Page 67 of What Cannot Be Said

Olivia Edmondson blinked up at Hero in surprise. Still in her early twenties, the widow was a small, dainty thing some ten or twelve inches shorter than Hero. She might not be as wealthy as Veronica Goodlakes, but she was both younger and prettier, with thick black hair, large dark eyes, and a winsome dimple that could peek seductively when she smiled.

“A pretty little thing, undeniably,” had been the Duchess of Claiborne’s caustic assessment when Hero consulted her. “But she’s no better than she should be, I’m afraid. And while I’ll acknowledge that sixteen-year-old girls can all too easily be led into folly by a handsome face, Olivia is one of those females who, if she hadn’t been born an heiress, would doubtless have had a successful career as a courtesan. There’s something about her that seems to render those of the male sex incapable of thinking of anything when they look at her except bed. And I don’t exclude Claiborne from that statement. Which is rather telling, for if ever there was a dull dog, it’s my son.”

Hero watched now as the widow’s famous dimple flashed, her full lips curving up into a smile, and thought she understood what the Duchess had been talking about. There was an inescapably sensual aura about the woman, and Hero had a feeling Olivia was very well aware of it.

“Oh, I’m quite well, thank you—although more than a trifle warm, to be honest,” said the widow with a laugh as she fanned her face with the delicate confection of ivory and lace she held in her other hand. “And how are you, Lady Devlin?”

“Also quite warm. Between the sultry night, the crush of people, and the heat from the candles, it’s too much to be borne. Do let’s step out onto the terrace for a breath of fresh air, shall we?”

Olivia looked vaguely surprised, but was more than willing to be seen stepping out to take some air with Lord Jarvis’s daughter. “Ah, that is better,” said the widow, sucking in a deep breath as they passed through one of the French doors that opened onto Lady Farningham’s wide bluestone terrace. “What a brilliant idea, Lady Devlin.”

Hero watched Olivia go to stand beside the stone balustrade at the edge of the terrace, her pretty face lifted to the breeze as she looked out over the wet gardens. “Do you come to Lady Farningham’s musical evenings often?”

“Not often, no,” said the widow, smiling as she turned to face her. “I fear I am not particularly musical. But London is so thin of company these days that one must find amusement where one can, wouldn’t you say?”

“Indeed. We ourselves had hoped to leave for Hampshire next week, but I doubt now that we’ll be able to get away so soon.” The delay was on account of the murders, of course, but Hero was careful to leave that part out. “Will you be retiring to your estate in... Cornwall, isn’t it?”

Olivia pulled a face. “It is, yes; nearly to Penzance. But, to be honest, I’m more than half tempted to retreat to someplace both less distant and less rustic, if you know what I mean? I hear Leicestershire is lovely this time of year.”

“Oh? Have you a hunting box there?”

The widow flushed faintly. “Not personally, no. But a dear friend keeps a lovely little place near Melton Mowbray.”

“I take it you mean Sir Ivo?”

Olivia was no fool. Her pretty brown eyes narrowed and took on a steely look that reminded Hero of Veronica. “So that’s why you’ve sought me out, is it? You’ve heard that Ivo and I are friends, and you thought to ascertain if there is any truth to the rumors?”

“So is there?” said Hero bluntly.

Olivia lifted her dainty little chin, her smile turning into something saucy and provocative, although the glint of steel was still in her eyes. “And if there were? You see something wrong with friendship between a man and a woman?”

“Not at all,” said Hero. “So tell me this: Who do you think killed Lady McInnis?”

“Frankly, I neither know nor care.” The expression on the woman’s face hardened, became something considerably less winsome. “If you ask me, the woman got what she deserved.”

Hero stared at her. “And why is that?”

Olivia twitched one dainty little shoulder. “It’s different for men, isn’t it? I mean, when they amuse themselves outside of marriage, what’s the harm? But when a woman betrays her vows, she risks presenting her lord with a child not of his own begetting. And that is an abominable thing to do, wouldn’t you say?”

“Are you suggesting Laura McInnis was having an affair?”

“Didn’t you know?” Olivia wrinkled her dainty little nose in disgust. “What kind of woman could be so lucky as to be wed to someone like Sir Ivo and then cheat on him with a nobody in a red coat?”

“And do you think Sir Ivo’s daughter Emma likewise ‘got what she deserved’?” said Hero, her voice coming out husky.

The widow had the grace to look vaguely discomfited. “No, although she wasn’t actually his daughter. Laura’s attachment to her soldier stretched back for years—he escaped from that French prison and returned to London the very summer before Emma was born, you know. Yet even though the girl wasn’t really Sir Ivo’s daughter, under the terms of Laura’s marriage settlement he still would have had to provide the girl with a portion of ten thousand pounds!”

“Indeed,” said Hero. Olivia Edmondson might be beautiful and seductive, but she obviously wasn’t as bright as Hero had at first given her credit for. The woman didn’t even seem to realize she’d provided them with an excellent reason why Sir Ivo would murder both his wife and his daughter. “I take it Sir Ivo told you this?”

The warm, damp breeze feathered a stray curl against Olivia’s cheek, and she brought up a hand to tuck it back behind her ear. “It’s not exactly a secret, is it? I mean, how hard is it to count back nine months from the girl’s birthday?”

?Sebastian was leaning against a convenient pilaster, his arms crossed at his chest as he listened to Signor Rossini, when he noticed Jarvis working his way toward him through the milling audience.

“I take it you didn’t think I was serious about Rhodes,” said the King’s powerful cousin, walking right up to him.

Sebastian shifted his stance to confront his father-in-law. “Has Basil been whining to Papa again?”

“Did you think he would not?”

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