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Authors: The Finer Things

BOOK: Brenda Joyce
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“Visitin’ Lady Goodwin?” Ralph laughed. “No, I ain’t visitin’ Violette! I live here, by gawd.”
Blake did not move. Incapacitated, even though he recalled the pallet on the floor of the parlor. And just how long would Horn remain brotherly toward Violette? Without another word, he shoved past Ralph and strode out of the house.
To his credit, he did not slam the door violently behind him. Nor did he wrench it from its hinges. Nor did he glance backwards even once.
VIOLETTE
jumped at the sound of the front door slamming shut. She was still stunned over Blake’s gift, stunned and bewildered. Her gaze met Ralph’s. He was smiling with satisfaction. Suddenly furious, Violette ran past him and into the parlor. She swung the front door open just in time to see Blake climbing into a hansom. Her heart seemed to have stopped beating, her lungs to have filled with air. She clung to the door, wanting to call out to him, but he did not even glance back in her direction. The hansom rolled away, Blake staring stiffly straight ahead as if she did not exist, had never existed.
Violette felt Ralph come up behind her. She whirled. “’Ow dare yew!”
“’Ow dare I wot?” Ralph asked.
“Yew know wot! Yew chased ’im away,” she said furiously.
He blinked at her. “I didn’t do nuthin’, luv. Just told ’im the facts. I do live ’ere with yew.”
“Yew didn’t ’ave to tell ’im,” she cried. Violette slammed the door shut. She realized that she was shaking. What if she never saw Blake again? He was so furious. And why did he dislike Ralph so? Didn’t he understand that they were lifelong friends? Hadn’t he believed her when she had told him the truth? Surely he hadn’t heard the rumors about her and Ralph—the rumors that were completely unfounded?
“Wot’s that in yer ’and?” Ralph asked.
Violette blinked and looked down at the card she clutched in her palm. “It’s just Blake’s card. ’E’s got a bank. ’E’s given me a gift.”
“Wot kind of gift?” Ralph said suspiciously.
“Five thousand pounds!” Violette cried. “Gawd, can yew believe it?!”
But Ralph stared, wide-eyed. “An’ just wot did yew ’ave t’ do t’ get this?” he cried angrily.
“I didn’t do nuthin’,” Violette whispered miserably. She shoved past Ralph, walking into the kitchen. She plopped down on one of the rickety chairs, cradling her face on her arms on the table. Her heart felt broken. And what did his gift mean?
No one had ever been so generous to her before. It was inconceivable—a miracle.
Ralph seized her shoulders, shaking her. “Wot’d yew ’av t’ do fer this?” he shouted. “Dammit, Violette, I want t’ know.”
She stood so abruptly that her chair crashed over. She pushed hard on his chest, but he didn’t budge. “Go away! Yer ruinin’ me life! An’ I ain’t done nuthin’—it was a gift!”
“’E lift yer skirts?” Ralph demanded, lowering his face so it was level with hers. His eyes had turned savagely charcoal gray. “’E feel all guilty-like, huh?”
“Wot?” Violette gasped, recoiling.
Ralph pounded his fist once on the table. “Well, yew just go an’ return this to ’im. ’Cause we both know what ’e expects fer yew t’ do.”
“’E don’t want nuthin’ fer this! Nuthin’! Blake’s good an’ kind and a real gent—yew don’t understand.”
“Yer a fool,” Ralph spat.
“No,” Violette protested. “Just stop it, Ralph. Just stop it.” She started to leave the kitchen. “An’ I ain’t returnin’ the money, it’s a
gift
, a gift from Blake to me.”
 
The message arrived the following morning. Violette was at home when her door knocker sounded. She dried her hands on a towel, her heart skipping. Her immediate thought was that it was Blake, that he had come to apologize, to see her.
She rushed through the house, patting her coiled hair. But when she opened the door she was disappointed. Blake did not stand outside on her stoop. But the footman standing in front of her wore outstanding clothing: tan breeches, white stockings, black buckled shoes, a red frockcoat and felt hat. Violette peered past him and immediately recognized the phaeton she had traveled in the day before—it was Blake’s rig. The footman, she realized, beginning to tremble, was holding a sealed envelope out to her.
Violette made no move to take it because she could not read. Her disappointment increased, accompanied now by shame. Violette
took a breath. “Could … could yew kindly read it t’ me, please?” she asked the footman.
He did not blink as he opened the ceal and read. “As promised, I have procured employment for you. Please report to the shop of Lady Allister at 103 Regent Street tomorrow morning at ten A.M. I have also made arrangements at my bank for your draft to be drawn anytime that you wish.” The footman cleared his throat. “It is simply signed ‘Blake,’ my lady.”
“Thank yew,” Violette whispered. She knew that she should be ecstatic. He had given her an incredible gift and had found employment for her at her request. But she wasn’t ecstatic. The tone of the note seemed singularly cold. Or was it her imagination?
She managed to smile at the footman. “Please tell His Lordship that I am much obliged.”
The footman bowed. Violette watched him walk to the phaeton, wishing intensely that Blake had delivered the note himself.
 
Lady Allister was a kind, stout widow who had operated a ladies’ specialty shop for more than a dozen years. Her husband had been an inventor of mechanical gadgets, knighted by the Queen for his service to the English people. Lady Allister had no airs. She did not care that ladies were supposed to remain at home, take tea, call on other ladies, and attend fêtes and soirees. “I would be so very bored,” she told Violette as she looked her up and down that first day.
Violette liked her immediately. But she wasn’t sure that the no-nonsense Lady Allister felt the same way. Violette was immediately assigned to one of the senior clerks—in Lady Allister’s shops everyone was a clerk not a shopgirl—for an entire week of intensive training. “You are not to sell a single item until you are intimately familiar with every item in this store,” Lady Allister warned her.
Violette nodded meekly. “Yes, me lady,” she said.
Lady Allister frowned.
But her nervousness was taking a back seat to her curiosity. Lady Allister’s clientele consisted of the most noble, elegant, and wealthy ladies in England, and Violette had never seen so many spectacular fabrics, furs, hats, gloves, veils, reticules, shoes, and other accessories before. In the window two fantastic ball gowns were displayed, one orange, one silver, shown with fur stoles, one mink, one chinchilla, white gloves, and matching
satin shoes. Nothing in the store was ready-made, Violette learned, except for what was in the display window. And that was just to whet the appetites of Lady Allister’s customers. They required that everything be custom-made, ordered anywhere from a few days to a few weeks in advance.
The first three days went very quickly. There was so much to learn—and so much to see. A parade of elegant ladies entered the store every day. Orders were taken on credit. Lady Allister did a thriving business. It quickly occurred to Violette that one day she could have a business like this one—if she worked very hard, saved her money, and applied herself with the utmost determination.
It suddenly seemed like one of Blake’s solutions. Lady Allister was so clearly happy—and very well off. Although she was a widow, she had never remarried, and Violette knew from the gossip amongst the clerks that she had no intention of doing so. Violette could remain an unwed widow, too, if she were in Lady Allister’s position. Suddenly the future appeared far less grim. Violette began to think that she might even be happy in such a situation. Not ecstatic, of course. But comfortable and content—living without fear.
So Violette threw herself into her training with near violent intensity. She memorized the names of the very important customers, along with their preferences in clothing and accessories. She was unfailingly polite. She went out of her way to charm. She listened to and watched the other clerks very carefully, trying to learn the styles and fashions these noble ladies preferred. One day, some of these ladies might shop in her store, and she never forgot it.
Lady Allister seemed to approve. Her stern facade became warmer, and occasionally she even smiled at Violette.
But Blake did not come to inquire after her welfare, or to even see how she liked her new job. It was the one blemish in Violette’s new life.
But one gentleman, about Blake’s age, handsome and auburn-haired, returned to the store a second time. The first time he had been, according to Violette’s fellow clerks, with his mistress, an exquisite blonde. Violette had watched the blonde order dress after dress, stunned that anyone could wear so much and make so many purchases in the blink of an eye. The gentleman, Lord Farrow, had seemed bored. He had not objected to his mistress’s excessive shopping. But Violette had caught him repeatedly studying her, not the blonde, and each and every
time that their gazes had caught she had quickly looked away, ignoring his rather penetrating and speculating regard.
The bell rang. Two ladies were already in the shop, studying swatches of fabric with Theresa, the other clerk. Lady Allister was in the back, where a shipment of merchandise had just been delivered. Violette went to the door as Lord Farrow came in. Her smile faltered; he smiled back at her. As Violette closed the door, she strained to see if his beautiful blonde mistress awaited him in his elegant, open coach. It was empty.
Violette was very nervous. Theresa merely glanced at her once and said, “Please see to whatever His Lordship requires,” turning her full attention back to the other two customers. Violette followed Lord Farrow over to a glass case containing beaded reticules in all sizes, shapes, and colors. “Did you forget somethin’ yesterday, me Lord?” Violette was trying to enunciate as carefully as she could, not opening her mouth so wide on the word “you” and remembering her H’s. It was very trying to do.
“Actually, I did,” he said, his gaze on her face. “I think I forgot to introduce myself properly. I am Lord Robert Farrow. And you are Violette?”
Her pulse was racing, with some alarm. She did not have to be told point-blank to know that Lady Allister would be furious if she saw Farrow flirting with her. She stole a glance at Theresa, but the discussion was animated now, the lady who was buying trying to decide on trim for each gown. Violette swallowed. “Actually, me name is Lady Goodwin.”
He paused. “Ah, I see.”
Coloring, Violette said hastily, “Wot can I do fer you today, me lord?”
He did not answer her. “I am sure that many gentlemen have told you this many times before, but you are very beautiful, Lady Goodwin.”
She stared uneasily. His gaze was compelling; she could not be immune to his charm and good looks. “You are gonna get me dismissed, me lord.”
“I am sorry, Lady Goodwin. That is the last thing I wish to do. Can you help me select a scarf? It is a gift for a woman of extraordinary beauty.” He smiled at her.
Violette nodded, relieved that they were on safe ground again. “An’ wot colors might please yer lady friend?”
He smiled and said softly, “I do not know.”
She blinked into his unwavering gaze. “Wot do you think she’d like, then?”
“Something bold, beautiful, like the lady in question. Something special. Very special.”
Violette had the crazy thought that he was referring to her, but that was impossible. She quickly opened a case and selected several scarves for him to inspect. He smiled at her. “You choose. Which do you prefer?” he asked calmly.
Her hands were trembling. “I … I like the red.”
“I am hardly surprised. Can you gift wrap it for me, Lady Goodwin?”
Violette nodded, relieved his purchase was finished. As she took a foiled box out from beneath the case, he moved closer. “Would you care to meet me in the park sometime? For a drive, perhaps?” Farrow asked.
Violette almost dropped the gift box. The bell tinkled over the front door. Violette was about to refuse—confusion overcoming her—when she espied the countess of Harding and Catherine Dearfield entering the shop. She beamed, flooded with relief. Lord Farrow followed her gaze.
“Ladies Harding and Dearfield,” he murmured, his tone speculative. “Are they good customers of yours?”
“I niver waited on them in me life, but I had dinner at ’Ardin’-Hardin’ Hall,” Violette said with pride. She waved. It was obvious that they were surprised to see her.
“I see.” Farrow regarded her, then said quietly, “Sunday at noon? When the shop is closed?”
Violette hesitated. Farrow did not interest her. Only one man held her heart. And one day, if she worked very hard and was very clever, she would have her own shop, a shop like this one, and her future would be safe and secure. Yet Farrow was not at all like Sir Thomas. He was like Blake, young and handsome and so very noble. She could not help but being slightly tempted. What if he was in love with her? In spite of his elegant, beautiful mistress?
Blake had warned her that she could not find a husband in his world. What if he was wrong? Violette almost wanted to prove him wrong.
“Lady Goodwin?” Farrow prompted.
“I … no. No thank you.” Once the words were out, Violette was relieved. She could not risk losing her job.
Farrow was crestfallen, but only briefly. He smiled, bowing.
“Our paths shall cross again, Lady Goodwin. I am certain of it.” He nodded at the countess and Catherine before crossing the store and leaving with the gift-wrapped box.

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