Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Olivia
The Dowager Countess of Meryton received Olivia with cool politeness bordering on frigidity. The elderly woman’s townhouse on Berkeley Square exuded old wealth and conservative values, from the darkly paneled walls to the portraits of stern-faced ancestors.
Victor had arranged this visit as part of her social rehabilitation, along with the call to Lady Pembrooke that would follow.
Despite her apprehension about facing society’s judgment, she found herself appreciating his decisive approach to reinstating her in acceptable circles.
The word “instructions” no longer irritated her as it once had.
Instead, a small flutter of anticipation stirred within her at the thought of Victor instructing her in more pleasurable matters.
Arguably, visiting with the ton’s most shrewd matrons was a simple task compared to the way her body ached from being reduced to begging for her release. After only a week of marriage, her husband had made good on his promise. She bent to his will, not out of duty, but desire.
“I must admit surprise at your call, Duchess,” the dowager said, emphasizing Olivia’s title with faint disdain. “One hears such extraordinary things about hasty marriages these days.”
Olivia maintained her composure, offering the invitation with steady hands. “His Grace and I would be honored by your presence at our dinner party next week. The duke speaks most highly of your discernment in social matters.”
She channeled Victor’s lessons about maintaining dignity in public, keeping her chin lifted and her expression pleasant despite the older woman’s barbs.
The mention of Victor’s regard seemed to soften the older woman’s expression slightly. “Ravenswood has always been a sensible man, given his military background.”
“Indeed,” Olivia agreed. “He values tradition and proper conduct above all.”
This was not entirely accurate given Victor’s demands in the bedroom, but it earned an approving nod from the countess.
“Well, we shall see,” the dowager concluded, neither accepting nor declining the invitation directly. “How do you find the Ravenswood household? I imagine there were changes required.”
Olivia recognized the test in the question. “Some refreshment of the linen inventory was necessary, and the conservatory requires attention, but His Grace maintains an exemplary staff. I’ve found little to alter beyond seasonal considerations.”
The dowager’s thin lips curved in the slightest of smiles. “Sensible. Nothing more vulgar than a new mistress upending established ways with fashionable nonsense.”
By the time Olivia departed, she had secured, if not the dowager’s friendship, at least her provisional acceptance. The old woman had even promised to “consider” the invitation, which Olivia took as a small victory in her campaign to reestablish herself in society.
Her next call took her to the Pembrooke townhouse. The Duchess of Pembrooke proved a stark contrast to the dowager—younger, vivacious, with a knowing smile. She was far more intrigued by Olivia’s invitation.
“I’ve been positively dying to meet the woman who captured the most elusive duke,” Lady Pembrooke exclaimed. “Although, I must confess that I endured my own bit of scandal some years ago. Nothing so artistically rendered as yours, but enough to appreciate how tedious society’s judgments can be.”
Olivia nearly choked on her tea at the direct reference to her notorious painting.
Lady Pembrooke waved dismissively at Olivia’s surprised expression.
“The key to social revival is to never apologize. One must reframe the narrative. Securing a duke after such an episode rather elevates the entire affair from scandal to strategic triumph.” She accepted the invitation with enthusiasm.
“I wouldn’t miss your dinner party for the world. ”
Returning to Ravenswood House, Olivia felt more hopeful than she had since the scandal broke.
Lady Pembrooke’s acceptance and the dowager’s qualified interest suggested that her path back to respectability might not be as arduous as she had feared.
Victor’s strategy, she had to admit, was proving effective.
She crossed the entrance hall when Simmons approached, carrying a silver salver with a single letter.
“This arrived for you, Your Grace,” he said, extending the tray. “The messenger was most insistent it reach your hands directly.”
Olivia took the letter, noting the absence of any formal address or seal. Merely her first name was written on the outside in a hand she recognized immediately. Her breath caught and a chill crawled up her spine.
“Thank you, Simmons,” she managed, tucking the letter into her reticule before the butler noticed her reaction. “Has His Grace returned?”
“Not yet, Your Grace. He sent word that he would dine at his club this evening.”
Disappointment mingled with relief. She would have privacy to deal with this unexpected communication, yet she found herself wishing for Victor’s intimidating presence as a shield against the past that had suddenly intruded.
In the duchess’ bedchamber, Olivia locked the door before extracting the letter with trembling fingers. Breaking the plain wax seal, she unfolded the single sheet.
My dearest Olivia,
I have returned to London and only just learned of your hasty marriage. While I congratulate you on securing such an advantageous match, I feel compelled to inform you that our unfinished business remains precisely that—unfinished.
The matter of certain artistic works has attracted interest from additional collectors, including several French patrons who have expressed particular interest in the connections of the new Duke of Ravenswood.
I find myself in possession of preliminary sketches that capture your likeness in moments of even greater intimacy than the painting currently causing such fascinating whispers.
These works would fetch a remarkable sum, particularly given your husband’s former military colleagues and his continued communications with the War Office.
My patrons abroad are most eager for any insights you might provide about troop deployments or diplomatic communications that pass through your husband’s hands.
I would welcome the opportunity to discuss these matters with you—preferably without your formidable husband’s knowledge. Surely a new duchess has resources at her disposal that might satisfy an artist of my modest reputation?
I shall await you tomorrow at three o’clock at the address below. Come alone, or these sketches might find their way to less discreet admirers—both in London society and in Parisian government circles.
Your devoted servant in artistic endeavors,
E.R.
Olivia collapsed onto the edge of her bed with the letter crumpled in her trembling hand. Edward Reynolds. The artist who had enticed her with promises of immortalized beauty, only to shatter her reputation through careless betrayal.
Now he had returned, threatening not only to compound her humiliation but to use her as a pawn in what appeared to be espionage.
Reynolds’ constant questions about her father’s political involvement and connections, his unusual interest in military officers who visited their home, his fascination with guests who worked at the Foreign Office.
How had she not seen it before? It all took on a far more treacherous meaning in light of the letter.
She had been a fool.
Her first instinct was to burn the letter and tell Victor immediately.
Their agreement had specifically required complete honesty between them.
Yet as she contemplated showing the letter to her husband, anxiety twisted in her stomach.
Victor had been so pleased with her progress in society, had praised her for obeying his rules and following his guidance.
Would this letter destroy the fragile trust they had built?
Would her past indiscretions now threaten their present after they’d believe it to be behind them?
Would he see her as more trouble than she was worth?
The very thought of disappointing him sent a wave of distress through her that surprised her with its intensity.
She needed to handle this with the dignity and grace Victor had been teaching her. Reynolds was attempting to manipulate her fear and shame to his advantage. Victor would never fall for such transparent tactics. And neither would she.
Olivia made her decision. She would meet Reynolds, assess exactly what he possessed, and determine how serious the threat truly was. Besides, she didn’t have any information to share and once he realized that, the blackguard would be forced to move on to bother someone else.
She would demonstrate to this manipulative man that she was no longer the naive girl he had exploited. She was the Duchess of Ravenswood now, with all the strength and poise her husband had helped her discover within herself.
Moving to her writing desk, Olivia penned a brief reply:
I will meet you as requested. Come prepared to surrender ALL materials related to our previous association, as this will be our final encounter. Be warned that any attempt to involve me in matters you suggest will be met with immediate consequences.
—O
She sealed it without the Ravenswood crest, then had the note dispatched with a street boy Martha trusted for discreet errands.
Tomorrow at three o’clock, she would need an excuse to leave the house alone. She paced the chamber, her mind racing. The milliner, perhaps? A plausible appointment that would require neither Victor’s presence nor a companion . . . and her stomach dropped at the thought of deceiving her husband.
A knock at her door startled her.
“Your Grace?” Martha called. “His Grace has returned unexpectedly and requests your presence in the dining room. Dinner will be served shortly.”
Olivia froze in place. “Victor is here? I thought he was dining at his club.”
“He returned not half an hour ago, Your Grace, and asked for dinner to be prepared immediately.”