Читать книгу The Complete Regency Surrender Collection - Энни Берроуз, Louise Allen - Страница 101

Chapter Thirteen

Once Hart was on his way, Gabriel rang for Bennett. ‘Is Her Grace home?’

‘No, sir, I believe she is at Mr Manning’s studio for her sitting.’

Gabriel closed his eyes and prayed he was wrong. ‘Do you know when she is expected to return?’

‘No, sir, I do not.’

‘Is Colette with her?’

‘No, she was granted the day to visit her mother. I believe Lady Haverstraw is with Her Grace today.’

Gabriel rubbed the ring that had belonged to his father, not at all comfortable with what he was about to do. ‘If she arrives home in the next hour, I need you to keep her from our rooms.’

Bennett did not look pleased and he knew it was taking all of his butler’s control not to say what was on his mind.

‘Do I make myself clear, Bennett?’

‘Yes, sir,’ Bennett replied before Gabriel took the stairs, two steps at a time.

Olivia had mentioned Manning had painted something for her. He paused in the doorway of her bedchamber and knew once he entered, his life with his wife might be changed for ever.

Taking a deep breath, he turned the handle and was met with the faint scent of honeysuckle. He had not been in the room without her in years. The curtains were drawn back, letting the light stream in through the mullioned windows. There were miniature portraits on her dressing table.

That appeared to be as good a place as any to start. He picked up each frame and squinted at the signature on each one. If any of these were painted by Manning, it would be anyone’s guess from the small size of the writing.

He ran his hand through his hair and turned about the room. There was a landscape over her bed and two smaller ones flanking the large one. Who did she say Manning painted?

His entire body froze and his gaze shifted to the fireplace. There it was. Over the mantel was a portrait of Nicholas. His son was sitting on a bench wearing a blue-velvet gown, his arms wrapped around Gabriel’s mother’s spaniel, Caesar. Walking slowly towards it, he found the signature of the artist in the lower-right corner. His stomach dropped when he took note of the distinct curve of the ‘m’.

There was no denying it. Hart was correct. Olivia’s friend was the man who’d supplied the gunman with Prinny’s whereabouts. However, the scrap of paper he held in his hand would not prove a thing in court. They needed to monitor Manning’s movements and hope he revealed his actions.

He knew he should not waste the opportunity to try to find something that might tie Olivia to Manning’s crime. His stomach rolled at the idea.

On the table beside her bed was a stack of books. He went through each one, looking for hidden notes, but found none. Her dressing table held the usual items a woman kept on hand. He checked and found no hidden compartments. Where would a woman hide her secrets?

He entered her dressing room, where just that morning he knew she’d reclined bathing in the warm water he had arranged for her. Even in the early years of their marriage, he had never had a reason to look inside his wife’s wardrobe. Seven shelves of pristinely folded silks, satins and muslins were available for his perusal. How many gowns did one woman need?

Rummaging around the bottom of the immense painted cabinet, his hands touched a wooden box approximately one foot by eight inches. It didn’t take long before he picked the lock. Pausing for a moment, he prepared himself for what he would find. When he lifted the lid, he stopped breathing.

Perched atop a stack of letters that were tied with a red ribbon was the miniature portrait of himself that he had given Olivia shortly after he had asked for her hand. At one time it had resided on her bedside table. Untying the packet, he thumbed through the many letters he had written to her during their betrothal. At the time, he found himself writing to her simply to receive a letter from her in return—a letter he could read over and over again.

She’d kept them. The way she had looked at him these past five years had made him believe she had burned them long ago—probably in a bonfire on one of their estates—or while singing a merry tune, drinking bottles of wine with her friends.

But she had kept them, tied with red ribbon.

There also were pressed flowers and the elaborately designed diamond-and-sapphire brooch he had given to her as a wedding present. He recalled having the brooch reset three times before he was completely pleased with the way it looked. And now it sat in a locked box at the bottom of her wardrobe.

Gabriel placed the contents back inside their wooden tomb and made certain to relock it. Standing up, he surveyed the room again. Going back into her bedchamber, he walked over to her bed and looked underneath. There he found another box. This one was unlocked and held his correspondence with her since Nicholas was born.

There were letters granting permission to order new furniture for the drawing room, his enquiries on the state of Nicholas’s health when he was sick and notices to when he would be leaving town. She’d kept them. But these letters held no love tokens, no gentle reminders of pleasant memories. She hadn’t even tied them with ribbon.

There they sat, the remnants of the last five years of his life—efficient, impersonal and orderly. For five years he’d buried the memory of the morning Nicholas was born. Now he could see her lying in her bed, exhausted. He thought she’d never looked more beautiful. But as he’d kissed her, she’d pushed him away and began demanding he tell her where he had been. He was not about to confess that he had been in a brothel with Madame LaGrange, so he’d said nothing.

Then she began throwing things at him—anything she could get her hands on that was close to her bed. He was so taken aback by this unprecedented outburst that he was stunned into silence.

She told him she had no wish to speak to him or let him touch her ever again. Gabriel was not the type of man to demand conjugal rights of an unwilling wife. So for five years he’d left her alone, waiting for a sign that she had forgiven him. It had appeared in these last few days that she might have found a way to move past his supposed indiscretion. Now that was the least of his concerns.

There was nothing here. He’d looked everywhere and there was no evidence that Olivia had plotted anything with the artist. She considered Prinny a friend. But she had known where he would be the day the shots were fired. Part of him believed Olivia could never intentionally harm anyone. But another part of him knew anything was possible.

* * *

Andrew walked into Gabriel’s study looking like a man who needed to spend a week in bed—and not in the company of a woman. His eyes were glassy and he blinked a few times from the opposite end of Gabriel’s desk as if he was having a difficult time remaining awake.

‘I hope this is important enough to have James drag me here when all I have is a desire to crawl back into bed,’ Andrew said.

‘I take it you had a late night?’

‘Hart ran off and left me to play cards alone with Prinny until sunup. I believe I owe him a decent sum, but I could not tell you for certain since I think I fell asleep in the middle of the last hand.’

‘I spoke with Prinny this morning. He appeared no worse for wear.’

‘Yes, well, I imagine he went to sleep when I left. I, on the other hand, had a meeting with Mr Donaldson of Bow Street, apprising him of the investigation, followed by a meeting with Colonel Collingsworth. Yet again, he offered the services of the Guards should we have need. I had finally fallen asleep, when James came knocking upon my door.’

‘I believe I know who the man behind the assassination attempt is.’

That appeared to have woken Andrew up. ‘How? Is it anyone I would have heard of?’

‘The artist, Manning, supplied Prinny’s whereabouts to Mr Clarke.’ Gabriel’s hands grew clammy as he said it out loud for the first time.

Andrew’s eager expression fell. ‘Are you certain? Olivia’s Mr Manning?’

Gabriel curled his right hand into a tight fist. ‘He is not Olivia’s Mr Manning.’ He took a deep breath. ‘I want to believe she is not involved in any of this, but I never thought our uncle would do what he did. Olivia knew where Prinny would be the day of the shooting. She was the one who told him not to take the royal coach. Hell, she even arranged the meeting.’ He rubbed the back of his neck.

‘If what you are saying is true, she will be charged with high treason. You are her husband. She could possibly implicate you, saying it was done with your directive.’

‘I am well aware of the law, Andrew. There is no need to remind me.’

‘What will you do?’

‘We need proof Manning is indeed the man we are looking for. I want to know his comings and goings. If he leaves, I want him followed.’

‘I take it you would like my assistance in this?’

Gabriel nodded. ‘Devise a schedule for the watch. Have the men report to you and come to me the minute you uncover anything. Should you have enough evidence to take him into custody, bring him to the house in Richmond. We will hold him there for his interrogation. I want him far from the Tower and the danger that is there.’

Andrew stood. ‘Of course.’

‘And, Andrew, do not breathe a word of Olivia’s connection to the man to anyone.’

* * *

Olivia was convinced it had been hours since anyone had uttered a word in Manning’s studio. Didn’t they realise how boring it was to lie still for this long? She opened her eyes and focused on the chipped wooden frame of the large mullioned window. From this angle, she could see the tops of the trees in Hanover Square. Unless someone was planning on climbing any of them, nothing outside held her interest. Surely it had to be close to the time they’d agreed her sitting would end?

Her friend had been uncharacteristically quiet for most of the morning as he painted. She had no desire to interrupt his concentration. Her sister was another matter.

‘What are you reading, Victoria?’ Olivia called out to where she assumed Victoria was still sitting on the sofa near the door.

‘Nightmare Abbey by Thomas Love Peacock.’

Olivia stifled a laugh. ‘Truly? What possessed you to read such a thing?’

‘Who could possibly pass by a book by someone named Love Peacock? It is rather satirically amusing. I’m rather enjoying it. You may borrow it when I am finished, if you like?’

Olivia’s right arm began to grow numb and she wiggled her fingers. The sound of a page being turned broke the silence of the room. Was it possible to die of boredom?

‘You might want to mention to Lady Nettleford the next time you are together that I spoke to Prinny regarding her ball. I expect he will be attending.’

Victoria sighed and closed her book. ‘You realise if I do mention it to her, she will talk of nothing else.’

‘Yes, but she tends to become all befuddled around the man. Perhaps this will give her time to prepare herself.’

‘I thought he was suffering with an unusually severe bout of the gout. Do you think he will be recovered in five days?’

He was completely recovered, as far as Olivia could tell. It was perplexing why he continued to maintain this ruse, but she had long given up trying to understand Prinny’s motivation on most things.

‘I believe he will be well enough by then. Please be sure to inform her that he is partial to lobster cakes.’

‘I shall send a note off to her later today,’ Victoria replied with amusement in her voice.

There was no feeling in her arm. She needed to move. ‘Do you have much more to paint today?’ she called out, hoping that Manning was paying enough attention to hear her.

A rustling sound came from behind the canvas, then a grunt. ‘I am finished for the day. The light is changing.’

When Olivia lifted her head and turned towards him, she found him scratching his pencil upon a scrap of paper at one of the tables that held his pigments. She stood and arched her spine, relieving some of the stiffness. Finally she could go to Victoria’s for luncheon and stimulating conversation.

With her sister’s help, Olivia changed into her own dress before they walked out from his studio onto the pavement to look for her carriage. In its place, they found a black town coach, the lacquer dulled to a matt finish, drawn by grey horses. It was unmarked, with no crest. She would have not given it further consideration except her driver was perched atop the coachman’s box. She exchanged perplexed looks with Victoria before turning to her footman. ‘Where is my carriage?’

He cleared his throat and shifted slightly on his feet. ‘This one belongs to the household, madam. We were preparing to return for you when one of the stable hands noticed a wheel on your carriage was loose again. In order to arrive in a timely manner, we decided not to wait to have it adjusted. Unfortunately, this was the only carriage available for your use.’

She glanced at the coachman who had been recently hired. ‘Why did you not bring His Grace’s carriage?’

‘His Grace left shortly before we did in it.’

Victoria backed away from the offending carriage and removed a handkerchief from her sleeve. ‘Why do you even have such a thing? I cannot believe Winter would stand for something so decidedly worn. He probably changes his shirt at least five times a day. Why would he allow such a carriage to be kept in your stables?’

For the life of her, Olivia had no idea. She had never seen it before. She walked to the steps and climbed inside. Considering the outside of the coach looked unremarkable, the inside cushions were clean and rather plush, with black-velvet coverings. The windows, on the other hand, could use a bit of a cleaning.

Victoria sat next to her and wrinkled her nose. ‘I shall send you home in my carriage.’

‘Nonsense, I shall take this one. It is just for the day.’

The rain from the night before had left the roads in poor condition. Even though the cushions were plush, a number of times Olivia and Victoria had to hold on to the leather straps to keep from being jostled off the bench.

* * *

During Olivia’s ride home from her sister’s the road conditions had not improved and as the carriage turned a particularly sharp corner Olivia was thrown from her seat onto the rear-facing bench. She righted herself and began to adjust her skirts when she noticed a rectangular panel had opened near her feet. Assuming it was a storage area for firearms in the event of a robbery, she bent down to close it. Her attention was immediately drawn to a wooden box inside. Curious as to the contents, she lifted it out and placed it on her lap.

Expecting to see a pistol, she was confused when she looked inside. She had seen boxes like this before. Usually, the households who favoured entertaining their guests with theatricals used them. Inside she found a small mirror the size of her palm, tufts of grey, black, and red hair, pots of glue and facial paint, eye patches and glasses with plain glass lenses. Why in the world would it be in this carriage?

She had just enough time to return the box to its hiding place when the carriage slowed to a stop at her home. By the time her footman had lowered the step and opened the door, no one would’ve guessed Olivia was riddled with questions. Did Gabriel know about this? Surely he must since the carriage belonged to them.

Striding off towards his study, Olivia wanted answers. She raised her hand to knock and then thought better of it. She turned the handle and the door swung open. The ticking of the bracket clock was the only sound to break the silence. Her gaze skimmed over his desk to the long windows and, finally, to the chairs by the fireplace. Her husband and his secretary were nowhere to be found.

Walking further into the room, she dropped down into the chair behind his desk. Her eyes travelled to the portrait of her father-in-law, which presided over the room from his position above the fireplace. The distinguished-looking man sat regally, with his chin raised. On his pinkie he wore the ring he had given to Gabriel shortly after they were married on the night he died. A familiar pair of hazel eyes stared down at her. She could almost feel his disapproval that she was sitting in his son’s chair. Well, she had a reason. His son was becoming quite an enigma.

The more she thought about that box, the more her brain filtered through the other odd things she had noticed about Gabriel over the years. The scar that Nicholas had pointed out was the most recent one. He had said it was from a fencing accident. Olivia was not convinced. There were also letters that she had seen arriving for him at strange hours of the day and night, their butler’s presence during the cleaning of this room and the times he would not be in attendance at events she was sure he would have wanted to go to.

The more she thought about it, the more questions she had.

Her gaze travelled to the silver inkstand on his desk—the only object on the polished wooden surface aside from the silver Argand lamp. When she gave a pull on the brass handles of the drawer of his desk, it didn’t budge.

Resting her forearms on the desk, she drummed the surface with her fingers. Something tugged at the back of her brain. It was as if she was staring at an unfinished portrait, unaware who the sitter was.

When she was a young girl, she had been adept at picking the lock of Victoria’s letterbox. Did she remember how it was done? She pulled out a hairpin and lowered it to the small keyhole of the drawer.

‘Olivia?’

She jerked her head up. There, in the doorway, stood Gabriel.

It was just her luck.