“I had Leo reach out to the editor, but the man would not budge,” Saffron said, falling back onto the horsehair sofa. “What happened with Lord Lowell? I thought you had made a deal.”
Olivia winced. “It would not matter if I did. He’s not the source behind the articles.”
Saffron patted the seat beside her. “Tell me everything.”
Olivia perched on the edge of the couch and carefully described the events of the previous day. Saffron’s mouth fell open at one point, but she remained blessedly silent until Olivia finished.
“You have certainly been busy,” Saffron said, swirling a spoon around her teacup.
Olivia sipped her lukewarm tea. It tasted bitter and there was soapy residue on the porcelain. She set the cup down with a grimace. In her obsession to discover who’d been slandering her name, she’d neglected her own household. The gaslights were covered in cobwebs, the furnace was thick with soot and ashes, and now even the tableware was not up to snuff.
She sank into the pillows on the couch. “How do I lure my enemy out?”
She didn’t know his name or title. She didn’t even know if there was a man at all, only that her instincts insisted Constance could not have written the letters on her own. So many assumptions, and little to no facts. It was no way to run an investigation.
“Have you considered staging a counterattack?” Saffron asked.
Olivia tucked a pillow behind her back. “What do you mean?”
“The newspapers with the latest article have already been printed and distributed. It is too late to prevent that. But what if you were to attack using the same means?”
“You mean write a response?” Olivia sniffed. “I doubt the editor would print it. He made it abundantly clear how much he values my opinion.”
“Because you approached him as yourself.”
Olivia straightened. “Are you proposing…?”
“Yes!” Saffron bounced in her seat. “Take the name of a man and make a rebuttal. I can transcribe for you. Summon a maid to bring us the supplies. I have always wanted to play secretary.”
Olivia was quickly swept up in Saffron’s excitement. The maid who brought her traveling writing desk did not ask why she needed it, but the confused expression on the young girl’s face assured Olivia that her servants would discuss this visit for days to come.
Saffron set the mahogany box on her lap and withdrew a pen and a sheet of parchment. “How should we begin?”
Olivia picked up the glass of brandy she had poured while waiting for the maid. “We follow the cadence of his articles. That way, no one can miss the intent.” She sipped her drink, savored the fruity sweetness and the slight burn down her throat, then set her glass down and began dictating.
Chapter 11
SLANDEROUS RUMORS. Accusations have recently been made about Lady Allen, which have not been substantiated with evidence. A counterargument could therefore be raised that said accuser is a former paramour of said lady, who cannot see her in the arms of another. Why else would he be obsessed with her past? One only need look in a mirror to understand that those who protest too much are confessing the sins they proclaim of others.
There were only so many hours in a day one could read before even that became tiresome.
Olivia slouched into the plush upholstery of a velvet sofa in Thel’s drawing room. The gloomy morning light streamed in through the narrow windows and made the air sparkle with dust. She flipped a page, continuing the story of a romance of peculiar interest involving a murderous barber and an innovative, if disturbed, baker. It was one of her favorite penny dreadfuls, as exciting as it was gruesome, but she could not seem to engage properly.
She had occupied the previous afternoon and evening searching through her correspondence for clues about who might have a reason to want to ruin her reputation. Then she’d spent a restless night alone, remembering how good it had felt to be in Thel’s arms.
It is mere infatuation, nothing more.
Certainly not a reason to be concerned. It had been with Constance in mind that she had arrived at Thel’s home so early that morning, prepared for the awkwardness of facing the girl’s father, only to find he was out on some errand. That wouldn’t have been an issue, except she had received no invitations to events for the day.
During the height of the season. When every venue in the city had been fully booked for months.
She could not decide if it was the articles that had caused society to shun her, or an angry Mrs. Zephyr fanning the flames of gossip as revenge for Olivia agreeing to be a matchmaker for Constance.
Probably both.
But she would not give up so easily. It would take time to earn Constance’s trust enough for the girl to confide in her, and continuing in her role as matchmaker would allow her to establish herself in Constance’s life.
Constance, who had shown no signs of resentment toward her matchmaker despite the ferocity of the attacks that she’d been manipulated to participate in. The girl lounged on a divan with a book, her stockinged feet hanging over the edge in a posture that would have driven a governess to distraction, a lock of hair in her mouth.
