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Authors: The Finer Things

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“That is a capital idea,” Catherine said as Thompson reappeared.
The teapots were exchanged, Violette’s cup and saucer replaced, Blake given a set as well. Catherine said softly, “Violette, dear, will you pour?”
As Violette reached for the teapot, Catherine said, “Surely you shall be at the Pierces’, Blake?”
Blake watched Violette lift Catherine’s cup and saucer. The saucer rattled because her hand was shaking. “No, I have other engagements.”
Her gaze flying to his face, Violette set the cup and saucer abruptly down. “You won’t be going?” she said, stunned.
“You will not be going,” Catherine corrected softly.
“I am afraid not,” Blake said stiffly.
“Why?” Violette asked thickly, her gaze riveted on his. “Because of me? Because I’ll be there?”
Blake’s eyes widened. How astute she was. A new, terribly awkward silence fell over the table’s three occupants. And before Blake could reply, Violette was on her feet.
“I beg yer pardon,” she said, the slightest trace of Cockney slipping into her tone. “I am unwell. I am afraid I must use the cloakroom.” Her face crumbled.
“Violette!” Catherine began.
But Violette rushed out of the salon.
Catherine stood. “What is wrong with you?!” She almost
shouted. “Did you come here to hurt her feelings?”
Blake was also standing, staring after Violette, who had now disappeared into the corridor. “Blast,” he said, his jaw flexed. “I do not know.” But then he faced Catherine, his eyes dark. “I could not stay away. What do you want from me?” he cried. “Bloody hell! What do you both want from me?”
It was a moment before Catherine replied. “You are a gentleman and her friend. Why do you not come to the Pierces’ and help me launch her successfully into society?”
“The way I helped protect her at Mother’s ball?” His reply was hard, automatic, absolute. “No.”
Catherine stared at him.
Blake stared back. “What is all this about?” he finally asked. “I am not a stupid man, Catherine.”
Catherine wet her lips. “This is about Violette being brave and brilliant. It is about her bettering herself, something we all should aspire to do.”
“And what shall she gain from this self-improvement?” His tone was frigid. He knew what she wished to gain. “A second husband? Or myself?”
“How vain you are,” Catherine said, her tone like the lash of a whip. “There are better catches in town than you, Blake.”
“But not for Violette,” he said coolly. Uneasily.
“No?” Catherine’s hands found her hips. “How much do you wish to wager?” Their gazes clashed.
“I did not know you were fond of gambling, Catherine.”
“I am fond of justice,” Catherine said.
“And I am not?” Blake felt his spine stiffen. “My dear, you and Violette Goodwin may cook up whatever schemes you wish, as long as I am not included in them. And I wish the both of you good luck.” Blake could not understand why he was so angry. An image of Violette with Lord Farrow was haunting him now.
“We do not need luck,” Catherine retorted. “Because, if you have failed to notice how wonderful Violette is as a person, and how beautiful as a woman, why, I think you shall be the only one this Season.” She must have read his thoughts. “I have no doubt that Lord Farrow will be most impressed with Violette’s transformation.”
“Good. I hope that he is,” Blake said tersely. “In any case, I am late for an appointment.” It was a lie. He had cleared his agenda until noon. He bowed.
“Coward,” Catherine said.
He jerked. “I beg your pardon?”
“You heard me,” Catherine said firmly. “I called you a coward.”
Blake was incredulous.
Catherine smiled. “Yes, you are a coward. I shall tell you exactly what I think. I think you are besotted with Violette, smitten, and running as fast as you can because of all that you feel for her. And I do not think it is a matter of mere desire. How am I doing?”
“You are mad,” Blake replied coldly. “Absolutely, utterly mad.”
Catherine smiled sweetly at him. “I don’t think so,” she said.
Blake whirled and strode from the salon.
BLAKE
was closeted with his brother and father in the library, advising them on certain investments they wished to make in a particular bond market, when they were interrupted. Tulley’s face was impassive. “My lord,” he addressed the earl, “there are two gentlemen here who wish to speak with you and they insist it is most urgent.”
The earl stood up from behind his desk, annoyed. “Tulley, have them leave their cards or make an appointment with my secretary.”
“My lord, sir, they are inspectors with the police, and they insist they must speak with you now.”
Blake, who was seated, slowly stood. The earl, puzzled now, nodded. “Well, I cannot imagine what inspectors want with me, but send them in. I shall spare them ten minutes.”
Blake had a very bad feeling. A moment later two gentlemen entered the room, both wearing dark suits, but holding their hats nervously. The earl stepped forward to shake their hands. They were Inspectors Howard and Adams.
“I am sorry, my lord, for the interruption,” Inspector Howard said apologetically. Of medium height, he was heavily jowled and portly, and his eyes kept darting from the earl to his sons. “But a murder investigation cannot be delayed.”
Murder, Blake thought, his insides curdling. “And whose murder are you investigating?” he asked with an easy smile,
but he already knew. Jon had also jerked to attention.
“Sir Thomas Goodwin’s,” the second inspector said. He was tall and husky and sported thick, muttonchop whiskers. “A complaint has been filed. Our investigation is only preliminary. We are gathering evidence prior to deciding whether formal charges should be brought against the accused.”
“We have not yet decided whether to exhume the body,” Inspector Howard added. “If we exhume the body and find what we think we might find, then formal charges will have to be brought and, of course, there will be a trial.”
Blake was sick. “Is it not likely that Sir Thomas, who was seventy years of age, died a natural death?”
“Of course that is possible and we continue to consider it. But Lady Feldstone, his daughter, is convinced that he was poisoned with arsenic,” Inspector Adams said.
“So what is stopping you from exhuming the body even as we now speak?” Blake asked, standing with his father and the two inspectors in the center of the room.
“Exhumation is dirty work. An autopsy is laborious. And we don’t disturb the dead unless we have strong cause to do so,” Howard said, then he smiled quickly, nervously. “Might we ask everyone present about the evening of Sir Thomas’s death?”
Blake began to speak, but the earl raised a hand, silencing him, while also giving him a quelling look. “Gentlemen, neither myself nor my sons saw Sir Thomas that evening. In fact, we saw Sir Thomas the day before when he called at Harding Hall to introduce us to his bride.”
“We are aware of that,” Adams said. “And what was your opinion of Sir Thomas’s health that day?”
“Frankly,” the earl said, “he appeared quite ill. My first thought was that he did not look as if he had very long to live.”
“Would you swear to that in the Queen’s Bench?” Howard asked.
“Of course.”
“And you, my lords? What is your opinion of the last time you saw Sir Thomas?”
“I believe I speak for both of us,” Jon said, touching Blake’s arm. Blake was impatient, hardly able to keep his impulses in check. “We both thought he looked unwell, and we would both gladly swear to it in court.”
Inspector Howard was now making notes in a small, leatherbound
notebook. Adams nodded. “And the bride. Was her behavior odd in any way that day?”
Blake couldn’t help himself. “Of course not.” But even as he spoke he recalled that first meeting so clearly—and just how nervous and ill at ease Violette had been. He understood why she had been so anxious, but now all he could think of was how it could be misinterpreted.
“And what was her behavior like?”
Blake was silent, as was Jon. The earl finally spoke. “Actually, Lady Goodwin was not quite comfortable, having never been introduced to my family before.”
Adams said quickly, “What do you mean, exactly?”
Blake grimaced, wishing his father had not spoken up.
“She was nervous, I believe. But rightly so. She is very young and unused to the kind of life we lead.”
“How nervous was she?” Adams asked as Howard scribbled frantically in his notebook.
The earl glanced at Blake and sighed. “Nervous enough to almost break some knickknack on my wife’s table.”
“She was very nervous, then,” Adams said.
“Perhaps,” the earl conceded.
“Her being nervous about being introduced to the family does not make her a murderess,” Blake said very smoothly.
“Perhaps not,” Adams said blandly.
Inspector Howard had stopped writing. “We wish to interview the staff at Harding Hall. Might we have your permission, my lord?”
The earl nodded, while Blake, inwardly, cringed. “Of course. I will have my secretary write instructions for Neddingham.”
Adams continued. “And the night of your dinner, the night of Sir Thomas’s death. Lady Goodwin left her husband in bed, medicated by Dr. Crumb with laudanum. How did she appear that evening?”
Blake turned his back on the ensemble and stared grimly out of the window at the gardens outside. A taut silence now reigned. It was absurd to think that Sir Thomas had been murdered, wasn’t it?
“My lord?” Adams prodded.
“She was somewhat nervous again,” the earl said.
Blake turned to gaze at his father, but not with reproach. His father would always speak the truth and could not be blamed for doing so. But the earl seemed chagrined. And Blake
thought that the investigation was already picking up speed, and set on a downhill course.
“How nervous was Lady Goodwin? In what way?” Adams asked.
The earl proceeded to reply. Blake listened, well aware that the conjecture might be enough to cause the inspectors to exhume the body. What if there was arsenic found inside of Sir Thomas’s corpse? Blake recalled, too well, Joanna Feldstone’s hurled accusation that Violette had purchased rat poison the day before Sir Thomas had died. And Violette had not said a word in response, in denial, in self-defense. Had she bought rat poison? Blake hoped not.
The inspectors finally finished, shaking hands with the three men. But before they left the library, Blake could not help himself. “What will you do?” he asked casually.
Inspector Adams cleared his throat. “Well, we are not quite at liberty to say.” His glance darted from Blake to the earl and then to Jon. “And I do not think we have actually decided.”
Blake smiled in a friendly manner. “As a favor to me, what do you think you shall do?”
Adams sighed. “Well, my lord, as a personal favor then, but this is privileged information, not to be revealed outside of these four walls. It seems impossible for us not to order an exhumation of the corpse.”
Blake’s jaw flexed. “Why not?”
“Because we have learned from the druggist in Tamrah that the day before her husband’s death, Lady Goodwin purchased enough rat poison to kill a dozen huge rats.”
Blake stared, a sick feeling welling up inside of him.
Adams shifted, hands in his coat pockets. “A dozen rats—or one frail, old man.”
 
Violette did not want to remember her first ball at Harding House. But as she stood on the threshold of the ballroom at Rutherford House, butterflies seemed to wing their way through her stomach. Her hands were also damp. She had never been more nervous.
Yet a few nights ago she had been a success, according to Catherine. Violette also thought so. She had danced away the entire evening at Lord Pierce’s. She’d had many offers for a stroll or a drive in the park. Violette had almost enjoyed the evening. Almost, but not quite, for Blake had not been there.
Violette hoped desperately that he would be present at the Rutherford ball tonight.
Violette surveyed the ballroom, searching for Blake. It was already crowded; she estimated there were several hundred guests present. She finally glimpsed Catherine, resplendent in a mint green taffeta ball gown, speaking with Jon. For one moment Violette watched them, remarking how striking they were, both being so beautiful and so golden blond. But if Blake were present, she failed to see him.
Hoping to appear elegant, and also hoping to hide any vestiges of anxiety, Violette finally descended the short flight of steps into the ballroom, which was larger even than the one at Harding House. She became aware of heads turning as she passed, working her way over to Jon and Catherine. She did not make eye contact with anyone. Although she had been graciously received at the Pierces’, this affair was so huge that she did not know what to expect. Were the guests recalling Joanna Feldstone’s accusations? Were they aware of, and recalling, her past?
Violette reached Catherine and Jon and warm greetings were exchanged. “You are even more stunning tonight than you were the other evening at the Pierces’,” Jon said, kissing her hand.
Violette smiled, glad not to be alone, but glanced toward the threshold of the ballroom again. Farrow was just descending the stairs.
“You are lovely, Violette,” Catherine agreed, following her gaze. “I am very proud of you.”
Violette managed a thank-you and stiffened. Blake was just coming down the steps. She forgot to breathe. Her heart skipped a beat. Oh, God. He had come. This, then, was her big chance to impress him with her metamorphosis from an ugly duckling into a silver swan.
And his gaze instantly found hers, even across the distance separating them. For one single instant, their eyes locked. And then, instead of continuing directly forward, toward Violette and Catherine, he veered away, and, with his back to them, began chatting with a group of guests. Violette was crushed.
“Oh, dear,” Catherine said, taking Violette’s hand. She studied Violette’s stricken expression. “Oh, dear. Perhaps we had better develop a new strategy.”
“Is that Lady Cantwell?” Violette asked. But even from this distance, Violette recognized her. She was smiling at Blake,
her gloved hand upon his arm. A silver-haired gentleman was beside her. Blake never once looked toward Violette.
“Yes,” Catherine said, somewhat tersely. “And that is her husband, Lord Cantwell, with her.”
Violette regarded Catherine, trying to decipher her expression. “Is she in love with Blake?” she asked bluntly.
Jon and Catherine exchanged glances. Jon said, gently, “She was once, a long time ago,”
Violette flinched. “How long ago?”
Jon hesitated. “Eight years ago, to be exact.”
“I don’t understand,” Violette said, gazing across the ballroom again. But Blake had wandered away from the Cantwells, and was now chatting with Dom St. Georges.
Catherine sighed. There was something in the sound that made Violette turn to look at the woman who had so suddenly become a dear friend, and, after Ralph, a best friend. The two women’s gazes met.
“You would hear the story eventually, so you may as well know,” she said. “Gabriella was a widow when she married Cantwell. And she married him only after refusing Blake.”
Violette gasped.
Catherine touched her arm. “They shared a tendre for one another, Violette, but it was a long time ago.”
Violette was far more than dismayed. “But … he said he didn’t want to marry—not anyone.”
Catherine was silent. Jon said, “That is how he feels now, Lady Goodwin. When my brother offered marriage to Gabriella, he was eighteen years of age.”
Violette touched her moist eyes with her gloved fingertips. She was shocked by what she had just learned. And then it all, startlingly, clicked into place. It had been Gabriella with Blake that night at the ball eight years ago. And Violette recalled their embrace as if it were yesterday. She was frozen.
“Violette?” Catherine said. “Do not fret about the past. I know that Blake is very fond of you.”
“I don’t think so,” Violette said miserably. She heard the hurt in her own tone. “Perhaps I should give up.”
“If you are truly in love with Blake, then you should fight for what you want,” Catherine said flatly.
Violette whirled. “Fight for what I want? What do you mean? You taught me to be genteel. Ladies do not fight.”
Jon chuckled.
“I did not mean by coming to blows. What I mean is that it
is time for you to resort to the oldest trick in the book.”
Violette stared.
Jon murmured, “I look forward to hearing this.”
Catherine ignored him. “Make him jealous,” she stated. “Very jealous. Fill your dance card. Flirt outrageously. Act as if you are enamored with every man you dance with—act as if you do not care that Blake is even here. I suspect you shall get a reaction from him then.”

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