She'd never seen a man sit with his boots up on a desk
before. Such a pose was something one might expect from a
naughty child but not a grown man of forty-four. If that
was Deverell's age. No one seemed to know for sure, not
even Mr. Chalke. He did have a scattering of silver
sprigs about his temple and a few weathered lines scored
into his face, but nothing else seemed to fit a man of
his purported age. This morning he had shaved, adding to
the inappropriately youthful appearance.
When he used his riding crop to scratch down inside one
boot, Olivia didn't know where to look. The casual
impropriety of the gesture seemed quite unconscious on
his part, as if no one had ever troubled him with what
was, or was not, the "done thing".
"I've seen you before somewhere, woman," he muttered
suddenly.
"Yes."
"Where on earth would I have seen you? I don't usually
forget a face."
"Well, it was a long time ago. And to be frank, I don't
believe you saw my face. I didn't see yours either."
At once his gaze re-established that playful twinkle.
"Now, I am intrigued. What parts of me did you see?"
She felt the urge to laugh, but held it strictly down.
"Mostly your big feet. When I was eighteen, I often
assisted at my father's office. You tripped over me there
one day when you had an appointment with Mr. Chalke."
"I did?"
"You trampled some important papers, stepped over me, and
never apologized."
"Ah. How much do you want?" He reached into his desk as
if to hand over some bank notes or gold sovereigns there
and then.
"What can you mean, sir?"
"I know how women hold bloody grudges. I suppose you've
let that fester away for years and now you came here to
make me pay. So how much does a lady charge for the
inconvenience of being stepped over?"
She couldn't tell whether he was serious, or merely
teasing her again.
"I don't do well with apologies," he added. "So I'd take
the money, if I was you."
"Sir, I had entirely forgotten the incident until now."
Just after three o'clock in the afternoon, Tuesday, March
12th, in the year 1832.
He wore a long, midnight blue coat, beautifully made;
buff colored gloves, grimy at the finger tips; and top
boots of very rich looking leather. He had smelled of
tobacco, brandy and spice. Of adventure, and daring, and
everything forbidden. For those few moments her heart,
like an over-wound pocket watch, had stopped...
Olivia bit her lip, turned away and stared out of the
nearest window. A pointless exercise since there was
nothing to see but that colorless cloud of fog. And, of
course, his reflection. She was unable to escape the man.
Again, Olivia thought of last night in the kitchen, when
he let her mistake him for the handyman Jameson, and she
had been struck by the overwhelming strength of his
presence. Like the first time they collided with each
other, she felt a connection, which was quite ridiculous
in light of who he was.
She wished it had been possible to forget their first
encounter, but now fateโ in the bent and wizened shape of
Mr. Chalkeโ had brought them together a second time. It
was a jolly good thing Great Aunt Jane was no longer
alive.
"You are a girl with a dark and devious imagination,
Olivia Westcott. I cannot think what will become of you."
"I shall marry Mr. True Deverell, shan't I? People say
he's not fit for polite society either..."
"I see something through my window amuses you, Mrs.
Monday."
She straightened her lips. "Your son returns to school
today, sir?" she asked, changing the subject.
"Yes." He sighed gustily. "The brat could do very well
there if he only applied himself more to his studies. But
he thinks he can do without school. Arrogant chit."
"He seems very...confident. I'm sure you and your wife
are proud."
Behind her, Deverell exhaled a taut huff. "He's not one
of my wife's litter. Damon is the younger of my two sons
by a mistress, Emma Gibson. When she died I brought both
boys to live with me."
"Oh." Only a man with Deverell's excessive wealth and
audacity would launch his illegitimate children into the
world without even trying to mask the truth, without
shame or apology for not marrying their mother.
She turned away from the window and faced him boldly. "It
is a curious nameโ Damon. I do not think I ever heard it
before."
"Greek. Loyal friend to Pythias, for whom he was ready to
sacrifice himself."
"You are a student of Greek mythology, Mr. Deverell?"
He smiled at her, head tipped back against the leather
chair. "I am a student of life, Mrs. Monday."
"Life?"
"Stories. I love people's stories. Don't you?"
His smile was pleasantly crooked. Olivia could see how
some might find it alluring. Even infectious. "I never
really consideredโ"
"For instance, yours, Mrs. Monday." His eyes simmered,
like cool winter sunlight on ripples of icy water. "I
would wager it's most interesting."
"Why?"
"A young, sensible woman like you, abandoning
respectability to put yourself under my roof. What could
have driven you here to me? What secrets lurk behind
those big, round eyes of yours?"
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