“She was, but still there is reason to believe she knows more about her husband’s dealings than she is willing to tell. We need you to find out what that more is.”
Now it was Oliver’s turn to laugh. “And you think she is going blurt it all out to me?”
“Given time and certain incentives, I am sure she will slip up and give herself away.” Tony pushed the countess’s note towards him with a forefinger. “Read it,” he said, taking a seat back at the table.
Devil take him, Tony was right. If she was the cause of Henry’s misery, if she was the cause of his current despair he must find out.
Oliver looked at the note again. How bad could it possibly be? The fact last night was more blur-ish nightmare than actual memory was contributing to his lack of muster, but it wasn’t as though she could kill him with ink, unless of course, it was poisoned. He shook his head to shake away the cobwebs.
He picked it up, weighed it in his palm, and frowned for the forty-fourth time this morning. It was a little heavy for a note. What was in there, her whole life story, a confession, his requiem mass? Open it, his brain buzzed.
He broke out in a sweat as he broke the wax seal and unfolded it. He read it briefly and stifled a laugh, read it againand then roared with laughter, ignoring the pain in his head. He was quite sure now shehadn’tkilled her husband. “The daft bugger must have dashed his own brains out if this is the kind of thing she forced upon him on a daily basis,” Oliver said, passing the note to Tony.
He gave it a cursory glance but not more. His face still serious. “Glad to find you are so amused by it.”
“It hardly matters what’s in it. I’m not going to do it anyway.”
Tony’s eyes turned cold. “I think you are. You have to.”
“Ashton, I can hardly conceive how you know about any of this, let alone what this note might say.”
“I don’t really care what the note says, but I knew who it was from. I saw it being delivered this morning from the lady’s house. I had to ensure you read it.”
“So, you are spying on me?” Oliver put his hands on his hips.
Tony smiled. “Not you, Bellamy. Her.”
“Why should I do this for someone I don’t even know?”
“You’re not. You’re doing it for me. And, if you do, I will make sure you are handsomely rewarded. Is that incentive enough?”
“Do I have much choice?”
“Not really,” Tony replied before patting him on the shoulder.
“Well, hell, now you’ve taken all the fun out of it.”
“I am sure you will find the countess more than entertaining. I’ll be gone for a few weeks. When I return, I’ll come to see you. Or, if you find out something interesting, you know how to contact me, discreetly.” Tony turned and left the room.
Oliver looked around the now quiet room. This certainly changed things. He picked up the note again. Could she have had anything to do with Henry and the loss of the family fortune?
*
An hour laterand feeling much more the thing, Oliver took a hackney to his tailor in Piccadilly. He needed decent clothes if he was going to be escorting a certain female around London. He pulled out the note and just for fun read it again.
Bellamy, he read.Here is your schedule for tonight. You will notice I have allowed fifteen extra minutes’ time between appointments for traffic and fog.“How thoughtful, Countess.”Do not be late.“As if I would dare,” he said to the interior of the hackney.I will expect you to be properly attired and sober. “Cheeky chit!”I will expect you at exactly nine o’clock tonight. Tardiness will not be tolerated, as we must keep to the schedule at all costs.
“No, Countess, at your cost.”
Only it wasn’t at her cost at all, was it? She had quite cleverly arranged for thetonto pay her debt to him. He could only tip his hat to her. Combined with what Tony had said would come to him for information on the countess, he could find himself retiring to the country and raising hunting dogs before he knew it.
Surprisingly, the Black Raven never strayed far from his thoughts all day. Not because of the natural interest of all who had met him, but because her schedule had outlined exactly what she was doing practically every minute of the day.
While his tailor was being astonishingly gymnastic in his bending and scraping and general groveling, trying to extract details of his famous client’s night with the Black Raven, she was having a dress fitting. While Oliver was enjoying an excellent glass or two of claret with his slightly overdone spatchcock in orange sauce, she was tending her garden. Despite thetoughness of his lunch the thought of the Countess of Blackhurst bending over was a more than appealing picture.
By the time he reached his brother’s townhouse on Cavendish Square in the late afternoon, he was quite familiar with the lie he had made up for the masses.
He and the Black Raven had become quite cozy on her Egyptian-styled chaise lounge, while she had lured him with good French cognac and seduced him with her crystalline eyes and husky dulcet tones until he gave in to her considerable charms. It was so far from the truth as to be almost believable. If there were a few who didn’t trust his story they would no doubt be choking on their disbelief when he strolled into Wainwright’s ball tonight, with the delightfully beautiful and terrifying Countess of Blackhurst on his arm. The thought alone made him smile. Men were making more wagers by the moment, intent on catching him out, when really all they were doing were aiding him on cashing in.
