True Story (The Deverells, Book One) (36 page)

"She looks very young."

"She's not as young as she
looks."

"And dour."

He said nothing to that.

"What's she doing here? Surely you're
not sleeping with her. She's not your sort."

"That's none of your
business. And since when have you known anything about
my sort
?"

"No need to be defensive," she
sneered. "I was merely trying to make conversation."

True considered her powdered, rouged
face and those stiff curls placed artfully against her brow.
Conversation? Highly unlikely. "If that's all..." He got up, eager
to leave the room and that stale air tainted by her
presence.

But she stopped him.
"Wait."

Ah, his former wife hadn't come so far
out of her way just to rub his face in the Earl's plans for
Raven.

Did she want money again? Likely. But
she didn't usually take this long to ask for it.

"These memoirs you're writing," she
said. "You had better not slander me in them, or I'll
sue."

So that was it. "Who told you?" He
didn't think any of her children knew about his memoirs and Chalke
was sworn to secrecy. Damon, Justify and Storm would have nothing
to do with her, of course.

If a python could smile, it would look
just like that, he thought. "I'm warning you. Say one bad word
about me in this True Story of yours and I'll take you for every
last penny."

"You've already tried that,
Charlotte."

"Yes, but you keep getting richer,
while I get poorer."

"Then I suggest you curb your
expensive habits. Or find a way to earn money yourself. Stop
waiting for it to fall into your lap."

"A
lady
doesn't work for money," she
exclaimed.

"And you father cannot support
you?"

"My father does his best."

He was amused to hear that. The Earl
of Rothsey was notoriously tight-fisted with his coin and Charlotte
had always complained about her father's failure to spoil her. It
was probably one of the reasons why she ran after True all those
years ago— mud in the eye for the pompous skinflint earl, and also,
of course, she had stuck her claws into an abundant vein of riches.
A very generous vein.

"It's getting late," he muttered. "You
must excuse me. I need to get back to Roscarrock." She dabbed her
napkin against those perfectly bowed, poisonous lips. "There is one
more thing before you go."

He sighed. "What?"

She tittered in a girlish
manner that had always made him cringe, even when she
was
a girl. "You don't
know anything about that woman, do you? Has she pulled the wool
over your eyes too?"

"If you refer to Olivia Monday, yes I
do. I know she is nothing like you. Thankfully."

That only partially curbed her foolish
noises. "But you don't know the truth about her." She slithered
upward from her chair. "Three times a widow, I'm told. And yet
she's only young. Don't you wonder whether it was misfortune,
carelessness... or something else?"

"What the hell do you —"

"And she's desperately in love with
her own stepbrother. Has moped after him for years, since she was
sixteen. That's why she came here to heal her broken heart, because
he's about to marry another woman and she cannot bear to see it.
Has she told you that?"

Somehow he kept his temper and his
countenance.

Charlotte moved closer, laughing. "Do
be careful with her. You might not escape another attempt on your
life. Even cats have a limit, and she's proven herself adept in the
art of snuffing out inconvenient men. Just thought I should warn
you. For old time's sake."

"Then let me return the favor,
Charlotte, and warn you likewise. Stay away from her, and from me
and from Roscarrock."

His former wife had sat to resume her
dinner, but could not resist adding, "I received an interesting
letter all about your mysterious new secretary, from her
stepbrother who is most concerned about what might be going on
between you."

True felt his fury mounting. "If he is
worried for his stepsister, perhaps he should express his fears to
me directly."

She laughed. "I'm not sure that she is
the one for whom he fears."

* * * *

Olivia waited in her seat, as
instructed by her employer. She would have preferred to wait
outside in the fresh air, but rain was falling harder now and, of
course, she had no umbrella. No, she would stay and be composed, as
if her heart was not racing. As if it did not matter that he was
with his former wife in the private dining room of the inn. His
former wife. To Olivia it didn't feel very "former" at that
moment.

It must be some matter regarding their
children, she thought. That would always be the one thing that they
shared. As True had said, the children were her link to his money,
even now. It was also the one way his former wife knew how to get
his attention, because of his affection for those children. They
were his one weakness, and it was more than an instinctual bond,
whether he wanted to believe it or not.

He had married the most glamorous
woman of the season twenty-three years ago— or thereabouts. True
Deverell had seen her, wanted her and stolen her away from her
fiancé, who may or may not have been his own father. He got what he
wanted on that occasion, just as he boasted he always did. But it
had bitten him in the behind when he found out that beauty was only
skin deep.

Far from the first man to learn that
lesson, she thought glumly.

She dreaded and yet yearned for a
sight of Lady Charlotte— morbidly curious to know if she was as
beautiful as rumor had it.

A terrible, hollow ache had started in
her chest.

Half of her pasty sat untouched on the
plate for she had no appetite now.

As she looked out of the window again
and watched windblown lines of gray rain streaking across the inn
yard, a woman passed her view, moving swiftly from the door of the
building toward that fancy carriage. A young man in livery escorted
her with his head bent against the rain.

Olivia stared, quite sure it must be
the lady herself. Who else would be so well dressed in that place?
There could not be two fine ladies dining at The Fisherman's Rest
on this bumpy road so far from civilization. It had to be Lady
Charlotte.

The woman was tall, slender, her hands
sunk into a huge fox-fur muff, her hair topped by an extravagant
bonnet trimmed in the same reddish-brown fur. She was every bit as
stunning to look at as Olivia had imagined, every inch as beautiful
as a "diamond of the first water" should be. It was easy to see how
she was once the debutante of the season, with a half dozen suitors
trailing after her.

Lady Charlotte was laughing and
through the warped glass of the very old, crooked window her face
was grotesquely distorted for a moment. It sent chills down
Olivia's spine.

A bitter frost seemed suddenly to
cling to everything in the place, as if the fire had gone out and
all the lamps too. Where before it had been warm and cheerful in
that busy room— sanctuary from the dismal weather— it was now
gloomy, menacing, unwelcoming. Olivia thought she could even hear
ice crystals cracking over the wallpaper and freezing the wicks
inside the oil lamps.

Where was Deverell? What kept
him?

Perhaps he'd forgotten about her, she
mused darkly. It was easily done, of course.

If he came back, she would shout at
him for leaving her alone in this place. It was improper. What was
she supposed to do there all alone? People were looking at her and
whispering.

So what
, as True would say.

So what?

It was so easy for him to say, because
he had not been raised to worry about what other people thought or
said. To him it was all a game, the object to stay alive and amass
wealth. A heart was just another muscle to him; it kept his blood
pumping around his body. That was its only purpose, as far as he
was concerned.

Yet, whatever he claimed of having no
capacity to care, he had shown that he did. That he could. Worrying
about her drafty room, her comfort.

Yes, he had many faults— as most
people did— and she couldn't change them even if she wanted to.
Which she did not.

Now she had fallen in love with the
wretched, impossible man. It was a silly, besotted sort of love,
not at all sensible and mature. Quite shameful for a woman who
should know better.

What would he say if she told him
that?

So what.

That is precisely what he would say,
if she relented and confessed her feelings.

She had fallen in love with him and
there was not even a working clock there to help mark the occasion.
Even the pocket watch that once belonged to her father had gone
missing, leaving her without that familiar comfort too.

Now she was terrified; for the first
time in her life Olivia could admit to herself that she was
afraid.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Looking out at the rain again, she
watched that fine carriage pulling out of the yard, splashing
through puddles. Two unfortunate fellows hung off the back, like
half-drowned rats clinging to a raft. Lady Charlotte apparently
didn't care about the comfort of her servants.

When she heard someone slipping into
the opposite settle, she expected True's return. But it was another
man. This one had a broad, ruddy face, bristling brows and mean
eyes the color of muddy water. He sneered at her, making a motion
toward the brim of his hat with stubby, thick fingers, but never
lifting it from his brow.

"Well, missy, you're a pretty, dainty
thing," he growled through pointy teeth, his lips agleam with
grease. When he leaned across the table she smelled bacon on his
breath, onions and ale. "What are you doing with the likes o'
Deverell, eh?"

She quickly drew her hands from the
table into her lap.

"Don't be shy," he said, winking.
"What's your name then? We ought to get to know each other. I'm
Joseph. Friends call me Joe. And so can you, missy."

"I don't think Mr. Deverell would like
you sitting in his seat." She recognized the man from the last
stretch of her coach journey to Roscarrock several months ago. He
was the man who had sat opposite her and stared rudely the entire
time. Just as he did now.

"Deverell's not the possessive, greedy
type, so they tell me. Wasn't selfish with his wife, to be sure.
He'd share a little of his good fortune with Joe." Abruptly he
thrust one of his hands beneath the table and grasped her knee. "I
watched you when you came in, that hair pulled loose by the wind.
Caught my eye you did with your head held high, acting like a lady.
But you needn't pretend to be all proud and prissy with Joe. You're
his new bed-warmer up at Roscarrock, ain't you?"

"Get away from me at once." She jerked
her knee aside, but he reached further under the table with
surprising speed and trapped her hands where they were clasped
together. His fingers were strong, his grip cruel and tight. The
size of his one clammy claw completely overwhelmed the knot of her
two joined hands.

"You stay there, missy." With a tug he
pulled her hands toward him, bruising her arms on the table edge.
"Spare a bit of lovin' for Joe."

As he dragged her hands between his
legs, she freed her fingers far enough to administer a sharp, hard
pinch. And she did not immediately let go, but twisted with the
force of an angry crab claw. He yelped, releasing her, needing his
hand to cover his wounded body part.

"You little
bitch
," he
spat.

"Yes, and like any good bitch, I
bite."

Olivia slipped out of her
seat and walked out into the rain. Footsteps followed quickly after
her, but when she turned to confront her assailant, this time
it
was
Deverell.

"Where are you off to?" he demanded as
he stepped through the door behind her. "I told you to wait there
at the table."

Above them the sign creaked and
groaned, buffeted about by violent gusts of wind. "Under the
circumstances it seemed wiser to wait outside."

"Why? What do you mean?"

She shook her head, tempted to laugh
as she remembered the startled, pained face of "Joe" when she
twisted his seed bag in her fingers. "It doesn't matter
now."

"Someone approached you?" Deverell
exclaimed, eyes flaring with swift suspicion.

"A woman sitting alone in a tavern is
subject to that sort of attention no doubt. You could not be
oblivious to the possibility."

"How
dare
anyone approach a woman in my
company?" A very dark look came over his face, a deep rage such as
she'd never seen on those features.