Fool Me Twice by Meredith Duran Read Free Book Online

was sober even now—then liquor had no role in his wickedness: the evil was native to him.
    She would not let him hear her shock; she sensed it would gratify him too much. “Then what were you ringing for, if not alcohol?”
    His slight pause suggested surprise. And then, with a note of mockery, came his reply: “Bullets.”
    Her courage shattered. She groped desperately along the wall for the door. She fled through the sitting room into the hallway, where Jones—a true coward—stood waiting. “Well?” he asked anxiously.
    She shook her head and walked past him, hugging herself. Whether, with his last remark, Marwick had been trying to frighten her or only telling the truth, she could not say. But if it was the latter . . .
    Jones fell into step at her heels. “Shall we send up a bottle?”
    “Several.” And put hemlock in them.
    The thought was too black, too horrifying; she felt appalled at having entertained it. But had she spoken it, Jones probably would not have been shocked. By his lack of surprise, it was clear he’d given up on his master sometime ago. He had only humored her tonight as a matter of form.
    Yet as she reached the ground floor, she found herself remembering the look on the duke’s face. His disgust after he had punched the wall. It had been an ugly look, at odds with the treacherous beauty of his features.
    She realized she was touching her lip. She scrubbed it with her knuckles. He was a bully, a lunatic. She should not spare a thought to what haunted him. There was no possible earthly excuse for his behavior.
    But she did know the reason for it. She had read the duchess’s letters. And as much as they had shocked and revolted her, she could only imagine what effect they’d had on Marwick.
    How she wished she hadn’t read them! For this sudden, fleeting sympathy was undeserved by him, and ridiculous of her, and . . . the very opposite of armor.

CHAPTER THREE

    When Olivia woke the next morning, it was to a creeping feeling of doom. She could not even trace it back to Bertram, for it descended from above, from the room where the Duke of Marwick stewed in his villainous lair.
    She breakfasted in the privacy of the sitting room attached to her sleeping quarters. Through the walls came the muffled conversation of the staff taking their meal at the long table in the gallery. To her ears, the gabble seemed muted, bereft of its typical boisterousness. Perhaps somebody—probably Vickers—had spread word about last night.
    When she stepped out to give the maids their duties, her suspicion was confirmed. Polly, Muriel, and Doris greeted her very meekly, and as they filed out, Muriel whispered, “You’re very brave,” before dashing off.
    Brave? Vickers must have gotten a garbled tale from Jones. Olivia did not feel brave at all. She felt, all at once, oppressed. The duke was not her concern. He could live or die as he wished.
    Indeed, as long as he lived until she had a chance to search his house, she would be content.
    That is awful, she thought, scowling. She did not really mean it. She was not wicked. She did wish the best for him—even if he did not deserve it.
    Snapping out of her reverie, she found herself paused on the stairs. The tumult within her had drawn her to a stop— exactly the kind of inaction she could not afford.
    Today, she resolved, she would begin her search. For tomorrow, no doubt, the maids would rediscover their contempt for her, and begin to flirt with the footmen again, luring them into dark rooms where Olivia had rather not be discovered, nose-deep in the duke’s belongings.
    *  *  *
    All summer, the garden had hummed. From the darkness of his bedroom overlooking the flowers, Alastair had listened to the cacophony. Bees knocking into the window. The rattle of squirrels playing along the ledge. In the early morning, the birdsong leaking through the panes had woken him in a fury, his head pounding.
    He’d wanted nothing of summer. This house would be his