Chapter 25
Violet gave a contented sigh when her feet hit the gravel drive in front of Aldercombe Grange. After two long days of travel—including a night in a malodorous coaching inn, where shouts from a barroom brawl made rest close to impossible—it was a relief to have the journey behind them.
But it was more than that, too. Standing in the warm evening air, Benedict’s hand in hers, she felt like she’d returned home.
Not the place she’d been forced into hiding because of her father’s antics in London.
Not the place she’d been banished because of the appearance of impropriety in the shepherd’s hut. Home.
She and Benedict ascended the front steps together, not so different from the day he’d first brought her to Aldercombe as his bride.
Whereas her thoughts that day had been filled with trepidation, though, she currently felt nothing but lightness.
Like maybe this was a new beginning as surely as their wedding day—except not one inflicted upon her, but one she wanted.
Unfortunately, her carefree sense of anticipation lasted only until they were admitted through the front door. Pearce, the butler, made the necessary polite inquiries about their journey, but his face was grim.
“Mrs. Prescott,” he said dourly after taking Benedict’s greatcoat and her pelisse. “You’ve had a most anxious visitor who has left you with a great deal of correspondence. I’m led to believe it’s urgent.”
She followed his gaze to the console table, her pulse quickening as she took in the stack of letters upon the silver tray.
“Thank you, Pearce,” she muttered, racing over to the table and rifling through the pages.
She recognized Arabella’s handwriting at once, although it appeared she’d scribbled Violet’s name in haste.
And why had she done it so many times? There were four separate letters here, and even an old calling card, all from Arabella.
Violet hastily unfolded the first letter and began to read.
Violet,
I must talk to you. Please respond to me as soon as you’re able.
Arabella
Well, that was maddeningly unclear. She tossed it aside, reaching for the next.
Violet,
Did you receive my note? It remains imperative that we speak.
Arabella
Still nothing to give Violet any clue about what had transpired, and the other letters were no better.
Violet,
Where are you??? Come see me the second you return.
Arabella
I’m wretched, Vi. Everything is ruined. Answer me, I beg you.
A
She threw down the final missive, an oath forming on her tongue.
If Arabella was going to write with such urgency, did she not think she should include a detail or two as to why?
How was Violet to know whether this was a matter of her sister’s new ballgown not fitting as desired or something far more dire?
“What’s wrong?” Benedict’s voice came from behind her, and she spun to find him standing there, shoulders rigid, jaw tight.
It took everything she had not to grasp those shoulders.
To sink into his chest and reclaim the contentment she’d experienced only moments earlier.
Instead, she forced her spine to remain tall and her hands to clamp to her sides.
“Arabella is in some sort of trouble and is demanding we speak at once. Regrettably, she offered no other details.” She pressed her lips together, all the things she’d envisioned for the evening—a walk with Benedict and Achilles, a leisurely dinner at her husband’s side, a bath where perhaps he’d join her—vanished like a candle flame set out in a tempest. “I must go to her at once and determine what’s amiss. ”
“I’ll come with you.” His answer was immediate, his gaze already seeking Pearce, issuing a silent request for the return of his greatcoat.
However, she shook her head, holding up a hand to still the butler in his tracks.
“No, you needn’t do that.” There was little she craved more than having Benedict remain at her side, but not under these circumstances.
Not when the trouble might be nothing but a fashion mishap or some other difficulty with party planning.
She bit her lip, forcing back a sigh. “Arabella and my mother are both prone to exaggeration. The last thing I want is for you to turn around just as we’ve gotten in the door, merely to discover our haste is all for a triviality.
Better I be the only one to expend my time. ”
“I don’t mind.” His hand sought hers, leather gloves encircling her cotton ones. “Regardless of the reason for your sister’s urgency, I don’t wish for you to be alone.”
She’d realized right from the beginning he was a man of honor, but there was something about the way he spoke in this moment—something about the way he looked at her—that made the knowledge hit her with fresh potency.
He was good and noble, yes, but his offer seemed motivated not just by duty but by affection.
Dare she think it went even farther than that?
Her heart gave a little leap, and although it thrummed with a desire to stay close to him, her mind was already made up.
“Don’t worry about me.” She squeezed his fingers, relishing the shot of warmth they provided.
“With any luck, I won’t be gone long. Perhaps you can use my absence to attend to any pressing estate business that may have cropped up, for when I return …
well, I was hoping we might spend the rest of the evening together without interruptions. ”
A muscle in his jaw twitched, his eyes flaring in a way that caused them to appear particularly black. “If—” He stopped to clear the roughness from his throat. “If you’re certain.”
She was quite certain she did right by sparing him her family’s theatrics—for she’d made up her mind that’s all this was, ignoring the prickle of unease that suggested more nefarious possibilities. Besides, knowing he awaited her would give her something to anticipate. The promise of a reward.
“I’ll ride to Meadowleigh as quickly as I can.” She spoke with assurance, but a thought suddenly hit her that caused her to falter. A thought that made it hard to continue meeting his gaze.
In the span of an instant, she reached a conclusion she knew was the right one: it was better to voice her intentions than to keep them concealed.
Nonetheless, her words became tight. “In the event Arabella is at Watley instead, I’ll have to stop there on my way back if the matter remains unresolved. ”
His dark eyes narrowed, a crease forming between his brows. This was a test, she supposed. A moment to determine whether they’d truly moved past the misunderstanding that had driven a wedge in their marriage. Whether he’d truly learned to trust.
“Do as you must.” His fingers gripped hers back, the pressure strong but welcome, lingering a few seconds before he let them go.
He did trust her. The intentness in his eyes didn’t signal anger or jealousy, but the same sentiment she’d detected before.
The one that led her to believe he cared for her. Deeply.
She brushed her fingertips against his one last time before turning toward the door, his threadbare voice following her as she went.
“But come home soon, Violet.”
The butler at Meadowleigh appeared no more eager to see her on the doorstep than Pearce had.
“Miss Collingwood—uh, Mrs. Prescott,” he corrected himself, a crimson flush spreading over his weathered cheeks. “I’m afraid Lady Collingwood isn’t receiving callers at the moment.”
“No matter, Davis.” She stepped around him and into the entrance hall despite the lack of invitation—this was her former home, after all—and shot him a pointed look. “I’m here to see my sister.”
“Ah.” He released a quick exhale, his body nearly drooping with relief. “Miss Arabella is not at home, but I’ll certainly tell her of your vis—”
“No.” She ignored the gnarled hand that beckoned her back outdoors, taking another step across the floor tiles. The viscountess’s voice drifted out from somewhere down the corridor, high-pitched but not despondent. In fact … was that a giggle?
Something odd was afoot, and Violet had no intention of leaving until she got to the bottom of it. “It turns out I do need to speak with my mother regarding a matter of great importance. It will only take a moment, and I’ll assure her of your blamelessness if she’s angry about the intrusion.”
Davis let out an aggrieved wheezing sound, his brow shiny with perspiration. “Please, Mrs. Prescott, I really don’t think—”
But Violet had already started down the corridor, following the direction of her mother’s voice.
Unsurprisingly, it led her toward the drawing room, where the viscountess spent many hours upon her ‘swooning sofa.’ In a departure from the usual, though, the door was closed, another shrill giggle—followed by a yelp—emanating from within.
“Mama?” She tapped gently on the door, then let herself in.
And promptly froze.
Her mother was indeed on her preferred sofa, bathed in the glow of evening sunlight. The difference being, there was a man beneath her. A man who held her in his lap and whispered in her ear as he glibly hiked up her skirts.
“Mama?” Violet’s eyes bulged, half in horror and half in awe. Heavens, she knew that man, even though she was unaccustomed to seeing him without his coat and wide-brimmed hat. It was none other than Barker, Meadowleigh’s longtime gardener. With her mother. On the drawing room sofa.
Her mother’s head snapped toward the doorway, her pink cheeks turning a deep shade of scarlet. “Gracious, Violet!” She and Barker both scrambled upright, the viscountess’s hands flying to both her skirts and bodice. “What are you doing here?”
“Forgive the interruption, but I came to inquire about Arabella,” Violet said thickly, looking to the floor so the duo—the lovers?—could right their clothing without an audience. In all fairness to Davis, he’d tried to warn her.
The rustle of fabric being shoved over limbs filled the room, and she tried very hard not to hear the words that were whispered in tandem.