of you not to,” she said in a deceptively mild voice.
Bagshaw pointed a finger that was as spare as a chicken’s wishbone in her direction. “You watch your tone, young missy. I’ll have none of your cheek. I’ve a good mind to take the key and lock you in.”
Panic sparked, but Olivia refused to yield to this heady feeling of having the upper hand for once. “I don’t think Lady Charlotte Hastings, or her father, the Earl of Westhampton, would be pleased to hear Peridot was trapped in a chill cellar all night,” she said, catching Bagshaw’s gaze in the mirror. “Unless you’d like to fetch her. You can tell me how many mice she managed to catch.”
Bagshaw’s abject dislike of rodents was only marginally stronger than her dislike for Olivia. As Olivia expected, disgust flashed in the maid’s eyes. “Just be quick about it. I expect you to be back in your room before the master and mistress return home.”
“Of course,” said Olivia. She picked up her brush. “We wouldn’t want to get into any trouble now, would we?”
The slamming of her bedroom door was Bagshaw’s only response.
CHAPTER 4
No one who had ever seen Catherine Morland in her infancy, would have supposed her born to be an heroine.
Jane Austen, Northanger Abbey
16 Grosvenor Square, Mayfair
September 16, 1818
Olivia was so abuzz with nervous excitement, she didn’t sleep a wink. She couldn’t afford to. Slipping out of the house undetected, under the cover of darkness, was a crucial part of her plan’s success.
After Bagshaw’s abrupt departure, Olivia had locked the door from the inside—not only to prevent Bagshaw from bursting in while she packed but for her own physical safety. She didn’t trust Felix in the slightest, and if he decided he couldn’t trust her to stay silent about the fact that he was embezzling her money to fund his profligacy, the consequences didn’t bear thinking about.
So it was with considerable trepidation that Olivia cracked open the door to her bedroom at a quarter to five in the morning. Just after midnight, the rain had stopped, and now a pale wash of moonlight spilled in through an uncurtained window above the main stairs. Although the light was dim, she ascertained the gallery was deserted. Indeed, all was still and silent except for the wild drumming of her heart, the harsh whisper of her rapid breathing.
The servants would rise by six o’clock, so she needed to be certain she wouldn’t bump into anyone at all. After making sure her leghorn bonnet was secured tightly beneath her chin, she tucked Peridot’s empty cat basket beneath her arm and hoisted up her tightly packed valise. Her door closed behind her with a gentle snick, and then she was scurrying down the hallway as quietly as she could, wincing whenever she encountered a creaking floorboard, inwardly praying all would go well.
By the time she reached the main hall, her spirits were buoyed by the prospect of imminent success. She’d exit the town house via the drawing room—
The sound of a door creaking somewhere nearby made Olivia jump with fright, and she nearly tripped over her own feet as she scuttled into the dark drawing room. Within moments, she was unlatching the French doors and ducking through the velvet curtains onto the empty terrace.
She wouldn’t look back. Only forward. Picking up the skirts of her woolen traveling gown, she hurtled down the stairs, then across the sodden lawn, heading for the darkest shadows.
No one called out to her, but when she reached the bottom of the garden and dared to glance back, her heart nearly stopped altogether.
Someone was in the drawing room.
A candle flame flickered in the gap between the curtains. Then the glass-paneled doors rattled. A pale oval—someone’s face—floated like a malevolent moon above the candlelight.
Bagshaw!
Oh, God. Would she be caught by that terrible woman when freedom was literally only a few feet away?
Her heart crashing against her ribs, Olivia pushed past the ivy and wrenched the hidden gate open. As soon as she was through, she rammed it shut, then flung the bolt home.
For one long minute, she sagged against the cold, damp wood. Her valise and the cat basket lay in the wet grass at her feet, but she didn’t care; her knees had turned to water, and she was breathing so hard, she sounded like she’d run a mile.
And all the while, one particular thought galloped through her mind, in time with her racing heart: I’m safe, I’m safe, I’m safe.
Sleat House,