Safe.
She released a breath slowly, then another, until her heart had slowed to a more temperate rate.
She picked up her schedule sitting neatly on the table and fanned herself with it. Lisbeth usually took comfort in knowing she had something else to think about besides her horrid, pathetic past but her schedule’s purpose had morphed overnight into something more than a direction for her day. The origins of this simple sheet of vellum lay in her desperate attempt to do everything in exactly the manner and timing Nathaniel had demanded. It had become her sole means of self-preservation.
And it had worked… most of the time. No plan was ever foolproof. Which brought her thinking right back to the present.
She sipped her tea and pondered the possible kinks in her plan, the main one being Lord Bellamy. Last night she’d hadtrouble dealing with him, despite his obvious inebriation. She had not expected him to be young, nor handsome, nor have a smile that made one’s heart falter.
It had taken considerable effort not to admire his fine physical attributes at first. She had stared at him like he was an ice from Gunter’s, for heaven’s sake. His eyes had been a warm brown, almost like melted chocolate, and she’d always been partial to men with a cleft in their chin, though his cleft was not so deep as to be the focus of his face. This honor belonged to his mouth and the charming brackets which led her focus there again and again.
She’d had to remind herself why he had been standing in the middle of her library in the first place. It did not matter what he looked like, she told herself now. Only what he would allow her to do in terms of her plan.
Lisbeth retired to the library where she sat behind her father’s huge desk and began her house accounts. She loved this beautiful desk and skimmed her fingers over its highly polished surface. She felt her father was with her when she sat at this desk. He would not have abandoned her, she was sure, but he was gone, as was her mother. Anyone who had cared or loved her was gone or had abandoned her. She only had herself to depend on now. There was no use feeling sorry for herself and she banished the maudlin thoughts away.
However, it wasn’t long before her thoughts wandered towards further pitfalls of her previously perfect plan. Was she doing the right thing? Could she handle this man? What about tonight? Lord help her, he might be sober and then what? She knew what men were capable of and if he got even an inkling she wasn’t in control he would take over and destroy her. She couldn’t afford for him to think he could do what he wished. She would have to put him in his place right from the start. She had no choice.
It all had to be perfect. She wanted no one to misunderstand her position and everyone to wonder what the devil her intentions were. Confusion would keep them guessing and inviting her to their gatherings.
Her greatest pleasure would be to see theton’sstunned faces when she revealed the identity of the real killer and they realized how wrong they had been about her.
*
Oliver sat inhis brother Henry’s breakfast room and looked at the sealed envelope. He rubbed his eyes. He was in no shape to be dealing with last night’s consequences. Was it too much to hope the Countess of Blackhurst was informing him she had changed her mind about their agreement? No amount of money could be worth it, surely… and yet… He rubbed at his forehead with increasing pressure which, of course, didn’t help at all.
As a self-imposed punishment he seriously considered taking one of his aunt’s tonics. After sending her his apologies this morning, claiming a headache, a bottle of some dubious concoction had arrived. As if he did not feel bad enough already.
Dear Aunt Petunia. It was just the two of them now. An elderly woman of uncertain mental faculties and he of uncertain financial security. What a pair they made. She depended on him now. He could not let her down.
His temples contracted in pain, a staccato of pounding fists against his skull. He had to face facts. Until Henry’s investments came in, if they came in, he needed money—a lot of money. The kind of money the countess’s plan could ensure.
He glanced at the note.
It still sat patiently to his left.
He needed a new strategy, a new campaign, but the territory was unfamiliar to him.
When Henry had inherited the title at the grand old age of fifteen, he’d had Aunt Petunia’s husband, Uncle George to advise him, teach him. Uncle George was gone now too, in the family crypt that held all the Whitely family including the whisper of his parents’ memories.
Henry had loved him, there had never been a doubt about that, but he had never been a parent to him. The brother who had always seemed so steadfast had left him, abandoned him. He needed him now, and he wasn’t here.
Why, Henry?
Now Oliver was alone with a huge debt-ridden inheritance he didn’t know what the hell to do with and the bank was breathing down his neck.
And the note.
A footman politely coughed behind him before announcing the arrival of “Lord Anthony Ashton.”
Tony? Here? This was a surprise.
Oliver shoved the note away and turned to greet his friend.
Tony walked in, paused, his eyes taking in the room in a single glance before settling his summer eyes on Oliver.
“This is worse than I expected,” he commented as he moved farther into the room, inspecting Oliver.
“I don’t remember you being so dedicated to interior design. What are you doing here, Ashton?”
