Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Olivia woke to stillness, not to the cries of London’s costermongers, nor to birds singing in the boughs of the oak tree outside her cottage. To nothing but a quiet peace, the likes of which she had never known.
For once, she hadn’t scrambled to the window to study every passerby, nor paused in doorways, terrified the devil might strike.
Her attacker would need to breach the iron gates, force his way through the house, and hunt a labyrinth of rooms to reach her.
There were plenty of places to hide, countless routes of escape, and a dedicated staff ready to come to her aid.
But her troubles were far from over. She could not remain in the Peacock Room, with its gilded walls and opulent furnishings, forever. And looming over her was the lord’s shocking proposal.
Even now, lying in a bed large enough for five, the events of last night seemed like a strange dream. Marriage to a marquess? To Lord Rothley? The most perplexing man she had ever encountered. Stern yet kind. Indifferent yet attentive. Cold, yet so warm she had burned when pressed to his hard body.
He had saved her life and offered her sanctuary.
What confounded her most was why?
She feared her first thought was correct.
When spurned by a beautiful woman, a man sought a means of retribution.
By his own admission, he was tethered to the past and the incomparable Miss Bourne.
Where would that leave her when they rekindled old feelings, when they remembered why they’d fallen in love?
Yet despite all her doubts, she needed him.
To her astonishment, he professed to needing her too, and a marriage built on friendship was surely preferable to being an inconvenient wife.
But friendship demanded honesty. She would have to reveal something of the truth.
For within the valise lay the key to escaping her pursuer.
She rose abruptly, the chill in the room sending shivers down her spine. Drawing back the curtain, she looked out across fields bathed in morning light. The peaceful scene stirred memories of her beloved home in Lewes, and with them came the piercing ache of all she had lost.
Then she saw him, the indomitable Marquess of Rothley, striding across the grass in an open-necked shirt, his greatcoat billowing in the breeze as he threw a stick for a grey, shaggy dog the size of a pony.
Something in the easy power of his movements, in the unexpected playfulness with the dog, tightened her chest, and she couldn’t tear her gaze away.
“Is this who you truly are when the world isn’t watching?” She pressed her hand to the cold pane, longing to know. He seemed a different man beneath the reserved facade, a truth she craved but was afraid to uncover.
She might have lingered at the window until he vanished from sight, but a knock on the door made her start. Her heart leapt to her throat as the knob turned slowly, then she remembered it was locked.
“Miss Woolf? Are you awake? I have the valise.”
Though she recognised Mrs Boswell’s voice, the last word made her draw a sharp breath. The valise? Her valise? Impossible.
“Just a moment.” She opened the door to the cheerful housekeeper, pasting an innocent smile when she wanted to snatch the bag and make sure it wasn’t the one she had hidden in the coffin.
“I thought it best to bring it up myself.” Mrs Boswell entered, setting a brown leather valise on the side table, embossed with Lord Rothley’s initials. “His lordship insisted on packing your things himself. I can’t vouch for what he chose, but if anything is missing, you can blame him.”
Olivia swallowed. “Lord Rothley returned to World’s End? When?” She recalled a distant clock chiming two before she finally succumbed to sleep.
“Last night. He took the carriage and brought back the birds. They’re keeping the staff entertained in the servants’ quarters.”
As the housekeeper opened the bag, a trace of the lord’s exotic cologne escaped. Good heavens. He’d packed her undergarments into his own valise. He would have searched her cupboards, rifled through drawers, and touched her stockings.
“Did he say what he found there?” She closed her eyes against a vision of ransacked rooms and books tossed aside. Mrs Hodge would demand an explanation, seeing as she owned the quaint cottage.
“You’ll need to speak to his lordship.” Mrs Boswell withdrew a folded petticoat and gave it a brisk shake. “He’s asked to see you in his study at midday.”
“I shall need directions.” It was easier to navigate the warrens of Shadwell than the corridors of Studland Park.
“His lordship’s quarters are easy enough to find.” She laid the garment on the bed before searching the bag for stockings. “The study is next to the drawing room where you sat last night. You’ll find the library there. All part of the small cluster of rooms he keeps to himself in the east wing.”
“The library?” She had forgotten about the books. A house as magnificent as this would surely boast a vast collection, with cases rising from floor to ceiling. “Do you think I might borrow a volume or two?”
“There’s the Great Library,” Mrs Boswell said, pride warming her tone.
“More than twenty thousand books, some dating back to the thirteenth century.” She tucked more garments under her arm while rooting one-handed through the bag.
“Then there’s his lordship’s personal library, where he keeps his own collection of poetry. ”
Olivia’s lips curved. An entire collection? It would be akin to standing before a confectioner’s window, every treat an impossible temptation.
“His lordship said you’re free to browse the shelves and select something to read, on condition you discuss your choice during dinner.” Mrs Boswell rummaged deeper into the bag and grumbled beneath her breath. “Trust a man. He’s forgotten the one thing no woman can do without.”
“A pocket pistol?”
“No. A corset.”
Olivia’s breath caught. Without a corset, she might as well be half-dressed. And yet last night she had clung to Lord Rothley, wearing nothing more than a nightgown and wrapper.
She forced a smile. “Pay it no mind, Mrs Boswell. I shall manage without, and will keep mostly to my room.”
The housekeeper tutted. “Are you in half-mourning, Miss Woolf? Both dresses he’s packed are grey. Best the staff are made aware.”
“Not anymore, but I prefer to blend into the background.”
Fewer people noticed a drab woman walking the streets. It was easier to vanish in the crowd. In safe places, she had dared to wear blue, but nowhere felt safe anymore.
Mrs Boswell’s eyes went to Olivia’s hair, and she smiled. “I’m not sure you could ever blend in, ma’am. You bring brightness to a room without trying.”
The words caught Olivia off guard. She had never seen herself that way. And yet, there had been something in the marquess’ eyes when he looked at her hair. Something that made her pulse quicken.
“Few ladies could hope to outshine Miss Bourne,” she said.
The housekeeper practically snarled. “I can’t imagine you would be overshadowed by anyone. Goodness comes from within. And yours shines clear as day.”
She swallowed hard against the sting of tears. “That’s the kindest thing anyone has ever said to me, Mrs Boswell. But his lordship hardly knows me.”
Guilt rose unbidden. Mrs Boswell didn’t know she was dealing with a fool, a woman too trusting by half. Olivia would be branded a felon if the truth came to light. It was why she had to know what secret lay within that dratted valise.
“Despite what happened years ago, his lordship is an excellent judge of character.” Mrs Boswell spoke with calm assurance. “He’s rarely wrong in his assessments.”
But he was wrong about her. He would see it in time.
“If he’s welcomed you into his home, then there’s no greater proof of his faith.” The housekeeper held Olivia’s gaze, the look like a silent plea. “I only hope you appreciate his efforts. One more disappointment, and I fear the darkness will claim him forever.”
Olivia feared it was already too late. The darkness in Lord Rothley was not mere melancholy but a hard edge honed by betrayal. It made him dangerous and, dare she admit, all the more compelling.
“I owe him my life, Mrs Boswell. A debt I shall endeavour to repay.”
Mrs Boswell’s smile carried a fragile kind of trust. “May I ask something of you, Miss Woolf? Something that stays between us?”
“Of course.”
The housekeeper reached for her hand, her clasp firm. “If you’re thinking of leaving, will you inform me first? Or at least write his lordship a letter explaining why, so he’s not left wondering?”
There was something raw in her voice, a sadness buried deep. It was plain this woman cared for the marquess as a mother does a son. For a moment, Olivia envied him that devotion.
“Should I need to alter my plans, you’ll be the first to know, Mrs Boswell.”
The woman’s relief was palpable. “Let me help you dress. You can eat while you wait for his lordship to return from his walk.”
“Thank you, but I can manage.” She had dismissed her maid a few weeks ago. The risk to life was too great, and trust grew harder by the day. “I’ve grown accustomed to being independent.”
Yet she would be dead had Lord Rothley not come when he did.
“Very well. I daresay you’ll find the task easier without a corset. I’ll leave you to wash and change. A maid will be up shortly to see to your room.”
“Thank you, Mrs Boswell.” The housekeeper was already halfway out the door when Olivia felt compelled to say, “If I do decide to leave, it will be because I cannot bear to disappoint him.”
“Then I expect you’ll be here for some time.” Mrs Boswell’s smile softened. “If you’d like peace to think, might I suggest you choose a book before he returns from his walk? Otherwise, he’ll want to hear the reasoning behind every choice.”