that’s what they were—had come without expectations.
Although she approached the drawing room as she imagined the wrongfully condemned approached the gallows, upon opening the door Olivia managed a gracious though somewhat grave smile.
“Gentlemen,” she said easily, “I am consumed with curiosity as to your presence in my home. I hope you mean to enlighten me quickly as I am obliged to visit Lady Fontanelle for elevenses.”
Neither man spoke for a moment, although they did exchange unreadable glances. Olivia was not at all certain Mrs. Beck was correct in her estimation that they were from Bow Street. For one thing, they dressed rather better than the runners she’d seen mingling with crowds at Vauxhall Gardens or strolling in and around Drury Lane after the theatres released their patrons. These gentlemen wore clothing cut from a different cloth; frock coats that looked as if they’d been tailored to fit comfortably on broader shoulders, waistcoats that did not hang too loosely nor strain the fabric around Corinthian physiques.
The gentlemen were of an age and attitude that reminded her of Alastair. It occurred to her that they might be his intimates, though caution kept her from advancing this assumption.
“Mrs. Cole.” The gentleman with russet-colored hair and a nose that looked to have been broken, perhaps several times, made a slight bow as he stepped forward to separate himself from his companion. “I am Stephen Fairley. I was instructed most particularly to speak to you.”
Olivia wondered how that could be. He was under the misapprehension that she was Mrs. Cole. She did not correct him. “And so you are, Mr. Fairley.” She glanced in the direction of his partner. “You, sir? Were you similarly instructed?”
“I was. Patrick Varah, Mrs. Cole.” Mr. Varah’s clipped blond hair fell across his sloping brow as he bent his head to make his introduction.
Olivia had no intention of making them easy in her presence. She certainly was not easy in theirs. Crossing the room to the small tea table near the fireplace, she deliberately chose a path that forced her visitors to make way for her. Divide and conquer, she reasoned, was always a wise course, even if the effect was short-lived.
“Please state your purpose,” she said, turning on them.
“It’s thought that you’ll already have some notion of that,” Mr. Fairley said carefully. “But I was told that if it must be refined upon, I should say that we’ve come on the matter of a certain emerald ring and a debt of considerable consequence.”
Olivia was glad of her foresight to put the table at her side. By placing her right hand on the polished cherrywood top, she was able to keep herself upright. “I see,” she murmured. No other response occurred to her. Her mind had become a perfect blank slate.
“You’ll want to fetch your pelisse and bonnet,” Mr. Varah told her. “Gloves, also. The air is bracing. I shouldn’t be surprised if it snows this afternoon.” When she didn’t move, he prompted rather gently, “You understand we’ve come for you, don’t you? It’s expected that you’ll return with us.”
She nodded once, slowly, though there was no real comprehension behind the movement. Her head ached abominably.
Mr. Fairley took a small step toward her, one hand raised as though to offer support. “Perhaps you should sit.” He glanced at his companion. “It cannot hurt to wait for her to recover her wits.”
In other circumstances, Olivia would have taken umbrage with Mr. Fairley’s characterization of her as witless. The sad truth of the matter, she reflected, was that he had named the thing correctly. When Mr. Varah slipped a claw-and-ball-footed chair behind her knees, she dropped like a stone. The gentlemen hovered momentarily, uncertain, then backed away. She drew a deep, settling breath.
“Rest easy, sirs. I have no intention of fainting.” She glanced up in time to witness their relief. Clearly they were not prepared for any reaction from her save for acceptance and cooperation. It made her wish she were given to brief moments of blissful unconsciousness just to test their mettle. High drama did not suit her either, so there would be no wailing or wringing her hands. She resisted even the small urge to press one hand to her forehead, thinking it was precisely the sort of gesture that was overdone on the stage to convey moments of great anxiety.
“I must know about Alastair,” she said quietly. “The ring means nothing, the debt less than nothing, if you cannot tell me how he fares.”
Mr. Fairley cleared his throat, betraying his discomfort. “I can say, quite truthfully I promise you, that when last I saw your husband he was having a run of good luck at cards and in fine spirits.”
Olivia could not divine the exact meaning of that. It seemed to her there was a greater truth that Stephen Fairley was neatly sidestepping. The phrase “in fine spirits” resonated with her, prompting her to wonder if Alastair had been deep in his cups. “You are not from Bow Street, are you?”
“Certainly not,” Fairley said, bristling slightly at the suggestion.
As if to ward off a similar insult aimed at him, Mr. Varah interjected, “We are friends of your husband, come to do him a favor.”
“I doubt that,” Olivia said.
Fairley offered an alternative description. “Amiable acquaintances. I could not say whether your husband counts any man as his friend.”
Olivia pressed her lips together and nodded briefly, satisfied Mr. Fairley was in every way more accurate than his companion. “I imagine you play cards at the same table now and again. Mayhap place wagers on the horses.”
“Yes.”
Taking this in, Olivia tightened the hands folded in her lap. “Did you know him at Cambridge?”
“I did,” said Varah. “Fairley here was an Oxford man.”
“He told you he was married?” asked Olivia.
“Never breathed a word of it, Mrs. Cole. Fairley and I only learned of it this morning when we were called upon to perform this small service.”
“A service, is it? No longer a favor?”
“It can be both,” Fairley said. “And it is. I hope you will believe me when I say that your cooperation will be of considerable benefit to your husband. I imagine it is the very thing he is counting on.”
Olivia made no reply and allowed silence to settle heavily around her. She drew a modicum of comfort from it as though it were as tangible as the shawl about her shoulders.
After several long moments, Mr. Varah tread lightly into the quiet, tipping his head toward the door. “We should be off, Mrs. Cole. Shall I ring for the housekeeper? You really must dress for the weather. The hack can provide but a thin shield from the wind.”
Stoic and graceful, Olivia stood. She forbade to answer Mr. Varah but crossed the room and rang for Mrs. Beck herself. She made no attempt to leave their company in order to prepare for her departure. It occurred to her that she would not tolerate well the humiliation of not being allowed out of their sight. Mr. Fairley and Mr. Varah had been unfailingly well mannered, but she did not mistake that it meant they trusted her. Indeed, she suspected they had been cautioned against it.
For Olivia it was further proof they did not comprehend the nature of her relationship with
