Brenda Joyce (28 page)

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Authors: The Finer Things

BOOK: Brenda Joyce
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Jon cast his gaze heavenward.
Blake walked to the door and shouted for Jon’s valet. A moment later Potter appeared. “Jon needs to dress and then we are going downstairs,” he said firmly.
“Yes, my lord,” the stocky valet said.
Blake and Potter helped Jon to sit up. Even performing such a simple act broke Blake’s heart. He avoided meeting his brother’s gaze. Jon was flushed, with frustration, he thought, and embarrassment. The valet began gathering clothing from the armoire and chest.
“Let me help you stand,” Blake said.
Jon’s gaze, bitterly mocking, met his. “It is easier if I lie here while I am disrobed and redressed.”
It was a moment before Blake could respond. “Your attitude will not help you to recover,” he said.
“Do you expect me to sing and dance, Blake? To be happy to be in this condition?” Jon cried.
“I want you to fight this condition!”
“There is nothing to fight! I am not going to recover! Braman said so. He is the expert.”
“Braman is an ass.”
Their gazes locked. And Jon said, “Come here.”
Blake walked over and, comprehending him, he stooped. Glaring at his brother, Jon flung one arm around his neck. Blake put his arm around Jon’s waist and straightened, helping Jon stand on his bare feet. But the moment of triumph was short-lived. Blake was supporting Jon’s weight entirely.
“We will walk together,” Blake said.
Jon did not speak.
Blake stole a glance at his set face, wanting to weep. He was going to make his brother walk, goddammit. Holding him tightly against his side, he took a step forward—but Jon only moved with him because Blake dragged him.
“Stop,” Jon cried. “Dammit, just stop.”
“No,” Blake said. “Try. Please try!”
“I am trying!
And I cannot move my legs
!”
Their gazes met. Jon’s face was red, his blue eyes anguished, furious. And Blake felt it then, the loss of hope.
He helped his brother back to the bed as Potter brought over Jon’s clothes.
 
It was a few minutes before nine when Violette came downstairs for breakfast. Having passed a miserable night, her lack of sleep, combined with the events of the previous days, had reduced her to a state of extreme exhaustion. She was hardly hungry, but she knew her body needed nourishment. It was either that or collapse.
She had donned a pale gray morning gown and had braided her hair into one thick rope that hung down her back. She thought that the men would have taken their breakfast earlier. Violette was hoping that no one would be present in the breakfast room that day.
But she stopped short as she crossed the threshold, because both the countess and Catherine were present, sipping tea and nibbling toast covered with jam. The countess looked up from the
London Times.
“Good morning, Violette.” Her smile had faded. She appeared tired, her face showing signs of strain and fatigue. “Please. Come in and join us for breakfast,” she said.
Violette summoned a smile and entered the small, bright breakfast room very hesitantly. She sat across from Catherine. “Good morning, my lady,” she said to the countess. “Thank you so much for allowing me to stay here—especially after all that has happened. I am so sorry for my part in Jon’s accident.”
The countess sighed. “We are all sorry, but I remain convinced that my son will recover.” She stopped. It was a moment before she could speak again. “You are not to blame.”
Violette looked down at her place setting, because it was so difficult to regard the countess. Once her eyes had sparkled, had been so full of gaiety and joy, but not now.
“Jon and Blake are outside,” Catherine said too brightly. “They are taking breakfast together in the garden.”
Violette met Catherine’s gaze and saw that she was anxious.
She wished that the breakfast room looked out on the gardens where the brothers were, but it did not. But maybe that was for the best, being as she was not a member of the family.
“Please help yourself to the buffet on the sideboard,” the countess said.
Violette rose and went to the buffet, filling up a plate with far more than she could eat. She returned to the table and tried to get down her meal, the countess returning her attention to her newspaper, Catherine repeatedly glancing out of the window. It was clear to Violette that Catherine wished desperately to see what was going on with Blake and Jon.
“You are not hungry, Violette?” Catherine finally asked.
“Not really,” Violette said, knowing she could not eat a thing. And then she heard footsteps approaching from the corridor, heavy male footsteps, and she stiffened.
It was only the earl and she relaxed. Richard Blake entered the room, clad in riding clothes and Hessian boots. “Good morning, ladies,” the earl said, taking his seat at the opposite end of the table from his wife. His smile faltered. “Lady Goodwin.” He nodded.
The countess laid her hand on his arm, and when she spoke, her tone was low but eager. “Blake and Jon are taking breakfast together in the gardens, Richard.”
The earl, about to reach for his cup, froze.
The countess smiled at him, her eyes on his.
“That is good news,” he said quietly.
And Violette felt like an intruder. No one wanted her present. Even though they were acting as graciously as possible, she was only at Harding House because of Blake—because she was the prime suspect in a murder investigation. She concentrated on eating, forcing a forkful of eggs into her mouth. At least she would not have to face Blake this morning.
But a sixth sense made her look up slowly a few minutes later—right into Blake’s eyes. He stood on the threshold of the room, his expression strained and grim. And he was staring at her.
He tore his gaze from her and went to his mother, kissing her on one cheek. “Good morning, Mother. Did you sleep well?”
“Not too poorly,” Suzannah replied.
Blake patted Catherine’s shoulder as he strode by her. He only inclined his head at Violette.
She wondered if he meant to hurt her. He had succeeded.
Violette gazed at her plate. Was he ever going to let her forget about her part in the accident?
He began helping himself from the sideboard, the earl joining him there. Violette wanted to flee the breakfast room, especially as they spoke in hushed tones—which she could overhear.
“How is Jon?” the earl asked.
“The same,” Blake said abruptly.
“But he was with you, outside.”
“I did everything but beat the hell out of him to get him to come downstairs,” Blake said, slopping eggs angrily onto his plate.
The earl stared at him. “I want to talk to you after breakfast, before you leave,” he said.
Blake nodded.
Violette was trembling as her gaze met Catherine’s. The other woman’s eyes were filled with dismay. Violette glanced at the countess and saw her disappointment as well. The men began to eat, neither one of them manifesting much appetite. Violette sipped her tea, wondering how she might gracefully escape the table and its occupants.
Tulley appeared in the doorway. He moved directly to Blake. “My lord,” he said, “I am terribly sorry to interrupt your breakfast but you have a visitor and he says it is most urgent.”
“What is this about?” the earl asked with some annoyance. “Tulley, we have both just sat down.”
Tulley glanced briefly at Violette and spoke again to Blake. “It is Mr. Dodge, sir. He wishes a word with you privately—immediately.”
Violette jerked. Her gaze slammed to Blake, who also stiffened, and then was on his feet.
By now everyone had laid their forks aside. The earl sighed, glancing at Violette. Blake was grim. “I am sorry, Father, Mother, do excuse me.” He bowed. And with long strides he swiftly left the room.
Violette did not move. Why was Dodge calling at this hour? Dread incapacitated her. She clutched the table for support. She had to know what was going on. But surely they did not have a coroner’s report so soon!
“Violette, dear,” the countess said, unsmiling. “Do not fret. Blake will handle everything, I am sure. Enjoy your breakfast. Can I pour you more tea?”
But Violette could not even respond to the countess’s inquiry. Suddenly she stood, dropping her fork. Every eye in the
room was upon her. “Excuse me,” she whispered, and she lifted her skirts and raced after Blake.
He was in the foyer, deeply engaged in conversation with George Dodge. Violette paused in the hall, straining to hear, no easy task with the way her pulse was racing. And Dodge was saying, “Didn’t think it would be so fast.”
Violette leaned suddenly, heavily, against the wall. It was so very hard to breathe. What was he speaking about?
“What has happened?” Blake demanded.
“I have a friend in the Coroner’s Office. The inquest has been completed. The findings are not good, Blake.”
Violette was vaguely aware of Blake cursing. She realized that she was shaking.
“Arsenic. Sir Thomas was killed with arsenic, his liver was saturated with the poison,” Dodge said.
Violette was shocked. She must have cried out, because both men turned to stare at her. But all she could think of was that someone had killed Sir Thomas. Sir Thomas had been murdered after all. Dear God.
Blake looked at her, his face oddly white.
“I am afraid,” Dodge said, “that Lady Goodwin is going to be charged today with Sir Thomas’s murder, probably within the next few hours. And she will then be placed under arrest.”
VIOLETTE
stepped forward. “They’re going to arrest me?”
Blake immediately moved to her and put his arm around her. She sagged against him. How she needed his strength. “Do not panic now,” he advised her, his eyes on her face.
She regarded him, riveted, terrified. “Am I going to prison? Am I going to hang? For something I did not do?!” she cried.
“You are not going to prison, nor shall you hang,” Blake said firmly.
Violette gazed at him, trying to decide if she believed him or not. But she could feel her world falling apart, the earth crumbling beneath her very feet. Panic clawed at her.
“Violette, why do you not go upstairs and rest? And leave your defense to Mr. Dodge and myself.” Blake smiled at her.
Violette could not reply.
 
 
Blake stood alone in the library, behind closed doors. Dodge had just left. They had spoken together privately, briefly. As soon as Violette was arrested, she would be incarcerated, and there was nothing he could do to prevent it. She would remain in prison until a trial had rendered a verdict.
Blake was shocked. He had not really expected things to go this far. And although he had never been inside any prison, he could not imagine Violette incarcerated in one. He had heard stories about the conditions in Newgate and Fleet Street. Who hadn’t?
He thought about the other morning at Lady Allister’s shop. The inspectors had raked Violette over the coals, simply, mercilessly. In a full-fledged trial it could only be worse. She would not be found innocent. Murder was a hanging offense.
And as distraught as Blake was over Jon’s accident, he could not dwell on that now, not when Violette’s freedom, her life, was at stake. Other images were haunting him now. The very first time he had laid eyes upon her in Harding Hall, when she had worn that ghastly magenta and lace dress. The solitary, grief-stricken figure she had made at Sir Thomas’s funeral. Violette in her shabby bedroom, holding a dress up to her chest, a few hours after that. And Violette at his mother’s ball. Spectacular in Catherine’s pale blue satin dress, spectacular yet so vulnerable, being an outsider and an impostor in a world which had no wish to ever accept her.
She still trusted him. She trusted him to rescue her from a guilty verdict and death.
“What are you going to do?” Jon asked.
Blake whirled. He had not heard the door open, but Jon stood there, supported by two servants, flushed from exertion. For a moment Blake could not speak.
“Put me on the sofa,” Jon ordered tersely.
Blake rushed to help, and after a moment Jon was seated on the sofa, his useless legs dangling over the edge. The servants left. “You are the last person I expected to see,” Blake said.
“The servants gossip ceaselessly and I heard what happened. What will you do, Blake?”
Blake stared. “Why are you concerned? Lady Goodwin’s fate should hardly affect you.”
Jon shrugged. “She is not a murderess. I do not hate her. In fact, I do not even blame her for what has happened, how could I? She was being accosted, Blake. A woman being accosted is unacceptable. I am angry, yes, with everyone; with life, in general;
but I would have no heart left if Lady Goodwin was hanged for a murder she did not commit.”
Blake sat down beside his brother. “I guess I do not really blame her for her part in the accident,” he said grimly. “But I cannot let her hang, Jon.” And the thought crept unbidden into his mind. Had he somehow come to care for her, far more than he had previously suspected? Why else would he be so upset, so sick, so filled with dread over the recent turn of events? Why else would he want to protect her and spare her from humiliation and harm? His determination was vast.
Jon stared at him. “She will lose in the Queen’s Bench, will she not?”
Blake rubbed his throbbing temples. It was impossible for him to analyze his feelings or motivations now. “Yes. I think so. I believe that Dodge thinks so, too. Dodge says he has seen juries render a verdict within days in sensational murder trials like this one.” He could see the headlines already.
East End Murderess Poisons Elderly Husband.
“Then there is very little time,” Jon said. “A few days from now, Violette might be dead.”
Blake inhaled. “Do not even think such a thing.”
“You could always launch your own investigation to try to find the actual killer,” Jon said. “If the real killer is produced, Violette will be freed.”
“I already have, with Dodge’s help. I have also hired runners to locate Ralph Horn.” Blake paced, raking his hair with one hand. “I imagine, if Horn is the killer, he is long gone by now.”
“Those are my thoughts exactly.” Jon’s tone was dry.
“If only we had more time to find the real killer,” Blake reflected, “but we do not.”
“Perhaps you should marry her,” Jon said.
Blake jerked. “What?”
Jon was grim—and calm. “You heard me. Give her the Harding name. Let’s face it, Blake. With my downfall your power and prestige has increased vastly. Your son shall inherit this earldom. And the whole world knows it. If Violette is your wife, one day to be the mother of your children, she will be tried by her peers, in the Lords, and I do not think any of our peers would dare to convict her then.”
Blake stood. His mind was racing. “When the bloody hell did you conceive this idea?”
“It was the obvious solution, especially as you have been
pursuing her since the two of you first met, in one fashion or another.”
“I deny that,” Blake managed. He was shocked by Jon’s suggestion. Gabriella’s image immediately came to mind, but he shoved it aside; he had no time for such a diversion now. In a way, Jon made sense. For when Rutherford and Harding combined their power, most lords were afraid to go against them. Blake knew he could count on the duke and Dom St. Georges in this instance. But … he did not want to get married. He had decided against marriage a long time ago. Eight years ago, to be exact.
“You also
need
a wife and an heir.” Jon stared, unsmiling—he never smiled anymore, it seemed. “You have a duty to perform now, Blake, a duty to me, to Father, to the family and the earldom.”
Blake walked away from Jon. “That is premature,” he finally said. His hands were shaking.
“I don’t think so. Face it. I am crippled, I am not going to walk again, and I cannot sire a son.”
Blake turned. “You are a coward,” he shot. “To quit before you have even tried to get well.”
“Then I am a coward,” Jon said with a shrug. His eyes glinted. “That is my choice, is it not?”
“Not if I have any say in the matter.”
“Well, you do not.” Jon’s gaze held his. “You have nerve, though, calling me a coward, when you are the cowardly one.”
Blake was frozen.
“You are afraid to take that lovely woman to wife.” Jon was cool. “Afraid you might actually lose your heart for the second time. Violette is not Gabriella.”
“That is absurd. Clearly Violette is not Gabriella,” Blake said tersely.
Jon glanced toward the door. “Call the footmen, please, I wish to return upstairs.”
Blake hesitated. He looked at his brother. “You want me to marry her, don’t you?”
Jon stared. “Actually, I do. I have always thought that eventually you would, anyway. So it shall be sooner rather than later. And with good reason.”
Blake stared out of the window. His heart raced. Was he afraid? And was he insane? Could he marry Violette in order to give her the protection of the Harding name? To give her power, privilege, and a chance to beat a false verdict? Yet could
he let her be imprisoned, could he let her hang? Of course, there was the slim chance she would get off if tried in the Queen’s Bench. Could he take that chance? Could he live with himself if she were found guilty, if she were hanged? He could not.
“Good God,” Blake muttered. He could not believe what was happening.
Jon stared at him. “I see you realize you have little or no choice.”
“You are enjoying this,” Blake said. “But God only knows why.” He stalked to the door.
“Where are you going?” Jon called.
“I am going to speak with Violette—to propose marriage to her.”
 
Violette could not stop shaking. She was going to be arrested. And charged with murder. She was going to go to jail. She was going to hang.
She gripped the windowsill of the guest bedroom. She did not see the gardens outside. She had the urge to open the window, climb out of it, shimmy down the elm tree, and run. Run as far and as fast as she could, as far away as she might go.
Run
.
Her instincts were shrieking at her.
But what about Blake? If she ran away, she would have to leave the country. She would never be able to come back, not unless the real killer were found. And that might never happen. She would never see Blake again. Blake, whom she loved. Still.
Grimly, she reminded herself that he did not love her. In fact, at times he seemed to hate her. Violette knew he would never really forgive her for Jon’s accident. Just as she could never ever really forgive herself.
Choking on a sob, she sank down in a chair. But at other times he truly seemed to care. Like that morning, when Dodge had brought the terrible news. His expression had been shocked, distraught.
I am never going to understand him,
Violette thought, covering her face with her hands. And while she trusted him implicitly on a certain level, believing in his power, his strength, and his integrity, she had no faith in justice or God. She
should
run away. Now, before it was too late.
Before she was arrested, taken away.
Footsteps caused Violette to drop her hands and jerk at the sight of Blake, who stood on the threshold of her room. The
door was open behind him, but Violette had closed it earlier when she had come in. She did not move.
He stared back at her. “I knocked, but you did not answer. I thought you might have fallen asleep.” His expression was grave.
Violette gripped the arms of her chair tightly. “No. I don’t think I shall ever be able to sleep again.” She laughed slightly, the sound high and filled with mockery. She trembled.
A shadow flitted across his face. He entered her room, closing the door. “This will pass. One day you will look back on this crisis and be able to smile about it.”
“I don’t think so.”
He regarded her, finally producing his handkerchief from his breast pocket, and crossing the room, he handed it to her. “Here. Wipe your eyes. Please, do not cry. All is not lost yet.” He did not smile. He was so very serious.
“I’m not crying,” Violette said. But she dabbed at her eyes, which were moist.
“You are very courageous, Lady Goodwin,” Blake said.
There was something in his tone that made her hope. She searched his face, his eyes, but could not read what he might be feeling in his heart. “What is it that you wish to talk about?” she asked tremulously.
He hesitated, then pulled up an ottoman and straddled it. His expression very somber, he said, “I wish to discuss marriage.”
Violette was motionless. She could not have possibly heard him correctly. And if she had, he could not have been referring to a marriage between them. And suddenly, so suddenly, all her fear and panic were gone, and in their place was hope, sheer, desperate, agonizing hope.
Please, God,
she thought,
let him be asking me to marry him. Let him realize that he loves me, too.
“Violette?”
She focused. It was hard to breathe. “Blake? I … I don’t think I understand.”
He nodded. “I am very worried about this situation. You need protection. I believe that I can protect you, as can my family.”
Violette still did not understand. “What does this have to do with marriage?” Her voice was almost inaudible.
“I want to give you my name,” he said seriously.
Her heart leapt. “You want to marry me?” Incredulity—and hope.
He wet his lips. “Prince Albert gave me the title of viscount
last summer for a very personal reason. You see he has been, like myself, building row houses for those less fortunate than ourselves. In fact, we have compared our designs, and dreams, if you will.” Blake finally smiled at her.
“I am lost,” Violette said.
“If I marry you, Violette, you become a viscountess. You become a peer.”
“I still do not understand.”
Blake rose to his feet. “A peer is tried by his—or her—peers. My family has great influence in the Lords. I want you tried in the Lords, Violette, not in the Queen’s Bench, where a verdict would most likely be rendered against you.”
Violette stared up at him. Her emotions had become suspended. An inkling began, one too painful to comprehend. “Be … plain,” she whispered hoarsely. She could feel all the color draining from her face. All but the last vestiges of hope draining from her heart.

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