Robin Lee Hatcher (30 page)

found walker and olivia stop will await
you in weiser idaho stop send instructions
care of weiser hotel stop o’reilly

Remington didn’t betray me to my father.
She covered her face with shaking hands.
He didn’t lie about loving me.

Tomorrow morning she would go to him. Tomorrow she would tell Remington she loved him.

Tomorrow.

Thirty

OLIVIA AWOKE WITH A START. Anemic morning light peeked around the window curtains, announcing the coming of dawn.

Remington!

Tossing aside the blankets, she slid her legs over to the side of the high poster bed. Her hair tumbled into her face, and she pushed it back with an impatient hand. She didn’t ring for Sophie, intending to dress herself. There had to be something in her wardrobe she could manage without the help of her maid.

She hurried across the room and stirred up the fire on the hearth, adding more fuel. Then she performed hasty morning ablutions in the connecting bathing chamber. From her vast wardrobe, she chose a dark blue gown with buttons up the front of the bodice.

Hurry. Hurry. Hurry.

Her bodice fastened, she turned to the mirror and picked up her hairbrush, knowing she would never be able to dress her hair as Sophie would.

Remington likes it braided.

She smiled. Remington liked her hair in a braid, and so did she. With brisk strokes of the brush, she swept the tangles from her hair, then wove it into one thick plait, tying the end with a ribbon. How natural and wonderful it felt. And she no longer saw Olivia Vanderhoff staring back at her from the mirror. She saw Libby, and her heart sang with joy because Remington loved Libby Blue.

Still wearing his evening attire, Remington watched from the window of his bedchamber as dawn spilled shades of pink and lavender across the clouds on the horizon. He watched it and wondered when he might hear from Libby
again.

“Father watches my every move.”

He turned away from the window, raking the fingers of both hands through his hair. He shouldn’t have let her leave the Camerons’ home last night. He should have dragged her, if need be, back to his place. He should have held her and kissed her until she couldn’t think of anything but him.

When would he see her again? How could he discover her thoughts if they couldn’t meet?

Church! This was Sunday. She would be at church.

He glanced at the clock on the mantel. The Vanderhoff women attended the Presbyterian church no more than a dozen blocks from his brownstone. He’d learned that bit of information when he first took Northrop’s case. It was equally well known that Northrop never darkened a church door, having no use for religion. If Remington hurried, he could arrive before the service began.

Libby placed the dark blue bonnet on her head, her thoughts far away. She imagined Remington’s face as she told him she was sorry for not trusting him, for not believing him. She could almost feel his arms as they encircled her and brought her close against him.

With a sigh of expectant pleasure, she walked to the bedroom door, turned the knob, and pulled. The door didn’t open. She felt a sudden heaviness in her chest as she tried it again.

The door was locked—from the outside.

Her heart skipped. This couldn’t be happening.

Once again she twisted the knob and yanked. Again and again and again.

“No,” she whispered. “No. No. No.”

From the other side of the door, she heard a deep chuckle.

“Father, what are you doing?”

“Your wedding day has been moved forward, and I’m making sure you’re here to enjoy it.”

“Father!” She pounded on the door with her fist. “Father, open the door!”

“I can’t, Olivia.”

She forced herself to be calm. She wouldn’t let him hear her panic. “I have never given you reason to believe I won’t marry Lord Lambert. Please, open the door. Mother is expecting me to join her for church.”

“Your mother isn’t going to church today. She has too many things to do in preparation for your wedding next week.” His voice grew deeper, closer. “Olivia, if you think you can refuse to marry the viscount when the time comes, do consider what might happen to Mr. Walker. There are so many calamities that could befall him in this city.”

She closed her eyes and wilted against the door.

“Just consider it, daughter.”

She heard him walk away. “No,” she whispered again. She slowly slid down the door until she sat in a puddle of blue skirts on the floor. “You can’t do this. You can’t.”

Remington’s gaze searched every pew, but neither Libby nor her mother were in the sanctuary. She may have been absent for a dozen good reasons, but uneasiness nagged at him as he slipped out of the church when the service was over.

As he headed down the sidewalk toward home, he remembered the way Libby had looked last night, the way she watched him as he told her everything. He’d seen a spark of hope in her eyes, a willingness to believe, as she listened. He knew she still cared, whether or not she was willing to admit it. She would contact him after she sorted things through. He had no reason to feel apprehensive. She would send word when she was ready to see him. All he had to do was wait.

Unfortunately his disquiet wouldn’t leave him. It grew with every step he took.

Something’s wrong . . . Something’s wrong . . .
The words played through his head, unrelenting, insistent.
Something’s
wrong . . . Something’s wrong . . .

By the time he reached his brownstone, he’d resolved to see Libby today, and the only way he knew to do that was to pay a visit to Rosegate.

Libby heard the key turn in the lock and rose from the chair near the fireplace. A moment later Sophie entered, carrying a breakfast tray.

“Your father sent something for you to eat, Miss Olivia.”

Ignoring the maid, Libby hurried toward the door. If she was especially careful, she might be able to—

“It’s no use, Miss Olivia. Your father has someone watching the door. A mean-looking sort, he is, from Mr. Vanderhoff’s warehouse.”

Libby’s heart sank, but she refused to give in to despair. She would find a way out. She had to get to Remington. She had lingered too long in apathy.

“Sophie, you must help me,” she said in a low voice as she faced the maid.

The girl shook her head, eyes wide. “I can’t. Your father warned me what would happen if I did. I’m a poor girl. I can’t afford to be turned out without references.”

With a sound of frustration, Libby walked to the window overlooking the street. She wondered if she could climb down the side of the house. If only there were a ledge or a balcony or even a covered porch! But there was nothing but a sheer, three-story drop to the ground.

There must be some way.

A black carriage with its bright green trim pulled to the curb in front of the Vanderhoff mansion. Remington! He’d come for her.

She tried to twist the window latch, but it was stuck. “Open,” she demanded as she saw Remington descend from the carriage. As if in obedience, the latch turned.

Before she could call out, hands gripped her upper arms and yanked her backward. “You’re to stay away from the window, miss.”

She twisted, trying to see the watchdog her father had sent to keep her, but the man shoved her toward her bed. She tripped and fell facedown into the unmade bedding. She heard his chortle as he left the room, closing the door behind him.

“Sophie—” She struggled to her feet but fell silent when she discovered the maid was gone too. She hurried to the door and tried to open it, even though she knew she would find it locked.

The butler led Remington along the dark-paneled hallway toward the back of the house. Libby’s father awaited him in a cavernous room, the walls lined with bookshelves, the floor covered with ornate carpeting.

Northrop rose from the chair behind a massive oak desk as Remington entered the study. “Mr. Walker, I didn’t know you’d returned to Manhattan.”

Liar.
“I’ve been back more than a month now.”

Northrop feigned surprise. “You have? Then why haven’t you sent round your bill for the rest of your fee? I’ve been expecting it.”

“I haven’t sent a bill because I don’t want your money.” Remington watched Northrop frown, certain the older man took exception to his tone of voice.
That suits me fine.
“I’ve come to see Libby.”

“My daughter’s name is Olivia.” Northrop sat and motioned to a chair opposite him. “And she isn’t receiving visitors.”

Remington didn’t sit. “She’ll see me.”

“And why is that, Mr. Walker?”

“Because Libby knows you lied to her. You can’t force her to marry the viscount. She’s an adult, and she can make her own choice.”

“She
has
made her choice. She and the viscount are to be married next week.”

“Next week? But the newspaper said—”

“The newspaper made an error.”

Remington pressed his knuckles against the desktop. “Then let Libby tell me that for herself.”

Northrop leaned back in his chair and eyed Remington as if he were a cockroach on the carpet.

“Unless you’re afraid, of course,” Remington added softly.

The pendulum in the grandfather clock ticked off the seconds.