Chapter 7

Olivia stomped across the gleaming marble, not sparing a second to admire the vivid paintings and perfectly polished statues along the walls of Lord Lowell’s home.

Madame Julian had not been the last to refuse them. Oh, no. They had visited a dozen other modistes in an increasing fervor before finally ordering the carriage back.

The day could not have been more of a failure.

She clasped her hands at her waist to prevent herself from flapping them. She would not be foiled so easily. There had to be a way, someone she had overlooked.

Lord Lowell entered the room. “Lady Allen, I did not expect you back so soon.”

The words flew from her lips. “They rejected me! Oh!” She gathered the shreds of her self-control and straightened her back. “We must speak in private, my lord.”

“I agree.” He held out his arm.

It was a gentlemanly offer, one she should have immediately accepted. The problem was that she didn’t want to touch him. Her skin itched as if she had spent too long in the bath and the closer she came to the marquess, the more the feeling intensified. He was the cause of her problems. If it were not for him, she wouldn’t have suffered such embarrassment.

“What is it?” he asked, frowning.

“Nothing of importance,” she said. Then she forced a smile and placed her fingers on his sleeve.

They strolled down the hall, past closed doors, and paintings with silver etched frames. The stern faces of Lord Lowell’s ancestors, judging her from the past.

When the marquess and the dowager countess entered Lord Lowell’s office, a silver-haired woman in a severe black dress stood from a chair and faced them.

“Constance’s governess turned lady’s maid, Mrs. Quill,” Lord Lowell said. “Mrs. Quill, this is the matchmaker I mentioned, the Countess Dowager Allen.”

The woman dipped into a deep curtsey. “A pleasure to meet you, Lady Allen.”

Olivia murmured something appropriate before crossing the room to the collection of crystal bottles next to the wall. Her nerves were scattered, her face was hot, and her hands were sore from clenching them all morning. In sum, she was well in need of alcohol.

Lord Lowell met her at the sideboard and poured two fingers of bourbon into a glass from a crystal decanter. “What happened?”

She downed the liquid. It had a sickly-sweet taste like overripe cherries and clung to the inside of her mouth. “The articles happened. Every modiste in London has seen them.”

“I see.” He grimaced. “Then there is no choice. We must put a stop to the articles immediately.”

She clenched her teeth to keep a snarl from bursting from her lips. “ Now you’re willing to negotiate? You might have saved me a day of embarrassment.”

He paused in the middle of removing a cork from a bottle of wine. “P-Pardon?”

She folded her arms over her chest so that he would not see how they trembled. “Cease these games, my lord. I agreed to your ridiculous terms. There is no reason for you to continue your attacks. If you don’t stop, I cannot promise that I will be able to find an appropriate match for your daughter. The rumors have already spread farther than I expected.”

He poured himself a glass of red wine. “You’re accusing me of contributing to those articles about you.” Then he went silent, staring at his glass for so long that her temper began to rise again.

“Yes. Well?” she asked. “Do you intend to do something?”

He grimaced. “I was considering taking the blame, but I suspect it would not be long before you discovered the truth. Perhaps it is best that we decide what to do together.” He removed a bundle of envelopes wrapped in a ribbon from his pocket and handed them to her. “I found these in Constance’s room. Mrs. Quill has already reviewed them.”

She stared at the bundle. “What’s this?” Her role as matchmaker did not require her to read her charges’ private correspondence. Doing so would be a violation of trust.

He sipped his wine. “They aren’t what they look like.”

She reluctantly untied the ribbon and unfolded the first of the envelopes. As she read, the room seemed to close around her.

“There must be some other explanation,” Mrs. Quill said. She had resumed sitting but was perched at the edge of the chair. “I know Constance’s handwriting and it doesn’t match what’s in the letters.”

“She could have had someone else write them,” Lord Lowell said.

Mrs. Quill shook her head. “No. She could never… I cannot believe she would use your name to do such evil, my lord. What reason would she have for attacking Lady Allen?”

Olivia felt as if she were floating out of her body. Mrs. Quill transformed into her mother, pacing in front of the fireplace while her father nursed his third glass of whiskey.

“This cannot be happening,” her mother had said. “There must be some other explanation. What did he promise you, Olivia?”

“He’s bedded her,” her father had replied. “What other reason can there be?”

That statement had been wrong, but her denials had not stopped her parents from punishing her as if she had ruined herself.

She licked her dry lips and opened the next envelope in the packet with numb fingers. There was no letter inside, but a collection of newspaper clippings, starting with the very first article that had attacked her. A dawning realization settled over her as she flipped through them.

The writing, the cadence, the cowardice. How had she not seen it before? It was as if her late husband were speaking the words in her mind.

Only a man was capable of such cruelty.

Lord Lowell put his wineglass down and squared his shoulders. “Lady Allen, I swear on my honor that I had no knowledge of my daughter’s actions before today. You are within your rights to demand a retraction, but I request that my daughter’s name be kept out of the papers.”

Mrs. Quill huffed. “The girl must learn a lesson.”

“Constance didn’t write these,” Olivia said.

The other two occupants of the room stared at her as if she had unsheathed a sword from behind her back.

“Why do you think that?” Lord Lowell asked.

“Has Constance been distracted lately? Showing less interest in activities she once enjoyed? Staying in her room more often?”

Mrs. Quill shifted in her seat. “She is at a difficult age.”

It was the same pattern of behavior Olivia’s parents had noticed and remarked upon during Olivia’s tumultuous first season. What they had not known was that the Earl of Allen had inserted himself into her life long before he’d begun publicly courting her. He had preyed on her loneliness, undermining her shaky relationship with her parents, until he’d been the only person she trusted.

It wasn’t until years later that she understood that alienating her, manipulating her, torturing her, were the things the earl had loved most. That was why he had caused such chaos in her life rather than simply present his suit to her parents properly.

He had not wanted a wife. He’d wanted a victim.

She took a deep breath. She might be wrong, but there were too many similarities to remain silent. “I believe the articles were written by a man who has cultivated a relationship with Constance as part of a scheme to exact revenge against me.”

The silence was interrupted by a loud crash elsewhere in the house, followed by screeching laughter. Mrs. Quill leaped to her feet with a muttered curse and raced out, leaving them alone.

Olivia carefully tucked the sheets of paper into their respective envelopes and then held out the stack to Lord Lowell. “Put these back where you found them before she notices.”

He frowned. “Why would I do that?”

She lowered her arm. “Think about it. First, the articles accuse me of murder. Then every matchmaker in London refuses you, leading you to me. Now we discover Constance is involved with those same articles. It cannot be a coincidence.” She paused to swallow the saliva that had accumulated in her mouth. This next part was awkward, but it was necessary to make him understand. “I believe someone is using the same techniques the Earl of Allen used against me before our marriage to manipulate Constance into destroying my reputation.”

It was a cruel manner of revenge, which suggested a personal motive. That meant she could rule out any mamas who might have been angry at her for rejecting their daughters. She could not imagine a mother being willing to sacrifice another young woman for something so petty. The new earl was also unlikely to be the culprit. He had only appeared in London briefly for the funeral and had expressed little interest in his new title.

“Why Constance?” Lord Lowell asked, his voice breaking. “Why my daughter?”

His dismay stabbed at her heart. She’d been so furious with him for feigning innocence when it hadn’t been an act at all.

She dropped her gaze to the floor. “I’m sorry, my lord. Perhaps she was simply an easy target. The only thing I am certain of is that I am at fault. Someone wants to hurt me and is using Constance to do it.”

Olivia could not summon any anger toward the girl. They had too much in common, having both been ensnared by the worst kind of man. If anything, the blame for Constance’s current situation fell on her father, for allowing her to stumble into a trap.

He sighed. “I am as much at fault as you. If I had been paying more attention, I would have noticed the change in her behavior. I was too focused on fulfilling the promise I made to her mother.” He poured the rest of the wine bottle into his glass. “I will speak to Constance and put an end to the articles.”

“No.”

He paused in the process of picking up his glass. “You would have her continue?”

She remembered what her parents had done after they had discovered her connection to the earl. They had locked her in her room and deprived her of food. She’d told them what they’d wanted to hear, then ran back to the earl the first chance she’d gotten. Her relationship with them had never improved. They had gone to their graves before she’d had a chance to repair the damage the earl had done.

“If we interfere, we tip our hand. Whoever is manipulating Constance will know they’ve been discovered and might find another way of using her to get to me. I can’t…” She swallowed the lump that had formed in her throat. A lifetime of pain whirled within her and demanded she act. “I won’t let a girl under my care fall victim to a man like that.” She held the envelopes out again. “Trust me. Constance doesn’t know what she’s doing. You must let her come to me on her own.”

“I don’t like this.” He slammed his glass down on the sideboard and snatched the envelopes so quickly and with such a stormy expression that her instincts kicked in. She flung her hands in front of her face to blunt the blows that would come next.

But nothing happened.

Of course nothing happened. He was not her late husband. He didn’t throw fists at a woman simply because she said something he disliked.

She tucked her arms behind her back and met his gaze. The confusion and hurt she saw there made her heart leap into her throat. He was so close that if she puffed out her chest, her bodice would brush his jacket, but she could not make herself move.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

The reassuring words she knew she should say remained trapped in her mind. She shook her head so quickly that the jet beads hanging from her hat smacked her on the cheek.

He brushed his knuckles against her chin. “What happened to you?”

A knock at the door had them flying apart, like lovers caught in a shadowy alcove at a ball. She had not felt so skittish since she was a young girl.

The door opened and Mrs. Quill peered in, her shoulders slumped. “The twins knocked over two of your great-grandmother’s vases, my lord.”

He straightened, all traces of the soft-spoken man who had caressed her cheek gone. “Are they well?”

Mrs. Quill winced. “The vases are beyond repair, I’m afraid.”

Olivia tensed, remembering how she had once dropped a plate in front of her husband. He had sulked for days, showing her through his neglect that he disapproved of her clumsiness. She had never handled any dishes in front of him again without suffering significant anxiety.

“Damn the vases,” he said. “Where are the twins? I’ll see to them myself and ensure they know there are no bad feelings.”

With those words, the last remaining threads of Olivia’s suspicion slipped away. Lord Lowell did not have an ounce of cruelty in him. Regardless of what Constance had done, he was not her nemesis.

“Perhaps later,” Mrs. Quill said. “A woman has arrived, my lord. She, ah, did not give her name, but she was quite insistent that she speak to you both at once regarding Lady Constance.”

“Direct her to my daughter’s room,” he said. “We will see what she has to say.”