Fool Me Twice by Meredith Duran Page A

passed his letters onward. Olivia had stolen several of them—and one of particular interest, in which he had written to the duchess:
Concerning these “dossiers,” as you call them, I can do nothing but express my disgusted astonishment. The notion that Marwick would compile secret information on those who consider him a friend—well, it fills me with such profound distaste that I cannot express the half of it.
I cannot imagine what information he might think to hold over me. But for the sake of opposing his espionage, I will gladly support your efforts to undo him.
    Olivia did not believe for an instant that the dossier would substantiate Bertram’s virtues. He was a man too viciously devoted to his own authority. Why, when an eighteen-year-old girl had chosen to make her own way rather than live under his thumb, he had sent an assassin to crush her. Would such a man prove more virtuous in his other dealings? Whatever this dossier contained, it was likely the key to disarming him for good. She must find it.
    But it was not in this pile. As she put her glasses back on, her stomach felt twisted into knots. Thomas Moore would be combing the city for her. Meanwhile, servants talked, and she knew how they would describe their new housekeeper. A redhead who stood as tall as a man? The moment Moore caught wind of that gossip . . .
    The bookcase to her right held nothing but folders.She stared at them, debating with herself. It would take hours to comb through so many files.
    But her time, even now, was running out.
    She rose and took two folders, all she could safely conceal in her skirts. And then, steeling herself, she started for the door. Yes, she was a thief. Yes, it was wretched. But if Moore caught her, she would be dead.

CHAPTER FOUR

    “That isn’t the way we do it here!” Polly snapped.
    Olivia bit her tongue lest she retort in kind. Her day had begun in exhaustion, which was nothing new: for the past two weeks, she’d spent half of every night reading documents she daily secreted into her rooms. None of them, so far, had proved relevant to her cause. But she was becoming peculiarly, uneasily fascinated with Marwick’s personal records.
    Marwick wrote—or had written—prodigiously. He kept notes on every book he read, and chronicled his thoughts on all manner of subjects: diplomatic crises, agrarian issues, the nature of good and evil, the qualities of great men. He wrote like an angel, with an erudition that stirred her envy. She had studied Latin only for a year, and ancient Greek, never; she ended up in the library some nights, struggling to decipher his quotes with the aid of dictionaries, simply to prove to herself that she could.
    What she would not have given for a chance to study at Oxbridge! But she knew that even thoseinstitutions could not guarantee such insight as his writing suggested. How to square such elegant, astonishing work with the monster upstairs? She felt as though she were reading the memoirs of a ghost, someone whom she would have very much liked to meet while he still lived.
    This growing fascination was perverse and unseemly. But she had to search his study, didn’t she? She had to look at every document, lest she miss the single one she needed. And so, every night, she stayed up until half past two, at which point she forced herself to bed; and every morning, before dawn, she crept up to the study to purloin new material.
    Only two folders remained to be read. Cook, this morning, had very nearly caught her in the act of shoving them under her mattress. She had delivered to Olivia a list of mysteries from the kitchen: five pounds of truffles had gone missing. Where had they gone? And why was the crockery in need of repair? It had just been mended last month.
    Jones, whom Olivia consulted over breakfast, could not explain any of it. The truffles had particularly concerned him; he’d set about interviewing the kitchen staff. In the meantime, Olivia went to check on the maids and