by Darcy Burke
“Lookit here, Livingstone, there’s one for each of us.” He headed toward Violet with wicked intent carved into his smirking countenance.
She snatched up the closest weapons she could find and hurled them at his head, one after another. The bucket of turpentine did little more than drench the man in foul smelling liquid, but the full can of paint dropped him to the ground.
The heir pushed back from Emma, pausing only to refasten his breeches. His mistake. Years of surviving by her wits alone had taught Violet never to hesitate. Often, the element of surprise was the only chance a girl had against men twice her size. Violet leapt across the tiny space, arms outstretched to snatch Emma away.
“Bitch!” He reared one arm back, clearly intending to slam his overlarge fist directly into Violet’s face.
Emma was faster. Her tiny fingers grappled at the clutter scattered across the wooden desktop, knocking candles to the floor. In an instant, she swung backward, a tall paintbrush firmly in her grip. The handle found its home in the eye of the blackguard who had intended to violate her.
With a choking scream, the heir slumped across the desk, the slender paintbrush protruding from his eye socket. The flames from the fallen candles ignited the spilled turpentine, roaring across the oil-painted canvases and up over the motionless men. Within a half second, the fire had eaten the curtains and engulfed the rafters above.
“Come,” Violet shouted, tugging at Emma’s icy hand. “We must go! Everything in here is violently flammable.”
Already the air was thick with greasy smoke and the stench of burning flesh.
Emma stumbled around the unnaturally still bodies, then promptly bent over and vomited. Violet’s stomach felt much the same, but there was no time for weakness, for conscience, for second-guessing.
“Come,” she repeated. The oils popped and the blackening rafters spit ash and fire as Violet dragged Emma across the tiny room with one arm around the girl’s waist. “We can’t stay here.”
No, Violet realized as a chill crept down her spine. It was much worse than that. She was a murderess. In saving a child, she had unintentionally slain the new benefactor and his companion. Emma would be able to rejoin the other students with no one being the wiser, but half the school had witnessed Violet stalking toward her studio with murder in her eyes. She had made no attempt to conceal her animosity toward Mr. Percy Livingstone. And now there would be no hiding what she had done.
She’d lost her position, her dreams ... and now her future.
Smoke searing her lungs, she hobbled out of the burning cottage. Everything she owned, everything she cared about, had been in that studio. Well, not quite everything. Pulling Emma further away from the blaze, Violet touched shaking fingers to her pockets. One contained the small leather diary that never left her side. The other pocket contained her final wages. She wished she’d hidden her precious savings anywhere but the back of a drawer in her art desk ... but this would have to be enough money to get out of Lancashire. Immediately.
She had to flee. Find shelter, obviously, but more importantly: procure a barrister capable of saving her from criminal prosecution. She touched her neck and shuddered. She would not go to the gallows. Not for a blackguard like Percy Livingstone. She would find a way to clear her name and keep moving forward. She was a survivor.
If she ran faster than she’d ever run before, she just might make the morning coach before anyone realized she was missing. It wasn’t much of an advantage, but she had learned to make the most of any scrap Fate chose to leave her.
But first things first—Emma. The girl was young. Traumatized, but still innocent in all senses. Not a soul would or should suspect her of anything. And this would be the last opportunity for Violet to save one of her students. There were no guarantees that the next heir in line would be any better than Mr. Livingstone, but the school was still a far safer option than dragging Emma back into the streets. As for Violet ... she could take care of herself.
“Listen, sweetheart.” She held Emma’s trembling hands and wished the girl would make eye contact, even for a second. “You did nothing wrong. This is not your fault.” Nor was it Violet’s, but she could not help feeling sick with guilt. “No one knows you were in the studio today, and no one needs to know.” She brushed ash from the girl’s sleeve. With the heir up in flames, the plans to convert the school into a madhouse should come to an end—she hoped. “Go to Headmistress Parker. You can trust her.”
Emma nodded miserably, shoulders shaking. Violet gathered her into her arms and held her for a long moment. She had to believe this was the right thing to do. It was the only choice. She could not stay, and she could not risk endangering Emma. Sending her to the headmistress was the best hope for keeping her safe.
“This is not your fault,” she repeated, giving the girl a fierce hug.
Emma pulled back and looked up, her eyes hollow. The girl suddenly looked far older than her fifteen years. Violet gave her another hug, viciously pleased that Mr. Percy Livingstone was dead. She wished she had killed him herself. By closing down the school, he’d be sending all the girls into the clutches of other evil men just like him.
“Get cleaned up,” she instructed Emma, “and remember: you did nothing wrong.” She touched the girl’s pale cheek. “You’ll be safe now.”
With a smile full of far more confidence than she felt, Violet gave her a last hug goodbye then took off running for the Lancashire coach stop. Little time remained, but she’d learned through years of practice how to run very, very fast.
***
Not long after her coin petered out, so did Violet’s limbs.
She’d traveled via mail coach as far as her meager purse had allowed. Five long days of constantly looking over her shoulder. When the money ran out, she’d forced herself to continue over hills and through forests on foot until her blisters had blisters, and both her body and her brain grew sluggish from lack of food and water. Once again, the sun had begun its inexorable decline. If she did not find shelter soon, she would pass the night alone in the woods, hungry and defenseless.
She trailed the last rays of sunshine through a break in the trees and discovered herself at the edge of a sprawling moor. The land stretched away from her in green-brown waves, an endless sea of dense bracken disappearing into shadow along a distant horizon broken only by the silhouette of what looked to be an enormous convent or monastery.
Her legs crumpled in relief. She was saved.
An enormous cathedral loomed out of the growing darkness, its twisting gothic silhouette stark against the crimson sunset. Several similarly medieval outbuildings flanked the primary structure. The only element detracting from the beauty of the flying buttresses arching from the nave and sanctuary was the thick wooden boards covering what once must have been handcrafted stained glass windows.
No light shone, but she pushed forward anyway. Abandoned or inhabited, the walls were still standing—more than she could say about her own limbs—which made it the perfect resting place. And if there were nuns, the sisters wouldn’t turn her away just because her pockets were empty. She could finally sleep. The nuns’ seclusion would also keep them from outside influence, buying precious time before Violet had to fear news from Lancashire catching up with her. If there were no one at all, at least she would have peace.
She rose on trembling legs and pushed forward through the moorland. Coarse grasses tangled with her skirts and sent her stumbling, but she forced herself to keep moving. Her luck was finally turning around.
Or was it?
As she neared the structure, the grasses seemed to grow ever taller. The towers seemed more dilapidated than imposing, and even the stone walls were chipped and lackluster.
Not a single candle flickered in the windows because there were no windows. Layers of thick board crisscrossed over every surface, blocking all access to light. Whoever had worshiped here was long gone. Violet’s shriveled stomach clenched in protest at the realization that there would be no monks or
nuns to offer bread and water. But at least the crumbling roof would be a respite from the empty rolling moors and offer shelter from whatever animals left the forest to hunt at night.
When her aching feet finally crossed the border between the open moorland and the cultivated lawn, she wanted to sob in relief. Instead, she barked a sharp cry of pain as her ankle connected with an unseen hindrance and sent her sprawling into a cluster of roses. A thousand simultaneous pinpricks assaulted every limb as thorns clawed at her skin through her tattered clothes.
Ankle throbbing, she rolled sideways onto the cool grass. She stared up into the growing darkness and blinked back tears. She doubted she had the stamina to close the remaining distance by hopping on one leg or crawling on her knees.
The chill breeze rustled the rosebushes, scraping sharp thorns against her hair and clothes. As the sensation reminded her more and more of insects crawling across her skin, she batted at her cheeks and forced herself into a sitting position.
She pulled her ankle close enough to prod the tender skin with her fingers. Her entire body tensed and her eyes stung. She was able to flex her toes, so at least it was not broken.
“‘Merely’ turned,” she muttered wryly, abandoning her self-examination to seek out the obstruction that had caused her downfall in the first place.
She glanced about to realize she lay upon a trampled path through the weeds. No, not trampled—trimmed. Someone did reside in the convent, then, and came this way to tend—what? She could discern nothing of interest except a pair of large stones. Unable to move far without exacerbating her injury, she leaned forward and ran a finger along the edge of the nearest stone. Flat and rectangular. Uniformly so. With grooves that felt almost like etchings ...
She snatched her hand away in horror.
A gravestone. She’d tripped over a gravestone and fallen directly atop a grave! Mindless of the pain, a sudden rush of irrational panic propelled her to her feet. Torn between the urge to flee and the morbid desire to know whether anyone was truly buried here, she swayed on her good foot as she stared at the sharp inscriptions, not yet blurred by time and weather:
MARJORIE WALDEGRAVE
BELOVED WIFE
LILLIAN WALDEGRAVE
BELOVED DAUGHTER
She really was standing upon a gravesite! Violet hopped backward, turning away from the graves and toward the looming abbey. Sudden dizziness rolled over her in waves. Her arms flapped woodenly but were no match against the pull of gravity. Before she’d managed to hop more than a few feet along the path, the craggy moor proved too difficult to navigate on one leg and she crumpled to the hard ground once again.
The sun chose that moment to concede defeat as well, giving way to the night. As the thick blackness enveloped her, so did a pervasive chill, permeating her to the very soul. This close to shelter, and she would not be able to reach it.
Frustration pricked at her eyes. She would lie next to the graves all night, until whatever creatures haunted the woods came to make an easy feast of her. She would be helpless to defend herself.
But a tended walkway meant residents. Perhaps not a convent full of friendly nuns spending their days in the kitchen (oh how she yearned for fresh-baked bread!) but someone had to be minding the path to the gravesite. Perhaps an abbot or even a groundskeeper. She propped herself up on her elbows and tipped her face into the oppressive darkness.
“Help,” she croaked, far more quietly than she’d intended. Her throat was ruined from lack of water, and if she did manage a good shout she’d no doubt lose her voice on the morrow. But what choice did she have? “Help! Please, help!”
When her voice finally gave out, so did her consciousness. Her head collapsed backward against the hard soil and her vision blurred. Just before exhaustion robbed her of her senses completely, a female countenance swam before her eyes.
She could’ve sworn a distant male voice asked, “What have you found?”
CHAPTER TWO
Waldegrave Abbey, Shropshire
Alistair Waldegrave slammed his fist atop the ancient desk hard enough to send dust spiraling into the musty air. Another rejection. How many more pleading letters must he be forced to send? He already spent every waking moment sequestered in his office, and had absolutely no time to waste penning even more flowery invitations to England’s brightest medical geniuses.
To be fair, it wasn’t as though the men could leap astride their stallions and pop over to Waldegrave Abbey instead of the usual trot about St James Square. He was inviting them not to a party, but to a scholarly conclave one hundred and seventy-five miles north of London. But weren’t scientists supposed to be intrigued by puzzles to solve? And weren’t surgeons supposed to be dedicated to the idea of helping the infirm? And weren’t these people tempted to indulge his invitation if only out of curiosity and the fact that all their expenses would be paid out of Alistair’s own pocket?
Good Lord, if he couldn’t even appeal to basic human greed, what the devil did that leave him to bargain with?
“Master?”
Roper, Alistair’s manservant, hesitated at the doorway to the office. He was the sole staff member who’d been with the family since before everything had gone to hell. He was also the only living soul to have earned a modicum of Alistair’s trust. Roper hung back at the doorway, however, because service history notwithstanding, to cross that threshold without permission was a one-way ticket to an immediate sacking. And Alistair never granted permission. He could scarce afford to entrust any of his overly solicitous staff in the room housing his deadliest secrets.
“Inform my daughter,” he bit out without rising, well aware that Lillian’s antics were the only reason Roper ever hovered at the door, “that I am trying to help her, and if she would desist making impossible demands and refrain from attacking those who attempt to give aid, then perhaps she would find less to complain about.”
“Master ...” Roper’s voice lowered. “It’s not Miss Lillian.”
Frowning, Alistair removed his pince-nez. “It’s not?”
Roper hesitated then shook his head.
Alistair stared at his manservant’s uneasy countenance. There was clearly a problem. And the problem was always Lillian. Lord help him, he did not have time for new problems. He didn’t even have time for the problems he already had.
“Well?” he demanded. “What is it?”
“There appears to be ... a girl.”
Alistair blinked. “A what?”
“You may wish to come see,” Roper began, but Alistair was already on his feet. He swept through the doorway and automatically closed the self-locking door before continuing on.
A girl? What the devil could Roper mean?
He followed his manservant along the corridors to the entranceway, and made his way past the gaggle of servants blocking the threshold. There, on the front stoop, lay a crumpled mass of elbows and frayed hems, muddy boots and tangled hair.
A girl? So it was. A dirty, malnourished, unconscious girl. He sighed. Yet another riddle to solve.
No wonder Roper was so grim.
“All right, all right,” Alistair said, batting a hand at the hovering servants as if to disperse flies buzzing about a corpse. “Quit hanging about doing nothing, and bring her in.”
“In, Master?” Roper repeated in astonishment.
The other servants looked equally doubtful. Mrs. Tumsen in particular had an air about her that suggested the girl was better off in the street than within the devil’s lair. Alistair gritted his teeth. He had earned the housekeeper’s loyalty, but he had yet to earn her trust.
The only individuals who had willingly entered Waldegrave Abbey in the last decade were the ones whose desperation had enabled Alistair to bribe them into employment, if only for short periods of time.
Visitors new to the forgotten town of Shrewsbury took one look at the great crumbling abbey with its boarded-over windows and questionable stability, and turned the opposite direction. The folk who’d been around l
ong enough to experience its haunted history firsthand well remembered the morning Alistair Waldegrave had gone completely mad. The screams. The funeral. The destruction. For all he knew, the rumors had travelled as far as London and his reams of desperate invitations would never garner a single acceptance. Perhaps even the superstitions had spread.
So, yes, he could appreciate his servants’ reluctance to bring someone within these unhallowed walls who wasn’t even conscious enough to make the wise decision to get the hell away while her heart still beat.
But she clearly had nowhere else to go. No one with anywhere else to go ended up here with him. Alistair opened his eyes and sent his gaze heavenward. Fine. The least he could do was provide her with a warm bath and a hot meal. And then send her back wherever she’d come from.
“Sir?” Roper asked again.
All of the servants were staring at Alistair in horrified fascination.
“You heard me,” he said blandly, retracing his steps in order to shove open the door allowing admittance into the black depths of the abbey. “Bring her in.”
***
Violet awoke naked. And terrified.
Even before checking for bruises and broken bones, she gingerly shifted one leg across the other. The only twinge came from her swollen ankle. Careful to keep her eyes closed and her breathing modulated, she emptied her mind to everything except the sounds of the room. Silence. Not even a whisper of air circulated in the eerie stillness. Perhaps she was locked in a closet, awaiting her captor. Assuming there was only one. Perhaps she hadn’t imagined voices after all.
She tensed at an unfamiliar noise. Was that the sound of someone breathing? No. Just the faint crackle of flame atop a candle. She was alone.
Ever so slowly, she cracked open one eyelid. The sight she beheld had her shooting upright, both eyes open wide.
