by Darcy Burke
He would not go into specifics in front of his daughter, but Alistair could no longer stand the guilt of knowing he had hurt Violet. “I am so sorry—”
“Do not be sorry,” she said fiercely. “You may apologize for ignoring me and for leaving, and I hope you will never do such a thing again, but as for what went before ... if you do not regret it, then neither do I.” She glared up at him, her eyes tempestuous. “Alistair.”
She’d used his given name! Victory raced through his veins. And relief. He couldn’t tamp down his happiness. Anger and impertinence were both well deserved, and he would gladly take anything she wished to dish out so long as it meant she might forgive him. He would swing her up and kiss her soundly right here and now, were it not for the studiously-not-watching eyes of his daughter Lillian. Who gazed up at them in fascination, her errant paintbrush still slapping against the canvas at random. He grinned.
“We should continue this discussion later. Will you do me the honor of dining with me tonight? I can have Cook prepare something special around eight o’clock.”
“Yes,” Violet said with a slow smile. “That would be lovely.”
The tenseness in his shoulders eased somewhat. He knew he had not finished his apology, and that they had many more questions to answer about the future, but her simple “yes” had made him the happiest of men.
“Wonderful,” he said, his mind whirling with romantic requests for Cook. “I will see you then. And, Lillian?”
Although his daughter’s eyes looked up at his, her brush continued to attack the canvas with so much vigor that Alistair was at a loss to explain how all three of them weren’t covered head to toe in rainbow splatters.
“Yes, Papa?”
“I am pleased to see you painting again.”
She froze, then burst out in giggles.
Grinning, he turned and shut the door behind him. His step lighter than it had been in years, he slipped his hat out from under his arm and onto his head and made his way to the tunnels leading to the library. It was the one exit he could be certain no servants would be near.
As he entered the library, his steps slowed. He frowned. Something was off. The shelves, perhaps, or the books themselves ... That was it, he decided. Violet had likely been making use of the library’s contents ever since he’d first introduced her to his collection, so of course it would look different than he recalled. With a shake of the head at his baseless paranoia, he unlocked the bolt and strode out the door.
Brutal sunlight assaulted his every sense.
Bigger and hotter and brighter than he remembered, the sun beat down on him from every angle. As he followed the main road, light reflected off every pond or hint of river and dazzled his eyes with every step.
Nine years, he mused as he marched forward into town, his hat cocked over his eyes. If it were not for there only being one road leading to Shrewsbury from the abbey, he might have forgotten his way. Should he go straight to the smithy and have done with this farce?
No, he decided with a sigh. The smithy was unpredictable, and Alistair had no wish to be sporting a black eye during this evening’s romantic dinner. Besides, if it had been a decade since he’d wooed a lady, it had been twice as long since he’d last been in a brawl. He’d do best to make this visit casual, to make himself appear harmless. He could visit the smithy another day.
Alistair stopped for a spot of water at the first fountain he passed, then dropped in on the milliner and bought a set of hideous, but expensive buttons. He smiled at every farmer and farmer’s wife that he passed, and tried not to take it too personally when their alternating surprise or blank lack of recognition kept them from smiling back.
He bought an apple from every stand and prayed his stomach didn’t turn on him between now and dinner from consuming each one. He passed the inn, and waved at the tiger watering the post-horses before leaving for the next shire. He paid his respects at the church and was just about to put paid to today’s exercise when he caught sight of a young woman with a flower cart just outside the open door of the local haberdasher. There were plenty of roses at Waldegrave Abbey, of course, but he would love to find an unusual bloom just for Violet.
He made small talk with the flower girl, who only knew him for a stranger. Either word of his arrival in town could not outstrip his meandering pace, or there was little to worry about after all. He hoped for the latter. He thumbed through the flower girl’s collection in search of something special. He finally came across the perfect bloom. Violets. Smallish and slightly wilted, but it was the thought that counted, was it not?
He added a fine cluster of bluebells to his bundle just in case.
He paid for his purchase and decided to take a quick turn through the haberdashery before heading back to the abbey. Perhaps a ribbon, or a nicely scented soap would sweeten the offering. He progressed no further than the creaking doorway before his eyes caught sight of an unusually dressed man directing another to affix a sketched portrait upon the wall. Curious, he stepped inside to look closer and nearly choked when he got a clean look. It wasn’t a portrait. It was a Wanted bill.
Murderess, the headline screamed. Wanted for Felonious Crimes, £100 for Whereabouts or Capture.
Just below, starkly sketched in black ink on white parchment, was Violet’s likeness.
***
Having spent the whole of the afternoon debating which garment could be considered her prettiest gown, and spending the subsequent hour and a half struggling with hairpins, Violet entered the dining room with a stomach so wrought by anticipation that she feared she would not be able to consume a single bite.
She need not have worried.
Not a single plate or glass lay upon the table. Not the faintest scent of food spiced the air. Not a single servant stood at the ready, with platters or wine or elegantly folded linens. The only adornment to the otherwise empty dining set was Alistair himself ... and by the thunderclouds in his eyes, a romantic dinner would not be forthcoming.
“G-good evening,” she stammered self-consciously, unable to fathom what could have changed his mood so dramatically over the course of a single afternoon.
“Is it?”
His voice was so flat that she instinctively halted in her tracks. The two paces to the closest chair might as well have been miles. For the first time since arriving at Waldegrave Abbey, the darkness emanating from Alistair’s obsidian eyes caused her flesh to tingle in danger.
She debated not coming any closer. He was clearly in no mood for company. Perhaps she ought to return to her room and leave him to his demons. Perhaps there was a labor strike in the kitchens or some scientific discovery had brought disappointing implications or—
His long, gloved fingers began to drum slowly upon the tabletop. No—not upon the table itself, but rather, upon a sun-bleached sheet of parchment caught between the polished rosewood and the heel of his hand. From this angle, only a stark black W-A-N was clearly discernible, but she needed no further clue to solve the mystery of the vanished romance.
A cold sweat pricked at her skin. “I can explain—”
One brow shot skyward. “Can you?”
Could she? She pressed her hands to her clenching stomach and swallowed. She shook her head. “No. I can explain, of course, but I cannot fully exculpate myself.”
“Of course,” he repeated, smoothing the wrinkles from her sketched likeness. “Not fully.”
Her legs near to buckling, she somehow made it to the opposite end of the table before thudding heavily into a chair. It was not her fault, she told herself desperately. But in her case, fault scarcely mattered. It came down to the law. Unconscionable proclivities aside, Old Man Livingstone’s heir had been powerful, moneyed, and her employer, no matter how she felt about it. Until she’d left him to die in a fire.
And then failed to mention a single word while masquerading as a respectable governess in order to gain the confidence of the man who was quite probably the single most protective father in the known un
iverse. Violet swallowed. She had known it couldn’t last. That any moment, she’d awaken from this idyllic dream and find herself once more trapped in a nightmare. But how had he learned the truth? Had someone delivered wanted notices right up to the abbey door?
She gripped the edges of her chair in sudden terror. “Someone came looking for me here? Who? When?”
“I—” He blinked at her as if he had no answers to those questions, then shook his head. “At the moment, no one knows you’re here. But news travels quickly. The sun keeps me from leaving the abbey, but my staff does their best to keep me abreast of the outside world. And I’m told the town of Shrewsbury is papered with your face.” He narrowed his eyes, every line of his body harsh and unforgiving. “For the moment, your secret is still safe from those that seek you, but I will not tolerate deception. Whether I toss you back out into the world depends on how you explain”—he stabbed his index finger atop the incriminating portrait—“this.”
Any relief she had felt at not being hunted at her very door dissipated at the implication she might soon be homeless and vulnerable once again. Not implication ... he had all but promised. And how could she blame him? No one wanted a murderess for a governess.
But who would have brought him the news? It had to be one of the staff. She would not ask him, because it didn’t matter. It wasn’t slander. She just hadn’t wanted him to know. She swallowed. Too late for that. By now all the staff must have heard, and regretted ever opening their hearts or doors. She would be back on the streets before nightfall. But to head where? Shrewsbury was not only the closest town, it was the only chance for transportation. It had taken weeks to walk this far, and she’d barely survived. She had to convince him to let her stay, if only until her pursuers continued elsewhere. But how did one defend oneself against charges that were ... true?
She exhaled hollowly. “I am not sure where to start.”
“Now, that I most certainly believe. Please, allow me to help break the ice. Let’s pick a point at random ... say ... the bit about you being a wanted felon. You apparently left that detail out when we met. Just tell me this much. Are you or are you not a murderess?”
She lifted her chin from her chest. Was she? Yes. And she would do it again if she had to. She had merely stepped upon a worm. But now was not the time to quibble about Percy Livingstone’s questionable humanity. This was the moment to tell the truth about herself.
“Yes,” she admitted. “I did what they say I did, although not on purpose. Mostly. Please understand, I bore no premeditated violence against anyone. It all happened so fast, and the next thing I knew—”
“Why don’t you begin with what did happen,” he interrupted, his dark gaze inscrutable.
She took a deep breath and forced herself to meet his eyes.
“Up until that day, I was not Miss Smythe, but rather Violet Whitechapel.” She steeled herself against the betrayal in his gaze. “An art instructor at the Livingstone School for Girls in Lancashire. I loved everything about it. I loved my colleagues, I loved coaxing orphans into developing a sense of self, and above all I loved old man Livingstone for having done the same for me when he gave me an art studio and a position.”
“And then what?”
“And then he died,” she answered simply, unable to keep the sorrow and pain from scratching at her throat. “His worthless son inherited the property and evicted all the orphans in order to convert the school into a sanitarium for the rich. When I ‘met’ this paragon and his surveyor, they were forcing themselves upon one of the damaged young girls right in the middle of my art studio. I had never seen the men before in my life, but did I wish to kill them in that moment? Yes. Absolutely. Of course the sight enraged me, and I am not the slightest bit ashamed that my first reaction was to do whatever was necessary to rescue an innocent child from their abuse. They deserve to rot in hell.”
Alistair’s expression had gone from disillusionment to outrage in the space of a breath, but having broken the dam of silence, Violet could no longer curb the flow of her words.
“The surveyor advanced upon me to prevent me from disturbing his master’s ‘fun’. Had I a pistol, I would’ve shot them dead on the spot. Instead, I threw the heaviest objects within reach, and managed to knock the surveyor unconscious with a lucky blow to the head. The Livingston heir paused only to rebutton his fall. Then he moved to strike me. She—that is to say, I—swung at him with the only weapon near to hand: a paintbrush. That stopped him cold. ” She shuddered at the memory. “My revulsion at seeing the wet handle protrude from his eye was nothing compared to the horror of what he’d intended to do to that innocent girl. But there was no time to waste. Flames from fallen candles had already engulfed the studio. I escaped with the clothes on my back and that terrorized child in my arms. If those two whoresons did not save themselves, then I am not sorry and shall never beg forgiveness. I’d sooner die!”
“Violet ... ” He rose from his chair and stepped toward her. “Love ... ”
The next thing she knew, she was cradled in his arms, shamelessly destroying his cravat and waistcoat with hiccupy sobs and hot tears. He laid his cheek against the top of her head and held her until her tears finally abated.
“I did not know,” he whispered, stroking her hair.
She shivered at the memory of the flames. “How could you? I have learned not to trust anyone, and I feared the trouble I might find myself in if word got out.” She reached for the wanted bill and stared at her likeness. “The trouble I do find myself in.”
He tugged the bill from her fingers and flicked it facedown upon the empty table. “I’m not sure that’s the case. Perhaps things are not as bad as you believed.”
She laughed humorlessly. “No? Being a wanted murderess is a petty concern in your world?”
“Being a wanted murderess would be terrible indeed,” he said quietly, “but I am not certain you have earned the title.”
She frowned, then considered the version she’d emphasized for the London barristers. “You mean because it was unplanned, and an accidental outcome of an unforeseen circumstance?”
“I mean,” he said with a strange glint in his eye, “I am not sure anyone died.”
Her flesh turned to ice. “What?”
“The men posting the bills are strangers. I didn’t see them,” he amended quickly, “but from all accounts, one is badly scarred ... and the other wears a patch over his eye.” Alistair lifted a brow. “Doesn’t that sound familiar? You’re no murderess if the supposed victims are still alive. We still have to clear your name, of course, given that bodily damage was inflicted, but at least now we know you need not fear the gallows. It should be straightforward from here. Mr. Livingstone is a liar. It will be nothing to prove it.”
Violet broke out in a cold sweat. Straightforward? Violent men enjoyed violent behavior, and this particular one clearly had vengeance on his mind. If the despiteful Mr. Livingstone had not perished in the fire, criminal prosecution would be the least of his plans.
He’d as soon kill her.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
With Violet still cradled to his chest, Alistair picked up the overturned wanted bill and slowly, decisively, crumpled the sun-brittled parchment into nothingness.
How could anyone have accused her of coldblooded murder? He’d believed in her innate goodness even as he’d ripped her likeness from a board outside the smithy’s on the way back to the abbey. He’d torn down every bill he’d passed in what he’d (rightfully) believed was rage ... but he had been mistaken. At the time, he’d thought himself furious over Violet’s deception. But he’d suspected there was a greater evil at play. He just hadn’t suspected how evil. He wished he could rip the men who did this in two. Violet trembled in his arms.
“Percy Livingstone is a monster.” Her voice cracked. “A monster.”
“Violet. Angel.” He tucked the offensive ball of parchment into a side pocket to keep it safe from prying eyes. “I believe you, love.”
Her face lifted and her gaze met his but her eyes were empty, as if even now she were reliving that nightmarish moment instead of hearing him attempt to comfort her.
Of course she was innocent. Wasn’t that the one quality that most drew him to her, that emanated from every aspect of her being? From the mundane, like the baby softness of her skin, to the heavenly, like the almost childlike joy her artist’s heart experienced in every moment of life. How she alone could find beauty in everything and goodness in everyone. He was convinced it was her pure faith that converted Lillian from the wild creature she had once been into a precocious little girl. And it was Violet’s selflessness and virtue that unmired Alistair himself from the past and opened his eyes to the possibility of the future.
“Come,” he said softly, tugging her to her feet. “I will have Cook prepare some bread and broth and send it to your room. For now, you need rest. Let me walk you to your chamber and see you settled.”
Violet allowed him to lead her. Sluggishly. Woodenly. As if she were a ragdoll imbued with limited powers of locomotion.
As soon as they’d cleared the dozen paces from the dining room to the main corridor, he swung her into his arms and continued apace.
She weighed nothing. She said nothing. She had closed her eyes, blocking his view of her terror, but nothing could erase the sorrow from her face or the pain from her heart. Her color was far too pale. Reliving the horror had drained her vitality. If he ever came across Percy Livingstone in the flesh, Alistair would snap his neck with his bare hands.
When he reached Violet’s bedchamber door, he gently returned her to her feet.
She made no comment, nor any move to unlock the door. Her face was still far too pale. If she didn’t lie down soon, he feared she would collapse right there in the hallway.
He fished his master key from his pocket. After opening the door, he hesitated only briefly before lifting her back into his arms and carrying her to her bed.
