Page 2 of A Lady Most Wayward
‘Hardly. She is the last person I would ever be interested in bedding. I hate her.’
A true statement, but hate and attraction weren’t mutually exclusive.
‘Just bloody inconvenient. And impossible. She would rather string me up by my neck than look at me,’ Olivia muttered as she crept quietly across the floor, avoiding the creaking board to the left of the bed. ‘And I would much prefer hitting her again. Repeatedly.’
Grateful for the split riding skirts that offered her freedom of movement, she crouched and felt under the bed for the divot she had created in the wood when first prying it free. She lifted the board and slid it back. Her fingers wrapped around the velvet bag stuffed full of jewels, gold coins, and any other valuables Olivia was able to secret away while Percy was busy completing tasks for the Devil’s Sons. Thankfully, the man lost track of little things like lost necklaces or missing coin purses when he was focused on his work. After all, who had time to count the silver when one was so busy procuring innocent children and delivering them to evil men with insatiable appetites?
‘And I helped him.’ Olivia felt the bile rise in her throat. How could she blame Hyacinth for hating her when Olivia loathed the woman she had become? No matter that she did it all to protect her daughter. She had become as sick as the monster she despised. ‘But I can change all that. Once we are free of this place, I will make amends. For Hyacinth and the others. I will find a way.’
Pulling the bag free, Olivia’s heart stuttered as her stomach rolled in a queasy wave.
It was far too light.
‘No. No, no, no!’
Scrabbling with the drawstring, she ripped the bag open and plunged her hand inside.
Empty.
Her finger caught on the sharp corner of a calling card. It was the only thing left in the purse. The only thing Olivia hadn’t put there. Suspicion dawned as nausea turned into something else. Something harder. Colder. Far more deadly.
She pulled the card free and hurried over to the window, drawing aside thick curtains. A silvery moon hung in a black sky, but it spilled enough light over the dark purple card for Olivia to make out the gold script.
Lady Philippa Winterbourne, Duchess of Dorsett
The Queen’s Deadliest Damsel had left her calling card. The one person Olivia needed to avoid at all costs now held her only key to escape.
‘All right, Lady Winterbourne. You want me to pay you a visit?’ Olivia stood tall, pulling back her shoulders and letting rage fill her with courage. ‘I shall pay you a visit you won’t soon forget.’
* * *
Nothing felt quite as decadent as silk on the skin. Philippa sat at her dressing table as Delacroix brushed her thick hair and expertly twined it into a braid. She ran her fingers over the slippery fabric. Her banyan was deep purple with a black damask pattern. It was not lost on her that even her bedclothes were in hues of mourning. The beau monde long believed her choice to wear only the darkest colours was in honour of her late husband. They were wrong. He was not the person for whom Philippa still grieved.
The streaks of silver at her temples were a striking contrast to the ebony tresses. Not prone to false modesty, she also knew her pleasing face and figure could be used to her advantage in a world that valued beauty over wit or character. Philippa had once detested her features and the unwanted attention they brought, but she quickly learned how to use her appearance as she did most everything else. It was a weapon she honed to cut, maim, and dismantle.
‘Thank you, Delacroix, that is all for tonight.’
Her lady’s maid had been with Philippa over nineteen years. Since the day she was thrust into the position of duchess, Delacroix had been her constant companion. She watched Philippa struggle to maintain the guise of a happy marriage to her much older husband. She helped pick up the pieces he left behind after his nightly marital visits during the first months of their union. It was Delacroix who supported Philippa as she learned how to fight back against Lord Winterbourne, both physically and, more importantly, with her mind. Her heavily accented words of encouragement reminded Philippa she was no man’s puppet, and a bond had developed between them that the years only strengthened.
The French woman held strong opinions on every subject and never hesitated to voice them, but tonight, she was oddly quiet.
‘Are you well?’ Philippa raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow.
Delacroix wrinkled her nose. Her light-brown hair was pulled into a neat twist, and her flawless skin made it impossible to accurately guess her age. But Philippa knew she was cresting her fourth decade because they shared the same birth year.
‘Oui, I am perfectly fine. It is for you I worry.’
Philippa turned to face her maid. ‘Nonsense. Why would you worry about me?’
Shrugging, Delacroix’s lips curled down at the corners. ‘Ever since that woman punched you in the face with ’er fist, you ’ave been different.’
The last thing Philippa needed to be reminded of was her disastrous encounter with Lady Olivia Smithwick. Summer’s heat had quickly faded into a crisp autumn, but Philippa’s feelings of embarrassment – a rare emotion for her – and outrage – a much more familiar one – had not faded with summer’s warmth.
Olivia Smithwick’s flawless face flitted through Philippa’s mind as it did countless times a day. It was infuriating to be plagued by the only woman Philippa would happily forget. But she couldn’t shake Olivia from her thoughts.
Only because I intend to hunt her down. For my Queen.
While Philippa was always sharply focused on the cases she investigated for Queen Victoria, never before had a suspect haunted her thoughts the way Olivia did. Mayhap it was because she was also the only person to catch Philippa unaware and deliver a cheap shot to her jaw.
