Fencing for Ladies (The Archer Family Regency Romances #5) (22 page)

“Very good, Lady Olivia.” He took the menus and bowed his way out.

She listened to his steady tread echo across the marble as he descended the staircase again. Although she was pleased that Cynthia had caught some of Olivia’s pleasure in the art of fencing, she was beginning to recognize some of the disadvantages, as well. Particularly as it was taking an increasingly large chunk of her time.

Well, the sooner she went to the academy, the sooner she could return to her social responsibilities here.

Upstairs in her room, she had Farmer gather up her soft curls and pin them into a tight knot at the nape of her neck to keep the wayward locks out of her way. When fencing Cynthia, good, unobstructed vision was crucial.

“Where are my new kid half-boots?” she asked the maid as she smoothed the lapels of her dark green Spencer and stared out the window of her bedchamber. Soft sunshine glittered over the hodgepodge of mews’ roofs and chimneys. For once, it promised to be a fair day, with only a few fluffy, white clouds scudding across the pale blue skies.

The short jacket would be warm enough with the addition of her thick cashmere shawl. And that light clothing would be more comfortable than her fur-lined pelisse when she was flushed and perhaps overheated on her return.

“Here they are, Lady Olivia.” Farmer held out the white boots, which Olivia had had ordered especially for fencing.

The white leather was soft and supple in her hand, and the thin soles should provide for excellent footing on the wooden floors. Olivia smiled as she draped them by their laces over her arm.

“Is there anything else, Lady Olivia?” Farmer asked, watching her with anxious eyes. She twisted her thin hands together in front of her, obviously still fearful that Olivia would decide to let her go without a recommendation.

Olivia impulsively reached out and squeezed her maid’s wrist. “No, and please, stop worrying so. I am not going to terminate your employment simply because you told Mr. Greenfield the truth.”

“Oh, Lady Olivia, I am so sorry.” She grabbed Olivia’s hand and clasped it tightly between her cold, damp palms. “I never meant to — honestly — I never would have done so. But he came up here when I was brushing the mud off your good pelisse, and he saw it fall from my hand onto the floor. I couldn’t do anything — honestly.” Her voice broke under a deluge of tears. She gulped and sniffed between gasping out in desperate phrases, “I never meant — I would never do such a thing — truly — you have been so kind to me — you must believe me!”

“I do, and you must believe me, Farmer.” Olivia hugged her before wriggling her hand out of the maid’s grasp. “I am not angry and will not let you go. Who else would make such wonderful face creams and possets? We would all be lost without you. Now please, stop this nonsense. Your future here is quite safe.”

She studied Farmer as the maid dug through the pockets of her apron and pulled out a large handkerchief. She blew her nose and murmured a confused series of damp expressions of gratitude from behind the folds of the linen square.

“You know I am innocent, do you not?” Olivia asked.

Every twitch, every sob stopped with such sharp suddenness that Olivia blinked several times. Even Farmer’s breathing desisted. In that appalled silence, Olivia knew with absolute certainty that her maid believed she had killed Mr. Grantham.

Olivia went rigid with the deep sense of betrayal. But she had told Farmer she wouldn’t let her go, and she meant to keep her word.

The only question that remained was why the maid wished to continue working for a murderess.

“Oh no, Lady Olivia. I would never believe such a thing,” Farmer said awkwardly, her eyes flicking left and right before focusing on the floor.

There was little to be gained from trying to convince her of Olivia’ innocence. Protesting only made one seem guiltier, not less. The thought had barely ceased echoing through her mind before she felt the tickle of an idea, something about the murders, that refused to coalesce. She shrugged it off. The notion would return, fully formed, when it was ready to do so. She could not force it.

“Never mind. I mended the flounces on two of my dresses, however, there is still the lace on my white satin gown that needs repairing. Please attend to it.” Olivia patted Farmer on the shoulder, grabbed her cashmere shawl, and made good her escape.

She managed to avoid the necessity of an escort by the simple expedient of brushing past Latimore in a flurry of words that granted him no opportunity to send for a maid, or one of her brothers.

Walking rapidly, she had one foot in mid-air, about to step off the curb at the first intersection, when the thought that had escaped her earlier shook her like a strong wind. She took a step back and frowned. The unpleasant notion grew stronger and terribly unpleasant.

All of her previous suspicions had centered around men, or rather one man, Mr. Underwood.

What if a woman had murdered Mr. Grantham, the way Mr. Greenfield thought she had? She remembered Cynthia shoving her during their first match. That hadn’t been the first time Cynthia had hit someone.

Her stomach churned. When they were younger, Cynthia had given one of their grooms a resounding slap across the face when she thought he grew too forward in his attentions.

What if she had gone to the academy searching for Olivia, and Mrs. Adams had let her in? She could have met Mr. Grantham — though why he was there was still a mystery — and he might have grown a bit too familiar. Cynthia could easily have misunderstood his kindness for flirtation, the same way she’d mistaken the groom’s actions.

Olivia could see the two of them standing in her office, a frown of disgust on Cynthia’s broad face. Without thinking, Cynthia could have reached out, picked up the marble cherub, and hit him over the head. Then far below, the front door creaked as Olivia and Peregrine had arrived.

Panicked at what she’d done, Cynthia might have shoved Mr. Grantham into the wardrobe. She was certainly strong enough to manhandle his body. Then, as Olivia and Peregrine walked to the main staircase, Cynthia could have dashed down the servants’ stair at the back of the house.

It wouldn’t take her long to realize she had blood on her clothing and needed to avoid being seen. If she ran into Mrs. Adams in the kitchen, the older woman would surely have exclaimed about the stains. Fearful of being caught, Cynthia might have hit her, too, with one of the old utensils left behind by the previous tenants.

Cynthia had already have been overwrought and upset over what she had done, and she never knew her own strength. Consequently, the blow might have been more than necessary to render Mrs. Adams unconscious. And again, terrified of meeting Olivia or Peregrine, Cynthia could have dragged the charwoman away and hid her body in one of the small buildings behind the townhouse.

Once rational thought returned and Cynthia realized what she’d done, she could have returned Mrs. Adams’s body to the kitchen so that it would be discovered and given a decent burial.

That would account for her lack of interest in Grantham’s journal. It had nothing to do with his death. And knowing Cynthia, her crimes had to be weighing heavily on her conscience. Perhaps that was why she wanted to see Olivia; she wanted to confess.

Wait!
She stumbled over a curb and regained her balance at the last moment.

“
Isn’t that your friend, Miss Denholm?”
The echo of Peregrine’s words rang through her mind. She and Peregrine had both seen Cynthia, striding away down the street.

So there was proof that she’d been in the vicinity of the academy when the murders occurred. The only thing that changed in her theory was that Cynthia had left before Olivia and Peregrine arrived, not after. It was an insignificant detail, and the rest fit so neatly she didn’t know why she hadn’t seen the answer sooner.

Olivia tried to find flaws, anything to prove that she was wrong. She liked Cynthia and didn’t want to think of her committing two senseless murders. There were certainly some holes, perhaps enough to give her hope that her theory was incorrect.

After all, there was the matter of Mrs. Adams’s missing key. Cynthia would have no reason to take it. That suggested that someone might have killed the charwoman in order to obtain the key, otherwise, they would have found it by now.

So Olivia could be wrong. Thankfully, someone else had to have murdered Mr. Grantham and Mrs. Adams. And she was no further along in her private inquiry, except for the feeling that she’d noticed some clue at some point and knew more than she thought she did. She only needed to let that notion float forward into the light, like a feather floating from the shadows to a beam of sunlight streaming through the window.

When the tall, gray building housing her academy rose into view, she paused, demoralized anew. She couldn’t help feeling that she’d touched off this terrible series of events when she recklessly decided to start her fencing school. She’d flouted the rules of Polite Society in doing so and had gone her own way like a refractory horse, wild and stubbornly refusing to take the bit into her mouth. All because she wanted to share the exhilaration she felt when her blade found its mark and the sizzle of excitement burning inside her.

Maybe if she hadn’t invited Cynthia Denholm to join her, Mr. Grantham and Mrs. Adams might still be alive. Even if Cynthia
weren’t
the murderer, their deaths might never have occurred had Olivia not done such a nonsensical thing.

Give in and give it up — I’ll have to, now. It’s too scandalous. I should have recognized that before this.

What was once only outrageous, was now dark and bloody with tragedy. It was time to end it before anyone else suffered. Be the sweet, biddable lady she should have been all along.

By the time she stepped up to the academy’s door, she felt coldly chastened and heavy with bleak hopelessness. Her dreams were well and truly shattered. There seemed nothing left for her to do but smile politely and conform to expectations. Marry the next fool who asked her. Forget the feel of fire in her veins, the challenges, and the exhilaration of crossing swords with an opponent.

Settle down
.
Be sensible.
The words crushed her with their unbearable weight.

Hand on the doorknob, she pushed the door open, vaguely surprised that it was unlocked. With a shrug, she remembered the authorities coming and going at random, as if staring at the filthy floorboards would answer all their questions. Reminding them to lock the door had little effect.

But though leaving the door unlocked was not the best situation, there was so little in the building to steal that it seemed silly to worry about it. Mr. Greenfield would be done soon enough, one way or the other.

Then she could hire appropriate servants, preferably a husband and wife, to take care of the property and keep it secured.

Or rather she would have found servants, if she were to continue the academy. That possibility seemed ridiculously remote.

So much I should have done
,
so many small details overlooked.

She should already have made those arrangements, but she’d put them off, thinking Mrs. Adams would suffice. Olivia sighed, drowning in guilt and shame. If she’d hired a couple as she’d initially planned, perhaps Mrs. Adams would still be alive. But the agency had sent Mrs. Adams, and Olivia had been too lazy and careless to interview more servants.

That fact simply proved she was unfit to run an academy in the first place. Unfortunately, it was too late for such regrets. But she could correct the untenanted state of the townhouse, so the place would be cared for until her brother rented it to someone else.

She’d simply have to make another appointment with the employment agency and find a suitable man and woman. Today would have been ideal, of course. Perhaps she ought to have Latimore send one of the footmen over to stay at the academy tonight. That would provide temporary help until she could hire more appropriate staff.

Walking into the dusty hallway, Olivia glanced around. The hushed silence made the building seem abandoned. A chilly breeze lifted a small curl at the nape of her neck. In the dim light, she shivered and held her breath, trying not to think about ghosts.

She cocked her head to one side, but she couldn’t even hear the whispers of shoes sliding across the floor, or the voices she should have heard if Cynthia and the Peterson sisters were already practicing.

“Miss Denholm?” she called, removing her bonnet. She dropped her white leather boots on the floor, and held her hat by the ribbons as she threw off her shawl and draped it over her arm. “Miss Peterson?”

Perhaps they were upstairs in her office. She’d left the masks and foils on her desk, not wanting to use the wardrobe again, although it had been cleaned.

Her thoughts returned to the problem of servants as she climbed the stairs. No doubt she’d have difficulties. Few would want to work here when they realized that two people had been killed in the townhouse. Many might refuse to stay overnight, for fear of being murdered in their beds. Or the horror of seeing a ghost leaning over them as they slept.

She shivered and rubbed her arms. That wasn’t the worst of it. The murderer hadn’t been found and still had the key. Even if Mr. Greenfield locked the door, the killer could come and go as he pleased. She’d be lucky if she could find anyone willing to stay here under those conditions, until she had the locks changed.