Brenda Joyce (47 page)

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Authors: The Finer Things

BOOK: Brenda Joyce
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She met his gaze. “I ran away because I loved you so much that I could not stand it,” she said.
He did not move. In that moment, time stopped. The world was frozen.
She began to cry. “Living with you, as your wife, in a farce of a marriage, a true travesty of love, was a punishment too painful too bear. That is how much I loved you.”
He could not speak. He was ready to cry himself. And then he realized that he was crying. Tears trickled down his face.
Dodge said from behind him, “I am sorry to intrude in such a private moment but we do not have much time. Lady Neville, I am afraid the Lords will not believe that you fled the country and your trial because you loved Lord Blake. And your trial is next week. What we must do is to find the real killer. And in the next week, before your trial, I shall advise you on how to answer all the questions the prosecutors shall throw at you. You must do everything I say, my dear,” he said.
“I did not kill dear Sir Thomas,” Violette told Dodge hoarsely, still clinging to Blake.
“Your time is up,” the warden suddenly said, very loudly, and he spat on the floor, quite close to the tip of Blake’s black shoe. “We don’t make exceptions here. We don’t care if you’re the duke of Rutherford—my lord.”
Blake clenched his fists, unwilling to release Violette. But the two guards were there, and he had no choice. As they were separated, he gripped her hand. “Trust me,” he said. “Have faith, Violette. Please.”
She nodded, her palm gripping his, tears spilling from her eyes. The two guards took her by her arms, tearing their hands apart.
Blake clenched his fists.
And suddenly Violette, who was being led away, dug in her heels. like a recalcitrant—or frightened—child. “No! I can’t! God, no!”
And Blake leapt forward as the guards dragged her toward the barred iron door against her will. Only George Dodge
grabbed him from behind. “Stop,” the solicitor said. “There is nothing you can do!”
“Blake,” Violette screamed as she was pulled through the doorway, “Blake, don’t let them do this, please!”
His heart shattered into a million pieces. He was immobilized. Powerless. For the very first time in his life.
She threw one desperate glance over her shoulder at him just before the warden slammed the huge door closed behind her. And she was gone.
Blake thought he could hear her sobs.
He whirled, facing the warden. “If anything happens to her,” he said, “anything, if a single hair is missing from her head, I will personally see you torn from limb to limb and thrown to the wild dogs of London—do you understand?”
The warden paled.
Dodge reached into his jacket pocket, giving Blake a dark look, extracting his billfold. This was prearranged. Blake stared at the warden as Dodge peeled off bills and shoved them into the warden’s hands. “Mr. Goody,” he said. “Please make sure that nothing happens to Lady Neville—that she remains in good health.”
The warden, his gaze glued to Blake, finally looked at the thousands of pounds stuffed into his palm, and his eyes bulged. He nodded. Sweat covered his bald pate.
The front door of the entry slammed. “Christ,” the warden said, jamming the money into his shirt. “Another nob.”
Blake turned to see an ashen and disheveled Robert Farrow striding into the room. Farrow saw him and faltered in surprise. And then he continued on. He was followed by a short, elderly man, one Blake recognized instantly as the family solicitor. “What the hell are you doing here?” Farrow said. And then, “Have you seen her? Is she all right?”
Blake hesitated. “She is unharmed and as well as can be expected.” His insides were twisting up. He could not stand Violette’s relationship to this man.
“Thank God,” Farrow cried.
“Mr. Goody?” Farrow’s solicitor was saying. “I am Lord Farrow’s attorney. We have come to see Lady Neville.”
“This ain’t an afternoon tea,” the warden said, his shrewd gaze shooting from Farrow to Blake.
Before the attorney could respond, Farrow confronted the warden impatiently. “We understand that. But I am Lady Neville’s fiancé. and it is my right to visit her.”
The warden stared. And then he began to chuckle. “Oh really?” he said. “Then who the hell is he?” And he pointed to Blake.
Farrow turned, and the two men’s gazes met.
 
“I am not sure that this is advisable,” Dodge said grimly.
Blake stood with the solicitor later that day on the front steps of the Feldstones’ town house. “It is abominable that Violette, who is innocent, is suffering in such a state of incarceration.”
“Accusing Lady Feldstone of murder could be considered an abomination as well,” Dodge returned smoothly as Blake again rapped sharply on the door.
“I want her to break if she committed the deed,” Blake shot back.
“My lords?” the servant queried.
“Lord Blake, here to see His Lordship and Ladyship,” Blake said irritably. He still used the Neville title infrequently.
They followed the servant inside and were shown into a small but well-appointed parlor. Blake paced, fists clenched. Violette’s anguished expression remained engraved upon his mind. He had never hurt so much before in his life—and now he was hurting for her, sharing her fear and her pain.
The baron appeared, his stout wife behind him. The baron’s smile faded upon his seeing Blake’s taut expression. However, Joanna appeared smug. “My lord?” Feldstone gripped Blake’s hand and shook it. “Sir?”
“George Dodge, attorney-at-law, at your service.” Dodge bowed smartly.
“I am not in need of a solicitor,” Feldstone said with apparent bewilderment.
Joanna folded her arms beneath her massive bosom. “But Violette Goodwin is.” She smirked.
Blake eyed her. “Lady Neville, my ex-wife, the fiancee of Lord Farrow, is in need of a solicitor, but only because she has been falsely accused of your father’s murder and very wrongly imprisoned.”
Joanna snorted. “We are back to that?! She is a murderess and the whole world shall soon know it! She is exactly where she belongs!”
Blake had never wanted to hit a woman before, but he wanted to do so now. Dodge placed a restraining arm upon him, as if he could read his mind. “Lady Feldstone, Lady Neville
is innocent. She loved your father. Have you no pity, no compassion, for her?”
“None,” Joanna said flatly. “None at all.”
Blake interrupted. “Are you aware that your housekeeper in Tamrah was purchasing arsenic during this past year?”
Joanna gaped.
Feldstone stepped forward. “What is your meaning, young man?”
“My meaning is clear, is it not?” Blake said softly. But he regarded Joanna. “Did you kill your father, Lady Feldstone?”
The baron was gaping. Joanna’s eyes were wide. She had turned white. “You think we are somehow responsible for Sir Thomas’s death? Why—that is absurd!” the baron cried.
Blake knew that the man was not dissembling. “Lady Feldstone? Would you answer me directly?”
She inhaled, her entire bosom heaving. “I loved my father, Lord Neville,” she said stiffly. “And if my housekeeper was purchasing arsenic, than I have no doubt that we had an attic full of rats.” She stared.
Blake stared back. She remained pale, yet appeared affronted—or was he seeing what he wished to see? Was she guilty?
“Will you accuse me next?” Joanna cried. “I don’t think so. Because in another few weeks your ex-wife will be swinging, my lord.”
“Blake, we should go,” Dodge said. “I think we have come up against a wall.”
Blake nodded. He felt defeated. How bitter it was. He bowed stiffly. “I apologize for my accusations, my lord, my lady.”
Feldstone was frozen. “Blake, if you were not an old family friend, regardless of your father, I would not accept your apology.”
He, at least, appeared innocent. Blake turned away. He was grim. Nothing had been accomplished by his confronting Joanna, and Horn might never be found.
And time was running out.
 
Ralph squatted behind the thick shrubs outside of Blake’s town house, sweating profusely, twisting his worn cap in his hands. He had, after all, come to London. He had not been able to sleep at nights thinking of the dangers Violette faced in returning to England—in spite of the fact that these days he no longer
recognized her as the same person he had grown up and shared a lifetime with. He wished she hadn’t changed.
But now he was frightened. More afraid than he had ever been in his life. He was clever and astute, how else would he have survived all these years? The moment Violette had left Paris, he had known her presence would be discovered and that she would be arrested. He had known he would have to go to her, and rescue her as he had done so many times when they were children.
And he had been right. Violette had left word with her staff that she would be staying at the St. James. It had taken him no time at all to learn that she had been arrested on her second day at the hotel and promptly imprisoned. But surely Blake would be able to get Violette released from prison. Ralph had little faith in the legal system, yet he knew how the high and mighty operated. Their wealth could buy anything. Surely it could buy Violette’s escape. But once free, Violette would have to flee the country again.
In a way, Ralph was excited. Because this time he would tell her that it was too dangerous to return to Paris, and they would have to go somewhere else. Perhaps Rome. And it would just be the two of them, the way it had once been, the way it should have been ever since Sir Thomas had died.
Ralph crouched lower, recognizing Blake’s phaeton as it halted by the curb. Blake stepped out. Ralph’s pulse was pounding, and his instinct was to turn and run away. But he thought of Violette in a jail cell and he did not move. Too well, he recalled the moment she had rushed into his arms after escaping the poorhouse when they were children. She had been skinny and frightened, but she had wept with joy. He had been so glad to see her, hold her again.
Ralph stood. “Me lord,” he called.
Blake, halfway up the block, froze. His eyes widened as Ralph strolled forward. Ralph managed what he hoped was a cocky grin. “Got to talk to yew.”
For another moment Blake did not move. And then he gripped Ralph’s lapels, snarling, “She is in prison. Suffering. You bastard—I want the truth.”
Ralph gripped his wrists. “Let me go. I’m ’ere, ain’t I? I’m ’ere to ’elp.”
Blake flung him off.
Ralph recovered his balance and glared at Blake, then recalled what he had just said. “Did them bastards ’urt ’er?”
“No. But she is not well. She is far too thin, exhausted, terrified,” Blake said harshly.
Ralph stared, thinking about all the stories Violette had told him about the poorhouse, remembering how scared she’d confessed to being—a fear that had lingered even after she had returned to him in St. Giles, for he had seen it there, haunting her eyes. “Can yew get her out?” he asked.
“I am not the Queen,” Blake said.
“Wot do yew mean?” Ralph demanded, his heart sinking. “Yew got loads of money. Yew could pay off the warden, get ’im to look the other way. We can plan ’er escape.”
“She is going to remain in prison until the trial, which is scheduled for next week. And then she shall hang—if the real killer is not found,” Blake said coldly.
“Whoever killed Sir Thomas is probably long since gone. Wot’s wrong with yew? Bribe them bastards. We’ll set up an escape.”
“And then what?” Blake stared. His tone dripped ice. “Violette must run away again, forever a fugitive, never able to return to this country—never able to see her own daughter again?”
Ralph’s pulse was racing now. “Yew got to try.”
“Did you kill Sir Thomas, Horn?”
“’Course not!” Ralph glared. “We’ll go to Italy—me an’ ’er.”
Blake’s gaze was both razor-sharp and searching. “She is engaged, Horn. To Farrow. I doubt she will run off with you.”
Ralph felt his heart stop, and then it began to beat again. “I don’t believe yew,” he said.
“She was wearing his ring.”
Ralph began to shake. “’Is Lordship ain’t fer ’er!” he heard himself shout.
“And who is? You?” Blake asked grimly.
Ralph’s fists were clenched. “Yeah. Me. It should always been ’er an’ me. No one loves ’er more. I took care of ’er since she could ’ardly walk. ’Er father didn’t care. ’E was always in them dens, smokin’ opium. Everything was fine until yew came along an’ taught ’er to be some fine, fancy lady!” Ralph shouted. He felt wetness on his cheeks. “I don’t even know ’er anymore!”
Blake did not speak for a moment. Ralph was ashamed. He realized that he was crying. “I don’t want ’er to die.”
“She is going to hang,” Blake said.
“No.” Ralph shook his head. “’Er and me, we’re goin’ to Italy.” He wiped his eyes with his dirty shirtsleeve.

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