Brenda Joyce (46 page)

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Authors: The Finer Things

BOOK: Brenda Joyce
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“You are so upset,” he said, a heartbeat away from going to her and holding her tightly, so tightly, against his chest.
Her mouth was tightly pursed. Another moment passed before she finally spoke. “Is she … all right?” she asked hoarsely. And she touched her chest with one hand, as if covering her wounded heart.
Blake could not reply. Her left hand covered her chest, and on her fourth finger was a huge ruby ring surrounded by rows and rows of diamonds. It was an engagement ring.
“Blake?” she cried in alarm. “Is Susan all right?”
He jerked, in a state of disbelief—he was too late. “Susan is fine. A beautiful, happy child.” He could hardly get the words out.
She sank into a chair. “I am returning to Paris this afternoon,” she said. “Take care of her, Blake.”
He stared at her hand on the chair’s thick, rolled arm, stared at the glinting ring. “Congratulations,” he heard himself say stiffly.
She started, meeting his gaze. And then she saw where he was looking. She was already pale, but now she turned the stark shade of a newly laundered sheet.
“When do the nuptials take place?”
She wet her lips. “Robert wishes for us to wed as soon as possible, in Paris, of course.” Her smile was brief and forced.
“As soon as possible,” Blake said. “So Robert shall live in Paris now?” He could not believe this conversation was taking place, that he was acting so casually, so indifferently, when he felt his entire being disintegrating fiber by fiber and piece by piece.
She does not love you
, he thought.
She loves Farrow after all.
She nodded, looking at the floor. “Perhaps next month.”
“Next month,” he echoed. He finally recovered some self-control. “Again, congratulations.” He made a show of looking at his pocket watch. “I am late. Please, feel free to visit Susan before you leave.”
Violette did not reply.
He stared at her—she stared back. Silence and tension pervaded the room. Only the ticking of the pendulum clock in the corner broke it. How loud it sounded, how deafening. He finally walked to the door. “Good-bye, Violette.” Had he not said
those exact same words once before? But this time, he meant them. This time, it was truly over.
She was giving herself freely to another man.
“Good-bye, Blake,” Violette whispered to his back.
He did not turn to take one last look at her, he did not have to. He was never going to forget her, did not even want to, in spite of the pain. He opened the door.
And Inspector Adams met his gaze, beside a smiling Inspector Howard. “Good day, my lord,” Howard said.
Adams walked into the room. “Lady Neville. You are under arrest,” he said.
THE
cell door slammed. Violette leapt back, against the stone wall of her prison. The guard, burly, bearded, and distinctly malodorous, a man missing several teeth, leered at her and turned and walked away, disappearing into the shadows.
The inmates began to laugh, screeching at her. They were all female. “’Ey, luvey, not so ’igh an’ mighty now?”
“Look it the foin lady! C’mere, me lady, ’ow’s about a kiss fer ole Bessie?”
“Aw, aw, aw, aw!” Someone else laughed violently.
Shrieking seemed to fill up the prison.
Violette was motionless. Eyes wide, she stared at the pale, contorted faces framed by stringy, greasy hair peering, gawking, gaping at her from the surrounding cells. She had been incarcerated in the Fleet Street Prison. She was on some lower floor, inside the bowels of the earth, in the women’s section. But these women all seemed mad, animal-like. And the air was still, dank, and fetid. It was dark inside, for there were no lights, just a few burning torches set on the walls, and Violette could could hardly see through the gloom. Inmates kept calling to her, laughing at her, screaming for her attention.
But she had her own cell, most of the other women prisoners did not. Her guards had told her that murderers and murderesses were jailed separately, just in case they decided to kill another time.
“Honey,” an old crone squawked, “you gimme a nice fiver an’ I’ll get you wot you want—tobacco, gin, a nice hard man, anythin’ ol’ Remie can do.”
Violette met the old woman’s piercing, soulless eyes. Remie burst out laughing. She had the adjacent cell, and one of her hands was extended through the bars, fingers spread, clawlike. Violette realized she was tugging on Violette’s skirts. She leapt away from the madwoman, only to crash into the opposite side of her cell, and into another pair of groping hands. She met a pair of burning gray eyes, a face framed by strawlike hair. Crying out, Violette shrank against the back wall of her cell, which was stone. Remie continued to offer her objects and services, still reaching into Violette’s cell, but Violette stopped listening, too numb with fear. The other prisoner, whom Violette now realized was very pregnant, was gripping the bars of Violette’s cell and shaking herself on them. Her huge stomach wobbled with her intense gyrations. Violette felt her knees give way.
She sank to the floor only to recoil in horror as her hand slipped on human feces. She choked on a sob, on her feet again, cowering in a corner. She had nothing to wipe her hand on except for the hem of her dress, which was already soiled. The wall she leaned against smelled suspiciously like urine.
Violette inhaled hard, fighting the numbness, the shock which was choking her mind. She wasn’t a murderess, she had not murdered her own husband, dear Sir Thomas, and, God, hadn’t she suffered enough? She had lost Blake, she had lost her own sweet daughter, and now this? Oh, God.
She planted her back against the wall, panting, staring back at the pale faces grimacing and grinning at her. Was everyone here insane? Is this what prison did to its inmates? She wasn’t a murderess! Why was she here? She had to get out.
God, Blake!
she thought, panic overwhelming her.
Please
,
get me out of here!
She squeezed her eyes closed. That wasn’t going to happen. Blake might be a Harding, but even his father, the earl, could not remove her from this horrible place. Not until the trial was over, not until she had been judged innocent.
And there would be a trial, in the House of Lords, dear God. And she would be judged innocent, because she was innocent—wouldn’t she?
Violette gulped in the fetid, sour air. What if she were found guilty of murder by some monstrous mistake? How could she be found innocent after all that had happened? She had run away, she knew how it seemed. No one would ever believe
that she had been running away from Blake and not from the trial and the verdict.
And she was a fraud. The Lords would realize that immediately. All too soon she would be exposed as Violet Cooper, the bastard orphan, a beggar and a thief, born and raised in St. Giles. Whom was she fooling? She would not be found innocent. She was going to hang.
 
“The countess will be down shortly, my lady,” Tulley told Catherine.
Catherine nodded, wringing her hands anxiously. She considered the countess far more than a friend. Having lost her own mother when she was but a child, the countess had always been a surrogate of sorts. Catherine knew Blake intended to explain their broken engagement to both of his parents, but she had to speak to the countess herself. “I will wait in the red salon,” Catherine said, referring to the smaller of the two entertaining rooms.
Tulley hesitated. “Perhaps you wish to wait in the gold salon, Lady Dearfield?” He gestured to the pair of doors which opened onto the huge parlor where the Hardings entertained. “Lord Farleigh is in the family room.”
Catherine froze, but only for an instant. Then her heart thudded wildly. When was the last time she had seen Jon? That day in the gardens, when he had told her, so cruelly and callously, that he had hoped she would marry his brother. She should hate him, but she did not. She missed him terribly. Him and that special rapport they had shared—even if it had only existed in her own mind.
Catherine did not know she could be so brave. She smiled at Tulley. “How wonderful. Then I shall have some company while I wait for the countess.”
She left the butler behind before he could protest or tell her that Jon did not wish to be disturbed. Her heart pounded with alarming strength now. She felt faint with nervousness, with anticipation.
The salon doors were closed. Catherine paused, reaching for a knob. Immediately she heard a strange sound coming from inside of the room. A soft squeaking accompanied by a grunt. Confused, she pushed open the door.
Catherine bit off her gasp. Jon was in the strangest chair she had ever seen. Although made of wood and having both a cushioned seat and back and arms, it had no legs—it had wheels
instead. The kind of wheels one might see on a donkey cart or a victoria. And the chair was in motion. Jon was pushing the wheels, turning them actually, with his own bare hands. The chair was speeding toward the opposite wall.
In that instant, Catherine realized what was about to happen and she made a sound—just as Jon also realized his predicament. He had been flushed from exertion, now he whitened and cursed. With his hands he tried to stop the wheels, too late. The chair crashed into the far wall, crushing Jon’s knees.
“Dear God!” Catherine flew across the room.
He jerked, swiveling his head to look at her, and his cheeks turned red again. Catherine’s steps faltered as she reached for the chair. “Are you all right?”
“I am fine,” he said gruffly.
“Your legs,” she said, pulling the chair away from the wall.
His jaw flexed. “I have no feeling in my legs, Catherine—or have you forgotten?” His tone was not quite as mocking as it had been in the past year.
She met his gaze. And in that instant, it was like being in the past, for she was lost, swept away, dangerously, deeply connected to this man. She shook herself free of her trance. “No,” she said softly, going around to the front of the chair. “I have not forgotten.” She gave him one dark look, one containing a dare, and bent and rolled his stockings down. His knees were bruised but no skin was broken; he was not bleeding.
And it hurt her a little to look at his legs, because once they had been so strong and hard and full with muscle, and now there was a difference in their size and shape, slight, but there. Catherine stared at his shins. She had not realized a man’s legs contained so much hair. Jon’s was tawny, the color of a lion in fall.
Jon cleared his throat.
And Catherine realized that she had been standing there doing far more than stare; her hands had remained on his knees, touching him. She had never wanted to touch anyone more. The accident had not changed anything, not for her.
Slowly, she looked up.
His gaze was piercing.
The words wanted to explode out of her chest.
How I love you
. But she did not dare. With a small smile, she rolled his stockings back up. “A few bruises, but no real damage. Oh, Jon. Please, be careful.”
He did not reply. He was spinning the wheels again with his hands, his brow furrowed with concentration—with determination. Catherine watched him pick up speed, moving across the room toward a different wall.
And suddenly it hit her. The fact that he could move—the fact of his liberation. A freedom both physical and mental. She cried out.
He was already slowing, but now his back was to her. “This thing needs brakes,” he muttered, tossing the words over his shoulder as if tossing them at her.
And he was speaking to her. Filled with sudden joy, a happiness so intense she failed to breathe adequately, Catherine ran in front of him. She knelt before him, her face wreathed in smiles. “Jon! This is incredible! This chair—it allows you to move—it is as if you can walk again.”
He stared at her with his too-blue eyes, and finally, slowly, reluctantly, the faintest smile curved his mouth. “Yes,” he said, “this chair is incredible.”
 
Blake waited impatiently in the entry of the prison, standing beside George Dodge, whom he had summoned immediately. His heart was in his throat and he was sweating. Dodge was telling the warden that Blake was Violette’s fiancé and that he wished to see her. Fortunately, female prisoners were routinely allowed visits from their spouses—it was a fact Blake had only recently learned.
He needed to see her, desperately, to know that she was withstanding the rigor of her imprisonment. And although he was
not
her fiancé, it was easy enough to lie. He had contacted George Dodge the moment Inspectors Adams and Howard had taken Violette away. Dodge had immediately agreed to represent her. Blake had also sent word to Farrow. He was sure that Robert would agree that Dodge should handle Violette’s case being as he was already intimately acquainted with it.
The warden told them to wait and sent two pockmarked male guards to get her. Blake paced impatiently. In the short carriage ride over, Dodge had grimly told him that they would most likely lose the trial if the real killer could not be found. Blake had sent a runner to Paris to locate Horn—if he could be located. He intended to interview Joanna Feldstone immediately. One of the two had to be the murderer, for there were no other possible suspects.
Footsteps sounded in the corridor leading to the entry from
the interior of the prison. Blake stiffened, staring, frozen with anticipation. The door, barred with iron, was opened. Violette appeared between the two guards and Blake jerked, aghast.
Only a single day had passed since her imprisonment. But she was filthy and disheveled, and her face was garishly pale and pinched and gaunt as if she had not eaten in days. But then, she had lost so much weight since having the baby. Looking at her now hurt Blake impossibly. And he was furious with everyone for what was being done to her. “Violette.” He strode forward, leaving Dodge behind.
She stared at Blake, remaining motionless, her eyes huge. Very slowly, tears filled her gaze. She was trembling.
He could not stand it. The past fell away. Disappeared. He reached for her.
She fell against his chest, sobbing, shuddering, and he held her there, hard.
“You have five minutes, my lord,” the warden said from behind him.
Blake wanted to kill the warden. Instead, he fought for self-control, and looking down, he met Violette’s eyes and saw the fear and panic there. “Blake,” Violette cried, her tone hoarse. “You have come to take me home?” Her tone rose sharply, bordering on hysteria.
“Have they hurt you?” he demanded, hugging her hard, incapable of answering the question, incapable of so thoroughly disappointing her.
“No.” She shook her head, her mouth trembling. “Blake, I cannot go back down there. It’s dark. Everyone is mad. They scream ugly things at me. One of the women says crude things to me, tries to touch me. There is dirt and sewage on the floors. They give us soup to eat, but it is gray, and filled with bugs. There are rats. They come out at night. I am so afraid.”
“Everything will be all right, I promise you that,” he said, shaking with anger and frustration and completely unsure of what he was saying and whether it was the truth. He stroked her back, her hair. He must do everything in his power to get her out of prison, yet he knew there was nothing he could do until the trial was over. “Everything will be all right,” he repeated firmly.
“No.” Her voice was husky. “I am going to die.”
“You are not going to die,” he cried, seizing her arms, almost shaking her.
“I am innocent, but I ran away, and they will find me guilty,” she said, ashen.
“Why did you run away, Violette? Good God, why did you run away?” he cried, but it was an imploring question, with many layers, and what he was really asking was,
How could you have left me? How?

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