True Story (The Deverells, Book One) (5 page)

"She's here already?" True shoved a
mess of papers aside to look at his ledger and check the date—
something he never could find these days.

"It is the thirty first,
sir."

"Then she's bloody prompt."

"Indeed, sir."

"What did she do, fly here with her
own little wings?" he marveled with a low chuckle.

Sims looked sorrowful. "The lady
assures me she is always punctual, sir. And I suspect she is, in
the same way that indigestion is prompt after bad
oysters."

"You took a dislike to her
already?"

"I'm not entirely certain what I took.
I shall let you see for yourself, sir."

He leaned back in his chair. "I'm
intrigued. Where did you put her?"

"Currently she is in the kitchen, and
I will prepare a bed in the old nanny's room if that is acceptable,
sir. She'll be out of the way there. Unless... of course... you
would prefer a room in your wing? Perhaps, for your purposes, that
might be more suitable?"

True smirked, quietly amused by his
butler's continuing curiosity about the new arrival's role there.
"I'm sure the arrangements you've made will be adequate, Sims. I
wouldn't want to put you to any further trouble." He held out his
empty brandy glass for a refill, and the butler turned away to
reach for the decanter.

But when the old fellow's white-gloved
hand picked up the sherry instead of the brandy, True knew his
faithful Sims was definitely in a perturbed state of mind.
Muttering something low to himself, shaking his grey head, the
butler replaced the sherry and hurriedly took up the correct
decanter, making the stopper rattle, crystal chinking against
crystal and setting True's teeth on edge.

Sims didn't generally do a lot of
hurrying and he didn't make mistakes.

The quiet, still evening suddenly took
on a new air. The spirits of the house were playful tonight, as
they hadn't been for a while. Stirred up, one might call
it.

"What's she like then?" True demanded
of the butler, his interest piqued.

Sims considered for a moment and then
said, "Small, but...sturdy."

"Is that the best you can
do?"

The butler poured both the brandy and
his words with equal caution. "The woman is much as promised in Mr.
Chalke's letter. Mostly."

"Excellent." True had specified that
she be plain and have a neat hand.

"She asked to see you, sir, but I told
her you would not want her until the morning." Sims had half turned
toward the door, but now he hesitated, hovering.

"What else?" True demanded. "Something
wrong?"

"I must say, she seems a
trifle...opinionated."

"Opinionated?" That certainly wasn't
one of his requirements. She'd better not be trouble. He didn't
want any distractions while he worked on his memoirs, as he'd
explained when he wrote to his solicitor in London, asking him to
find a secretary. Of course, he could have hired a man and removed
any chance of such distraction. Abraham Chalke, however, had highly
recommended this woman— the daughter of an old friend— and sworn to
her absolute trustworthiness. At first, True wasn't certain about
the idea of a parson's widow. She may be too prudish for the story
he had to tell, but Chalke had insisted she was the best he could
get, and the only one willing to leave their life behind for six
months.

The solicitor had also mentioned Mrs.
Monday's difficult financial circumstances, and True was glad the
fee would go to somebody who really needed it. Remembering his own
humble start in life, he liked to give a hand up whenever he could,
to those deserving and in difficulties.

"She boldly expressed her approval of
the former wife's retaliation against your portrait in the hall,
sir," Sims complained. "The woman also appeared annoyed that you
would not see her at once. As if she was entitled to an audience on
demand. But I set her straight and she will soon learn her
place."

"Very good. Thank you,
Sims."

True had not bathed or changed since
his ride along the beach at sunset and he was in no fit state to
greet a female guest. He hadn't even shaved that day. A properly
raised lady would be appalled by the sight of his scruffy cheek,
untucked shirt and grimy riding breeches.

But when the butler left the library,
True was seized by a sudden idea. Perhaps it was the fault of Sims'
strange behavior and those mischievous spirits he felt in the air,
but he was very eager to get a look at the new woman in his house,
this "opinionated" parson's widow from the tame, leafy lanes of
peaceful Chiswick.

Time for a bit of fun. It was overdue,
actually.

He removed his corduroy riding jacket,
rolled up his sleeves, ruffled his hair into an even worse state,
and went in search of his new employee.

The old dear would be shocked
regularly anyway, he mused, once he began dictating his colorful
life story. True wasn't about to begin being bashful and polite.
May as well toss her in at the deep end and start as he meant to go
on. If she sank, he'd bundle her off back to Chiswick tomorrow. If
she swam, then he'd know she was right for the post.

* * * *

Olivia had put together a small plate
of cold food for herself and sat at the kitchen table alone to eat
by the light of the fire and a solitary oil lamp.

"Jameson, the handyman, will be in
shortly, as soon as he's carried your trunk up to the room," the
butler had muttered. "Be advised that he only takes orders from
myself or Mr. Deverell directly. He's not here to do your bidding.
And you'll have to unpack your own trunk. There are no maids about
the place. Don't expect to be pampered. Until recently Mr. Deverell
spent most of his time in London, so this house has never been
fully staffed."

"Worry not, for I have no such
expectation. I've never been pampered in my life and at my age I
sincerely doubt anyone is going to start for me. Thank
goodness."

He'd left her alone then, after
another stern glance and a stiff jerk of his head.

The only sign of a cook was the food
left in the pantry, but perhaps they only came to the island during
daylight hours and did not care to be stuck here when the tide was
in. Understandably. She could guess this house was not a place one
stayed in for long, unless one had a great desire for isolation. Or
the need to hide away like a hunted criminal, as Inspector O'Grady
would no doubt point out. She frowned at her plate, as he crept
into her thoughts again. That odious fellow was like a bulldog with
a juicy bone and if he expected Olivia to sit around waiting while
he tried to build a case against her, he was very much
mistaken.

Assessing her surroundings with a
quick eye, it occurred to her that there was no evidence of
children about the place, although Deverell was the father of six—
seven, if the rumors involving paternity of the mute boy he'd
adopted several years ago were ever confirmed. She'd heard that his
former wife now resided in Edinburgh, although the lady had enjoyed
a separate life away from her husband for a long time before they
were finally divorced.

It was a terrible scandal, of course.
Slow and expensive to achieve, divorce was seldom attempted. Women
had no choice in the matter; they had no legal identity separate
from their husbands, and so if any suit was brought it had to be
initiated by the man. Olivia had some knowledge of the
complications involved, since her father was once a principal
partner in the law firm of Chalke, Westcott and Chalke. She had
taken great interest in her father's work and helped him with
correspondence when his eyes were very bad and his hand trembled
too much to hold a pen. With Olivia at his side, he had worked up
to the very day he died. Therefore she knew a vast deal about the
law, including the difficulties of divorce, which was a costly
enterprise— and not merely in the financial sense. It also ruined
the reputation of everyone it touched.

If they had a reputation worth saving
in the first place, which True Deverell did not.

"Livy, you wretched thing," her
stepbrother, Christopher, had exclaimed, "you cannot consider
living under the same roof as a man like that for six months. What
will folk think?"

She had replied, "I must go where I am
needed. Besides all his children will be there and, no doubt, many
other people too. He is a busy man with a very full life." And, as
she might have reminded her stepbrother in his own words, True
Deverell would never look twice at a girl like her, so she ought to
be safe.

"But you are needed
here,"
he'd
argued.

"I'm quite sure you can manage without
me." After all, sometimes he didn't even know she was in the same
room.

"You are only just out of full
mourning. Again. Your reputation—"

"Considering what happens to most
other men in my life," she pointed out, "Mr. Deverell has more
cause to distrust my company than I do to fear his."

On his way out to a fitting with a
fashionable tailor whose services he couldn't really afford,
Christopher did not stay to worry long about his thrice-widowed
stepsister's reputation. "It is impossible to quarrel with such a
headstrong woman. I might as soon blow into the wind. You have
chosen to enter a den of iniquity, Livy. Since Chalke is aiding and
abetting you in this improper, foolhardy idea, for reasons known
only to him, I suppose I must tell everyone that you've gone into
the country to recuperate from some illness."

She couldn't imagine who this
"everyone" might be, for she sincerely doubted she'd be much
missed. Besides, she had tried the ideas and pursuits considered
proper for a young lady and look what happened. Good men
died.

Now she sat alone in the large kitchen
of Roscarrock Castle— the den of supposed iniquity— and realized
she couldn't hear another soul anywhere in the house. So much for
all those other people she'd expected to find surrounding her new
employer. From the surly butler's description, it seemed as if the
notorious fellow had become something of a recluse living on this
island.

She thought how desperate Mr.
Deverell's wife must have been to get away, since she allowed her
husband to accuse her of adultery and thereby risked the whole of
grand society snubbing her for the remainder of her days. And while
that lady had theoretically chewed her own elegant foot off to
escape, she, Olivia Monday, had put herself voluntarily into this
eccentric fellow's company.

Mad as a March hare– she had to be,
just as her stepbrother had proclaimed.

Glancing upward to the
shining rows of copper pots and fragrant bunches of dried herbs
hanging overhead, she muttered wryly to herself, "I don't suppose
the fashionable Lady Charlotte ever spent much time in this
kitchen." Of course, as the daughter of an earl, Mr. Deverell's
wife kept her title when she eloped to marry her commoner husband.
Indeed, that title and her famous beauty were just about the only
things she
had
kept when she married, since her outraged father couldn't
take them away from her.

While Olivia pondered the odd,
impulsive choices women— herself included— sometimes made when
selecting their future mate, a tall, untidy fellow lurched into the
kitchen, holding an oil lamp in one hand and a riding crop in the
other, apparently prepared to chase off intruders.

He stopped sharply when he saw her.
With eyes of a brilliant metallic shade that Olivia had never
before observed on a human being, he stared fiercely across the
kitchen. His big hand swung the lamp up high with what she
considered reckless disregard for fire safety. "There you are then,
woman," he snapped. "Talking to yourself, eh? I see you sniffed out
the food already."

Must be another servant, according to
his attire and generally scruffy appearance. Ah, yes, the handyman
about whom she'd been warned. She could see he must be very "handy"
indeed, for the size of him almost filled the doorframe and the
sleeves of his shirt were rolled back, revealing broad, strong
forearms.

"Mr. Jameson?" She got up to be
polite, even though manners appeared entirely absent in that house.
"Mrs. Olivia Monday. Pleased to make your acquaintance."

He glowered at her, every bit as
angry, disappointed and appalled, as if she'd just spat at him and
slapped his face. Perhaps, having heard about the dead men she left
in her wake, he'd expected a ravishing woman reminiscent of Nell
Gwynn, complete with a magnificent bosom and cherry red lips. He
wouldn't be the first man to be disappointed at the sight of her
face and she had no idea what Mr. Chalke had told these people
about her.

"I was enjoying a light supper before
I went up to bed," she said. "Don't mind me. I won't bother
anybody. I daresay, after a little while you'll forget I'm even
here. Most people do." Olivia sat to finish her meal. "As you see I
don't take up much room, I only require feeding when hungry, and
let me assure you the butler has already informed me that I won't
be pampered here. Although why he thought that announcement
necessary in light of the delightfully warm welcome I've received,
I really cannot say."