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Authors: The Finer Things

BOOK: Brenda Joyce
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“Ralph?!” Violette cried loudly, clearly from upstairs. “Whose ’orse is in the yard?”
Ralph scowled, while Blake smiled. The manservant turned, and shouted, “Yer
friend
, Lord Blake.”
Silence greeted his words.
“I shall wait in the parlor,” Blake said, moving past Ralph. Because the manservant was slow to step aside, Blake actually had to shove past him, their arms brushing very solidly. If Ralph worked for him, he would last two minutes and be out on the street. But the moment Blake entered the dim front foyer, his annoyance vanished, because Violette was coming down the stairs.
His heart flipped. Her hair was loose and streaming over her shoulders almost to her waist. He could not move. Such a sight was rare. Women only let their hair down in the most intimate moments, and every woman of his acquaintance wore the current fashion of shoulder-length curls.
She faltered, her hand on the wood railing, halfway down the stairs. An eager smile faded. “Yer starin’. Wot ’ave I done now?”
He cleared his throat. “I thought that there might be some matters which you wish to discuss with me.”
But she had just realized why he continued to stare and her eyes widened; she reached up and grabbed a tress, and she cried out. “Gawd! I fergot …” She turned abruptly.
He gripped the banister, hard, because his impulse was to bound up the steps and catch her before she could flee. “Lady Goodwin, please, it hardly matters.”
She faced him from above on the steep, narrow stairs. Her cheeks were brightly flushed. “It ain’t proper, is it?”
He hesitated. “No, it is not really proper.”
“I can braid it real fast.” Her liquid blue eyes were worried, but more than that, shining, luminous and direct.
“Very well.”
She turned, took a step, stopped abruptly and faced him again. “Yew ain’t goin’ t’ leave?” she cried in alarm.
“Of course not,” he assured her.
She smiled, lifted her skirts, revealing both black leather high-lows, and ran up the stairs.
Blake watched her stockinged ankles, aware of what he was
doing but incapable of looking elsewhere. Then he turned, only to find Ralph staring at him, not even attempting to disguise his hostility. It struck Blake then that Horn was in love with his mistress, whether she knew it or not.
 
When Violette entered the parlor, Blake stood up. She smiled shyly at him. Her hair was braided now into one single, thick blue-black rope.
“Are you feeling better today?” Blake asked.
“Yeah, I am.” She sat down in a wide chair, pushing down her skirts. Apparently the cage she wore beneath them annoyed her. Blake bit off a smile. “That brandy did the trick,” she continued. “I niver felt so good in me life.”
Blake took the seat facing her, chuckling. “It elevated your spirits, did it?”
She glanced at her knees, then into his eyes. “I don’t understand. Yew use big words, words I don’t know.”
“El-e-vate,” he said softly. “It means to raise or lift up.”
She brightened. “Yeah, it elevated my spirits.” She pronounced the word exactly as he had.
He smiled. “That was perfect.”
She blushed, clearly with pride.
He studied her. She was so transparent. He had the oddest notion that a man could see right through her to her very soul. He shook off the thought. It was far too romantic for a realist like himself. “So you slept well?”
“Like a newborn baby.”
“Then I am pleased.”
She fidgeted with the satin-trimmed edge of her bodice. “Now wot?”
“Actually, I came over today to see if there is anything that you need, anything that I can do for you,” Blake said.
She tore her gaze away, smiled at her lap. “No. I thanked Gawd last night that Sir Thomas didn’t fergit me. I’ll be fine.” When she looked up, her eyes were sheened.
He studied her. Every single feature, from her slashing eyebrows to her delicate, tipped-up nose. “Lady Goodwin, I am sorry for your loss. But at least Sir Thomas lived a rich, long life.”
“I know.” Her tone was husky and low. “But whenever I think about me dinin’ at ’Ardin’ ’All an’ ’im abed, dyin’, I get all sick inside.”
Her expression affected him so strongly that Blake rose and
was at her side, where he knelt. He took her hands in his. They were small, callused, and warm. He would comfort her, but only for a minute or two. “You could not have known. Do not feel guilt, or blame yourself.”
“’E wanted me to go an’ ’ave a good time, ’e said so,” Violette said miserably.
“He was a good man, apparently,” Blake murmured, but he did not rise.
“’E was a very good man,” Violette said fervently. “’E was my friend.” Violette smiled to herself. “He used to tell me I was a ball o’ sunshine.”
Blake did not smile. He began to understand Sir Thomas better, envisioning now a lonely old man who needed this bright, seemingly uncomplicated, beautiful child-woman in his life. He released her hands and sat back down. “He cared for you. And you truly cared for him.” Somehow he was no longer amazed by that latter conclusion.
“O’ course. Look at all ’e did fer me. Bought me clothes, fed me like a ’og, an’ fer me birthday ’e gave me this.” Eagerly, Violette lifted a thin gold chain from beneath the high neckline of her dress. On it was a medium-sized single pearl capped with a diamond.
“It’s very nice,” Blake lied. The trinket could not have cost more than thirty or forty pounds.
“Ain’t it?” Violette enthused. She replaced the pearl and chain inside of her bodice. “He gave me a fiver every month.”
“For what?” Blake asked, unsmiling.
“Fer me pin money,” she said as if he were foolish for not understanding immediately.
“He gave you an entire five pounds every month?” Blake kept his voice detached.
She nodded, smiling happily.
His heart seemed to be breaking. But he did not want it to break—not ever again. But it flashed through his mind that if he had been married to Violette, he would have adorned her with sapphires and diamonds and given her a nearly limitless allowance. He rose abruptly to his feet. Was he insane? “How did you and Sir Thomas meet, Lady Goodwin? If you do not mind me asking?”
She paled. “Wot does it matter?”
Blake saw fear in her eyes. “I’m sorry. The question was far too intimate.”
She stood. “I was … I was a shopgirl. In an apothecary’s. ’E was shoppin’,” she said tersely.
“I see,” Blake said. So the story was true. Sir Thomas had found her employed in a shop. “How fortunate for Sir Thomas, then.”
She breathed a little. “Why are yew always bein’ kind to me?”
“My fatal flaw,” he said lightly. He wanted to ask her a dozen more questions. About her parents, about her childhood, where she had been born, and raised. He knew he could not. Not when she was distressed at having to reveal meeting her husband while employed as a shopgirl.
“Are yew kind to everyone?” Violette asked almost shyly.
“I am hardly unkind,” Blake said.
“And to women? To ladies like Catherine Dearfield?” Violette’s cheeks were crimson.
“I suppose I am kind when kindness is called for,” Blake said, truthfully enough. He could not help but being amused. “Tell me about Ralph,” he said suddenly, softly.
She became motionless. “We been friends our entire lives,” she said after a very long, careful pause.
Blake studied her. “Friends?” His tone was as careful.
Hers became defensive. “Yes, friends.”
Blake walked over to the window and stared out of it. He did not really see his horse, nibbling the grass at the feet of the jockey statue. He did not think Violette capable of pretense or deception. Her face mirrored her every feeling. She might think her and Horn to be friends, but Horn felt differently, Blake was certain.
“How did you and Horn meet?” Blake asked carefully.
Violette stiffened. “Wot does that got to do with anythin’?”
She did not want to tell him and Blake retreated as a gentleman should. He changed the subject. “Lady Goodwin, I came here today to advise you if I can. Now that you are a householder, you undoubtedly have many questions for me.”
She blinked, but relaxed visibly now. “I don’t got any questions. Why would I ’ave questions?”
“You have new responsibilities now, Lady Goodwin,” Blake said gently. “Has it escaped your notice that you have a staff to pay? That you must provide for yourself? That there shall be taxes due?”
Violette shook her head, her complexion growing pale.
“Sir Thomas apparently did not leave you a pension.”
“A pension,” Violette whispered. “Yew mean, money.”
“Yes.” He was grave. “I mean money.”
She hugged herself, her gaze riveted to his. “Sir Thomas left ’is money to Lady Feldstone.”
“I am aware of that,” Blake said. He saw that she understood what he was arriving at.
“Oh, gawd,” she whispered. “Wot will I do?”
“Do not fret,” Blake said quickly. “I called today because I have an uncanny knack for budgetary matters. It occurred to me that you might need my help. I own a bank, Lady Goodwin. I dispense financial advice frequently.”
She worried her hands now. “Yew ’ave a bank?”
“Yes. Lady Goodwin, the first task before you is to analyze your expenses.” Blake was blunt. “The second task before you is to consider your income—or lack thereof. And then we must find a solution to your dilemma.”
“Wot are yew sayin’?” she asked fearfully.
“Lady Goodwin, do you have any income?”
“No.” She trembled. “I got me savin’s. From me pin money. Thirty-five pounds.”
He winced. “Lady Goodwin, this house requires an income. You have a staff to pay monthly. And taxes. Taxes are very high in England.”
“I don’t need a cook,” Violette said quickly. “An’ Ralph don’t need a salary.”
“You cannot pay your taxes with thirty-five pounds. And how do you propose to feed yourself on a daily basis?” Blake felt as if he were being cruel, when he was only trying to advise her. He wanted to help her, very much so.
“Gawd!” she cried. “Is this why you came? To frighten me to death? Wot will I do?!”
“No.” He was alarmed. Tears had filled her eyes, and he reached for her, but she moved away. She had not shed a tear at the funeral. How jarring it was. “I want to help you find a solution.”
“You came to tell me I’ll be out on the streets again, didn’t you?” she flung. “That’s the solution. I’ll be ’omeless and ’ungry! Like Lady Feldstone wants!”
What he was witnessing was sheer panic and he could not be immune to it. “That is not going to happen. I promise you, Lady Goodwin.” His words were not premeditated. And the moment he uttered them, he saw her relief, and her belief in him, and knew he could not take them back, no matter the
weight of responsibility he was assuming. He ignored the warning voice inside of his head which told him that he was getting far too involved in matters that were not his affair.
“But the justice will take this ’ouse away, won’t ’e, when it’s tax time?” she whispered, ashen.
He wanted to reassure her, but he could not. “I’m afraid so. Therefore I advise you to sell this house immediately.”
“Sell it?” she gasped.
“Yes.” He had cut off her gasp by brushing his fist over her damp cheek. Immediately he dropped his hand. “You could raise a considerable sum of cash for this property, enough for you to live well for several years in a small flat.”
She gazed up at him. “Really?” Her expression softened. Her eyes became hope-filled. “I love the manor, but it’s too big and grand fer just meself.” She smiled at him. “Fer me an’ Ralph,” she amended.
For me and Ralph.
He shoved her disturbing words away. For surely if there was something illicit between the two of them, she would never be so open about it. “I can help you with the sale, if that is what you wish to do.”
She nodded. “I don’t have no choice, now do I?”
“No, you do not have a choice.” He produced his handkerchief and handed it to her.
She smiled at him and blew her nose. And then she surprised him by saying, “But after a few years the money from the sale of the ’ouse will be gone. I won’t be able to pay me rent. Wot will I do then?”
Her acuity pleased him. “You need to plan now for the future.”
Her expression was intense. “’Ow can I do that? Gawd, I’ll ’ave to go back to workin’ in a shop.” The moment the words were out she flushed.
“Perhaps not.” His smile was brief, his gaze direct, holding hers. “There is always a solution,” he said, “to every dilemma. You can do what all widows eventually do.”
“An wot’s that?” Her eyes were glued to his face.

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