Chapter 32
OLIVER
“Argh! No! Deubel!” I feel Eve stiffen beside me as Armand Mortimer, Earl of Bellsand, throws up his hands in a show of mock horror as we cross paths. “The devil will have his due! He bloody well finds you everywhere!”
Eve relaxes instantly, pressing her hand to her mouth to stifle a giggle as the men at a nearby table break out in loud guffaws.
“The devil is off duty this evening, gentlemen. If you’ll excuse us.” I make to pass the table when Mortimer’s gestures turn conciliatory.
“Now, don’t be so hasty,” he says. “Introduce me to this lovely creature, Deubel.”
There’s no fool like an old fool. It’s not my presence that reminds Mortimer of his manners.
“My lord, this is Eve Fairfax. Eve, this is the Earl of Bellsand.”
“None of that,” he says gruffly, preening like an aging peacock as he slides his thumb into the embroidered silk cummerbund straining around his portly girth. “It’s Mandy, and I’m delighted to meet you, Eve.”
“Likewise, my—Mandy.”
While Eve might have much to say about the evening later, my conscience is clear as far as Mandy is concerned. I didn’t mention he’s an earl because I didn’t want her ferreting out the name of his estate. I know she has a distrust of wealth. Of wealthy men. She would’ve prejudged, possibly even concluding she didn’t like him before this moment. Which would’ve been a shame, because I was telling the truth when I said I thought they’d get on.
As Mandy invites us to join him and his companions—the table of elderly chortling buffoons—Eve and I exchange a glance.
Mine: Be good.
Hers: What have you gotten me into?
Introductions are made, and more champagne is served before Mandy turns his attention to Eve.
“Have you visited the exhibition yet?” he asks, directing the question Eve’s way.
“No, we were just on our way.” Eve slides a loving glance my way, and my chest fills with warmth before I remember. It’s all pretend, right down to the ring she’s wearing. “I am looking forward to it. I love history and fashion, of course.”
History. That’s something I didn’t know. I slot away the insight for examination later.
“What woman doesn’t love elegance and jewels!” Mortimer chortles. “I myself am here as a patron. Our family have loaned a number of outfits to the exhibition.”
“Oh?” Eve turns her attention to the older man, though she doesn’t let go of my hand.
“Yes, a number of eighteenth-century pieces. Keep an eye out for the butter-colored mantua. It will make you glad to live in this century.”
“I’m not even sure what a mantua is,” she admits, much to his delight. He spends the next few minutes explaining with the zeal of a seamstress that it’s a sort of overdress and that this particular one is almost three meters wide at the hip.
“It would only be worn here, you see, at the palace. During that period, the seventeen hundreds, you didn’t need an appointment to meet the king. You needed to put your best foot forward, so to speak. Turn up in your best threads.”
“A bit like tonight?” Eve answers with a smile, as the old fool fiddles with his cummerbund again.
“Precisely. But then, you’d put on your best outfit to impress the guards, or else you weren’t allowed to pass on to the King’s Staircase. Have you seen it yet? The staircase?”
Eve shakes her head.
“It’s very famous. The walls were painted by William Kent. I daresay you’ll enjoy looking, but then imagine trying to pass through a crush of people in a three-meter-wide dress!”
The pair gets on so well, I feel almost surplus to requirements. It’s not a complaint so much as an observation, as Eve commits to her role beautifully, smiling my way and laughing into my shoulder. I might not be a large part of the conversation, but I fool myself I’m at the center of her thoughts. Every smile she slides my way makes me want to pull her onto my knee to kiss her; every touch she bestows makes me wish this was real.
It won’t ever be. I’ve burned my bridges—razed them to the ground.
“How do you know this devil, then?” Mortimer slides me an uncomplimentary look that Eve doesn’t see, as a range of emotions flickers across her face and fades. I briefly regret not exploring our backstory better, wondering what she’s thinking. What she might say.
“A long story, then?” Mortimer asks kindly.
“No.” She shakes her head, her smile sweet and her eyes a touch watery as they find mine. “Not really. We haven’t been together long, but I feel like I know him so well. How can I explain this? Well, I guess Oliver rescued me.”
“Really?” The man’s bushy gray brows bounce like aging caterpillars.
“Yes. I don’t know what I would’ve done without him. I just feel like the luckiest girl in the world.” Her cheeks turn a delicious pink from discomfort or embarrassment; it’s hard to tell.
“Well, we really don’t often hear of this side of him.”
“We?” I repeat mildly.
“People of our mutual acquaintance. You haven’t got the best reputation, have you, Deubel?”
“That’s people though, isn’t it?” she says sweetly. “They like to dwell on the negative. Anything else isn’t gossip worthy.”
“Don’t tell me you’re not a fan of gossip,” he says, chortling, and for a minute I think he might consider chucking her chin. “I never met a young lady who didn’t love to hear a snippet of a rival’s personal affairs.”
“That’s not a strictly female pastime,” she says. “If you ask me, men are just as bad.”
“Worse, sometimes,” I put in. “Eve isn’t one for gossip. She doesn’t really have the time.”
“You don’t work for him, do you?” he asks, suddenly looking worried.
Eve smiles. I can see where her thoughts have taken this. Only when I can’t help it. “No, I don’t work for Oliver,” she says with a spark of devilment in her eyes. “We’re friends.”
I gaze at her like a lovesick pup as I rub my thumb back and forth over the ring. “We have a very particular kind of friendship. I have hopes we’ll be very much more one day very soon.”
“Only you haven’t asked yet,” she singsongs.
“You can ask me. You already know my answer.”
“No, no.” Mandy chuckles. “That’s not the way things are done.”
“I know,” I reply. “And I have just the grand gesture in mind.”
For a minute, I think Mandy might be about to begin clapping.
“The problem is,” I murmur confidentially, “pinning Eve down. She has a very demanding day job. And in her spare time, she volunteers her skills.”
“What is it you do, my dear?”
“I’m a veterinarian.” Only I can see her discomfort in the admission.
The old man’s face lights up. I find myself once more wondering if Atherton knew what she did for a living before he asked her out. It wouldn’t be the only reason for his interest—Eve is so much more than convenient—but he must’ve thought he’d struck gold when he discovered she was a vet. Unlike Eve, I don’t wonder if he ever loved her, because I know it would be easy to do so. But love is a choice, and loving Eve is not something I’ve planned for.
“How wonderful!” Mortimer’s gaze is degrees warmer as it meets mine. “Deubel, I insist you bring Eve out to the house.”
And there it is. The bull’s-eye.
EVIE
Lord Bellsand, or Mandy, as he insists, is fascinating. He’s a bit of an old roué, though I get the sense he’s put himself out to pasture. Which is good for Oliver, because if I thought he’d brought me here as bait, he’d find himself in an awkward place. Like explaining to a paramedic why his testicles are lodged under his ears.
Anyhoo, Mandy seems to have lived one hell of a life, and I’m happy to let him chatter. It seems a huge part of my role, if I’m honest.
“Elizabeth Taylor?”
“My lips are sealed.” He makes a show of locking them and throwing away the key.
“Was it the lions, the tigers, or the bears?”
“We don’t have bears, my dear.” Mandy pats my hand where it lies in the crook of his elbow. “We’ve never had bears at Northaby.”
When he offered to escort me to the palace to look at his inclusion in tonight’s exhibit, Oliver was all for it. He said it’d give me time to work my charm on him. Sucks to be Oliver, because it’s worked the other way around. I kind of love Mandy already.
“I had hoped to introduce them to the park at some point, because my heart does ache at the barbarous conditions bears are kept in in some countries. Circuses and cages. And don’t get me started on them being farmed for—” He halts and sucks in a deep breath. “Excuse me. I’ll just put away my soapbox.”
We are kindred spirits, Mandy and me. He’s my mister from another sister, and we sing from the same song sheet. “I’m with you on all of that, Mandy. As you can probably guess, the topic of animal rights is very close to my heart.”
“I knew you were a good one,” he says, squeezing my fingertips in solidarity. “As for bears, the fact is, I haven’t had the means to maintain the house, never mind expand the safari park. We’ve been operating on a shoestring budget for years.”
Yep, that’s right. It’s not as bait that Oliver has me tagging along. I’m here because the house that Mandy is trying to sell has a mother-freakin’ safari park attached to it. It’s not just the house that’s his heritage; it’s the park and animals too. And I am going to kick Oliver’s ass when I get him alone next, because this is the reason he’s been so vague about it all. The potential Mrs. Deubel is not just a pretty face!
“You likely have lots in common” and “Just be yourself” were just Oliver speak for I don’t want you to ask too many questions . Oh, and I have questions. And I have fears. And if I don’t get the answers I want, then ...
I don’t know what I’m going to do about it, but I’ll think of something.
I already feel guilty about being here, about taking part in this. I mean, I’m here for Nora, as well as for my own benefit, and I know I can’t champion every cause, but I also can’t lie to this sweet man.
“Eve?” Mandy’s expression is full of concern.
“Sorry,” I say, pulling myself from my thoughts. “I was just thinking about a documentary I saw.”
“Bears?” He frowns. “I think I know the one you mean. A nasty business.” He pats my hand again like I’m a delicate flower.
Northaby House Safari Park was created by Mandy’s grandfather, who turned part of its vast grounds into the kind of place the local populace could, for a price, see lions and tigers and giraffes. He was a man ahead of his time, Mandy explains, because most men of his generation would’ve settled on a grand hunting tour where the only animals brought home would’ve been the ones they shot. Shot, stuffed, mounted, and set behind glass.
“Sadly, I’m getting on in years. I love the place, but it’s time I looked to the future. The sad fact of the matter is, Northaby requires an influx of cash to keep it going. Quite frankly, my dear, I feel like I’m standing in the middle of a house of cards.” He laughs but not with humor.
“It must be very difficult for you.”
“It’s been a trial trying to find someone who has both the means and the interest to keep it as it is.” He sighs. “I thought I’d found someone, but he seems to have dropped off the face of the earth.”
Mitchell, maybe? It’s so ridiculous, the lengths that both Oliver and that prick will go to get their hands on Northaby. Mandy should probably look elsewhere, because neither of them are worthy of his legacy. And Oliver can barely cope with one dog!
How the hell did I get myself embroiled in this? I can’t lie to this sweetheart, and I won’t commit to anything that harms his wildlife.
“Quite honestly, I’ve been avoiding Oliver,” Mandy admits. “He’s someone who is known for making money from things he takes apart. He makes things shiny, new, and profitable, and safari parks are a lot of work. I didn’t want to see my animals shipped all over the world and the house turned into a hotel.”
“I understand,” I answer quietly.
“But if you were to tell me—”
“I still can’t quite get my head around a safari park in rural England,” I announce, cutting him off.
“You should visit. Both you and Oliver.”
“We’ll buy tickets.”
“Nonsense!” he exclaims. “You’re welcome anytime, and you’ll be at the ball, of course.”
“Oh, yes. The ball ...” The ball I know nothing about. Thanks for nothing, Oliver.
Mandy chuckles. “It’s just my little fundraising attempt. My annual gala charity ball. Perhaps Oliver didn’t mention it?”
“He likes to keep surprising me,” I answer, with a smile that feels weird.
“Smitten!” Mandy announces, like he’s genuinely delighted. “We might not be the only safari park in the country, but I think we’re the finest.” It’s like he’s trying to impress me.
“I’m sure.”
“And it’s not so strange. Think safari and your mind goes to the Serengeti—the great plains, dry heat, and Maasai warriors. But the animals don’t mind our gray skies, thatched cottages, and old ladies at the bus stop complaining about the rain.”
“I’m sure they wouldn’t have it any other way,” I answer fondly. “I love living here.” Though I do prefer it when my life isn’t unraveling at the seams.
“Do you know the savanna means a treeless plain?”
“Does that describe your land?”
“Not at all!” he scoffs. “Northaby has extensive woodlands. But lions fare just as well in the rain and wind. And the monkeys at Northaby will snap off your windshield wipers just as easily as they would in Kruger National Park. Ah, listen to me, boring a pretty girl with tales of my menagerie and me.”
“Go for it. I’m loving this.” Plus, it’s easier when I don’t have to lie.
“You’re too kind, but for now we’re here. The grand entrance to the King’s State Apartments.”
“Wow!” I tip my head back, scanning the space for full effect. “It looks like something from Bridgerton .”
“From where?” His thick gray brows flicker, as though trying to place it.
“Never mind.” Bridgerton is pretend old-world luxury. People like Mandy live in the real thing. “So, this must be the King’s Staircase?” Mandy nods in the periphery of my vison as I gawk at the imposing structure. The gilt and the splendor, the high, high ceilings, and the painted faces staring down at us from the walls. “They look so real.”
“In some cases, they were.”
“The paintings are of actual people?” I glance his way, struck by the pleasure in his expression. It feeds mine, but then I remember my genuine enjoyment is adding to this falsehood.
“Some of them, yes. For almost three hundred years, those faces have stared down at all who ascend the staircase—characters from an eighteenth-century royal court. Those identifiable are King George’s page, Ulric, and his Turkish manservants, Mehemet and Mustapha. And those characters dressed in red are the royal guard.”
“The people you had to impress to gain access to the king and his crew.”
“Yes, exactly right.”
“Ye olde fashionistas?” Or door bitches in old-fashioned britches.
“Perhaps they were,” he says, with a small smile. “And up there on the ceiling, looking down on us from a cupola, wearing that very dapper red turban, is the artist himself.”
“Gosh. Do you suppose that’s the world’s first selfie?”
I made it clear I didn’t want to be here, that I didn’t want to be part of this, but the evening delivered on more fronts than I ever could have expected. The exhibit is amazing—a walk through the ages that includes outfits worn by powerhouse Hollywood names at the Emmys, the Oscars, and the Met Gala.
Beyoncé, Rihanna, Audrey Hepburn—the names go on and on. There are shoes, and jewels, and hats, and other headpieces, but my favorite part of the whole exhibit is the look back into fashions from the past.
My Lord, I love all this history. Georgian court dresses made of delicate silver tissue, embroidered mantua, and gentlemen’s silk knee suits with matching frilly cuffs and high heels. I could spend hours just staring at them, wondering who wore them. Imagining what their lives were like, and whether court visits afforded them business or pleasure.
“You’re very quiet, my dear.”
“I don’t think I have the vocabulary to say how much I love this.” I smile Mandy’s way, though I’m thinking of Oliver while also feeling a little sad. I’m sure he’d fit right into court—all lethal good looks in that cloak-and-dagger lifestyle.
“Charming,” Mandy murmurs. “Just charming. But I have a little tickle in my throat that I think could only be helped by a glass of champagne.”
“Then let’s go and find you one.” While his manners are exceptional, I’m sure he’s had enough of staring at things that he can probably lift out of a closet any time he likes.
As we make our way out of the Pigott Gallery, I promise myself that one day very soon, when the exhibit is open to the public, I’m going to buy myself a visitor’s ticket and ogle until my heart is content.
Back in the pavilion, we help ourselves to champagne as I crane my head for some sign of Oliver. He doesn’t appear to be here, so when Mandy suggests a turn around the gardens, I agree. I’m pretty sure I’m not in any danger of Mandy getting handsy in the bushes, but I do hear music drifting in over the terrace, and I think I can see a dance floor.
“More Bridgerton memories,” I murmur as we make our way out into the late-setting summer sun to where a string quartet is playing contemporary pop songs.
“Would you care to cut a rug with an old man?” Mandy asks, giving a comical shimmy of his shoulders. “See if I can’t give Deubel a run for his money?”
“Why not?” I say, setting my glass down on a low wall.
“You know I can’t give him a run for his money,” he adds more seriously. For a horrible minute, I think he’s going to tell me not without the aid of some little blue pills , but thankfully that isn’t the direction he takes. “I have too many houses,” he laments. “Too many roofs to repair and too much damp to prevent. Sadly, Northaby is the only house not entailed, so I must sell it to prop up the rest. I’m honor bound to keep the title’s property in tip-top shape, and the cost is Northaby.”
“I’m so sorry, Mandy.” And I mean it. We drop down the sandstone steps on our way to the flower-festooned dance floor.
“I’m too old to fight for what the animals need. I must start thinking about a time when I will no longer be here.”
“That’s a long way off.” I squeeze his arm in reassurance.
“There’s certainly a lot of life left in this old dog, but I’m tired of worrying about the future of the place. But I don’t want to sell it to find it turned into a bloody hotel.”
“That I understand.” What the heck am I supposed to say?
“Tell me that’s not what he’ll do.”
“Who, Oliver? All I can say is he’s talked a lot about Northaby, but he never mentioned the animals.”
“Oh.” His brow furrows, his mouth turning down.
“No,” I add quickly. “What I’m trying to say is I think he wanted the safari park to be a surprise.” Or maybe a shock to keep me on my toes.
“Oh!” The same sound. Not the same tone. And may God strike me down for fooling this man. I need to speak to Oliver—find out what his intentions are. And if they are what I think they are, then ... then I’m screwed.
“I can tell you’re very special to him.” At the edge of the dance floor, Mandy takes my hand, but before he lifts it to his shoulder, he stares down at the ring on my right hand. “Because this is one of the new pieces from Garrard, I believe.”
“Yes, that’s right,” I reply, allowing him to move us into the dancing throng.
“A man doesn’t buy a woman eighty thousand pounds’ worth of sapphires, aquamarine, and diamonds for no reason, my dear.”
Eighty thousand! I break out in a literal cold sweat, but then I remember it’s only on loan. That it doesn’t mean anything. I clamp my lips together, worried about what I might say as my heart begins to race. It’s one thing to turn up, to play my role; it’s quite another for me to suggest Mandy’s animals will be safe.
“I’d go even as far as to say that you, and Oliver, of course, might be Northaby’s future.”
“Mandy, I don’t know. Who knows what goes on in Oliver’s head?” I prattle as panic begins to flutter in my chest. “I love all animals—”
“And history, quite obviously.”
“Yes, and history. And while animals are a huge part of my life, my experience isn’t in zoological medicine.”
“It doesn’t need to be,” he says, patting my back. “The place just needs money and love, and I have a good feeling about all of this. I’m a great believer in intuition.”
This is bad. Really bad. What the hell am I going to do about this? Oliver isn’t the type of man who’d want the responsibility for those creatures. Meanwhile, Mandy is like Nora on crack! Except Mandy is a nice man who has manners and seems to like people as much as he likes animals.
“Whoops.” Amusement makes his eyes sparkle and the apples of his cheeks lift.
“Sorry for your toes,” I murmur, panic having forced me into a misstep.
“My fault entirely.”
“You’re too kind.”
“And you’re too lovely to wear that frown.”
I guess there’s nothing I can do about this situation right now other than concentrate and try hard not to crush any more of his toes.
The music changes, the tempo a little more upbeat, and Mandy totally gets with it as we swirl around the floor.
“I haven’t had this much fun in ages. If Oliver hadn’t put a ring on it, I might’ve been tempted to do so myself.”
“It’s a friendship ring, Mandy,” I say with a laugh, “not that I expect jewels in exchange for my friendship.”
“Oliver is more than your friend. We both know that, my dear. The way he looks at you ...” His words trail off, and then his eyes slip over my right shoulder as though snagged by something unexpected.
A second later, revulsion zips down my spine, anger quickly following at the familiar and unwelcome sound of Mitch’s voice.
“May I cut in?”
Every fiber revolts, my emotions rioting inside my chest like a storm. I want to yell, No you may not. You may go to hell. Eat shit and die. Swallow peanut butter and swell while I run away with your EpiPen.
Sadly, none of that is appropriate. This man has brought me to disgrace in a public setting one too many times.
“Yes, of course,” Mandy replies, taking my unease for I don’t know what. But etiquette dictates he step aside. “One dance, and I’ll be back again. One dance,” he repeats, this time for Mitchell’s benefit.
As Mandy turns away, I do the same in the opposite direction. Until Mitch’s fingers fold around my upper arm.
“For old times’ sake?”
“Get your hand off me.”
“One dance,” he demands, yanking me bodily against him. “Unless you’re planning on running again.”
“Say what you need to, and get the fuck out of my life,” I grate out, assuming the position—submitting. Short of the physical violence I still harbor for him, what choices do I have? Causing a scene might jeopardize everything.
“How are you, Evie?”
“I’m feeling kind of murderous.”
“Fiery.” His eyes skate over my hair. “I love when your temper brings out the redhead in you.”
“And I love it when you’re on a different continent.”
“Evie,” he says, twirling us around the floor, despite the fact that it must feel like he’s dancing with a corpse. “You’d think I was the only one in the wrong.”
I grit my teeth, refusing to bite.
“This was originally my plan, you know. Getting you to meet the old bloke.”
“So you could get your hands on his house. Yes, I know.” Now.
“But it wasn’t the only reason I asked you to marry me. I love you.”
“Great! I’m so happy to hear that. Let’s leave, run off together, and be happy forever.”
“But you’ll do it for him .”
“Are you kidding me right now!” Because Mitch put me in this position! My feet come to a stop, and I push him, manners be damned. I swing away, when he grabs my wrist. “Let go of me,” I grate out. The dance floor is packed; I’m not sure if I’m relieved or panicked that no one seems to notice our scuffle.
“ Loved you , I should say. Past tense. I wouldn’t have you back, not after you’ve been fucking him.”
“That upsets me ... not one bit.”
I try to move away, but he yanks me to him again. I guess, torso to torso, we must look like we’re dancing, but I get right in his face, refusing to be cowed.
“I thought I was in love with you, but how could I be? You were nothing but a ghost.”
“Better a ghost than the devil, Evie. What was he doing there that day? You tell me that.”
“Like the man said, it was an act of fate. And I thank the Lord above for sending him when he did. Is that even your accent?”
“What are you talking about?”
“You’re a posh boy.” My eyes flit over him in distaste. “You can’t even own it.”
“That’s rich coming from you—you and your I’m so sick of the bourgeoise narrative ,” he mocks. “ Rich men aren’t worth the pain . But look who you’re fucking now.”
“At least he doesn’t pretend to be someone he’s not.”
“You’re nothing but a lying slut.”
“I wasn’t, you know.” My tone turns silky as I whisper in his ear. “But on our supposed wedding night, I turned slut for him.”
His hand suddenly tangles in the back of my hair, like a lover holding me close.
“You ruined everything,” he growls.
“And you fucked your way through half of London.”
“Hardly,” he scoffs.
“Did you think I wouldn’t find out that you were screwing Jen? And I know you were fucking his PA.”
He laughs quite suddenly. “Ah, the lovely Lucy. Is that what he said she was to him?”
“I don’t care who she is or that you were fucking her.” I try to pull away, my pulse jackhammering in my throat when he holds me there.
“There was a slight overlap, I’ll grant you that,” he says, sounding quite proud of himself. Yara was right. The dude is smug. “You didn’t expect me to say faithful, did you, love? Not when we went months without seeing each other.” He sickens me. I can barely believe this was the man I was about to marry. It’s all so clear now. I ignored who he was in favor of being right about him—about our marriage.
“Get your hands off me.”
“Come with me, and I’ll confess every dirty detail.”
“I would rather dry hump a cheese grater,” I mutter, pulling away, pushing my hands against his chest, and not caring a jot if I end up with a bald patch. I stomp my heel into his foot, and he curses. I spin away, two steps, and I’m out of his reach. But then, like tendrils of cold dread, his fingers grip my wrist again. He squeezes, and I wince, my words hitting the air on a pained breath.
“You’re hurting me.”
“That’s the idea, though breaking your wrist would be a poor substitute for your neck.”
“People are staring,” I say, catching the eye of one half of a waltzing couple. I’m not lying—she did see. She just refused to make it her business. So much for sisterhood. “They’ll alert security. Let me go.”
Against my back, Mitchell’s chest moves with an inhale, but the voice that speaks isn’t his.
“I suggest you do as the lady says.”