Brenda Joyce (13 page)
Authors: The Finer Things
“No, Mister Tulley. Her Ladyship has failed to leave her card, and has asked if Lord Blake is in residence.” The footman spoke without inflection.
The servant faced Violette with censure in his eyes. He was slim, his face long, his pate bald. “If you leave your card, my lady, I shall make certain he receives it.”
Violette was unnerved. She was not stupid, and clearly she was doing something terribly wrong, but what? Surely such a fuss wasn’t about her failing to leave her card? “Sir. I beg yer pardon.” The servant’s eyes widened as she spoke. Violette lifted her chin. “I ain’t got no card. But Lord Blake told me I could come t’ ’im fer advice, an’ that’s wot I am doin’. It’s eggscrucyate-inly important, sir.”
Mister Tulley stared at her as if she had grown two heads.
“Please!” Violettte blurted. “Just tell me where I can find ’im! Me ’usband died, they said ’e’s bankrupt, an’ Blake promised me ’e’d ’elp me!”
Tulley turned to Joshua. “This is extraordinary,” he said, low. But Violette heard. Tulley faced her, and some of his veneer had slipped, for he regarded her with pity. “I shall tell Lord Blake that you have called, Lady, er … ?”
“Lady Goodwin,” Violette said, her chest heaving. She did not want his pity. It had been hard enough for her to come to Blake in the first place. “Is the countess at ’ome? Or Lady Dearfield?”
“They remain in the country,” Tully said quietly.
“Blake told me ’e was comin’ back to London.” Violette turned blindly away. She did not know what to do. Blake had been her last hope, her last resort. She did not see Tulley and Joshua exchange glances.
“Lady Goodwin, I shall send word to Lord Blake that you have called. In the meantime, might I have an address where he may contact you?” Tulley asked.
Violette looked up. The last thing she would ever do was reveal to Blake the location of the small, spare flat where she lived. She shook her head. “I’ll come again t’morrow. Mebbe ’e’ll be ’ere, then. Thank yew. G’day.”
She turned, managing to hold her head high when she wanted to slink out of there. The footman rushed ahead of her and opened the door for her. Violette smiled tremulously at him. Stepping outside with her, he-closed the door behind her and went to stand on the door’s other side as one part of the pair of statue-like sentinels again.
Violette walked slowly to the top step but then made no move to go down. The grand Mayfair neighborhood was spread out panoramically before her, one palatial home after another surrounded by green trees, groomed lawns, and rioting gardens, but none as wonderful as Harding House. Her pulse raced dangerously—she felt miserable, lightheaded. She reminded herself that they had food at home, a roof over their heads, and enough money to pay the rent for the next three months. But she wasn’t certain that she should try to reach Blake again tomorrow. She had seen the butler’s condescension, worse, his pity.
She started down the steps.
“My lady.”
Violette turned at the sound of Tulley’s voice. He stood in front of the house, the door behind him wide open. His expression grave, he hurried to her. “My lady, what I am about to do is wrong, terribly wrong, but Lord Blake is not my employer—his father is. And the earl is a man of compassion, and he is extremely fond of justice.”
“I don’t understand,” Violette said.
Tulley’s face softened fractionally. “The earl would agree with what I am about to do, if my suspicion about what Lord Blake has done is correct.”
“I still don’t understand.”
Tulley sighed. “His Lordship has a townhouse in Belgravia. Number One, Sloane.”
Violette’s face brightened. “Belgravia! That’s not too far—I can walk!”
The butler raised his hand. “But he is not at home at this hour. I doubt His Lordship will return home until much later this evening. At this hour, he is at his club—on Pall Mall.”
“’Is club,” Violette echoed.
“If you truly wish to reach him, I suggest you waylay him as he is leaving, which should be shortly.”
“Yes, I wish to reach ’im. ’Ow long will it take t’ walk there?” Violette smiled eagerly.
Tulley stared. “Now I understand,” he said, gazing at her face.
“Beg yer pardon?”
“God forgive me,” Tulley looked heavenwards, then smiled at Violette. “I will have a coachman bring you around in one of our smaller, unmarked vehicles.”
“God bless yew, sir!” Violette cried.
BLAKE
leaned back in his leather chair, one trouser-clad knee crossed, immersed in the London Times. He was in his club’s reading room, a well-lit library paneled in dark oak. All the other gentlemen present were as studiously involved as he; a few of the gentlemen were sipping port or smoking cigars as they read. No one spoke.
leaned back in his leather chair, one trouser-clad knee crossed, immersed in the London Times. He was in his club’s reading room, a well-lit library paneled in dark oak. All the other gentlemen present were as studiously involved as he; a few of the gentlemen were sipping port or smoking cigars as they read. No one spoke.
Until the marquis of Waverly entered the carpeted, bookcase-lined room. Heads turned as various gentlemen murmured greetings to the heir to the dukedom of Rutherford. “Hello, Blake,” Dom St. Georges said quietly, smiling.
Blake laid down his paper as his best friend—after his brother—took the red leather chair besides his, stretching out his long legs. “Hello, Dom. You are looking well. What are you doing in town?”
Dom grinned, a flash of white teeth in his perpetually tanned face. He was amber-eyed and golden-haired. “Anne and I have stolen away for a few days, and, although currently at Rutherford House, we are spending the weekend in Paris.”
“How very romantic,” Blake said. “And how is your lovely wife?”
“Lovelier than ever—and as vexing.”
Blake laughed. Dom had more than met his match when he had married the very capable, very sincere, and very beautiful Anne Stewart, an American orphan raised with her English cousins. Until Blake had seen the pair together, he would have sworn that in spite of being heir to the dukedom of Rutherford, Dom would never marry. “And how are the twins?”
“They do not sleep,” Dom said of the one-year-old children.
He and Anne had been blessed with a boy and a girl. “We do not sleep. Even the nurse doesn’t sleep.”
He and Anne had been blessed with a boy and a girl. “We do not sleep. Even the nurse doesn’t sleep.”
Blake chuckled. “Perhaps it is time to adjourn to the salon for a drink.”
“My idea exactly,” Dom said, both men standing. As they left the library, he said, “You know, Blake, I saw something quite odd outside when I was on my way in. Are you the only Harding in town?”
“I believe so, why?” They trotted down the carpeted staircase.
“I am positive I saw one of your family’s unmarked phaetons across the street, and someone, a woman, was sitting inside.”
They strolled across the salon and took a table not far from the mahogany bar where a bartender polished glasses. As it was mid-afternoon, only a few of the many other tables were occupied. A waiter instantly materialized to take their orders. That done, Blake shrugged, leaning back on the small moss green sofa. “You must be mistaken, Dom.”
“Apparently so.” Dom grinned. “After all, what woman related to the Hardings would wear a hat with truly atrocious papier-mâché cherries hanging off the brim?”
Blake froze, quite sure color was draining from his face. “A woman in an atrocious hat? In one of our unmarked carriages?”
“Have I said something wrong?”
Blake was standing. “A beautiful woman? With black hair and blue eyes?”
Dom also stood, regarding Blake with open curiosity. “I merely drove by the carriage and glanced inside. I have no idea whether the woman in question was attractive or not, much less raven-haired and blue-eyed. Blake, where are you going?”
Blake did not hear him. But surely Violette was not outside in a Harding vehicle. And as he entered the foyer he faltered.
“But yew must get this message t’ Lord Blake,” Violette Goodwin said loudly, shaking off two grim ushers. She stood in the foyer, an usher on each side of her, actually inside of the club. And, yes, she was wearing a ghastly hat.
A half dozen club members were congregating in the foyer as well. Blake felt Dom stop beside him. “Good God,” Dom said. “A woman in the club?”
Blake didn’t know how to react.
“Madam, you must leave, at once. No … females … are allowed
in this establishment.” The club manager had appeared. His face was as red as his waistcoat.
in this establishment.” The club manager had appeared. His face was as red as his waistcoat.
“But it’s most urgent. O’ eggscrucyate-in’ importance. I beg yew!” Violette cried. It seemed that she would soon stamp her foot.
“Violette,” Blake said, starting forward.
Dom followed. “
Violette
? Who is this, Blake?”
Violette
? Who is this, Blake?”
But Blake ignored him. Violette had seen him and she rushed past the ushers—as if she were going to throw herself into his arms. Murmurs of astonishment and disapproval sounded all around them as more members came downstairs and out of the salon to view the historical event of the invasion of their club by a woman.
“Blake!” she cried, her eyes lighting up.
He gripped her arm before she could actually embrace him—for he had the suspicion that was what she would do—and halted her in her tracks. He was aware that he devoured her face with his eyes. His wildly racing heart did numerous, odd flipflops, as if he were some fresh-faced Eton boy. He hadn’t been certain he would ever see her again. “Lady Goodwin, do you wish to have me displaced as a member of this club?” But a twinkle appeared in his eye. A dimple accompanied it.
“Gawd, no!” She saw his expression and started to smile, but uncertainly. “’Ave I done somethin’ wrong?”
“You have. And it’s ’have.’ With an ’h.’ You must stop dropping those h’s.” His gaze held hers, warmly. He was pleased to see her and could not deny it, even to himself.
“H. Have.” She did not remove her eyes from his face.
“Well done,” he said softly, still holding her arm as if afraid she might escape—and still looking into her blue, blue eyes.
A smile spread slowly across her features. “Thank yew,” she whispered.
“You,” he said. “Your mouth should not open and form an ‘o.’ It’s a small, brief movement of one’s lips.”
“You,” she repeated, perfectly. Their gazes remained locked.
“Well, well,” Dom murmured. “What an interesting turn of events.”
Blake ignored him. “Ladies are not allowed inside of a gentlemen’s club, Lady Goodwin.” His tone was gentle.
She was startled, then dismayed. “They ain’t?! I’m so sorry! I ’ad no idea!”
He smiled again. Was it possible that he had missed her?
“Excuse me, Lord Blake,” a man said huffily.
Blake recognized the voice as he turned to face the earl of Hutton, a round, portly man twice his own age. “You do realize that this … this … creature must go, and immediately,” Hutton said, red-faced. “And that there shall be complaints filed against you!”
Before Blake could respond, Dom stepped forward. The heir to the dukedom of Rutherford smiled, but it did not reach his golden eyes. He laid a hand on Hutton’s thick shoulder. “Hutton, there is no need for distress. Blake, Lady Goodwin, and I were just leaving. And as for complaints, I imagine it would be a sad day for such an estimable club were it to lose a bevy of members at once.” Dom’s smile widened. He stared.
Hutton was taken aback. “Surely you don’t mean … ?”
“But I do,” Dom said easily. “Neither I nor my grandfather, the duke, would wish to continue on here if Blake were no longer welcome. I imagine the earl of Harding and the viscount of Farleigh would feel precisely the same way.”
Hutton paled. “I beg your pardon, my lord.”
“Thank you,” Dom said.
Blake bowed. “Good day, Hutton,” he said, still holding Violette’s arm.
She curtsied, not very well. Her foot caught her skirts and she almost tripped, but Blake kept her upright. “G’day, me lord,” she said, blushing.
Blake looked at Dom and they winced.
If she had arrived in one of his family’s smaller, unmarked phaetons, used for the purpose of traveling to London in some discretion and with privacy, that carriage was now gone. But on the sidewalk outside of the club they said good-bye to Dom, who was staring at them and smiling strangely, and Blake steered Violette across the street to his own waiting coach. His coachman did not blink an eye as Blake handed her up and onto the plush royal blue velvet squabs. She had taken the backwards-facing seat, another faux pas, for a lady always faced forward, but he was prepared to ignore it. He had other more pressing concerns.
He sat across from her. She met his eyes and blushed. He did not signal his driver to go forward, and they remained stationary. “This is a surprise,” he said, no longer smiling. He
studied her downturned face. She did not reply. “Lady Goodwin?”
studied her downturned face. She did not reply. “Lady Goodwin?”
She looked up. “I need t’ see yew, an’ I’m so sorry to have caused yew trouble, m’lord!”
He could not help himself. He reached across the space separating them and took both of her hands in his. “Are you going to cry?” he asked gently, releasing her hands in order to extract a handkerchief.
“Me? Niver! I’m ’ardly in napkins.”
He half-winced and half-smiled. “Take this anyway. I have the oddest notion you might wish to use it.”
She took the linen square and gripped it tightly.
“Lady Goodwin?”
She inhaled loudly. “I don’t know wot t’ do. Is it true? Yew—you—said I could come t’ yew—you—fer advice. ’Ave I lost everythin’ t’ some bleedin’ city nobs?”
“I’m afraid so. Sir Thomas was heavily in debt. I am frankly astonished that he made no real provision for you.”
“Gawd,” she whispered, her eyes huge.
“There are always solutions,” he reminded her, sympathy flooding over him.
She nodded, looking grim and forlorn and waiflike and beautiful all at once. When she spoke, she startled him. “I was ’opin’ t’ find me a job in some fancy shop. On Regent Street or Oxford Street where the real ladies an’ gents shop.”
“A job?” he echoed. “You wish to be a shopgirl again?”
“Wot choice do I got?”
“What choice do you have, with an ‘H,’” he corrected automatically. But his mind was racing.
“But I’ve already tried everywhere. At first everyone’s so nice, but then they chase me away like I’m no good fer ’em.” Her tone was plaintive, her eyes trained on his face.
Blake could imagine how it had been. Violette, although a distinct victim of bad taste, did appear genteel. Many gentlewomen dressed abominably anyway, thinking that more frippery was better than less. So she would be greeted with some enthusiasm—until she walked and talked. Then her antecedents became obvious, and she would be told in no uncertain terms to leave the premises. He ached for her.
He hated to bring up the subject, but he was a realist and he said, “What about remarriage?”
She quickly avoided his eyes. “I was thinkin’ that, in time,
I’d meet some fancy gent in the shop the way I met Sir Thomas.” Her gaze lifted. It was almost defiant. “Some nice fancy gent. Someone who’s young.” She hesitated. “Like yew.”
I’d meet some fancy gent in the shop the way I met Sir Thomas.” Her gaze lifted. It was almost defiant. “Some nice fancy gent. Someone who’s young.” She hesitated. “Like yew.”
Blake stared.
She did not look away.
Her gaze was oddly challenging. He did not know what to say. He did not even know what to think. He had adjusted to her having been married to the elderly Sir Thomas. He couldn’t quite see her married to someone closer to her in age. And if she were looking for some young lord to marry, then she was harboring grave illusions. No peer of his would marry a girl from the East End. It just wasn’t done. The best she could hope for was another crone, perhaps another knight if she were very lucky. If she wished to marry someone close to her own age, then she would have to set her sights much lower, perhaps on a merchant, perhaps even lower than that.
“Lady Goodwin, most ladies do not seek husbands in retail shops.”
She stared at him, her chin tilted up aggressively. “’Ow do I find me a good husband? Someone with means, someone like you?”
He hesitated, not wanting to tell her the truth, not wanting to hurt her. “Primarily through introductions.” He was certainly not going to suggest she put herself on the marriage mart this Season—she would never get in.
“Will yew introduce me?” she asked.
“That is impossible.” His reply was instantaneous.
“Why?”
“I have no one to introduce you to.”
“Yew don’t ’ave friends?” she asked with skepticism. “Or I ain’t good enough fer ’em.”
He could hardly believe his ears. “My friends are not interested in marriage,” he finally said, hesitating. “Violette, this isn’t about you’re not being good enough. Titles marry titles. Or money. Like marries like, just as water seeks its own level. In my world, the daughter of an earl marries the son of an earl, or even higher if she can. Do you understand?”
“Yer tellin’ me I don’t got a chance,” she said, the tip of her nose pink. “Yer tellin’ me like marries like, an’ I ain’t like yew.”
He was silent. Then, “Yes,” he said soberly. “You do not have a chance, not amongst my set.”
But like a terrier, she would not quit. “An’ Sir Thomas? He wasn’t in your set?”
Blake sighed. “I am merely telling you the way of the world, Violette. No, Sir Thomas was not really a part of my circle. He was on the fringes only because the seat of the earldom is outside of Tamrah.”
“I don’t like yer rules,” Violette said bluntly.
Blake did not know how to respond. He wasn’t so sure that he liked them either.
Other books
Pieces of Sky by Warner, Kaki
A Difficult Woman by Alice Kessler-Harris
The Red Road by Denise Mina
Dark Tempest by Manda Benson
13 Hangmen by Art Corriveau
The Misty Harbour by Georges Simenon
EMBRACE THE DARK (The Blood Rose Novella Series) by Roane, Caris
I Am Death by Chris Carter
Mystery of the Orphan Train by Gertrude Chandler Warner
