by Beth Byers
“I got him,” Hamilton Barnes called. “Are you all right, Jack?”
“Fellow pricked me. But it’s not too bad,” Jack said.
Violet shuddered with relief and saw that Jack’s bulk turned towards her. She waited until he reached her and then they swam side-by-side towards those who’d come to rescue them. They left the darkness and the terror to pursue the light. The poetry of it was not lost on Violet, though it wasn’t poetry she wanted but a bath.
So low only she could hear, Jack declared, “I’m going to wring your neck.”
She glanced over and pushed her hair out of her face, treading water for a moment so she could wink at him. “You might have to get in line after my father and Gerald hear of it.”
“I’ll just get to you first.”
Violet reached her hands up to Victor, who had already gotten into the boat. He pulled her out of the water while the oarsmen pulled out Jack.
“What’s this?” Victor asked. “Threatening Vi with a good beating for jumping in the river? You should have seen it coming. You haven’t been spending time with a rector’s daughter who embroiders. Shouldn’t expect her to act like that either.”
“Is he dead?” Isolde asked. She’d let go of whatever control she had and crawled to Violet, weeping.
“He’s gone,” Jack said. “They’ll pull his body out once we’re safe.”
“Thank god,” Isolde said. “Oh god, Vi, thank god. Thank god he’s dead.”
Violet pulled Isolde close, wrapping her little sister up tightly, and Victor put a blanket around them both. They were taken to a cab, to their home, to the baths, and forced to drink hot tea and scotch until they were bursting.
A doctor came to Isolde and examined her side, but the cut hadn’t been deep. She might have a bit of a scar, but it wouldn’t keep her down for long.
Isolde couldn’t sleep alone, so Violet put her sister into her kimono and into Violet’s bed. They slept with the lights on even though Violet had become very suddenly sure that if she were in danger—or if she’d fallen into the river—or both—someone would go in after her. That warmed her far more than all the hot tea and scotch could have.
Chapter 22
Violet woke to flowers and chocolates but no Jack. Isolde woke to the screeches of her mother, which only ended when their father literally picked up Lady Eleanor and carried her out of the room and told her to get ahold of herself.
In the end, they had a big family breakfast and plans were made far ahead of Violet’s capacity to control them. It only stopped when Victor said, “We aren’t going for that long. Neither Vi nor myself wish to travel the world for a year and more. I agree that Isolde needs distance and time to recover from her ordeal. You’ll need to find someone to come along for the longer tour. Vi and I will be doing Belgium and that is all.”
Violet’s look of thanks would have to be enough as everyone turned to Victor.
“Taking your sister traveling is too much?” Lady Eleanor demanded. “After her trials?”
“Yes,” Victor said. “We have concerns here.”
“I’ll do it,” Gerald said. “Halpert has the estates well in hand. He doesn’t need me. With Father to step in here and there, I’ll go with the young ones. When Victor and Violet are ready to come home, I’ll take Isolde on the more extensive tour.”
“Well,” Lady Eleanor sniffed. “It isn’t only Isolde who needs to consider different company,” she said with an eye on Vi. “Perhaps that St. Marks fellow.”
“Nothing wrong with Wakefield,” Father said idly. “I say, what did you put in my coffee, Victor?”
Victor looked positively mischievous when he answered, “Chocolate liqueur.”
“Oh,” Father said, thinking it over. “Fill me up again, boy. That’s good stuff. I hope you got me a few bottles when you were buying yours.”
“You’ll be gone how long?” Jack asked. He wore pajamas and sat, very ungraciously, in a bed in the hospital ward. His wound had gotten infected from the river water and his fevers came and went. They were gone at the moment, but the doctors wouldn’t let Jack leave.
“Not as long as Isolde, but a good while,” Violet replied carefully. She rearranged the pillow behind his back and handed him the box of chocolates she’d brought him. They went rather nicely with the flowers. The expression when she’d given him his very feminine gift was all that she could have wished. Humor-filled and aware of the irony.
“You’ll tell me when you get back?”
Violet nodded, wanting to weep a little, but she’d given herself a good scold. Surely she hadn’t fallen for this great lummox quite so quickly? Surely this wasn’t love that made her chest hurt so? Surely she wasn’t lying to herself to make this separation easier?
“Bruges is beautiful,” Jack said. “It’ll be more beautiful with you there.”
He fell silent and she swallowed. They both looked up in gratitude to Victor as he entered the room as though trying to shake off a demon.
“These nurses are something else,” he said. “Bring a fellow a little box of things and suddenly you’re a purveyor of vice and shenanigans.”
“What did you bring?” Jack asked curiously, as Victor set a wooden box on the end of his bed.
“A little of this, a little of that. The good stuff.”
“The only things I will admit to helping choose is the sandwich, the chocolates, and the ginger wine,” Violet declared.
“I’ll take responsibility for the rest. Cigars, limoncello, grenadine, chocolate liqueur, Campari, and assurances. All but the last are the results of our recent travels. The last is because I know a man smitten when I see him, and I’ll bring her back.”
“Do I look like I’m endlessly zozzled?”
“Not yet, but if you keep pursuing Vi, you’ll be driven to drink.” Victor laughed uproariously while Violet elbowed him in the side. She rose and rearranged Jack’s things, putting it all away and leaving him with a tidy piece of the hospital ward.
“I’ll bring you back Vi and genever,” Victor assured him. “Chin up, cheerio. It’ll turn out all right in the end. A little time apart and the heart will grow fonder and all that. You know. So they say. Etcetera, etcetera.”
“Very eloquent,” Vi told Victor.
“One tries.”
Violet pressed Jack’s hand, and they were gone.
THE END
Summary
September 1923.
When Violet and Victor run into an old friend in Belgium, they have an idea of what to expect. What they don’t expect is to be followed back to England, persuaded to spend an additional weekend away from home, or to have their group experience another murder.
This time, the suspect is their long-time friend Tomas St. Marks—-a shell-shocked former soldier. The race is on to discover the real killer before someone they know to be gentle and kind is taken in for a crime he didn’t commit.
For ReGina Welling. Your support has meant the world.
Chapter 1
“Codswallop,” Victor read with a chuckle, snapping the newspaper that had arrived from home and leaning back to relish the review. He even set down his cigarette, after a long drag, and cleared his throat before swallowing the rest of his cocktail. The glass clinked as he set it on the table next to him, and he grinned engagingly at his siblings, preparing to continue reading aloud.
Victor’s hair was slicked back, and he was dapper in his pinstriped suit with a twinkle in his eye that said the best was yet to come. Both twins—Victor as well as Violet—were tall and slim, with pointed features and dark colouring. Violet was a bit paler, but she was far more careful about protecting herself from the sun. When adding in the powder she wore, she was several shades lighter than her brother. Her eyes were kohled, her lips red, her cheeks rouged, and her hair was longer, but they were clearly twins—male and female sides of the same coin.
“I object to everything about that story,” Isolde sniffed. “I was never as dim as your ingénue. That you based your Forsaken Vi
rgin on me is…is….too mean!”
“Darling, darling, darling,” Violet said. “You were willing to marry a fat, old man who was nearly older than Father. You even knew Danvers had a mistress—a girl your own age—but it wasn’t stopping you. You were downtrodden, sweet, forsaken one. Downtrodden, yes. Even still, darling, you were rather dim.”
“Be nice,” their oldest brother, Gerald, mildly scolded. He smiled at both of them and then reached out and touched Isolde’s elbow as though to comfort her for her previous stupidity. “Continue, brother. I haven’t read your tripe, but I wish to hear the review all the same.”
“I thought we were being nice,” Violet objected with a gasp.
“I’m not the one who wrote the review,” Gerald said mildly, settling back in his chair and adjusting his shoulders. He waved his hand as if giving permission for Victor to continue reading the review of the twins’ book, even steepling his fingers to prepare for the article.
Violet’s gaze narrowed. “Yet, brother dear, you were the one to use the word tripe.”
“Darling one,” Gerald said, humoring her. “I am not the one who titled my story”—he deepened his voice—“Forsaken Virgin Seduced by the Scarlet Ghost. You should have been prepared for the words tripe and codswallop. Those might be the kindest words one could use.”
Vi giggled, because she couldn’t hear or say that title without laughing, and then tipped her glass at Victor. Then as one, the twins shot their older brother a furious, matching glance as if at daggers drawn. Only Lord Gerald Carlyle wasn’t bothered.
Victor cleared his throat again. “Oh ho! Listen to this, love. ‘No doubt the person behind this V. V. Twinnings is Victoria Violet, or some other such feminine persona, proving, yet again, that women should never have been taught to read, let alone write. Somewhere in the world today is a father who regrets not just teaching his child to read, but the far greater sin of allowing her to read novels. He has learned—too late—to repent. A regret I share having been forced to gag down this drivel.’”
Violet set down her glass with a precise click and crossed her arms over her chest. Her heel clicked against the floor as her rage exited through the steady tap, tap, tap of her foot.
“I still hate the story,” Isolde said, glancing at the enraged Violet carefully. Lady Isolde Carlyle was younger than the twins, with a creaminess of complexion that matched her blonde hair and blue eyes. She was curvier than Violet as well as being the basis for the ingénue from the novel. “But surely the worst of the tripe is from you, Victor.”
Violet snorted while Gerald poked at Isolde.
“What’s this?” Victor asked. “You object to the story of a young Isla manipulated by conniving relatives into a marriage for money where she was abused and tortured, driven nearly mad? Whyever for, sweet one?”
The smirk on Gerald’s face quite burned Violet’s remaining rage. She giggled into her Negroni while Isolde’s enraged gasp filled the air.
“I hate you all,” she declared. “You are terrible, horrible, awful siblings!”
“We love you, little one. Wonderful news too, darling,” Victor said to Isolde. “I have a note here from my friend, St. Marks. He’s come to Bruges for the sea air or bright eyes. Your mother approves of his fortune. That should provide you comfort should you decide to throw yourself into his arms.”
Isolde’s gaze narrowed, as did Violet’s. Vi knew all too well that the bright eyes in question were her own. She was also all too aware that Tomas St. Marks hadn’t come to Bruges for Isolde or Victor, though the men were as close as brothers. Tomas had come for Violet.
Violet wished she could give her heart to him. She did love him, but only as she loved her brother, Gerald. Not as much as Victor, yet almost more than anyone else. Her heart, however, had left her. It was back in England with an over-sized, handsome Detective Inspector. Tall and dashing, his severe jaw and penetrating eyes had seemed to peel away her layers and see the person behind Violet’s cheery air. Let alone how his strong, large body made her feel small, something she’d become rather addicted to.
Isolde’s mouth had dropped open, and she tried to hide her reaction by sipping her drink. She was too late and Victor crowed with triumph.
Victor’s gaze turned to Violet despite the fact that he was teasing Isolde. Each twin knew the other better than they knew their own selves. No doubt he saw the flash of agony she felt, no doubt saw the desire to return home, no doubt saw how mentioning Tomas simply made her miss Jack even more.
Victor nodded to her the smallest bit. It was enough. She knew that meant he’d seen her storm of emotions and would do something to help.
“We’ve been invited to a party tomorrow, luvs. Tomas has taken some large monstrosity near here. We’ll go. We’ll dance, we’ll drink, we’ll eat something, Tomas will make eyes at our girls and you’ll flutter your lashes and play coy as though you aren’t calculating how many dresses his mountain of bullion will buy.”
Violet kicked Victor, who smiled at her. He refilled her drink before topping his own. He didn’t bother with Isolde, who rarely finished a drink since they’d come to Bruges, let alone Gerald, who was too boring for Negroni when there was bourbon present. The Negroni, after all, was made with genever, vermouth, Campari, and an orange peel. According to Gerald, bourbon was the drink of the ages. It drove Victor mad that Gerald could hardly be persuaded to a sip of the concoctions Victor created.
“What do you say we visit that little dress shop tomorrow?” Isolde asked Violet. “I have longing thoughts about that pale pink dress.”
“I told you to buy it. It accents your colouring wonderfully,” Violet said as she sipped from her cocktail glass, noting the smear of her lipstick and telling herself she’d need to reapply before they went dancing.
“Not that Vi objects to going shopping,” Victor said. “How many more trunks do you need before we return home, beloved?”
“How many cases of genever and beer have you purchased?”
He winked in answer with a hand over his heart and a wounded expression before picking up his cigarette again.
“Mmm,” Violet replied, “exactly my thoughts.”
Gerald leaned back. “So are you two still writing tripe now that you have loads of the green?”
“Isla was born after our inheritance. Previous to Isla, we wrote the story of young Margaux the French orphan and the highwayman who loved her.” Victor grinned at Gerald’s shudder and added, “We couldn’t leave your Isla where we did, Isolde. Soon, dearest one, you’ll see Isla’s next adventure, Broken Surrender and the Scarlet Ghost. Was the Scarlet Ghost truly a specter or perhaps Isla has an unknown champion? Return to Supernatural Tales to find out.”
Gerald groaned while Violet laughed. It was possible Broken Surrender was an even more terrible title.
Victor crossed his legs. “I, for one, cannot wait to see what happens next with our intrepid ingénue.”
“You’re a fiend,” Isolde wailed. She sniffed and then took Victor’s cigarette. Isolde wasn’t much of a smoker and the ill-thought-out drag made her cough until her tears were streaming.
Violet took the cigarette from Isolde. “Darling, go fix your makeup. I think we’ll be leaving rather soon, won’t we?”
“An auto will be here shortly,” Victor said. “Dinner, dancing, drinks. A delightful time for all.”
Isolde rose and went to fix her makeup. The moment she left the room, Victor faced Gerald. “We’ll be going home next week, I think.”
Gerald’s brows rose. “I wasn’t aware you were thinking of it, yet.”
“Bruges is lovely.” Victor leaned back, folding the newspaper. “But we never intended to stay here so long. Violet has business to conduct, I have business to pretend to conduct. We barely took up residence in my house before we left. It’s past time, and we’d have long since left if not for Isolde being a bit of a clinger with Violet.”
Gerald examined the twins. “Well, you said from the beginning that you weren
’t going to stay for our whole trip, and it has been most of the summer. I was thinking myself that we should consider somewhere warmer before the winter.”
“Perhaps the Cayman Islands or Cyprus if you wanted something warm,” Violet suggested. “Those are both places I’d like to visit now that we have some of the ready money.”
“No, no,” Victor declared. “Monaco. It just rolls off your tongue and promises exotic fun, doesn’t it?”
“You could come with us.” Gerald’s gaze was fixed on Violet with enough weight that she knew he was wondering if she wanted to go home to Jack Wakefield more than she wanted to see more of the world.
Violet laughed merrily, refusing to answer the unspoken question. “We might have left Father too long alone with Lady Eleanor.”
“Or,” Victor countered, “now that Father realizes the games she was playing, perhaps we haven’t given her enough alone time.”
“If we leave her too long,” Gerald said softly, “she’ll warp that little blighter Geoffrey even more.”
“There’s nothing to be done there,” Victor said. “Our youngest brother will always be spoiled. He’ll learn his place when the promises of his mother fail to come to fruition.”
“And yet,” Violet said, “regardless of Father and Lady Eleanor and even young Geoffrey, there are other needs to attend to.”
Violet had many things to do, but the most pressing involved a baby. She had provided her villa on the Amalfi Coast to an expectant, unmarried mother and had promised to try to find a place for the baby. Vi needed to get back to London and look into the homes she’d had her man of business investigate. They needed someone who was kind enough to love the baby as though their own while also not being the type of person to take out the mistakes of the mother on the child.
It was rather all too common for the sins of the parents to be placed on the child. Violet wouldn’t abide that for this baby. She was tempted to take the child in herself, but she was keeping that plan as a backup. Violet also needed to deal with business matters from her Aunt Agatha’s investment concerns and check in on the young girls she’d taken under her wing when she’d been trying to find out about the crimes of Isolde’s former-betrothed.
