“Hello, Mrs. Godfrey. I know.”
Her former mentor, a slender, graceful woman with hair so silver it glittered, sank into the chair beside her. She folded her hands on her lap and gazed calmly around the ladies’ parlor as if the musicale wasn’t about to start. Olive did the same, noting what had and hadn’t changed since the last time she’d been invited to the Blount residence.
The large bay windows had new drapery, the lace sheers allowing soft light to filter through. More porcelain figurines were in the curio cabinet than she remembered, and the tufted armchairs had been reupholstered in burgundy velvet. On the small tea table near the fireplace, a cut-crystal vase held an arrangement of pale pink camellias and white narcissus, undoubtedly coaxed into bloom in the Blount hothouse. Mrs. Blount had always loved her flowers.
“It’s a lovely room for a respite,” Mrs. Godfrey finally said.
“Yes.”
“But not when there’s a gentleman out there asking questions. Questions that will eventually lead back to you.”
Olive sighed. “He isn’t subtle.”
“Not a whit.”
“Did you speak with him?”
“I did. But not to worry. I feigned senility, and he quickly abandoned me for Miss Rinker.”
Olive smiled gratefully. Mrs. Godfrey had always been kind to her, no matter her circumstances. It was she who had nominated Olive for a junior position when she turned sixteen. She, who had encouraged Olive to be brave and perform whenever possible. She, who had recommended Olive to wealthy families once it became clear she must teach, despite having little teaching experience. And it was she whom Olive had turned to when her madcap scheme had seemed like a good idea.
“Who else knows about your sister’s printing press?” she whispered.
Mrs. Godfrey’s lip twitched. “Not many, considering what she normally prints with it.”
“I’m grateful for both your help. And your silence. I realize now it was a mistake?—”
“Olive, hush.” Mrs. Godfrey swiveled and placed a warm palm over hers. “You’ve always been too hard on yourself. Do you know what I think?” Olive shook her head, her throat thick. “I think you deserve to have a little fun. Your young man is clever and exceedingly handsome?—”
“He’s not mine! It’s only that he needs me to talk to other musicians.”
“He’s the one doing all the talking out there, with or without you,” she pointed out. “And that still doesn’t explain why he hovers at the doors behind us, waylaying anyone who tries to enter. I rather think he’s watching over you.”
“Oh no. That’s not possible.”
“Why not?”
“Because he’s Emil Anderson and I’m—” she waved a hand in the air to encompass herself “—I’m me.”
“Olive Becket, don’t you dare diminish yourself. You have risen to every challenge set before you, and you will not stop now.” Mrs. Godfrey rose to her feet. “I’m going to claim my seat, and I expect you to do the same.” She squeezed Olive’s shoulder kindly, and then she was gone.
Olive blinked back tears. She hated disappointing Mrs. Godfrey. But what was she supposed to do? If she was a lamb, then Emil was a bloodhound. He wouldn’t stop until he’d gotten what he wanted, of that she had no doubt. Eventually, he would ask the right person. Someone who knew about Mrs. Godfrey’s sister. Someone who might recall that long-ago summer when Olive had improvised little tunes to entertain the other bored junior members during their endless recitals. Someone who owed Olive no favors, who wouldn’t know how catastrophic the information could be.
What was worse, she knew Emil would continue to trail her. To try to catch her in compromising situations and manipulate her into helping him. He seemed to enjoy it, the fiend. How she would love to make him feel even a fraction of her discomfort!
Her memory flitted back to that time at the New Year’s Eve party, when she’d dared to unsettle him. It had worked, at least momentarily. Given her time to plan her next words.
She gasped and sat up straight.
She’d been so busy reacting to Emil’s railroading that she hadn’t had time to act. A planner like her needed time to consider all the possible ramifications before making her next move. The only way that could happen—the only way she could make it through the campaign without being discovered—was to take back control. Turn their game on its head before he found something. Make him go exactly where she wanted him to and waste his time while she was at it.
Her pulse was steady as she rose and made her way to the French doors. As Mrs. Godfrey had said, Emil stood in the hallway outside, one shoulder propped against the wall as he chatted with a man she had never met. He looked up when she appeared, then pushed off the wall and abandoned his conversation as if the other man no longer existed. No acknowledgement, no farewell. Only the swift shift of attention to herself.
That…that had never happened before.
Emboldened, she stopped moving and let him come to her. She launched into it before he could speak and somehow gain the upper hand.
“Let’s make a deal.”
