In the Company of Secrets (7 page)

Olivia clutched the newel-post for support. ‘‘And she has no doubt reported the items stolen?’’

‘‘I imagine Father would take care of that. Mother wouldn’t—’’

‘‘Oh, forevermore, Charlotte! I don’t care which one of them might have gone to the authorities. I’m concerned with the fact that they would believe the jewelry has been stolen.’’

Charlotte nonchalantly bobbed her head. ‘‘I would surmise they think of the missing jewelry as stolen rather than my claim to an early inheritance.’’

Olivia nibbled at her lower lip as she sought to unscramble the frightening news. ‘‘When you instructed me to go and sell the items, you specifically told me they belonged to you. If the authorities locate the shop where I sold the jewels, the owner is bound to give my description. I’ll be considered a thief!’’

‘‘Do cease all this fretting. The authorities are not going to travel from London searching for you. Eventually Mother will give up on finding the items and will simply purchase new ones.’’ A faraway look glistened in Charlotte’s eyes. ‘‘I do wish I could be there to help her choose.’’

The remark was so totally ludicrous Olivia didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. How could the woman even think such a ridiculous thought? ‘‘Forgive me if I don’t lament with you, Lady Charlotte.’’

‘‘No need to be derisive.’’ Charlotte tilted her head and looked down her nose. ‘‘I thought we were getting on rather nicely, and I was beginning to consider you a confidante. In the future, I’ll keep my thoughts to myself. Just remember—you need me.’’

Olivia clenched her hands together and forced a grim smile. ‘‘And I hope you will remember that you are in need of
my
assistance, your ladyship.’’

Charlotte’s hand rested on her bulging midsection. ‘‘Well, then, we need each other, don’t we?’’ Waving Olivia forward as though not a cross word had been exchanged, Charlotte headed up the stairs. ‘‘Come along. Let’s begin memorizing that story of yours.’’

Olivia balanced the tablet of paper on her perched knees while she delineated the items that must be committed to memory. After completing the list, she tucked the pencil behind one ear. ‘‘I do wish I had told Mr. Howard I met you on the ship. Now he’s going to expect me to know about your previous life, and so will everyone else we meet. And that means we’ll have to memorize more lies.’’ She sighed at the remembrance of Aunt Eleanor’s admonition.

Seemingly undeterred, Charlotte pointed to Olivia’s ear. ‘‘Please remove that pencil from behind your ear. It is most unladylike and, even more, unfashionable, I might add.’’ She tapped the writing tablet. ‘‘If you’re uneasy about anything, let’s decide right now. You can annotate the story of my life on our list, and we’ll memorize it along with everything else.’’

For the next half hour, they were storytellers. After one of them suggested an idea, the other would embellish or correct it until they were both satisfied and ready to begin the next thread. Each piece of Charlotte’s recently created life history was added to the page when they were both in agreement.

Cupping her chin in her palm, Charlotte balanced her elbow on one knee. ‘‘Read it to me one last time so I’m sure to remember.’’

‘‘You’ll have all day tomorrow to memorize—’’ Startled by a loud knock at the door, Olivia mashed her lips together. Who could be calling on them? Not giving heed to the time, she jumped to her feet, filled with an expectant joy. ‘‘Perhaps it’s Albert.’’ Her eager smile disappeared when she rushed downstairs and yanked open the door.

The glint in Mr. Howard’s eyes faded. ‘‘You were expecting someone else?’’

Olivia couldn’t tell if Mr. Howard was disillusioned, angry, or merely perplexed by her lack of enthusiasm at his arrival. ‘‘I thought perhaps it was my cousin.’’

‘‘Why, how would he know you’ve even arrived in town?’’ Mr. Howard pulled his pocket watch from his waistcoat and then shook his head. ‘‘In addition, it’s only two forty-five. I thought I mentioned Albert doesn’t finish his workday until five-thirty.’’ Without waiting for an introduction, he peered around Olivia. ‘‘I’m Samuel Howard, the company agent. And you must be Miss Mott’s friend.’’

Olivia’s throat constricted. Would Charlotte act like a grieving merchant’s widow instead of the flirtatious daughter of English nobility? Olivia sent a prayer winging toward heaven but quickly recanted. Had she actually thought God wanted to help his children promote lies and deceit? She shuddered at her own irreverence and silently requested forgiveness.

CHAPTER FIVE

Olivia wedged herself in the doorway and stared at Mr. Howard. Words failed her. She silently chastised herself. With all their scheming, how had they overlooked selecting a proper name for her ladyship? Mr. Howard raised his brows. ‘‘Yes, this is my friend.’’ She hesitated. ‘‘La—Char—Mrs. Horn . . . Hornsby. My friend Mrs. Hornsby—
Widow
Hornsby.’’ Olivia raised her voice by at least an octave and hoped Charlotte would heed her prompting.

When she continued to block the doorway, Mr. Howard stared at her as though she’d lost all sense of propriety. She had no choice but to step aside and permit him entry. The moment he crossed the threshold, Charlotte jumped to her feet. Olivia glared, but to no avail. The woman batted her lashes and coyly smiled at Mr. Howard while she explained their dire need of furniture and household goods.

Drastic measures would be needed to gain control of her ladyship’s behavior. Olivia moved to Charlotte’s side and covertly pinched her arm. When Charlotte squealed in pain, Olivia hastened to allay Mr. Howard’s obvious concern. ‘‘She’s fine—merely a stitch. From time to time Charlotte, Mrs. Hornsby, is overcome with an occasional pain that quickly subsides.’’ Olivia directed a warning look at her ladyship. ‘‘The doctor in London remained uncertain if the bouts are caused by her present condition or her profound
grief
.’’ She virtually hissed the final word.

Sympathy emanated from Mr. Howard’s eyes as he pushed the wave of hair from his forehead. ‘‘You poor woman. So young to have suffered such tragedy. I do admire your bravery—setting sail and coming to a new country so soon after your loss.’’ He briefly glanced at Charlotte’s expanding waistline. ‘‘And in your present condition.’’

Olivia heaved a sigh of relief when she saw recognition spark in Charlotte’s eyes and the smile fade from her lips.
Finally!

‘‘I attempt to do my best under the circumstances. Even Olivia can attest to the fact that I force myself to feign cheerfulness. In reality, my grief appears to make those around me uncomfortable. And far be it from me to cause others discomfort.’’

Olivia glanced heavenward at Charlotte’s final remark. ‘‘Mrs. Hornsby finds questions about her husband’s death most distressing.’’

Charlotte bobbed her head up and down. ‘‘Indeed. I find such inquiries intrusive and disquieting—
and
a breach of proper etiquette.’’

Clasping a hand to his chest, Mr. Howard offered a sympathetic nod. ‘‘I
do
understand. Perhaps Miss Mott mentioned that I lost my wife to a terrible bout of pneumonia?’’

Olivia gulped. ‘‘No! I didn’t share your personal information with Mrs. Hornsby.’’ Apparently Mr. Howard was grieved by her oversight, for all evidence of his earlier smile vanished. Suddenly, Olivia felt required to absolve herself. ‘‘I try to avoid any talk of death with Mrs. Hornsby.’’ She leaned a tad closer and lowered her voice. ‘‘Upsetting.’’

Her explanation seemed to appease him.

‘‘Yes, of course.’’ He glanced about the house. ‘‘Now, then, I must do something to aid you in locating furniture for this place. Without a proper bed to sleep in, I can’t expect our new chef ’s assistant to arrive prepared for work in the morning, can I?’’

Olivia didn’t know if he expected an answer, but she needn’t have worried. Charlotte immediately seized upon the moment and soon parlayed their situation into a promise of furniture before nightfall. Mr. Howard departed with a purposeful stride, clearly pleased he had come to the aid of two damsels in distress—as Charlotte fancifully described their situation.

Olivia had cringed at the woman’s behavior. Charlotte had used every advantage in her portrayal of a grieving widow. Indeed, she’d taken the role to new heights. Olivia wondered if Charlotte possessed even a smidgen of decency. Was this considered normal conduct for members of the aristocracy or simply a reflection of her ladyship’s ever-indulgent behavior? She wondered if Ludie was pleased to be free of her duties as Charlotte’s lady-in-waiting. Had the maid been assigned a new position or instructed to simply await Charlotte’s return? Olivia hoped it was the latter. After caring for Charlotte all these years, Ludie deserved a good long rest.

Olivia climbed the stairs, anxious to be alone for a few moments. Though her bedroom was the smaller of the two, a narrow bench seat had been fitted beneath the double windows, a feature that pleased her. The men had placed her baggage along the north wall, and she hefted the smaller valise onto the bench. Surprised by a sudden urge to connect with her sparse memories, Olivia unclasped the leather strap and dug inside the suitcase. A euphoric sigh escaped her lips when she touched the smooth wood of the rectangular box. Clutching the keepsake recipe box, she lifted it from the bag and pressed the cool wood to her cheek. A poor substitute for a mother’s love, yet, along with her mother’s Bible, the only reminders she had ever known.

Aunt Eleanor had always said she was much like her mother, but Olivia couldn’t be certain. Her father had never confirmed such facts, but then she’d seen little of him. He’d taken to drinking after her mother died—at least that’s what she’d been told. She’d been only two years old and had few memories of him, though he hadn’t died until shortly before her fifteenth birthday.

Lifting the lid, she removed the recipe located at the front of the box. Sunday Scones. Aunt Eleanor said they had been her mother’s favorite. Olivia traced her finger across the exacting script that listed each ingredient as well as the mixing and baking instructions. If only she could step into Aunt Eleanor’s kitchen and mix a batch of the current-laden pastries right now. Instead, she’d been forced into this horrid predicament, wherein she must carefully weigh every word she spoke. Not only did she fear a slipup each time she spoke, she dreaded failure in her position at the hotel. More frightening, what if she should be accused of theft by her former employer? And, of course, the forged letter of recommendation could not be forgotten. Her future hung in a delicate balance. All because of Charlotte!

And what of you? Do you have no responsibility in this maze
of deceit and lies?
The quiet voice pricked her conscience. Hoping to silence the condemnation, she jumped to her feet. A walk to the Arcade might prove to be just what she needed. Once she began work in the morning, she’d have few opportunities to leisurely browse in the various shops. Retrieving her mother’s recipe from the box, she tucked the paper into her pocket. Perhaps she would purchase the ingredients to bake scones.

She grabbed her cloak from the bench and watched as the writing tablet dropped to the floor with a thud. She couldn’t leave the list in plain sight. There was no way of knowing who might pass through the house delivering furniture. She ripped the pages from the tablet and folded them into a neat rectangle. She stared out the window. Where could she hide them? Suddenly she knew exactly where the list would be safe. She picked up the wooden recipe box and shoved the list inside. With a quick snap, she closed the lid and headed toward the stairway.

Charlotte remained perched on the step where Olivia had left her only a short time earlier. Edging her way around Charlotte, Olivia offered a slight wave. ‘‘Since you’ve already seen the Arcade, I thought you could wait for Mr. Howard.’’ Without an effort at decorum, Olivia plopped her hat atop her head and turned the doorknob. Once she reached the sidewalk, her escape from Charlotte would be assured, she thought, but then she heard Mr. Howard calling her name. She turned and spotted him. He was a block away, waving his hat back and forth to gain her attention. If only she hadn’t heeded his call, she could have been well on her way to spending a bit of time at the emporium.

He hurried his pace, his long legs permitting a lengthy stride as he approached her. Panting, he held one hand to his chest. ‘‘It appears I’m not in the same physical condition as the men practicing to compete in the athletic games.’’

Olivia didn’t know what Mr. Howard was referring to, but she wasn’t interested at the moment. ‘‘I had planned to go and do a bit of shopping at the Arcade. Lady . . . Mrs. Hornsby is inside awaiting your return.’’ Olivia silently chided herself for the near slipup with Charlotte’s name. She must quit thinking of her as
Lady
Charlotte.

Mr. Howard moved to one side and blocked her escape. ‘‘I’d be most pleased to escort you. My earlier invitation to show you about the town remains open, and I do hope you’ll accept.’’

How could she refuse? He was, after all, the company agent. ‘‘What about the household items?’’ She hoped she could still divert him.

He nodded. ‘‘Taken care of. They’ll be delivered in short order. Mrs. Hornsby can take charge of directing the men. She shouldn’t have any need for my assistance.’’ He offered an apologetic shrug. ‘‘I can’t guarantee it will be everything you need, but the two of you will have beds and linens, along with a divan and several chairs. Perhaps Mrs. Hornsby should plan to take her meals at the hotel until you’ve adequately supplied the kitchen.’’