Authors: The Finer Things

Brenda Joyce (26 page)

BOOK: Brenda Joyce

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“And to what purpose?” Blake challenged. “In order to see if you can break her down, here and now, sparing yourself and your lackeys any further work? Or the effort of finding the real murderer, if there has actually been a murder committed?”

“My lord, with all due respect, we are doing our jobs, nothing more,” Howard interjected in a friendlier manner.

“Blake, let them finish,” Lady Allister said softly. “So we can all go about our business.”

Blake sighed, sharing a glance with Violette.

Howard faced her. “Did you have relations with this boy, Lady Goodwin?”

“I don’t understand,” Violette said.

“Did you have sexual relations with him?”

Violette gasped. “No! Gawd!”

Adams raised his hand, silencing her. “Give me an example of where you lived with this friend.”

Violette covered her face with her hands.

“I think you have made your point,” Blake said harshly.

Howard ignored him, facing the judge. “I wish for Lady Goodwin to answer the question.”

Violette looked up defiantly, fearfully. “We lived in cellars, on stoops, in closed-up marketplaces—anywhere we could.”

Silence filled the room.

“So you were vagrant, an orphan. And how did you survive? A child with no parents, no home, a mere boyfriend?”

Blake groaned.

Violette stared at him, not answering.

“Answer the question, Lady Goodwin,” Adams said warningly.

Blake came forward. “I understand that you wish to establish a defamatory character for Lady Goodwin, but I shall not allow it. Lady Goodwin has said enough. If she cannot obtain a solicitor to represent her interests in this grave matter, than I shall do so for her.”

Adams ignored Blake. “How did you and Ralph survive?”

Before Blake could tell her not to answer, she lifted her chin. “I was a cross-sweeper, a match girl, a flower girl, I even held gentlemen’s horses.”

“Did you beg? Did you steal?”

Violette took a breath. The sound was loud and sharp in the silent room. Her mouth trembled. “I never begged, not a day in my life.”

“Did you steal?”

“Violette,” Blake began.

She looked down at her gloved hands. “Yes.” Her whisper was barely audible. “We were so hungry and—”

“Lady Goodwin.” Adams was triumphant. “Did you not buy rat poison the day before Sir Thomas’s death?”

Violette began to shiver. Blake gripped her shoulder. “Do not answer that question, Violette.”

“Did you buy rat poison the day before his death?” Adams demanded. “My lord, you are interfering with our investigation!”

Blake smiled coldly. “Then perhaps you wish to bring charges against me?”

Adams scowled. The two men’s gazes locked. Then the tall inspector faced Violette. “Lady Goodwin, Howard Keepson, the druggest in Tamrah, has already given us a sworn deposition stating that he sold you enough rat poison to kill ten rats the day before Sir Thomas died.”

Violette made a soft, choked sound. “We had a rat.”

“One rat?”

She nodded. “It was big.”

Adams made a scoffing sound. “Lady Goodwin, why do you not just come out with the truth? You married Sir Thomas for his estate. You killed him for his estate. How clever you were. After all, you waited six months in order to do so, biding your time. And the night of the murder you dined out, perhaps suffering from the slightest bit of conscience?”

“I didn’t kill ’im!” Violette was on her feet. “We had a rat! Sir Thomas was my friend! ’E was good to me!”

Adams and Howard exchanged glances while Blake put his arm around Violette. “Do not say another word.”

She met his gaze and nodded fearfully.

“Lady Goodwin.” Howard smiled. “We have ordered a Coroner’s Inquest. You are not allowed to leave London until this matter is concluded. Do you understand?”

“No,” Violette said.

“They have ordered an autopsy of the body,” Blake explained grimly. “When shall you have the results?”

“In a day or two, at which point Lady Goodwin shall have to appear before a magistrate.”

Blake glanced at Violette, who was ashen. In front of the magistrate Violette would be formally indicted.

“Lady Goodwin, considering all the circumstances, and the severity of the possible charges, we have no choice but to place you in temporary custody now.”

“Temporary custody?” Violette said.

“Because the possibility exists that you might flee the city, indeed, the country, we shall have to detain you, Lady Goodwin,” Howard explained.

Blake shifted, his body coming between the inspectors and Violette. He had a horrific image of Violette being sent to one of London’s infamous prisons. “I beg your pardon. That is not necessary. Lady Goodwin is respectably employed and—”

Adams cut him off. “Can you guarantee that she will remain available for any further proceedings, my lord?” His tone was like a whip.

“I most certainly can,” Blake said flatly. “Remand her into the custody of myself or my father.”

Adams and Howard shared a glance. Blake could tell that Adams was not interested in being fair. “I shall personally be
responsible for Lady Goodwin,” he said. “You have nothing to fear. If there is a magistrate’s hearing, Lady Goodwin will appear.”

“Very well,” Adams said. “But know this. If Lady Goodwin does flee these proceedings, you shall be named an accomplice, my lord, and I do not give a damn who your father is.”

Blake smiled. “I am sure that you don’t.”

Twenty-one

VIOLETTE
was mortified. She had been stripped of all pretenses, of any dignity she might own. Her entire sordid past, her background, her antecedents, had been revealed. Blake knew the truth.

She was also terrified. Violette stared at her hands, which were tightly clasped in her lap. She was being accused of murdering a man she had been indebted to and so terribly fond of, a man who had saved and changed her life, a man who had given her everything she had needed, who had been more than a friend and like a father to her. She was innocent. Surely Blake knew that? Violette glanced up, stealing a look at him. He was staring out of the window of the coach. He had not said a word since they had left Lady Allister’s shop. And Lady Allister had suggested that Violette take some time off, until this matter was resolved. Violette was afraid that she was going to lose her job.

Would there be a trial?

Violette had never been to prison, although the workhouse where she had spent nine months as a child had seemed very much like a jail. Yet growing up in St. Giles, she had heard all about London’s prisons, about Newgate, about Fleet Street. They were horrible places where prisoners were worked and starved to death, or merely incarcerated until they died. “If there’s a trial, I’ll go to prison, won’t I?” Violette blurted out suddenly.

Blake met her gaze. His expression was terribly grave. “Hopefully there will not be any trial. I shall obtain a solicitor for you this afternoon.”

“Thank you,” Violette said. She did not understand his generosity, but she did not mistake it for kindness. Not now, when Jon lay paralyzed because of her. “Blake?”

He glanced at her, remaining silent.

“I am so sorry about Jon. If I could do things differently, I would,” Violette cried.

He looked away. “Unfortunately, we cannot change the past.”

Violette stared at her hands. Blake despised her for the accident and it made her want to die. Well, perhaps she would. For Violette knew all about justice. Justice was for the rich, not for the likes of herself. And murder was a hanging offense.

“Lady Goodwin,” Blake said, interrupting Violette’s thoughts. “What about your
friend
Ralph?”

Violette hesitated. There was always something odd in Blake’s tone when he referred to Ralph. “What about him?”

“Have the inspectors questioned him?”

“I don’t know. He went to work this morning, same as me,” Violette said.

Blake’s gaze was unwavering. “Did Ralph kill Sir Thomas?” he asked coolly.

Violette gasped. “Ralph ain’t no murderer,” she snapped. “How could you say such a thing?”

“I have always had my doubts about that man,” Blake said. “And did you not tell me that he was the one who suggested you both flee Tamrah so abruptly after the murder?”

Violette gasped.

“And that is the first thing I shall tell your solicitor,” Blake said calmly.

Violette sat very stiffly, on the verge of refusing his help. “Ralph has a hot temper, and sometimes he’s jealous, but he isn’t a murderer.”

Blake stared, unblinking. Finally he asked softly, “Do you give him cause to be jealous?”

Violette could not reply, especially when she did not quite comprehend all the meanings of Blake’s question. Their gazes had locked. “I don’t understand you,” Violette said. “Why did you come to the shop today? Why are you helping me?”

Blake looked away. His profile was stark. “I don’t know,” he finally said. “I do not understand myself.”

As it turned out, Blake took her to Harding House, not his own town home. Because of Jon’s accident, and the murder investigation, Harding House was the very last place Violette wished to be.

Violette was shown to a third-floor bedroom by Tulley. Her eyes widened at the sight that greeted her. A huge pink and
white room dominated by a pink and white candy-striped four-poster canopied bed. Violette was in awe. The carpet she stood upon was red. An entire seating area, arranged in various shades of pink and white, was in front of a white and gold marble fireplace.

“If there is anything that you need,” Tulley said, “just pull the bell cord and a maid will appear. The family dines at seven.”

Violette nodded, almost incapable of speech. And it quickly occurred to her that she could not join the family for supper that night—or any other one. They all must hate her.

Tulley said, “Lady Goodwin, is there anything I might get you now? Some light refreshment, perhaps? Have you had dinner?”

“No,” Violette said in a whisper. “I’m not at all hungry.”

“Have a good rest, then.” Tulley smiled, turning for the door.

Violette nodded. The door closed behind Tulley. Violette eyed the bed again, hardly able to imagine sleeping there. Lace frothed out from under the coverlet. She finally lifted it. Underneath were ivory satin sheets.

She walked over to the cream-colored sofa in front of the hearth. She touched the arm—the fabric was damask. A huge landscape was posed over the mantel. Violette stared at the breathtaking sweep of lush green countryside, spires in the distance. She moved closer. The painting was signed by John Constable. Beneath it silver candlesticks stood on the top of the mantel with a small open box of potpourri. Two brilliantly red velvet armchairs were on either side of the fireplace. If this was a guest room, she wondered what the countess’s apartments were like.

Sitting down, knowing she could not really rest, she thought about all that had happened that day, growing sick with fright again, and she thought about Blake, and his paralyzed brother. Had he left the house to find her a solicitor? Why was he helping her?

She rubbed her face. Alone now, she could really face her fear. Her life, which had taken on a wonderful fairy-tale quality, had been transformed into a kind of hell. She had the urge to run away, as far from London and those inspectors as possible, as far from Blake and the Hardings as possible. She could get passage on a boat, one bound for France. She still had thousands of pounds left from Blake’s gift.

Of course, she could not run away. It would be so dishonorable. Blake had given his word, and if she fled, he would get into trouble with the authorities. Besides, soon there would be an autopsy, and she was praying now that Sir Thomas had died in his sleep. At least that would solve one of her problems.

Violette stiffened at the sound of a knock on her door. She hoped it was a servant, but instinct told her it was not. “Come in.”

Catherine opened the door. “May I visit?” She smiled.

“Of course.” Violette’s heart filled with dread. Surely Catherine despised her now. She began to tremble.

Catherine entered the room and sat down beside Violette on the damask sofa. “Have you recovered from this morning? Blake told me all about it.”

Violette flushed, wondering if Blake had described the horrible interview in detail. “I don’t think so,” Violette said, studying Catherine’s face, trying to discern the other woman’s feelings for her.

“I am so sorry that this is happening, Violette,” Catherine said, reaching for Violette’s hand. “It is terribly unfair.”

Violette’s tone became hoarse. “Aren’t you angry with me? Why are you being kind? Don’t you hate me?”

Catherine’s smile faded. For a moment she did not speak.

Violette lowered her eyes. “I know Jon’s accident is my fault. I know he does not wish to lay eyes on me ever again. Like Blake. I do not blame either one of them. In fact, I do not understand how you can sit there so calmly, and be so friendly, after what has happened.” Violette dared to look at the woman who had become a dear friend and mentor in such a short time.

“Everything has happened so quickly. Oh, Violette.” Tears filled Catherine’s eyes. “I do not blame you, but I am so afraid for Jon, dear God.” She started to cry uncontrollably.

Violette only hesitated a moment. She reached out, embracing Catherine, holding her as she cried. “Maybe he will get well,” she whispered as Catherine wept. She had never wanted anything more, never hoped for anything harder. “Sometimes miracles do happen,” she whispered, wanting to believe her own words.

“I pray that you are right,” Catherine said, sitting up and wiping her eyes with her handkerchief. She blew her nose, somehow managing to appear ladylike and dainty as she did so. Finally she faced Violette. “Blake told me about what happened
to you this morning. I am so sorry—and so worried, too.”

Violette stared. “You are worried about me?” she whispered.

Catherine nodded. “Could it be that you think, because of all that has happened, that we are no longer friends? I am not that way, Violette. I have come to love you. As far as Jon’s accident goes, if anyone is to blame, it is me.” She closed her eyes. “God forgive me.”

Violette reached for her hand, gripping it tightly. “Catherine, you are not to blame! Not at all!”

“I want to believe that,” Catherine said. She dried her eyes again with her handkerchief. “But I am filled with guilt.”

“Now I feel even more terrible,” Violette said miserably,

Catherine stood and walked across the room to one of the room’s windows. “I suppose guilt will not help anything. It will certainly not help Jon.”

Violette hesitated. “Catherine? When, in your opinion, could I see Jon?”

Catherine turned, startled.

“I have to see him. It will be the hardest thing I have ever done in my life, but it is he whom I must apologize to, on my knees if need be,” Violette said, meaning it.

“Jon is distraught right now. He refuses to even see me, and I am his best friend. In fact, he has refused to see or speak to anyone since Dr. Braman’s last visit.” Her voice choked.

“Oh no,” Violette whispered.

Catherine fought tears visibly. “But he is not a small-minded person. He has the most generous heart of anyone I have ever met. I know that he doesn’t blame you for what happened.” She paused. “He might not welcome you or me with open arms right now, but he is very brave, and in time he will. I am sure of it.” She was very pale. “In time, things will return to the way they were, even if he cannot walk, I
am
sure of it,” she said with desperation.

Violette wondered if she was right.

Blake could not shake his mind free of what had transpired that morning. Howard and Adams had so easily destroyed Violette’s character. He shuddered at the prospect of a trial. In cases like this one, Violette’s background, character, and purchase of the rat poison might be enough to decide her guilt—even though she was innocent.

He had already begun a correspondence with a solicitor. George Dodge was one of the best attorneys in London, and he worked with some of the best barristers as well. If Violette was formally accused of murder, Blake thought that Dodge could do as much or more for her than anybody.

Blake hurried upstairs to visit his brother before returning to his own house. He shoved aside all thoughts of that morning. Visiting Jon was terribly painful; it was no easy task.

He would do anything, including selling his soul, if he could achieve a recovery for his brother. If he could, he would trade places with him.

Jon was sitting up in bed, propped up against fluffy pillows, his head bandaged, wearing a fresh white shirt. He had one arm flung up behind his head, and he was staring grimly out of one of the bedroom’s windows. He turned as Blake walked in, but he did not smile as he used to do.

“Hello.” Blake smiled. “I am glad to find you awake.”

“Unfortunately I cannot sleep all day,” Jon said.

Blake stopped beside the bed, his own easy expression vanishing. “I know you do not mean that.”

Jon’s jaw was hard, and he stared past Blake, out of his bedroom window.

“You are bored,” Blake decided abruptly. “As I would be, if I were you. Let me take you downstairs for a change of scenery.”

“No,” Jon snapped.

Blake froze.

Jon’s smile was twisted. “I have no wish to be carried about like some infant.”

Blake’s heart pounded forcefully. “That is ridiculous. And until you can walk again, you need help in being moved.”

Jon stared at him coldly. “Do not tell me that I am going to walk again.”

Blake stiffened. “Of course you are going to walk again,” he began.

Jon reached for the closest object he could find, a heavy book, and he threw it at Blake with all of his strength. Blake ducked but not in time and the book hit his shoulder. He straightened, staring at his brother in shock.

Jon was flushed. “Just get out.”

Blake could not believe his ears. “Jon, please. I’m your brother. I want to help.”

“Get out. Now,” Jon said viciously.

Blake did not move. He had never heard his brother use such a tone, not even with a rival or an enemy. He was at a loss, not knowing what to do.

BOOK: Brenda Joyce

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