems your stepbrother wrote to Charlotte."

"He did
what
?"

"In some attempt to win himself an
ally and get you sent back to Chiswick perhaps? He thinks you ran
away because you're in love with him."

How dare he?
She was speechless.

"Oh, and he enlightened Charlotte as
to the matter of your three husbands and what you might have done
to them."