Chapter 1
ACCUSED MURDERESS IN LONDON. I must draw attention to the reappearance of Lady Olivia Allen in London, upon whom several suspicions have been piled. Of note, the death of her husband two years ago. I advise all men in want of a wife to take heed, lest you befall the same fate.
London, June 15, 1861
Olivia Heather, the Countess Dowager Allen, slammed the newspaper onto the garden table, making the teacups rattle in their saucers. Not that anyone would notice. All the other tables on the terrace were empty, despite it being one of the few places where Mrs. Zephyr’s guests could find shelter from the blazing sunlight.
“I assume the meeting with the editor did not go well,” Olivia’s friend Saffron Mayweather, the Viscountess Briarwood, said as she tucked a lock of black hair that had fallen out of her coiffure back into place. There was a slight roundness to her face, but the diagonal pleating of her lilac day gown hid all other signs of her pregnancy.
Olivia remembered how the editor of theLondon Evening Standardhad sneered from across his desk. She put her hands in her lap and squeezed her fan so tight that the wood creaked. “I cannot expect assistance from that quarter.”
All men had a price, but Mr. Ainsley could not be bought with money, at least not by a woman. She might have tried to convince him to stop publishing the articles anyway, but shedidn’t trust him to keep his word even if she paid him a fortune. The scandal had made theLondon Evening Standardthe most popular newspaper in town.
“What are you going to do?” Saffron asked. Her eyes glittered with the same excitement as they had several months prior, when Olivia had attempted to help her unmask the anonymous artist Ravenmore in an effort to locate Saffron’s missing brother. That was before they’d learned Viscount BriarwoodwasRavenmore, and Saffron’s brother had died in the same boat accident that had killed the viscount’s sister.
“As it happens, I did not come away from my meeting with the editor empty-handed,” Olivia said. She removed a folded piece of paper from her pocket and slid it across the table. “I snatched this from his desk before he threw me out.”
Saffron unfolded the paper and squinted as she brought it close to her face. “Remarkable. There is actually someone whose handwriting is worse than yours.”
Olivia grabbed for the paper, but Saffron jerked away. “Yes, yes.” She cleared her throat and read, “Mr. Ainsley, Please ensure the attached article is printed in tomorrow’s paper. Your usual fee is attached. Sincerely, Lowell.” She flipped the paper over but did not read it aloud. Olivia was grateful. She had no desire to hear the vile accusations in her friend’s voice.
Saffron handed the paper back. “I haven’t seen the Marquess of Lowell in years. What reason would he have for attacking you?”
Olivia returned the letter to her pocket. “I wish I knew.”
In the hours since learning his name, she had discovered exactly two facts about the marquess: his wife had died shortly after bearing a daughter, and the family had not been seen in society since.
A small part of her envied him. As much as she’d enjoyed her popularity before the articles,Lady Allenwas nothing but amask she’d crafted through two decades of careful observation from her husband’s shadow. Her true self, the Olivia who held entire conversations without making eye contact and flapped her hands when she was excited, would never be accepted in society.
The Earl of Allen had made that lesson abundantly clear.
A high-pitched squeal drew her attention to the lawn, where a gaggle of children chased a tall woman in a pale-green day dress. The woman swished a wand through the air, forming hundreds of bubbles that floated above the shrieking children and vanished into the gently waving boughs of the trees above them.
“Is that Mrs. Gilly?” Saffron asked, gesturing to the woman. “I hardly recognize her without a book clutched in her arms.”
Olivia smiled. “She was one of my first clients.”
After two unsuccessful seasons, Seraphina’s parents had begged Olivia to take the quiet, awkward girl under her wing. In a matter of weeks, Seraphina had wed Mr. Gilly, a textiles merchant, and all reports indicated their marriage was a happy one.
Olivia’s smile fell. Since the articles had started, not a single mama had approached her to sponsor their daughter. Her schedule, once bustling with visits to modistes and milliners, had slowed to a crawl.
“I could ask my husband to speak to Lord Lowell,” Saffron said, sliding her fork through a slice of lemon cake. She took a bite, then wrinkled her nose.
“Too sweet?” Olivia asked. She picked up a fork and speared the slice of strawberry from atop the cake. The surfeit of fresh fruit on display in the refreshment room was impressive but hardly a display of wealth. Strawberries were in season and therefore plentiful.
“Too sour.” Saffron slid the plate across the table. “Leo can be properly intimidating. I am certain he could convince the marquess to cease his writing.”
Olivia ate a piece of the “too sour” cake, giving herself a moment to come up with a response. She didn’t want to insult her friend, but she wasn’t interested in having another man solve her problem.
Ten years of marriage had taught her the importance of self-sufficiency.
The cake was sublime, with a coarse crumb that melted on her tongue and a layer of chopped strawberries in icing. She finished the entire piece, then set her fork down. “While I appreciate Lord Briarwood’s physical prowess, I believe a more delicate hand is required.” She tapped her finger on the newspaper. “The marquess might have more resources at his disposal, but I have yet to meet a gentleman who could turn away a woman in distress.”
Once she discovered where he was hiding, she would don a heavy cloak and show up at his door at dawn with tears in her eyes. In the unlikely event he refused her, she would bring her burliest manservant to guarantee admittance. Then she would negotiate in a way only a woman could.
“Perhaps that will not be necessary,” Saffron said. “Considering he just arrived.”
Olivia whipped her neck around and followed her friend’s gaze to the crowd gathered around an absolute mountain of a man in a charcoal suit standing at the bottom of the steps to the terrace. His black hair flowed down a square jaw into a thick beard and mustache liberally dusted with silver.
