Chapter Twenty
“Olivia, my dear! This is a most unexpected pleasure!”
Olivia allowed Peter Fitzgerald to take her hands and kiss her on each cheek in the continental manner.
“What brings you to town this morning?”
She offered a smile and held up her shopping – a sketchbook and a tin of pencils. And prepared to tell her untruth.
“I thought I’d occupy my time this summer by writing a history of Kenstec House,” she said, making the well-practiced lie sound as natural as she could. “The new owner might be interested in it or, if not, Reverend Fuller from the church at Ponsnowyth might accept it as a gift. In fact, I’m going to see him tomorrow to see how far back I can trace mentions of the Denton family in the parish records.”
“That sounds like an admirable project.” Fitzgerald released her hands and returned to his desk.
“I was hoping to ask a favor of you.”
When he raised his eyes to hers once again, she offered him an uncertain smile.
“Anything in my power to grant you, my dear,” he said. “If it would make you feel even more kindly disposed toward me.”
She forced herself to brighten her smile. Everything she knew about playing the coquette was learned by watching Lydia Denton and her friends. So far, it seemed to be working.
“Your law firm is one of the oldest in Truro, is it not?”
Fitzgerald all but preened himself with pride. “The founding partner had the honor of serving King Charles II during the Civil War.”
“Then there would be records of Kenstec here, would there not?”
“I imagine so, but I’d only have a limited number. As you can imagine, record keeping in years gone by was not as diligent as it is today.”
She struggled to keep the disappointment from her face. Apparently, she was not successful.
“My dear, cheer yourself,” he said. “My clerk had to prepare documentation before the house could be listed for sale – perhaps what you seek is in there.”
His words were enough to ignite a flicker of a hope in her breast.
“May I? That is, could I be allowed to see them? I don’t wish to pry into the Dentons’ affairs but anything about the house…” Olivia watched Fitzgerald’s expression carefully to make sure she didn’t overstep some boundary of propriety, but she needn’t have worried – a bright smile spread across his face, making him look much younger than his fifty years.
Indeed, Peter Fitzgerald might even be called handsome, but there was nothing that stirred within her for him, not as it did when Adam looked at her.
“It is a wish I’m delighted to grant, and will gladly admit it is for a selfish reason. I get to spend more time with you.”
Heat filled her cheeks, which gave the man the wrong impression entirely, and her conscience scolded her. She shoved that still small voice down as far as she could.
Fitzgerald picked up a pair of pince-nez and looked at her expectantly.
“However, as much as I’d love to spend the day with you, my dear, I do have business I need to attend to.”
He indicated the papers before him.
Olivia shook her head to clear it. “Oh, yes, of course, forgive me.”
He gave a short nod, and his expression settled back into that of the aloof solicitor.
“I’ll have Foskett search the records and uncover everything we have,” he said, brisk and businesslike. “I’ll even ask him to make inquiries to examine the old ecclesiastical records if you like. Those records we have here can be ready for you after lunch; the ones archived at St Mary’s may take a few weeks.”
With the matter apparently settled in his mind, he put on his spectacles and started examining the documents before him.
“You’re very kind, Peter.”
Olivia wondered whether he even heard her. She quietly left his office and nodded to his clerk, a thin and smartly dressed young man, his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows in deference to the warm summer morning.
By the time she had emerged from the Lemon Mews arcade, Olivia felt as though she had passed some kind of test. If she played her cards right, she would be able to find out for certain whether Christopher Hardacre had any claim on the Denton estate.
If he lived.
She made her way across the township toward the post office with the letter to the superintendent at The Foundling Hospital. All of her research would be for naught if she couldn’t find out what happened to the boy.
Olivia was so caught up in her musings that she didn’t see the phaeton until the driver called down to her.
“Excuse me, Miss. Are we on the right road to Kenwyn Hill?
She looked up at the two well-to-do women, mother and daughter, she presumed. The older woman held the reins in black-gloved hands. She cut a trim figure in a very fashionable riding habit of vivid blue with gold braid and frogging across the breast. A pert black hat with a tall crown and narrow brim was perched on a coiffed riot of silvery white-blonde curls.
The girl was about the same age as Lydia Denton, her old charge, and wore a less elaborate but still fetching habit of blue-green. With light brown hair and brown eyes, she did not look like her mother. Perhaps she took after her father.
Olivia bobbed a curtsy. “Not quite, Madam, the name of Kenwyn Street is misleading. You will need to go back and onto King’s Street and follow the road past the post office. In fact, I was on my way there to post a letter.”
“Isn’t that fortunate, Marie?”
“Oui, Maman,” she answered with a faintly amused smile.
“Then, you must ride with us,” the older woman said. “Move closer to me, Marie, so there is plenty of room for Miss…”
Olivia bobbed again and reached for the step to draw herself up into the high seat. “Olivia Collins, ma’am. And I beg forgive me, but who do I have the honor of addressing?”
“I am Lady Abigail Ridgeway, and this is my daughter, Marie.”
“I am honored, ma’am.”
Olivia barely had the words out before the lady snapped the reins and set the two handsome, matched chestnut horses into a smart canter. The phaeton barely slowed as it rounded the corner onto King Street. Olivia clung on to the rail with one hand and held the other to her straw hat to keep it from flying off.
In half a mile, they had reached the post office. Lady Ridgeway brought the horses to a stop.
“I’m very much obliged to you, Miss Collins,” the woman said crisply.
Olivia took that as a dismissal. She lowered herself down onto a mounting block and stepped back down onto the pavement.
“And one more imposition,” said Lady Ridgeway, reaching for a leather satchel beneath her seat. “Be a dear and post this letter to London for me.”
The woman passed it to Marie, who then passed it down to Olivia who glanced at it. It was addressed to an Aunt Priscilla who apparently lived somewhere in Mayfair. Olivia also felt the weight of two guineas pressed down into her hand.
“My Lady, you’ve given me too much!”
“Nonsense! You’ve saved Marie from climbing down and there’s enough for your letter there, too.”
And with another sharp snap of the reins, Lady Ridgeway’s phaeton took off up King Street toward Kenwyn Hill.
Olivia watched them leave and shook her head. Lady Ridgeway was probably one of the “fast set” in her youth, she suspected.
*
Another letter reached Adam in Plymouth. This time delivered to his place of work by post.
Adam found Admiral John Staerk’s office empty and closed the door behind him so he could read the letter in private.
We have received your message and The Collector is anxious to meet at your earliest convenience. Be sure to have the goods ready for inspection this Sunday. There will be a letter waiting for you at Truro Post Office with further instructions.
– W
Adam swallowed back a curse – then helped himself to a cigar from the rosewood box on Staerk’s desk.
He moved to the fireplace to retrieve a tall twist of paper from the vase on the mantel. Making quick work with the fire steel, the spill ignited. He lit the cigar then touched the lit paper to the letter in his hand, making sure it was well alight before tossing it into the fireplace.
Adam drew deep, then exhaled out into the room, using the smoke from the cigar to mask the burning missive.
Bassett was not going to be happy.
Hell, he wasn’t happy.
That bastard Wilkinson – or whoever was pulling his strings – had brought forward the meeting by another five days.
And Adam wasn’t expected to leave Plymouth for Truro for another two days. That meant if he left at first light on Saturday morning, he might just be able to make it back to Truro before the post office closed at eight o’clock in the evening.
If he was lucky.
Otherwise, he’d have to wait until Sunday morning when the office opened at eight in the morning for a couple of hours – and that would leave him no time to collect the Artemis warship plans from Bassett and consult with Lord Ridgeway.
The door opened. Staerk walked in and started at seeing him by the fireplace. Adam kept his expression neutral as the spry elderly gentleman looked at him, then at his humidor, and then back to him.
The old admiral’s lips thinned with displeasure, but he said nothing. Adam had to admire the man’s restraint. Whatever hold or incentive Lord Ridgeway exercised over the man, it must be considerable.
Adam took one last pull from the cigar, threw it in the fire, and strolled to the door as though he owned the place.
Staerk finally showed emotion as they passed, shoulder-to-shoulder, in the doorway.
“The next time you see Sir Daniel,” Staerk ground out, “you may pass on my compliments to his wife.”
Adam made sure he was well away from the architect’s building before he allowed himself the laughter that had been bubbling in his gut ever since he left the office.
Compliments to Ridgeway’s wife, indeed!
He shook his head, reminding himself never to underestimate women. Lady Abigail in particular.
And yet, as handsome – and hypnotic – as she was, in Adam’s own mind she was no comparison to Olivia.
He recalled the promise extracted from him and found himself chewing over the same dilemma. Every evening this week, he had gone to bed with a vow to break his bargain, but every morning he woke up with his resolve diminished. The logic was compelling – he wanted her as much she wanted him.
The crude words he had used to shock her had the unintended consequence of rebounding on him. The thought of Fitzgerald bedding Olivia turned his stomach. The only way to avoid that was to give Olivia a reason to refuse the lawyer – and Adam was sure the only one she would accept was marriage.
Marriage…he’d vowed years ago to avoid that state until he had attained his commission and could afford to keep a wife properly. The idea of it had never occurred to him again until the night of the dance.
Perhaps he had been too hasty in dismissing the idea of an involvement. The Ridgeways made it work – marriage and this shadow world of spying. Why couldn’t he and Olivia?
Damn it. He loved her. And there – now he’d actually articulated it in his mind.
Adam lengthened his stride once he had crossed the street onto the expanse of parklands overlooking the sea that the locals of Plymouth called the Hoe. Before him, still several hundred yards away, was the Royal Citadel – a fort founded by Sir Francis Drake on behalf of his queen and home to the garrison that protected this shipbuilding town.
He could see the wooden structure that stood much higher than the walls. The semaphore arms stretched out like a headless scarecrow. Adam would use it to send a coded message to Ridgeway – perhaps they could identify the man who was to deliver his next instructions.
In his mind’s eye, he could see the signal book. Adam rehearsed the code over and over again in his head.
The soldier at the guardhouse greeted his arrival with suspicion bordering on hostility.
“State your business,” he demanded through the grate.
“I am on a mission of great urgency. I have a message for General Campbell from Aunt Runella.”
The young man made the mistake of laughing.
Adam returned an implacable stare.
He had perfected the steely-edged voice of command long ago and it was good to finally use it with true authority.
“Now, soldier!”
The snap to attention was almost audible. The guard disappeared and returned a few minutes later with a mustachioed sergeant who looked less than impressed.
“The general wants to know who’s delivering the message.”
Adam drew a deep breath. “Aunt Hilda.”
The sergeant’s hair-covered mouth twitched. Adam gritted his teeth and waited for the refusal. But the man had the uncommon good sense to keep his laughter behind that tea-strainer mustache. He nodded to the guard. A moment later, Adam was admitted.
Damn Ridgeway and his stupid code names!