Page 10 of A Lady Most Wayward
Olivia’s stomach dropped as Ivy slowly shook her head.
‘I can’t. I won’t betray Philippa and the other Damsels.’
The fight seeped out of Olivia like blood from a mortal wound. ‘Then I am lost.’ Her stomach cramped, and she bent forward. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten. A bone-deep fatigue washed through her as hope ebbed.
But her daughter still needed her. She couldn’t just give up. Not until there was no other choice. Forcing herself to straighten, she gripped Ivy’s hand in hers. ‘Please know I am sorry for my actions. You were always a true friend to me. I only wish I could have been the same for you. If you will extend one more kindness I do not deserve, let me out at the next stop. I know you are duty-bound to tell the others I was here, but at least give me until you reach Scotland Yard to sound the alarm. All I ask is for a chance.’
Ivy squeezed Olivia’s hand. ‘What if there is another way?’
Olivia’s brow drew down in confusion. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I have an idea.’
4
Philippa’s life was not immune to intrigue. As a secret agent of the Queen, one expected a certain number of clandestine meetings in the middle of the night. But she didn’t anticipate receiving a note from Ivy instructing Philippa to meet her at a coaching inn on the outskirts of London. According to Ivy’s note, Reading had made an important discovery, and if they hoped to catch Olivia before she slipped away entirely, they must make haste.
Upon arrival at the bustling inn, Philippa instructed her driver to feed and water the horses but stay ready to leave at a moment’s notice. She climbed the steps of the inn, ignored the stares of several travellers, no doubt awed to see the infamous Duchess of Dorsett gracing such a plebian establishment, and inquired as to the location of Lady Ivy Worthington. The innkeeper blushed to the roots of his thinning blond hair.
‘She booked the private dining room, Your Grace. Just through ’ere.’ The man bowed repeatedly as he led Philippa past the common room, down a narrow hall, and opened a scarred oak door to reveal a dimly lit sitting room. The room was crowded with a small dining table and four rickety chairs, a faded settee with the stuffing coming out of busted seams, a crackling fire in the far corner boasting a dusty hearth, and a side table covered in various plates and bowls of steaming food. None of this was particularly noteworthy, but what did stop Philippa in her tracks were the two occupants of the room.
Ivy stood near the fire, her finger tapping incessantly against the teacup in her hands. A clear sign she was anxious.
She bloody well should be anxious.
Because standing behind the table, a glass of sherry in her beautiful fingers, wild ringlets catching the warm light of the fire, her full bottom lip caught between blunt teeth, was Olivia Smithwick.
A wave of something hot, forbidden, and unwanted washed through Philippa.
Damnation.
‘I suppose it’s too much to assume you are delivering her to me.’ Philippa directed her words to Ivy, but she didn’t look away from Olivia. She didn’t trust the woman not to run or try and attack. Philippa removed the fan from her pocket and thwacked it against the palm of her hand. Most assumed it was merely decorative; few knew it was also deadly. The frame was steel, and lace hid a razor-sharp edge that could easily cut through any number of things. Cloth, rope, flesh. Whatever might be impeding Philippa’s progress.
‘You have every right to be angry, but I’m asking you to listen.’ Ivy’s voice was calm even as crimson splotches appeared on her neck.
‘I have every right to be angry? What about you? It wasyourlife she risked when she abandoned you to her husband. You could have died.’ Philippa realised her voice was becoming shrill. She also acknowledged her emotions were spiking. Taking a deep breath, she forced herself to calm down. ‘How could you let her trick you once more, Ivy?’
‘I told you she would never listen. She’s far too stubborn to hear reason. Especially if it contradicts what she thinks is true.’ Olivia glared daggers at Philippa. As if she had the right to be incensed about anything. The bloody woman should be kissing the ground Ivy walked on and singing her praises for not immediately handing Olivia over to the Bobbies.
Rage spiked once more, and Philippa took three sweeping steps past the table to face Olivia. The woman’s eyes widened. She stumbled back. Philippa felt a thrill of power. ‘What Iknowis true.’
‘You aren’t right about everything all the time, Duchess,’ Olivia fairly hissed, regaining her composure and stepping forward until she was almost nose to nose with Philippa. The sweet aroma of honeysuckle washed over Philippa, tempered by warm vanilla. It was an oddly comforting scent, and she hated that it emanated from Olivia. ‘I was false with Ivy. I admit that. I put her at risk, and I hate myself for it. But I had no choice.’
Caustic mirth bubbled up within Philippa. ‘Please. There is always a choice.’ She leaned closer, expecting Olivia to back away. But she held her ground, green eyes blazing, her chest rising and falling with rapid breaths.
‘Perhaps for lofty duchesses with more money than wit. But not so for me. If I did not betray Ivy, I would lose my daughter forever. I did what I had to do. I can accept that. But I won’t accept your judgement of me, Lady Winterbourne. You know nothing about me or the torture I’ve had to endure.’
Despite her best efforts, a crack splintered in Philippa’s confidence.
What pain have you suffered?
No. She didn’t care. It didn’t matter. The why of Olivia’s choice was not nearly as important as the actual decision.
‘I don’t care what you’ve experienced, Lady Smithwick. I care about protecting the innocent.’
‘Exactly. Just as Olivia is trying to do for her daughter.’ Ivy jumped in, placing her cup on the table as she drew closer to Philippa. She squeezed Philippa’s arm. ‘I think, given time, you might both realise you are more similar than different. Which leads me to my proposal.’
Philippa ripped her gaze from Olivia to blink at Ivy. ‘What possible proposal could you have for me and this woman that doesn’t end in her death?’
