Still chuckling over something Mrs. Tumsen had said, Cook lumbered to his feet and held a meaty hand out to Violet. “Roper, you silver-tongued devil. You managed it, after all.”
“Miss Smythe!” Mrs. Tumsen sprang unsteadily to her feet. “I so hoped you would come. Sit, sit! Have some tea. Or rather, have a teacup with a bit o’ Cook’s whiskey to take the edge off.”
Laughing, Violet declined the whiskey and allowed Mr. Roper to seat her at the table. In short order, the chips were distributed, the deck shuffled and dealt, and the noise level at least double its previous pitch. By the time the flask was empty, and the majority of the whist points stacked in Mr. Roper’s and her favor, she was startled to catch sight of the clock’s hands marking half-midnight.
“Have we really been playing for four hours?” she asked in surprise. Her eyelids were drooping, and her cheeks ached from laughing.
“We’ve been playing,” Mr. Roper corrected drolly. “These two have paid more attention to their teacups than their trump cards. As much as I enjoyed having a partner with a head for the game, next time we’ll have to oppose each other if we’re to have any competition at all.”
She jerked upright. “Next time?”
Alarmed, Cook jabbed his empty flask in her direction. “You will return, will you not? At least once a week, you’ll find us right here in this very room. We’d love for you to join us.”
Violet’s insides warmed. “I would be honored.”
Chapter 15
A week later, Alistair still could not scrub the passionate embrace with his daughter’s governess from his mind.
At first, their occasional interactions took place in awkward silence. He, from embarrassment over his shameful behavior. She, for perhaps the same reason, although in her case it was in no way deserved. She was a woman, and he a man. She was a servant, and he the employer. She was a miracle-worker, and he a monster who had taken advantage of the moment. She had meant to comfort. He had wanted more.
He shoved his chair back from his desk with a sigh. What he wanted was not to be had. Until Lillian was cured and his family restored, he had no right to even think about his own selfish desires, much less indulge them. And avoiding the innocent Miss Smythe was hardly beneficial. He knew what living in Waldegrave Abbey was like. By increasing her solitude, he likely had also been increasing her misery.
He pushed to his feet. He had lost his wife, and very nearly his daughter, and if he was not careful, he would soon lose the new governess as well. Perhaps, even now, she was planning to leave. Agitated, he threaded his fingers through his hair.
It had been over a month, had it not? She had surpassed the terms of their verbal arrangement. He had tried to make her stay here as comfortable as possible—and, certainly, he had not pressed his attentions on her anew—but what advantage could Waldegrave Abbey possibly offer over the thousand better situations available to a young woman? Particularly when he could hardly deny her a heartfelt recommendation, should any future employer ask for references. He doubted she could say the same. The barest moment in her company, and he was drowning in the memory of their stolen kisses, lost anew in the curve of her eyelashes or the curl of a chestnut tendril against her throat. He was abhorrent.
What kind of man took such liberties with an employee he was honor-bound to protect? What kind of father mauled his daughter’s teacher? What kind of husband dreamt not of the beloved wife buried out behind his window, but of a woman who mere weeks before had been an innocent stranger seeking only a moment’s shelter?
Yet he had to make her stay.
She had given Lillian something that all his money had failed to buy. Hope. All he had ever managed to bring his daughter were roses. Such a trite, worthless gesture: flowers. When what he truly wanted to give her was a cure. An answer, a potion, a magic trick from Satan’s own hand—he would gladly sell his soul in exchange for the freedom of his daughter’s.
He would not consider himself a success until the day he could finally take Lillian for a walk in the sun. But at least he’d managed to bring something good into her life.
Miss Smythe.
An angel in her own right, the heaven-sent governess was an unceasing marvel, from the moment she blew through the front door to the daily miracles she wrought upon Lillian. The clawing, biting, desperately unhappy child that the superstitious servants of four years ago had feared a witch or a vampire, was now almost eerily well-behaved. She spoke with politesse, did simple sums in her head, and could recite the capital cities and royal families of every country in Western Europe. Even the maids were willing to attend her once again. All because Lillian worshiped the very deserving Miss Smythe.
Alistair quite worshiped her himself.
He consulted his fob. Afternoon lessons should be coming to a close, which would make this the perfect time to let her know about the small hope that still shone on the horizon: the upcoming meeting of minds, here at Waldegrave Abbey. Dozens of invitations had been sent. Less than half had responded. A fraction of those had agreed. But the handful of scientists and great thinkers that had condescended to spend a weekend debating potential remedies for acute sunsickness were among the greatest minds in all of England. Perhaps, this time, a cure could be found.
Perhaps it would finally be his turn to bring about a miracle.
He tossed his pince-nez upon the meager stack of accepted invitations. If he was to maximize the potential of this meeting of the minds, he ought to ensure Miss Smythe’s presence. Although she was no royal physician or renowned scientist, she had more than proven her ability to understand Lillian’s needs.
However, he must take care to remind her that as far as the rest of the world was concerned, Alistair was the afflicted party. The visitors could never learn of Lillian’s existence or the severity of her condition. He would not risk the loss of his daughter to science.
He’d read enough journal articles to know there was no limit to the experimentation performed in such laboratories. Subjects often perished from blood loss or adverse reactions. Those who lived were never the same. Alistair would rather die than see Lillian harmed in any way.
He rose from his chair and strode from his office to the corridor—only to collide with Roper around the first corner.
“My apologies.” He gave a distracted nod and eased past his manservant.
“The apology is mine, master,” Roper returned. “I was in too great a hurry to see you.”
“Me?” Alistair frowned in confusion, then shook his head. Of course, him. Were they not but a dozen paces from the office door? And, upon closer inspection, was that not another missive upon the silver tray? “Thank you, Roper.”
Alistair slid the folded parchment into his jacket pocket and continued on his way. No sense going back to his office just to add another layer to the pile of mail upon his desk. Not if he was still hoping to catch Miss Smythe. Besides, it was likely yet another refusal to his scientific conclave. Bad news could certainly wait. Right now, he needed to focus on how to handle Miss Smythe.
Or, rather, how to handle himself so that he didn’t frighten off Miss Smythe.
Lillian needed her governess, and Alistair required Miss Smythe’s... brain. He would simply take care to be polite, gentlemanly, and—and employerly.
There she was; just stepping from the catacombs. Wispy curls brushed against her slightly flushed cheeks, her blue-violet eyes shining as if she’d just come in from the afternoon sun rather than having only just emerged from the dank tunnels. She seemed almost... happy. He could not ask for a more opportune moment.
“Miss Smythe,” he called. “If I might have a moment of your time?”
When she spun to face him her eyes were so alive, so merry, that his breath caught. The only coherent thought his brain managed to form was that she was an incredibly lovely young woman. The sort who managed to bring sunshine to each day even when there was none to be found.
And then the pleasure in her eyes vanished. One look at him, at t
he blackguard who employed her as governess with one breath and then attempted to employ her in far more wicked pursuits in the next, and any hint of happiness was gone. Her gaze and face were once again unreadable. The only light in her eyes now was from the reflection of his candle, flickering just as lifelessly as a cold flame upon the glass eyes of a doll.
“My apologies,” he found himself saying for the second time in a row. “I did not mean to startle you.”
She neither accepted nor rejected his apology, choosing instead to tuck her fingers beneath crossed arms as if struck with a sudden chill. “Mr. Waldegrave. May I be of service?”
“If it is no burden, I do have a favor I would like to ask of you.” He tried, and failed, to read her expression. What could he do to bring back that joy? “It is also time to deliver your wages.”
Her eyes narrowed slightly. “For next month?”
He gave a quick nod and reached for his coin purse rather than continue searching her face for clues. Either she accepted her wages—implicitly accepting another month’s employ—or she would make clear her intent to terminate their arrangement, having already fulfilled her half of the bargain.
He withdrew his coin purse. “Here you are, then.”
She hesitated a touch longer than he might have hoped, then unfolded her arms and held out a hand. The palm was stained a deep red, as if she’d been picking raspberries, and the cuff of her sleeve held hints of cobalt and aquamarine. Perhaps she feared chastisement for having gotten ink on one of the new gowns he had purchased. Far from angry, Alistair was more than happy to provide whatever she might need. He’d order a dozen more gowns or a thousand more paints, if they would be of use.
He shook a handful of sovereigns into her palm. When her hands automatically curled to cup the coins, he noticed the edges of her fingernails were tinged a subtle green.
He smiled despite himself. “An art lesson today?”
“No.” She frowned at the pile of coins as if able to determine the value of its contents by weight alone. “This is sixteen pounds.”
“Yes.”
“I earn two pounds per week.”
He shrugged lightly. “You’re worth two people.”
Her hand trembled. “You left plenty of coin the day that we... The last time you were in the schoolroom.”
“You’re worth every cent,” he interrupted, embarrassed anew. “I realize I am not the best employer and, quite possibly, among the worst of men. I cannot apologize enough for my inexcusable attempt to... compromise your integrity. I have sworn not to repeat the offense, and I have kept my promise. Will you not stay another month?” When she did not immediately respond, Alistair took a deep breath. Men did not beg. Yet for his child, he would do anything. “Not for me. Stay for Lillian. Please.”
Miss Smythe’s internal thoughts remained inscrutable. One edge of her mouth quirked briefly, as if tempted to smile, but her eyes looked more haunted than happy.
“Not for you,” she repeated softly. “For Lillian.”
Not sure how else to respond, he simply nodded.
After a moment, she lowered her gaze to the jumble of sovereigns in her hand. Slowly, she transferred them from the right hand to the left, as if not at all convinced sixteen pounds was worth the burden of Waldegrave Abbey.
Just when he was about to offer twenty or fifty or any quantity she might desire, she nodded her agreement. He swore he could hear angels singing.
“Thank you,” he said with a quick smile, his heart lighter than it had been in weeks. She would stay. Thank God, she would stay. “You won’t regret it.”
The fleeting arch to her brows indicated she already quite regretted it, but Miss Smythe blessedly tucked the coins in her pocket without further recrimination. “And the favor?”
“Right.” Alistair tapped the breast pocket containing the latest bit of correspondence. “A half-dozen scientists and surgeons are meeting to discuss potential cures for sunsickness. I admit to being very hopeful we all can finally step from the shadows.”
“But that’s wonderful!” This time, her smile was full and genuine.
“Thank you. In the meantime, I am trying to keep a clear head. Even if genius strikes, I am not certain how long it will be until Lillian is cured—”
“And you, of course.”
“Both of us.” He rubbed the back of his neck. Although not precisely what she meant, she was absolutely correct: the only thing that would cure him was a cure for Lillian. “But I would like someone else present who has Lillian’s best interests in mind. Namely you, if you don’t mind. Just please recall that no one may know of my daughter’s existence, so it is important to always speak as if I alone am the sufferer of the sun allergy. And—”
“Me?” she interrupted with a nervous laugh. “I cannot possibly attend. No, it is much better I stay and take care of Miss Lillian while you are off at your meeting. How many days will you be gone?”
“One weekend. But I won’t be gone. I’ll be here.”
She frowned. “But you said—”
“The cabal is here. I cannot leave Lillian.”
“Here?” she repeated in horror. She glanced over her shoulders as if half expecting the wall sconce to rain scientists upon them. “In Waldegrave Abbey?”
“I am aware it is no castle,” he rejoined stiffly. “But please understand my position. I cannot leave my daughter, nor can I—”
“I know, I know, you cannot withstand the sun,” she interrupted, her eyes closing briefly as if in pain. “I don’t know why I was thinking you’d be traveling to London or somesuch when you cannot even go to market... but dear God. A party? Coming here?”
“Not a party. A meeting of England’s finest minds.”
“From... Town?”
“From all over.”
“All over.” Miss Smythe groaned, shook her head as if arguing internally, then reached into her pockets. When Alistair saw her removing the sovereigns she’d sequestered within, he jumped backward as if they’d been electrified.
“Keep the coins. I will not be accepting your resignation. If you’ve no wish to join me for a few hours in my quest to help Lillian—”
“I have every wish to help Lillian!” she burst out. “I just... ”
He leaned forward. “Just what?”
“We’ll discuss it later. I need to think.” She lowered her eyes and glanced away. “If you please.”
Alistair didn’t please at all, but he held his tongue.
Her eyes as dark and as fathomless as the night sky, she pressed the fistful of coins to her chest and turned to go.
He might have stopped her. He considered it. Wished to, in fact.
But before he could decide if reaching out for her would be unwise and going after her the most foolish act of all, she was around the corner and gone.
His shoulders thumped hollowly against the door to the catacombs. He was still a fool. With a sigh, he reached into his waistcoat for the letter. Perhaps it wasn’t a refusal after all. Perhaps another one of England’s brightest minds would be joining the conclave at Waldegrave Abbey. Lord knew, he could use some good news.
He popped the wax seal with his thumb and unfolded the parchment. A square, unsigned message stood out in stark black letters.
“We know what you’re planning, and we know what godlessness you hide. Stop, or we will send your evil back to hell. You have been warned.”
The edge of the paper crumpled in Alistair’s suddenly sweaty hand.
He had suspected—nay, he had known—that the few madmen amongst the local villagers became more suspicious with each passing year, but this, this was a problem. This was a direct threat. It had reached him here, in his home. Where he was supposed to be safe. Where his daughter was supposed to be safe.
Who had sent it? What was it they thought they knew? And what lengths would they go to stop him?
He turned and rested his clammy forehead against the bleak chill of the catacomb door. God help him. All he wanted was
to be a good father. To cure Lillian. To give her the world. Fourteen short days until strangers arrived at the abbey. Would he finally be helping his daughter, or was he putting her at even greater risk?
Chapter 16
Violet quietly let herself into her bedchamber. For better or for worse, Mr. Waldegrave had just handed her precisely what she needed to finally act.
Enough funds to start over elsewhere.
She seated herself at the escritoire. Carefully, she pulled open the top drawer. Beneath the feather, the inkwell, and the dozen sheets of parchment, layers of shiny coins lined the bottom of the drawer.
Thirty pounds, ten shillings, four pence were hardly Croesian riches, but the sum was more than she would have earned in an entire year at the Livingstone School for Girls. Violet hadn’t the least idea how much a good barrister might require to take on her case, but surely this was enough to secure one’s attention.
She placed the blank white sheets to one side of the desk and unfolded a single page of now-worn parchment. Earlier that week, Mrs. Tumsen had compiled a list of London barristers at Violet’s request, no questions asked. Now that the names were in her hand and a growing pile of coin secreted in her escritoire, it was past time to solicit some answers.
First, she must introduce herself and her case as generically as possible. She hoped lawyers would not gossip about their clients’ business, but she was not yet anyone’s client. She required a London barrister partly for the legitimacy it would bring to her case, and partly in the hopes that news from the north had not yet arrived to prejudice their minds against her. All the same, she could hardly pen a dozen written confessions and send them about Town along with her signature and current address. Miss Smythe she would continue to be, until it was time to sign a contract.
Too Wanton to Wed: Gothic Love Stories #4 Page 13
