Page 9 of A Stranger’s Kiss

Olivia glanced over at Mrs. Lambert, who sat darning a sock. She was a tall, middle-aged woman with gray-streaked hair pulled into such a severe bun that it made Olivia wince. Did the woman feel no pain? And while she browbeat her hair, so that not a single strand escaped its tight knot, she allowed the five straggly hairs sprouting from a large black mole on her chin to grow wither they willed.

“So, now I am owed two shillings proper.” Mrs. Lambert gathered her darning and rose.

Olivia shook her head to clear her thoughts. “Right away, Mrs. Lambert.”

“I had begun to fret, child.” Mrs. Lambert clucked her reprimand.

“I am sorry, Mrs. Lambert. I didn’t mean to inconvenience you.”

“Oh, it’s no trouble, child.” The woman’s smile set the hairs on her mole jiggling. “Your father is a delight to listen to. He’s talented, that man. Came up with a new song today. It’s lovely, so very lovely.”

Olivia smiled proudly. “I’ll just hurry and fetch your coins, Mrs. Lambert.” She picked up an unused candle from the top of the piano and lit the wick from the beeswax pillar.

“Will you need me in the morning?” Mrs. Lambert asked.

She nearly said no, then suddenly remembered Deborah’s plea. “Yes, if you can. I do need to visit my cousin in the morning. I shan’t be long.”

“Then I will be here, straight after breakfast, love.”

Olivia smiled. The woman might look like a gargoyle come to life, but Olivia had yet to meet a kinder soul.

The candle spat and guttered as Olivia hurried down the hall and into the print room. She lit the lamp, blew out the candle, and checked the shutters. Thankfully, they were closed and, although several slates were missing, the gaps were too small for a cat to slip through. Still, she glanced over the long, narrow counters and shelves lining the walls for Mr. Peppers, just in case. Either the cat wasn’t there, or he’d disguised himself amidst the paper, type, and ink pots to watch her through evil eyes, waiting for her to leave before he wreaked havoc with the music.

A quick glance at the drying sheets of music revealed them to be arranged in slovenly rows and with several corners bent. She scowled. William took the lazy route with each task. Quickly, she straightened the pages, relieved to see crisp clean lines and staves with nary a cat pawprint in sight. She’d have William start on the bindings on the morrow—provided she didn’t finish them before he arrived.

She squeezed past the large printing press in the center of the room and, with one last glance to assure she was alone, sank on her knees and reached for the loose floorboard. After several tugs, she dislodged it enough to reach into the hole and fish out the flat wooden box she’d wedged there.

Everything of importance in her life lay inside the box, from Louisa’s contracts to her mother’s locket, down to the very last coin she possessed—including the bent one. She opened the lid. Louisa’s contracts lay folded on top. She winced, not wanting to think of Louisa anymore that night, and quickly set them aside. She picked up the small bag that contained her mother’s locket and touched the green velvet to her lips. Even after almost four years, she had yet to look at the thing. The small money pouch lay at the bottom of the box. Each month, it felt lighter.

“No matter,” she muttered. “Soon, you will be so plump, you will not fit.” She snorted. If only that could be true.

Quickly, she untied the bag and shook a few shillings. The old, bent coin bounced off her fingers and onto the floor. She picked it up and dropped it into the bag. She’d vowed never to spend it until she had no choice, the last coin to stand between her and the streets.

Because Mrs. Lambert fretted over the authenticity of her coins, Olivia selected the two shiniest, then returned the box and its contents to its hiding place. After one last slam of her fist to assure the floorboard safely back in place, she stood.

A short time later, with Mrs. Lambert safely paid and sent home, and her father tucked into bed, she returned to the print room and began the tedious task of setting type.

It wasn’t until the midnight hour chimed on the clock that she remembered the gray-eyed stranger in Lady Blair’s garden. For a moment, she closed her eyes and relived his startling kiss in each glorious detail. Olivia grimaced, then she rolled her eyes.

The man was obviously a rake. The most handsome, charismatic men always were.