Chapter Nineteen
Breathe it. Claim it. Violet inhaled deeply. You are in charge of your life, Vi. How long ago had she claimed it was time for her to face her new life by herself? She swept a gaze over her shop, heart clenching tightly. She’d fallen madly in love with this place. But how long could this be hers?
However long she wished, she supposed. She might simply not be here along with it.
I can do this. I can do this. Again.
Her gaze flicked down to the letter she’d penned and sealed with a stamp of wax. How ignorant to have believed fate would be kinder this time around. The circumstance might not be the very same, but the outcome still landed a blow.
You said this was your world now, Violet.
A new name.
A new life.
Freedom.
Yes, but only for as long as she could hold onto said name, said life, said freedom.
She could start anew at any time. And if her brother truly did know about her whereabouts, Percival might, too.
Or would soon enough. She refused to return to her former life.
She’d grown quite fond of living as a commoner.
Besides, was it not only a matter of time before her brother’s cutthroat spilled her secrets?
Violet sighed.
“That’s the fortieth time I’ve heard you sigh this hour.”
Violet glanced at Angelica. “Surely not the fortieth.”
Angelica arched her brow. “Thirty-ninth, then. I began counting after the third dramatic sigh.”
“I was thinking,” Violet said primly. “It is what intelligent women do.” Even though she felt anything but intelligent.
Why else had she burst into the shop, declaring, quite theatrically, “We are doomed, Angelica.” She hadn’t explained herself after that.
Quite naturally, her shop assistant thought her mad.
“Is this about our doom?” the girl asked, leaning against the counter.
“Mine, not yours.”
“What could you have possibly done to incite doom? Brighton is rather uneventful for the most part. I live for the gossip of London.”
Should she tell Angelica? She might offer some helpful insight. Violet studied her open, unguarded gaze and decided against it. Rather not. If Brighton still seemed uneventful to her, Violet would not be the one to ruin the illusion.
“Never mind the doom,” Violet said. She pushed the letter to Angelica. “Send that to the Marchioness of Warton. I might have to leave for a while. When I do, you shall be in charge of this shop.”
Angelica’s eyes flew wide. “Me? In charge of your shop?”
Violet nodded. Even if she was forced to leave, she wanted the shop to continue on in her absence. She could send instructions from afar. “I trust you. You’ve watched me put together arrangements for a while. You have Pip and Terry at your aid. You shall be fine.”
“Where will you go, then?”
“I’m not sure yet, but I have some business to see to.” Run from her brother. Flee from Drake. Her life appeared to be a song of flight. Should she open a bird shop next? Perhaps Scotland? Her funds were plentiful enough. “I’m not sure when, but most likely soon.”
“Must you go?”
Violet sighed. “I believe so.”
Angelica searched her gaze. “You don’t sound certain.”
I’m not. As a matter of fact, leaving felt wrong. Her only other recourse would be to make a stand against two powerful men, both violent in their methods. One with fists and dungeons, the other with words and chains. “I still have some things to consider.”
Like a certain brute.
Imparting the whole truth.
Perhaps in the form of a letter?
The door to the shop opened, bell chiming as a man stepped inside, his cane knocking twice on the floor, drawing Violet’s attention to the black cane. She noted at once his aristocratic posture, the cut of his clothes.
A man from nobility.
Her gaze lifted to his face.
A cold shiver trickled down her spine. Time could have taken Drake and his brothers and honed them into this man.
The same bones. The same bearing. The same quality of absolute danger.
But where Drake’s darkness had warmth buried somewhere beneath it, this man had none.
The only other difference was time. Instead of black hair, it was fair to say only notes of black threaded through a full head of grey.
His cold, sharp eyes moved across her shop.
Violet and Angelica both straightened.
His eyes settled on her.
She had the sudden, vivid understanding of what a mouse felt in the moment before the trap closed. She stepped from behind the counter regardless. “May I help you, sir?”
“Violet Sharpe, I presume.”
“I am.”
He stopped before her, black-gloved fingers resting at the head of his cane. “Sirius Faiththorne, at your service.”
“At my service?” Violet asked skeptically.
“My apologies, Miss Sharpe,” the man said. “Forgive my bluntness, but I had hoped that you may perhaps be of mine.”
Violet blinked. What on earth was this development? “Unless you wish for an arrangement of flowers, I can’t see how I can ever be of service to you.”
“My nephew, Drake Fury. You know him?”
A sense of foreboding passed through her, and the hair on the back of her neck rose. This was not about anything good. “I’ve met him in passing,” she offered vaguely.
One single eyebrow shot up. “Then perhaps you can pass along a message for me.”
“Forgive me, Mr. Faiththorne, but why do you not pass the message yourself?”
“My nephew and I have had our differences, and unfortunately, all my attempts at reconciliation have failed.”
What did that have to do with her? “I’m a mere tenant of his. You’d do best to approach someone else.”
He smiled, withdrawing a letter from his inner pocket before extending it to her. “I understand. I only wish to ask if you can do me the courtesy of passing this along.”
Violet’s fingers curled reflexively at her sides.
Every instinct she possessed urged her to refuse.
She did not know what the letter contained, but looming unease cautioned, with somber certainty, that it contained no attempt at reconciliation.
To refuse, however, would be outright discourteous.
A woman who only claimed to have met someone in passing would not recoil from a letter as though it might bite.
It did beg the question though, why did this man come to her?
There would be more appropriate options.
“Violet?” Angelica urged.
Mr. Faiththorne did not press, did not speak, merely held the letter between two fingers, cane steady at his side, waiting for her decision. She pinched the thing between her fingers in acceptance.
“Very well. I shall see that it reaches Mr. Fury.” She’d send Pip over to the beast’s lair. He could drop it at the tavern without so much as a word exchanged. Drake need never know the letter had passed through her hands at all.
Ah, she missed that scarred face. She missed the way one dark brow lifted when he found her amusing and scowled when he found her vexing. She missed the nature of his attention—the way he looked at her, spoke to her, the way he gripped her. She even missed that saddleless horse.
No. You do not.
Yes, she did.
Then stop missing him.
Violet scoffed at the voice in her head. If it were that simple, she would.
“Much obliged, Miss Sharpe.”
The emphasis on her form of address made her skin crawl. Ah, by all the gods she’d ever read of, she hoped this would not return to plague her.
*
“He escaped?” Drake growled. “How the bloody hell did he escape?” How many hours had it been?
He had stepped out for one night. One night, to keep watch on Violet’s shop, and in that span, their enemy had slipped free from a dungeon meant to be inescapable.
Did they have another rat in their damn midst?
All he wanted to do was return to his post. The greater the distance between them, the more the blood in his veins bristled.
How many times had he stopped himself from taking his key and invading her shop?
The only thing that stopped him was the memory of her walking out of his bedchamber the morning he had ruined everything.
“He could have picked the lock and slipped out,” Dagger suggested, brows pinched.
Impossible. “And you believe that? He was chained to the wall.”
Reaper flicked his coin high in the air, catching it on the back of his palm. “There is only one way left.” His gaze met Drake’s. “Someone let him out.”
Curses filled the tap room.
They were all present except for Serpent and Maxen. Knight had taken up his usual position behind the bar. Saint sat in a dark corner to the side. Reaper and Deveraux lounged on the stools across the counter from Knight. Dagger paced before them.
“Then we have another rat,” Saint growled.
Drake shook his head. No mere rat had done this. “It’s worse.”
“How could it be worse?” Dagger asked, scowling.
“Someone let that rotten cockchafer out of his cell.” Drake clenched and unclenched his jaw. “Who has keys, means, access, if not us?”
“You’re saying it’s one of us?” Knight asked.
“I’m saying that someone was confident enough to enter here, stroll over to our prison, let someone out, and then stride back out again.”
“Someone’s watching us,” Saint stated grimly.
His brother was right. It was the only explanation that made sense.
However, it still shouldn’t be that simple.
This had not been improvised. Someone had known their prisoners were here.
Known the layout of the building. Known when the gaps in watch occurred and moved within them without hesitation.
And whoever this was wouldn’t be watching from the street.
They’d have been spotted that way. The roof, too.
They must be installed with the street’s residents or bought loyalty over to their side.
“Would the Bulldog go so far?” Dagger asked him.
Hell if Drake knew. He scarcely remembered the man. “Not sure. He went so far as to order my death. How badly he wants that, well, one only needs to look at his attempts.”
“So, badly,” Reaper remarked.
The door swung open and Maxen entered, followed by a haggard-looking Serpent. The man looked as though he had slept in a ditch, possibly literally.