by Dare, Tessa
The kitchen went silent.
“Is someone there?” a man asked.
Violet knew that voice. It belonged to Sir Lewis Finch.
Christian kept one hand firmly clamped over her mouth, but his other arm slowly slid free of her waist. He reached for something.
The knife. As he lifted it in the dark, she saw its point gleam sharp and bright.
“Don’t be frightened,” he whispered. “I’d die before I’d see you hurt.”
Oh, no. No, no, no.
Now her heartbeat raced his, pounding frantically.
Susanna’s father posed no more danger than a cabbage moth. But she couldn’t tell Christian that while he had her muzzled. And she could not allow him to attack or threaten Sir Lewis.
Footsteps were already crossing toward the larder, heading for their hiding place. Violet had to act, soon.
When he’d reached for the knife, he’d left her arms unrestrained. She clasped her hands together and used all her strength to drive one elbow back and up, directly into Christian’s sternum.
“Oof.” He fell backward with an odd, gasping sound that told her she’d succeeded in knocking the wind from his lungs.
She twisted free of his grip and made a lunge for the larder door.
Bloody hell.
Christian had no choice but to let her go.
Had he said enough to sway her? They’d only had a few minutes alone. Damn it, he should have spent more of those minutes explaining himself and fewer of them kissing her. But he hadn’t been able to help it.
He held his breath, straining to hear. Did she mean to protect or betray him? Truthfully, he would have deserved the latter. He’d betrayed her trust, nearly a year ago.
“Why, Sir Lewis,” he heard her say lightly. “I didn’t expect to see you awake.”
Sir Lewis?
Sir Lewis. Christian’s pulse tripped as he realized what he’d almost done. Dear, sweet Violet. What did he not owe her? In the moment, his defensive instincts had trumped all sense or reason. Violet had saved him from stabbing Sir Lewis Finch—one of England’s most decorated civilian heroes—with a carving knife.
As he silently set the weapon aside, he listened to Violet and the old man exchange a few words. Evidently, the aging inventor had been unable to sleep. He’d stayed up late working in his laboratory.
“Are you working on a new sort of gun?” Violet asked. Christian recognized this as her mere-polite-interest voice.
“No, no. It’s not the prospect of battle keeping me awake. It’s prospect of a grandchild.” Papers rustled. “I’ve started making sketches for a cradle. One with a winding mechanism and a crank, you see. So it can be turned just a few times, then rock the babe for hours.”
“How very ingenious,” Violet replied. “You must be so proud.”
Christian smiled. He knew Violet referred to grandfatherly pride, but the distracted old man mistook her.
“The mechanics of the idea are sound,” said Sir Lewis. “Let’s hope I can make it work. How is our guest, by the way?”
Silence stretched. Christian’s every muscle drew taut.
“Sleeping soundly,” she finally replied. “I just came for a bit to eat.”
He exhaled. Thank you, Violet.
The two of them went about fixing plates and chatting. In the larder, Christian leaned his weight against a wooden shelf and set about re-learning how to breathe.
After some time, Sir Lewis took his leave. Christian waited until the old man’s footsteps faded. Then he waited several seconds more.
“He’s gone,” she informed him in a loud whisper.
As Christian emerged from the larder, Violet didn’t turn to him. She kept her head down, carefully staring at her hands where they pressed flat against the tile countertop.
He moved silently to her side. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me. I did that to protect Sir Lewis.” She lifted her chin and met his gaze. “I haven’t decided yet what to do with you. I’m leaning toward exposing you completely, unless you tell me the whole truth. At once.”
“I have been truthful. I did not go to the West Indies as everyone believes. For the better part of the last year, I’ve been living as a Breton farmhand named Corentin Morvan.”
“But why?”
He tilted his head. “You’re an intelligent girl. Surely I needn’t spell it out.”
“So Lord Rycliff was right. You’re a spy.”
He nodded.
She whispered, “For England, I hope?”
“Violet. I can’t believe you’d even ask me that.”
“Well, what am I to think of you? Why are you even here?”
“For you. For you, darling. That much was honest too.” He cursed under his breath. “I didn’t mean for the evening to go like this. Stupid mistake, wrecking in the cove. And worse, I’ve been seen by too many people tonight. By the time I made it here, I was so cold and in so much pain, I hardly knew what I was doing. My only thought—and for a while there, I suspected it would be my last thought—was for you.”
He reached for her, but her sharp gaze had him pulling the gesture back. “I came here just to see you. I hoped to find you alone, draw you aside for a few moments’ conversation. Leave you a note, if nothing else.”
She made an indignant noise. “Another note?”
“A proper letter, more like.” He pushed his hand through his hair. “Violet, I just need a chance to explain myself. The way I should have done, before I left last year. And then I must be getting back to my ship. Somehow.” He scratched the back of his neck. “I don’t suppose you know where I could procure some kind of—”
“Wait. Christian, if you are really working in service of the Crown, you needn’t skulk around like this. No one is more loyal to England than Lord Rycliff. Why don’t we go to him together and tell him the truth? He’d be glad to help you.”
He shook his head. “I can’t risk it. Unless he’s a fool, he’d never believe me on the strength of my word alone. And if I miss the ship…”
“What then? If you miss the ship, what would happen?”
“I’d be disavowed, most certainly. Corentin Morvan would cease to exist. I’m relatively unimportant, so my disappearance would be more of an inconvenience than anything. But all ties would be quietly severed. I’d be forced to go home to London, and my career, such as it is, would be over.”
“That doesn’t sound like such a tragedy to me. A bit of disgrace would be no more you deserve.”
“I’m sure you’re right. But a bit of disgrace is the best possible outcome.”
“And the worst?”
He shrugged and released a long, slow sigh. “Charges of treason?”
“Oh.” Worry lines creased her fair brow. “We can’t have that. Your family has suffered too much already.”
Yes, Christian thought. They certainly had suffered. And he adored her for understanding that. For thinking of them.
“I’ll help you,” she said. “I’ll help you for their sake. What is it you need?”
He ran his hands from her shoulders to her wrists. God, she was so soft. His voice went husky with emotion. “I need you, Violet. Just a little time with you. I need to hold you in my arms again and kiss you and tell you how remarkably lovely you are in green. I need make you understand why I—”
“No, no, no.” She closed her eyes, then opened them again. “I don’t mean that. If you’re going to meet up with your ship by morning, what are your immediate material needs?”
“I need a rowboat. My coat and boots. And a gun, if it can be managed.”
She nodded. “We’ll take the last part first. Follow me.”
Chapter Five
A gun, if it can be managed.
Christian laughed at his own folly. Of course a gun could be managed. He was in the house of Sir Lewis Finch, England’s most celebrated innovator of firearms. As Violet led him down the corridor, he saw weapons from the man’s famed collection lining every wall. Spe
ars, maces, rockets, swords, daggers…
And guns. Guns by the score.
Violet led him into a narrow, dark room toward the back of the house. The stone floor chilled the soles of his bare feet.
“This is the gun room,” she whispered, handing him the candleholder.
“No doubt.” From floor to ceiling, racks held a variety of polished muskets, rifles, pistols and more. He reached for a gleaming, double-barreled Finch pistol. “Good Lord. That’s a thing of beauty.”
“No,” she said sharply. “Don’t touch it. You can’t take just anything. I won’t allow you to steal from Sir Lewis.”
He looked around them. “I don’t know that he’d notice I’ve stolen one.”
One of her pale eyebrows rose. “He’d notice. And I’d notice.” She went to a rack on the far side of the room and removed a small pistol. “I won’t let you steal, but you can have this one.”
Christian peered at it. It was a single-barreled, rather basic weapon, but it looked to be in excellent working order. “Why that one?”
“Because I’m free to give it. This one’s mine.”
He laughed, stunned. “Yours?”
“Yes, mine.” She reached for a powder horn and deftly measured out a charge. “During fair weather seasons, we have a schedule here in Spindle Cove. Mondays, we have country walks. Tuesdays, sea bathing. We spend Wednesdays in the garden. And on Thursdays”—she jammed a lead ball into the barrel—”we shoot.”
He whistled faintly through his teeth. “I thought Spinster Cove was a place for young ladies to come and…be spinsters. Read books. Do needlework. Wear scratchy stockings and unattractive frocks.”
“Well, you were wrong about this place. About us.”
“Evidently.” He watched her with amazement as she turned the polished, well-oiled weapon over in her delicate hands. “God, Violet. I always knew you were the girl for me.”
“Please,” she scoffed. “You knew nothing of the sort.”
“Honestly, I…” At a sudden click, he jumped. “Holy God.”
She’d cocked the gun and pointed it directly at his heart.
“Violet…”
“Don’t try anything. I know how to use this.”
“I don’t doubt you do.”
He swallowed hard. Her hands didn’t even tremble.
“The night of your sister’s debut,” she said. “I was just a year out of the schoolroom, but my parents let me attend, so long as I didn’t dance. You were dressed in a dark blue topcoat, buff breeches, and a gold-threaded waistcoat. And your new tasseled Hessians. You were so proud of those. You had a brocade pocket square, but you lost it sometime between the quadrille and midnight supper. Now, what about me?”
“What about you?” he asked. She nudged the gun forward, and he raised his hands. “You want me to remember what you wore?”
She nodded. “Was I wearing my ivory crepe, or the blue percale?”
Christian churned the air with his hands. “I don’t know… The blue? No, the ivory.”
“Neither. I was wearing my Indian yellow silk.”
“I didn’t even know you had an Indian yellow silk.”
“Precisely. You wouldn’t know. You never noticed me at all. I watched you chase after the fancy ladies during your breaks from Oxford. And I heard the scandalous rumors our sisters traded during their debut season.” She steadied the gun and took a step toward him. “So don’t lie to me now. You can’t make me believe I’m the only woman you ever wanted.”
“You’re right. You’re right. I wouldn’t even try.” Doing his best to ignore the pistol, he looked her in the eye. “But I can tell you—in perfect honesty, Violet—you’re the only one I ever loved.”
She remained absolutely still. “Loved. You expect me to believe that you loved me.”
“Yes.”
“Since when?”
“I… I don’t know the precise moment it started, darling.”
“Because it never truly started at all.”
“Wait, wait. Give me this much. My uncertainty has the ring of honesty, doesn’t it? If I were lying, I would take the trouble to invent a specific story.”
“Perhaps you exhausted your imagination with the Breton farmhand bit.” She motioned with the pistol. “Turn and walk. Down the corridor. I’ll be right behind you.”
He threw a glance over his shoulder. “Why?”
“I want answers from you, but I don’t trust you in this room. Too many weapons.”
As he turned, he muttered, “Clever girl.”
She kept the gun pressed against his back as they marched down the corridor. With every step, he racked his brains for the right words to say.
Dash it, Christian couldn’t recall precisely when he’d begun to feel this deep affection for the quiet, unassuming girl next door. He could name the day he’d grown aware of it, but he suspected that tale would have only increased her pique.
The story involved another woman.
And it took place in a ballroom, much like the one Violet marched him to right now. At one of his parents’ more scandalous masquerades, he’d been flirting with some demimonde—for no particular reason. She was a painted bulls-eye, and all the young men took a shot at her. And she’d said to Christian, with the smile of a practiced coquette, I shan’t waste my time with you. You’re a puppy. You’ll pant and slaver over me for a while, but then you’ll grow up and be faithful to a girl like her.
And she’d tipped her fan toward the corner occupied by Violet Winterbottom.
Marry? Marry Violet Winterbottom?
Christian had laughed long and loudly, dismissing the notion out of hand. But the notion, impertinent thing that it was, wouldn’t be dismissed. It clung to him, hovered around him like a puff of cheroot smoke as he went about his nights of revelry with friends. Eventually, he’d stopped staying out so late and started waking earlier to take the dogs for their morning run.
And to see Violet.
Because suddenly, he’d begun to truly see Violet. To appreciate what a clever, thoughtful woman she’d become. She had a real gift for languages—which he recognized, being quite handy with them himself. And she liked a challenge.
Violet’s company, he found, was a stimulating way to begin each morning. And one particular morning when her sister’s terrier led them a merry chase through the bushes—after which, he’d admired Violet flushed and panting, eyes sparkling with good-natured laughter despite her ripped flounce and muddied hem… That was when he’d begun to think Violet’s company could be a stimulating way to end each night.
Soon, he could think of little else. Having her in his bed, and in his life. Not just the public portion of his life—the life composed of dinner parties and social calls and walks in the sunlit square. But the hidden, quiet, darker parts of it, as well.
“Your boots and coat are there.” She waved the pistol toward the corner. “Go ahead, put them on.”
He complied. “Violet, I did have intentions toward you. Good ones. I had plans of courting you properly, in time.” He broke off momentarily as he wrestled with his boots. “I didn’t see any reason to rush. But then…”
He slowly lowered his booted foot to the floor.
“Frederick?” she asked softly.
He nodded. “Frederick.”
Christian drew a steadying breath, remembering the day he’d jostled for position before a brick wall and scanned a list of the fallen for his brother’s name. There it had been, in black letters on white. Lord Captain Frederick St. John Pierce. Numbness had struck Christian like a mallet. In some ways, he was still reeling.
He swallowed a lump of emotion. “You were such a friend to us, when we lost him.”
He recalled the way she’d come by the house, slipping in like one of the family. She sat with his sisters in the drawing room, reading aloud from books or newspapers and helping them receive the many callers stopping by to pay condolences. And every morning, she took their dogs out for a run.
“I tried to be a friend to the family.” Her tone altered. She lowered the pistol. “But I was mostly worried for you, Christian. You changed, and I was so concerned.”
He had changed. For the better, in most ways. His father had always emphasized the importance of service to Crown and country. George was the heir; Frederick had his commission. But Christian’s facility with languages had lent itself to a particular form of service: espionage. Not much glamour or excitement in translating political pamphlets and the occasional intercepted letter, but Christian had been happy to do a small part in the background.
He worked his arms into the sleeves of his still-damp coat. “I’d been working for the Crown for some time. Mostly written translations, all conducted in Town. But after they got Frederick—”
“Was he a spy, as well?”
“No, no. Frederick was always just as he seemed. An honest, honorable fellow. He should not have been taken so young. When we received word of his death, I immediately began to press for a field assignment.” He chuckled. “And they gave me one, quite literally. I’m assigned to a field of wheat. The landowner is sympathetic to England, and I mostly do farm work. Now and then, I help parcels and papers pass from one point to the next. It’s not much, but…”
“But what?”
He passed a hand over his face. “After Frederick, I just couldn’t sit on my arse in London anymore. I had to do something. Can you understand?”
Her expression softened. “I can understand. And I would have understood, if only you’d told me everything.”
“I was sworn to silence. Only my father knows the truth.”
“I wouldn’t have told a soul. I can keep secrets all too well. I never told a soul about… about us.”
“I know.”
He closed the distance between them and silently invited her to sit on the floor. There, in the center of the empty ballroom. She folded her emerald silk skirts beneath her legs and rested the pistol in her lap. He sat across from her, propping his arm on one bent knee.
“Violet, the way I treated you was unforgivable. I’ve lived with the guilt of it ever since. I knew I was leaving. I didn’t feel I could make you any promises, but I couldn’t bring myself to depart without holding you, just once. I didn’t intend for it to go that far, but in the moment…” He rubbed his face. “Honestly, I suspect part of me wanted to ruin you. So you’d still be there for me when I returned. It doesn’t say much for my moral fibre, but it’s the truth.”
