No life for a lady ladie.., p.1
No Life for a Lady: Ladies of the Order - Book 5, page 1
NO LIFE FOR A LADY
Ladies of the Order - Book 5
ADELE CLEE
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Epilogue
Thank you!
Copyright
Books by Adele Clee
CHAPTER 1
Hart Street, Covent Garden
Office of the Order
Light spilled from the lower window of the townhouse owned by Lucius Daventry, a place he used as his business premises.
Olivia had received her employer’s abrupt note not an hour ago, but one did not dally when summoned by the master of the Order. Not when she feared she would find herself at the Servants’ Registry tomorrow, in search of a new position.
She seized the brass knocker and rapped loudly, her heart hammering with equal force.
Mrs Gunning answered. “Miss Trimble! The master said to expect you this evening.” The housekeeper’s warm smile settled Olivia’s nerves, if only for a moment. “Bless you, dear. Come in out of the cold.”
Olivia glanced left and right along the dimly lit street. A habit formed after years spent imagining the worst. As a woman of thirty, one would think she had outgrown her fear of monsters. But she knew they were real. Knew they were found in plain sight, not hiding beneath the bed or in the armoire.
“Thank you, Mrs Gunning.” Olivia scanned the darkness once more and stepped over the threshold for what would undoubtedly be the last time.
Mrs Gunning gave a soft chuckle. “There’s no fear of footpads on this street. The crooks avoid this house like they do the watchman.”
Yes, anyone would feel safe visiting the headquarters of the most skilled enquiry agents in London. Except Olivia wasn’t scouring the shadows for footpads, but for wicked men who thought nothing of murdering a lady. As someone who had once been dragged from a lane in broad daylight, beaten and left for dead, every scenario posed a danger.
“Let me take your bonnet and pelisse, then I shall fetch the tea tray.” Mrs Gunning ushered Olivia farther into the hall and promptly closed the door. “Unless you’d like something stronger, dear. Something to bring the blood back to your cheeks. Mr Daventry has sherry in his study.”
“How kind. I will have a small sherry.” When one’s hands trembled, it was better to grip a glass than have the teacup rattling on the saucer.
Mrs Gunning hung Olivia’s outdoor apparel in the understairs cupboard, then rapped lightly on the study door and waited for Mr Daventry to bid her enter. “Miss Trimble is here, sir. Are you ready to receive her now?”
“Indeed. Show her in, Mrs Gunning.” Mr Daventry’s amiable tone came as a surprise. As a man who strived to punish all wrongdoers, he was usually quite brusque and to the point.
“May I pour her a glass of sherry, sir? It’s awful cold out.”
“By all means.”
Olivia straightened her shoulders and hid behind the confident facade that had served her so well. She entered the room and faced the man seated behind the imposing desk. “Good evening, sir.”
Mr Daventry stood and brushed a hand through his coal-black hair. “Miss Trimble,” was all he said, yet he bowed as if he knew her secret.
Olivia forced a smile and took the proffered seat.
Mr Daventry watched her intently, no doubt noticing every hitch in her breath. “I’m sure you’re keen to know why I called you here tonight.”
Olivia smiled at Mrs Gunning and accepted the glass of sherry from the tray. “All your female agents are married now, sir.” Indeed, the house she managed was lifeless, her days long and endless. She had never felt so alone, although it was her own fault for forging friendships. “I presume you no longer have a use for me and mean to give me notice.”
Mr Daventry dismissed his housekeeper and waited until the door clicked shut before speaking. “Never presume to know the workings of my mind, Miss Trimble,” he said in a fatherly tone, which was ironic considering they were of a similar age. “When solving crimes and saving lives, a man must be shrewd. A master manipulator.”
“I do not sit here as a client, sir, but as a paid chaperone who finds herself redundant. I’m told you have no intention of hiring more female agents, not at present. Therefore, it was a fair assumption.”
Mr Daventry relaxed back in his seat and steepled his fingers. “People come to this office because they have been treated unfairly, been accused of crimes they did not commit. They seek an agent to help tackle the injustice.”
“Yes,” she said, confused as to why it was relevant. “You have saved many a neck from the noose.”
“And yet many more suffer in silence.”
Good Lord! Was he referring to her?
Despite all efforts to maintain a facade, heat raced to her cheeks like a disobedient child. “I challenge you to show me a person who has not suffered.” Some in the most despicable ways. “But what has that to do with my work in Howland Street?”
A tense silence ensued.
She sipped her sherry. Every muscle stiffened, for she did not like the way he looked at her, with a mix of curiosity and pity. “Sir?”
“May I call you Rebecca?” he said.
“Rebecca? Why? That is not my name.”
Had he taken too much port, taken leave of his senses?
The master of the Order laughed. “Neither is Trimble, yet you’ve used it for the year you’ve worked for me. My friend Wycliffe has known you for five years, and you were using it then.”
Like the clang of a church bell, alarm rang in her head. She tried to swallow past the lump in her throat, tried to maintain her composure.
“You’re living a lie,” her employer pressed, keen to find the chink in her armour. “I know who you are. I believe you have suffered a terrible injustice. Consequently, I have taken it upon myself to help solve your problem.”
I know who you are!
He couldn’t possibly know.
Olivia Durrant was dead, found hanged in the King’s Wood.
She pushed out of the chair, tossed back her sherry, and placed the glass on his desk. “Thank you for providing every comfort, for giving me a purpose this last year.” She touched her hand to her heart. “With your help, many women have fought against their oppressors. But you do not need to concern yourself with me. I came to tell you I am leaving London. Tonight.”
Now! Without her bonnet and pelisse if necessary.
She would rather battle the cold than confront her past.
She had been a fool to stay in town for so long. And yet she had found true friendship with the ladies of the Order. After years spent living out of a valise, constantly peering over her shoulder, it had been so good to call somewhere home.
Still, the urge to flee, to put some distance between herself and the truth, had her crossing the room. She reached the door, but Mr Daventry spoke the words she had been dreading.
“Lady Olivia! You cannot hide forever.”
She froze, and could barely catch her breath. It was as though the thug’s hands were still squeezing her windpipe, squeezing the last breath from her lungs.
“Tell me why you faked your own death,” he said.
The pure ignorance of his statement forced her to swing around. “Who is making presumptions now? Do you think I live this life by choice?” Tears welled when there should have been no more left to shed. “Do you think I enjoy a solitary existence? Worrying about getting close to people? Fearing they will discover who I am? A life without love or hope or trust?”
She had said too much!
Sheer panic made her take to her feet.
She was at the front door when Mr Daventry appeared behind her and touched her gently on the shoulder. The act of compassion was too much to bear.
“Let me help you. Let me right the injustice. I have a plan, though it will take a considerable sacrifice. Trust me, and you will never have to hide again.”
Olivia closed her eyes.
It was a tempting offer.
“You might help me in return,” he added, appealing to her kind nature. “I need an enquiry agent, and you’re the only person with the necessary credentials. I have a client who needs your help. Someone else with a mystery to solve.”
More confused than ever, she turned to face her employer. “Sir, you are not making sense. I lack the wherewithal to investigate crimes.” It was enough to keep to the shadows, to avoid seeing anyone she knew.
“You’re educated, logical. You have avoided detection these last seven years. That takes skill and mastery. You’re living in London, the home of the ton, yet only one person has recognised you.”
Her heart lurched. “Who?”
“Lord Deville. That’s why you feigned illness and missed Honora’s wedding. You’re sister to the Earl of Mersham. His seat is but twenty miles from Highcliffe, Lord Deville’s home. It took Deville a while to make the connection because he believed you were dead.”<
Olivia felt the life drain from her body.
She had to leave London, leave England.
She had enough money to flee to France.
“Forgive me. I lack the fortitude needed to help you.”
Mr Daventry stepped closer. “You need only play yourself.”
“Miss Trimble?”
He shook his head. “Lady Olivia Durrant.”
Merciful Mary!
“Sir, you ask the impossible.” A mocking laugh escaped her, but then her curious mind took to wondering who wanted to hire Olivia Durrant when the world knew she was dead. “Who is this client? Who else knows I am alive?”
There was no point denying it now. The number had doubled in a matter of a minute. Soon all of London would take to whispering the news. Then her devil of a brother would exact another plan to murder her in the woods.
Did Mr Daventry know the enemy was a peer of the realm? Not a fictitious husband she had mentioned once to hide the truth?
“Alexander Grayson,” he said.
“Alexander Grayson?” The name rolled off her tongue like sweet music, though she could not recall ever meeting the man. “And he approached you and asked to hire me?”
Suspicion flared.
Had her brother laid a trap?
“No. I told him who you were because it’s to your mutual benefit.” Mr Daventry motioned for her to return to the study. “Grayson is a close friend. He is attempting to discover how his brother, the Earl of Sturrock, died. He suspects your brother is involved, though it’s complicated, and he will want to see you before agreeing to tell you anything.”
Olivia remained rooted to the spot. Having kept abreast of the ton’s affairs, she noted the glaring discrepancy in the story.
“Lord Sturrock was an only child. His cousin inherited.”
Mr Daventry smiled, no doubt pleased she was showing an interest. “Grayson is the illegitimate son. Like me, he inherited much of his father’s wealth, which caused great animosity. Meet him. Hear his tale. Decide for yourself.”
Olivia fell silent.
Habit said she should ignore all enticements. Instinct said she could not go on like this, always running from her troubles. Hiding in a cupboard like a marionette, letting her fear of her family control the strings.
“Grayson is strong and dependable,” Mr Daventry said, filling the silence. “I have never met a man so fearless. He will protect you. It may be your only chance to punish those who hurt you. But you must be honest and tell us your story.”
How did one speak of a secret kept for seven years?
How did one dig for buried memories?
“Have I ever failed an agent?” Mr Daventry was determined in his bid to secure her services. “Are the ladies who came to live in Howland Street, plagued by nightmares of the past, not happy beyond measure?”
Yes, the man was like Midas, turning everyone’s life into gold.
“I am not looking for love, just a moment’s peace.”
“Trust Grayson, and you need never hide again.”
Mr Daventry was such a skilled negotiator, something inside her shifted while listening to his rousing pleas. Distress gave way to regret and shame. She should have gathered evidence. She should have punished her blackguard of a brother, not fled like a frightened doe.
What if this was her only chance to seek justice?
What if this was her only chance to reclaim her life?
“Very well,” she said weakly, remembering how she had been discarded in the woods like rubbish for the bonfire, how close she came to dying. “I will hear what Mr Grayson has to say. Arrange the meeting. Send a note informing me of the time and place.”
She would likely change her mind once back in Howland Street, perhaps flee under cover of darkness. How could she bare her soul when she had an utter distrust of men?
“The meeting is arranged.” Mr Daventry pulled his gold watch from his pocket and studied the face in the muted light. “Grayson is expecting us within the hour. My carriage is waiting.”
* * *
Mr Grayson lived in the fashionable new crescent in Portland Place, a row of elegant stuccoed terrace houses designed by John Nash. Doubtless, it was home to a few prominent members of the ton. Hence why Olivia kept her head bowed to avoid meeting the gazes of a couple who passed by on the pavement.
Mr Daventry hammered the lion-head knocker against the brass plate and waited for the butler to answer. He presented his calling card to Pickins, a man of ageing years with a wrinkled face and doddery gait.
“The master is expecting you.” Pickins took their hats and gloves—she refused to relinquish her pelisse—and shuffled forward at a snail’s pace. “Kindly follow me.”
The grand hall consisted of a polished marble floor and stark white walls. Olivia prayed the decoration was not a reflection of Mr Grayson’s character. Men who lacked depth were often opinionated. Shallow. They made poor listeners and were quick to judge. Not at all the sort who would understand her plight.
Indeed, it was a relief to find herself in a candlelit study filled with books and paintings of ships. It was untidy, the papers on the desk in disarray. The smell of amber and cedarwood cologne wafted through the air. A stimulating scent that teased her senses and stirred her soul awake.
Her attackers had reeked of sweat and the grime that marked them as hired thugs. Men willing to trade a conscience for a quart of ale.
Olivia’s gaze moved to the man sitting open-legged in the leather wing chair. A man who defied the need for conformity. His light brown hair was unfashionably long and tied back with black ribbon. His shoulders were double the width of any normal mortal. Despite expecting female company, he was without a coat. One glance at the muscular arms filling his shirtsleeves made her wonder if he had one that fit.
“It seems I owe you a bottle of brandy, Daventry.” Mr Grayson’s voice was as deep as his chest was broad. He stood, and it took effort not to gasp at the sheer size of him. “How the devil did you persuade her to agree?”
Olivia decided to be equally candid. “I am in the room, Mr Grayson. You may address me directly.”
He swept a graceful bow, a feat for a man of his brawn. “Forgive me, madam. Daventry rarely makes mistakes. Yet despite his protestations, I am not certain you are the Lady Olivia Durrant. I leave it to you to convince me.”
“Convince you?” Olivia drew back. “I was under the impression you needed me, Mr Grayson. Therefore, it is you who must do the convincing. Why should I risk my neck for your cause?”
Mr Daventry cleared his throat. “Perhaps we should sit.”
But Mr Grayson prowled towards her, his movements remarkably sleek for someone his size. He stood so close his presence raised her pulse a notch. “Lady Olivia was said to have natural grace and beauty. You certainly satisfy on that score.”
She stiffened, but refused to let him intimidate her. “The fact you stand before a lady in a state of dishabille suggests a disregard for propriety. Is that a true testament to your character, or do you wield your illegitimacy like a weapon?”
The devil smiled like he knew the sight would make her heart flutter. His intense green eyes scanned her face as if he were an artist hired to sketch her likeness from memory.
“We do not stand on ceremony here, madam. It is one benefit of being born a bastard.” He perused her form with blatant regard. “You will become accustomed to my habits, as I must become accustomed to yours. We are both old enough to understand the need for compromise.”
So, he meant to hire her as his agent.
The man must be desperate.
Olivia raised her chin. “I was born Olivia Allegra Durrant, named after my paternal grandmother, who died in childbirth.” She decided to convince him she was the person he needed in the hope he might return to his seat. “Few fathers value their daughters more than their sons, but my father named me heir to his fortune and unentailed properties.”
