Lady Allen straightened. “An excellent question. You must have evening gowns, of course, and at least one costume. Several afternoon dresses…”
He leaned back, stunned by the strength of emotion he’d felt. There was something about Lady Allen that reminded him so much of Marguerite. Not the cool, confident woman she portrayed to society, but the woman whose face had softened when his nieces and nephews had tugged at her skirt. It made him wonder why she had never had children of her own. She had certainly been married long enough, although to a much older man.
As he crossed his legs, something jabbed him in the thigh. He reached behind a cushion and withdrew a crumpled sheet of vellum. When he unfolded it and saw it was addressed to Constance, his first instinct was to place it back where he had found it. Then he skimmed a line that made him go cold.
He slipped the paper into his pocket and took his leave of the room. When he was back in his office, with the door locked, he spread the letter onto his desk and read it from the beginning. His stomach dropped with each word, and by the time he’d reached the end, his suspicions were confirmed.
He did not need to search out the person attacking Lady Allen in the newspaper because the source of the articles was living under his roof.
It was his own daughter.
Chapter 5
Dear Lord Lowell,
I must request an additional two hundred pounds to publish the article that you requested. If you do not respond, I believe Lady Allen would be amenable to a deal regarding your identity. I await your correspondence via the usual method.
Sincerely, Mr. Ainsley
Olivia sat inside the rocking carriage across from Constance and thanked God for her luck. The girl was bright, charming, and well-educated. Her family’s wealth alone would attract a horde of suitors. She need only to guide the girl through encounters with suitable men and let youthful passion take hold.
If only Constance’s father were so easy to manage.
Some of his actions had obvious intent, the smoldering looks, the gentle brush of his fingers along her back, the quirk of an eyebrow in response to a suggestive comment. She kept waiting for the bastard to pull her into a room and proposition her, but it never happened.
Perhaps that was for the best. Physical attraction aside, she doubted she could put aside her anger for long enough to appease whatever vile desires he possessed.
What she should have done was extract a promise that he would retract the statements in the articles when Constance was wed. But every time they were alone, she mooned over him like a girl in her first season. That could not continue. When she didnot treat him as a threat, it was too easy to let down her guard and simply become Olivia.
Distractible, disastrous Olivia, who’d yearned for motherhood and had chosen a husband based on the fleeting whims of her heart rather than sense.
She wished she could go back and scream at that innocent girl to run as fast as she could.
The sound of the carriage rattling to a stop pulled her out of her thoughts.
Constance jerked her head around. “Have we arrived already?”
“Should I ask the driver to circle the block until you are ready?”
Constance flushed but was spared having to respond by their driver opening the door.
The thump of horse hooves on well-packed earth surrounded them, accompanied by the occasional whinny. Street urchins in brown caps darted through the crowd, offering newspapers for sale while slipping their small hands into the pockets of the unwary.
Olivia hustled her charge toward a windowless, brick building nestled between a milliner’s and a general shop. She opened the door, and they stepped into a room that was filled with bolts of colored fabric stacked in cubbies along the walls from floor to ceiling. Dress forms wearing half-completed gowns hung from the ceiling above long tables like ghosts.
Constance flitted around the shop, exclaiming her pleasure in soft gasps and sighs. Olivia waited for her to settle and then joined her beside a section of floral prints.
“This is so lovely,” Constance said, touching the frayed edge of a length of bronze muslin.
Olivia held it up. “What would you pair it with?”
“Cream or black,” Constance said. She walked over to another row and tapped a gray paisley silk. “This one for the overskirt, the other for the gown. Trimmed in black or silver lace.”
Olivia pictured the dress in her mind and nodded. “You have an excellent eye for fashion.”
Constance grinned. “Aunt Celina says that, too. I sometimes help her choose her attire for events. She is fond of gold chiffon and Chantilly lace.”
Olivia wondered what it must have been like growing up in a house full of love and life, where there was always a family member or caring servant to carry a sleepy child to bed and the dinner table was crowded with plates. Her early years had been desolate by comparison. There had been occasional events that had drawn them into the village, and a string of strict governesses, but otherwise, she’d occupied her childhood alone.
