Chapter 7 #3
Setting her glass aside, Olivia turned to the valise. Her hands trembled as she unfastened the clasp. “I shall reveal them at random. One at a time.”
He gave a single nod, though a current of excitement pulsed through the room. A powerful thrum that seemed to come from him.
She reached inside, letting fate decide the order. Her fingers closed around the wooden crucifix. Lord Rothley—Gabriel—didn’t sigh or look disappointed. Intrigue burned in his eyes as she placed it in his hand.
“The wood is solid,” she said as he examined it. “The body of Christ is silver, and the inscription on the back was carved by hand.”
“Crude work,” he murmured, tracing the letters with his thumb. “In poems lie all life’s answers.” He looked up. “I can attest to that.”
“Perhaps the message is to have faith.”
“Indeed.”
She withdrew the portrait miniature next. A man’s face stared back, mid-forties, his grey eyes sharp beneath arched brows, his mouth fixed in a grim line. The brushwork was fine, though the paint had cracked with age, the background oddly clouded.
“It looks ordinary enough,” she said, holding it to the light. “Yet the surface is uneven, as though another image lies beneath.”
Gabriel leaned in to study the miniature, and she caught the warmth of his breath. “You might be right. Painters sometimes reused ivory. If the paint were thinned with spirits or lemon oil, whatever’s beneath might appear.”
Her pulse skipped. “I thought of finding a book on cleaning ivory but feared I might damage it and destroy any evidence.”
“You were wise to show caution,” he said, though the direction of his thoughts caught her off guard. “Is that why you spent so much time in the bookshop in Clerkenwell? Did your friend, the proprietor, not offer his help?”
She tilted her head. Was the Marquess of Rothley jealous or merely suspicious? “Yes. I used to watch my lodging house from the shop window while pretending to read. Mr Burke knew I feared burglars, though I would not call him a close friend.”
“You lied to Mrs Hodge?”
“I didn’t want her to worry.”
He studied her for a long moment, something faintly questioning in his gaze. The calm in his voice did little to hide it. “What else is in the bag?”
There were two items left, one to feed his inquisitive nature, the other to rouse his distrust.
Nerves fluttered in her throat. Which to offer first?
He sensed her hesitation. “We don’t keep secrets anymore, Olivia. Honesty is the price of my protection.”
She felt the weight of the wedding band on her finger and rubbed it gently, as if it held some mystical power to show her the right path. “I know it’s hard for you to trust me, but remember, I was preparing to leave London, to leave and never return.”
He inhaled deeply through his nose. “I cannot imagine—”
A sharp knock rattled the study door, cutting through the charged air between them.
“Not now,” he called, his tone strained. “I said no disturbances.”
“My lord, you have a visitor,” Mrs Boswell replied.
He marched to the door, unlocked it and flung it open. Doubtless he was about to remind his housekeeper to follow orders, but she was not alone.
The man in the doorway needed no introduction.
Mr Daventry, illegitimate son of a duke and favoured by the Home Secretary, was one of the most powerful men in London.
His agents solved more crimes than the men at Bow Street.
Handsome, dark-haired, and possessed of a calm authority that could unnerve the wicked, he was Lucifer with an angel’s heart.
“Forgive the interruption.” Mr Daventry’s mouth quirked upon finding them together in a locked room, but he entered without hesitation. “I’m afraid the matter couldn’t wait.”
“Did your man report an intruder at World’s End?”
“Not exactly an intruder.”
Something in the remark surely unnerved Gabriel because he dismissed Mrs Boswell and abruptly closed the study door. “Explain.”
Mr Daventry’s gaze flicked past him to Olivia. “I’m here for Miss Woolf.”
Her pulse lurched. “For me?”
“Lady Rothley,” her husband corrected, the subtle note of possession impossible to miss. “We were married less than an hour ago.”
The agent’s dark eyes moved between them. “I see. That helps matters rather than complicates them. And can you confirm her whereabouts since she was last seen leaving her cottage?”
“I am here, sir,” Olivia said, “and can speak for myself.”
“Yes, but someone must vouch for your whereabouts, Lady Rothley. Someone willing to testify in court.”
Her heart skipped a beat. “In court?” Had someone seen her with the valise and wished to accuse her of grave robbing?
Gabriel went still, the shift in his demeanour chilling the air. “What the devil do you mean? She took ill and has spent the last two days in bed. Gentry and Mrs Boswell will vouch for her.”
“And there’s no chance she might have left in the night and returned without your knowledge?”
The question struck the fear of God into her. This was what she’d dreaded. The fraternity had found a way to incriminate her for their crimes. It wouldn’t matter what proof she uncovered in the valise. No one would believe an accused spy.
“Not unless she’s a sprite,” Gabriel snapped. “I’ve scarcely left her side, save to wash and change my clothes.”
Yes, he had read to her by candlelight. It hadn’t been a dream. The deep timbre of his voice had lulled her back to sleep.
Mr Daventry’s sigh proved most unnerving. The man was known to be cool amid the gravest of challenges. “Even so, I’m obliged to escort Lady Rothley to Bow Street to take a statement.”
“Like hell you will.” Gabriel’s nostrils flared. “You’ll not haul my wife through the streets like a common criminal. I demand to know what she’s accused of.”
Spying. Stealing from a grave. Burglary of a tomb.
He drew a slow breath. “Murder.”
“Murder?” She stumbled back, and Gabriel’s hand shot out to steady her. Even so, she felt the tremor that betrayed him. “Who am I supposed to have killed?”
Mr Daventry paused. “Justin Lovelace.”