“Perhaps she merely told him to leave her alone,” Victor said, the words sounding hollow even to his own ears.
James’ expression was sympathetic but unyielding. “Perhaps. But why the secrecy? Why not tell you immediately? And there’s another complication. Reynolds recently met with several known French agents. My sources believe he’s gathering intelligence on military matters. Troop deployments, naval activities, and anything else he can obtain.”
Victor’s blood ran cold. If Reynolds was indeed a French spy using his connection to Olivia to gather intelligence ...
“My sources indicate Reynolds has been making inquiries about your household routine,” James added quietly. “Your comings and goings, staff schedules. He’s asked specific questions about your connections.”
The implication hung between them. Was Reynolds planning to use Olivia to extract military information? Or worse. Was she a willing participant?
“Thank you for bringing this to my attention,” Victor said, his voice tight with barely controlled fury.
James studied his friend’s face. “What will you do?”
“What any husband would,” Victor replied coldly. “Collect my wife and discover the truth.”
James nodded in understanding and then took his leave a few moments later. Victor paced his study like a caged predator, jealousy clawing at his insides. Beyond the betrayal by omission, which was intolerable enough, the thought of Olivia harboring any physical or emotional connection to Reynolds ignited a different kind of rage. And he wouldn’t allow himself to ponder why. She was his and that was the only reason he required.
He rang for Simmons, who appeared with his usual promptness.
“Has the duchess made any unusual requests today?” Victor asked, striving for a casual tone.
“She inquired about your schedule for the afternoon, Your Grace.”
Victor tensed. “And what did you tell her?”
“That you had mentioned visiting your solicitor at three o’clock, Your Grace.” Simmons’ expression remained impassive. “Was that incorrect?”
“No,” Victor replied slowly. The inquiry certainly appeared damning.
“Send word to Mr. Hargreaves that I must postpone our meeting. An urgent matter requires my attention.” He paused, then added with deliberate casualness, “And Simmons—I want no mention of this change to anyone in the household. As far as everyone is concerned, particularly the duchess, I am still expected at my solicitor’s office at three.”
“Of course, Your Grace.”
“And alert me if Her Grace should intend to depart,” Victor commanded just as Simmons began to leave.
Victor could have summoned her to him immediately. But if her intent was to deceive him, then he would catch her in the act. And then he would punish her.
He lost all hope of tending to any of his business, and continued to pace his study until Simmons returned to alert him that Olivia had requested a carriage to visit the milliner.
Victor crept to the stables and had his horse saddled. He waited at the corner of their house until Olivia appeared.
From his vantage point, he watched as Olivia entered the Ravenswood carriage, her face partially concealed by a fashionable bonnet. She wore a walking dress of deep blue, appearing every inch the proper duchess.
He couldn’t help wondering if she considered him at all when she felt the beads with each step or when she took her seat inside the carriage. The thought certainly stoked his desire to stake claim on his wife, but was quickly followed by renewed anger at her deception.
Following the Ravenswood carriage proved simple enough. As expected, they did not turn toward Bond Street where her milliner maintained her establishment. Instead, the carriagecontinued toward a less respectable district, finally stopping before a narrow house on Dean Street.
Victor dismounted at the corner, approaching on foot as Olivia descended from the carriage. Even from a distance, he could discern tension in the rigid set of her shoulders.
“Return in one hour,” she instructed the coachman.
Victor watched as she ascended the steps, hesitating briefly before knocking. The door opened immediately, as though someone had been watching and waiting. She disappeared inside without a backward glance.
For a moment, Victor remained motionless, rage urging him to burst through that door. Only years of battlefield discipline kept him from doing just that. Instead he circled the building, finding a side entrance that led to the servants’ quarters. A coin pressed into a scullery maid’s palm gained him entry and directions to a back staircase.
“Third floor, first door on the right,” she whispered. “That’s Mr. Reynolds’ studio.”
Victor ascended silently, fighting the boil of his blood. From behind the door, voices filtered through. One came from a male and the other was unmistakably Olivia’s.
