Chapter Fifteen

Oscar planted the soles of his boots on a compass-shaped opus sectile in the marble floor of the library and considered his

options for avoiding an early grave.

It wasn't until Mr. Brown and his baskets of gratitude arrived that he realized the importance of being Vandemere. Simply

declaring it and hiding himself away in a small hamlet wasn't going to work.

In order for his holiday at the abbey to serve its purpose, he needed everyone to accept that he was the viscount. If he couldn't convince the widows

that he belonged here, then they—and the cleric they'd sent for—would likely make a fuss. And a fuss would bring too much

attention. Attention would draw Ladrón's notice. And since the Spaniard was fond of separating his enemies' heads from their

bodies, Oscar very much wanted to keep that from happening.

Over the past year, Warring had tutored him on life as an aristocrat, including a list of viscounty tasks, like scrutinizing

the accounts on a daily basis.

Unfortunately, Mr. Price was about as cooperative as a toad.

The steward even led him on a wild-goose chase through the abbey in search of the supposedly misplaced account ledgers. He put on a jolly good show, too, traipsing through the study, his own office near the servants' stairs, and even into the viscount's apartments in the west wing—currently inhabited by the Shellhorns—but the books were nowhere to be found.

Oscar knew better. They were hidden somewhere, doubtless by the command of the widows.

Frustrated, he scanned the library shelves, absently rubbing the scar beneath his cravat. What was the likelihood that Ladrón

would simply forget about him? Not very likely. The man was obsessive in all his pursuits. There would be only one way to stop—

Something rattled sharply behind him.

He turned with a start to see Algernon. The old man was dragging a rickety old ladder with him.

Oscar immediately stepped forward to assist. But the butler barely spared him a glance as he kept plodding. He crossed to

the far side of the room and propped the ladder against one of the burled wood pilasters that framed the slender floor-to-ceiling

bookshelves. Then he began to climb.

Alarmed, Oscar followed and stood at the base of the ladder to ensure he didn't fall. He had no idea what the butler was doing.

Perhaps the old devil had finally had enough of the widows and planned to do himself in by jumping from the top.

But then Algernon rapped the side of his fist against the smooth entablature beneath the crown molding, and Oscar heard a

soft click. Wide-eyed, he watched as the butler opened a narrow hinged panel. A secret compartment. And inside, stood a row

of black leatherbound books.

Algernon didn't bother to remove them, he simply started his way down the ladder. Once at the bottom, he turned to Oscar.

"I believe these are the accounting books you were searching for, my lord." And with that, the crafty old codger just walked

out of the library.

Oscar shook his head. He was still getting used to the my lord honorific, as well as ordering other people around. But it was likely better that way. After all, he couldn't return to his old life expecting people to bow and do his bidding. Well, not if he wanted to stay alive. And that was the entire reason he was here, wasn't it?

Climbing the ladder, he secretly hoped that he'd find a pouch filled with gold sovereigns at the back of the secret compartment.

He didn't.

However, he did confirm that those were the misplaced ledgers, and he took them to the study where he would have complete

privacy.

Given his skill with numbers, it didn't take him long to see the discrepancies: a few pounds miscalculated here or there,

larger sums gone astray beneath a purposely sloppy scribble or inkblot and an incorrect total carried over to the following

page.

Interesting, he mused. But not altogether surprising. He'd suspected that there was a reason Mr. Price had hidden these ledgers.

What Oscar couldn't glean from the pages, however, was who else might have known about it. For all he knew, Mr. Price could

have been working with one or more of the widows.

Yet, the only thing he could be sure about was the fact that he wasn't the only one at Dunnelocke Abbey with something to

hide.

***

Why was someone hammering?

Disoriented, Oscar lifted his head, his neck cracking with the effort. He blinked, the faint glow of embers revealing a paneled

room and a dark expanse beyond the open window on the opposite wall. The study , he recalled groggily.

Looking down at the ledgers strewn across the desk, he realized he'd fallen asleep and that the lamp had gone out. Lifting the glass chimney, he attempted to light it, but quickly surmised that there was no oil. Yet another expense that was likely misrepresented in the ledgers.

Searching warped drawers that tended to give way in unpredictable increments—some lodging in place at barely a hand's width

and others cracking open with the force of a battering ram enacted from the opposite end—he finally found a grouping of candles.

But the instant the strong odor hit him, he muttered a curse. He hated tallows. They were greasy and foul-smelling and smoked

excessively.

However, he knew they were cheaper than beeswax. He didn't have to look at the ledgers for that information. It was something

he'd learned in his youth when his mother had held on to their last beeswax candle for as long as she could after his father

left.

When it had burned out, it was like all the hope his mother had clung to had been snuffed out as well.

The knocking came again, pulling him from his thoughts with the realization that it was that sound that had woken him. And

it seemed to be coming from the front of the house.

The clock on the mantel read a quarter past two. The odds that Algernon was still awake at this hour, not to mention able

to hear the racket, were slim to none. So Oscar took the stinking chamberstick in hand, unlocked the study and went to the

foyer.

A moment later, he slid open the judas hole and peered through to find a road-weary Cardew, wavering on his feet.

A breath of relief left Oscar. At once, he turned the latch, threw open the front door and pulled the man in for a hearty

embrace.

"Cardew, you are a most welcome sight." Oscar slapped him on the back, disturbing the travel dust from his coat. Then he sniffed

and wrinkled his nose, drawing back. "What is that horrendous smell?"

Cardew shook his head. "Let's just say that I was dis tracted by a particularly buxom tavern wench. Her husband came along at a rather inconvenient time, and I was forced to flee from an upstairs window and landed too near the chicken coop."

"When are you ever going to stop chasing the wrong women?" Oscar chuckled and shook his head. But he already had the answer,

and they said in unison, "As soon as you find the right one."

But they both knew there was no such creature.

A bedraggled James Raglan appeared in the doorway. "I saw the carriage drive up. Shall I assist with the trunks, my lord?"

"Aye. Just set them in here. Then see that the driver has a bed and a meal for the night. I'll ensure that he's compensated

in the morning."

When Oscar turned toward the stairs, Cardew cast an arched look his way and mockingly mouthed, My lord.

"Come along," Oscar said, rolling his eyes. "We have much to discuss, but it will keep until I can stand the smell of you."

***

After Cardew was settled in an attic room among the servants' quarters, Oscar returned to the study to finish perusing the

last of the ledgers, taking time to pilfer a lamp from the parlor and build up the fire.

At his desk, he'd given up hoping to find a surplus of treasure and instead focused on the patterns, formulating a clearer

picture of Price's bookkeeping.

Cardew entered the study in a fresh change of clothes, his trousers and shirtsleeves a bit wrinkled from the journey. With

a wry quirk of his wiry white brows, he said, "A little light reading? I seem to recall you hating your schoolwork."

"No, just the pompous tutors." Oscar closed one ledger and picked up another. "It took so long to get hold of these that I don't want to let them out of my sight before I peruse them all."

Cardew moved around the study with idle interest. "Changed your mind about raiding the coffers? As long as you're pretending

to be an aristocrat, might as well behave like an entitled prig and take whatever you want."

"As I said before, we're not going to steal or draw any more attention than necessary. We're here for one purpose. And besides,

there is no money in this estate. Even if there were, the widows and their loyal steward wouldn't allow me anywhere near it

until they verify my legitimacy."

Cardew stopped short. "Surely, you showed them my letter."

"And they sent for a cleric of the church where Vandemere was baptized to verify it."

"That was my best work!"

A reluctant grin tugged at the corner of Oscar's mouth as he skimmed the figures. "You say that about everything you do."

"It happens to be true each time," Cardew said oh so humbly. "I suppose we're fortunate that Vandemere was born in Africa

instead of Scotland as you were, or else their cleric would already be here. How much time do we have?"

"A month? Perhaps a bit longer."

Cardew cursed. Agitated, he withdrew a cheroot from the case in his pocket. Moving to the hearth, he lifted a stick to light

it, puffing as the tip glowed orange. After he blew out a satisfied stream of smoke, he tossed the stick back into the flames.

"That doesn't give us long. Or you , rather. Ladrón made it clear that he wasn't interested in me any longer."

"Surely, that cannot bother you," Oscar said looking up in time to see Cardew's shoulders lift in a petulant shrug. "I cannot

believe it. You're pouting because a murderous villain is no longer after you?"

"I'm very good at what I do. It would be nice to be appreciated for once."

Oscar pinched the bridge of his nose to ease the sharp pain pressing against his skull. He wasn't going to remind Cardew that

all this had begun because he'd tried to sell a forgery to a man known in the darker quarters as El Coleccionista . Or that Oscar had saved his life by offering to pay back four times the amount that Ladrón had originally paid for the painting.

None of that mattered any longer.

The fact of the matter was, after losing the two thousand pounds he'd needed to pay Cardew's debt to Honoria, Oscar had proceeded

to put himself in Ladrón's sights by using his particular skill with cards to win every franc he'd needed by dawn that very

same day.

The problem was Ladrón had observed him in action and decided that he needed to add Oscar to his collection of rare objects.

When Oscar had refused, he was informed by way of the sword at his throat that declining the invitation wasn't an option.

It was only due to Rowan Warring's timely intervention that he'd survived at all.

"I appreciate you," Oscar offered placatingly.

Cardew flicked his ashes. "You're just saying that."

"I'm not. And I'm sure that if Ladrón ever saw your series of Rembrandts, he would have wanted you for himself." When Cardew

nodded and appeared suitably mollified, Oscar closed the ledger and sat back, returning to more pressing matters. "What news

of Sonya?"

She'd been inconsolable after Ladrón attempted to use her as a means of coercion. But men like him were used to preying upon

the frailty of others to get their way.

That night when Oscar continued to fight off his men, Ladrón had tied her to a chair and threatened to pluck out the eyes that had drawn his notice in the beginning—one a rare emerald green, the other a flawless sapphire blue. When the monster didn't hesitate to produce the bejeweled dagger from his boot, Oscar had relented at once.

"Sonya was still unsettled when I left her in the care of Marie, Fiona and Helga. But I have every faith that the four of

them will be good for each other," Cardew said as he strolled over to the window to stare out at the darkness.

"Leave it to you to have an entire harem living under one roof and at your beck and call."

He blew out a cloud of smoke as he looked over his shoulder. "As I said, I'm very good at what I do."

Refusing to think about that, Oscar walked to the sideboard and poured a dram of whiskey from the bottle he'd filched from

Dudley Shellhorn. Tossing it back, he hissed as it burned all the way down. It wasn't the finest, but it wasn't the worst

either. In other words, it would do. So he poured two glasses and crossed the room.

Cardew lifted his in a salute. "Have you heard from Warring?"

"Not yet. Therefore, I'm holding fast to the plan and trying to stay as inconspicuous as possible."

"What is this swill? Warn a fellow before you attempt to murder him." Cardew cringed and thrust the glass back at Oscar. Then

he took a few deep pulls on his cheroot as if to cleanse his palate. "But tell me about your mustachioed charlatan. Have we

any cause to worry on that front?"

Oscar knew that he was asking about the blackmail. They'd formed a plan, after all. Assume the identity of Vandemere, keep

out of sight in the country until Ladrón could be dealt with, then steal away in the middle of the night.

Which was still the plan. And yet...

It felt more complicated than that. Damned if he knew why. And for reasons unbeknownst to him, he decided not to tell the

whole truth. "Nothing to report. Everything is going along swimmingly."

"Good. However"—Cardew moved back to the fire to flick his ashes—"if that changes, or if the cleric arrives, then we'll be left with only one choice."

Run , Oscar thought.

But he was tired of running. Even earlier, when the thought had crossed his mind, the notion of riding away had left him enervated

and already imagining the first place he would go to rest.

The answer had startled him because it was Honoria's face he'd seen.

It meant nothing, of course. The only thing it had proved was how thoroughly she'd scrambled his wits the day before. He couldn't

help but wonder how many other poor sods the siren had left in a similar state. Hadn't she said herself that she had scores

of men falling at her feet proposing marriage? Pathetic. And if she thought one insignificant kiss put a ring in his nose

so she could lead him around by it, she could think again.

"That won't be a problem, will it?" Cardew asked.

"No. I'll be ready."

Looking over his shoulder, Cardew's eyes squinted with suspicion. "You're not getting attached to this place, are you? Because

you know what happened the last time. Complacency leads to sloppiness. A lesson you learned in Italy, I should think."

"I don't need to be reminded," he said tightly. "And there's no chance of becoming comfortable here. Once you meet the widows,

you'll understand."

"And your femme fatale?"

"You already asked that question."

Cardew casually puffed on his cheroot. "I'll phrase it differently, then. You are Vandemere, right? She, for all intents and

purposes, is your betrothed. I merely wondered if there is more than just blackmail between you."

Oscar thought again about the kiss, about the way she'd held his face so tenderly and tentatively pressed her lips to his.

And at the time, it had felt so...

He stopped before finishing the thought and remembered that she was a cunning, shrewd and intelligent vixen who knew precisely what effect she had on men.

Whatever happened between them was nothing more than a continuation of their charade. He would let her save her come-hither

glances and slaying kisses for some bloke who didn't know any better.

"Miss Honoria Hartley means nothing at all to me."