Brenda Joyce (25 page)

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Authors: The Finer Things

BOOK: Brenda Joyce
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Her vision as she stared at the many white candles burning on the altar, seemed to darken, lighten, and darken again. She forced the memory of the nightmare aside and murmured the litany she had been repeating for the past two days. “Dear Father, who art in Heaven …” Her voice was hoarse.
“Gentlewoman, are you unwell?” a kind voice intoned.
Violette turned slightly without rising, and stared up at a black-frocked priest. “I am fine, Father,” she said hoarsely. But she was not fine. She was sick and weak and faint. Guilt consumed her.
“Are you?” He was more than kindly, dapper and white-haired, his expression sympathetic, his brown eyes concerned. “Come, dear. You have been here far too long. You were here all day yesterday until late last night and first thing this morning. May I help? Do you wish to talk about it?”
Violette nodded as the priest helped her stagger to her feet. “Someone is ill. I am begging God not to let him die,” she whispered, her thoughts full of Jon and Blake. “I am begging God for a full recovery. I am begging Him for a miracle.”
“I shall say a prayer for your friend as well.” The priest smiled at her. “But remember this: God has a reason for all that He does. And if your friend leaves this world, or fails to recover fully, it is God’s will.”
Violette was not reassured. “If you could pray for him, I would be so grateful,” she whispered. She stumbled down the nave, her gray skirts almost causing her to trip and fall. She felt terribly disoriented. How many days had passed since the accident? She could not remember. Time was a blur. No, it had been two days and two nights, that was it, that was right. Today her bones hurt her, proof that she had slept on the church’s hard, cold stone floor last evening.
She paused on the sidewalk outside. Her pulse seemed unnaturally loud and rapid and strong. It made her feel uncomfortable. A haggard mother in a faded blue dress with two children in hand passed by on foot. The mother was scolding them. A dray pulled by two bay drafthorses rolled down the thoroughfare. A pair of gentlemen left an apothecary’s shop just across the street. The entire world to which Violette was a witness seemed unreal somehow, surreal. The day was gray and
cloudy and quite cool. Violette realized she had no coat, no hat, no gloves, just when she also realized that it was beginning to drizzle.
She did not want to go home. But where would she go if she did not return to the flat she shared with Ralph?
She suddenly saw an empty hansom driving by. Violette raised her hand without another thought, calling out sharply to the driver. She rushed forward as he halted his cab. Violette opened the door and clambered in.
“Where to, me lady?” the driver asked.
“Harding House,” Violette immediately answered. “In Mayfair.” Her pulse pounded far more unnaturally than before.
 
Violette began to lose courage as she climbed the broad stone steps leading to the front door of Harding House. Her mouth was dry. Her breathing was shallow. She planned to inquire after Jon’s condition from the staff. She was more afraid than ever to face any of the Hardings, especially afraid of Blake.
A footman she did not recognize led her into the foyer, where the butler, Tulley, immediately appeared. Violette searched his impassive expression and thought that it was more somber than usual. Her heart sank.
He paused in front of her. “Lady Goodwin, good day.”
Violette clung to her reticule. “Tulley. How is His Lordship, Lord Farleigh?”
Tulley’s expression was impassive once again, remote, impossible to read. “He is awake, but abed.”
Violette nodded fearfully. “What does the physician say?”
“Dr. Braman has not seen him since he awoke this morning, but he has conversed with Lord Blake and Lady Catherine.”
“Oh, God!” Violette gnawed her lip. “Does that mean he is on the mend, Tulley? Please, I must know!”
Tulley’s expression softened with concern. “I would not know the answer to that, my lady, but we are all praying for His Lordship night and day.” And Tulley said, “Lord Farleigh cannot seem to feel his legs, nor move them.”
Violette’s eyes widened and she stopped breathing. Then she reached blindly out for support. She wound up grabbing the butler’s arm. “Oh God,” she said. “What do you mean, he cannot feel his legs? He cannot move them?”
“Exactly that,” Tulley said quietly.
Violette turned away blindly, her pulse pounding, tears filling
her eyes.
He was paralyzed. What if it did not pass? It was all her fault.
“What the hell is going on here?” Blake demanded.
Violette whirled as Blake came striding rapidly down the stairs and into the foyer, clad only in badly creased trousers and an equally wrinkled shirt. His face was etched in stone. His eyes were icy cold. He continued forward, toward Violette, who did not dare move.
“What are you doing here?” Blake asked grimly, his entire body rigid with tension.
Violette almost cringed. “I … I only wanted to know how Jon is,” she whispered.
“I don’t want you here,” Blake said harshly. “No one wants you here, Lady Goodwin.”
For one moment, Violette was frozen, incapable of either speech or movement. She could not tear her gaze from Blake’s strained countenance, and he stared back.
“Blake,” Violette burst out, “I’m sorry! I’m so sorry! Please tell me that Jon will be fine?” Her voice broke.
“My brother is not fine. He is paralyzed. From the waist down.” He continued to stare. He did not have to verbalize the rest of his thoughts, for it was all too clear that he was blaming her for the accident.
Violette hugged herself. “I am praying for him,” she said tremulously.
“As if that would make a difference,” Blake said. “Good-bye, Lady Goodwin. I think it is time for you to return where you belong.”
Violette flinched. And then she turned and ran out of the house.
“WHAT
is the prognosis?” Jon asked.
Dr. Braman straightened. He had just finished his first examination of Jon since Jon had awoken earlier that day. They were alone in Jon’s bedroom. Jon had insisted that no member of his family be present.
“I will be quite honest with you, my lord,” Braman said. “It is doubtful that you shall ever walk again.”
Jon turned white.
“I wish I could tell you otherwise,” the doctor said sincerely. “But you have no sensation at all in the lower half of your body. After a fall like the one you have sustained, with this kind of paralysis, I have never heard of an instance of full recovery.”
Jon stared. His heart thundered in his ears. The doctor blurred before him. Jon turned his head to stare out of one bedroom window. Outside it was raining heavily, the windowpanes streaked with water. The sky was charcoal gray, almost black.
He was dazed. In disbelief. Time stood still.
And then his mind began to function again.
He was a cripple.
Good God.
He was no longer a man.
“My lord?” Braman gripped his shoulder. “You are lucky to be alive. Most men would not have survived that fall. Stanhope—”
Jon threw his hand off. “Do not tell me that I am lucky,” he roared. The upper half of his body came off of the bed. “Damn you! Get out! Get out of this room this instant!” he shouted. The artery in his throat bulged. His face had turned red. His fists were clenched. And he felt the immensity of what the doctor had told him, of what his life had become, then.
His hopes and dreams, his wishes, everything, lost, gone, turned into nothingness.
As Braman hurried across the room to leave, the door swung open and Blake, the earl, and the countess started inside.
Jon’s murderous gaze caused them all to falter.
“Jon,” the earl began.
“Get out,” Jon said, his chest heaving. “I wish to be alone.”
Catherine appeared on the threshold, her face white, strained with concern. Jon saw her and stiffened. Then he snarled. “And her! Especially her!”
Catherine was frozen, shocked.
“Jon, let me sit with you,” the countess said softly. “My son, please—”
“No.” Jon turned his head away, his jaw flexed, his temples visibly bulging.
Everything transformed into death and hopelessness.
“We should leave,” Catherine whispered. Her eyes were moist. “My lord? My lady? Blake? Come, please. Jon needs to be alone.”
Jon refused to look at them, at her—those he loved so much.
He heard them leaving. His pulse pounded. Inside he was sick. He heard the door close.
And he reached out and seized the porcelain lamp on his bedside table and threw it with all of his strength across the room, at the opposite wall. It smashed there loudly, shattering onto the floor.
A vase of fresh-cut flowers followed.
 
The earl sat with his face in his hands. The countess sat beside him on the leather sofa in the library, her hand clasping his knee. Blake stood staring out into the windswept gardens, beaten down by the pouring rain. Catherine had dissolved into tears on a chair. Dr. Braman had just left.
“I don’t believe it,” Blake finally said. His voice was harsh. “This is impossible. He will walk again.”
No one answered him.
Blake spun around. “I shall do my own research. There are always exceptions to every rule. I am certain that somewhere in this world there is a recorded case of an accident like this one, where recovery was complete.”
The earl looked up. “If you find such an instance, such a miracle, then do let us know.” His tone was heavy, harshly bitter. He looked crushed.
Catherine wiped her eyes with a handkerchief. “He needs us now. He needs to know that our feelings for him have not changed. He needs to know that we still love him, admire him, honor him. He will survive this crisis, I am sure of it.”
“He will walk,” Blake snapped. He thought about Violette. “If only he hadn’t come to Violette’s defense,” he cried.
“How could he not?” Catherine responded. “Jon is a gentleman.”
“Damn her for her flirting,” Blake snapped. “This is her fault!”
Catherine gasped. The countess stood and walked over to her younger son and placed her palm on his shoulder. “Blake, it was an accident. As hard as it may be, it is not just to blame Violette.”
Blake stared at his mother, whose eyes remained red and swollen from all the weeping she had done in the past few days. He knew that she was right. Yet another part of him was determined to cast blame on Violette for her part in this.
An image of her stricken face, a recollection of her whispered
“I’m so sorry!”
came to him then. Blake walked away
from his mother. In spite of everything, he regretted his cruel words to her. “She should not have been at the ball.”
Catherine stood. “Then it is my fault, is it not?”
He whirled. “You invited her because of me. God!”
“I told her to make you jealous,” Catherine said, on the verge of tears.
Blake moved to her, putting his arm around her waist. “You are
not
to blame. We are all to blame, I guess.” He could not help but think that if he had attended Violette even a bit, the accident would not have happened.
The earl sat back with a heavy sigh. “Enough. Enough of casting stones. We must concentrate on what is best for Jon.”
“Yes,” the countess said softly, returning to sit by her husband’s side. A movement by the door caused her to turn. “Yes, Tulley?”
“My lady,” the butler said. “I have a message for Lord Blake.”
Blake took the envelope, not particularly interested in its contents. He broke the seal and stiffened. His pulse suddenly raced.
“What is it, Blake?” Suzannah asked.
“It is from Lady Allister. Those inspectors are at her shop, waiting for Lady Goodwin to arrive. Apparently they wish to ask her some questions. Lady Allister is concerned.” He stared grimly, thinking,
This is no longer my affair.
Jon was paralyzed, that was his affair.
But Violette was innocent of murder.
“Blake?” Catherine moved swiftly to his side. “Perhaps Violette needs a solicitor?”
“Dammit,” Blake said beneath his breath. “Mother, Father, excuse me. I think I must attend this interview.” And he was already striding out the door.
 
By the time Blake arrived at the shop, both investigators were already in the process of interviewing Violette. Lady Allister met him at the door—she was already open for business—her expression grim. She immediately ushered him into her private office behind the front salon. “It is a good thing you have come, Blake,” she said in a low voice. “Lady Goodwin cannot possibly handle those two policemen.”
The inspectors were standing; Violette was seated. Her face was so white her skin seemed translucent. There were dark circles under her eyes. The moment Blake entered the room
Violette looked over her shoulder and uttered a small cry upon seeing him. There was no mistaking her relief.
Inspector Howard came forward. “My lord, this is a surprise.”
Blake smiled without feeling. “I am in a shopping mood. And as you know, Lady Goodwin is a personal friend of mine. I could not possibly allow another clerk to attend me.”
Violette stared at him tremulously. “Blake. They’re asking me all kinds of questions.”
“Answer truthfully,” he said simply.
“It is really not necessary for you to be present,” Howard said calmly.
“Is there a law against it?” Blake returned in the same tone and with the same demeanor.
“Of course not. This is not a hearing.” Howard faced Violette. Lady Allister also remained present.
Blake shoved his hands in his pockets and leaned against the wall. She was not a murderess, but this had already gone too far. And she had violated far too many rules, offending far too many nobles, by entering the world she had upon marrying Sir Thomas. Yet she was innocent, so surely she would not suffer the indignity of a trial. Perhaps it would be best if Sir Thomas’s body was autopsied, proving that he had died a natural death.
And if he hadn’t?
That possibility was distinctly disturbing.
“Let us continue, Lady Goodwin. So the night Sir Thomas died you dined alone at Harding Hall.”
“Yes,” Violette murmured, twisting her hands.
“I wonder why you would dine alone that particular night?” Howard mused. “Perhaps you had a reason for not wishing to be present at Goodwin Manor?”
“That is a terribly leading question, if it is even a question,” Blake objected with irritation. “Nor do I think Lady Goodwin understands the point you are driving at.”
“My lord,” Howard said, “we are questioning Lady Goodwin, informally, and we would appreciate your cooperation in this matter.”
“He wasn’t feeling well,” Violette burst out. “He hadn’t been well for days.”
“But you left him alone in order to share supper with the Hardings? Were you in the habit of leaving your husband alone when he was feeling poorly?”
“No, of course not.” Violette shot an anxious glance at
Blake. “He told me to go and have a good time.”
“And you went, eagerly,” Howard stated. “Why didn’t you stay at home with Sir Thomas if he was ill?”
“I … I had never been invited to supper with an earl before,” Violette whispered, glancing at Blake again.
“Ah, yes. So now we arrive at another topic. How old are you, Lady Goodwin?”
Violette said, “Eighteen.”
“And Sir Thomas was seventy-two,” Howard said. “And how long were you married to Sir Thomas?”
“Six months, exactly,” Violette said hoarsely. She shifted to gaze at Blake. Her expression was beseeching.
And Blake grimaced. He could guess where Inspector Howard was now leading. But he could not guess why.
“Where were you born?”
Violette hesitated.
“Lady Goodwin?” the inspector prompted.
Blake pushed off of the wall. “This is irrelevant.” But it wasn’t. It was far too relevant—and far too damning.
Inspector Howard ignored him.
Lady Allister touched his sleeve.
Violette bit her lip. “I was born in St. Giles.”
“Who were your parents?”
Violette hesitated again. Tears filled her eyes. “My mother was Emilou Cooper. My father’s name was Peter.” She trailed off.
“Peter? Peter what?”
She swiveled and looked at Blake. “Peter Garret.”
Blake stiffened. He hadn’t known. He glanced at Lady Allister, whose expression gave nothing away of what she might be feeling.
“Were your parents married?” Howard asked, although he obviously knew the answer.
Violette shook her head, her eyes downcast. Blake had the urge to strangle the inspector. Thank God this wasn’t a trial.
“And where did you live as a child?”
She licked her lips and shot a miserable glance at Blake, then at her employer. “A lot of different places.”
“Which different places? Please, be specific.”
“I can’t remember.”
“Surely you must remember one of your homes?”
Violette shook her head. “Me—my—mother died when I was three. I … we moved a lot, me and my father.”
“Where does he live now?”
“He died. He died when I was a child.”
“So you were an orphan?”
Violette nodded.
“And how old were you when you were orphaned?”
Violette darted a desperate look over her shoulder at Blake. He tried to reassure her with his eyes, but he was growing sicker by the minute himself. Two garish spots of pink color had now appeared on Violette’s cheeks, standing out starkly against the pallor of her skin. “I was ten.”
“Did you live with relatives then?”
“No.” Her voice was hardly audible. “Me an’ Ralph, we lived wherever we could find a place to stay for a while.”
“Ralph?”
Violette blanched.
“Who is Ralph, Lady Goodwin?”
“A boy. We grew up together,” Violette said, staring only at her hands, clenched in her lap.
“So you lived with this boy? When you were ten? Were you having relations with him?”
Violette was silent.
Blake was furious. “This is beyond decency,” he snapped.
“My lord.” Adams faced him. “If you cannot hold your tongue, we shall insist that you leave. This is not a trial. We are merely questioning Lady Goodwin.”

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