Their guest’s pristine champagne-polished black leather bootshad been shoved into a pair of worn wooden pattens. The sort servants sometimes used to keep their shoes free of muck. This man teetered on the five-inch platforms as though a light sneeze would topple him over.
“Thank you for seeing me,” the alleged Mr. Smith said without preamble. His accent was aristocratic, and his voice familiar. “I am the valet to a very important man who finds himself facing an unpleasant dilemma of extreme—now, you wait just a bloody minute. Are you two servants or Wynchesters?”
“I’m neither,” said Vivian, clearly shocked at being recognized and remembered. She rose to her feet. “Why don’t you have a seat, Mr. Olivebury?”
The man’s mouth fell open.
“All the rest of us are Wynchesters,” Philippa said quickly. “You may not remember me, but I recall you visiting my father, Mr. York, to discuss matters for the House of Commons before he retired.”
Mr. Olivebury blinked. “Your father was my mentor. He’s the reason I enjoy the powerful position I have today.”
Philippa held out her palm. “Do take off your pattens. They look as uncomfortable as that wig. Shall I ring for tea?”
With a sigh, Mr. Olivebury sat down heavily in the closest armchair. “Madeira, if you have it.”
Graham summoned a footman.
Jacob joined Vivian on the sofa across from their newest guest. Philippa took the armchair next to Graham.
“What seems to be the problem?” she asked politely.
Mr. Olivebury gave Jacob and Vivian another mystified look before bursting out, “I’ve been burgled, blackmailed, and harassed. Make it stop. This cannot be borne.”
Graham withdrew a notebook. “Do you mind if I take notes?”
Vivian was already scribbling in her journal.
“Do anything you please, as long as you put an end to this,” said Mr. Olivebury. He rubbed his face with his hands. “You must have seen in the papers that I was robbed some days previously?”
Graham nodded. “We’re aware of the incident, but not the nature of the item stolen.”
“That is by design. The malefactor who stole from me intends to use his spoils as leverage against me. Whatever mischief he’s planning, he intends for it to unfold soon.”
“How do you know?” asked Philippa.
Mr. Olivebury pulled a square of parchment from his waistcoat and shook it out angrily. The torn page bore only one word, written in all capitals in the very center:
SOON.
“Your handwriting, I presume?” Jacob whispered to Vivian.
A satisfied expression filled her face. “It worked!”
“You terrorized our client,” he pointed out.
She nodded. “I said it worked.”
Face pale, Mr. Olivebury shoved the paper back into his pocket. “The first letter forbade me from coming to you for help, but I see no other choice. What do we do?”
“You haven’t fully explained what’s happening,” Graham pointed out gently. “What was stolen? What blackmail is the thief requesting?”
“This is ruining my life,” Mr. Olivebury said in despair. “The thief wants me to argue as instructed for an act that’s already been delayed three times. How am I to live in the meantime, when this villain possesses…” Mr. Olivebury dropped his face into his hands and let out a sound not unlike the cry of an injured loon.
“We should unmask him quickly,” said Graham. “We tend to be quite efficient… when we have all the facts.”
“Here’s a fact,” said Mr. Olivebury. “The Duke of Faircliffe came to visit me yesterday, as you apparently well know. Although neitherof us are the official heads of our respective houses, I am generally regarded as the leading voice in the House of Commons in the same way that Faircliffe is the leading voice of the House of Lords. If Iwereto agitate against my own best wishes, others would follow.”
Jacob leaned forward. “What does the blackmailer want you to influence?”
