seen it before. She walked to the steps and climbed inside. Considering the outside of the coach looked unremarkable, the inside cushions were clean and rather plush, with black-velvet coverings. The windows, on the other hand, could use a bit of a cleaning.
Victoria sat next to her and wrinkled her nose. ‘I shall send you home in my carriage.’
‘Nonsense, I shall take this one. It is just for the day.’
The rain from the night before had left the roads in poor condition. Even though the cushions were plush, a number of times Olivia and Victoria had to hold on to the leather straps to keep from being jostled off the bench.
* * *
During Olivia’s ride home from her sister’s the road conditions had not improved and as the carriage turned a particularly sharp corner Olivia was thrown from her seat onto the rear-facing bench. She righted herself and began to adjust her skirts when she noticed a rectangular panel had opened near her feet. Assuming it was a storage area for firearms in the event of a robbery, she bent down to close it. Her attention was immediately drawn to a wooden box inside. Curious as to the contents, she lifted it out and placed it on her lap.
Expecting to see a pistol, she was confused when she looked inside. She had seen boxes like this before. Usually, the households who favoured entertaining their guests with theatricals used them. Inside she found a small mirror the size of her palm, tufts of grey, black, and red hair, pots of glue and facial paint, eye patches and glasses with plain glass lenses. Why in the world would it be in this carriage?
She had just enough time to return the box to its hiding place when the carriage slowed to a stop at her home. By the time her footman had lowered the step and opened the door, no one would’ve guessed Olivia was riddled with questions. Did Gabriel know about this? Surely he must since the carriage belonged to them.
Striding off towards his study, Olivia wanted answers. She raised her hand to knock and then thought better of it. She turned the handle and the door swung open. The ticking of the bracket clock was the only sound to break the silence. Her gaze skimmed over his desk to the long windows and, finally, to the chairs by the fireplace. Her husband and his secretary were nowhere to be found.
Walking further into the room, she dropped down into the chair behind his desk. Her eyes travelled to the portrait of her father-in-law, which presided over the room from his position above the fireplace. The distinguished-looking man sat regally, with his chin raised. On his pinkie he wore the ring he had given to Gabriel shortly after they were married on the night he died. A familiar pair of hazel eyes stared down at her. She could almost feel his disapproval that she was sitting in his son’s chair. Well, she had a reason. His son was becoming quite an enigma.
The more she thought about that box, the more her brain filtered through the other odd things she had noticed about Gabriel over the years. The scar that Nicholas had pointed out was the most recent one. He had said it was from a fencing accident. Olivia was not convinced. There were also letters that she had seen arriving for him at strange hours of the day and night, their butler’s presence during the cleaning of this room and the times he would not be in attendance at events she was sure he would have wanted to go to.
The more she thought about it, the more questions she had.
Her gaze travelled to the silver inkstand on his desk—the only object on the polished wooden surface aside from the silver Argand lamp. When she gave a pull on the brass handles of the drawer of his desk, it didn’t budge.
Resting her forearms on the desk, she drummed the surface with her fingers. Something tugged at the back of her brain. It was as if she was staring at an unfinished portrait, unaware who the sitter was.
When she was a young girl, she had been adept at picking the lock of Victoria’s letterbox. Did she remember how it was done? She pulled out a hairpin and lowered it to the small keyhole of the drawer.
‘Olivia?’
She jerked her head up. There, in the doorway, stood Gabriel.
It was just her luck.
After closing the door, her husband advanced towards her. She was not about to show him that she was rattled by his presence. While holding his stare, Olivia dropped the hairpin. It landed silently on the rug under his desk. Thankfully, he didn’t appear to notice.
‘Hello,’ she said, folding her hands on the desk’s gleaming, wooden surface.
Her greeting was met with silence and she felt like a child caught taking sweets intended for guests. She was a grown woman. This was her home. And she should be able to wait for her husband in any room of her choosing.
As if nature disagreed, rain began to plink a steady rhythm on the windowpanes.
‘Would you care to sit down?’ she asked, rising from his chair.
From the opposite side of the desk, he held up his hand to stop her. ‘No, by all means.’ He took a seat in one of the two cabriole chairs across from her, crossed his legs and raised a speculative brow.
Slowly she sat back down. ‘I came here looking for you.’
‘And you thought I would be hiding in the drawer of my desk.’
Blast it, he did see her trying to pick the lock!
She attempted to appear composed while her heart beat wildly in her chest. ‘Why do you keep the drawer locked?’
‘Because I do not want anyone to see the contents,’ the annoying man replied, crossing his arms over his chest.
‘Why?’ she asked, mimicking his movement.
‘I value privacy.’
‘Would I find the contents shocking?’
‘That depends. Suppose you tell me what you were hoping to find and I can save you the trouble of attempting to pick the lock tonight while I’m asleep.’
‘I have no idea how to pick a lock.’
‘Forgive me if I say I do not believe you. If you do not intend to tell me what you were hoping to find, perhaps you can tell me why you are here?’
‘I sat for my portrait today.’
‘I see. And is there a reason you are telling me this?’
‘Yes, because the oddest thing occurred when I left the studio.’
His entire body stilled and Olivia was almost certain he was holding his breath.
‘Apparently my carriage was in need of repair,’ she continued, ‘and when my driver returned at the designated hour to collect me, he arrived in what could only be described as a hackney coach.’
It was refreshing to know she could still shake his composed demeanour.
‘He collected you in a coach for hire?’
‘No, I was told it was a spare carriage that we keep. They brought it out since you were using yours.’
