You did break into her chamber and rifle through her belongings.
But this regret he had already expressed.
Oliver grimaced when he recalled her remark about apologizing without saying the actual word. Perhaps he should sincerely apologize while saying the word? Perhaps purchasing a trinket or some such would help? No. Lady Louisa struck him as the sort of woman who appreciated sincerity above any form of flattery. Actions, not words.
Just let it go, then.
What else could be done?
Oliver glanced over to the barman. “The Duke and Duchess of Talbot.” He waited until the man glanced over before he asked, “What can you tell me about them?”
“Not much.” The barman shrugged, grabbing two empty glasses from the counter and placing them aside. “The likes of them will never set foot in this place.”
True.
“But I hear whispers,” the man said, sidling up to him.
“And what whispers might those be?”
“That the duchess beats her husband.”
Oliver scoffed. Preposterous. A man such as Talbot would never take a beating from his wife. Few men would. “Forget I asked.”
The man laughed. “I also hear they are traveling the coastal towns at the moment.”
Coastal towns? Now that was interesting. A coincidence, perhaps?
Oliver made a mental note to send some of his men to investigate. It could be nothing, but given the secret women’s club’s proclivities, he had his doubts.
In any event, he still had to retrieve the book. A morning would give Lady Louisa more than enough time to find the book she’d lost. His gaze darted to the clock. An hour past midnight. He hadn’t left the house too long ago. How many more hours until he would receive word? Eight? Ten? Twelve?
Too damn long.
Oliver wanted to retrieve the book and then leave Ashford as soon as possible. He didn’t want to wait around. If he got recognized and word got to Talbot that he was lingering in Ashford, there was no telling what the duke or duchess might presume—and, as a consequence, what they might do.
And Talbot would do something.
Like blocking another one of his initiatives in Parliament.
A thorn in his damn side. Prickly, itching, and one he couldn’t seem to pluck out. True, he had his own connections to deal with these sorts of situations, but that didn’t mean he’d actively go out of his way to aggravate this thorn.
He glanced at the clock again.
Should he just patiently wait for her note?
No.
Normally, Oliver prided himself on his patience. He was very good at waiting—that he could do. What hecouldn’tdo was sit idly while he waited.Thatwasn’t in his nature. What about Lady Louisa’s nature? How would she react if she discovered these dealings of her stepmother’s? How far would she go to aid him? A novel thought. An attractive one. She seemed to be the person best situated to help him get to the bottom of such things. She wouldn’t be a bad ally to have on his side to search for more evidence.
And she didn’t seem to loathe his Cavanagh blood like the rest of the family. But then, she didn’t seem to remember who was behind her kidnapping ten years ago.
May she never find out.
Chapter Three
“Where in theheavens is that blasted book?”
Louisa straightened from where she peered beneath the last couch in the drawing room. Not that she ever believed the book would be under the furniture, but not searching there would have bothered her much more. If she hadn’t looked there, she would have then been forced to endlessly wonder whether sheshouldhave looked if only to prove to herself that the book wasn’t there.
