thumbed through the many letters he had written to her during their betrothal. At the time, he found himself writing to her simply to receive a letter from her in return—a letter he could read over and over again.
She’d kept them. The way she had looked at him these past five years had made him believe she had burned them long ago—probably in a bonfire on one of their estates—or while singing a merry tune, drinking bottles of wine with her friends.
But she had kept them, tied with red ribbon.
There also were pressed flowers and the elaborately designed diamond-and-sapphire brooch he had given to her as a wedding present. He recalled having the brooch reset three times before he was completely pleased with the way it looked. And now it sat in a locked box at the bottom of her wardrobe.
Gabriel placed the contents back inside their wooden tomb and made certain to relock it. Standing up, he surveyed the room again. Going back into her bedchamber, he walked over to her bed and looked underneath. There he found another box. This one was unlocked and held his correspondence with her since Nicholas was born.
There were letters granting permission to order new furniture for the drawing room, his enquiries on the state of Nicholas’s health when he was sick and notices to when he would be leaving town. She’d kept them. But these letters held no love tokens, no gentle reminders of pleasant memories. She hadn’t even tied them with ribbon.
There they sat, the remnants of the last five years of his life—efficient, impersonal and orderly. For five years he’d buried the memory of the morning Nicholas was born. Now he could see her lying in her bed, exhausted. He thought she’d never looked more beautiful. But as he’d kissed her, she’d pushed him away and began demanding he tell her where he had been. He was not about to confess that he had been in a brothel with Madame LaGrange, so he’d said nothing.
Then she began throwing things at him—anything she could get her hands on that was close to her bed. He was so taken aback by this unprecedented outburst that he was stunned into silence.
She told him she had no wish to speak to him or let him touch her ever again. Gabriel was not the type of man to demand conjugal rights of an unwilling wife. So for five years he’d left her alone, waiting for a sign that she had forgiven him. It had appeared in these last few days that she might have found a way to move past his supposed indiscretion. Now that was the least of his concerns.
There was nothing here. He’d looked everywhere and there was no evidence that Olivia had plotted anything with the artist. She considered Prinny a friend. But she had known where he would be the day the shots were fired. Part of him believed Olivia could never intentionally harm anyone. But another part of him knew anything was possible.
* * *
Andrew walked into Gabriel’s study looking like a man who needed to spend a week in bed—and not in the company of a woman. His eyes were glassy and he blinked a few times from the opposite end of Gabriel’s desk as if he was having a difficult time remaining awake.
‘I hope this is important enough to have James drag me here when all I have is a desire to crawl back into bed,’ Andrew said.
‘I take it you had a late night?’
‘Hart ran off and left me to play cards alone with Prinny until sunup. I believe I owe him a decent sum, but I could not tell you for certain since I think I fell asleep in the middle of the last hand.’
‘I spoke with Prinny this morning. He appeared no worse for wear.’
‘Yes, well, I imagine he went to sleep when I left. I, on the other hand, had a meeting with Mr Donaldson of Bow Street, apprising him of the investigation, followed by a meeting with Colonel Collingsworth. Yet again, he offered the services of the Guards should we have need. I had finally fallen asleep, when James came knocking upon my door.’
‘I believe I know who the man behind the assassination attempt is.’
That appeared to have woken Andrew up. ‘How? Is it anyone I would have heard of?’
‘The artist, Manning, supplied Prinny’s whereabouts to Mr Clarke.’ Gabriel’s hands grew clammy as he said it out loud for the first time.
Andrew’s eager expression fell. ‘Are you certain? Olivia’s Mr Manning?’
Gabriel curled his right hand into a tight fist. ‘He is not Olivia’s Mr Manning.’ He took a deep breath. ‘I want to believe she is not involved in any of this, but I never thought our uncle would do what he did. Olivia knew where Prinny would be the day of the shooting. She was the one who told him not to take the royal coach. Hell, she even arranged the meeting.’ He rubbed the back of his neck.
‘If what you are saying is true, she will be charged with high treason. You are her husband. She could possibly implicate you, saying it was done with your directive.’
‘I am well aware of the law, Andrew. There is no need to remind me.’
‘What will you do?’
‘We need proof Manning is indeed the man we are looking for. I want to know his comings and goings. If he leaves, I want him followed.’
‘I take it you would like my assistance in this?’
Gabriel nodded. ‘Devise a schedule for the watch. Have the men report to you and come to me the minute you uncover anything. Should you have enough evidence to take him into custody, bring him to the house in Richmond. We will hold him there for his interrogation. I want him far from the Tower and the danger that is there.’
Andrew stood. ‘Of course.’
‘And, Andrew, do not breathe a word of Olivia’s connection to the man to anyone.’
* * *
Olivia was convinced it had been hours since anyone had uttered a word in Manning’s studio. Didn’t they realise how boring it was to lie still for this long? She opened her eyes and focused on the chipped wooden frame of the large mullioned window. From this angle, she could see the tops of the trees in Hanover Square. Unless someone was planning on climbing any of them, nothing outside held her interest. Surely it had to be close to the time they’d agreed her sitting would end?
Her friend had been uncharacteristically quiet for most of the morning as he painted. She had no desire to interrupt his concentration. Her sister was another matter.
‘What are you reading, Victoria?’ Olivia called out to where she assumed Victoria was still sitting on the sofa near the door.
‘Nightmare Abbey by Thomas Love Peacock.’
Olivia stifled a laugh. ‘Truly? What possessed you to read such a thing?’
‘Who could possibly pass by a book by someone named Love Peacock? It is rather satirically amusing. I’m rather enjoying it. You may borrow it when I am finished, if you like?’
Olivia’s right arm began to grow numb and she wiggled her fingers. The sound of a page being turned broke the silence of the room. Was it possible to die of boredom?
‘You might want to mention to Lady Nettleford the next time you are together that I spoke to Prinny regarding her ball. I expect he will be attending.’
Victoria sighed and closed her book. ‘You realise if I do mention it to her, she will talk of nothing else.’
‘Yes, but she tends to become all befuddled around the man. Perhaps this will give her time to prepare herself.’
‘I thought he was suffering with an unusually severe bout of the gout. Do you think he will be recovered in five days?’
He was completely recovered, as far as Olivia could tell. It was perplexing why he continued to maintain this ruse, but she had long given up trying to understand Prinny’s motivation on most things.
‘I believe he will be well enough by then. Please be sure to inform her that he is partial to lobster cakes.’
‘I shall