Free Fencing for Ladies (The Archer Family Regency Romances #5) by Amy Corwin Page B

glanced at Lord Milbourn, his sharp eyes were fixed on Mr. Greenfield intently, although the negligent lines of his body might lead one who didn’t know him well to believe he was disinterested.
    “They will, indeed,” Mr. Greenfield concurred agreeably. He studied her thoughtfully for a moment and pulled a small black book from his pocket. Several pieces of paper had been shoved inside, although they didn’t precisely fit, and their ragged, crumpled corners stuck out. “But I have been hired by Mr. Grantham’s relatives to look into the matter, and I feel it important to provide them with a full report.” He cleared his throat and glanced at her. “What time did you arrange to meet Mr. Grantham at the academy?”
    Olivia’s back tightened. She straightened. “As I already stated, I did not arrange to meet Mr. Grantham there, or anywhere, for that matter.”
    “This is not your handwriting?” Mr. Greenfield extracted one small piece of creamy notepaper from his book. He held it out to her between two fingers.
    “What is that?” Olivia’s heart fluttered, pounding against her breastbone. Her clasped hands remained locked together in her lap. She recognized the small sheet as a piece of paper from the private stock she kept in her writing desk.
    He waved the note and nodded to her. “Please, Lady Olivia, perhaps you should examine it.”
    She reluctantly took the note and unfolded it. One quick glance was enough to warn her of the contents. She held it in her lap and gazed at Mr. Greenfield in silence.
    “Is that not your handwriting?” he repeated the question.
    “Of course it is my handwriting,” she said. Her chin rose.
    “It says —” Mr. Greenfield started to say before she cut him off.
    “I can read it quite well,” she said. “It says, Wednesday, Academy . What of it?”
    “We found it in Mr. Grantham’s pocket, Lady Olivia.” Mr. Greenfield held out his hand for the note.
    Lips compressed, she handed him the piece of paper, proud to see that her hand did not shake.
    “If you did not intend to meet him at the academy, why did you send him that note?” Mr. Greenfield asked.
    Behind him, Constable Cooke’s grin widened. He rocked from heel to toe, gazing at her with all the pleasure of a hangman viewing a job neatly done.
    “I did not send him that note — it was on my desk.” She gestured toward the escritoire. “It was a note to myself. I meant to add more to it, but I forgot.” Olivia rubbed her temple and then, aware of all the men watching her, she slowly lowered her hand. “I was distracted. There was a great deal to do for a project of that sort.”
    Mr. Greenfield nodded. The sympathetic, thoughtful frown on his face and soft expression in his pale blue eyes were obviously meant to reassure her, to convince her to confide in him. But he was slowly and cunningly leading her into a trap.
    She could sense the noose dangling in front of her, just waiting for her to slip her head through it.
    “How do you suppose he got that note?” He carefully tucked the paper back into his black notebook.
    She watched him with a growing sense of desperation. “I have no idea.” A sharp pain behind her right eye jolted her. She started to raise her hand to rub her temple again before she caught Mr. Greenfield’s gaze. She clasped her hands together. “I started that note, as I indicated, and left it on my writing desk.” She gestured at the desk again. “As I stated.”
    “When was that?” Mr. Greenfield asked.
    “Several days ago.”
    His cold blue eyes sharpened. “How long ago? Do you remember?”
    “I — I believe I started the list Monday. That would have been the eleventh, would it not?” She glanced at Lord Milbourn.
    He nodded, but he offered her no assistance. She could read nothing from his bland expression.
    “Then you have no explanation for the presence of your note in Mr. Grantham’s pocket?” Mr. Greenfield’s question could not hide the implication that she had