An Affair Without End (49 page)

Kilbothan swiveled back and found Fitz training a second gun on him.

“I suggest you go sit down on that stool,” Fitz continued, waggling the gun toward the stool behind the counter.

With a sneer, the other man did as he ordered, flopping down on the high stool and glaring at Fitz, his arms crossed over his chest. “She’s not here. No matter how many times you hit Brookman here, he won’t tell you where she is. He can’t; he doesn’t know.”

Oliver, paying no attention to the drama going on around him, reached down and hauled the jeweler to his feet. “Where is she?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Brookman gasped. “I’d never hurt Lady Vivian. She’s my best customer.”

“I know about the loupe.” Oliver reached in his pocket and pulled it out, holding it up so the man could see. “There’s no use lying. You’ll only make things worse for yourself by hurting Lady Vivian.”

Brookman grabbed for the loupe, but Oliver jerked it back out of his reach. Brookman looked at him cagily. “Perhaps a trade might be in order?”

Oliver looked as though he might hit the man again, but he set his jaw, visibly bringing himself under control. “I think a search of your shop is in order.”

He took Brookman’s arm and whirled him around, shoving him toward the door into the rear of the shop. Fitz
stayed behind, his gun trained on Kilbothan, as Oliver, Gregory, and Camellia followed Brookman into the back of the store. Pirate trotted after them. Oliver kept a firm grip on Brookman’s arm while Camellia and Gregory searched the office and workroom. When they found nothing, they marched up the stairs. Room by room, they went through it, ending up finally in the bedroom.

“You see?” Brookman asked somewhat plaintively. “She’s not here. Now, if you were to give me back my property, I might—”

“I’ll put the bloody thing in your casket with you if you don’t tell me where Vivian is right now!” Oliver roared, doubling his fist.

“Oliver!” Gregory, who had wandered over to the bed, bent down and picked up something. “Look at this.” He held out a strand of fiber. “Doesn’t this look like a bit of rope?”

“Really, gentlemen, this is beyond everything!” Brookman began, then jumped at the sound of a sharp bark behind him.

“Pirate, hush!” Camellia said automatically.

Oliver, however, swung around and looked at the dog. Pirate was standing facing a blank wall across from the bed. His rear end was wriggling, his stump of a tail wagging. He let out another bark or two before he trotted over to the wall and sat down in front of it, lifting a paw to scratch at the wall.

“Here.” Oliver all but threw Brookman to Gregory and strode over to where the dog sat.

The other three watched Oliver as he rapped his knuckles against the wall in several spots, then ran his fingers lightly over it. “There’s a crack here. I think this wall is hollow.” He swung back to Brookman. “There’s a hidden space here, isn’t there? Open it.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Oliver turned to Camellia. “Did you happen to bring your knife this time as well?”

Camellia reached into her pocket and wordlessly extended the knife in its scabbard. Oliver took it, whipping out the small but lethal-looking weapon from its case. Striding over to Brookman, he took him from Gregory’s grasp and shoved him hard against the wall, twisting his arm painfully up behind his back to hold the man still.

“Now.” Oliver’s voice was emotionless and implacable. He raised the knife, laying the point just beneath the other man’s eye. “Tell me where the catch is to open that hidden door, or I am going to take you to pieces, bit by bit, starting with your eyes.”

Brookman began to tremble so hard that the point of the knife pierced his skin a little and blood began to trickle down his cheek. “B-behind the wardrobe. Waist high. There’s an indention; just stick your finger in it and pull.”

Oliver released him and returned to the wall, where Pirate sat patiently, reaching up now and then to scratch at the plaster. Oliver slid his hand behind the wardrobe until he found the indention, then pulled. A lever popped out, and a section of the wall opened. Vivian lay on her side in the narrow room, her hands and feet bound. Another small section of rope, obviously cut, lay on the floor beside her, along with a hatpin.

“Vivian!” Oliver went down on one knee beside her limp form, lifting her up. “Wake up. My love, are you—”

She turned her head, her eyes still closed, and let out a little sigh. A red, abraded spot was on the side of her face that had been turned away from them. It was already beginning to swell. Higher up, beside her temple, was another reddened swelling.

Oliver whipped his head around, murder in his eyes. “You hit her!”

“No! No!” Brookman gibbered, cringing away as far as he could with Gregory’s hand clamped around his arm. “It wasn’t me! It was Kilbothan!”

“Oliver?” Vivian murmured.

He turned back. Vivian’s eyes fluttered open.

“Oliver!” she said again, and smiled faintly. “You found me.”

“Of course I found you. Did you think I wouldn’t?”

“I was a bit worried.”

His laugh was shaky. “It’s all right now. You’re safe.” He bent to press his lips to her forehead and murmured, “I’ll take you home, love.”

Vivian leaned closer to the mirror above her vanity table, turning her head for the best view of her bruises. As bruises went, she thought, they were magnificent. A bluish purple stain spread across her cheekbone, with a distinct line of dark purple beneath her eye. The bruise at her temple reached down so that the two almost met, giving it the look of one continuous mark. All around the bruise and down that side of her face almost to her jawline, her skin was swollen, giving her a faintly lopsided look.

She looked, she thought, as if she had been in a mill. Of course, she supposed that she had been. She poked tentatively at the bruise and was rewarded with a twinge of pain. Not as sensitive as it had been yesterday morning, however, so there was hope.

The bruise gave her an eminently reasonable excuse for not going to Admiral and Lady Wendover’s ball tonight. No one would expect one of the leading beauties of the
ton
to appear at a major function looking as if she had gone a few rounds at Gentleman Jackson’s Boxing Saloon. It had also given her a perfect reason for staying in her room and not going down to greet Oliver when he came to call yesterday
and today. She could not, she told herself, bear to let the man she loved see her like this.

But that, she knew, was not the real reason she wouldn’t see Oliver—or, rather, like one of those intricate puzzle boxes, the true cause of her discomfort and confusion was hidden within that reason. She could not bear to face Oliver
because
he was the man she loved. For days she had been tiptoeing around the idea, her mind skittering away from the truth whenever her emotions brought it to the forefront. But the other night, when Oliver had pulled her out of the dreadful little closet, when he had wrapped his arms around her and told her she was safe, all her defenses had simply melted away. Her whole being had been filled with love.

It had been wonderful. There was no denying that. She had lain in a blissful daze in his arms as they drove home. Snuggled against his chest, his strength and warmth all around her, the rumble of his voice beneath her ear, the steady beat of his heart, she had known that he did not need to take her anywhere. She was already home.

However, the next morning, when she woke up, she had realized how dreadful her situation really was. Far more painful than her bruises was the knowledge that she loved a man who did not love her—who would never love her. Oh, yes, he had called her “love” when he discovered her—and he had proven more than once that he desired her. But a careless word spoken in the heat of the moment was not a true indicator of his feelings. And passion was not the same thing as love.

Vivian was not the sort of woman with whom Oliver would fall in love. She was flighty, impulsive, rebellious, careless of others’ opinions of her, and given to thoughts and behaviors that went against what was accepted. In short, she was the opposite of Oliver. While she might have fallen in love with Oliver despite all those things, Oliver was far too
reasonable and practical a man to make the same mistake.

He wanted a woman who matched him in outlook, taste, and intellect. He had told her so. A sedate and settled woman—tactful and modest, with a firm moral sense. Definitely
not
someone whom he regarded as a hoyden—and who had proven the instability of her moral fiber by entering into an affair. It wouldn’t matter that the affair had been with Oliver himself or that she could not now imagine doing such a thing with anyone but him. Men, in her experience, did not think that way, especially someone as staid as the Earl of Stewkesbury.

The sad truth was that Vivian did not know what to do or what to say to Oliver. How could she see him, knowing how she felt about him, and not give herself away? How could she continue in this affair, loving him without being loved in return? She had set out the rules, had blithely been sure she was uninterested in love or marriage. She had insisted on an affair without entanglements.

Now she wanted to break all those rules. She didn’t want to see him whenever they could manage it without anyone’s knowing. She didn’t want to pretend in public that they were simply friends, with nothing romantic between them. She wanted to be with him all the time, to see him at the breakfast table, to feel him lying beside her in bed at night, to laugh and talk and share their lives. She wanted, in short, to be married to him.

It was impossible. Unthinkable. Vivian knew that. But it was also unthinkable to simply keep on with their affair, knowing how everything had changed. Neither could she bear the thought of cutting herself loose from him, ending their affair and not seeing him again. Every avenue that presented itself to her led only to heartbreak. So she had simply refused to face it, taking to her bed and telling the maid that she did not feel well enough to see Lord Stewkesbury.

It had been cowardly, and it had made her so lonely that she had wound up crying into her pillow anyway, which was, she told herself, unbearably foolish.

It was also cowardly, she knew, to use her bruises as an excuse for avoiding gossip. But she was doing that as well. She had realized yesterday that no one had called upon her all day long except for Oliver, Eve, and Camellia. It was most unusual, especially given that her disappearance at the Cumbertons’ party had been announced to one and all by Dora Parkington. Vivian would have expected to have had several gossip-loving women of her acquaintance dropping in to find out exactly what had happened.

Since they hadn’t, she concluded it must mean that she had finally done something so outrageous that she was in disgrace with the beau monde. It had taken some doing, but she had wormed the truth out of Eve and Cam today when they came to visit her again. Vivian’s escapade had become a major scandal. Not only had Vivian left the party alone in the company of a man, but she had also spent a good part of the evening alone in the man’s living quarters. Worst of all, that man was not even a gentleman, but a person engaged in trade.

“The vultures!” Camellia had exclaimed, her cheeks flushed with anger. “I told them that you had been abducted! It wasn’t as if you’d chosen to do it. And Lady Penhurst said that only made it worse, that you wouldn’t have gotten into the situation if you weren’t always putting yourself into precarious situations.”

“I suppose she’s right about that,” Vivian had said with a shrug and a smile. “What can one do? That’s the way people are.”

Inside, however, she could not feel quite so unaffected by the matter. Vivian had flouted convention for years, and she had never gotten into serious trouble for it. She supposed
that she had come to feel that she could do what she wanted with impunity. She had shrugged off Oliver’s warnings of what could happen, believing him to be too fussy, too staid. But he had been right. Vivian had finally gone beyond the bounds of what the
ton
would accept, even if she was a duke’s daughter.

She could not help but wonder what would have happened if she had gone to the Wendover ball tonight. There would have been talk, of course—a great deal of it. She would have had to face down whispers and sideways glances and looks of barely contained glee from those who had long wished to see Lady Vivian finally get her comeuppance. Was it possible that she might even be given the cut direct?