out of the house and finding a pawnshop seemed like an impossible feat. It might take days to arrange.
And she wanted to leave now. Tonight.
Would that Charlie or Lady Chelmsford were here. Or Sophie and Arabella.
But even then, would they be able to protect her? She was only twenty, and as Uncle Reginald was her appointed legal guardian, he effectively controlled every aspect of her life. Even if she sought sanctuary with one of her friends, the courts would surely rule that she had to return to his care. She’d loved her father with all her heart, but he’d clearly been remiss in appointing his brother Reginald as her guardian.
She needed a place to hide, but she had nowhere to go.
Despair stole the air from Olivia’s lungs. There really wasn’t anything she could do.
A bullying gust of wind caught at her skirts and cloak and blew icy needles of rain into her face. Standing about in a dark, rain-swept garden wasn’t going to help. Besides, she needed to find Peridot.
She followed the gravel path to the end of the garden, all the while calling Peridot’s name, but the cat didn’t emerge.
Had she decided to explore the environs of Sleat House again?
At least she wouldn’t have to scale a wall to gain access to Lord Sleat’s garden this time. Olivia glanced back at her own house; light spilled from various windows, but she couldn’t see anyone. Thank goodness Bagshaw was still at dinner. Olivia estimated that she had at least another half hour up her sleeve.
After she’d pushed aside the curtain of dripping ivy, Olivia felt for the gate’s iron handle and tugged. To her surprise, it swung open quite easily. Perhaps Lord Sleat had asked his gardener to oil the hinges.
Picking up her skirts, she rushed across the damp lawn through the rain, heading toward the soft golden glow of candle and firelight emanating from the drawing room’s French doors. Peridot didn’t respond to her calls. The panic that had been drowned by fear for her own safety returned full force. She prayed with all her heart that Peridot was all right.
Although it was bordering on improper, it certainly wouldn’t hurt to question Lord Sleat—if he was in, of course. She trusted he wouldn’t mind the intrusion. Failing that, his staff might be able to lend assistance.
Once Olivia gained the terrace, she could clearly see the sumptuously decorated drawing room, as the curtains hadn’t been drawn.
All the beautifully carved oak chairs were upholstered in silk damask or dark brown leather. The floor was carpeted with a fine Turkish rug, and a gilt clock and Derbyshire Spar vases graced the veined marble mantelpiece. But not a single thing caught her attention as much as the unexpected tableau of domestic bliss by the fireside. For there, upon a wine-colored sofa, sat Lord Sleat and a sleeping child—a girl with spun-sugar curls and rosy cheeks.
And resting on the girl’s lap, looking as content as could be, was Peridot.
Even though giddy relief whooshed through Olivia, she couldn’t help but mutter a curse. “Little minx.”
CHAPTER 3
O, what a tangled web we weave
When first we practice to deceive!
Walter Scott, Esq., Marmion: A Tale of Flodden Field
Sleat House, Grosvenor Square
Hamish’s shoulders rose and fell on a heavy sigh. Praise be to God for the next-door neighbor’s curious cat.
Wee Tilda had been well-nigh inconsolable for hours . . . until the tortoiseshell puss wandered onto the terrace as evening fell. As soon as the girl laid eyes on Peridot—at least Hamish thought that was the cat’s name—her distraught sobs had quickly turned into sniffles. Indeed, her tears all but dried up when the cat sidled up to her and rubbed its cheek against the child’s chubby forearm. In fact, Tilda had been so comforted by the simple presence of the animal, she eventually fell asleep beside him on one of the drawing room sofas.
To say that Hamish was grateful would have been an understatement. Leaning back against the sofa’s cushions, he studied Tilda’s bright cap of curls; in the light of the drawing room fire, they shone like the amber brown stones at the bottom of a sunlit burn.
Was she really his daughter?
He had no bloody idea. He’d been going over the list of women he’d bedded four or five years ago, but it was a fruitless, frustrating exercise; there were far too many to count. And it was hard to think when suffering from a megrim. The pain persisted, but like Tilda’s crying, it, too, had