the thought she drew away so abruptly she bumped into the frame of the door and for the first time he saw real fear in her gaze and something beyond it which surprised him. Revulsion was not the usual reaction to his overtures, but then he never made overtures to proper little virgins and they never made appointments to meet him in a darkened church and proceed to tell him the world was made of cheese and rode along on the back of a turtle.
He opened the door.
‘Run along, little miss.’
She didn’t run. The blank watchdog expression returned and she drew down her veil and jumped down nimbly from the carriage, ignoring the postilion who stood by to assist her.
Olivia looked around the respectable interior of St George’s, smiling at the gall of the man.
She might not quite have Lord Sinclair’s measure, but she knew without doubt his choice of arranging this meeting in a church in midday was an ironic riposte rather than out of any concern for propriety. The man was living up to his reputation as a care-for-nobody.
Well, not quite. She had expected someone more...spoilt. Indulged and self-indulgent. Not...
Well, whatever he was.
For two days she had heard nothing from him, her already meagre hopes foundering and leaving her even more depressed than before. When her old nurse, Nora, appeared that morning in Brook Street, bearing a sealed note she said was delivered to Spinner Street by a proper footman, Olivia’s first reaction was almost stifling relief.
The relief faded a little as she read his note. It was succinct, listing nothing more than a time, a place and a bold, scrawled ‘S’.
‘At least you are prompt.’
She rose on tiptoes in surprise at the deep voice directly behind her, her stretched nerves bursting into an agitated dance. How had he managed to cross the whole church without her hearing? Blast the man for putting her at a disadvantage again. She turned, gathering her dignity. The windows were small, but the sun that broke through the winter clouds was directly overhead and sunlight bathed him like a benediction, making it clear she had missed a great deal in the darkness. Two days ago he had been a figure of the dark—a shady hulk towering over her, menacing but indistinct. Now Gypsy Sue’s words came back to her and she could understand fully why the Sixth Earl of Sinclair was referred to as the sinfully seductive Sinclair. It wasn’t merely that he was handsome. She couldn’t even get enough distance from the impact of his aura to judge his looks. It was something completely different—his presence chased away everything else, like the sun coming out from behind a cloud with sudden brutality—harsh and demanding a reaction.
She searched for her scattering wits and managed to gather enough to speak his name.
‘Lord Sinclair.’
‘Miss Silverdale.’
The silence stretched and she felt the edges of her mouth rise against her will. It must be nervousness, understandable given what was at stake. There was nothing amusing about this situation.
‘Lord Sinclair,’ she repeated, and the humour she suspected gleamed in his eyes and tugged at the corners of his mouth as well. He bowed with all the formality of a London ballroom.
‘Miss Silverdale.’
Inspired, she brandished the note she held and tossed back his words from their first meeting. ‘You sent this quaint little note?’
He plucked it from her fingers. ‘You’ve mangled the poor thing. Have you been poring over it all morning?’
Blast the man. It was close enough to the truth.
‘No, it is merely that I had to rescue it from the cat.’
‘I am sorry you had to fight over me.’
‘Over the address. There are a dozen St Georges in town and I forgot which one you mentioned. It would have been a little embarrassing to send a note to Sinclair House explaining the cat lunched on your note. I felt my pride was worth a few scratches.’
His black brows twitched together. ‘Then you are as foolishly stubborn as I suspected. You should be more careful. Did the cat really scratch you?’
She blinked at the transformation, hoping the heat she felt in her chest would not bloom into a blush. She hardly managed to make the transition from annoyance to humour and now he was undercutting her with utterly misplaced concern based on her nonsensical embellishment. She shook her head and hurried forward, trying to cling to what mattered.
‘Well?’ she asked. ‘Do you agree to help me?’
‘No.’
‘Oh. Then why are you here?’
‘Because two days ago I met a delusional young woman making outrageous claims about my father’s death. I told you I don’t like being coerced, managed, threatened or interfered with and this qualifies as most of the above. So I came here to say that should I find that you are making any enquiries that involve my family name I will stop you. Am I clear?’
‘You are many things, Lord Sinclair, not all of which can be spoken aloud in polite company. You don’t like being threatened? Well, neither do I. If you plan to stop me I suggest you begin today because aside from your delightful billet this morning I also received a request from Mrs Pendle. She assures me she is eager for another session with her dear departed and I invited her to Spinner Street tomorrow at five. So I give you fair warning I shall discuss whatever I see fit.’
She marched out of the cloistered entrance, angry with him, but far angrier with herself at the depth of her disappointment at his rejection. She had so been looking forward to sharing her thoughts with someone intelligent, and Lord Sinclair, though he might try a saint’s patience, was plainly intelligent and probably resourceful. For a moment the concern in his voice and the softening lines of his beautifully carved mouth had lulled her into believing he could be an ally.
Well, he wasn’t her ally. He was an arrogant, cloddish, opinionated...
‘Miss Silverdale! Olivia!’
Olivia froze halfway to the carriage where Nora was waiting. Of all the bad luck—the last person she expected to see in London was Henry Payton’s son, Colin.
‘Colin! I thought you were in Harrogate with your mother and Phoebe.’
‘I came to consult Mr Ratchett about the will and see about extending our mortgage. At least until probate is granted...’ His voice wavered and she reached out, briefly touching his sleeve. She knew Colin as well as her own brothers and she had never seen him so pale and beaten.
‘I’m so very, very sorry, Colin. What can I do to help?’
‘I did not mean to worry you, Olivia. We are not on our last legs, though Mr Ratchett did tell me in confidence that Sir Ivo is putting pressure on the bank to foreclose. Still, he assures me they see no need to take such drastic measures as we have always honoured our commitments and he did count Father his friend, despite the...unpleasantness. Still, I think it would be best to sell
