Brenda Joyce (30 page)

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Authors: The Finer Things

BOOK: Brenda Joyce
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He turned and strode down the walk, past the orange and lime trees, climbing into his phaeton. Violette watched it drive away. She watched until the street was empty, the phaeton having disappeared.
“My lady.”
Violette’s anguish was interrupted. She faced the butler, realizing that they both stood in the street. She could not smile.
He stepped back, giving her a wide entrance into Blake’s home. Violette walked inside, glancing around with little interest at the spectacular foyer. The domed ceiling was three stories above her, adorned with the largest crystal chandelier Violette had ever seen. It had been painted in the rococo style, and a raven-haired Venus appeared to be rising from the sea above their heads, surrounded by numerous water sprites and fairy creatures. The floor which Violette stood upon was boldly marbled in black and white. As Violette’s gaze lifted she caught a glimpse of her overly pale reflection in a mirror hanging over one ornate, gilded, claw-footed side table. She appeared to be a living corpse, a very desolate one. She had never looked worse.
“My lady,” the butler said when she did not move or speak. “Might I show you to your room? May I bring you dinner? Perhaps have a hot bath drawn?”
Violette finally looked directly at Chamberlain and realized that, although his lined face was impassive, his eyes were brown, warm, and kind. Although she did not have an appetite, she nodded. “That would be fine.” Tears suddenly filled her eyes. “If you could, I would very much like plum pudding.”
“As you wish, my lady.” Chamberlain bowed.
 
Violette was awake when Blake came home. It was the next day, early in the morning. The sun was finally out, and the day was bright and nearly cloudless. Violette was taking a solitary breakfast in the dining room, which looked out on Blake’s back gardens, red and gold now with the advent of autumn. She was unable to force more than a single bite of food down, knowing that Blake had spent the entire night somewhere else. But surely, surely, he had not been with another woman. Violette was certain he would never do that.
She squared her shoulders and pretended to eat as he paused on the threshold of the dining room. “Good morning,” Blake said after a moment of silence.
Violette laid her fork down, forced a smile to her frozen lips, and turned to look at him. In spite of the fact that he was wearing the same suit he had worn all day yesterday, he did not appear either disheveled or rumpled, not at all. “Good morning.” She did not mean to ask the question, but it tumbled without prompting from her mouth. “Did you sleep at Harding House?”
He looked away from her as he went to the sideboard where he picked up a croissant and studied it. “Yes.” He then set the pastry down without eating it.
Violette’s heart skipped. There had been something odd about his reply. And she did not understand why he had not come home to his own house, his own bed. Was she a pariah, then?
He faced her, unsmiling. “I have many appointments today, so I am going upstairs to bathe and change. Including one with your solicitor.” He paused, as if waiting for Violette to comment, but she did not. So Blake continued. “So far, there have been no charges filed, but our sources do tell us that there will be charges in spite of your new status as my wife. Dodge is prepared to take care of the custody issue, so you need not worry about going to prison.”
Violette could not even manage a thank-you. She looked down at her plate. She knew that Blake continued to regard her. So she would be charged with murder after all.
And then she felt him approach. “You are having lemon meringue for breakfast?” he asked with some amusement.
She had been pushing her fork through the creamy custard pie. She felt like throwing a forkful of meringue in his face. Why hadn’t he come home last night? Where had he been?
He cleared his throat. “I will leave an envelope in your room in case you have any shopping to do today.” Still he did not walk away.
Violette refused to look at him. She shoved a forkful of lemon meringue down, where it stuck in her throat.
“We shall speak later,” he said awkwardly.
She did not reply, but looked up after he was walking out of the dining room. When he was gone she began to tremble. It crossed her mind that he might very well have spent the night with another woman. She instantly dismissed the idea as absurd.
But was it absurd? He had a reputation as a ladies’ man. She was short of breath. She couldn’t help thinking about Gabriella Cantwell, even though she had no doubt that the other woman was far too honest and elegant to carry on behind her husband’s back. But society was filled with other women who would leap at the chance to be with Blake.
Violette stood abruptly. She had no appetite. She did not think she would ever have an appetite again. Not unless things changed—drastically.
“Chamberlain,” she called.
The butler immediately appeared.
“Is there a carriage I can use?” She had to get out of this house.
“Of course,” Chamberlain said gravely. “His Lordship has several conveyances. Would you prefer a brougham or a landau?”
Violette did not know the difference. “Whatever you suggest,” she said. “I am going upstairs to get my hat and gloves. I wish to go out immediately.”
Chamberlain bowed as Violette left the dining room and went upstairs. On the third floor she slowed down, her steps faltering, as she approached her bedroom. The freckle-faced maid she had been given, a young girl of perhaps fifteen, had already confirmed that Blake’s suite—he had two rooms—were adjacent to her bedroom. His door was closed. But as she walked by, straining to listen, she knew he was inside. She thought she could hear him speaking to his valet, his words low and indistinct.
She was filled with grief. Violette moved into her room, opening the armoire. Her things had been fetched for her from her flat yesterday. Violette reached for a pale green cashmere mantle and a darker green hat, then paused. She could not help but stare at her reflection in the mirror. Her face was gaunt, somehow icy, her blue eyes appearing huge and so very hurt. Was this what Blake saw whenever he looked at her? She hoped not. She did not want him to know how much he was hurting her, how he was slowly, inch by inch, destroying her.
She turned away from the mirror, closing the armoire. She was too heartsick to go out. She did not have the desire, the energy. She had nowhere to go anyway.
She sank down on an ottoman and found herself facing Blake’s door. Would he come home tonight? She did not think so. And she should not be hurt. Because he wasn’t really her husband,
he was only rescuing her from a murder conviction.
Violette covered her face with her hands.
She heard her door opening and dropped her palms instantly, looking up to see Blake standing on the threshold that adjoined their rooms. His eyes were wide, riveted on her face. Violette hoped, desperately, that she had hidden her grief before he could see it. She stood. “You didn’t knock.”
“I thought you were downstairs.”
She stared, wishing he would go away—wanting him to stay.
He raised his hand and she saw the envelope. “The money is here. I hope it is enough.”
She could not speak. She did not want any more of his generosity—he had done enough.
He bowed. “Good day, Violette.” He hesitated. “I do not think I will be home for supper tonight.” He stepped forward and handed her the envelope, then turned around.
Her pulse accelerating, she watched him exit the room, feeling sick inside. Of course he wasn’t coming home to dine with her—why should he? She almost called him back, but somehow prevented herself from doing so.
Tears blurring her vision, she opened the envelope, expecting to find twenty or thirty, perhaps even fifty, pounds. But in it she found five hundred pounds and a blank bank draft signed by him. The cash and the draft slipped through her fingers to the floor. She didn’t want his money. She wanted his love.
BLAKE’S
office was in his bank, which was on Oxford Street. He had arrived there a few moments ago, but he sat at his massive desk in the dark, his hands clasped in front of him. His expression was grim.
He knew that he had thus far hurt Violette, and that had never been his intention, not at all. He had married her against his will, to protect her, period. But he was beginning to wonder if that was his only reason.
Blake sighed, leaning back in his chair. He was very tired; he had passed a restless night, worrying about a trial in the Lords, suddenly losing confidence. He kept thinking about how easily the inspectors had dragged Violette through the mud, and they were not seasoned prosecutors. Worse, he kept recalling
how she had looked at him that day at Lady Allister’s, as if he were some kind of superhuman man, a hero who could slay all fire-breathing dragons in her defense. And he also kept recalling her expression when he had walked into the breakfast room that morning. Bloody, bloody hell. Her hurt had been written all over her too expressive face. He could read Violette better than any book.
And if spending a single night at his parents’ had hurt her so, how would she deal with a divorce or an annulment when the time came?
He looked up at the sound of a knock on his door. His assistant, a young, enthusiastic bespectacled clerk, poked his head in. “Mr. Dodge, my lord.”
“Send him in,” Blake said, standing. In a way, he was relieved at the interruption. But his stomach also tightened with dread.
George Dodge walked into Blake’s spacious, wood-paneled office, carrying his topcoat, hat, gloves, and cane, as Blake lit several gaslamps. The two men shook hands.
“Well, the game begins,” Dodge said, placing his belongings on one large rosewood chair while taking the leather seat of its mate. “Lady Feldstone has filed charges against your wife, Blake.”
Blake stared, slowly sitting behind his desk. He shook his head. “Lady Joanna filed. Not the police. Perhaps this is good news?”
“Perhaps it shows a waning of enthusiasm on the part of the officials. The Coroner’s Inquest will be a part of the evidence, Blake.”
“Has a date been set for the trial?”
“Next Monday.”
Blake almost fell off of his seat. “That’s six days hence!”
Dodge nodded. “We have a lot to do. However, I do have interesting news,” he said.
“And what is that?”
“I have obtained a copy of the coroner’s report. Do not ask me how, but I prefer being prepared,” Dodge said with a smile. “The autopsy findings are very interesting. Sir Thomas had so much arsenic in his liver that there is no question he had ingested the poison for some time. I have showed the report to my own physician. He maintains that such a concentrated amount of poison had been administered for at least six months to a year prior to the victim’s death.”
Blake jerked, eyes wide. “Six months. Violette was married to Sir Thomas for six months. But if Sir Thomas was ingesting arsenic before their marriage, then someone else is obviously the murderer.” And that would exclude the missing Ralph Horn.
“Yes. Of course, it is impossible to decide the date the ingestion of poison began,” Dodge said. “It might have very well been within the time frame of the marriage.” Dodge regarded Blake. “Are you certain that Lady Goodwin is innocent of the charges filed against her?’
Blake prickled. “I am.”
“This does give us a chance to discover other suspects with other motives,” Dodge said. “My assistants are compiling a list of anyone with anything to gain from Sir Thomas’s death, focusing on those who knew Sir Thomas prior to his marriage.”
Blake had stiffened. But before he could speak, Dodge added, “I can tell you this with real assurance. If Lady Goodwin was purchasing arsenic during the six months in which she was married to Sir Thomas, it was not in Tamrah or a nearby village.”
“What about Horn?” Blake asked stiffly, his mind spinning possibilities—and conclusions—relating to what Dodge had previously said.
“If he was purchasing arsenic, he was not purchasing it in Tamrah, either. My runners are still interviewing druggists in adjoining towns. I prefer to be prepared, even in the Lords. Horn, by the way, has yet to return to his place of employment on the St. Catherine docks.”
“And most likely, he will not,” Blake said matter-of-factly. “Not unless Violette is cleared of these charges and the murder investigation is closed. He is a damnable coward. But”—and Blake smiled coldly—“I say good riddance.”
“Why have you taken such a firm dislike to the man? Are you convinced he is the murderer?”
“No, I am not convinced he is anything other than an opportunist and a thief.” And then he returned to the astonishing thought he’d just had. “I wonder,” he said slowly, “is it possible that Lady Feldstone, who is shouting foul play the most loudly, is the actual criminal here?”
Dodge leaned back against his chair. “I was wondering when you would ask that question,” he said calmly. “For it has been apparent to me for some time that Lady Feldstone is one of the parties who has had the most to gain from her father’s death.”
 
 
Blake had little time to ponder Dodge’s revelations or the fact that the trial was just around the corner. His assistant announced the arrival of his parents.
“My lord,” Christopher said, appearing in the doorway of the office. He appeared sheepish. “The earl and countess of Harding.”
Blake looked past his clerk at his father, who wasn’t smiling, and his mother, who was. He could guess what had brought them calling so unexpectedly. His mother did have the habit of stopping by his offices, but his father never did. He grimaced, raking a hand through his hair. “Good morning.”
The earl walked into the wood-paneled room without a word, while his mother came forward to embrace him and kiss him warmly on the cheek. “How well you look,” she marveled. “Blake, is it true? There is this wild rumor flying about town—your father was approached this morning in the park—and the rumor is that you have married Lady Goodwin.”
He looked into his mother’s surprised eyes. “And if I have?”
The countess shook her head. “My darling son. I have worried endlessly that you would never settle down, that you would actually remain alone for the rest of your life. I am surprised, but not completely. I certainly noticed the interest you have had for Violette and she for you. Of course, I am a little concerned because of your differences. Your marriage might not be easy. But I am your mother and I know you so well. You would never be content with the typical society debutante.”
Blake wasn’t really surprised by his mother’s accepting attitude. She had always been as liberal as she was generous. But he was ashamed. He did not want to tell his mother the truth about his marriage—that it would exist for a limited duration only. Blake looked past his mother at his father, who remained somber. He regarded the countess again. “Mother,” he said, “it does not really bother you that Violette has transformed herself into one of us—but that she was born Violet Cooper, that she is a product of the East End?”
“Blake, darling. Had you told me this story, had I never met Violette, I would be dismayed and frightened for you. But I have met her. I have watched her transform herself. What she has done is amazing, and should be lauded, not condemned.” The countess’s smile faded. “I only wish that Jon had never fallen over that railing, and that he could be standing here today with us, sharing this moment.”
Blake ached. “We all feel that way. We cannot give up hope.”
“I am not giving up hope,” the countess said firmly.
The earl stepped forward. “I would have appreciated being informed of this monumental event in a more timely, and more elegant, manner.”
Blake hesitated.
“And do not ask me if I approve, being as you did not bother to ask me for my blessings before the deed was done.” The earl was rather sullen. “My approval is a moot issue, obviously. But do enlighten me. When did the nuptials take place?”
Blake hesitated again. “Yesterday morning.”
“Was there a reason for such secrecy and haste?” the earl asked pointedly.
Blake did flush. “I have not misbehaved with Violette, if that is what you were asking,” he said with some heat.
“Can you blame me for thinking the worst?” the earl demanded. “For thinking that she trapped you into marriage?”
“She did not,” Blake said flatly. “But there was a reason for secrecy, and for haste.” He glanced at his mother, whose gaze was questioning. “I must be honest with you both. Please, Father, Mother, do sit down.”
His father ignored the heavy leather chair Blake gestured to, although his mother gracefully sank into the second of the pair, adjusting her wide skirts with ease.
Blake paced. “I am
not
in love with Violette.” He cleared his throat, aware of how adamant he had sounded. He softened his tone. “I did not marry her because she was the most suitable candidate to be my wife and the mother of my children. Had I chosen freely, undoubtedly I would have found some young debutante whose family we are intimately acquainted with. Someone like Catherine.”
“What are you getting at?” Richard growled.
The countess was silent.
“By marrying Violette, I have probably spared her the hangman’s noose. Father, the venue of the trial has been moved to the Lords. The trial is next Monday.” Suzannah turned white. “We must do everything in our power to see to it that there is a friendly verdict, although I hope we can somehow have the trial dismissed before we even come to that point.”
The earl nodded, crossing his arms. “So you have taken it upon yourself to rescue her.”
“Exactly.”
The two men stared at one another. “Blake, I know you are a thoughtful man. But have you really thought about what you are doing? I am not blaming Violette for Jon’s accident, but I cannot forget the part she had in it. And unlike your mother, I am more leery of her past. And now she is your wife. Yes, you were very noble to rescue her, but she is going to be the mother of your children.”
“I could not risk a trial in the Queen’s Bench. I could not let her hang,” Blake said. Tension pervaded his entire being. He knew better than to respond to the subject of Violette having his children. His father would erupt if Blake told him that neither Violette nor any other woman was having his children because this marriage was a sham and he would not marry again afterward.
“That is very noble of you,” the earl said, studying him.
Blake had the feeling that his father could see through him. “I need your help, obviously. Is there any chance we could lose a trial if there is one?”
“I shall call in a few markers immediately. I do not think my peers will convict your wife for murder, Blake. Not against my wishes. Not when we are all one hundred percent certain that she is innocent.” His father was grim.
“Good,” Blake said, relieved. But he had never doubted that his father would stand by him in this instance. The earl was a very just man.
The earl walked over to him, laying his hand upon his shoulder. “Have you told me everything, Blake?” he asked.
Blake could not lie, not to his father or his mother, but he was not about to tell them the truth. “There is not much more to tell. We are looking for the real murderer.” He smiled.
His father did not smile back. The earl, Blake knew, was aware of a gaping omission. “You have taken a big risk, Blake, and perhaps made a big sacrifice. But I am sure you are aware of it. I hope”—his gaze skewered Blake—“that she is worth it.”
Blake did not reply.

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