Wednesday
Chapter thirty
Violet
The morning was spent meeting with Mrs Greer regarding the ball.
Consulting the guest list and menu dictated by the Duchess of Cranbrook, they reviewed suppliers and costs for Violet to present to the duke when he was less angry with her.
After lunch, Kit knocked on the door of her small study as soon as the housekeeper took her leave.
“The seeds,” he began, “crushed to powder at four this morning. They were whole at midnight.”
Violet set her papers aside. “Did you see who went in?”
“No.”
“I will need to go there and check what she has done.”
“I would rather you didn’t. You already know she’s using poison.”
She was on her feet. “Come with me.”
“It is not worth risking being found or trapped.”
“I will not be alone. You will be there.”
“I will have to guard the door,” said Kit, falling in behind her. He continued, “From now on, nothing reaches your lips that I haven’t tasted first. Meals, beverages, all of it. That includes the ball.”
“I understand. Could we be giving the killer too much warning?”
“Perhaps but keeping you safe is my prerogative. It will force the killer to find another way, likely a more obvious method, which will be easier to detect. I will speak to the duke about hiring more protection for you.”
“I suppose you are right. I do not take exercise or even forage anymore. So guns, knives, carriage accidents are the only choice of weapons.”
“And smothering,” he added.
She slowed and regarded his calm face. “A woman? Would she be strong enough?”
“Yes, if she drugged you first or had an accomplice.”
Panic threatened to settle in, but she pushed it aside and hastened her pace. “That does not seem like the killer we know. Our murderess takes her time, stays hidden, does not use force.”
“True.” They entered the service stairs. “That was when she had time, when she was unidentified. Now she knows that she’s exposed and running out of time. She must’ve noticed the dead window boxes. A desperate killer may use desperate means.”
She groaned as they passed through the kitchen passage. “What would your solution be for that? Watch me sleep?”
“If I need to.” He was not smiling.
“No need to watch me or the stillroom, Kit. We have confirmed she is still active. You should get your beauty sleep.”
No reaction. They entered the stillroom.
“I advise you to sleep in the same room as your husband,” Kit said.
“Or?”
“Or death.”
He crouched to examine the flagstones. Violet got on her knees beside him. The powder was there, tiny remnants that were almost invisible if one was not looking for them.
Violet gripped the dresser and pulled, managed only a few inches. She stood back up. “She must be strong. She could suffocate me without much effort.”
Kit nudged her away from the dresser and pulled. “I heard her. It was one continuous motion. She’s had some practice. Perhaps twelve years of practice.”
The dresser swung on its arc, the scratch on the stone aligning with the old groove. Violet picked up the candle and entered the cool room alone while Kit guarded the door. Three steps down. Cold air. The stone shelf appeared to contain the same bottles.
She went along them one by one, lifting each to the light.
Spirit. Tincture of rue. Raspberry leaf infusion.
A darker bottle she uncorked and smelled: rosemary.
Each one sitting in its place, each one full or nearly full.
She had not thought to mark them the last time she was here, and she cursed herself for it.
The mortar was scrubbed clean. She ran her finger along the inside rim and brought it to her nose.
Stone and lye. She was about to turn back when she saw the muslin.
Three squares of it hung on a nail beside the spirit lamp.
The last time she had been here, they had been dry and stiff with age.
She touched them. Two were dry, one was damp.
Someone had strained through the cloths recently.
She checked the fabric and found no residuals.
She hung them back on the nail and left the room.
After the dresser was put back, she placed three new rue seeds in its path.
Kit had just opened the door with Violet following behind him when she heard a squeal.
“Oh, you half scared me to death, Mr Harris,” said Mrs Garrick’s voice.
Violet stepped forward.
“Your Grace!” The cook exclaimed while dabbing sweat off her face. “I didn’t know you’d be here today.”
“Yes, Mrs Garrick. Mr Harris and I had some business to attend to regarding the ball.” She made her features cool. “And yourself, Mrs Garrick? I was not aware you would be using the stillroom.”
“Oh, I owe you an apology, Your Grace,” the flustered woman said, her apron crumpled in her hands. “I was in the stillroom this morning, you see, and I needed dried sage for the breakfast sausage.”
“What time was that at, Mrs Garrick?”
“Uh,” the woman said, her eyes flicking between Violet and Kit before settling on neither. “It was early, Your Grace, before the house was up. I know I ought to have asked, but it was so early and the larder was out. I thought you might have some. You did.”
“Did you move anything else? Anything on the far wall by the dresser?”
Mrs Garrick frowned. “I was in that area looking for the right jar, but I did not touch or move anything else, Your Grace.” Her apron was bundled up in her hands now. “I took the sage jar to the kitchen and put it back after. I am sorry for the liberty.”
Violet studied the nervous woman. Her hands were dusted with flour as her apron was.
“Thank you for telling me, Mrs Garrick, but please do refrain from entering again without permission. If you need something, you may ask Mr Harris here or myself.”
“Yes, Your Grace. Thank you, Your Grace.” She curtseyed clumsily before hurrying away to the kitchen.
Violet and Kit took the servant’s stairs back to the second floor. She stopped on the steps. “So it was her this morning. Or was it both? Or has it been Garrick all along?”
“Or she’s covering for someone.”
“How vexing. I was so sure it was Sarah. What are the chances of them entering the room the same morning?”
“She could be covering for her.”
Violet leaned against the passage wall. “But I cannot imagine Mrs Garrick mixing poison and adding it to my tea. She seems so… good-natured.”
“What do you want to do?”
“I do not know. What would you suggest?”
“Did you find anything in the lab this morning?”
She shook her head. “Only that it has been used recently. This morning and late yesterday evening.”
“Then we wait. She will make a move soon. Your upcoming ball will signal that all is well between you and the duke.”
“Alright.” She placed a hand on her stomach. “We shall wait.”
In the evening, Violet concluded her work on making arrangements for the party and went upstairs. Sarah undressed her, helped her bathe, brushed her hair, and laid out the nightgown. She wished her a pleasant evening in the same bright tone she used every night.
After the door clicked shut, Violet donned her nightgown and sat at the dressing table. She took up the brush herself and began working through the tangles, long strokes from the crown, while she thought about what Kit had suggested, that she sleep with Henry.
As if on cue, the door opened. She saw him in the mirror. His shirt was untucked and unbuttoned, revealing his torso. He wasn’t wearing any trousers. She held her breath and watched his approach.
He crossed the room and took the brush from her hand.
He had been drinking. She could tell by his movements, a little looser in the joints, though his eyes were clear.
Henry drew the brush through her hair with slow, even strokes.
He started at the crown and pulled to the ends, gathering the weight of it in his free hand, letting it fall.
He was careful. The bristles dragged across her scalp, and the sensation ran down her spine like warm water.
She closed her eyes. She should not have closed her eyes. Because when his hands came to her shoulders and his thumbs pressed into the muscle at the base of her neck and moved in slow circles, a sound came out of her without consent.
She kept her eyes closed, even when his mouth found the place behind her ear. His breath was warm without any smell of alcohol, and his lips barely touched the skin, dragging more than kissing.
“Henry.” She meant it as a warning. It did not sound like one.
He pulled her to her feet, and she turned. “Did Kit speak with you? Is that why you are here?”
“Kit?” he replied as he pulled her closer, his voice hoarse. “I have not seen him.”
“Then—"
His mouth was on hers, unhurried, thorough, his hands already at the buttons of her nightgown. She spoke when he was on her third button. “We are quarrelling.”
“I am aware.” He undid the fourth button.
The nightgown slid off one shoulder. His mouth followed it down.
“Violet,” he breathed before taking her mouth in his again.
He didn’t take his mouth off her as he guided her back toward the bed.
The mattress caught the backs of her knees and she sat.
He knelt on the floor between her legs, and the picture of him, kneeling between her thighs made her breaths grow shallow.
Henry pushed the nightgown to her waist. His eyes took her in with a groan that was somewhere between reverence and hunger.
His hands found her thighs, spreading them, and she lay back on the mattress because she could not trust her spine.
He kissed the inside of her knee. Then higher.
Then the soft skin of her inner thigh, and she heard herself gasp as though from a great distance.
When his mouth found her, she arched off the bed. He was slow and deliberate.
She was making sounds—desperate, graceless sounds—and he responded to each one, his mouth working harder, his grip tightening. She became gradually aware that one of his hands had left her. She lifted herself onto her elbows and looked down at him.
The sight of him, this man who controlled everything, undone because of her, sent a surge of pleasure through her that obliterated whatever composure she had left. He wanted her. The knowledge was almost too much to bear.
“Henry—”
He pulled her closer to the edge of the bed. His mouth sealed over her, and he found the place that made her legs shake, and he stayed there, relentless, while his arm kept its rhythm and his groans came faster against her skin.
Her fingers twisted in the sheet and her heels pressed into his back. His name was in her mouth. Then with a final lick, her climax broke and her cry filled the room. His hands came to her hips and held her through the shaking while his mouth gentled but continued its caress.
She lay on the bed with her chest heaving and the ceiling above her.
He rose onto his knees and rested his forehead on her belly.
She could hear him breathing hard and felt his body straining.
He began to relax after a few minutes. He pushed himself up, his spine erect, still on his knees.
His gaze studied her heat for what seemed like ages, while both hands gripped her thighs.
His breathing became ragged again, but his hands released her.
He kissed the inside of her knee. One press of his lips, firm and slow.
He stood, and she saw his member for the first time—flushed, hard. He pulled his shirt down and turned away. With his hands braced on the dressing table, his head dropped between his shoulders.
Violet fixed her nightgown and watched him.
“Henry.” Her voice was rough.
He looked at her through the mirror.
“Kit suggested that we… for safety… sleep in the same room.”
His eyes sobered instantly and he rose to his full height. “That is sensible.”
He went to her basin and soaked a clean towel in the water. He then sat on the edge of the bed beside her and handed it to her. She took it, feeling embarrassed about what she was about to do.
“May I?” he asked.
She had no words for a moment. “Is that what husbands do?” she finally said.
“That is what I do. For you.”
Nodding, she handed the towel back. Lifting the hem of her nightgown, he cleaned her gently. She saw his member growing, but he simply tossed the towel beside the basin and returned.
He blew out the candle and got into bed in his shirt. The mattress dipped with his weight, his warmth heating her cooling body. They both lay on their backs, staring at the canopy.
“Turn on your side, Violet,” his voice rumbled low in the dark.
She turned. The mattress dipped once more as he came closer, his arm circling her waist. He pulled her back against him, her spine against his chest, her hips against his.
She felt him, still hard, pressed against the small of her back.
He was refraining for her safety. And that knowledge warmed her inside and out.
His face buried in her hair, his breath warm against her scalp.
His arm was heavy over her ribs, his hand spread flat against her stomach, each finger warm through the linen.
Her body began to relax and melt against his, her shoulders dropping and breaths slowing.
She found his hand and laced her fingers through his. He exhaled a long, unsteady breath.
This was what safety felt like.
She closed her eyes, pressing her back into him, and felt his arm tighten.