True Story (The Deverells, Book One) (42 page)

"I'm glad that common Sally White
isn't still hanging about," Raven remarked one day. "Or is
she?"

"None of your business,
child."

"You ought to find a nice girl and
settle down."

"Why would I want a nice girl?" he
replied with a grin. "The naughty ones are more fun."

"I bet Mrs. Monday wouldn't
agree."

Olivia realized they were both looking
at her, waiting for a response. She put down her sewing. "I think
whether it’s naughty or nice, love is the most important
thing."

* * * *

"Well, Livy, you seem intent on
causing another scandal. Have you taken leave of your
senses?"

There had been no warning. Sims had
not even come to find her yet, so when she walked into the parlor
in search of a book she'd left there, Olivia thought the room would
be empty. Christopher was the very last person she would ever
expect to see standing by the fire. It took her a moment to believe
her eyes.

"Do you have any idea how your
cavorting about here with this man will affect my courtship of Miss
Lucinda Braithwaite? Her family is most upset about the
association. It is a degrading connection for any respectable
person."

How out of place he looked there! It
was all wrong and she wanted rid of him quickly. He was far from
Chiswick. Why? So many things sped through her mind.

He must have received her last letter,
in which she expressed her desire to stay longer in
Cornwall.

"I cannot imagine what you mean,
Christopher," she replied, terse. "What are you doing
here?

His eyes widened slightly— almost
imperceptibly. "Did you think I would not hear what has been going
on? When I received your missive informing me of an intent to
remain here beyond six months, I could scarce believe my eyes. You
must come home with me at once, and end this shameful business,
before it is too freely spread about and you are ruined
forever."

"I'm afraid that is impossible. I
agreed to stay and I—"

"You have been riding around with him
in public, cavorting in taverns. I knew it was a mistake when I
learned of this post, but that drunkard Chalke arranged it in such
a manner that I had no chance to stop you. I was not informed of
the circumstances— that you would be here with him, alone for most
of the time."

"But you always told me I would be
safe from a man like True Deverell. What could he see in
me?"

"There is no time to waste discussing
this now, Livy. You had better pack your trunk immediately and we
can get back to the mainland before the tide comes in."

There was no doubt in his tone, or his
countenance. He expected her to do exactly as he said, which was
amusing because she never had and she was not about to start doing
so.

"I'm not leaving him,
Christopher."

After all, she'd waited a long time to
come in search of Deverell, the wicked man of her even more wicked
dreams.

"You are a horrid,
unseemly child with a dark and devious imagination, Olivia
Westcott. I cannot think what will become of you."

"I shall marry Mr. True
Deverell, shan't I? People say he's not fit for polite society
either. But he's rich as Croesus and I hear he knows his way under
a woman's petticoats."

It had been a childish wish, spoken
aloud eighteen years ago and never forgotten. And now she knew it
was the real reason that brought her there to Roscarrock castle.
Somewhere in her mind she had thought to make him fall in love with
her. Ten-year-old Olivia and thrice widowed Mrs. Monday were not
very different to each other, after all. Since she'd lived there
with him it seemed as if very little time had passed. If anything,
it was being reversed.

Suddenly her eyes were opened and she
realized why she had gone there. Unwilling to admit what she
wanted, she had tried telling herself that she came for the money
and the measure of independence it would give her. But most of all,
in truth, she had gone there to appease her lurid curiosity, and
for him. For the man himself.

She had not, however, expected him to
propose marriage. It didn't seem possible, too much of a fairytale,
and she didn't believe in those. Not for her. So she had turned him
down, lost her gumption.

"Pack your things at once,"
Christopher barked at her irritably. "We must leave immediately.
The quicker we get back to Chiswick the better. Do you think I have
nothing more important to do than chase about the country after
you? We will catch the mail coach to London this
afternoon."

London. That was where True had gone,
to his club and to his son. He might not be back for weeks, his
work on the memoirs stalled again for now.

He'll probably never let
you go then. How can he, until his story is finished? And he's
still living it?

Was this why he delayed so much?
Because he feared coming to the end of his story, thought that if
he finished it then his life too would end? In many ways he did
think and act like a boy, and it seemed feasible that Rush, his
fourteen year-old son, would understand him better than
anyone.

But she had something to tell
Deverell. Something that couldn't wait another eighteen
years.

"Very well," she said to Christopher.
But as she rang for Sims, she looked down at her stepbrother's side
and finally her eyes saw and registered what he had in his right
hand.

* * * *

"The name is O'Grady, sir, Inspector
O'Grady of the London Metropolitan Police."

True was in his office at Deverell's
when the tall, spare fellow in the grubby greatcoat came to find
him.

"I understand you recently hired a
lady by the name of Olivia Monday to work for you, sir."

"I did." Bloody woman wouldn't marry
him. He still couldn't get over it. She was the only woman he'd
ever asked— Charlotte had demanded he marry her, so there was no
proposal in that case. Olivia was the only woman for whom he had
these strange, unnamed feelings.

Had he gone about it all wrong with
her? Was there something else he should have said? She had given
one of her funny little snorts when he said he ought to marry her.
Perhaps that wasn't the correct way to say it.

"If I might have a word, sir. There
are things you ought to know about that lady."

He sighed, his mind forced back to
less pleasant thoughts. "Say what you will." Although he knew
already, of course, thanks to Charlotte.

But he let the detective speak and he
listened, curious to hear the story unedited by his wife's
spite.

"Captain Ollerenshaw was killed when
his racing phaeton overturned. His young wife wasn't there at the
time, but her stepbrother tells me that she did encourage her
husband's wild ways and thought them amusing entertainment. Then
the second husband choked on a fishbone in his pie, although the
cook at the tavern where he ate every Saturday swore she took great
care to remove the bones. Funny thing was, Sir Allardyce Pemberton
always dined alone at the tavern, but on that night he must have
had a companion for there were two ale-rings on the table where he
was found— one smaller than the other. And one of the serving girls
thought she saw someone with him, although she couldn't say who it
was. Or if it was a lady. None of this would have raised an
eyebrow, if not for the demise of a third husband. But I'm putting
the pieces together and keeping an eye on that woman before she
does away with another innocent man."

"What could have been her motive? She
has not gained financially from their deaths,
obviously."

"No, sir, but not all murderers need a
motive beyond their own sick and twisted pleasure. Walk a mile in
my shoes and you'd learn that. I'd advise you to take great care in
your dealings with the woman. Who knows what she will do next, sir.
She's hiding something, mark my words. I have made it my mission,
Mr. Deverell, to bring that woman to justice, before she strikes
again."

O'Grady seemed certain and resolved
upon his course, but True refused to believe any of it. Olivia
Monday may be a woman with an impish gleam in her eye from time to
time, and an eagerness to hide her natural beauty, but she was not
capable of murder.

"I thought I should warn you, sir, of
the risk you take while she is under your roof."He smiled slowly.
"Look around you. I'm no stranger to risk, Inspector O'Grady. I
built my fortune on it. Don't worry on my account."

"And don't you be fooled, sir. The
woman may have donned the garb of a wallflower, but she has a sly
talent for distracting men."

That part was accurate, he
mused.

"She took off a little girl's finger
once," the detective muttered gravely. "Shut it inside a
pianoforte, so 'tis said. Always had a bloodthirsty way about her,
even from childhood."

"Is that so?"

"Found her cleaning the floor the day
her last husband was killed. Just as calm as you please, scrubbing
the flagstones."

"Yes, that sounds like the lady. She
does have a dreary practical side, orderly to the point of
obsession."

But the Inspector didn't crack a
smile. "The wound against the side of Parson Monday's head was
sizeable, sir," O'Grady told him. "And in my opinion, whatever that
coroner said, that nasty hole in his skull wasn't caused by a fall
against a bit of rotting, wood bridge."

* * * *

"Christopher, you found your
umbrella," she exclaimed, breath rushing out of her, one hand to
her breast.

He was holding the silver swan head in
his gloved hand and frowning at her. "My umbrella, for pity's sake?
What about it?"

Olivia saw again her husband take that
very same umbrella from the stand by the front door, in a hurry to
get to church on his last day alive.

Afraid to point it out to William, she
had said nothing, fearing what he would think of her when she
confessed that Christopher had been to visit two days before and
that she had not told him about it. Guilt overcame her and she let
him walk out of the house carrying the wrong umbrella. It was not
only the last time she saw her husband alive; it was also the last
time she'd seen that fancy silver swan's head. Until
today.

When she watched them fish William's
body out of the river, there was no sign of any umbrella with his
body. Later she had supposed it sank to the riverbed or was taken
away by the police. It was an ugly, vulgar thing and she was glad
not to see it again.

But there it was, in the hands of its
owner. As if it had never been anywhere else.

"What is the matter with you?"
Christopher snapped.

"I thought you lost that
umbrella."

He sniffed. "Certainly not. I take
more care of my belongings than you do. You never had any
appreciation for the finer things. Now, make haste. I understand we
can catch the mail coach at The Fisherman's Rest this
afternoon."

Sims did not come in answer to the
bell, but Storm did. When he learned they were leaving he
immediately protested, reminding Olivia that his father expected
her there when he returned. She panicked then for she didn't want
to make any trouble for the residents of Roscarrock and she could
see that Storm was determined to keep her there, as his father had
no doubt instructed. He stood guard over her like a sheepdog. But,
not certain of what her stepbrother might do, she knew he had to be
removed quickly from Roscarrock.

"I am sorry, Mr. Deverell," she said,
clasping her hands behind her back, "but a family emergency calls
me back to Chiswick and I must go." Her mind was hard at work
unraveling the ropes that had blinded her for years, gagged her and
held her down.

Christopher.

Always there, popping up to smugly
point out her shortcomings, not even feigning commiseration each
time she lost a husband. Christopher complaining she was his future
burden and yet making plans to keep her nearby, being angry each
time she left. Now he came all this way to fetch her home again
under the spurious excuse of his fiancée's family being appalled by
the connection.

Christopher.

"Father won't like this," Storm
muttered.

"I shall return as soon as I can," she
said, conjuring a final smile. "Please don't fret. Give my love to
little Arthur."

* * * *

The club was busy that evening and he
felt that old stirring of the blood again as he walked between the
tables, greeting familiar faces, breathing in the rich scent of
money. Deverell's was doing well with Ransom at the helm. Better,
perhaps, than he'd expected. He should have given the boy more
credit.

It was pride he felt, he supposed,
when he thought of his sons' successes. Was it love too, as Olivia
would insist?

That Olivia— a woman who had known
such bad luck and was hounded by rumor— should still believe in
love was incredible.