Authors: The Finer Things

Brenda Joyce (48 page)

BOOK: Brenda Joyce

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“No,” Blake said softly. “She will hang—unless the real killer is found.”

Ralph turned away blindly, almost staggering down the walk. At the curb he sank down, sitting, hands on his knees. He did not see the carriages and hansoms rolling by. He heard Blake walk up behind him. “I can’t let ’er die,” he said, low.

“Then tell the truth.”

Ralph hugged himself, thinking about death. Death, and Violette. But not Violette Goodwin Blake, viscountess of Neville. Violet Cooper, a waif with hair chopped off at the nape.

“I did it,” he said.

Blake remained silent.

Ralph laid his cheek on his knees. “’E was goin’ to die anyway, even a blind man could see that. ’E was sick. Old an’ sick. I did it fer ’er, fer us.”

“I understand,” Blake said softly.

Ralph began to cry. “I don’t want ’er to die. I begged ’er not to come ’ere,” he said. “I thought we’d get the ’ouse an’ money an’ we could live there forever, ’appy as can be.” He choked. “Better than the old times.”

And when Blake did not speak, remaining motionless, Ralph said thickly, “But she fell in love with yew.”

And he sat there on the stoop for a long time, crying, until the sun began to set and Blake finally reached down and helped him to his feet. His arm around the tall, gawky man, Blake guided him silently into the house.

Thirty-nine

BLAKE
stepped out of his phaeton, his body taut with tension, staring at the grim stone facade of Fleet Street Prison. Violette’s release had been ordered a short while ago, directly after Ralph’s arrest. It was the same evening, quite late now, a dark cloudy night with a few snowflakes just beginning to fall.

His heart was heavy in spite of his relief that Horn had confessed to the police and Violette was being freed. It was very hard to believe, but he had first laid eyes upon Violette exactly one year ago. It seemed like a lifetime; it also seemed like mere moments.

George Dodge stepped out of the phaeton as well. He laid his hand on Blake’s shoulder. “Smile, Blake. We have won.”

How could he smile? Violette was being released from prison, but soon she would leave London, and marry Farrow.

They crossed the street and stepped onto the curb. Wide steps led to the large, square building which housed the prison. Blake shoved open the heavy front door. Guards barred the entryway, but then he saw the warden at the other end of the cavernous hall, who was clearly expecting him, and just behind Goody he saw Violette. He became motionless.

Violette’s gaze held his. She lifted up her skirts, taking a single step forward, as if about to run to him. Blake started to smile, his gaze glued to her pale, strained face. Thank God she was unharmed, thank God her ordeal was now over—while his was about to begin.

Violette broke free of the guards escorting her and rushed to him. Blake almost held out his arms. When he did not, her steps faltered and she paused in front of him. “Oh, Blake,” she said tremulously.

He stared at the woman he loved, wondering if he would ever be able to get over her, to let her go, to forget her. He did not think so. “Violette, are you all right?”

She nodded. Her eyes were suspiciously moist and bright. “Blake, I … ,” she faltered. “I do not know what to say,” she whispered.

He finally reached out and took her hand, squeezing it. “Perhaps prayers are in order, for the both of us.” He forced a smile.

She searched his gaze. Her mouth opened, but no words came forth.

He wanted to embrace her, hold her hard and tight. He said, “I’ll take you to your hotel.”

She jerked her head slightly, an affirmation. “Blake? What has happened? The warden said I am free. Really free. I don’t understand.”

He took her elbow firmly. “There is no easy way to tell you this.” His gaze held hers. How he wished to spare her the truth. “Horn confessed.”

She blanched.

“He loves you, Violette, and not as a brother or a friend. He expected you to inherit something substantial from Sir Thomas, and for the two of you to live happily together at Goodwin Manor.” Blake paused. “We did not have to go to Paris to
find him. He came to me, and when he realized you were really going to hang, he confessed.”

“No,” Violette whispered, tears filling her eyes. “Oh, God.”

He could not resist her anguish. Blake pulled her into his arms, holding her tightly, while she cried on his chest. “I’m sorry. So sorry,” he whispered.

She finally looked up at him. “He will hang?”

Blake hesitated. “Yes.”

She cried again, like a small child.

And then Farrow was standing beside them.

Blake had known that the authorities would contact him, but not this quickly. The two men’s gazes met. Something inside of Blake’s soul seemed to vanish. He released Violette.

“What is going on?” Farrow asked stiffly.

“I told her about Horn,” Blake replied.

Farrow started. “Why? Why did you have to tell her? She has gone through enough.”

At least Farrow loved her. Blake hoped his grief was not mirrored on his face. “I did what I thought best,” he said quietly.

Robert slid his arm around Violette’s waist. “I am sorry,” he said to Blake. “God, I am sorry. For I owe you thanks, from the both of us. I cannot possibly express the depth of my appreciation. I owe you, Blake. We owe you.”

And Robert reached out to shake his hand. Reluctantly, Blake accepted the gesture. Yet he found it almost impossible to tear his gaze away from Violette. And she, too, continued to stare at him. Her blue eyes were huge and to him, it seemed, infinitely sad.

“You owe me nothing. I wish you both … much happiness.” He was sick, in his heart, his body, everywhere. No other ending had ever felt like this. “Good-bye,” he said.

She flinched, garishly pale now. Their gazes remained locked.

“Let us go,” Farrow said. And Violette allowed Farrow to guide her past Blake, to the front doors of the prison. They were immediately swung open for them. She craned her neck to look at Blake; he wondered if she was crying. “Good-bye,” she whispered.

They disappeared through the front doors, which remained ajar. Like a somnambulist, Blake followed in their wake. On
the prison’s theshold, he watched Farrow hand Violette up into his gleaming, dark brown coach. Farrow climbed in after her, settled down beside her, again putting his arm around her. Violette, Blake thought, collapsed into his embrace.

Oh, God. It was the only coherent thought he had. Any other would be far too unbearable.

And from behind him, very softly, George Dodge, attorney-at-law, whispered, “I am so very sorry.”

Jon pushed his chair across the frost-covered gardens, unaware of the cold. As he approached the house, he saw two figures standing on the terrace, wrapped in cloaks. One was his mother, the other, Catherine. His gaze settled on the younger woman immediately. He wondered how long they had been watching him wheel himself around the gardens like a madman. Yet he was neither annoyed nor embarrassed.

“Jon, this is a miracle,” the countess cried, tears sparkling in her eyes.

Jon smiled at his mother, but found himself looking at Catherine again. “I do not believe in miracles,” he said, but without bitterness or self-pity. “Actually, a chair with wheels made supreme sense. And my chair is not the first. It was actually invented by a doctor in New York for one of his patients, a man with a similar condition to mine.”

Before the countess could reply, Catherine said, very softly, “I believe in miracles.”

Jon stared at her.

The countess stepped off of the terrace and bent to kiss her son’s cheek. “In any case, this is wonderful.” Her gaze returned to the steps she had just descended. There were only three, but clearly Jon would have to be carried up over them, chair and all.

“Mother,” Jon said. “Would you mind if we took out one section of the terrace wall so I could build a kind of dock there?”

“A dock?” the countess asked, bewildered.

“Yes, a sloping dock, of the same stone. That way I could traverse from the lawns to the terrace and into the house without aid.”

Her eyes widened. “Absolutely. Why, that is brilliant.”

Behind her, Catherine wore a small, genuine smile. Jon found himself smiling back at her.

The countess looked from the one to the other and excused herself. But on the terrrace she paused. “Will you be joining us for supper tonight, my dear?”

Jon smiled at his mother. “Absolutely.”

Her eyes brightened and she left them, hurrying back into the warmth of the house. It had begun to snow.

Catherine came down the three flagstone steps. “Your chair is wonderful. I am so happy for you.”

He studied her exquisite face. “I can see that,” he finally said, slowly.

She tensed, her smile fading. Their gazes were locked. Now her gloved hands worried the folds of her large, fur-lined mantle. “Your mother has invited me to supper tonight,” she said uncertainly.

“Good,” Jon said flatly.

She started.

“Than it shall be like old times.” The words had slipped out. He was shocked when he realized what he had said. “Damn it,” he muttered, reversing the wheels and moving backwards, away from her. He had had a different mechanism put on the wheels so he could reverse when necessary. A mechanic was also making him a brake, the kind used on the best coaches and carriages.

“No! Don’t go!” She flew down the steps after him.

His hands stilled on the wheels. She paused in front of him. “Why can’t it be like old times?” she asked.

He stared at her, unable to answer. An intense yearning swept him. But he had never lost it. He had merely pushed it as far down and as far inside of himself as possible.

Catherine swallowed. “Violette was released from prison today. The charges against her were removed. She is a free woman.”

“I am very glad for her,” Jon said.

“Your brother is deeply, miserably in love with her,” Catherine said abruptly. Her cheeks turned brightly red.

Jon hesitated. He recognized dangerous territory when he saw it. “I know.”

“You know? But you wanted me to marry him!” Catherine cried accusingly.

He gripped the chair’s wheels, an instant away from fleeing. “She abandoned him. I did not realize how strongly he cared. I thought the two of you would suit perfectly.”

Catherine stared at him, tears shimmering in her eyes. “You fool.”

He knew he should leave. Leave the gardens, leave her. A small voice, one logical and proud, told him that. But he could not command his hands to perform the necessary act.

“I do not know how it happened,” Catherine said. “I have always loved Blake, as a friend and as a brother. But to marry him? What a travesty of love that would be.”

He opened his mouth to tell her to stop. No words came out.

“I am going to go to my grave loving you, Jon,” she said simply. “And I would not have it any other way.”

He was frozen. His heart warred with his mind, his pride. So many images, so many memories, swept through him then. Catherine in pigtails, racing him across the Yorkshire moors on horseback. Catherine in his arms, sharing too many dances at too many balls to count. Her smile, her regard, coming from across a crowded room, a shared instant, an immediate connection, in which he knew, without question, that she was thinking and feeling exactly as he was.

Catherine sitting on his bed, by his useless legs, just after the accident. The tears in her eyes, the fear—and the pity.

He finally spoke, groping for words, feeling how heated his face had become. So much was at stake. Yet he did not dare seize a shining star. “If I were still myself, Catherine, I would return the love you have offered me so courageously and unselfishly.”

“You are still yourself!” she cried, cutting him off.

He stared. “No. I am half of a man. I …”

“Wait!” Her hands were fisted on her hips. Her eyes blazed. “You are right, you have changed. Once you were intelligent, now you have become an idiot.”

He grimaced. “I am paralyzed. I have no legs.”

“So you cannot use your legs!” she shouted. The wind carried autumn leaves in a swirling formation past them. “So what? Have you lost your mind? Your heart? Your soul?”

He could not say yes, because it would be a stupid, foolish, unbelievable lie. So he remained silent.

“Have you lost your dreams?” she whispered, tears sparkling on the tips of her pale lashes.

That he could answer, and honestly. “Yes, I have given up my dreams.”

“Fool!” she shouted. And she did the most amazing thing.
She swung her fist hard, catching him right in the jaw. The blow only stung, because Catherine had not a clue as to how to hit anyone, much less a man, and Jon caught her wrist reflexively. The next thing he knew, she was in his lap. Her eyes widened, equally as surprised as he was.

His heart raced. But then, he had known that he was not immune to her. Losing the use of his legs had not caused him to lose his desire to touch her or kiss her, or even to make love to her—although the last he could not do. He wanted to push her to her feet. Instead, of their own volition, his hands closed on her shoulders.

“Don’t turn away from me,” she whispered. “Oh, Jon. I have loved you from the moment we met, and the fact that you cannot walk means nothing to me. Yes, I share your pain, and every moment of hurt and anguish, but if you let me, I know I can help take away that pain. I know it.”

And he knew it, too. “But you deserve a whole man,” he whispered harshly, just steps away from surrender. “A man who can give you children, Catherine.”

“We can adopt,” she said.

Adoption. Blake had also mentioned it, and it was almost unheard of—but not quite. His hands slid down her slim back. They were shaking. “I cannot make love to you. At least, not the way I wish to.”

“And for you, being a man, that is the real reason to deny us a lifetime of joy?” She shook her head.

He stared at her.

She leaned forward and pressed her mouth to his.

BOOK: Brenda Joyce

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