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Authors: The Finer Things

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Catherine rose and walked over to Violette. “Dear. I am a new friend, but truly I
am
your friend. I want to help you. I have an idea. I think that I can.”
“Yew can’t help me.” Violette felt her nose turning red. “Not unless yew got magic t’ make me the kind o’ lady Blake would think o’ the way he thinks o’ yew.”
Catherine smiled now. “Unfortunately, I am not a magician. But perhaps I can be a teacher of sorts.”
Violette was cautious. “A teacher?”
“Yes.” Her eyes bright, Catherine sank down on the crimson sofa. She clapped her hands, more animated than Violette had ever seen her. “Violette, if you spoke correctly, and walked more gently, and understood the propriety which guides us all, the rules and etiquette, and, of course, changed your wardrobe, why I do believe you could have everyone fooled into thinking that you are one of us!”
Violette made a face. “Wot are you blatherin’ about?”
“Do you want to be a real lady?” Catherine cried, on her feet.
“A real lady?” Violette blinked. “O’ course I do. But that’s impossible. It’d take a miracle.”
“No. It is not impossible. It would not take a miracle. What it would take is a very determined teacher, and a very dedicated pupil.”
Violette stared, suddenly understanding.
“I shall be your teacher,” Catherine declared. “And I shall turn you into a lady that we could actually present at Court!”
Violette did not move. “An’ Blake? Can we fool ’im?”
Their gazes met. “We can try,” Catherine said vehemently—and a conspiracy was formed.
 
Violette couldn’t help feeling a little bit better. She watched Catherine move across the ballroom, pausing repeatedly to converse with those she knew. Catherine was the epitome of grace and gentility. Maybe all was not lost. Violette wasn’t sure that Catherine could turn her into a real lady, but she was determined to try Catherine’s wild scheme. She had never wanted to try anything more. The stakes were so very high.
She saw Blake standing across the room.
The stakes were the love of an incredible man.
Blake had seen her as well. For one moment their gazes locked, and then he turned away. Violette stiffened, her small smile instantly fading.
She walked closer to a pillar, hiding behind it. Blake didn’t think she was good enough for him to love. Was she a fool to think that she could change his mind? What if Catherine were successful in teaching her to act and speak like a lady? Wouldn’t he feel differently about her then? And if he did not?
Her final thoughts were too painful to contemplate. Violette moved away from the pillar. Although it was early, and she hadn’t eaten or drank anything other than the flute of champagne, she would go home. There was no point in lingering, not tonight. And tomorrow at eleven A.M. she would call on Catherine at her father’s town house as Catherine had suggested.
But Violette had not taken more than three steps toward the steps at the other end of the ballroom when she faltered, dismayed. Standing not far from those steps was a very formidable, stout figure—that of Lady Joanna Feldstone.
Inwardly Violette groaned. She wanted to leave, but she did not wish to walk past her stepdaughter. Oh, no. Joanna had
always hated her, but at least when Sir Thomas was alive she’d been forced to be civil. Violette couldn’t help but recall their last encounter at Goodwin Manor. She paused, undecided as to what to do, certain a disaster would ensue if Joanna saw her now. And this time she had no doubt that Blake would not rescue her.
And then she glimpsed Lord Farrow standing with a group of guests. And although he was immersed in a pleasant conversation, his gaze was turned upon her. Violette immediately smiled at him.
He returned her smile, quickly detaching himself from the ensemble. He strode to her, obviously pleased. “Lady Goodwin. I was hoping we might speak again tonight.”
Violette saw, from the corner of her eye, the moment that Joanna noticed her. The other woman froze, staring openly, with hostility. Violette took a breath and smiled again at Farrow. “Actually,” she said, her heart hammering, “I was about to leave.”
His brows rose. “So early?! The ball has only just begun, and we have yet to share a waltz.”
Violette hesitated, because Blake had just walked into her line of vision, behind Farrow. He was regarding them both impassively, making it impossible for Violette to guess what he was thinking. But first Joanna, now Blake. Violette didn’t think she could take too much more tonight.
Blake turned abruptly away from her. It was such a simple action, yet it said more than words ever could. Violette stared, stricken, unable to look away.
“You will stay a while longer? No one leaves a ball just as it is just beginning.” Farrow took her arm.
“Me brother is ill an’ I am worried about ’im.” Violette fabricated quickly. “I niver intended to stay the evening. But would you be a good enough gentleman to walk me to the door?”
He studied her, finally acquiescing. “I am sorry about your brother. Will I see you at the Merritts’ dance tomorrow evening?”
“I don’t know,” Violette said. Of course she had not been invited, but she could not tell Farrow that. As they crossed the room she darted one last glance at Blake. If he was aware of them leaving, he did not show it, for his back remained turned to them as he spoke to a group of guests. Violette could not wait to leave.
And while Violette avoided looking at Joanna as she and Farrow approached, Joanna stared very directly at them both. Violette’s cheeks started to burn.
And then Joanna said, quite loudly, so all those standing around the steps could hear, “I do not believe it! My father is not even cold in his grave and she has taken up with someone else! She is not even in mourning!”
Violette flushed, meeting Joanna’s blazing regard. What had she done to make this woman hate her so?
“But of course, a female like
that
would not understand the concept of mourning,” Joanna cried while another matron patted her arm soothingly.
Farrow smiled down at Violette as if he were oblivious to Joanna’s words—which was an impossibility. There was no way he could not have heard. Violette shrugged free of his arm. Enough was enough.
Her hands found her hips. “Mebbe you’re just jealous, you fat old witch!” she said loudly. “Could it be that you’re in love with Lord Farrow?”
Joanna gasped. Beside her, Violette heard Farrow chuckle. “We had better go,” he said softly.
But before Violette could agree, Joanna shrugged free of the baron, who had tried to restrain her, and she positively blocked Violette and Farrow’s path. “You!” she cried. “You liar—adulteress—murderess!”
Violette gasped, blanching.
Farrow was stunned. “Lady Feldstone, did we actually hear you correctly?”
“You most certainly did,” Joanna said, red-faced. “How can she be here?
When she killed my father?”
Gasps sounded from all around them. People were turning to stare. Not even pretending otherwise.
“I didn’t kill Sir Thomas,” Violette began in a throaty voice. Sweat gathered on her brow.
“Rat poison,” Joanna shrieked. And she leapt forward. But before she could attack Violette physically, Blake appeared, grabbing her arms and restraining her.
“Lady Feldstone. If you insist on continuing this very unseemly conversation, I shall insist that you leave my father’s home.” Jon had materialized behind him, and so had Catherine. In fact, Blake, his brother, and Catherine had formed a semicircle around her and Farrow, as if protecting her from Joanna.
Violette had never been more horrified, and at the same time,
she wanted to hug Blake for supporting her against Joanna. She could not, though, for Farrow held her arm even more tightly than before. But she was grateful to him as well.
Joanna faced Blake. “Why do you defend her again? Why don’t you ask her yourself about the rat poison? I
know
she poisoned my father.”
Violette cried out. She clung to Farrow. Her wild eyes found Blake, who started.
Blake’s eyes narrowed. He said, “I beg your pardon, Lady Feldstone. I have no wish to continue this discussion.”
Violette opened her mouth to deny purchasing the arsenic, but no words came out. She had bought the rat poison, but not to kill Sir Thomas, only to kill one big, annoying rat.
Blake snapped, “Farrow, as long as you are escorting Lady Goodwin to the door, why don’t you do so now? I suggest you put her in a Harding carriage. I will loan her mine.”
Farrow nodded, but said, “Actually, I will see Lady Goodwin safely home myself.” And he propelled Violette past the crowd before she even knew what was happening. All around them people began to talk in animated, speculative whispers. Everyone stared at her.
And as she went up the steps she half-turned, to meet Blake’s glinting eyes. She wanted to stop, go back, tell him it wasn’t true. But surely he knew that?
He took a step backwards, away from her, his piercing gaze on her face.
And Violette cringed. Panic overwhelmed her, and with it, despair. He thought the worst.
VIOLETTE
stumbled as Farrow guided her past the two footmen standing silently in front of Harding House. His grip was firm enough to hold her upright. Violette was in the throes of despair.
The evening had been a disaster. But surely everyone did not believe that awful Joanna Feldstone? Yet Violette was afraid. If only she hadn’t bought rat poison the day before Sir Thomas’s death.
They paused on the sidewalk. “I will take you home,” Farrow said, signaling his carriage.
Violette glanced up at his handsome face. He did not make her catch her breath the way that Blake did. He was an impressive man, but nothing like Blake. She did not trust him; Blake she trusted implicitly. She had no wish to be accompanied home by Farrow, especially as she had not forgotten Blake’s warnings. “I don’t mind takin’ a hansom,” she said thickly.
“It is my pleasure, Lady Goodwin,” Farrow said, his penetrating gaze holding hers.
Footsteps suddenly sounded behind them and they both turned. Blake said, “I am sure it is your pleasure, Farrow. But I have already ordered my phaeton around for Lady Goodwin.”
Violette was relieved, yet she had not forgotten all that had transpired between them that night Aware of Farrow’s hand on her elbow, she desperately searched Blake’s face for some clue as to what he was thinking. But his expression was cool and unreadable. Violette’s heart sank.
She did not care, she decided, if the entire world thought her guilty of murder—as long as Blake thought her to be innocent.
“Ah, so you will escort Lady Goodwin home?” Farrow said coolly. “Am I poaching, Blake?”
Blake stiffened. “That is unforgivable, a slur upon Lady Goodwin’s character. I would watch my tongue if I were you, Farrow.”
Farrow’s smile flashed dangerously. He glanced at Violette. “I hold Lady Goodwin in the highest possible regard.”
Violette looked from one man to the other, feeling as if they were about to leap at one another like hungry dogs fighting over a single mutton bone.
“That is a relief,” Blake said, his smile as brittle and as brief. “And, no, I am not escorting Lady Goodwin home, I’am loaning her the use of my vehicle. Ah”—his smile was as cold as his eyes—“here it is. Violette?”
She jerked at the sound of her name. Farrow had finally released her, but she felt him start, too. Violette knew he was waiting to say good-bye to her, but she only had eyes for Blake. “Blake. Thank you.”
He didn’t quite shrug, gesturing toward his racy black phaeton, avoiding her eyes.
Violette turned toward Farrow, trembling, managing a small smile. Nothing had changed. She was hurt to the quick. “Thank you for yer concern,” she said, finally unscrambling her wits.
“I look forward to seeing you again.” Farrow bowed. He
did not seem very pleased, either with Violette or the turn of events.
Blake took Violette’s arm, his grip uncompromising. Before Violette could take another breath, he was propelling her to his phaeton. Violette shot another glance at his hard face; he did not even glance at her.
The coachman held the door open. Blake began to hand Violette up, but she balked. “Blake. I …”
He interrupted. “I do not know where you now live. You will have to give the address to Godson yourself.”
Violette finally stepped up into the carriage. The door was almost slammed in her face. Blake returned to the curb. His gaze seemed to focus just above her head on the phaeton’s gleaming gold molding.
“Blake,” Violette cried, gripping the sill of the open carriage window with both hands. “Surely yew do not believe that ’orrid Lady Feldstone?”
He eyed her as the phaeton dipped under the coachman’s weight. The vehicle shifted.
“Blake?”
Their gazes finally met and locked. “No,” he said. “I do not believe the accusations.”
Violette stared at him as the phaeton began to roll swiftly away. Why was she not reassured? His face was set in stone. There were no traces of warmth there.
She continued to stare out of the window at him as she was driven away. Violette watched him turn and walk back up the wide stone steps of Harding House. She finally collapsed on the cool leather seat, perilously close to tears. And now all that she could think of was that Blake had the entire evening to enjoy—with someone like the so very beautiful Lady Cantwell.
 
When Blake reentered the house, late guests were arriving, but he ignored them, striding down the hall. Blake let himself into the parlor where he had sent Catherine to comfort Violette. He strode directly to the liquor cabinet and poured himself a double scotch whisky.
He could not shake Violette’s stricken expression from his mind. He himself could easily strangle Joanna Feldstone for her outrageous accusations. Violette was not capable of murder, and although she had clearly married Sir Thomas for his wealth and position, he knew her well enough to know that it had been far more complicated than that. She had married him, he knew,
to escape from the life she led; to escape the streets of London and her impoverished beginnings. And she had been, amazingly, very fond of Sir Thomas. Her grief over his death had been genuine. As had her gratitude for all that he had done. Violette had not killed her husband, of that Blake did not have a single doubt.
But he was very uneasy. Violette had not denied buying rat poison. But perhaps she had been too shocked with the accusations to respond. And what if Sir Thomas had been murdered?
Ralph’s glowering image came immediately to mind.
And there was always guilt by association.
Blake paced, downing half of the scotch. Perhaps only one thing was clear. He had made a vast, nearly irreparable mistake tonight by kissing her. He had found Violette startlingly beautiful from the moment he had first met her, beautiful and enchanting. He had wanted her then, but not half as much as he wanted her now, and that was where the real danger lay. In fact, tonight was the first time that he had spoken with Gabriella without being swept away by too many memories to count.
He had left the door to the library open and Jon suddenly appeared. Blake was glad to have his thoughts interrupted. Jon walked over and laid his hand on Blake’s shoulder. “I thought I might find you here.”
Blake intended to smile, knew he grimaced instead. “Have a drink?”
“Why not?” Jon’s smile was characteristic, revealing his dimple, one identical to Blake’s. “This is a party; too bad you are so unhappy.”
Blake moved back to the sideboard and poured his brother a hefty scotch, handing it to him. “Lady Feldstone should be strangled.”
“Or muzzled at the very least,” Jon agreed. “I’m sure our dog master has the appropriate items in the kennels. Shall we call him?”
Blake leaned his hip on the sideboard, unamused. “Violette is not capable of murder. Anyone can see that.”
“Really?” Jon studied Blake.
“You think her a murderess?” Blake was shocked.
“Whoa! Slow down. I personally believe her incapable of murder, just as I believe that Sir Thomas died a natural death. However, Lady Goodwin comes from questionable origins, and that is what the world shall consider first.”
Blake sighed. “That is what I am afraid of. Did you see her face? She was humiliated, mortified.”
“Yes,” Jon said, his gaze piercing. “You seem very concerned.”
Blake jerked. “What does that mean?”
“It means,” Jon said softly, “that you are fighting a losing battle. Why don’t you admit it?”
Blake stiffened. “All right. I am fighting a battle. I will admit that I am very fond of Violette Goodwin. But
that
is as far as it goes.”
Jon had the audacity to laugh.
“Do you seek to provoke me?”
“No,” Jon said, still grinning. “Well, maybe just a bit.”
“You know,” Blake said calmly, “I am fully aware that you and Catherine set me up tonight, suggesting that I court Violette in front of the guests.”
Jon feigned a wide-eyed look of innocence. “Come, Blake! That is farfetched. But tell me this. Who told you to take Violette Goodwin outside? To kiss her?”
Blake stared. Then he had to smile. “Touché.”
“Perhaps,” Jon said mildly, “you should court Lady Goodwin in earnest, honorably, sparing both you and her much grief.”
Blake’s smile vanished. “I am
not
looking for a wife,” he finally said.
“How adamant you are,” Jon returned. He studied Blake. “Let me give you some brotherly advice. Lay Gabriella to rest, Blake. And do it now, before you lose Violette to someone like Robert Farrow.”
 
Violette stood in front of the Dearfield town house, screwing up her courage, as the hansom which had deposited her there drove away. Clad in a navy blue dress with black lace trim and a black sash tied in a bow, she clutched her lime green reticule tightly. She was afraid. What if Catherine believed the ugly accusations and no longer wished to tutor her in the behavior of a lady?
But they did have an appointment for that morning. Unfortunately, though, if Catherine had wished to cancel it she would not have been able to even send Violette a note, because Violette had never disclosed her current address to her.
Taking a deep breath, Violette approached the five-story town house, walking through wrought-iron gates. Petunias lined
the elm-shaded walk, azaleas bloomed on the front stoop. Violette used the door knocker. A butler instantly appeared.
“Lady Goodwin?” he intoned.
Violette flinched, waiting for him to deliver a fell blow and tell her that Catherine no longer wished to see her.
“Do come in. Lady Dearfield will be downstairs shortly. She hopes you will take breakfast with her.”
Flooded with relief, Violette followed the elderly butler into a sunny, spacious foyer. Oak floors gleamed. Portraits were hanging on the papered walls. She glimpsed her reflection in one tall Venetian mirror. Two pink spots had appeared on her cheeks.
Violette tucked escaping strands of hair into her bonnet, which was bedecked with orange silk flowers, and hurried down the hall after the butler. She peeked into a spacious, graciously appointed salon as she did so. Although the Dearfield town house was in no way as impressive as the Hardings’ city mansion, it was very, very pleasant.
The breakfast room was also drenched in sunlight and papered in a tree-of-life print. Yellow silk draperies were pulled back to expose the flowering back gardens. One ornate sidetable was cluttered with covered dishes, and Violette sniffed appreciatively. She could smell baked ham and fresh bread.
The butler hesitated. Violette smiled at him and sat down at the table. He turned and left. A moment later Catherine appeared, looking almost angelic in a pale blue morning dress. And although she was beautiful, Violette thought the dress quite plain.
“My dear,” she said, smiling. “I am so glad to see you.” But her smile faded as she glanced at Violette, who had stood up. Catherine looked her over carefully.
“I’m glad, too,” Violette said, her hold tightening on her reticule. “I was afraid you might have changed yer mind after last night.” She spoke very carefully. She was going to become a lady, she had no other choice—and if it were at all possible, she would win Blake’s heart.
Catherine frowned. “That was horrid, Violette. I was appalled with Lady Feldstone’s behavior—and by the by, her behavior was not that of a lady.” Catherine did not sit down. “A lady is gracious, genteel, and polite—
always
.”
“She’ll get hers,” Violette said seriously.
“I beg your pardon, Violette, but what you just said is not ladylike either.” Catherine was reproving in spite of her gentle
tone. “And a lady would never call another lady names as you did last night.”
Violette frowned. “You mean, I’m supposed to be all nice and charming when she shouts to the world that I murdered me husband?”
“Yes. Two wrongs never make a right. And it is
my
husband, my dear. It is
my
lord,
my
dog,
my
cat.” Catherine patted her arm. “We are beginning our lessons now. You must be gracious, genteel, forgiving. You might answer me by saying, ’I am sure Lady Feldstone did not mean what she said; perhaps she was not quite feeling well last night.’”
“But she meant it,” Violette said, bewildered.
“But a lady would never be reproachful. You must be kind, and above any such behavior. In the end, your elegance will prove that you are the real lady, and she the impostor.”
“I think I understand,” Violette said slowly. She began to smile. She liked the idea of out-ladying Joanna Feldstone. It occurred to her that if she had a doubt about what to do or say, she should try to imagine what Catherine would do or say. And she could not imagine Catherine ever responding to Lady Feldstone in anything other than a calm, civil way.
“As long as we are sidetracked, I wish to add something else about a lady’s behavior.”

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