by Jenna Jaxon
“Violet.” He eased toward her another step.
“Stop!” She skittered back from the sofa. “Don’t come near me.” Blast the luck, he stood between her and the doorway.
“I won’t.” Tris raised his hands, palms out, and backed away. “I won’t come near you. I’m sorry I’ve hurt you. More sorry than you can know. Because I still love you.”
“Oh, you wretch!” She grabbed a vase of dried flowers and hurled it at him.
He ducked and it crashed into the wall.
“Don’t you ever say such a thing to me again. Don’t speak to me at all!” Seizing a China figurine, she heaved that at his head.
When he ducked it, she sprinted out the door, up the stairs and into her room. She slammed the door and turned the key. Chest heaving, she leaned against it, sobbing, unable to breathe.
Someone pounded up the stairs.
“Violet. Please just talk to me.” Tristan’s muffled voice sent a spike of pain through her head.
“Go away. I never want to see you or hear from you or speak to you again.” Her throat hurt from all the screeching. Gripped with a sudden madness, she turned the key in the lock, jerked the door open, and came face to face with Tristan.
“Violet.” Wide-eyed, he just stared.
“Ever again!” She slammed the door and locked it.
Chapter 16
Tristan leaned his head against the door to Violet’s chamber, resisting the urge to bang on the smooth wood. He’d prayed against all odds she would understand at least a little. Her brother’s death had been mostly accidental. The man had lunged at the exact time Tris had drawn his sword. He hadn’t aimed to kill James Carlton. Of course, his sister wouldn’t see it that way at all. Only a fool would hope so, especially given Violet’s circumstances. His blade had dealt the mortal blow. Not something lightly forgiven. Perhaps never.
Her sobbing squeezed his heart. He laid his hand flat against the door, as if he could touch her through it. In his heart, he feared it would be the last time he did. Turning away, he dragged himself down the stairs.
Susan stood at the bottom, hands on hips. “You should have told her, my lord. The very first night she came here.”
How could he be angry at her impudence, when she was completely right? “You should go to her, Susan. She has need of a friend now.” He passed the disapproving servant, collected his cloak and hat, and let himself out. The afternoon had turned dark and a light snow blew around him as he mounted Lucifer.
The ride to his townhouse seemed interminable.
No matter how hard he tried to distract himself, his thoughts always circled back to the devastated look on Violet’s face when he spoke those damnable words. God, the image was seared on the inside of his eyelids. The silence of the deserted streets only emphasized the sound of her voice in his head, telling him she never wanted to see him again. Well, he would make sure she got her wish.
Relief washed through him as he trotted Lucifer into the mews behind his house in Mayfair. Here at least he could mourn her loss in solitude.
“I am home to no one, Marks.” He drew off his cloak and handed it to his butler. “If you value your position you will allow no one to cross this threshold.” Tris paused, an impossible hope raising its head. “The sole exception would be a young lady or a maid. The name would be Miss Carlton.” If her anger cooled and by some miracle she forgave him, he damned sure wouldn’t want to turn her away.
“Very good, my lord.” The tall, thin servant whisked his outer things away without even a questioning glance.
Tris hauled himself up the stairs to his room, cold despite the roaring fire. He might never feel warmth in his life again. When Saunders, his valet, approached, he waved the man away. For once clothes and appearance meant nothing. He paced the room, shedding jacket and waistcoat and untucking his shirt as he went. The garments fell unheeded to the floor, leaving him in shirt, breeches, and boots. At the writing desk he paused to grab the decanter and a glass. Flopping into the chair before the fire, he poured the expensive cognac into the tumbler until it slopped over the rim. He raised the dripping glass, contemplating the swirling liquid. If only he could drown in it. Then, with a practiced hand, he poured the fiery spirit down his throat, gulping it until he drained the glass. The only way he would endure this long afternoon and eternal night would be through oblivion.
* * * *
Violet allowed Susan to undress her, although she refused a bath. It might have soothed her and she didn’t want soothing. She wanted to hold on to her anger, revel in her pain. She wanted to feed the outrage each time she recalled the man she had thought she loved had killed her brother and ruined her. Oh, yes. She wanted no possibility of calming enough to consider Tristan’s…Lord Trevor’s explanation. He had killed her brother, forced her to destitution and a life of prostitution, and debauched her into the bargain. There was no other way to view it.
“Shall I brush your hair, miss?” Susan bustled around the room, setting everything to rights.
Except her. Never again would she be right.
Violet shook her head, tears flowing. So many things lost. Her brother, her reputation, the life she might have had with Tris that could never be.
“It will do you good, miss. You’ve had a shock. Let me get you some hot tea with a drop of brandy in it and then brush your hair.” Susan turned down the bed and fluffed the pillows.
Fresh sheets on the bed. Bless Susan for a thoughtful and efficient maid. Violet wanted no reminders of the night past. She needed none. Every moment had been scorched into her memory.
“Thank you, Susan. I would like that.” The brandy might dull her enough to let her sleep. If not, the decanter on the sideboard had been replenished, so she could doctor her own tea.
The maid finished the bed and left Violet sitting on it to brood and weep, as she’d been doing ever since Tristan’s departure. She must put the scoundrel out of her mind, look to her future instead, with Lord Donningham perhaps. He was an honorable man, one who could provide her with a safe and secure life.
Oh, Lord. No, she couldn’t do that. Violet twisted back and forth on the bed. She couldn’t pursue Lord Donningham or any other decent man. The one thing of value she’d had—her virtue—was gone, swept away in that night of passion by a man who couldn’t marry her. A man she would rather die than marry now.
Sinking down beneath the covers, she couldn’t stop the tears streaming down her face. No friends, no money, and now no virtue to recommend her. On the marriage mart she’d be less tempting than a used suit of clothing. What was she to do? She couldn’t stay at Lammas House one minute longer than it took to make a plan and pack her things. Packing would take no time as she intended to leave with only the same clothes she’d arrived in. She refused to take anything Tristan…Lord Trevor had given her. She’d not give him the satisfaction of providing anything for the family of his victim.
Then where was she to go?
The door opened and she peeked out from the cover.
“Here you go, miss.” Susan entered with a tray in her hands.
Violet poked her head all the way out. Pray God Susan had been generous with the brandy. “Thank you.” Sniffling, Violet dragged the sleeve of her nightgown across her eyes and wiggled into a sitting position.
“I brought some of Mrs. Parker’s scones, hot out of the oven. You need to eat something, miss.” Susan settled the tray on her lap and tucked a napkin over her gown.
“I suppose you heard our whole conversation?”
“Rather hard not to hear in a house with thin walls.” Concentrating on the tray, Susan straightened the dishes slightly. “Have you decided what to do, miss?”
“Not exactly.” Violet shook her head and took a sip. Sweet and strong. The brandy trailed a comfortable burn all the way down her throat. Bless Susan. She would miss her terribly. “I haven’t worked out a plan, but I won’t remain here.”
“That’s as I thought, mis
s. So I was wondering if you’d consider leaving London? Go away somewhere they don’t know you.”
Hope flared, then died. “The ton would know me wherever I went.” She gripped the cup. There was nowhere to run to. “Brighton, Bath.” She gulped the tea. The more she thought of her bleak outlook, the more she needed the brandy.
“Not if you went somewhere the ton doesn’t go. Like Shotesham St. Mary. That’s the village I came from, though I’ve not been back in years.” Susan eased down onto the bed. “It’s in Norfolk, but I’ve saved a bit. I could take you there, introduce you as a cousin or a friend. No one would think anything of it.” She cut her eyes at Violet and hurried on. “There are prosperous farmers in the area who’d marry someone who looked like you, miss, and not think twice. They’d want a woman to take care of their house and bear their children. And believe me, they’d pay no mind as to whether you were a virgin or not, although we could say you were a widow lady. That would take care of that. Someone as lovely and talented as you, they’d be lined up to court you. You could have your pick of the men.”
Violet sipped the tea, the brandy not making quite the difference she’d hoped. Somehow the image of her in a cozy house, surrounded by children and a man who wasn’t Tristan still seemed intolerable. Nonsense to be sure because she hated Tristan. She willed the memory of his face away.
“You think about it, miss. Unless you can find a way to forgive Lord Trevor, Shotesham is likely your best chance.” Susan rose and straightened the covers.
“Forgive Lord Trevor?” Violet jerked upright, upsetting the tray.
The maid dove for it and barely caught it before it spilled over the bed. “Yes, miss, begging your pardon. I did hear his lordship’s explanation and it seemed to me it was more accident he killed your brother.”
“You don’t understand.” Tears coursed down her cheeks. “I loved my brother. He and our cousin were closer to me than anyone, even my grandmother.” Her jaw ached where she clenched it. “When Jamie died, I lost everything. I can never forgive Lord Trevor.”
“Suit yourself, miss.” Susan sniffed. “But it’s my opinion your brother wouldn’t have died if he’d behaved as he should.” With a piercing look, she flounced out of the room.
Violet grabbed the teacup and drained it. Not enough brandy by far. She gazed longingly at the decanter on the desk. If she could summon the energy, she’d fill the cup brimful and down it. The less she remembered about Lord Trevor the better. Still, she needed her wits about her. She needed to come up with a plan.
Susan’s scheme tempted her. It promised security and anonymity. Why not grasp both and be done with it? What did the man matter? She’d never feel about any man the way she had felt heart and soul for Tristan. Lord Trevor. She must remember him as Lord Trevor, by God, nothing but the lying scoundrel she hated.
With a clatter, Violet set the cup on the tray, then pushed it away and curled up on her side, tears starting from her eyes again. If she hated him, then why did her heart hurt so badly? It wasn’t right to feel this ache along with the anger. She should feel one or the other. In Shotesham St. Mary she would likely never have to see him again. Probably the best thing for her. Still, her heart thudded painfully in her chest. Leaving London sent another pang through her.
It wasn’t as if she was without friends in Town. If she paid a call on Miss Forsythe in the morning, she could beg for assistance. She might be refused, but she didn’t think so. Sinking down into the covers once more, she closed her eyes, her mind made up. Tonight would be her last one in Lammas House, with its torturous memories and reminders of the man she could not forget.
* * * *
Hammering on his chamber door roused Tris from the brandy-induced stupor he’d fallen into sometime during the night. Marks had replenished the decanter twice. It rested on its side on the floor, empty. He winced and ran his hand through his hair. His mouth tasted foul as an un-mucked stable.
The pounding increased.
“Stop that infernal noise!” He plastered his hands over his ears. His is own voice tore a swath through his head until he feared it might explode. The drumming on the door ceased abruptly. The thumping inside his skull, however, worsened.
Gingerly, he peeled himself from the chair where he’d been sprawled for hours, and crossed to the door. By God, this had better be good or Marks would be sacked with no notice and no reference. He pulled the door open, about to lay into his butler.
Susan stood at the threshold, her brown cloak covering her figure completely and accentuating the pallor of her face.
“What are you doing here?” He blinked, still befuddled from the spirits and now confused by the presence of Serena’s maid. No, Violet’s maid. Violet.
He grabbed her by the shoulders and hauled her into the room.
She squeaked and pulled out of his grasp.
“Violet? Where is she? What’s wrong?”
“That’s just it, my lord. I don’t know.” Frowning deeply, Susan shifted backward, twisting her cloak.
A bad omen. He’d never seen her so flustered. “You don’t know what’s wrong or where she is?”
“We both know what’s wrong, my lord.” She glared at him.
He shrugged off her censure. “Then where is she?”
“I don’t know!” Her wail pierced both his head and his heart. “When I went to her chamber late this morning, Miss Carlton wasn’t in bed. I checked the house, but she was nowhere to be found. She’d said nothing about going out. She never leaves the house, you know.”
Tris nodded. Violet had only been out a time or two and always with him or Thomas as escort. “Did she take Thomas with her?”
Susan gazed at the floor and wrung her hands. “Thomas is still there. The only things missing are her old satchel and the purple gown she was wearing when she arrived at Lammas House.”
God, this was all his fault. Obviously, she intended to show him she needed nothing of his. “I suppose she didn’t take the carriage either?”
“No, my lord. Nothing. But I did have a bit of luck. I asked around, different servants who were out and about this morning, if they’d seen her. I’d no idea what time she’d left. Andrew, Mrs. Lyman’s coachman from next door, had been up early with a colicky horse. He said he took a breather around dawn and went out to have a pipe in the mews. He saw Miss Carlton.”
“He knew her?” Insane to feel jealous at a time like this, and of a coachman, no less, but his rational mind had flown.
“No, my lord. He described her—brown hair, deep purple dress, black cloak—and said she came out of our mews gate, looking furtive-like over her shoulder. She headed on foot down the mews and then turned right at the end.”
“Toward St. James Square.” Tris rubbed the heel of his hand against his eyes, praying to God his brains didn’t leak out. “Who might she know in that direction?” He lowered his hand and stared dully at the maid, hoping she had an answer, but the woman shrugged.
“Miss Carlton’s had no callers and paid no calls in the time she’s been with me. If she has friends or family, she never told me of them.”
Tris tried to focus, though his thoughts jumbled as they spun around his head. Out of the fog, her voice, clear and strong came back to him. I finally had the great good luck to make the acquaintance of a Miss Forsythe, who had just arrived from Ireland. That was it. He nodded at Susan, his heart finally lightening. “I think I know where she’s gone.” Pray God he was right. So many things could happen to a woman alone in London. “I’ll take care of this, Susan. Thank you for coming to me.”
She gave him one exasperated look, and left.
“Saunders!”
The valet materialized immediately from his dressing room. He’d likely been lurking there all morning in hopes of a summons. The rotund little man took as much pride in Tristan’s appearance as he did himself.
“Yes, my lord?”
“You must make me as presentable as possible in fifteen mi
nutes.”
“Very good, my lord.” Saunders sprinted to the dressing room. Loud thumping sounds ensued.
Tristan grabbed his head, praying it didn’t explode. He dreaded showing himself in public in this disgraceful fashion. Rarely did he indulge in spirits to this excess, but his guilt last night had driven him to this sorry state. And he deserved every pain-filled moment.
* * * *
“Lord Trevor.” The shrill tone of the butler made Tris cringe as he entered the large reception room at the Braeton’s townhouse.
“How lovely to see you again, Lord Trevor.” Lady Braeton, beautifully attired in a sky-blue gown that somehow muted her flaming red hair, purred and patted the seat on the sofa next to her.
“Haven’t seen you this season down in Kent, Trevor,” Lord Braeton said, raising a tumbler half filled with pale liquor. He arched his brows in invitation.
Tris could almost taste the smooth spirits. Through his wife’s family in Ireland, Braeton always procured the best Irish whiskey to be had in England. Just a couple of mouthfuls would take the edge off this infernal pounding in his head. But he needed to hang onto the few wits he had that still worked. He slowly shook his head at Braeton, and sat down.
The earl shrugged and took another sip. “Damned shame you missed the hunt in October. Some really good riders turned up, including young Manning. Have you met?”
“Yes. He’s the Marquess of Dalbury’s brother-in-law. He’s got quite the reputation as a good judge of horseflesh.” Hoping it wouldn’t make his internal matters worse, Tris accepted a cup of tea from Lady Braeton. “Thank you. Two lumps of sugar and a splash of milk, please.”
“And such a pleasant young man,” Cocking her head, her ladyship chimed in. “My cousin, Miss Forsythe, is quite an admirer of his.” Her blue eyes bore into him. “Have you met her, Lord Trevor?”
“Yes, my lady. At your ball in April. Such a beautiful and spirited young woman.” Had the woman forgotten she’d insisted he dance the opening set with her? Still, her question gave him the opening he’d hoped for. “Is she receiving visitors today?”
