Chapter 11 #2
Olivia’s heart gave a tiny flutter—whether from fear or hope, she couldn’t tell. But she nodded. “I do.”
A slow smile spread across Miss Winslow’s face. “Then let’s make the impossible happen.”
“Do you have an idea?”
“I might,” she said, her smile sharpening with sudden mischief. “I know Mr. Fairchild. I’ll ask him to write something. A piece on Lady Jane’s situation.”
That name gave Olivia pause. “How do you know Mr. Fairchild?”
Miss Winslow waved a gloved hand dismissively. “That’s hardly relevant. What is relevant is that he owes me a favor and he’s not above stirring a little outrage in the press.”
Olivia wasn’t entirely reassured. “Even if he did publish such a thing, I doubt it would matter. Lord Ketteridge and his son, Lord Barkley, are both stubborn men. They would never be swayed by public opinion.”
“No,” Miss Winslow agreed. “But the rest of Society might. And if enough tongues start wagging, the scandal might become more of a liability than the marriage an asset.”
Olivia considered that. She wasn’t sure how far they could push, or how loud their voices would ring, but she had learned something over the past year: women had more power than they were ever taught to believe—they simply had to be willing to use it.
Still, something tugged at her. “Why are you so willing to help Lady Jane?”
Miss Winslow’s expression softened, her voice quieter now.
“Because once, at a dinner party, I spilled wine on my gown. Bright red. Right down the front. No one offered to help—not the other girls, not the hostess. They only laughed. But Lady Jane pulled me into the retiring room and helped me wash the stain. She offered me her shawl to cover it, so I wouldn’t be embarrassed. She was kind when no one else was.”
“That does sound like Jane,” Olivia acknowledged.
“She didn’t have to help me,” Miss Winslow added. “But she did. And I haven’t forgotten.”
Olivia felt something shift in her then—not just cautious respect, but a glimmer of connection.
Perhaps Miss Winslow wasn’t as frivolous as she had seemed.
Perhaps none of them were. Underneath their pretty gowns and painted smiles, they were all navigating a world that too often treated them like pawns.
“All right,” Olivia said at last. “Let’s do it. Let’s try.”
A satisfied smile curved across Miss Winslow’s face.
“I will be in touch, Lady Westmere,” she said, her voice brimming with a confidence Olivia had never quite noticed before.
With a subtle tilt of her chin and a graceful turn, she strode away, hips swaying with the unmistakable air of a woman who always got what she wanted.
Olivia remained still for a long moment, watching her retreat. What in the world had she just agreed to?
An uneasy alliance with Miss Winslow—of all people.
The very thought would have made her laugh a week ago.
They weren’t exactly enemies, but they certainly weren’t friends either.
Still, she couldn’t shake the strange tangle of curiosity and caution winding through her chest. She had no idea what kind of chaos Miss Winslow might stir up—or how far she was willing to go for Lady Jane’s sake.
But Olivia did know one thing: doing nothing was no longer an option.
So be it, she thought, straightening her shoulders. If she had to form alliances with unlikely women to help Jane, she would do it. Strange times called for strange companions.
With a quiet sigh, she turned back towards the shelves, letting the familiar scent of parchment and leather draw her back into the present.
She ran her fingers lightly along the spines of the books as she passed, pausing at a shelf of novels in French.
Selecting a slim volume bound in worn blue leather, she tucked it beneath her arm, then reached for a second.
Two would be enough. She didn’t want to be gone too long.
As she walked towards the front counter to check out her selections, a thought pricked at the edges of her mind—the impossible, Miss Winslow had said. Olivia had lived through the impossible. Survived it. And perhaps now, just perhaps, she could help someone else do the same.
Evander sat at the desk in his study as the flickering candle cast shadows across the ledgers spread before him.
The ink on the page had long since dried, yet he stared at it as if willing the numbers to change.
But there was no denying it—his father had been right.
The indigo plantation promised a fortune, its projected earnings nothing short of staggering.
And yet, wealth had never felt so cursed.
His shoulders tightened as he leaned back in the chair, the creak of old leather loud in the silence. He had been threatened and shot at. He knew with a chilling certainty that if another warning came, it might be his last.
A knock broke through the tension, followed by the quiet footfalls of the butler entering. “Lord Warwicke has requested a moment of your—”
The sentence died in the air as Warwicke stepped past the butler, his face grim.
“We need to talk,” Warwicke said, voice clipped and dark with urgency.
Evander dismissed the butler with a curt nod. “Very well,” he said, gesturing towards the chairs opposite the desk. “Would you care to sit?”
But Warwicke remained standing. “I’ve made some inquiries into your brother’s death… and I’ve discovered something I don’t believe you’ll like.”
Evander’s spine stiffened. “Go on.”
Jaw clenched, Warwicke said, “I think he was murdered.”
The words hung between them like a dropped blade. Evander felt the ground shift beneath him. “Murdered? What are you basing that on? Illness broke out on his ship and many of the passengers perished. It is not uncommon for that to happen on a long voyage.”
“That’s just it,” Warwicke said. “Earlier today, I saw that very ship moored on the River Thames, so I went to make some inquiries. None of the crew seemed to remember Bryon or Lord Harwood even making the journey.”
Evander blinked, incredulous. “That’s impossible.”
“I thought the same,” Warwicke replied. “Until I spoke to the crew. And there’s more—I attended a meeting with certain reformers opposing British rule in India. They spoke of your brother, and let’s just say, it wasn’t in reverence.”
Evander rose from his chair slowly and walked over to the tall windows. “If what you’re saying is true… how do we prove it?”
“Give me more time,” Warwicke replied. “But until then, you need to be careful. These men—these reformers—they don’t operate with mercy. They are methodical. And ruthless.”
Evander turned from the window, his expression hardening. “What about Lord Harwood? Do you believe he was murdered, too?”
Warwicke gave a single, sharp nod. “It’s highly likely. If the reformers wanted to eliminate anyone involved with colonial trade, disposing of bodies at sea while en route would have been easy—and efficient.”
“I want to help,” Evander said firmly. “Let me attend one of those meetings.”
“No,” Warwicke said, his tone brooking no argument. “You’re already a marked man. If they spot you, they may not wait for another opportunity.”
Evander’s hands curled into fists. “I won’t stand by and do nothing.”
“You must,” Warwicke said. “At least for now. Let me do what I’m trained to do. I’ve already reached out to my contacts at Bow Street. We need solid evidence before we act. Right now, we’re blind in the dark.”
“I sent extra guards to watch over Olivia when she went to the circulating library earlier. I don’t want to worry her, at least unnecessarily, but I fear that whoever might be threatening me might turn their sights on her.”
“That was wise.”
With a low exhale, Evander returned to the desk, absently gathering the plantation papers. “This indigo venture could make my family immensely wealthy.”
Warwicke gave him a pointed look. “That’s why men are dying over it.”
“Yes. And I know my father won’t relinquish his hold without a fight.”
“Some fights,” Warwicke said, “are worth having.”
Evander’s gaze narrowed. “You’re right. But I fear the cost may be higher than he realizes.”
A soft voice from the doorway made them both turn. “I’m sorry to interrupt,” Olivia said, her tone polite. “But the dinner bell has rung.”
Warwicke turned towards her and gave a respectful bow. “My lady.”
She offered a graceful curtsy. “Would you care to join us for dinner, my lord?”
“That’s kind of you, but I intend to dine with my wife this evening,” Warwicke replied. “If you’ll excuse me.”
Evander watched his friend go, then turned his attention fully to Olivia. Her pale green gown was a perfect complement to the fair glow of her skin. Her hair, drawn back into a neat chignon, was threaded with pearls that caught the light like tiny stars.
He stepped closer, his voice soft. “You look lovely.”
“Thank you,” she replied with a smile. “You look rather dashing yourself.”
He offered his arm. “My father is out. I hope you don’t mind dining with only me.”
A mischievous smile danced on her lips. “There are worse ways to spend an evening. But I refuse to play chess with you again. You cheat.”
Evander chuckled, grateful for her lightness. “Not the way I see it.”
“Then you see it wrong,” she teased. “There’s a right way and a wrong way to play chess.”
“You were simply a sore loser.”
She rolled her eyes. “You tried using your wooden soldiers as chess pieces. Those don’t belong on a board.”
“I disagree. It made the game more exciting.”
“You claimed checkmate after one move!”
Evander shrugged. “Those are the rules—my rules.”
She laughed, and the sound warmed him. “You are utterly delusional.”
As they strolled towards the dining room, he asked, “How was the circulating library?”
“I ran into Lady Jane,” Olivia replied, her tone sobering. “She’s to marry the Duke of Brackenford.”
Evander’s steps faltered. “That poor girl.”
“We have to help her,” Olivia said, eyes burning with quiet determination.
“Of course. But how?”