Chapter 2

Olivia had overstepped a boundary. A significant one.

The herbaceous scent of Mrs.Milton's lily of the valley perfume lingered even after her departure. The mantel clock's steady

rhythm seemed unusually sharp in the otherwise still silence, as if it, too, was anticipating her uncle's censure.

"So, you've made a decision, have you?" Thomas Brannon grunted at last, his baritone voice uncustomarily tight and gritty.

"Without consulting me?"

The question was a legitimate one, but how long had she waited for something—anything—that would offer any sort of autonomy?

She turned to face the man who, in appearance only, was so like her father. "I assumed you'd be pleased that such an esteemed

member of society would trust us with such an assignment."

"Pleased?" He scoffed and propped his thick fists akimbo. "As I've told you countless times, you are not an agent of this

company, Olivia."

His argument stung. In truth, she was little more than the daughter of a once well-respected purveyor, and she should be eager to make an advantageous marriage instead of pursuing professional recognition. Yet she'd spent most of her life in this shop at her father's side, learning the nuances of antiquities and other such artifacts. It was a significant aspect of who she was and how she lived her life.

Unwilling to let the topic drop, she trailed Uncle Thomas as he stormed from the receiving room into the warehouse. The familiar

scent of dust and disuse tickled her nose as they entered the humid, dimly lit space. "No, I'm not an agent, but I know just

as much, if not more, than most. And this is a good opportunity."

"Opportunity for what?" Thomas stopped at the desk where one of their agents, Russell Crane, was seated and lifted a stack

of unopened letters. "I've never heard of her collection . I doubt anyone has. This scheme is likely a desperate attempt to claim whatever money she can, now that Francis Milton is

dead. It's probably not even worth the trip, but instead of consulting me, you reacted based on emotion."

Olivia clamped her teeth over her lower lip and resisted releasing the sarcastic retort simmering on the tip of her tongue.

She despised this feeling—of her knowledge and experience being devalued... of not being considered a significant contributor

simply because she was not the son who could ensure the business's future. She might be a woman of two and twenty, but she

was still at her uncle's mercy in many ways. After all, he was the de facto owner of their business, and as such, he provided

the roof over not only her head but her younger sister, Laura's, as well.

"Need I remind you that when Edward died, he asked me to care for you until the day you meet a man I feel is worthy enough

to be your husband?"

An uncomfortable tightness pinched in the pit of her stomach as she recalled the conversation at her father's bedside, hours before his death. "I remember it."

"Your father thought me the best person to help guide you, which I've attempted to do. Now you've committed yourself to traveling

hundreds of miles to a home where you know no one to evaluate a supposed collection. And what do you know of Mrs.Milton's

nephew? Anything?"

Olivia remained silent.

"I will enlighten you, then. The ears of every purveyor, seller, and collector perked when word of Francis Milton's death

became public. By all accounts young George Wainbridge is a wild young man with a dubious reputation. Who knows what manner

of person will be present at this so-called house party?"

Olivia's defenses—and confidence—faltered. She suddenly felt quite small, like a child reprimanded for impulsive behavior.

"Mrs.Milton will be there, and surely—"

"We've worked with Mr.Milton, not Mrs.Milton," he countered. "And now that her husband is dead, who is she?"

The holes he was attempting to poke through her plan were widening. Perhaps her excitement had trumped her sense of reason,

but she could not back down. Not now. Her pride would not permit it.

She forced aplomb to her tone and straightened her shoulders. "It's widely known that Mrs.Milton is one of the most prominent

women in polite society. You've said yourself that such clients are the exact foothold we need. What's more, she'll be my

chaperone. Honestly, I don't see what harm could be done in such a short time."

"You don't see what harm could be done in a country house?" Thomas jeered. "That's the precise reason I should forbid it."

"I'm a grown woman, Uncle, and I'm not a fool. I know exactly what sort of people could be in attendance. But it is for a

fortnight at most. The assessment aside, I have spent my entire life within London's city limits, and I might very well spend

the rest of my life here without seeing any other part of the world. You know full well that Father always promised that when

I came of age, he'd take me traveling. He's gone, but he always made his intentions clear. Give me credit, at least, for having

a sensible head on my shoulders."

At this, Thomas fell silent.

Her words had landed with some effect. Maybe it was the reference to his late brother. Maybe it was the fact that he himself

had a role in her isolation.

Thomas folded his arms across his barrel chest and stared at her for several seconds. He narrowed his deep-set, coffee-hued

eyes, and his tone grew curt. "Very well. Do as you wish, then. You are, as you have said, a grown woman. But by doing so,

you accept responsibility for the possible ramifications. I'll have no part of it."

He tucked the stack of letters beneath his arm, snapped up a small crate from Russell's desk, and stomped back toward the

receiving room.

Olivia inhaled a shaky breath.

She had not won that argument. Nor had she lost it.

Russell's weighted gaze bored into her. Undoubtedly he'd side with her uncle.

The lanky man had begun working for her father eleven years prior. At thirty-two he was a full decade her senior. His mild manners and straightforward disposition made him easy to interact with, but in moments like this, when professional and family matters intertwined, their unique relationship could be difficult to navigate.

"Go on," she said at last, reaching for the linen work apron she had slung over the chair when Mrs.Milton arrived. "I know

you're champing at the bit to share your opinion."

He let out his typical good-natured chuckle, abandoned his chair, and stepped around the desk. He wore no coat, a bottle-green

corduroy waistcoat hugged his lean torso, and his blousy linen shirtsleeves were rolled to his elbows. He leaned back against

the edge of the desk and crossed one booted foot over the other. "He's right, you know."

She turned to face him. His curly, straw-blond hair seemed to always be in need of a trim. "I thought you'd say that."

"I'm serious. I've heard the stories about George Wainbridge. A wealthy heir with too much time and money on his hands. Do

I think you'll be safe with Mrs.Milton as your chaperone? Yes. Do I think it a good idea to get involved with fops like George

Wainbridge? Probably not."

Olivia shrugged the apron over her shoulders, annoyed that his assessment of the situation did not match her own. "It's a

good thing I'm going for Mrs.Milton, then, and not Mr.Wainbridge."

"Oh, come now, Olivia, don't get testy. I'm only looking out for you, 'tis all. I'd hate to see you get yourself into a difficult

situation."

She hastily secured the apron strings behind her back and avoided looking in Russell's direction. An odd dynamic had existed between them ever since her father died. It had been born out of the need for them to work together to keep the business strong, but beyond that, she did consider him a friend, and as such, he knew far more about her personal life than he should.

"But"—he lowered his voice as if taking her into his confidence—"to ease your mind a bit, I know of that collection."

She jerked her head up. "You do? Mrs.Milton's collection?"

He nodded. "Do you recall when your father and I escorted the Cavesee Vase to Cloverton Hall after its arrival? We spent two

nights there before returning to London. I didn't actually see her collection, mind you, but old man Milton told us that his

wife had an astute penchant for oddities and antiquities, even superior to his own. He said it consisted of a great deal of

items in their natural form—shells and gems and the sort."

"Well, that's encouraging, I suppose." She sank into the chair next to his desk, rested her elbows on the desk's edge, and

cradled her chin in her hand. "Regardless, I've committed myself. I couldn't go back on my word now. I only hope the collection's

value is enough to justify the journey. I hate to give my uncle the satisfaction of being right."

"You mean you don't want to be wrong , more like." Russell smirked before fixing his bright blue eyes on her. "I know you're frustrated with the state of things,

but I do wonder if traipsing all the way to Yorkshire is the best way to go about proving your point."

"If I don't pursue it, another opportunity will not come. You know that."

He shook his head and straightened to his full height. "I'm not entirely sure what it is you're chasing, but I wish you could

accept things for how they are. I really do."

Olivia longed for contentment too. But how could peace be found here? Now that her parents were dead, she was subject to her

uncle's whims. What was more, her uncle was turning her father's dream into something unrecognizable. She hated it. She wanted

freedom to continue her father's work and passion on her own terms, but her options and resources were sorely limited. Any

opportunity, no matter how small or unlikely, needed to be explored.

"I'll support whatever you want to do." Russell rounded the desk and sat down at his ledger. "If you want to go to Yorkshire,

then go to Yorkshire. But be careful. People who go to those parties are different than the people we associate with."

Russell's warning echoed as she stood to collect the paperwork she'd been reviewing upon Mrs.Milton's arrival. Olivia did

believe that Russell had her best interests at heart, and yet he could never truly understand her reasonings. Time would tell

if she was on a fool's errand, but this was something she had to do—if only to prove it to herself.