A tick appeared in his jaw. He waved a hand over the books. “You’ve found no such evidence?”
She shook her head miserably.
“It could be impossible to prove. I’ll give you the money, Olivia. You had only to ask me.”
She sighed. “That is why I didn’t come to you. I knew you would want me to have it. I won’t take it unless I know I have a right to it.”
“How will you find out? Pike doesn’t appear to know.”
“Oh, yes. Pike.” She told him about the laundress’s secret trips to Pike’s house and the man who came unannounced to Redcliffe Hall to see her.
“There might be something amiss. I’ll look into it.” He walked to the door. “And if your father was right, and I pay you? You will leave us.”
It wasn’t a question. She wanted to cry out, to tell him she hated to go. Avoiding his troubled eyes, she said, “When you have found a suitable replacement.”
With a nod, he left the room, closing the door quietly behind him.
She put a fist to her mouth to stop herself from calling out, fighting the urge to run after him, to have him hold her, and be supported by his strength. As angry as he was, she knew he wouldn’t turn her away.
He wouldn’t miss her once the house ran smoothly. Williams could find a housekeeper in York or one of the big towns. It shouldn’t be too difficult. At Christmas, Redcliffe would meet the lady his sister wished him to marry and forget ever having known her. The thwarted desire of a rake would mean little as the years passed. She frowned. That was mean and unworthy of her. Nor could she believe it of him. Was what they shared more than mere desire? It was for her. While she would never be privy to his true feelings, she sensed it was for him, too.
She returned to the ledgers in the hope of finding proof that would make matters right between her and Redcliffe. Life had to go on, and it would distract her from her anguish.
Chapter Seventeen
At his deskin the library, Dominic inspected the ball Manners dug out of his shoulder. He recognized the type. Made for a flintlock rifle and sold by Manton’s in London. He didn’t know if they were available here. Certainly, no poacher would have such an expensive rifle. But he didn’t expect the shooter to be a poacher.
Earlier, while searching the woods, he’d scooped up the gold disk half-buried in the mud on the bridle path. He’d ridden back to the house, deeply disturbed, and sought Olivia to discuss it with her. When he found her in the steward’s office searching through Pike’s books, he’d come away without revealing it.
He felt oddly cut adrift. He could discuss most things with Williams, but not this. It was Olivia, more and more he’d turned to, knowing she would listen and offer sound advice. Had he been a fool to trust her? But was it fair of him to expect her to be honest with him from the beginning? He had to earn her trust, too. And he’d failed when he kissed her.
Dominic rubbed his aching shoulder. He’d expected to wear her down, to make her see the sense of an affair. Then once the affair ended, as it inevitably would, he’d insist on securing her future, to ensure she would never have to work again. But his anticipation of a delightful liaison was a pipe dream when he knew what a determined, moral woman she was. What a blind fool he’d been to believe it, while, every day, his feelings for her deepened. And when they parted? But they would never be lovers. The thought left him strangely hollow.
He pushed his fingers through his hair. In London, periods of solitude and introspection followed the war, his brief affairs a distraction. But he realized he wanted more, a companion who shared his doubts, dreams, and his love.
His sister, Evelyn, knew better than he what he needed. To marry and put down roots, she’d told him, after he sold their father’s estate without a backward glance. He had been dismissive and thought her a romantic. Now, he saw clearly how right she’d been. Had the war changed him so much? Turned him into a cynical loner? He didn’t want to be that man.
Olivia sparked a hungry need in him, and to his shame, he’d turned their attraction into a reckless pursuit of selfish pleasure. While she, with far better instincts than he, saw what he refused to acknowledge. He had drawn her close to the edge of dangerous ground, which she would not cross.
He groaned as he considered how badly he’d handled things.
What he wanted to show her, this disturbing discovery left him deeply concerned. He shoved aside his dark thoughts, telling himself it could not be. But whoever shot him had known of his habit of choosing that path, when very few would. No one had stalked him. He’d developed an acute sense of danger during the war. It was possible he might have spied that shooter, too, if he hadn’t been concentrating on guiding Onyx over a tricky patch of ground.
Beyond the window, the rain clouds had drifted away, the sky washed a clear blue. Putting the rifle ball in a desk drawer, Dominic left the house. He walked to the stables, where his coachman must answer a question, one he’d hoped to avoid.
A gray cat atop a wall stopped cleaning its fur to observe him as he entered the stable quadrangle. Grimsby looked up from washing the coach, surprised to see him back again, as Dominic approached. “Milord?”
“Did you put Mr. Yardley down in London, Grimsby?”
“Not London, milord. He asked to be taken to his aunt’s home.”
Dominic’s throat closed. “Where?”
“Oxford.”
Disturbed, Dominic went to stroke Onyx’s black head thrust over the stall gate, Peaches resting contently on the straw beside him. George might intend to stay away from the London gambling dens for a while. To do as he promised and set his life in order. Dominic hoped profoundly this was so because it was possible for George to be back here within a couple of days. Pushing the nagging worry aside, he strode back to the house.
As he walked along the gravel drive, his fingers closed over the small object in his pocket he’d found on the bridle path near where he was shot. He took it out. The handsome button matched those on the riding coat George had worn when last here. Dominic remembered them because he’d remarked on the unusual cupid at a fountain etched into the gold. He and George had taken that route, and if a button were missing when they’d returned to the house together, he hadn’t noticed it. George hadn’t mentioned its loss either after he’d changed his clothes. He prided himself on being a dandy and was most particular about his appearance.
