The Price of Desire. Jo Goodman

at her eyes did not diminish the effect. Her knuckles left pronounced color in an otherwise pale complexion, emphasizing violet shadows beneath her eyes and lending them a bruised, injured look.

      Her ginger-colored hair, a fiery problem to be contended with on any given day, had escaped the moorings of all three tortoiseshell combs so that far too many strands were licking at her temples, forehead, and nape like flaming tongues. She raised one hand to make an adjustment, intending to smooth and secure the firestorm, but let her hand fall back to her side when it occurred to her it was too small a gesture and far too late in coming.

      The scratching at the door was insistent. Olivia moved slowly in that direction. It was disconcerting to realize that her palms were damp, a condition she noticed when she attempted to press out a wrinkle in the bodice of her day dress. The fold only existed because the incongruously bright, apple-green gown hung on her frame in a way it had not done since she stood for its fitting. She unfastened the grosgrain ribbon beneath her breasts and tied it again, this time more ruthlessly than her maid had done earlier. With the bodice snugly secured, she squared her shoulders and made to reach for the door handle. At the last moment she stopped and reached for the shawl that had been thrown carelessly across a nearby chair. She could pretend at least that she was chilled, when in truth she had a need to hide the collarbones that four days of almost no nourishment had made prominent.

      Olivia steeled herself as she opened the door. It was in every way a condition of the mind. Her limbs were in fact trembling.

      “Yes, Mrs. Beck?”

      The housekeeper bobbed her head once. “Begging your pardon, but there’s gentlemen come to inquire after you. I thought I should tell you myself.”

      “Thank you. That was good of you.” Olivia’s own maid, to demonstrate her self-importance, had a regrettable tendency to say things she ought not in the servants’ hall. Chastisement had had little effect on Molly Dillon, placing Olivia in a position of releasing the girl from service or guarding her own tongue in Molly’s presence. Against the advice of Mrs. Beck, Olivia had become more circumspect and Molly remained employed.

      “Gentlemen, you say?” asked Olivia. Her mouth was dry, but she resisted the urge to lick her lips. “How many exactly?” Had her father sent them? It was the question uppermost in her mind, and she couldn’t pose it to Mrs. Beck without giving more of herself away than she ever had to Molly Dillon.

      “Two.” There was a small hesitation. “I can’t be certain, but I think they might be from Bow Street.”

      “Runners?” Olivia was glad she’d had the foresight to keep one hand on the door frame and the other resting on the handle. The tenacity of her grip made her knuckles briefly turn white. “Alastair, then. They’ve come about Alastair.” She felt no relief at the thought. As much as she feared they’d come for her, that outcome was preferable to the one that seemed more likely.

      “I’m thinking that’s so.”

      Olivia nodded absently while she considered what she must do. “Show them to the drawing room. I will receive them there.”

      “As you wish.” Mrs. Beck bobbed her head again and turned to go, only to be brought up short by Olivia’s entreaty.

      “Have you a sense of what their purpose might be?”

      The housekeeper had drawn up her apron and was twisting the hem in her hands. Anxiety deepened the careworn lines around her eyes and mouth. “I can’t say. I tried to get a word from them, but they are like the sphinx, all stone and silence. They don’t seem entirely comfortable, I know that. I can’t make out what it means, though.”

      Olivia’s breath caught, imagining the very worst.

      Mrs. Beck shook her head vehemently. “And you shouldn’t make it out to be something that it is not. Oh, I wish I’d left well enough alone.” She turned on her heel and this time fled.

      Olivia closed the door and leaned against it. There was nothing for it but that she would have to meet her visitors. She might fear what they would say to her, but she had to hear it nevertheless.

      Returning to the cheval glass, Olivia made the adjustments to her hair that she had been too weary—no, too discouraged—to make earlier. Fixing the combs in their proper position did not greatly improve her appearance, but at least she no longer looked as if she’d just tumbled out of bed. In truth, she’d never been to it, having spent the night sitting in a chair by the fireplace with her feet resting on a hassock.

      Olivia applied a bit of powder to her nose and made a swipe under her eyes. The bruised look was marginally erased. She pinched her cheeks to good effect and pressed her lips together to raise a modicum of color.

      Her nostrils flared slightly as she took a deep breath. Releasing it slowly, she pronounced herself fit enough to greet strangers, though in no wise of a mood to converse at length. She hoped these runners—if 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