The Ghost, page 10
Olivia gave her butler a reassuring smile, knowing the reason for his disapproval was that he did not like her mother’s habit of taking herself to the blue salon rather than waiting in the hallway to be granted entry, as a visitor should.
Her mother, as Olivia knew, did not believe she should be made to wait when she visited the home of the daughter whom she had never particularly liked, even if she was now a comtesse. Olivia had no doubt her mother was currently inspecting and cataloging the price of every item in the room as she waited for her to appear.
As she walked down the wide staircase, Olivia steeled herself for what she expected would be her mother’s next wheedling attempt to appropriate money from her. The money Gerard had given her parents before Papa gave his permission for them to marry had been long spent, and her mother had hinted several times that the allowance Olivia now gave them was insufficient for their needs.
Perhaps Chloe was in need of a new pair of slippers.
Or Camille a new gown.
Or, and this was the most effective ploy of all because Olivia loved her father dearly, it was the baron who was this time in need of funds.
Not that he would be made aware of his wife’s machinations in procuring the money from his daughter. Money which this time would no doubt go toward buying Christmas gifts for the twins and Edmund before they all left London and traveled to the family home in Bedfordshire, where they would enjoy the winter revelries.
Her mother would not extend an invitation for Olivia to join them, of course.
The previous Christmas, Olivia had been so far along in her pregnancy that neither she nor Gerard had considered it safe for her to travel. Instead, she and Gerard had spent a happy Christmas together in London. Olivia had been reluctant, in any case, to remove an already unwell Gerard from the vicinity of the doctor who was helping to manage the worst of his discomfort.
“I cannot imagine why you would ever want to keep such an unattractive earthen urn in your sitting room, where all your visitors might see it,” was her mother’s greeting comment when Olivia entered the room, the urn she’d referred to held carelessly in the older woman’s lace-gloved hand.
“Gerard was particularly fond of it.” Olivia knew that was because Gerard had been present at the archaeological dig where the urn was discovered. “I believe it is worth several thousand pounds,” she added for her mother’s benefit, knowing that the monetary value of an object or person was all the baroness cared to know about.
“This is?” The baroness still looked at the urn disparagingly.
Olivia nodded. “It is Greek and over two thousand years old,” she assured dryly as she took possession of the urn and replaced it on its pedestal. “As I said, it was a favorite of Gerard’s,” she added wistfully as she sat on one of the couches.
Her mother sniffed. “Proving he was as lacking in the practicalities of the world as you are.”
“Indeed,” Olivia remarked noncommittally, the warmth of her smile reserved for acknowledging her butler as he placed the tea tray on the low table in front of her before straightening and leaving the room.
Her mother sat on the couch opposite. “I have not seen nor heard from you since the Lincolns’ ball a week ago.”
Olivia stiffened warily. “No.”
“An event at which you were extremely impolite to the Duke of Plymouth.” Her mother raised disapproving brows even as she took the cup and saucer Olivia held out to her. “Luckily, I was able to atone for your rudeness by dancing with the duke myself.” She gave a smile that would have rivaled a cat’s when a bowl of cream was placed before it.
“How wonderful for you,” Olivia dismissed, knowing from experience she could keep giving these bland answers forevermore and her mother would never realize that Olivia simply wasn’t interested in her Society gossip.
“Oh yes.” Her mother preened, her appearance in a pale green gown as fashionable as it had ever been. “I do believe Plymouth is even more charming than he ever was.”
“Really?” Olivia somehow doubted that to be true when all of her own recent encounters with Spencer had left her feeling either furious with him or quivering with physical awareness.
The latter had occurred after Spencer had kissed her so thoroughly in the park a week ago.
The former after he had spoken to her so scathingly in his home that same evening.
Olivia had not seen Spen—she really must stop thinking of him as Spencer—the Duke of Plymouth since that time.
A part of her was relieved by that reprieve.
Another part of her, awakened when Spencer had kissed her so deeply, ached to once again experience the passion and desire that had existed between them from the moment they first spoke to each other.
Her marriage to Gerard had been a companionable and pleasant one. Despite the fact they had lived together like brother and sister, Olivia would never have so much as thought of being unfaithful to him. But as a consequence, she knew she was starved for the physical touch and warmth of another adult rather than her darling daughter, whom she adored unconditionally.
She was starved for Spencer’s touch and warmth.
At least, the Spencer who had once longed to feel her touch and warmth in return.
And therein lay the problem, because the Spencer who had returned to them after a year and a half absence was not the man with whom Olivia had once fallen in love.
Perhaps because, as the Duke of Melborne had inadvertently revealed, Spencer had spent that time being “abducted, imprisoned, and kept in captivity”?
Olivia still had absolutely no idea what he had meant by that.
She had wanted, several times, to call upon the Duke and Duchess of Melborne during this past week so that she might ask him to explain further. She had not done so because it would not be fair to ask the duke to betray a confidence which should only be shared by Spencer himself. He gave no sign of wishing to do so.
Which did not mean Olivia was not still burning to know the answer, only that she liked the Duke of Melborne enough not to put him in such a difficult position.
“—are you even listening to me?”
The shrill sound of her mother’s demanding voice brought Olivia out of her reverie. She must have omitted to make a bland comment or two in response to whatever inanity currently held her mother’s attention.
“Of course,” Olivia soothed.
She received a scathing glance for her effort. “You are becoming positively provincial with only Marie for company.”
It took Olivia several seconds to realize her mother was referring to her baby daughter. “Mariah,” she corrected tautly. “Your granddaughter’s name is Mariah.”
“Marie or Mariah.” Her mother’s mouth curved in a curl of distaste. “This family seems to be plagued with an abundance of girls.”
“You—”
“You have a visitor, madame,” her butler announced loudly as he entered the room and presented a silver tray toward Olivia with a calling card upon it.
Olivia picked up the card and instantly felt the blood drain from her cheeks as she read the name the Duke of Plymouth.
Spencer was here!
Now!
The fact that he was calling upon her at all was shocking. That he had done so when her mother was here was so much worse than unfortunate when the older woman knew of their history together. Not all, of course, but enough.
“Well, who is it?” the baroness demanded.
Olivia ignored her mother’s strident command and instead answered Davis. “Would you please show my guest into the library and inform him I will be with him shortly. Perhaps offer him some tea.” Not brandy, because she believed Spencer had been imbibing far too much of that since his return to London.
“Very good, madame.” Davis bowed before departing to relay her message.
“You have a gentleman caller?” The baroness looked horrified. “Must I be the one to remind you that you are still in mourning?”
Olivia needed no lessons in propriety from a woman whose flirtatious behavior with any young or wealthy gentleman proved she barely knew the meaning of the word. “No, you need not,” Olivia answered her briskly as she stood and crossed the room to stand in front of one of the two bay windows looking out onto the street. She easily recognized the ducal seal on the black lacquered carriage outside. As would her mother, on her way out. “Now, if you will excuse me, Mother, I have some business to discuss with my visitor.” She turned her back on the evidence of that carriage.
Her mother gave a disapproving sniff. “A lady does not discuss business, let alone with a gentleman in her own home.”
“I am the head of this household now,” Olivia snapped, totally unnerved by now knowing it was definitely Spencer waiting for her in the library. That he had come here, when the last time they met she had told him she never wanted to see him again. “As such, I shall discuss whatever I please with whomever I please.”
“Then tell me who is this mysterious male visitor you have lurking in your library?” Her mother eyed her speculatively.
Olivia met that gaze unflinchingly. “If I had wished you to know that, I would already have said his name.”
The baroness shook her head. “You have always been too headstrong for your own good. Thank God I am here to assist you whenever you appear to be in danger of causing a public scandal.”
Olivia’s eyes narrowed. “I have no idea what scandal you are referring to.”
“That is because you are still too stupid and trusting to even know when you are in danger of your reputation being ruined.” Her mother stood before straightening her spine, the scowl she gave Olivia one of deep disapproval. “You know where to find me when your behavior results in yet another scandal, this time threatening the respectability of not just you, but also your daughter.”
Olivia’s shoulders tensed at her mother having stooped so low as to bring Mariah into this conversation. The granddaughter she had chosen to ignore since Mariah’s birth. The granddaughter whose name she did not even remember correctly. “I should like you to leave now.”
Her mother looked completely unperturbed by Olivia’s obvious hostility. “Do not forget it is your father’s birthday in four days’ time.”
“I have not forgotten it previous years. I have no reason to believe I shall do so this year either.”
Her mother’s gaze was scathing. “You might become so engrossed in the company of your visitor, you forget everything else.”
“I might,” Olivia provoked.
She and her mother engaged in a staring match for several more long seconds before the older woman gave a huff of impatience and finally took her leave.
Olivia had no doubt that once her mother was outside, she would see and recognize the ducal seal on the waiting carriage and instantly know who Olivia’s visitor was.
She walked briskly out into the entrance hall. “Do not allow my mother to come back into the house,” she instructed Davis, sure that once her mother recognized that ducal seal, she would attempt to come back inside. “I suggest you lock the door to prevent it.”
“Yes, madame.” Davis moved quickly to comply with the instruction, pushing the bolts across at the top and bottom of the door before turning the key in the lock.
His gaze was lowered when he turned back. Olivia had no doubt that was so that she did not see the triumph shining there. Her butler had never made any secret of the fact he liked her father, Baron Miller, but heartily disapproved of the overbearing baroness and Olivia’s two flighty younger sisters.
Olivia nodded her approval even as she drew in a deep and fortifying breath for the ordeal she knew any encounter with Spencer was sure to be. “Please ensure I and my guest are not disturbed.” The last thing she wanted was for any of her household staff to overhear her conversation with Spencer.
Spencer turned from studying the painting of the English countryside situated over the fireplace when he heard the library door open, followed by the soft swish of Olivia’s skirts as she entered the room.
Her eyes were the color of gold against the pallor of her cheeks, her appearance regal in the gown of deep gray silk she wore, as befitted her widowed and still mourning state. To Spencer, she had never appeared more beautiful.
She curtseyed. “I apologize for keeping you waiting, Your Grace.”
He gave a formal bow. “I am the one who should apologize for calling on you without notice.”
Her smile was rueful. “I have learned to accept that you no longer choose to do what you might once have considered polite.”
“No,” he acknowledged wryly before sobering. “I am here today because it has preyed on my mind since the last time we spoke that I still owe you the heartfelt apology I failed to give you then.”
Her eyes widened. “That was a week ago, and it is also unnecessary when I am sure you believed in the truth of what you said.”
His jaw tightened. “I was foxed when I insulted both you and Melborne. I have not touched another drop of brandy since that evening.” And his head had been clearer for it.
Clear enough to know that he needed to speak with Olivia again and at least try to explain the reason for his unpleasantness since his return to London.
She nodded. “Now that you are here, there is a question I wish to ask you.”
Spencer tensed warily. “Yes?”
“What did the Duke of Melborne mean when he described you as having been ‘abducted, imprisoned, and in captivity’ a year and a half ago until very recently?”
Exactly what Spencer had come here to explain.
It was time he did so.
Past time!
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“You will need to sit down while I tell you this.” Spencer encouraged Olivia to occupy one of the seats either side of the lit fireplace. “It is a long and unpleasant story.”
Once he had made the decision to speak with Olivia again, Spencer had thought long and hard as to how truthful he should be regarding the past. He had finally decided he should tell her all, that his unpleasant behavior since he’d returned meant he owed her the whole truth.
He waited for Olivia to be seated and her skirts arranged about her before continuing. He made no effort to sit himself, knowing he felt too restless, his memories of captivity still too vivid, to have his movements restrained in any way. “During the battle at Waterloo, I was struck down by the sword of a French soldier— I have no memory of it,” he hastened to assure at her gasp of dismay. “Nor do I have any memory of the events that followed, but I am assured by Mr. Stanley and Lord Henry Church, the Earl of Dunhill, that they did.”
“Your valet and the Earl of Dunhill…?”
“An unlikely pairing, I grant you,” Spencer confirmed wryly. “But they have both assured me these events did happen in exactly the way they have separately described to me.” He then related how Mr. Stanley had thought he saw him struck down by an English sword, but the Earl of Dunhill had now confirmed that it was his sword, and he had raised it only in order to defend Spencer from being run through a second time by the Frenchman. “He stabbed the Frenchman attacking me, but was then struck on the back of the head and rendered unconscious.” He grimaced. “It is after this that the tale becomes more difficult to believe, in both concept and deed.”
From Spencer’s vivid description of the battle, Olivia already felt as if she had actually been present that day. That she could smell the gunpowder. Hear the gunshots, the neighing of horses, and the men giving a battle cry or calling out in pain.
She felt Spencer’s suffering as if it were her own.
Saw the sword as it breached his abdomen.
Felt the agony as the blade was thrust deeper still.
She could smell the blood as it flowed freely from what she knew should have been a fatal wound.
She did not see how this tale could become any more “difficult to believe, in concept or deed.”
She was made fully aware of how wrong she was as she listened to Spencer describe how the Earl of Dunhill had regained consciousness long enough to see a horse-drawn cart with two men seated upon it appearing through the trees. How those men had brought the cart to a halt a short distance away before jumping down to lift a body from the back of the vehicle. They had then removed Spencer’s English officer’s uniform jacket and dressed the body in it before leaving it on the ground. They had then hauled Spencer up onto his feet, along with the Frenchman who had run him through with a sword, placing both of them in the back of the cart before the two men climbed aboard again and drove away.
Olivia stared at Spencer as she absorbed all he had just told her.
It was some minutes before she finally felt able to speak again. “It was to be assumed that you were the man in the English officer’s jacket who had died in battle,” she realized.
He nodded. “I am told the man’s face had the benefit of having been trampled by a horse’s hooves and so rendered unrecognizable.”
“But because he wore your jacket, everyone believed it was you.”
“Yes.”
“Everyone who loved you would believe you to be dead, and so would not bother searching for you.”
“Yes.”
She frowned. “The unconscious Earl of Dunhill was obviously found and returned to England to recover from his ordeal.”
“But he did not remember the things he had seen until the remaining five Ruthless Dukes began their search for the English officer Mr. Stanley believed he had seen strike me down.”
“Where had Mr. Stanley been all this time?” Olivia asked the question to give her more time to ponder the relevance, if any, of this strange sequence of events.
“He was gathered up by deserting French soldiers and sold into slavery aboard a French ship. He escaped several months ago and returned to tell the other Ruthless Dukes what he believed he had seen that day. Once the earl was able to recall his own memories of that day, my five friends visited the family crypt. Despite being there for over a year, the body in the coffin had remained somewhat intact. Enough that they were able to ascertain that there was no birthmark on its left thigh.”
