Chapter 6
Chapter Six
Victor
Victor stared at the correspondence before him, struggling to focus. The morning light streamed through the study windows, illuminating ledgers and letters that demanded his attention, yet his mind kept returning to Olivia. He recalled earlier that morning when he made good on his promise.
The vulnerability in her eyes as she realized she would spend the entire day with the physical reminder of his ownership, sent heat coursing through his veins. He wasn’t certain he’d make it until later that day to fulfill the rest of his promise.
With an irritated grunt, he forced his attention back to the papers on his desk. But then a knock interrupted his concentration again.
“Enter,” he called.
Simmons appeared. “Lord Atherton has arrived, Your Grace. He apologizes for calling without prior notice but says the matter is urgent.”
Victor frowned. His friend rarely made unannounced social calls. “Show him in immediately.”
James entered moments later, his military bearing always evident. The scar on his left cheek pulled slightly as he offered a grim smile.
“Victor,” he greeted, referring to him casually as he had for years. “Forgive the intrusion, but a concerning matter has come to my attention.”
Victor gestured to a chair. “Brandy? You look like you need it.”
James nodded and settled into the offered seat. “My sources observed a street urchin delivering a note to your residence yesterday. The boy mentioned it was for ‘the new duchess’ and to be delivered to her hands alone.”
Cold dread settled in Victor’s gut as he pressed a glass into his friend’s hand. “You’re having my household watched?”
“Not your household. Edward Reynolds.” James met his gaze unflinchingly. “He returned to London three days ago.”
The name struck him like a physical blow. Reynolds. The artist who had painted Olivia, seen her naked, and bedded her. Some of those thoughts he’d prefer never to recall, as Olivia was completely his.
“Why would Reynolds interest you?” Victor kept his tone neutral despite the angst building within him.
James leaned forward. “Because he’s dangerous, Victor. During the war, while we bled in Spain, Reynolds sold information to the French. Intelligence about aristocratic families, their weaknesses, their vulnerabilities.”
Victor’s eyes narrowed. “Do you have proof?”
“I intercepted one of his couriers myself in ‘13. The Home Office has maintained surveillance since then.” James’ face hardened. “His artistic talents provide perfect cover. He obtains access to noble homes and their private lives through their vulnerable female relatives.”
Victor slammed his glass onto his desk. “You believe he had targeted Olivia deliberately.”
“I know he did.” James downed his brandy. “I was the one who discovered your wife’s painting at The Crimson Queen. When I traced it back to Reynolds, the pattern became clear. He seduces, compromises, then exploits.”
Victor stared at his friend, pieces falling into place. “You brought the painting to her father.”
“I did. Reynolds has a network throughout London. He uses street children, servants in noble houses, even other artists. I thought the matter regarding the duchess concluded when she married you.” James’ expression grew troubled.
“But there’s more. The same boy who delivered Reynolds’ note returned that evening.
My man observed your wife’s personal maid handing him some sort of correspondence. ”
Rage exploded within Victor, white-hot and all-consuming.
The possibility of Olivia corresponding secretly with Reynolds.
The very man who had seen her in a way that was only for Victor sent a wave of visceral jealousy through him.
His hand tightened around his brandy glass until he feared it might shatter.
Images flooded his mind. Olivia’s lips curving in secret pleasure as she penned her reply to her former lover. The very hands, which had clutched at Victor’s shoulders, obeying her Daddy, just hours ago. His mind began to run away from him at what she might have said.
“Perhaps she merely told him to leave her alone,” Victor said, the words sounding hollow even to his own ears.
James’ expression was sympathetic but unyielding.
“Perhaps. But why the secrecy? Why not tell you immediately? And there’s another complication.
Reynolds recently met with several known French agents.
My sources believe he’s gathering intelligence on military matters.
Troop deployments, naval activities, and anything else he can obtain. ”
Victor’s blood ran cold. If Reynolds was indeed a French spy using his connection to Olivia to gather intelligence . . .
“My sources indicate Reynolds has been making inquiries about your household routine,” James added quietly. “Your comings and goings, staff schedules. He’s asked specific questions about your connections.”
The implication hung between them. Was Reynolds planning to use Olivia to extract military information? Or worse. Was she a willing participant?
“Thank you for bringing this to my attention,” Victor said, his voice tight with barely controlled fury.
James studied his friend’s face. “What will you do?”
“What any husband would,” Victor replied coldly. “Collect my wife and discover the truth.”
James nodded in understanding and then took his leave a few moments later.
Victor paced his study like a caged predator, jealousy clawing at his insides.
Beyond the betrayal by omission, which was intolerable enough, the thought of Olivia harboring any physical or emotional connection to Reynolds ignited a different kind of rage.
And he wouldn’t allow himself to ponder why.
She was his and that was the only reason he required.
He rang for Simmons, who appeared with his usual promptness.
“Has the duchess made any unusual requests today?” Victor asked, striving for a casual tone.
“She inquired about your schedule for the afternoon, Your Grace.”
Victor tensed. “And what did you tell her?”
“That you had mentioned visiting your solicitor at three o’clock, Your Grace.” Simmons’ expression remained impassive. “Was that incorrect?”
“No,” Victor replied slowly. The inquiry certainly appeared damning.
“Send word to Mr. Hargreaves that I must postpone our meeting. An urgent matter requires my attention.” He paused, then added with deliberate casualness, “And Simmons—I want no mention of this change to anyone in the household. As far as everyone is concerned, particularly the duchess, I am still expected at my solicitor’s office at three. ”
“Of course, Your Grace.”
“And alert me if Her Grace should intend to depart,” Victor commanded just as Simmons began to leave.
Victor could have summoned her to him immediately. But if her intent was to deceive him, then he would catch her in the act. And then he would punish her.
He lost all hope of tending to any of his business, and continued to pace his study until Simmons returned to alert him that Olivia had requested a carriage to visit the milliner.
Victor crept to the stables and had his horse saddled. He waited at the corner of their house until Olivia appeared.
From his vantage point, he watched as Olivia entered the Ravenswood carriage, her face partially concealed by a fashionable bonnet. She wore a walking dress of deep blue, appearing every inch the proper duchess.
He couldn’t help wondering if she considered him at all when she felt the beads with each step or when she took her seat inside the carriage. The thought certainly stoked his desire to stake claim on his wife, but was quickly followed by renewed anger at her deception.
Following the Ravenswood carriage proved simple enough. As expected, they did not turn toward Bond Street where her milliner maintained her establishment. Instead, the carriage continued toward a less respectable district, finally stopping before a narrow house on Dean Street.
Victor dismounted at the corner, approaching on foot as Olivia descended from the carriage. Even from a distance, he could discern tension in the rigid set of her shoulders.
“Return in one hour,” she instructed the coachman.
Victor watched as she ascended the steps, hesitating briefly before knocking. The door opened immediately, as though someone had been watching and waiting. She disappeared inside without a backward glance.
For a moment, Victor remained motionless, rage urging him to burst through that door.
Only years of battlefield discipline kept him from doing just that.
Instead he circled the building, finding a side entrance that led to the servants’ quarters.
A coin pressed into a scullery maid’s palm gained him entry and directions to a back staircase.
“Third floor, first door on the right,” she whispered. “That’s Mr. Reynolds’ studio.”
Victor ascended silently, fighting the boil of his blood. From behind the door, voices filtered through. One came from a male and the other was unmistakably Olivia’s.
“I’m here as you requested,” Olivia’s voice, though steady, was quite tense. “Now surrender the sketches, all of them.”
“My sweet Olivia.” Reynolds’ voice oozed false affection. “Always so direct. Wouldn’t you like to see what you’re purchasing first?”
A rustling of papers, followed by Olivia’s sharp intake of breath.
“These are far more explicit than the painting,” she said, voice hardening. “You never showed me these.”
“Artist’s studies,” Reynolds replied dismissively.
“Surely you don’t think I achieved such perfection without thoroughly examining my subject?
As for your husband, I understand he maintains regular correspondence with important military figures.
My associates would find details of troop deployments most valuable.
This is information you could easily access as his wife. ”
“I will never betray my country or my husband,” Olivia replied, her voice steely with determination.