21
Oliver had wanted nothing more than to avoid Lord Durand for the foreseeable future. He knew, from the fury boiling in his veins now that he was aware of the truth of his perfidy, that he would not be able to stand even looking at the man, much less be in his immediate vicinity.
But no matter his personal feelings, he could not avoid him forever.
The earl was his employer, after all, no matter how much that fact made his stomach turn.
More importantly, the sooner he fed the earl the wholly false information that Iris had decamped to London, the safer she would be.
And so, as morning came and he was certain Lord Durand had risen for the day, he entered the manor house through the kitchens.
“Excuse me,” he asked the nearest footman, “do you know where I can find Lord Durand at this time of the day?”
Before the man could answer, the butler approached. “What do you need the earl for?” he demanded, looking down his nose at Oliver. An impressive thing, really, considering the man barely reached his chin.
“I’ve something important to report to him,” Oliver replied, fighting for patience. He didn’t want to be here in the first place; this little bird man, with his condescension, was making things more difficult.
The butler considered him, eyes narrowed, before, with a reluctant nod, he headed for the servants’ stairs and the main house above.
Which, after a moment of perplexed silence, Oliver took to mean he should follow him.
They made it up to the first floor and what Oliver assumed were the family quarters, down the hall, and to an impressively large set of double doors.
The butler rapped sharply on the wood. Within seconds a tall, hard-eyed man with a shock of gray hair opened the door. Oliver had seen this person only briefly when he had first begun his post, but he recalled now the position he held in the household, as the earl’s valet.
“What is it?” the man demanded.
“Mr. Beckett has information to impart to Lord Durand.”
The valet looked him over, his lip curling ever so slightly.
“Very well,” he said, opening the door wider and motioning Oliver within.
“You can find him in his dressing room.” With that the man made his way down the hall, the butler following.
Leaving Oliver alone. Taking a steadying breath, he entered.
The room was huge, a massive bed dominating the space, draped in heavy burgundy velvet.
But that was not the only imposing bit of furniture.
A large secretaire stood along one wall, an armoire along another, a grouping of rich leather seats before a fireplace made of some type of heavily carved, pure white stone.
And interspersed everywhere were plants of every shape and size.
They should have given the space a warm, homey feel.
Instead, Oliver felt a vague sense of dread as he stepped farther into the room, as if he were being swallowed by a treacherous woodland.
Not wanting to spend a moment longer here than he had to, he went to the closest door, and opened it?. .? .
Only to find another bedroom, this one decorated in cool blues and feeling incredibly empty, as if it had not been used in a good, long while.
Lady Durand’s room then? He knew the earl was married, that after their children had grown and left the house, his wife had left as well and now spent the majority of her time at some remote estate.
Not that he blamed her. If he had been married to Durand, he would have done the same the moment he’d been able to.
Closing the door, he went to the next, finally finding the dressing room. Durand, however, was not within. Confused, Oliver returned to the bedroom. He was sure the valet had just left the earl. Frowning, he headed for the hall, determined to track the man down.
Just as he was about to depart, however, the dressing room door opened behind him.
“Beckett, have you come to see me?”
Oliver started and spun, certain he had misheard—only to find Durand himself standing there. But where the hell had the man come from? The dressing room had been empty.
Now, however, was not the time to consider whatever fantastical ideas filled his head—mainly revolving around Durand being a demon who could appear and disappear at will.
“Yes, my lord,” he said.
The earl smiled expectantly. “I trust you have good news for me?”
“Yes. Mrs. Rumford has returned to London.”
The man paused, waiting. And then, “And?”
Oliver narrowed his eyes. “ And , my lord?”
Lord Durand waved one soft, pale hand in the air. “And did you sufficiently frighten her so she rethinks ever returning?”
Dear God, what had the man wanted him to do to Iris?
Even the suggestion that he had expected something horrific or violent made Oliver see red.
But he had to keep calm. Not only did his family’s security rest on his ability to conceal his darker emotions from this man, but Iris’s safety did as well.
“I can assure you, my lord,” he replied tightly, “that you need not worry about Mrs. Rumford any longer.”
His cryptic comment was vague yet grim enough that it satisfied the earl. “I’m pleased to hear it. I knew you were a smart man, Beckett. You will do well here. Very well indeed. As will, no doubt, your lovely family.”
With one more smile that did nothing to warm the chill in his eyes, the man made his way to the large cheval glass in the corner and began to give himself a thorough look over, effectively dismissing Oliver.
For his part, Oliver did not think twice before hurrying from the room.
By the time he reached the outdoors his chest burned with tightness.
But no matter how he gulped the fresh air into his lungs, no matter how far he got from Lord Durand, he could not feel clean.
He had suspected there was something not quite right with the man the moment he’d met him, that he would gladly betray his own mother for his benefit.
And Oliver had purposely turned a blind eye to it.
If he had to work closely with an immoral aristocrat, even assisting him at times in something he might not agree with, so be it.
He had never guessed, however, just how perverse the man could be.
Not that he had ever attempted to consider such a thing. No, he had given up his moral high ground long ago. Principles, after all, did not put food on the table.
Yet he could not keep from comparing himself, with his willingness to sell his soul to Durand for a roof over his head, to Iris, who was more than willing to put her very life on the line to reclaim her mother’s legacy.
He remembered that noble ideology, something his stepfather had nurtured within him.
It had been shaken but held on throughout the war, at his stepfather’s death, and during his time with the Runners.
And had died an ignoble death when he’d seen his mother give up what little bread she’d had to feed his sister.
No, he reminded himself brutally, he could not afford to go the way of his morals again. No matter how desperately he was tempted to. He would ignore those lofty urges and convince Iris to give up her scheme. Which he prayed he could succeed at, for all their sakes.
Something that sat wrong with him the longer he thought of it. But he did not have a choice in the matter. Did he?
Convincing her to give up was easier said than done.
He eyed Iris across the sitting room after lunch that afternoon.
She and his sister were seated together on the couch, heads bent close as they peered within a wooden box that was open on her lap.
Thus far there had been no opportunity to get her alone to talk her into giving up this scheme of hers.
Surely, however, he would soon have the opportunity.
She was staying in his home, after all. And with six days until the exhibition, there would no doubt be plenty of chances.
But truly, the sooner the better. He tore his gaze from her, looking unseeingly at the book in his lap, open to the same page it had been for the past half hour or better.
She would be stubborn in this, he had no doubt.
And he didn’t blame her. Nausea settled in his stomach, churning up the food he’d barely managed to get down during their meal.
God, he wished he didn’t have to do this, wished he could give her everything she wanted.
Wished he could make Lord Durand pay for the grief he’d given her.
Which, of course, made him think of the not-so-subtle threats that man had made against his mother and Verity.
That roiling nausea grew, a cold sweat breaking out on his brow and his fingers curling about the book until the pages crackled in protest. No, he could not deviate from what he had to do.
His family’s safety depended on it. He had to get Iris to stop her plans, and the sooner the better. He had no choice.
“And this,” Iris said, lifting a yellowed periodical from the box, “is the very first article my mother managed to get published.”
Against his will, Oliver looked at her. She had a soft smile on her face, her eyes misty and loving as her fingers drifted over the paper. His heart twisted, a fine accompaniment to his stomach.
“It was no easy task,” Iris continued, handing the periodical to his sister with reverent care.
“Her sex alone meant that most refused to publish her. It is difficult being a woman, but especially in the sciences. She, however, persevered, and succeeded. There were several articles after this, all printed in small journals or papers.”
“She sounds to have been an incredible woman,” Verity breathed, looking over the paper in awe.
“She was,” Iris replied softly. A sudden quiet determination tightened her features, a spark of something precious entering her eyes. “But as hard as she fought all her life to be heard, I will do whatever I can to see she is heard in death. I could do no less for her.”