True Story (The Deverells, Book One) (44 page)

"I'll find you a secretary," he had
warbled. "I believe I know just the person."

Despite his enthusiasm it had taken a
considerable amount of time to find someone for the
post.

"Why did you send her to me?" True
demanded, seated across from the old solicitor. "You knew what you
were doing, I have no doubt. You're a cunning old crab, Chalke." At
first the man feigned innocence, but True persisted. "I mean to
know. If you want to keep me as a client, old man, you will tell me
why you sent Olivia Monday into my lair, knowing what she would do
to me."

Chalke snuffled with laughter and
shook his head. "It was quite by chance."

"Chance? You wanted to get her away
from the stepbrother, is that it? Because she was in love with him?
Or he with her?"

"Oh no," finally Chalke confessed, "it
was nothing like that. It was much worse."

"
Worse
?" He didn't know how it could
be worse than Olivia falling for another man. She wasn't the sort
to fall lightly.

"I suspected Christopher Chesterfield
of unpleasant intentions— and deeds— but I had no proof and so I
thought it best for Olivia to be out of his reach, as far as I
could put her. The lady's father, you see, was a dear friend and he
had begged me to look after his only daughter. I considered it my
responsibility."

True leaned forward, every muscle and
tendon now on alert, ready to spring into action. "She was in
danger? In what way?"

The old man groaned deeply and
steepled his gnarled fingers to his lips. "I was sworn to secrecy.
My colleague, Westcott, wanted no one to find out, for he feared
his daughter would become the target of fortune hunters. He did not
even want Olivia to know."

"Know what, for pity's sake!" he
cried.

"That when Olivia celebrates her
thirtieth birthday she will inherit her maternal grandmother's
estate and considerable fortune."

True felt his world falling away,
everything he'd previously imagined about Olivia suddenly lost to
his grasp. "And she...she knows nothing of it?"

"Nothing. It was her father's decision
that it be kept from her. He didn't want it to cloud her judgment
or change her in any way. His daughter was his whole world. He told
me once, over a bottle of very good port, that Olivia wanted to
marry for love. He worried that her grandmother's money would
change things for her, make her prey to men with unworthy
intentions. So he decided not to tell her about the inheritance
that would come her way."

"Did she know her grandmother was
wealthy?"

"It is possible she knew
something of it, but Olivia's maternal grandmother had disowned her
daughter for marrying against her wishes. Marrying
for love
, was frowned
upon by that bitter, rich old lady and she refused to accept the
union of her daughter with a humble solicitor. She only saw her
grandchild once, just before her daughter's funeral. But when she
herself died only a few years later she left her estate, in its
entirety, to Olivia."

Slowly True let the pieces settle.
Money. Yes, he knew how it changed people. It was more often a
curse than a blessing. "But what has this to do with her
stepbrother?"

Chalke sniffed nervously
and eyed his port decanter. "I came to suspect that my dear friend
had, in a moment perhaps of starry-eyed lust, mentioned the
inheritance to his second wife, who then informed her son. They
were very close— the mother and son. Almost, it must be said,
uncomfortably so. At least, that is the impression I formed. And
Christopher Chesterfield has something in his manner that I do not
trust. He is almost...
too
charming." The old man laughed dourly. "I suppose
it takes an ugly, despised creature like me to see through such a
disguise." He reached for the port and poured it. "Master
Chesterfield has expensive tastes and no real inclination to find
employment. I daresay, had he known about Olivia's inheritance
before his mother married her father, he would have scooped her up
as a bride. But once they were stepsiblings he could not, of
course, marry her. Instead, he had to hope she would remain unwed,
leaving herself and her future fortune under his
purview.

When Olivia married the first time, I
hoped she would be safe, but that was over before it had hardly
begun. Then the second...well, by then my suspicions about Master
Chesterfield had grown. He was always most eager to have his
stepsister back again, always making plans for her future, as if he
had some right to do so. I did not like it. I tried to warn
Westcott, but he could not see through his stepson's artful ways. I
was quite sure that Master Chesterfield, knowing all about the
inheritance, planned to keep Olivia under his roof, to collect her
fortune once it came to her on her thirtieth birthday. Each
husband, naturally, had to be disposed of, but the determined woman
kept finding another." He chuckled and sipped his port. "After
William Monday, I saw I would have to step in and get her
away."

"So you sent her to me."

"Who else could keep her safe? I had a
feeling she would put you in your place too."

True shook his head. "You're an old
scoundrel."

"Yes," he readily agreed, smacking his
lips. "And you are a younger one. Which is why we get along so
well."

"That, and the constant supply of port
I deliver to you." He looked at the old fellow and felt exceedingly
grateful that Olivia had been sent to Roscarrock. He couldn't even
be angry about the reason being kept from him. After all, he might
have looked at her with different eyes, if he knew the truth from
the beginning. Yes, her father had been right about that. Olivia
would be prey to fortune hunters if her situation was generally
known. And she, being a wide-eyed believer in love, might easily be
drawn in by an unscrupulous rogue.

"Now, of course," said Chalke, reading
his mind in his usual cunning fashion, "you can't marry her, or
I'll know you're doing it for the money."

He sniffed. "For your information, I
already asked— thinking her a penniless, difficult wench— and she
refused me." Ah, it hurt to admit that.

Chalke's eyes became bright. "Has she
really? Goodness!"

"And once she has money,
she definitely won't want
me
. Bloody woman. I've nothing to
give her, nothing to offer."

"True."

"What?" he snapped.

Chalke laughed. "I was agreeing with
you."

"Pah!" He crossed his arms
angrily.

"That's what becomes of giving
yourself such a silly name."

"There is nothing
silly
about
it."

"Suit yourself. Nicholas Alejandro
Duquesne."

True leaned across the desk again and
said with lethal politeness, "You tell another soul that name and
I'll never send you another bottle of that very good port you enjoy
at my expense."

Chapter Thirty-One

They got as far as Exeter the next
day. Again Christopher refused to pay full price for the only
available room at the coaching inn, and Olivia was smuggled up the
stairs like a hunted woman. Or a prostitute.

She suspected her stepbrother had some
experience of cheating inn-keepers and smuggling women into rooms.
He was certainly a natural at it.

While he slept in his chair that
night, overcome by ale and weariness, Olivia took her chance.
Christopher had always underestimated her— and women in general.
She went through his pockets for coin and then left the inn to find
a man with a private chaise for hire. There was no point to going
back toward Roscarrock, she realized, for that is where Christopher
would expect her to go. Instead she would travel onward to
London.

"I can pay half your fee now," she
told the coachman, "and my husband will pay the rest when you get
me there safely."

It was a very good thing she wore her
tidy, expensive new boots, for the man looked her up and down, no
doubt deciding whether she could be trusted to come up with all the
money. To her immense relief, she passed inspection.

"I'll get the horses ready, Madam," he
said. "You wait here."

Olivia bounced on her heels, rubbed
her hands together and looked around nervously, anxious to be on
the road again before Christopher woke and found her
gone.

It was still dark out, but lanterns by
the inn door cast a bronze light over the front of the building and
rush torches along the stable wall lit the fat puddles of the yard,
making them glisten and sparkle where fresh rain drops peppered the
surface. She blew out a cloud of white breath and watched it
evaporate.

She wanted to
shout,
Oh, do hurry
! But she held her patience and her composure. This was no
time to bring attention to herself.

Several private carriages were being
readied for departure across the yard, horses hooves scraping at
the cobbles, eager to be off. As she watched them a figure suddenly
stumbled out through the door of the inn. Lantern-light shone on
his golden hair and then on his white face, as he stared directly
at her.

Olivia backed up against the stable
wall, her heart racing, blood pumping. Should she make a run for
it? Where to? She was trapped.

He seemed to know this too, for he
laughed nastily and lurched toward her. Of course he had his
umbrella in hand— wasn't likely to leave that behind again, she
thought darkly.

But as he moved forward he jerked to
an abrupt halt. Something was caught...the point of his umbrella
was stuck in the iron grate over the drain, into which rainwater
ran from the cobbled yard.

She heard him curse.

The more he struggled, the faster his
umbrella became stuck in the grate.

He didn't see the coach and four
heading his way and apparently the driver was distracted, or in too
much hurry to notice the man wrestling with his
umbrella.

Just as Christopher pulled free and
stepped out, the horses were upon him.

He was plowed over, first by hooves
and then by wheels that bumped and churned his head into the
cobbles. It happened in the blink of an eye, the sound a sickening
crunch she would probably never forget. Somebody screamed, but it
wasn't Olivia.

The crumpled figure lay still under
the wheels as the coachman drew his vessel to a halt. Folk came
running and a voice called out for a doctor, but anyone could see
it was too late. Rivulets of scarlet blood ran between the cobbles
and with it went the life of the man under the wheels.

"Poor gentleman was traveling all
alone," she heard a woman exclaim. "Such a charming, handsome
gentleman too! Such a tragedy!"

Oh yes, indeed it was. She'd suffered
several of those in her life. Really, by now she shouldn't even bat
an eyelid. Olivia turned, stepped up into the private chaise, and
as Mrs. Arthur King, traveled onward to London.

Christopher should have traveled by
railway, she mused, for she'd heard it was a safer mode of
transportation.

* * * *

True went to Inspector
O'Grady.

"I know you have your opinion already
set, and I am merely a lucky gambler in your eyes— a bastard who
came from nothing— but I can tell you that Olivia Westcott is not
to blame for these murders."

"And you'll tell me who is?" O'Grady
replied sardonically. "It's been years since she started murdering
good men. You didn't know her back then."

"But I've known her since. And I came
out of it unscathed."

"That's all well and good. I expect
she pulled the lace over your eyes too."

"She doesn't like lace."

The detective looked sorrowful. "I
regret, sir, if you've fallen under her spell too. But you're not
the first."

Fallen under her spell. Oh,
yes.

He was in love with her. Deeply and
irrevocably in that painful state of love.

Damn her. And Chalke

Now he knew "love" was possible, which
meant he had to pay twenty-five bottles of vintage port to Abraham
Chalke. It was a wager they'd had. The only wager True Deverell
ever lost.

"You may wish to inquire about a
Master Christopher Chesterfield," he told the Inspector.

"The stepbrother?"

"Yes. I believe, if you bother to
question a solicitor by the name of Abraham Chalke, he might tell
you where you've been going wrong with your investigation. He has
some confidential information regarding Chesterfield's possible
motive. If he is reluctant to share it, just tell him I sent you.
Oh, and tell him he won't have to worry about Mrs. Monday's safety
any longer. That's up to me now."

* * * *

The moment he received
Storm's rushed message, True set out toward the west country,
hoping to find her on his route. She was in trouble and he could
not bear to think of what might happen to her in Chesterfield's
hands, but he took a sprig of comfort from the wording of her
message, "
Give little Arthur my
love
."