by Jane Ashford
“For example, I daresay she was here on the day the curling irons disappeared.”
Furness frowned, thinking it over. “I’m not sure, my lady.”
“She was,” said Cates. “She was in the kitchen when I went down after the…altercation. I remember she said…” He broke off with a frown.
“What did she say, Cates?”
“That Miss Furness was scatterbrained and…other things.”
“I am no such th—!”
Violet held up a hand for silence. “So the…criticisms you have heard about Furness came chiefly from Renshaw,” she said. When Cates slowly nodded, even more thoughtful, she went on, “And, Furness, I just now heard her telling you that Cates is a spiteful sneak.”
The valet gasped with outrage as Furness nodded. Her face showed calculation now as well.
“It seems to me that the two of you got on well enough when Furness first joined the household,” Violet went on. “Things did not really begin to go wrong until we’d been in Brighton for a while.” She gave them a moment to consider this, then added, “After Renshaw had time to sow discord—malign each of you to the other.”
Furness had begun to nod. “She did. That bit you heard wasn’t the first time she bad-mouthed Mr. Cates. She made me think he was a right…” She trailed off, further understanding dawning in her face.
“She made several remarks to me about Miss Furness,” Cates admitted. “Very disparaging of her work and skills. I took it that she knew her business.”
“I’m sure that she took the curling irons,” Violet said. “And spilled the laundry. And hid the key to my jewel case. She knew very well what it looks like.”
“She’s here visiting Mrs. Jenkins all the time,” Furness said. “As if she had nothing else to do.”
“I don’t expect she does,” said Violet.
Cates cleared his throat. “I suppose Miss Renshaw resents being let go, my lady.”
“Undoubtedly. But she brought it on herself by spying on me for my grandmother.” It wasn’t really appropriate to mention this to the servants, but Violet was too angry to hold back.
“Spying?” asked Furness. She looked intrigued.
“Renshaw was hired to see that I dressed only as my grandmother dictated.”
“I was aware that she…admired Lady Moreley,” Cates said.
This was enough, Violet thought. There was no need to say more about her unfortunate family history. “So, I ask both of you to consider that the…difficulties between you were created by Renshaw. That they do not, in fact, exist.”
There was a short silence. Violet waited. There was nothing more to say. They would either adjust to the truth or they wouldn’t.
“Your new way of dressing my lady’s hair was much admired,” Cates said at last. “Quite a deft touch.”
Furness stood straighter and preened a little. “Well, I only wish I could pack a trunk as neatly as you, Mr. Cates,” she conceded.
They looked at each other. The accord of Violet’s household hung in the balance. Then Furness dropped a small curtsy. Cates responded with a courteous bow. It was enough mutual apology for Violet. She let out a relieved breath. “I would…suggest that you avoid Renshaw from now on. And keep your…tools out of her reach. I cannot stop her visiting here, if Mrs. Jenkins wishes it, but…”
“I shan’t be speaking to her again,” declared Furness. “Unless to give her a piece of my mind, the spiteful creature.”
“Better to ignore her,” said Cates. “A cold greeting and nothing more. As if she was beneath our notice.”
Furness nodded. “Don’t give her the satisfaction. A good thought, Mr. Cates. Thank you.”
“My pleasure.”
Violet caught Cates’s eye and almost thought she saw a twinkle. But it was gone before she could be sure. “Well…good. That’s settled then.”
“Yes, my lady,” they said in unison. The concord surprised a smile from each. They left the room in an amity that Violet had despaired of ever seeing.
When the door closed behind them, Violet bared her teeth in triumph. She’d accomplished something, at least. She’d ended this small part of the dowager’s game. Whether the old woman knew of Renshaw’s machinations or not—most probably she did not—she was the cause of them.
Anger overwhelmed the glow of achievement. Other instances of interference and oppression came to mind, the legacy of a lifetime’s deceit. And now the old woman loomed over her future like a storm cloud. It was insupportable. She had to think, to find a way to thwart her.
The afternoon passed into a restless evening without revealing an answer. As the hour grew late, Violet wondered what had become of Nathaniel. She had supposed he would be back by sunset. You couldn’t hurl a carriage and four through narrow gates in the darkness. She was just beginning to worry when she heard the bell below, and then rushing footsteps on the stairs. She jumped up from the sofa, fearing an accident with the phaeton. But the figure who appeared in the doorway was not a messenger bearing bad news. Instead, Marianne stumbled into the parlor, pale as a ghost, her blue eyes wild. “Violet! Oh, Violet, you must help me!” she cried.
Shutting the door in the face of the curious housemaid, Violet took her friend’s hands. They were icy. Her blond hair was disheveled. She led her over to the sofa and made her sit. “What is the matter? Are you hurt?”
“Not me. It’s Anthony. He’s been shot!”
“What?” Had she heard correctly?
Marianne began to moan. “Oh, God. Oh, God.”
Violet squeezed her fingers. “Tell me what happened.”
Her friend rocked back and forth on the cushions, moaning louder.
Violet gave her hands a little shake. “Marianne! How did Anthony come to be…?”
Marianne pulled her hands free and covered her face, bending over as if to curl into a ball. “What am I to do? Oh, God. Oh, God.”
Violet went over to the sideboard and poured a small amount of brandy into a glass. She returned to put a hand on Marianne’s shoulder and urge her upright. “Come. I cannot help you if I don’t know what has occurred.”
Her friend let her hands drop, but she remained bent over, staring at the carpet.
“Drink a bit of this,” Violet urged, holding out the glass.
Marianne sat up, took it, and downed the liquor with startling speed. She coughed and sputtered, then sat panting as if she’d run a footrace.
Violet retrieved the glass before it could fall to the floor. “Now,” she said. “Tell me.”
Marianne struggled to control herself. After a while she was able to say, “Anthony was shot on the way home from a card party at the Regent’s.”
“Just now? Tonight?” Violet asked.
Her friend nodded. “I have only just… Oh, what am I going to?”
“He isn’t dead!”
Marianne turned wild blue eyes on her. “No. No, only a ball through the shoulder. He…they…missed.”
“But…how could this… Was it some sort of accident?”
Marianne buried her face in her hands once more. “Oh, God.” She burst into choking sobs.
Violet put an arm around her, feeling both sympathetic and uncertain. Marianne’s intense distress did not seem to gibe with her previous remarks about her husband. Yet perhaps the extreme circumstances explained it. She could only image how terrified she would be if Nathaniel was wounded. She held her friend until the storm of weeping subsided. When at last Marianne sat back on the sofa, exhausted, she handed her a handkerchief. “I’m sure he will recover if it is only…”
Marianne silenced her with a bleary-eyed stare. “You don’t understand. It was Daniel.”
“What was? Oh…oh no!”
“Daniel lay in wait behind a stack of barrels near a tavern and shot Anthony when he passed by.”
She had said that Daniel would do anything for her, Violet remembered. “How do you know? Was he caught?” This would be a scandal like no other.
“No.”
Marianne’s breath hitched on a sob. “He came to tell me. At our lodgings. Very proud of himself. The gentlemen who saw Anthony fall had only just carried him up to his bedchamber.”
Imagining the scene, Violet was speechless.
Marianne nodded at her appalled expression. “I never wished him dead,” she declared. “I swear I didn’t!”
“Of course you did no—”
“I may have said some foolish things,” her friend interrupted. “Well, I did, but I never meant for anything like this to happen. Or ask Daniel to…to do anything. I didn’t, Violet!”
“Of course you did not.”
“You believe me? Don’t you?”
“Why should I doubt…?” Violet saw the fear in the other’s eyes. “You haven’t told me the whole, have you?”
Marianne clenched her fists. She closed her eyes briefly. “Daniel believes that he has proved his love for me by this…act, and that I must run away with him now. He is… I fear he has lost his mind.”
“Where is he?” asked Violet sharply.
“I don’t know.” Marianne’s voice shook. “I told him to go home, but I can’t be sure he really heard me. He was… I think he’s half-mad. Violet, what am I going to do?”
“You must break it off. Never see him again.”
Marianne turned and reached out as if she might shake her. “You still don’t understand! I told him that, and he swore that he would shoot me and himself if I left him. I barely managed to get him away from the house.”
Violet swallowed. This was far beyond anything she had ever experienced. “We…we must go to a magistrate.”
Marianne grasped her arm with both hands, so tightly it hurt. “What do you imagine Daniel will say if he is taken into custody? He is convinced he did this thing for me.” Violet pulled her arm free, and Marianne bent over again, as if she was in pain. “I only wanted a little pleasure, a bit of passion in my life. It didn’t seem so much to ask. And this is how I am punished!”
This hit rather close to home for Violet.
“How could I have been such a fool? Whichever way I turn, I am ruined.” She started to moan again.
“No one would believe that you asked him to…”
“Your grandmother said that people were talking. How many will be delighted to credit such a juicy story?”
Violet was silenced. But her mind raced. In the stillness, the ticking of the mantel clock seemed loud. When she’d said nothing for several minutes, Marianne let out a long sigh. “I shouldn’t have come here. This isn’t your problem. You thought I was wrong all along. You warned me.” She gave a humorless laugh. “As my old nurse used to say, ‘I have made my bed and now I must lie in it.’ She must be turning in her grave to see her adage come so literally true.” She rose. “I must go. The Regent is sending his own physician to tend Anthony.”
“I want to help,” Violet said.
Marianne smiled wearily down at her. “You are a good friend. Indeed, my best friend. Thank you for listening to my woes. But there is nothing you can do. I’ve made a complete hash of my life.”
“Perhaps if I asked Nathaniel…”
“Asked him what?”
The words had come out of their own accord, simply because she’d never known anyone as trustworthy and capable as her husband. He was up to any challenge. But now that she’d said it, Violet was unsure. “Everyone in his family looks to him for help,” she murmured.
“I don’t think the Langfords have had difficulties like this.”
And she did not wish to embroil him in this one, Violet realized. It was too much.
Marianne had caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror over the mantel. She adjusted her tilting bonnet. “If Hightower has any ideas, I would be happy to hear them. I’m so sorry I dragged you into this, Violet.”
The dowager’s words about Violet’s choice of friends came roaring back to her. What would the old woman do if this terrible new development came out? She swallowed. “You’re confident that Granchester will recover?” Murder couldn’t be concealed, Violet thought. If it came to that, they’d have to expose Daniel Whalen, and wreck two families, or perhaps three.
“The doctor assured me that he would,” Marianne said.
Violet’s thoughts raced. “You must go home and sit with him.”
“Hold his hand and play the ministering angel?” There was distaste in her friend’s tone.
“Yes, Marianne. I think you owe it to Anthony. You did get him shot.”
Marianne blinked. Finally, she nodded. “I really do not wish him to die, Violet.”
“Then see that he doesn’t. I will consult Nathaniel. And then we will make a plan.”
Her friend looked dubious, but turned to go.
Violet realized it was nearly eleven o’clock. “Did you come alone? I’ll get someone to escort you home.”
What could be keeping Nathaniel? she wondered.
Seventeen
When Rochford had insisted on a drink to celebrate their successful afternoon, Nathaniel had never imagined that they’d end up at a brothel. He hadn’t even known the place existed—several miles outside Brighton in a small manor house. The distance allowed visitors to be discreet, he supposed, but it made things damnably awkward for him. The hour was growing late, and he very much wanted to go home. He’d arrived behind Rochford’s horses, however, and Rochford appeared to be well settled in, perhaps for the whole night. He’d brushed aside Nathaniel’s objections as if he couldn’t be serious. When their dispute had begun to attract the amused attention of the entire room, Nathaniel had given it up.
He couldn’t walk back to town in the dark; he wasn’t actually sure of the way. And this wasn’t like London, where there were hackney cabs to be hailed at every corner. It was a ridiculous plight; he was well aware of that. But a real one, nonetheless.
One of the half-clad young ladies dropped into his lap and laced her arms about his neck. “Still all alone, lovey?” As he had done with several others, Nathaniel fended her off. She was pretty. All the females here were. The place was as luxurious as the most exclusive houses he’d seen in London, as a much younger man. One did, when first on the town, with rowdy groups of one’s peers, released from the bonds of school and parental domiciles, eager to experience all life had to offer. But he’d never frequented brothels, even when he was green and stupid.
A dark-haired girl across the room threw her head back and laughed, long and loud. Nathaniel was suddenly reminded of the determined young opera dancer who’d appropriated him during his first season in London. She’d come up to him after a performance he’d attended and frankly offered herself. He was nineteen and hardly likely to refuse. It was weeks before he discovered that he was part of a careful plan to change her situation.
She didn’t wish to be set up in a house or provided with a lavish wardrobe and a carriage. She wanted only gifts of money, or in a pinch, jewelry that could be sold. She liked him well enough, she said, but she intended to save up enough to leave England and begin again in a new country. In the end, he’d given her all she needed, and she’d set sail for America as a “respectable young lady.” Her words. A single letter one year later informed him that she’d married a man of some wealth and become a pillar of their community in a place called “New Jersey.” He’d wished her well. For her spirit as well as all she’d taught him about a woman’s body.
Rochford returned from upstairs, his neckcloth rumpled and loose.
Thinking he’d gotten what he came for, Nathaniel went to speak to him again. “I should be getting back.”
Rochford accepted a glass of brandy from one of the girls, pulling her to him and idly fondling an exposed breast. “It’s early yet.”
“I’m newly married,” Nathaniel pointed out.
“Moreley’s daughter must know what’s what,” was the careless reply.
It was true that the earl habitually kept a mistress, but Nathaniel didn’t think Violet knew this. He hoped she did not. The girl acr
oss the room laughed again. She really did sound like Jean, he thought.
“You like the brunette? I can vouch for her…energy,” Rochford said. He beckoned with the hand holding the glass.
“No,” said Nathaniel. Fortunately, the girl had missed the signal.
“Come, come. Don’t be prudish. Everyone knows men take their pleasures where they will.”
It was true for many, perhaps most, Nathaniel acknowledged. Was he prudish? No, that wasn’t it.
“And these girls are so much more fun than wives.” Rochford gave the last word a contemptuous twist.
Nathaniel thought of Violet’s determination to have fun. And her signal success. Rochford was definitely wrong there.
“He can smile,” said the dark-haired girl. Rochford had managed to summon her to Nathaniel’s side. She hung on his arm. “Come along upstairs, luv, and you’ll be smiling like a loony for the rest of the night.”
Nathaniel gently untangled her hands. “No, thank you.” He turned away.
“Where the devil are you going?” asked Rochford.
He could hang about outside, Nathaniel thought. Someone driving back to town would give him a seat in their carriage.
“Hightower?”
“I’ll see you on Thursday,” he told Rochford with a wave. He didn’t wish to offend him. The man could do what he liked. But he wasn’t staying any longer.
* * *
Violet asked Cates to accompany her to Rochford’s lodgings, as the household kept no menservants. The valet argued that he should go alone to inquire, and she supposed he was right. Well, she knew he was. But she couldn’t sit still waiting any longer. The events of the last few days had shaken her. Now, she couldn’t stop imagining Nathaniel lying dead in a ditch next to his overturned phaeton. Though she knew someone would have brought word of an accident, she had to move, to find out for herself. She wanted to bring him home.
Cates carried a lantern and a stout cane as they walked the short distance through the dark streets. Brighton was not London. It was safe to go on foot. But Violet was very glad of the company nonetheless.
Cates used the cane to knock when they reached the house where Rochford was staying. For some minutes, there was no response. If Violet hadn’t been so worried, she would have slipped away in embarrassment, for clearly the residents had gone to bed. At last, however, they heard the sound of bolts being shot back. A man of about forty opened the door, glaring at them. Violet couldn’t help stepping back a bit into the dark.
