Brenda Joyce (27 page)

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Authors: The Finer Things

BOOK: Brenda Joyce
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“Dammit,” Jon shouted, “I cannot move, so I cannot throw you out, but I am asking you to leave, Blake, this very minute—damn you!”
Blake remained frozen for the span of several heartbeats. And then he turned, feeling sick, sicker than he had ever felt in his life, and when he reached the door, he said, forcing his tone to be light and natural, when he really wanted to cry, “I will stop by this afternoon.”
Jon did not reply.
Blake left.
BLAKE
had found a solicitor to represent Violette. Breathlessly, Violette followed the servant who had been sent to fetch her down the two flights of stairs and into the library. Blake and an elderly gray-haired man were seated at opposite ends of a sofa when she entered the room. Both men stood up. Blake introduced the gentleman as Mr. George Dodge, attorney-at-law.
When everyone was once again seated, Dodge spoke to Violette. “Lady Goodwin, Lord Blake has informed me of all that has transpired thus far. I am happy to represent you. I work with some of the finest barristers in the country. If anyone has a chance to win this trial, should this come to trial—and I suspect it shall even if arsenic is not found in Sir Thomas’s body—you may rest assured that I do.”
Violette nodded, gripping her hands so tightly it hurt. Her fear was escalating. “Why do you think there shall be a trial?” Her tone was high.
“Because of the extenuating circumstances of this case. I shall never delude you. You are not gentry, and your background is damning. That alone would inspire most officials to prosecute.”
Violette trembled. “I didn’t kill him. That’s not fair. I am innocent.”
Dodge regarded her calmly. “That was going to be my next
question, although Lord Blake is also convinced of your innocence and has told me so himself.”
Violette darted a shocked glance at Blake, who remained impassive.
“Now, an important question. Did your friend Ralph Horn murder Sir Thomas?”
Violette was on her feet. “No! Ralph is not a murderer!” She turned an agitated glance on Blake. “You told him that, didn’t you?”
“Do calm yourself, Violette,” Blake said.
Violette sat down, frightened and angry, beginning to panic. She could not shake Dodge’s certainty out of her mind that there would be a trial.
“Are you certain, Lady Goodwin?” Dodge asked. “I am on your side. You must always tell me the truth or I cannot defend you successfully. Protecting your friend is not a good idea.”
“Ralph is not a murderer. I am not protecting him. Am I going to hang?” Violette cried.
Dodge shared a glance with Blake. “I am going to do everything in my power to see that you go free, Lady Goodwin.”
Violette was not reassured. She wrung her hands. Her temples throbbed. “Is that a yes—or a no?”
“I cannot guarantee you a verdict of not guilty,” Dodge said matter-of-factly. “Lady Goodwin, panicking now will not help our cause.”
Violette nodded, close to tears.
“Listen closely to me,” the solicitor said. “We have a lot of work to do and probably little time in which to do it. These kinds of cases can go very quickly—in the blink of an eye. The coroner might very well deliver his report in a day or so. We could be facing charges as soon as tomorrow evening. I have seen trials result within a week or even less of an indictment. The good news is”—and he smiled—“we could have a verdict in less than a fortnight. But I do need your full cooperation.”
“A trial could go so swiftly?” Blake asked, appearing grim.
Dodge gave him a look. “Yes.”
Violette felt that the two men were sharing unspoken thoughts, thoughts they did not want to share with her. But she could not dwell on that. All she could seem to grasp was that she might be charged with murder as soon as tomorrow night, oh God. And would she be a defendant in court as early as next week? Violette was shaking.
Blake spoke again. “Lady Goodwin. Mr. Dodge needs to ask you quite a few questions. Are you up to it?” His regard was probing.
Violette met his gaze. “I have a terrible headache,” she whispered. It was the truth.
A few more minutes, please,” Dodge said firmly. “I am very concerned with how the inspectors defamed your character this morning. I am worried about the nature of your relationship with Ralph Horn. Lady Goodwin, could you please describe that relationship to me?”
“We are friends,” Violette said, stiffening.
“And lovers?”
Violette turned white. “No, we are not lovers.” Her pulse was racing. She had to look at Blake.
Blake’s legs were crossed. One foot swung. He did not meet her gaze.
“Have you ever been lovers?” Dodge asked.
“Never.” Violette was shaking. She glanced at Blake again. This time their gazes met briefly before he glanced away.
“Were you faithful to Sir Thomas?”
Violette’s eyes widened. “What does that have to do with Sir Thomas’s death?” she gasped.
“Your character has already been painted a distinct shade of dark gray. Before the trial is over, it will be painted pitch black. I need to know all there is to know about you.”
Violette’s chin lifted. “I am not a whore. Just because I was born a bastard in St. Giles doesn’t mean I’m a whore. I have always been faithful to Sir Thomas,” she panted.
“No one even used that word,” Dodge said. “I do apologize for upsetting you.” But he appeared satisfied. “Well,” he said, “I shall begin to prepare a defense, as I do strongly suspect a defense shall be needed. We shall speak again first thing tomorrow.” He stood, reaching for his leather attaché case. “I do wish to interview your friend, Ralph Horn.”
Violette did not respond. She was ill, shaken to the quick. How could this be happening?
Blake also stood. “That will be very difficult,” he said.
“And why is that?” Dodge asked, his expression one of mild confusion.
Violette was also puzzled.
“Because I sent a runner to fetch him from his job. He never appeared this morning at the factory, and he is not at his flat.
In fact, he has not left a single personal possession there.” Blake turned and stared at Violette.
Violette was on her feet like a bolt of lightning. “What are you saying?!” she cried.
“I do believe your friend Ralph has fled the immediate vicinity,” Blake said. “In plainer English, he seems to have disappeared.”
 
After that interview, Violette decided to plead exhaustion and take supper alone in her room. She could not possibly dine with the Hardings that night.
Violette remembered when her life had been simple. When Sir Thomas had been alive, it had consisted of eating all she wanted and dressing up in her wonderful new wardrobe and doing a tad of shopping every day so she could enjoy the freedom of spending her pin money. But even before she had married Sir Thomas, her life, while difficult, and even at times brutal, had been simple. She had not been in love with a man so many stations above her that he might as well walk in the clouds of Heaven while she dwelled on the mere Earth.
Violette could not sleep. Blake haunted her—as did her desire to be held safely, and at times passionately, in his arms. She needed him now. But she could not fool herself. He had obtained the solicitor, but they were not even friends. At this point, she could almost settle for mere friendship from him. Somehow she had lost that, too.
And she could not stop worrying about a trial. She could not stop worrying about prison, and hanging. And what about Ralph? Where had he gone? Violette knew that her lifelong friend and partner was incapable of murder. But it was terribly clear that Blake thought otherwise.
Violette did not want to lose her freedom, or worse, her life. She did not want to lose Blake. But she felt as if she had taken that first step off of a cliff. She was in the air, falling … only she had no idea of where she would land—nor when. And what if Blake was not there to catch her?
Eventually she slept.
 
Violette awoke, shivering from the cold. She was confused. When she had gone to bed last night a warm fire had crackled in the hearth and heated bricks had been placed at the foot of her bed. She had been toasty warm, the blankets heavy upon her.
Dread crept over her in stages. She was not merely chilled to the bone, but the mattress she slept upon was no longer soft and plush—it was hard and thin, barely separating her body from the floor. And what had happened to her silk and satin quilts? They were gone.
Violette’s eyes flew open as her hand, flung off of the mattress, groped the floor.
The floor
. It was rough, uneven stone. She was not in bed, she was sleeping on a cane mat on the floor. She cried out.
And then Violette realized that the worst that could possibly befall her had happened. She did not remember leaving Harding House. Sitting up, she glanced wildly around—at a dark, narrow, dirty alleyway she recognized. It was the alley where she had grown up in St. Giles.
Violette wrapped her arms around her kees and gasped again—her beautiful nightgown and wrapper were gone. She was clad in torn breeches and a dirty, thin shirt. Her feet were bare—and black with dirt. She looked down at her hands, expecting to see clean ivory skin. Her fingers and palms were gray-black with dirt and grime. Trembling violently, she reached up, already knowing what she would find. Her beautiful hair was gone, hacked-off at the nape.
Violette started to cry.
How had this happened? She had been alseep in that beautiful pink and white bedroom at Harding House. How had she awoken there in the streets of St. Giles?
She stood up, staggering slightly. A rat darted across the stoop. On other stoops other vagrants slept on makeshift mats, wrapped up in coats and blankets thrown away by the gentry and somehow salvaged from garbage piles. What had happened? She wept. Why had she left Harding House? Where was Blake? Had she been walking in her sleep?
Blake. She needed him desperately, she did, but what if he saw her like this? Terror immobilized her. Her mouth was bone-dry. If he ever saw her like this, she would never win his heart, not ever.
But hadn’t that become an impossibility? She was about to be accused of murder.
And then she glimpsed his fancy black phaeton driving down the alley toward her. Oh God, was he searching for her? Why else would he be in that neighborhood? Violette stiffened, dread-filled, not knowing what to do. How she wanted to run
to him, call his name. But she was prepared to flee. She could not let him find her like this!
And she heard him then, calling her name. “Violette?! Violette!
VIOLETTE
!”
Violette stepped back into the shadows of the overhanging roof, pressing her back to the wall, shaking, hiding. She wanted to run, but could not seem to get her legs to obey the summons of her mind. Her legs would not move. But whether she wanted to run to him, or from him, she did not know.
The phaeton stopped. Very slowly, in suspended motion, the carriage door swung open and a man started to step out.
Violette cringed.
The man stepped around the carriage door, becoming fully revealed. It was not Blake. Dressed all in black, hooded, it was the hangman.
Violette screamed.
 
Blake knocked uncertainly on Jon’s door. It was early in the morning, the time they usually rode in the park. When there was no reply he shoved open the bedroom door. The bedroom was cloaked in shadows as the draperies had not yet been opened. Jon appeared to be asleep.
Unsure of what his reception would be, Blake crossed the room and opened the curtains, allowing the mild early morning sunlight to filter inside. He turned and saw Jon staring at him from where he lay in bed.
“Good morning.” Blake smiled.
“This seems to be a violation of my privacy,” Jon returned.
“I am sorry,” Blake said, his heart sinking heavily. “But in the past I have roused you in order that we could share a ride before breakfast.” He smiled again.
“In the past I could ride.” Jon placed his hands behind his head, staring. “We are in the present.”
“You will ride again.”
“I doubt it,” Jon said.
Blake’s temper flared, but he tamped it down with an effort. “So you intend to just give up?”
Jon did not reply.
Blake turned and opened another set of draperies. “Let’s take a walk in the gardens.”
Jon flung his arm down; his hand landed on his thigh. “Christ,” he said. “
I cannot walk
.”
Blake felt his pulse roar. “Have you tried?”
Jon was as angry. “You are not a doctor, Blake. Now, if you do not mind, I am going back to sleep.”
“I am not a doctor, but I am your brother, and I do mind,” Blake snapped.
The two brothers stared at one another heatedly.
“What the hell do you want from me?” Jon finally asked.
“Do you not have enough on your mind with Violette Goodwin’s troubles?”
So Jon knew about that. “I want you to come downstairs with me, take some air, perhaps a step or two, and then we can share breakfast with the family.”
Jon glared. “I am not in a social mood.”
“Than humor me, your brother.”

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