Too Wanton to Wed (Gothic Love Stories Book 4)
Author: Ridley, Erica
Date: 2019-08-23
Publisher: WebMotion

Too Wanton to Wed

Gothic Love Stories #4

Erica Ridley

Contents

Too Wanton to Wed

Also by Erica Ridley

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Epilogue

Thank You For Reading

Acknowledgments

Lord of Chance

Sneak Peek

About the Author

Copyright © 2012, 2019 Erica Ridley

Original title: Dark Surrender

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the author.

Too Wanton to Wed

TRAPPED IN DARKNESS

Violet Whitechapel committed an unspeakable crime to save a child. To escape the hangman’s noose, she takes refuge in a crumbling abbey with secrets darker than her own. When its master offers her a temporary post, Violet cannot say no. Just as she begins to see him in a new light, her past catches up to her and endangers them all…

THEIR PASSION BURNS BRIGHT

Alistair Waldegrave keeps his daughter imprisoned in the black heart of his Gothic abbey. As he searches for a cure to the disease the villagers call demonic, his new governess brings much needed light into their lives. But how can the passion between them survive the darkness encroaching from outside their sheltered walls?

“A delicious, dark Gothic treat!”

—Eloisa James, New York Times bestselling author, on Too Wicked to Kiss

Love romance? Have a free book, on me!

Sign up at http://ridley.vip for members-only exclusives, including advance notice of pre-orders, as well as contests, giveaways, freebies, and 99¢ deals!

Also by Erica Ridley

Gothic Love Stories:

Too Wicked to Kiss

Too Sinful to Deny

Too Tempting to Resist

Too Wanton to Wed

Rogues to Riches:

Lord of Chance

Lord of Pleasure

Lord of Night

Lord of Temptation

Lord of Secrets

Lord of Vice

Dukes of War:

The Viscount's Tempting Minx

The Earl’s Defiant Wallflower

The Captain’s Bluestocking Mistress

The Major’s Faux Fiancée

The Brigadier’s Runaway Bride

The Pirate's Tempting Stowaway

The Duke's Accidental Wife

The 12 Dukes of Christmas:

Once Upon a Duke

Kiss of a Duke

Wish Upon a Duke

Never Say Duke

Dukes, Actually

The Duke’s Bride

The Duke’s Embrace

The Duke’s Desire

Dawn With a Duke

One Night With a Duke

Ten Days With a Duke

Forever Your Duke

Magic & Mayhem:

Kissed by Magic

Must Love Magic

Smitten by Magic

Chapter 1

April 1835

Livingstone School for Girls

Lancashire

“At the end of the week Mr. Percy Livingstone, our beloved founder’s heir, will evict us all in order to turn our philanthropic school into a profitable venture. Next Monday, he will begin converting the grounds into an exclusive sanitarium catering to the mentally unstable offspring of society’s wealthy elite.”

Miss Violet Whitechapel stared uncomprehendingly at the misty words escaping from Headmistress Parker’s mouth into the early morning fog. The heir planned to do what? Desperation seared the breath from Violet’s lungs. She sent a frantic glance at her colleague, Miss Belham, who appeared as shocked and devastated as the other instructors. For the first time in Violet’s memory, even the headmistress struggled to maintain her hallmark serenity.

In disbelief, Violet turned from her associates to face the long-standing campus she’d delightedly called home. Five and a half glorious years with clean water, honest work, a cot of her own in a room with a door she had no need to bar at night. She had found paradise, and she’d be damned if she lost her home to some spoiled toff more interested in lining his pockets than helping orphans.

Old Man Livingstone had been a godsend—or at the very least, the only man of Violet’s acquaintance who had actually meant the words “benefactor to underprivileged girls” without dehumanizing strings attached. He’d started this school, given ladies like Miss Parker and Miss Belham positions of some power, and when Violet had blown onto the doorstep willing to do anything—yes, anything—for a crust of bread and a delousing, he’d rung her a bath and a hot meal and offered her a position. And not a position like “on yer back, now, there’s a gel,” either. A respectable position. And a home.

“The new heir and his surveyor are currently perusing the property,” the headmistress continued relentlessly. “You’ll recognize them by their Town finery, I’m sure. They plan to have the sanitarium operational within a fortnight. Nonetheless, young Mr. Livingstone is providing each of us a month’s wages as a courtesy, in the hopes many will seek new environs immediately.” The headmistress began doling out tiny satchels to each instructor.

Violet’s jaw fell open. “A courtesy? By sending us—and the children—back to the streets? We’re supposed to be saving these girls from such a fate, not consigning them to it. Without the school, they’ve nowhere else to go!”

“We cannot fight the law.” A crack in Headmistress Parker’s firm voice betrayed her frustration. “Young Mr. Livingstone is the legal heir, and his changes are already in motion.”

“Can’t we find a way to stop them?” Violet’s fists curled with rage. “For close on twenty years, I survived out there as best I could, and to speak plainly, there were many times survival wasn’t worth the sacrifices. Where is this so-called gentleman, whose only desire is to benefact his pockets?”

“‘Benefact’ is incorrect in that context,” the deportment instructor murmured.

“You quite take my meaning,” Violet snapped back, although she was more upset at her helplessness than with Miss Belham. Although Violet tried her hardest to be as stoic as the headmistress, strong emotion released the terrified street urchin she desperately tried to keep caged beneath the façade of a proper young lady.

“You cannot save everyone, Violet, no matter how fervently you may wish to.” Headmistress Parker’s ever-ramrod spine seemed to grow even straighter. “There will be no petitioning Mr. Percy Livingstone. He has already finalized his contracts and accepted pensions from families who wish to conceal... unfortunate situations. We must all find new homes.”

“How?” Violet fought the stinging in her eyes. Not only had she herself climbed out of the gutters, she was finally able to keep others from returning. When these girls found themselves tossed in the dirt, how was she supposed to live with herself?

How was she supposed to live?

“I have heard enough,” she said stiffly, trying and failing to think of words of encouragement to share with her pupils later. In that moment, she’d never hated a man more than she hated Mr. Percy Livingstone. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve a promising new student awaiting me for special instruction.”

She barely paused for Headmistress Parker’s nod before turning on her heel and striding across the foggy green to the art studio. If they were all to be tossed out with the bathwater, she would make the most of every moment between now and then.

Oh, God, what was she to tell her students?

Children like Emma made the thought of losing the school utterly insupportable. The girl was almost fifteen, but a lifetime of malnourishment had given her the tiny frame of a twelve-year-old. When she’d arrived, Violet had gently washed off the layers of grime only to reveal a patchwork of bruises and scars. Furious at whoever had harmed a child, Violet had made Emma’s physical and mental recovery her personal mission. There’d been precious little progress these short two months, but although Emma still hadn’t spoken a single word—and refused to interact with the others—she’d been fascinated by the paintings in Violet’s studio, and was hopefully waiting there now for her first lesson in watercolor.

Candlelight blurred the morning mist as Violet drew closer to the tiny cottage. Her heart warmed. Emma did keep their meeting! Violet’s relieved smile faltered when a painfully familiar sound escaped from the other side of the closed wooden door. The barely audible whimpers of a terrified young girl... and the impatient grunting of a grown man.

Violet picked up her skirts and burst through the door.

Two expensively groomed toffs loomed inside her studio. Young Mr. Livingstone and his surveyor! Violet couldn’t begin to guess which villain was which, but it hardly mattered. One perched on the edge of a work stool, cravat awry, looking for all the world like a scoundrel chomping at the bit to take his turn.

The other had Emma—Emma!—by the wrist, his free hand poised to strike.

“I don’t want to go with you,” she sobbed, her face streaked with tears.

Good God, they intended to abduct a helpless fifteen-year-old girl?

Violet rushed forward. “Stop!”

The blackguard upon the stool leapt to his feet. He headed toward Violet with wicked intent carved into his smirking countenance. “Well, lookit here, Livingstone. There’s one for each of us.”

“You’ll have neither,” Violet snapped, infusing her voice with every ounce of implacable sternness she possessed, in order to hide the fear coursing through her body. “We don’t belong to you.”

“We don’t want to keep you,” the surveyor said with a laugh. “Just have ourselves an hour or two. What do you say, Livingstone?” He reached for Emma. “I’ll take this one to your chambers, while you teach the feisty little instructor a few important lessons.”

Violet snatched up the closest weapons she could find and hurled them at his head, one after another. The bucket of turpentine did little more than drench the man in foul smelling liquid, but the full can of paint dropped him to the ground.

Had she killed him or knocked him temporarily unconscious? Violet’s heart banged wildly. There was no time to check.

The heir still had Emma by the wrist.

“She’s coming with me,” he snarled, and curled his free hand into a fist. “And you’re going to be sorry you dared touch a man above your station. I’m going to enjoy putting you in your place.”

Wrong. Violet wasn’t about to let him touch her—or hurt Emma.

Years of surviving by her wits alone had taught Violet never to hesitate. Often, the element of surprise was the only hope a girl had against men twice her size. Right now, the heir believed he had the upper hand. She had one chance to prove otherwise.

Violet leapt across the tiny space, arms outstretched to snatch Emma away.

“Bitch!” Livingstone reared one arm back, clearly intending to slam his overlarge fist directly into Violet’s face.

Emma was faster. Her tiny fingers grappled at the clutter scattered across the wooden desktop, knocking candles to the floor. In an instant, she swung backward, a tall paintbrush firmly in her grip. The handle found its home in the eye of the blackguard who had intended to abduct her.

With a choking scream, the heir slumped across the desk, the slender paintbrush protruding from his eye socket. The flames from the fallen candles ignited the spilled turpentine, roaring across the oil-painted canvases and up over the motionless men. Within a half second, the fire had eaten the curtains and engulfed the rafters above. The ravenous orange flames sped toward the fallen surveyor.

“Come,” Violet shouted, tugging at Emma’s icy hand. “We must go! Everything in here is violently flammable.”

Already the air was thick with greasy smoke and the stench of burning flesh.

Emma stumbled around the unnaturally still bodies, then promptly bent over and vomited. Violet’s stomach felt much the same, but there was no time for weakness, for conscience, for second-guessing.

“Come,” she repeated. The oils popped and the blackening rafters spit ash and fire as Violet dragged Emma across the tiny room with one arm around the girl’s waist. “We can’t stay here.”

No, Violet realized as a chill crept down her spine. It was much worse than that. She saved a child. But by leaving the men to die, she was also a murderess. There would be consequences.

Emma might be able to rejoin the other students with no one being the wiser, but half the school had witnessed Violet stalking toward her studio with murder in her eyes. She had made no attempt to conceal her animosity toward Mr. Percy Livingstone. And now there would be no hiding what she had done.

She’d lost her position, her dreams... and now her future.

Smoke searing her lungs, she hobbled out of the burning cottage. Everything she owned, everything she cared about, had been in that studio. Well, not quite everything. Pulling Emma further away from the blaze, Violet touched shaking fingers to her pocket to touch her final wages. She wished she’d hidden her precious savings anywhere but the back of a drawer in her now-charred art desk... but this would have to be enough money to get out of Lancashire. Immediately.

She had to flee. Find shelter, obviously, but more importantly: procure a barrister capable of saving her from criminal prosecution. She touched her neck and shuddered. She would not go to the gallows. Not for a blackguard like Percy Livingstone. She would find a way to clear her name and keep moving forward. She was a survivor.

If she ran faster than she’d ever run before, she just might make the morning coach before anyone realized she was missing. It wasn’t much of an advantage, but she had learned to make the most of any scrap Fate chose to leave her.

But first things first—Emma. The girl was young. Traumatized, but blameless. Violet would see to it. Not a soul would suspect Emma of anything. As for Violet... she could take care of herself.

“Listen, sweetheart.” She held Emma’s trembling hands and wished the girl would make eye contact, even for a second. “You did nothing wrong. This is not your fault. I started the violence. I am to blame for their deaths. Not you.” Violet felt sick with guilt. If only she hadn’t invited Emma for a private lesson today of all days! “No one knows you were in the studio today, and no one needs to know.” She brushed ash from the girl’s sleeve. With the heir up in flames, the plans to convert the school into a madhouse should come to a stop—at least, for now. “Go to Headmistress Parker. You can trust her.”

Emma nodded miserably, shoulders shaking. Violet gathered her into her arms and held her for a long moment. She had to believe this was the right thing to do. It was the only choice. She could not stay, and she could not risk endangering Emma. Sending her to the headmistress was the best hope for keeping her safe.

“This is not your fault,” she repeated, giving the girl a fierce hug.

Emma pulled back and looked up, her eyes hollow. The girl suddenly looked far older than her fifteen years. Violet gave her another hug, viciously pleased that Mr. Percy Livingstone and his surveyor were dead. She wished she had killed them both herself. Closing down the school would have sent dozens of helpless young girls into the clutches of other evil men just like him.

“Get cleaned up,” she instructed Emma, “and remember: you did nothing wrong. You weren’t even here. I was, not you.” She touched the girl’s pale cheek. “You’ll be safe now.”

With a smile full of far more confidence than she felt, Violet gave her a last hug goodbye then took off running for the Lancashire coach stop. Little time remained, but she’d learned through years of practice how to run very, very fast.

Chapter 2

Not long after her coin petered out, so did Violet’s limbs.

She’d traveled via mail coach as far as her meager purse had allowed. Five long days of constantly looking over her shoulder. Before the money ran out, she’d forced herself to continue over hills and through forests on foot until her blisters had blisters, and both her body and her brain grew sluggish from lack of food and water. Once again, the sun had begun its inexorable decline. If she did not find shelter soon, she would pass the night alone in the woods, hungry and defenseless.

She trailed the last rays of sunshine through a break in the trees and discovered herself at the edge of a sprawling moor. The land stretched away from her in green-brown waves, an endless sea of dense bracken disappearing into shadow along a distant horizon broken only by the silhouette of what looked to be an enormous convent or monastery.

Her legs crumpled in relief. She was saved.

An enormous cathedral loomed out of the growing darkness, its twisting gothic silhouette stark against the crimson sunset. Several similarly medieval outbuildings flanked the primary structure. The only element detracting from the beauty of the flying buttresses arching from the nave and sanctuary was the thick wooden boards covering what once must have been handcrafted stained glass windows.

No light shone, but she pushed forward anyway. Abandoned or inhabited, the walls were still standing—more than she could say about her own limbs—which made it the perfect resting place. And if there were nuns, the sisters wouldn’t turn her away just because her pockets were empty. She could finally sleep. The nuns’ seclusion would also keep them from outside influence, buying precious time before Violet had to fear news from Lancashire catching up with her. If there were no one at all, at least she would have peace.

She rose on trembling legs and pushed forward through the moorland. Coarse grasses tangled with her skirts and sent her stumbling, but she forced herself to keep moving. Her luck was finally turning around.

Or was it?

As she neared the structure, the grasses grew ever taller. The towers seemed more dilapidated than imposing, and even the stone walls were chipped and lackluster.

Not a single candle flickered in the windows because there were no windows. Layers of thick board crisscrossed over every surface, blocking all access to light. Whoever had worshiped here was long gone. Violet’s shriveled stomach clenched in protest at the realization that there would be no monks or nuns to offer bread and water. But at least the crumbling roof would be a respite from the empty rolling moors and offer shelter from whatever animals left the forest to hunt at night.

When her aching feet finally crossed the border between the open moorland and the cultivated lawn, she wanted to sob in relief. Instead, she barked a sharp cry of pain as her ankle connected with an unseen hindrance and sent her sprawling into a cluster of roses. A thousand simultaneous pinpricks assaulted every limb as thorns clawed at her skin through her tattered clothes.

Ankle throbbing, she rolled sideways onto the cool grass. She stared up into the growing darkness and blinked back tears. She doubted she had the stamina to close the remaining distance by hopping on one leg or crawling on her knees.

The chill breeze rustled the rosebushes, scraping sharp thorns against her hair and clothes. As the sensation reminded her more and more of insects crawling across her skin, she batted at her cheeks and forced herself into a sitting position.

She pulled her ankle close enough to prod the tender skin with her fingers. Her entire body tensed, and her eyes stung. She was able to flex her toes, so at least it was not broken.

“‘Merely’ turned,” she muttered wryly, abandoning her self-examination to seek out the obstruction that had caused her downfall in the first place.

She glanced about to realize she lay upon a trampled path through the weeds. No, not trampled—trimmed. Someone did reside in the convent, then, and came this way to tend—what? She could discern nothing of interest except a pair of large stones. Unable to move far without exacerbating her injury, she leaned forward and ran a finger along the edge of the nearest stone. Flat and rectangular. Uniformly so. With grooves that felt almost like etchings...

She snatched her hand away in horror.

A gravestone. She’d tripped over a gravestone and fallen directly atop a grave! Mindless of the pain, a sudden rush of irrational panic propelled her to her feet. Torn between the urge to flee and the morbid desire to know whether anyone was truly buried here, she swayed on her good foot as she stared at the sharp inscriptions, not yet blurred by time and weather:

MARJORIE

WALDEGRAVE

BELOVED WIFE

LILLIAN

WALDEGRAVE

BELOVED

DAUGHTER

She really was standing upon a gravesite! Violet hopped backward, turning away from the graves and toward the looming abbey. Sudden dizziness rolled over her in waves. Her arms flapped woodenly but were no match against the pull of gravity. Before she’d managed to hop more than a few feet along the path, the craggy moor proved too difficult to navigate on one leg and she crumpled to the hard ground once again.

The sun chose that moment to concede defeat as well, giving way to the night. As the thick blackness enveloped her, so did a pervasive chill, permeating her to the very soul. This close to shelter, and she would not be able to reach it.

Frustration pricked at her eyes. She could not lie next to the graves all night, until whatever creatures haunted the woods came to make an easy feast of her.

A tended walkway meant residents. Perhaps not a convent full of friendly nuns spending their days in the kitchen (oh how she yearned for fresh-baked bread!) but someone had to be minding the path to the gravesite. Perhaps an abbot or even a groundskeeper. She propped herself up on her elbows and tipped her face into the oppressive darkness.

“Help,” she croaked, far more quietly than she’d intended. Her throat was ruined from lack of water, and if she did manage a good shout she’d no doubt lose her voice on the morrow. But what choice did she have? “Help! Please, help!”

When her voice finally gave out, so did her consciousness. Her head collapsed backward against the hard soil and her vision blurred. Just before exhaustion robbed her of her senses completely, a female countenance swam before her eyes.

She could’ve sworn a distant male voice asked, “What have you found?”

Chapter 3

Waldegrave Abbey

Shropshire

Alistair Waldegrave slammed his fist atop the ancient desk hard enough to send dust spiraling into the musty air. Another rejection. How many more pleading letters must he be forced to send? He already spent every waking moment sequestered in his office, and had absolutely no time to waste penning even more flowery invitations to England’s brightest medical geniuses.

To be fair, it wasn’t as though the men could leap astride their stallions and pop over to Waldegrave Abbey instead of the usual trot about St James Square. He was inviting them not to a party, but to a scholarly conclave one hundred and seventy-five miles north of London. But weren’t scientists supposed to be intrigued by puzzles to solve? And weren’t surgeons supposed to be dedicated to the idea of helping the infirm? And weren’t these people tempted to indulge his invitation if only out of curiosity and the fact that all their expenses would be paid out of Alistair’s own pocket?

Good Lord, if he couldn’t even appeal to basic human greed, what the devil did that leave him to bargain with?

“Master?”

Roper, Alistair’s manservant, hesitated at the doorway to the office. He was the sole staff member who’d been with the family since before everything had gone to hell. He was also the only living soul to have earned a modicum of Alistair’s trust. Roper hung back at the doorway, however, because service history notwithstanding, to cross that threshold without permission was a one-way ticket to an immediate sacking. And Alistair never granted permission. He could scarce afford to entrust any of his overly solicitous staff in the room housing his deadliest secrets.

“Inform my daughter,” he bit out without rising, well aware that Lillian’s antics were the only reason Roper ever hovered at the door, “that I am trying to help her, and if she would desist making impossible demands and refrain from attacking those who attempt to give aid, then perhaps she would find less to complain about.”

“Master...” Roper’s voice lowered. “It’s not Miss Lillian.”

Frowning, Alistair removed his pince-nez. “It’s not?”

Roper hesitated then shook his head.

Alistair stared at his manservant’s uneasy countenance. There was clearly a problem. And the problem was always Lillian. Lord help him, he did not have time for new problems. He didn’t even have time for the problems he already had.

“Well?” he demanded. “What is it?”

“There appears to be... a female.”

Alistair blinked. “A what?”

“You may wish to come see,” Roper began, but Alistair was already on his feet. He swept through the doorway and automatically closed the self-locking door before continuing on.

A female? What the devil could Roper mean?

He followed his manservant along the corridors to the entranceway, and made his way past the gaggle of servants blocking the threshold. There, on the front stoop, lay a crumpled mass of elbows and frayed hems, muddy boots and tangled hair.

A female? So it was. A dirty, malnourished, unconscious young woman. He sighed. Yet another riddle to solve.

No wonder Roper was so grim.

“All right, all right,” Alistair said, batting a hand at the hovering servants as if to disperse flies buzzing about a corpse. “Quit hanging about doing nothing, and bring her in.”

“In, Master?” Roper repeated in astonishment.

The other servants looked equally doubtful. Mrs. Tumsen in particular had an air about her that suggested the girl was better off in the street than within the devil’s lair. Alistair gritted his teeth. He had earned the housekeeper’s loyalty, but he had yet to earn her trust.

The only individuals who had willingly entered Waldegrave Abbey in the last decade were the ones whose desperation had enabled Alistair to bribe them into employment, if only for short periods of time.

Visitors new to the forgotten town of Shrewsbury took one look at the great crumbling abbey with its boarded-over windows and questionable stability, and turned the opposite direction. The folk who’d been around long enough to experience its haunted history firsthand well remembered the morning Alistair Waldegrave had gone completely mad. The screams. The funeral. The destruction. For all he knew, the rumors had travelled as far as London and his reams of desperate invitations would never garner a single acceptance. Perhaps even the superstitions had spread.

So, yes, he could appreciate his servants’ reluctance to bring someone within these unhallowed walls who wasn’t even conscious enough to make the wise decision to get the hell away while her heart still beat.

But she clearly had nowhere else to go. No one with anywhere else to go ended up here with him. Alistair opened his eyes and sent his gaze heavenward. Fine. The least he could do was provide her with a warm bath and a hot meal. And then send her on her way.

“Sir?” Roper asked again.

All of the servants were staring at Alistair in horrified fascination.

“You heard me,” he said blandly, retracing his steps in order to shove open the door allowing admittance into the black depths of the abbey. “Bring her in.”

Chapter 4

Violet awoke in terror.

She shifted gingerly to check for bruises and broken bones,. The only twinge came from her swollen ankle. Careful to keep her eyes closed and her breathing modulated, she emptied her mind to everything except the sounds of the room. Silence. Not even a whisper of air circulated in the eerie stillness. Perhaps she was locked in a closet, awaiting her captor. Assuming there was only one. Perhaps she hadn’t imagined voices after all.

She tensed at an unfamiliar noise. Was that the sound of someone breathing? No. Just the faint crackle of flame atop a candle. She was alone.

Ever so slowly, she cracked open one eyelid. The sight she beheld had her shooting upright, both eyes open wide.

She was not in a closet. By any means. She was in a... prayer room of some kind. The chamber was small, but stretched up to the heavens. At one time, the walls had presumably been adorned floor-to-ceiling with stained glass, but were now completely covered over from the outside and boarded again on the inside, allowing not even the slightest hint of sunlight to filter through. Perhaps there was no sunlight. Perhaps it was still nightfall. Perhaps she’d been—

Rescued! Of course. A bubble of laughter escaped her parched throat in relief.

Clutching an oddly luxurious blanket to her chest, she took stock of her surroundings. She had awoken not on a bed, but a pew. No wonder her back felt bruised and sore.

She laughed again, her desolation lifting. Religious folk would be too godly to send her to the gallows and too reclusive to know about her crimes in the first place. Then again, perhaps her hosts weren’t as godly as they’d like to appear. A chill slithered across her skin. One should never be too trusting.

A large wooden tub of soapy water sat near a gold-encrusted altar. She approached, favoring her sore ankle, and touched the tepid water. The temptation of cleanliness was too divine to resist but, before indulging, she hobbled across the room to verify the lock was engaged on the prayer room door. It was locked tight, with a slender brass key protruding from the keyhole.

Twenty minutes later, she was drying her hair with the edge of her blanket when a sharp rap came at the door. Fear flooded her. Gripping the blanket in one hand in order to grab a heavy chalice with the other, she crept to the door. After taking a deep breath, she raised the chalice above her head.

“Yes?”

“Your boots and fresh garments, miss.” The voice was elderly. Female. And... nervous?

Violet lowered the chalice. If this was a ruse, it was a bloody good one. And she could hardly stay locked in a prayer room forever.

“Just a moment.”

After enshrouding herself with the blanket, she hefted the makeshift weapon in one hand, twisted the key, and creaked open the door.

A wiry older woman stood alone in the hallway, dressed in servant garb. She held a stack of clean, folded vestments and a newly scrubbed pair of very familiar boots.

The servant’s shoulders were hunched and her posture tense, as if she half-expected monsters to spring from the darkness. The woman’s knobby fingers trembled, but Violet could not be sure if this were due to age or anxiety. The servant’s clear lack of ease did nothing to soothe Violet’s own shattered nerves.

She snaked one arm through the crack and snatched the folded dress to her chest. Plain and worn, but blessedly free of grime.

“Thank you.”

The servant nodded once, and at first made no move to go, nor to enter and offer assistance. If anything, she appeared to be warring with herself as to whether or not to speak her mind.

Just when Violet was about to break down and beg the strange visitor to say her piece so she might close the door and dress herself, the old woman finally spoke.

“Don’t make deals with the devil for a crust of bread. He may tempt ye to tend that creature of his, but if ye value your life, you’ll run whilst you still can. If ye still can.”

Without waiting for a reply, the old woman turned and melted into the darkness.

Violet blinked at the gap in the door where the servant had just stood. What on earth had that meant? Clearly the old woman had meant a warning of some kind, but of what creature did she speak? And who was “he”, this devil with whom Violet was not to bargain?

She nudged the door open far enough to poke her head out into the hall.

Nothing. No candles. No windows. No light. The old woman had managed to disappear into the shadows in less than a half dozen steps.

Unsettled, Violet slowly shut the door, then blinked in surprise when the key rotated clockwise of its own accord. She tested the handle and discovered the door had locked automatically. She tensed. If someone hadn’t left the key behind... A shiver chased up her spine and she shook her head. Being held against her will still had the power to paralyze her with fear and panic, and she must keep a clear head. She drew in a breath and forced her trembling limbs to relax by imagining the medieval beauty of the boarded-over stained glass windows. Reds, yellows, blues. Simple. Calming. She set down the chalice and dressed as quickly as she could. She wouldn’t be able to run with a turned ankle, but if she did need to escape, at least she’d be ready.

What had once seemed an improbable boon—a timely rescue by a kindhearted religious community—now felt much less auspicious. Violet would eat her boots if that gnarled old woman was a nun.

Which meant what? Who lived in a ramshackle medieval abbey in the middle of nowhere if not virginal nuns and godly monks? Violet swallowed hard. Had she been rescued... or abducted?

By the time a second knock struck the prayer room door, she had worked herself into a shivering ball of nerves. She took a deep breath, forcing her muscles to relax and her frenzied thoughts to slow, then swung open the door.

A different servant stood in the darkness, this one even less monk-like than the old woman was nun-like. The flickering of his candle sent distorted shadows dancing across his face. A well-muscled build bespoke hours of daily exercise and the scars slashing one cheek indicated he had survived a knife fight. All in all, not the most calming visage to emerge from the shadows.

“Come. The master wishes to speak with you.”

She shrunk back. “Wh-who?”

Surprise fluttered across his face before the servant’s blank expression returned to mask it. “Master Waldegrave, miss. You’re in Waldegrave Abbey.”

Well. That answered one question, at least. And spawned a dozen more.

The manservant retrieved the brass key from the prayer room door and beckoned her to follow him into the shadows.

She sent one last glance over her shoulder into the gilded prayer room, with its boarded-over stained glass and wooden tub of bathwater next to the altar, then followed the servant into the gloom.

He slowed to match her pace. “Are you injured?”

“A turned ankle,” she murmured, hating to confess any weakness. She preferred to appear strong. She preferred to be strong. One never knew when one might need to run. Resting had helped, but it would take at least another day before her ankle could fully withstand her weight.

The manservant offered his arm without further comment. After twisting down a murky passageway, he paused to unlock a dark-paneled door before gesturing for her to enter.

Panic crept over her once again as he pocketed the key rather than offer it to her. “No. You’re not locking me in any chambers.”

Once again, the heavily muscled servant seemed surprised at her refusal. “There are those who would say it’s for your own safety.”

Doubt and more than a touch of fear sent gooseflesh rippling beneath her threadbare gown. If this huge, strong man feared for his safety... She glanced at the scars crisscrossing one side of his face. Had that been done here? Had whatever caused his disfigurement also caused the deaths of the women in those graves? What kind of godforsaken place was Waldegrave Abbey?

She slowly turned around, taking in the unsettling dimness of her surroundings and admitting the even grimmer reality of her situation. She had nowhere else to go. In her weakened condition, even the five minute walk through the tall, windowless corridors had made her dizzy from exertion and half-nauseous with repressed hunger and pain from her swollen ankle.

As if her physical deterioration weren’t bad enough, she needed coin to flee to London, and a king’s ransom to pay for a barrister capable of saving her neck when the lawmen inevitably caught her. Exhaustion, hunger, and poverty aside, she needed to hide until the search for Percy Livingstone’s murderer began to wane. Anywhere she could.

With a slow, measured breath that did absolutely nothing to calm her nerves, she rolled back her shoulders and stepped into the chamber. The servant followed in her shadow, closing the door behind them with such speed that she wondered if there were monsters creeping closer on the other side.

They had entered what appeared to be another prayer room. Once upon a time, this room also must have boasted floor-to-ceiling stained glass. Now, the artistry had been defiled with layers of thick planks nailed across every single inch. A lit candelabrum stood atop a fat altar, scattering light and shadow in equal measure about the darkly glittering room.

A man sat in the front pew, his back to the locked door, his head bent in what Violet assumed to be prayer. Perhaps this Waldegrave was a holy man after all—an unconventional holy man, to be sure—and his servants merely indulged their master’s efforts to keep out the devil.

He rose slowly. His clothing, like hers, was years out of fashion and hung a bit loosely on his frame, as if the superfine material had been tailored during a time when food had been less scarce. But there the similarities ended. Where her shabby gown was of the best quality three months’ teaching wages could afford, this man’s ill-fitting attire had been the first stare of fashion... ten years ago. Although the seams were off in places, the height and length were perfect, leading her to suspect that when he’d first been fitted for his wardrobe, Mr. Waldegrave’s musculature had rivaled that of his burly manservant.

When he finally turned his face in her direction, however, her first impression was: white.

Mr. Waldegrave wasn’t merely pale; he was translucent. The depth of which was made even more striking by the inky blackness of his hair and brows and eyes. Had the man never been out-of-doors in his life? Toffs had long believed that the flush of the summer sun was a faux pas only a peasant like her would court, but Mr. Waldegrave’s pallor appeared more deathly than lordly.

Even so, the fine bone structure chiseled beneath his improbably handsome face and the regal aura of his bearing beneath his once-fine vestments spoke to the blue blood undoubtedly coursing beneath his pale flesh. Whether he’d ever seen the sun or not, this was a man well used to getting what he wanted. Those powerful eyes alone held her in something not unlike thrall. When she wrenched her gaze from the spellbinding weight of his, her trembling knees finally buckled beneath her.

The manservant caught her by the shoulders. “She suffers a turned ankle, master.”

Mr. Waldegrave stepped closer. “Ring for bindings. Mrs. Tumsen can assist.”

With a nod, the manservant led her to the closest pew.

She gathered the strength to perch on the outer arm rather than allow herself to be seated in its ranks. She wasn’t frightened, she told herself for perhaps the hundredth time since the lock had automatically clicked home behind her. She was merely weak from lack of nourishment.

But she had learned long ago to trust no man.

Mr. Waldegrave stopped within arm’s reach, but did not offer his hand. He regarded her in silence, as if her appearance was equally as arresting as his own. When at last he spoke, his deep voice was shockingly seductive. “Welcome. I am Alistair Waldegrave. May I ask from whence you come?”

No, the frantic voice deep inside her cried out, you cannot. She stared up at him.

His gaze burned into hers. “What is your name?”

“Violet...” she blurted out, the word torn unbidden from her tongue. “Smythe,” she added lamely, certain he would see through the paltry deception. What had happened to the practiced dissimulation that had saved her from more horrors than she cared to count?

His raised brow provided proof of his disbelief, but he did not waste his breath demanding honesty. “I see,” he said in that incredible voice, smooth and dark. “Miss Violet Smythe, if that is your real name, pray tell me to what I owe the pleasure of your company this eve?”

She gripped the edge of the pew. Had she appeared so dishonest, he hadn’t even believed her when she’d been fool enough to admit to her first name? Add that to the likelihood that this man never ventured far enough from his shadowed chambers to hear the barest whisper of news from a town as far away as upper Lancashire, and she might actually be safe... If she could convince him to grant her asylum for a spell before tossing her back into the wild.

And assuming Waldegrave Abbey was safer inside than out.

“I’m looking for work,” she admitted. The best lies were based on truth, and she would get nowhere with empty pockets. Like it or not, temporarily trusting her fate to this man was a risk she would have to take if she wished to avoid the gaol. That the mistrust was mutual spoke to his intelligence. “Have you a garden that needs tending or stockings that need darning?”

If anything, the skepticism lining his coldly beautiful face deepened. “Am I to believe you a misplaced gardener, then? A wandering seamstress in search of torn hems?”

She jerked her hands from the hard pew and laced her fingers in her lap to hide their trembling. “I don’t suppose my curriculum vitae would carry much weight in an abbey. I’m... a governess by trade.”

The manservant at her side jerked violently, as if she’d brandished a blade and lunged at the unscarred side of his face.

Mr. Waldegrave’s chiseled cheekbones paled further—if that were possible—as he cast his manservant a quelling glare. “A governess?”

“Of a sort. I specialize in art of all mediums.” Not that she imagined him to be an art enthusiast. She couldn’t prevent an involuntary glance at the boarded-over stained glass and wondered what devilry would incite a man to cover up medieval beauty in order to live in darkness.

Mr. Waldegrave’s black eyes glittered. He clearly didn’t trust her, but hopefully the bit about teaching art held enough ring of truth to convince him of her harmlessness. At least long enough to get a scrap of meat in her belly and few more hours of sleep upon a wooden pew. With the lock securely engaged.

“Do you have references?”

Not anymore. Her shoulders tensed. “None with me at the moment.”

Mr. Waldegrave and his manservant exchanged a series of meaningful looks that Violet had no clue how to decipher.

“What is six times eight?” he demanded.

She blinked. “Forty-eight.”

“How many lines are in a sonnet?”

“Fourteen?” she guessed.

“Name the English monarchs in order, starting with William.”

“William I, William II, Henry I, Stephen… and then… er… Henry II? No, Richard I. No, definitely Henry II.” She curled her hands into fists. “I said I specialize in art. Why are you quizzing me?”

“Henry II before Richard I.” Mr. Waldegrave sighed. “She’s not ready, anyway.”

Violet frowned. “I’m not ready for what?”

“Not you.” The manservant waved an impatient hand in her direction before lowering his voice toward his master. “The library has all the answers. What you need is someone who can handle the situation.”

Mr. Waldegrave’s eyes narrowed. “Where were you headed, when we found you?”

“Nowhere,” she answered honestly.

That answer appeared to decide the matter. “Then it’s Fate. I will pay you two pounds per week—”

She started. “You’ll what?”

“—for tutoring my daughter until she recovers from her... illness.”

This was madness! Why would Mr. Waldegrave offer such riches without better answers to his test or at least a single note of reference?

Violet’s stomach soured with suspicion. Was there a daughter?

Perhaps she had misread the signs completely. Was the tension emanating from Mr. Waldegrave’s every muscle due to a desire to enslave her as his personal plaything rather than due to a simple mistrust of strangers? Perhaps this was the devil’s bargain the old woman had foretold. Alluding to a man’s “creature” could as easily be figurative as literal.

She dug her fingernails into her palms as she tried to puzzle the outlandish offer. Was there more to it? As unusual as his pallor might be, he was still strikingly handsome enough to win the attention of any number of willing females. Unfortunately, she well knew that to some men, desire could only be provoked by unwillingness. Or helplessness. Perhaps the refuge had already turned into a trap.

“If two pounds per week is insufficient for your needs, you may begin the negotiations. Or if you prefer, I’ll return you to wherever it is you call home.”

She pulled herself together long enough to shake her head violently at this last suggestion. The bitter truth remained that she had nowhere to go. If there were coin involved—particularly that much coin—she would be ten times a fool not to take it. No matter what she must sacrifice. After she’d saved enough money to save her own neck, she could worry about her soul. But before she agreed to any sordid schemes, she wished to at least know the truth.

“Do you have a daughter?”

Even the chill of Mr. Waldegrave’s harsh features could not hide the surge of warmth—and anguish—from his eyes. “I do.”

So there was a daughter. A “creature” she had been warned to flee, lest she risk her very life.

“Is she... contagious?”

Hesitation flickered in his dark eyes, followed quickly by a glint of curiosity. “Do you consider yourself to be strong of character?”

Violet did not miss the evasion. Fighting a sudden urge to run, she somehow kept a neutral expression fixed firmly on her face. “I do, indeed.”

“Then do you accept the post?”

What choice did she have? She was out of money. A few pounds would go a long way toward getting her even farther from the scene of her crime.

She swallowed. “I do.”

At that moment, the old woman arrived with strips of cloth. To Violet’s surprise, both men averted their gazes while her ankle was being bandaged. As soon as the servant woman took her leave, however, Violet was once again the object of Mr. Waldegrave’s scrutiny.

He studied her so intently that she shifted uncomfortably against the hardwood pew.

“Come,” he said, shocking her speechless when he offered his elbow as smartly as if he were a London lordling accompanying his ladylove to dinner. “It is late. And just moments ago, I was informed that my daughter is still very much awake. As I shall have to put Lillian abed anew, you may as well meet her.”

Lillian. The name on the grave. Violet’s heart pounded double-time.

There was no daughter. He had lied.

And yet, her best hope for food and shelter was to play along. To bide her time until escape was possible. Even as she slipped unsteady fingers between the heat of his body and the taut muscle beneath his shirtsleeve, she couldn’t help but suspect this new risk was far more dangerous than any she’d managed to live through yet.

Chapter 5

Violet allowed Mr. Waldegrave to help her rise from the edge of the pew. His manservant hovered just behind, holding aloft a freshly lit taper. Her limbs trembled as much from anxiety as hunger-induced frailty.

In the corridor, Mr. Waldegrave kept her fingers tucked against the crook of his elbow. Although she didn’t trust him as far as she could throw him—and in her current condition, she doubted she could throw so much as a breadcrumb—it was disconcerting to realize that this was the first time a gentleman had ever held out his arm for her. She despised her weakness at even noticing the solid warmth of his bicep beneath her fingertips. It was no doubt the novelty, and not the man himself, she found so intriguing. She hoped he realized any reliance on his aid was due to her swollen ankle, and not to any girlish fancy.

But what fancy did he suffer? The warmth in his eyes when he spoke of his daughter had not been feigned. And yet, the name he had given matched that of the grave behind the abbey. Either her would-be employer had named his daughter after a dead woman, or the girl she was about to meet was someone other than Lillian Waldegrave. A doppelganger meant to replace the dead Lillian Waldegrave?

No. Certainly she was overreacting from fatigue. If there was a daughter, then there was nothing to fear. Perhaps.

Mr. Waldegrave was no Prince Charming. He was tall and broad and his chiseled-marble features undeniably handsome, but he was far too cold and emotionless to be a desirable companion in any sense of the word. Although his flesh burned hot beneath his sleeve, his passions—if he had any—clearly did not. She doubted he’d spoken fifty words to her during the short interview, and none at all during this walk. Perhaps he was still overcome with grief over the loss of the two Waldegrave women buried behind the abbey. And the living “creature”?

More like as not, any rich child’s sole affliction was simply a lifetime of being spoiled by self-important parents whose concerns ran more to matters of high society than to childrearing. Violet was ashamed to admit that there had been innumerable moments in her childhood when she’d wished herself the most lonely and unloved of all the future debutantes rather than continue to suffer the unwanted attentions paid to a young girl with no place to call home.

“Why the frown?” Mr. Waldegrave’s voice was detached, but his gaze sharp. “Do you already regret agreeing to help my daughter? What have you heard?”

Trepidation began to prick along her neck once more. What did he fear she knew? She’d barely arrived at the abbey alive. She had heard nothing, save the ravings of an old woman. But what she’d seen was a grave bearing the same name as his alleged daughter.

No matter the circumstance, she was stuck here until she could conceive a better plan. She drew back her shoulders. If his concerns gave her bargaining power...

“Two pounds per week, you said?”

“I did indeed.” His gaze did not waver from her face. “I am a man of my word.”

Doubtful. She’d only ever met one who was, and now he was dead. She lifted a bland smile in Mr. Waldegrave’s direction. “Then I should like to be paid in advance. Two pounds, at the start of each week.”

She held her breath. The demand was a calculated risk. Payment in advance was unheard of. But any man who hired a crumpled scrap of a girl, one who tumbled across the moor like the broken seeds of a dandelion, was either lying about his intentions... or in no position to negotiate.

His shuttered expression indicated neither surprise nor suspicion. Just the same pale handsomeness and unreadable gaze. “Are you a woman of your word?”

She inclined her head. “I am.”

“As a woman of your word, do you agree to stay for not less than one full month?” His cold eyes flickered with what might have been actual emotion. “Come what may?”

She choked back a laugh—or perhaps a sob—at the question. Pay, and a full month of shelter? She had nowhere else to go. No one would look for her here, and he was offering coin for her services, whatever they might be. Without an income and a hiding place, she was a dead woman. She had no choice.

So she lifted her chin and said, “I do.”

She expected a shrug and a disdainful, “Then you’ll take your pay at the end of the month like the rest of the servants.” When he slipped her hand from his elbow, she broke out in an icy sweat, terrified that her cocky risk had provoked him to rescind his offer completely.

However, he simply paused to unlock one of the many mahogany doors along the dark hallway. He motioned for the manservant behind them to lift the sole candle, casting its meager light into the shadows. This door led not into a prayer room, but to what appeared to be an endless, windowless passageway carved into the earth itself.

Poised on the threshold, he replaced the slender key into his pocket then removed what could only be a money purse.

Violet couldn’t stop her jaw from slackening in shock. He would pay her now, before she’d worked a single minute, before his daughter had so much as laid eyes on her new governess? Now she knew he was mad.

“Hold out your hand,” he directed calmly.

Following his instructions, her trembling fingers uncurled between them. He placed two impossibly shiny coins in the center of her palm. Her breath caught. Had she ever even held two sovereigns at one time?

“If you accept my money, then you accept the terms of the contract. No less than one calendar month as my daughter’s full-time governess.” Mr. Waldegrave’s voice was as dark and smooth as the silver-tongued procurers lurking in the Whitechapel alleys. “Come what may.”

The slyness in his tone gave her pause, but her fingers were already closing tight about the strangely heavy coins and shoving them into her own pocket for safekeeping. After a few months of teaching an heiress to paint, not only would the hunt for Mr. Percy Livingstone’s killer have lost some of its ardor, she would be able to afford a competent barrister. She would be free. Hopefully.

She tucked the coins deeper into her pocket. “So shall it be.”

“Come.” Taking the candle from his manservant, Mr. Waldegrave stepped into the murky passageway.

The manservant made no move to follow, so Violet assumed the command had been directed at her. She took a step forward but paused at the threshold as she realized the floor sloped steeply downward, with no indication of a plateau. A musty odor seeped from earthen walls. Dust. Mold. And something darker. “Where are we going?”

“To my daughter.”

Against her better judgment, she crossed into the passageway. As soon as she did so, the hallway door closed behind her and the lock engaged. “Mr. Waldegrave, wait! The door...”

“Do not be alarmed.” He strode into the blackness, candle aloft. “All the doors in Waldegrave Abbey have been fitted with a mechanism to lock automatically, and Roper’s presence is required elsewhere. For now, you are safe enough with me. You may eventually be provided with a key of your own.”

Alarmed? Safe? Violet could not abide being locked in small dark spaces. She hurried to catch up to him, ignoring the twinge of pain when she put weight on her ankle.

“Where exactly is your daughter?”

He motioned to the shadows ahead. “The sanctuary.”

“Which is in the cellar?” she blurted doubtfully.

“The sanctuary is in one of the outbuildings.” He lifted the candle a little higher, but cupped the flame with the other hand as if to protect the light from a ghostly breeze. “These catacombs run beneath the earth and connect all seven structures to one another.”

She stopped walking, her swollen foot arrested in mid-air. “Catacombs, as in, ancient tunnels? Or catacombs, as in, ancient tunnels lined with”—she almost choked on the word—“corpses?”

“The latter. This was a working abbey for centuries. Every tunnel has history embedded in its walls. The monks’ graves are recessed, and quite old. The chances of stumbling over anything unpleasant are slim. The stale air, however, I can do nothing about.”

He did not so much as slow his pace. As he was the sole possessor of both key and candle, she was forced to hobble forward on trembling limbs. She took care to focus on the flickering light ahead, rather than the crumbling walls it illuminated.

Had she thought this man merely eccentric? He was off his dot completely.

She cleared her throat. “Might I ask a question?”

“Miss Smythe,” he said firmly, without slowing or even glancing in her direction. “Let us dispense with the formality of inquiring whether or not you may inquire something. I see no need to waste valuable time granting petitions to ask questions.” When he finally glanced down at her, his eyes glittered in the candlelight. “Though we may be master and servant, if you have something to say, please say it.”

Her chin rose. How positively generous of him. He was her master now, and she did know her place. The worst part was that he wasn’t being uppity, but rather quite progressive. Most gentry would have sacked her for any one of the impertinences she’d displayed thus far. Mr. Waldegrave was perhaps too distracted—or, rather, too focused on someone other than his newest servant—to bother reprimanding her atypical behavior.

Even at her most unconventional, however, she would never choose to stroll through corpse-lined walls.

“In that case,” she said with as much composure as she could manage, “why not take the shortest path aboveground?”

At this, he did stop. He turned, lowered the candle, and looked her dead in the eyes for a long moment before answering. “My daughter and I suffer an incurable sensitivity to the sun. Our bedchambers are in the sanctuary outbuilding, which is double-boarded and accessible only via underground passageways because natural light burns our skin on contact. Significant exposure would cause death.” He spun away from her without waiting for a reply and strode further into the gloom. “I, for one, prefer the catacombs.”

She stared after him, openmouthed. Surely he exaggerated! “Many individuals experience sensitivity to the sun and go about safely with the aid of a decent parasol. Have you considered—”

“Miss Smythe, I have considered. What you fail to comprehend is that I do not refer to a ruddy complexion from having played one too many rounds of cricket. I am talking about blisters on every inch of exposed skin starting from the very first second of sunlight.” His voice cracked. “Burning flesh... and screams of agony.”

Violet was uncertain whether she was meant to hear that last, but if his claim of acute sun sensitivity was even halfway true, she didn’t doubt the accompanying screams of agony. In fact, were she forced to witness such a horror, like as not she’d do a fair bit of screaming herself.

“Forgive me. I have never heard of such an affliction. Medical advances—”

“—have proven themselves to be of no practical use,” he interrupted coldly. “Science and medicine alike have failed us consistently since the moment of Lillian’s birth. To wit, I dare not admit publicly that my offspring suffers such a disease, or I’m like to find her forcibly taken from me and subjected to any number of gross experiments in the name of ‘scientific research.’”

He pronounced this last as if it were the most vulgar of profanities. Violet’s skin pricked in a cold sweat. Fodder for future nightmares. Her mind was more than creative enough to imagine the atrocities men of “science” might perform on a young girl.

His voice grew deadly calm. “I will not allow such barbarity, so I have kept her existence a secret from the entire world, including all but my most trusted servants.” The shadows about him shuddered. “You, as her first governess, will be expected to do the same.”

She glanced at him askance. “First governess in... a while?”

“Ever.” His voice hardened to stone. “If hiring you turns out to be a mistake, it is not one I shall repeat. Take heed, Miss Smythe. If you ever breathe a word of her existence, you will not like the consequences.”

Her head swam at both the threat and his anguish. Year after year of living under lock and key. Of darkness. Catacombs. And hoping for the impossible. She could at least relate to the latter.

She slid her gaze toward the ancient graves buried within the interminable tunnel. This abbey was no place for a child. Shivering, she turned back to her new employer. She couldn’t squelch the fanciful thought that the coins in her pocket were like those from the folk tale—guaranteed to always return to their owner.

She took a shallow breath and tried to think logically.

“Your daughter may be a well-kept secret, but your own existence must be widely known. Why do you not fear for your own safety?”

“My daughter is a child and an innocent. She is but nine years old. I, on the other hand, am the last male heir to a forgotten abbey. When Lillian was born, only a handful of individuals called Shrewsbury home. Those who recall the Waldegraves think me a harmless recluse, if they think of me at all. Those who have darkened my doorstep number even fewer, and have done so at my express request.”

“That may be,” she said hesitantly, “but is it not impossible to control servants’ wagging tongues?”

“I have had no such problems with mine. I keep their pockets far too well lined for them to risk being disloyal.” He cast a meaningful glance at the skirt-pocket where two gold coins burned against her leg. “You, however, I do not yet trust.”

That made two of them. Violet swallowed. Perhaps the old lady was right about striking a devil’s bargain. Know thy enemy, she reminded herself as she considered her new employer. “Is that why you demanded a minimum of one month’s employ?”

“Of course.” Something in his cold gaze indicated he’d been analyzing her more than she’d realized. “And mutual mistrust is what I suspect predicated your demand for wages in advance.” With this casually delivered observation, he released her from his gaze.

She colored. He was correct, of course, but she could scarcely come forth and agree that she’d at first thought him a childless lecher. She still did not feel safe. Now more than ever, she longed to be back at the Livingstone School for Girls. Before Old Man Livingstone had died and left paradise in the hands of true evil.

She hurried to keep pace. Moments after the tunnel intersected with another, the uneven floor finally began to incline. He halted before a scarred wooden door and drew a thick key from his pocket. Yet he paused before sliding the teeth into the lock.

“My daughter,” he began, then stopped to consider his words. The uncharacteristic hesitation was somehow more alarming than all the previous declarations together. “Lillian,” he said at last, “can be difficult. But please know that I will allow no harm to come to her. None. She is my reason for living just as I am her only hope. Having a governess instruct her will be beneficial in many ways, but my desire for her education is secondary. Your aid will allow me to dedicate more time to the one goal that drives me above all others: finding a cure.”

Her brow creased. “I thought you said your condition was incurable.”

“I shall never stop searching,” he repeated as if he hadn’t heard the interruption. His gaze slid from hers as he murmured, “But what we need is a miracle.”

As she watched him fit the key into the lock, her stomach soured with suspicion and remembered nightmares. “Why keep a nine-year-old child behind lock and key?”

He closed his eyes as if her words caused him injury. “Allowed to roam free, Lillian cannot resist the allure of the sun. She escaped into the back lawn when she was but five years old, and very nearly died that same day. I immediately installed automatic locking mechanisms on every door as a precaution. I long to take her out-of-doors at night, but between the dangers of being discovered and Lillian’s propensity to run away, the risk is too great. She is my world, and I cannot lose her.” His eyes opened. He gave the key a sharp turn and the lock disengaged with a soft click. “Other reasons for her solitude, you are bound to discover on your own. Come.”

What other reasons? But before Violet could inquire further, he swung open the door.

He nudged her inside, leapt into the sanctuary beside her, and closed the door behind them with the speed and finesse borne of long practice.

Before her eyes finished adjusting to the oddly lit sanctuary, a white blur flew at them from across the room. Violet dove out of the way with an alacrity learned in London alleyways and nearly re-twisted her ankle in the process. When Mr. Waldegrave’s head smacked backward into the door with enough force to concuss, she realized she hadn’t been the intended victim.

Mr. Waldegrave lifted a kicking and screaming waif by her ribs and contained her far in front of him.

She lashed out with her feet and fists. “Why must you lock everything? I hate you! Let me out!”

He set the child on her feet as if he’d heard none of her shrill accusations, but he was not so trusting as to release her just yet. “Lillian,” he said calmly, as if such a display were an everyday occurrence. Perhaps it was. “You have a visitor. This is Miss Violet Smythe, your new governess.”

“I don’t want a governess.” The child kicked and twisted, unsuccessfully trying to free herself from her father’s grasp.

“Miss Smythe is here to teach you maths and Latin and history, and even has a particular talent for—”

“I don’t care about maths and history! I want to see the sun! Let me go. Let me go!” This last was accompanied by a snarl and a nearly successful attempt to bite off her father’s hand at the wrist.

Violet slid her own hands into her pockets. She was fair-to-middling with maths and didn’t speak a word of Latin, but by the looks of things, the likelihood of bending heads over a schoolbook was close on zero. A greater concern would be discovering where in this medieval crypt the Waldegraves kept their battle armor. There was no longer any doubt as to the “evil creature” to which the old woman had referred. Nothing short of hammered steel would serve as protection from nine-year-old Lillian Waldegrave. And, Violet was beginning to suspect, no salary would be worth the scars.

“Lillian, enough. Bid goodnight to your new governess and get back in bed.”

“Is it nighttime, Papa? How would I know? It’s not as if I have windows.” When her father made no response, Lillian ceased struggling and bowed her head in defeat. “I have nothing.”

Mr. Waldegrave’s face twisted in pain, but he continued to guard his tongue. Or perhaps there was nothing more to say.

Violet stood awkwardly to one side, not trusting the apparent truce enough to approach. She took advantage of the moment to observe her new charge.

Lillian, not unlike her father, very much looked like someone who had never experienced sunlight. She was far too pale, too thin. Too... small. Her dress and slippers were well made and expensive, but she looked more a child of six or seven than nine. Her slender fingers curved into claws. A tangle of pitch-black hair streamed down her back and covered most of her face, giving only brief glimpses of a pert nose and the curve of a pock-scarred cheek.

“I see the roses have lost their bloom,” Mr. Waldegrave said softly. “Would you like me to bring you some new ones?”

“No,” Lillian whispered. And then slowly lifted her gaze toward Violet.

Violet’s fingers clenched at the abject misery reflected in Lillian’s blank gray eyes. Her actions were vicious, angry, vengeful, but she was not fighting her father after all. She was fighting despair.

This little girl was lashing out only because she didn’t know what else to do. Violet’s throat tightened. She knew despair intimately... and hated seeing it in the face of a child. She was at Lillian’s side within seconds.

“Leave us for a moment,” she murmured to her new employer. “Please.”

His incredulous gaze snapped toward her. His strong hands (one of which now bore ruddy teeth marks) fell from his daughter’s thin shoulders. “I hardly think that’s wise. For years, no one but me has been able to touch her.”

How many had even tried? Violet was not afraid of being pushed or bitten. She’d survived far worse over the years. She was more afraid of not giving the right first impression—that of ally, not enemy. But how could she convince Lillian that she was on her side?

Gently, carefully, Violet pulled the child’s wooden body into her arms. As anticipated, Lillian immediately began to buck and fight. Violet simply hugged her tighter, ignoring the elbow jabbing into her belly and the tears in her eyes from her chin being half-shattered by a blow from the back of Lillian’s head.

“Get. Off. Me.” Lillian kicked backward at Violet’s shins. “Go away. I hate you, too!”

“You’re entitled to,” Violet said calmly. “But I don’t hate you. As it happens, you remind me of someone I used to know. Someone I liked very much.”

Many, many someones. Her fellow exhausted children from the workhouse. The skinny mongrels fighting for the same scraps of food in the rubbish behind abandoned food stands. The empty eyes of the world-weary orphans who’d given themselves up for dead before they were rescued by the Livingstone School for Girls. Many of them had fought or growled or lashed out when what they all really meant was “Come back” and “Stay here” and “I don’t want to be invisible anymore.”

Violet pressed a kiss to the back of Lillian’s matted head. Low, so only Lillian could hear, Violet whispered the words she’d longed for throughout her entire childhood. Words that never came. “You’re safe. Shh, now. You can’t scare me away. I’m here to help. I came for you.”

The fight fell out of Lillian’s limbs. Silent tears rolled down her face.

Alarmed, Mr. Waldegrave rushed forward.

“Miss Smythe, that’s quite enough. I won’t have you upsetting my child.” Holding his arms open for his daughter, he closed the distance between them. “I’m afraid I will have to ask you to leave Waldegrave Abbey and seek employment elsewh—”

Lillian kicked him in the shins.

Mr. Waldegrave froze, his pale lips still parted but his words forgotten. A spark of something that might’ve been hurt or might’ve simply been confusion flickered briefly in his eyes. He held out his hands to his daughter, palms up, in supplication. “Lillian?”

Violet released the little girl. Rather than scramble away or resume her attack against her father or new governess, Lillian wiped her face on the sleeve of her expensive gown and straightened her spine.

“Go away,” she commanded, arms crossed and voice trembling.

“She will, sweetling. I just told her to—”

Lillian leaned against Violet’s torso. “Not her. You.”

This time, the pain etched across his granite face was unmistakable.

Violet longed to say something to ease his hurt, to tell him what Lillian really wanted was for him to stay, that she lashed out at him only because she was hurting and wanted someone to acknowledge her pain. But to do any of that right here, right now, would undermine the fragile bond she’d established with her new charge. And Violet knew girls like Lillian, knew herself well enough to recognize that without trust, there would be nothing. As much as Lillian needed her father, what she truly yearned for was to be listened to. Acknowledged. Treated as someone capable of knowing her own mind.

What Violet did say was, “When I accepted this position, Mr. Waldegrave, we agreed upon one month’s contract. Miss Lillian has asked for a moment’s privacy so that we might get to know one another. Please feel free to attend to other duties for a moment. We will be fine.”

Lillian turned and stared up at Violet, pale eyes wide with shock at having been not only taken seriously, but sided with.

Mr. Waldegrave’s open arms fell limply to his sides. “Are those your wishes, daughter?”

Lillian hesitated, then lifted her chin high. “Yes, Papa.”

“Very well.” His dark gaze colder than ever, he turned and quit the chamber without another word.

The door locked tight behind him.

Chapter 6

After leaving the new governess inside the sanctuary with his only child, Alistair was sorely tempted to drop to the dirt floor, sag against the crumbling stones, and bury his face in his hands.

He allowed himself no such weakness, of course. There was no time to waste sitting about feeling hopeless when he was the only person he could count on to work toward improving their lot. There must be a cure. Somewhere. Somehow. And he would find it.

Lillian could not continue this way. Could. Not. The necessary protective measures were killing her as surely as her disease. He would trade his life to improve hers, if only it were an option. He loved her above all else.

And she hated him.

Most days, he hated himself, too. Except for those brief moments when he foolishly thought he was making progress. During those fancies, he was delirious with relief and joy... For a time. The truth always caught up with him. Failure always caught up with him. God help him, he could not continue this way. But he must. For Lillian.

When he reached the far side of the catacomb, he unlocked the thick door and let himself into an empty hallway. Faint light sputtered from the candle in his fist. He’d forgotten to retrieve a new taper, and now he held but a nub. Not that it mattered. He knew Waldegrave Abbey as well as those who’d built the complex centuries ago. He’d been born here... and spent years in its darkness.

He made his way to his office before the candle flame finally died. He tossed the tiny wick into the rubbish and stared gloomily at the pince-nez resting atop a pile of unsent correspondence. It was late. He would post missives in the morning. He needed something else, something mindless, something to keep his mind off of—

Lillian. The roses beside her bed had been slumped crisscross over the lip of the crystal vase, their wilted petals crumbling atop her small escritoire, as they did every week. He retrieved a worn pair of shears from atop his desk and quit the office. He would cut more. Again.

As the automatic locking mechanism clicked back into place, Alistair’s manservant materialized in the shadowed passageway. Roper said nothing—gloriously, he rarely spoke unless he had some important intelligence to convey—but today there was a different quality to his silent presence. As if there were something he wished he could say, and yet, could not.

“Out with it, Roper.”

A hint of pink flushed the man’s swarthy face, discernible only because the gnarled scars across his left cheek stood starkly pale in comparison. “It’s... the new governess, master.”

The new governess. Yes. Alistair turned his gaze to the gardening shears in his hands in order to prevent his manservant from reading uncomfortable truths in his eyes. Like how much it hurt to have Lillian prefer the company of a total stranger to that of her own father. Or how guilty he felt to dare hope he finally had someone to share the load.

When he’d seen the young woman lying upon his doorstep, he had believed the wayward “Violet Smythe” a disoriented guttersnipe. Nonetheless, he’d ordered her a bath, ordered her tattered garments washed, and intended to order her back out to the streets after offering her cheese and biscuits and perhaps a farthing or two, which would as likely be spent on cheap gin as anything.

But the creature he’d been presented with in the prayer room had been anything but a guttersnipe.

He’d just finished innumerable unanswered pleas to God, and turned to behold a grown woman, in her mid-twenties. The gown she wore was shabby from overuse, but fell perfectly against her too-slender frame. Her skin was an unfashionable bronze, but flawless and smooth across high cheekbones and scandalously bare arms. Her eyes were a blue so deep one almost believed them purple—no doubt why she’d given herself the false name of “Violet”—and framed by eyelashes as thick and rich as her unbound hair. The auburn tresses had been damp and lifeless at first, but during the course of the conversation, they’d dried into big, looping curls about her face and shoulders. The ringlets tumbled halfway to her hips. She looked a perfect angel.

Miss Smythe, he had realized in shock, was stunningly beautiful. With a few more pounds on her frame and a decent gown to accentuate the results, she’d be breathtaking. She was the last thing he needed.

“What about the new governess?” he demanded gruffly.

Roper hesitated. “What do we know about her?”

“Absolutely nothing,” Alistair returned. “And by the grace of God, that’s precisely how much she knows about us. That is the only way this arrangement could even work.”

“But two pounds per week, Master. It’s...”

Ah. The money. Truth be told, any young lady who landed upon a doorstep in as ragged condition as had Miss Smythe, must be in far greater need of those two coins than Alistair. However, he could well understand Roper’s concerns. Regardless of Alistair’s flush pockets, two pounds per week was an outlandish sum to promise a strange woman of unknown origin.

“I will hardly miss it. And Lillian’s education is worth any price.” Nonetheless, Alistair recognized this hope as the fanciful dream that it was. In nine years, his daughter had never permitted him to teach her so much as basic sums. “If Miss Smythe manages to achieve any improvement with Lillian, she will walk out of Waldegrave Abbey having earned every penny.”

Roper nodded slowly. He might or might not agree with his master’s decision, but he understood the logic and the emotion behind it, and would suffer his role as silent watcher without complaint. “Where is the young lady now?”

Alistair motioned in the direction of the shadowed passageway. “With Lillian.”

His manservant choked, his face purple beneath his scars. “Alone?”

“Lillian invited her to stay,” Alistair said simply. Although nothing was simple. Within seconds of her arrival, the fair stranger had already wrought her first miracle. He just wished Miss Smythe’s magic hadn’t made him feel so... trivial.

Roper appeared to be suffering apoplexy on the spot. “Miss Lillian... invited... ?”

Alistair fit his fingers into the handle of the shears and stretched open the blades. The shears were old, but still strong and serviceable. He sharpened them after every moonlit trip to the garden—which is where he would be now, were it not for his anxious manservant. He closed the blades with a snap.

“I’m going to take some air. Stay by the bells, should Lillian ring.”

Without waiting for a response, Alistair sidestepped his manservant. Bracing himself against the onslaught of a chill Shrewsbury breeze, he stepped out into the twilight.

He yearned to tilt his face up at the stars, to greet his old friends Hercules and Draco, but did not indulge the desire. Not if he couldn’t share the night sky with his daughter. Oh, how he wished to. But the last time, she had run off and nearly died from the breaking dawn. He would not take that risk again. Even though it was past twilight, he himself wouldn’t even be out-of-doors, were it not for the goal of bringing some small piece of the outside world to his daughter. Fresh roses, every week.

He pocketed the garden shears and approached with caution. As always, an explosion of flowers bloomed about Marjorie as if her mere touch could cause the tiniest seed to blossom. Inhaling their scent, he turned his back to the light of the moon.

His shadow fell upon the closer of two gravestones. His gaze locked on the stark letters etched therein. He would never forget the first of March, 1826. The morning of his daughter’s birth. And the morning of his wife’s death, as well as the death of life as Alistair knew it. Forever.

He had to rely on his memory in order to gaze upon his wife’s angelic face, for she lay in a casket six feet below the scented petals. And because he could not provide Lillian with her mother, he offered what little he could: stories. The more imperfect their lives became, the more perfect Marjorie shone in his memory and in his tales. And why not? He had thus far been unable to give Lillian anything else that she wanted. The least he could give her was a goddess for a mother. An angel who had returned to the heavens.

As the years went by, the sharpness of his grief had dulled. What his daughter really needed was a mother in flesh and blood. Someone just as good-hearted, just as pure of body and soul, just as perfect as the one she’d lost. He would not offer her anything less. He only wished he could give her so much more. First, however, he would have to cure her disease.

Only then could Lillian find joy at last. And only then would he deserve his own peace. To be worthy of his daughter’s love. To forgive himself.

Chapter 7

Long after the door locked shut behind her retreating father, Lillian remained a silent doll, devoid of all animation. Violet hugged the little girl’s unresponsive body to her chest. Both of them facing the closed door, Violet rested her cheek against the dark tangle of Lillian’s hair.

Violet wished she could think of something comforting to say. She ached to assure the child that everything was all right, or at the very least, soon would be. But clearly that was not the case, and Violet refused to lie to children. They endured enough.

A drop of wetness streaked down one of Lillian’s pale cheeks. Her impulsive comportment made her seem far younger than her nine years, but whatever had caused her current situation, the child was clearly hurting.

“Oh, honey.” Chest constricting with empathy, Violet sank to the floor and pulled Lillian into her lap. “I don’t blame you in the least. But your father says—”

“The sun’s rays will kill me. I know. It’s true.” Lillian stopped crying, and her voice dropped almost too low to overhear. “But it would be worth it.”

At those anguished words, Violet’s eyes threatened tears of their own. She fought the sting, careful not to blink. She had to be strong for the child’s sake. Violet rested Lillian’s head against her shoulder and began to rock gently to and fro.

How often had Violet felt so desperate that death seemed the only way to escape bitter reality? Every single moment of her cursed childhood. Lillian had not suffered the physical torments that Violet had endured, but stark emotional despair was something she knew all too well. Once everything of value was stripped away, feelings were all that remained. And the one person impossible to hide from was oneself.

Lillian sniffled. The flow of her tears seemed to have abated, but she made no attempt to quit the warmth of Violet’s embrace.

Violet could understand the need for comfort, as well. She herself had given up on hoping for a savior long before she’d reached adolescence. Rescue was not forthcoming.

What she’d longed for, time and again, was someone who understood. Who wanted nothing from her. Who liked her for who she was. Better yet, despite who she was. But all she’d had was misery.

Looking into Lillian’s soul-deadened eyes brought back agonizing memories Violet had tried to bury long ago. As a child, she’d been unable to save anyone, least of all herself. As an adult, she’d done the best she could at the Livingstone School for Girls.

Here, at Waldegrave Abbey, she was being given another chance. She would not fail.

Mr. Waldegrave believed his daughter in want of a cure. But what Lillian needed more than anything was a confidante. A friend. This, Violet could do. She wasted no breath asking unanswerable questions or offering unwanted advice. She just held Lillian quietly in her arms. Instinctively, she felt nonjudgmental silence spoke more to the child than any words could have done.

As she gently rocked the little girl, Violet lifted her gaze to examine the bedchamber that had become a prison. They sat in the very center of a wide space. Soaring arches converged across the vaulted ceiling. Violet presumed that all four walls had originally boasted the same stained glass as the rest of the abbey. As in the other chambers, the windows were boarded over on the inside. Despite the profusion of candelabra, the covered windows and surrounding catacombs had converted the once-beautiful sanctuary into something dark and ugly.

No paintings or looking-glasses adorned the walls. Not even golden crosses or other religious gewgaws. A smattering of dolls and other toys, a few seemingly unread books, and an incongruous four-poster bed with the darkest, thickest tester Violet had ever clapped eyes upon. No light would get through those curtains, with or without the double-boarded windows.

In lieu of a dressing-room, one corner of the sanctuary held a pair of armoires and what might have been an intricate Chinese folding screen, had the panels not been covered with the same thick fabric as the tester draping Lillian’s bed. A round table flanked by two hardback chairs stood to one side.

The only other item of note was a child-sized desk, upon which stood a narrow crystal vase choked with three dead roses. The chair cushion was upholstered in a sunny yellow—or at least it might be so, were there enough light in the room to see properly—and the curtains about the bed and the windows were a deep indigo.

Violet schooled her features into a neutral expression when the child twisted free and scrambled to her feet. Lillian turned her face toward the windowless wall. If the two were as alike as Violet suspected, right now the child hated herself for revealing her vulnerability and was vowing never to repeat the display. Violet rose to her feet as well, hobbling slightly on her swollen ankle. She did not approach the young girl. Instead, she faced the hidden stained glass windows and tried to decide what she’d want to hear, were she in Lillian’s position.

“Your strength impresses me,” Violet said at last, turning to give Lillian her full attention. “I wouldn’t be surprised to discover you feel quite helpless, but to my eye you are both a fighter and a survivor, and someone I would be honored to call a friend.”

Lillian whirled to face her. Black hair whipped from her pale face to reveal shock... but not necessarily displeasure. Even at nine years old, with her hair in tangles and few possessions save a smattering of dolls lying broken in one corner, Lillian still very much looked the part of a fairytale princess trapped in a tower. Superior bloodlines were obvious in the fine bones of her face, in the hauteur of her shoulders and the rigidity of her spine.

Violet had not lied about being amazed by the child’s inner strength. She’d seen far too many young girls in desperate situations simply give up on life and waste away until they succumbed to early deaths.

Which was not at all the same thing as wishing to die. Violet considered her own wishes from just an hour earlier. She had been willing to put up with a spoiled rich child, perhaps eke out a modicum of sympathy. But with just a few words, this shadow of a girl had wrested from her the one thing Violet had been least expecting to give: Her respect.

“You are stronger than you think, Miss Lillian.”

Lillian’s small shoulders slumped dejectedly. “I am not,” she said, her arms wrapped tightly around her chest. “I am nothing. Worms live beneath the ground, but even they have seen the sun.”

Violet stepped closer. “Being vulnerable in one aspect does not make a person weak in all regards. Did not Beethoven create the most divine symphonies known to man, despite being gravely ill and stone deaf besides?”

“I don’t know Beethoven. I’m plain old Lillian Waldegrave, and I am miserable.” Her large gray eyes were dry, but her voice anguished. “What good are my eyes and ears if I can never leave this abbey?”

An excellent question, that. If only Violet had the answer. “You must find other sources of inspiration. If you cannot turn outward, you must turn inward.”

“Then all hope is lost.” Lillian slammed her fists to her side. “I have nothing inside!”

“That is why I am here. As your governess, it is my job to fill you up on the inside.”

“With what, books?” her charge asked scornfully. “No, thank you. I cannot read and I’ve no wish to learn.”

Lillian couldn’t read? Violet stared at the nine-year-old girl in surprise. By that age, Violet had wearied of being illiterate and practiced her letters every chance she could, no matter how often she was beaten for it. Perhaps she’d been wrong about the sullen child glaring up at her, pale hands fisted like rocks. Perhaps Lillian would never welcome the help or advice of one such as Violet Whitechapel, desperate loneliness or no.

Or perhaps it was Violet herself who had little to offer.

“I can’t imagine why anyone would refuse to learn anything,” she said at last.

“Refuse?” Lillian’s eyes flashed. “No one could bear my presence long enough to teach me. But I don’t care. My life is wretched enough without spending my time reading about everything everybody else can do.” Her chin rose. “I prefer staring at walls.”

“That is one way to look at the matter,” Violet said carefully, as if her heart was not twisting into shards of pain at the injustice the child must feel. If Lillian were allowed to nurse such melancholy, she would never rise above her despair. Violet would have to provide for Lillian what the Livingstone School for Girls had given to Violet: hope. “I suppose I wasted my time learning about Beethoven, a brilliant composer of music, since I was no child prodigy myself, and to this day have never composed a single note. I imagine going to an opera is pointless as well, if one can neither sing nor act. Thank heavens I am neither wealthy enough nor idle enough to indulge such folly. I suppose enjoying a warm biscuit is equally senseless if one finds oneself incapable of baking her own.”

Lillian’s face flushed with anger. Good. Rage was better than self-pity. “That is not what I meant, and you know it.” Her chin rose. “I take it back.” Lillian’s lip curled. “You know nothing. How could you?”

This last was spoken with such derision that Violet could not control her tongue.

“How could I?” she asked archly. “Allow me to share a few things I do know. I know that one can always discover people in a better position than oneself. I know that if you allow bitterness to drive your life, then you will not have a life at all.” Violet gestured at the closed door. “Although you have not left this chamber, we both find ourselves at a crossroads. Although I cannot offer you the sun, I can teach you to read unforgettable stories, to capture your imagination on paper with a bit of charcoal, even to pluck out inappropriate melodies on the pianoforte. That is one path. Or, simply instruct your father to send me away, and you can continue as you have always been. Uneducated. Unimaginative. Lonely.” Violet took a breath. “The choice is yours.”

Lillian glared up at her with open contempt. Violet’s stomach clenched. She’d pushed too far. She wanted to help, to illustrate how she could help, and instead she’d alienated Lillian even further. Perhaps even planted the idea that with a mere word to her father, this irksome governess and her unpardonable presumption would disappear from her life forever.

Violet fought the urge to bang her head against the closest wooden plank. Had she lost her mind?

A knock sounded in the passageway moments before the lock disengaged. She was out of time. Mr. Waldegrave swung open the door, his eyes only for his daughter. Upon viewing her expression, he speared Violet with a glare of unadulterated malice before returning a fatherly gaze to Lillian.

“Sweetling, what is it? I had thought a governess would be a positive addition to your life, but if it is not working out—”

“Nothing is working out,” the girl snapped, and turned her back to them both. “Nothing has ever worked out.”

Violet sighed. There it was, then. She’d gambled and lost. Her fingers brushed against the tiny lumps made by the two coins in her pocket. If she had just—

“Very well.” Mr. Waldegrave turned to Violet, his features the same cold marble as ever, his eyes hard with disappointment. “Miss Smythe...”

“Ready, sir.” She crossed to join him at the door, pausing only once to glance at her erstwhile charge, who stood facing the boarded windows. Violet expected Mr. Waldegrave to yank her into the corpse-lined tunnels for an immediate sacking, but as she eased out of the room, he stepped further in. When he passed by, something tugged at her sleeve, ripping a tiny hole in the tattered homespun. Thorns. He’d brought fresh roses for his daughter.

Unwilling to slink into the murky passageway without so much as a candle, she froze in place with one hand on the doorjamb and half her body already in shadow.

Paying her no mind whatsoever, Mr. Waldegrave strode across the room, cutting directly to the small escritoire rather than risk passing too close to his still-silent daughter. With a practiced motion, he upended the crystal vase over a bin. The withered stems tumbled into its black depths.

He placed three stunningly perfect roses into the vase, and arranged their enormous red blooms to best effect. After filling the vase with water from a porcelain pitcher on the nightstand, he gathered the fallen petals from the desk and upon the floor—where was the maid who tended to such menial tasks?—and deposited them into the bin atop the dead flower stems. He turned toward his daughter and waited as she climbed into bed in silence.

At last, he turned away, and caught sight of Violet trapped in the cracked doorway like a moth entangled in a spider web.

Her face heated at having been discovered spying, and she floundered for an excuse for her behavior. “I... ”

“Don’t,” he said abruptly. “I’m not surprised you remained behind. The tunnel is dark, and I did not think to offer you a candle.” His tone, if not the words themselves, had sounded impossibly close to an apology. He lit a taper on one of the many candelabra protruding from the looming walls. “Now we are ready.”

Because he was facing Violet and not Lillian, Mr. Waldegrave did not see his daughter spin around. He likewise missed the split-second of hunger exposed in her fragile features. Despite repeated avowals of hatred, Violet realized, despite the kicks and punches and vicious bites, Lillian desperately hoped her father would stay. Yet she gave the man no inkling.

When Mr. Waldegrave reached the door, he handed Violet the extra candle he’d procured and followed her into the blackness of the tunnel. Before he could close the door behind them, however, Lillian’s trembling voice carried through the darkness.

“H-how inappropriate are those melodies, Miss Smythe?”

Hope exploded in Violet’s chest. Momentarily forgetting proper decorum yet again, she reached around him and pushed open the heavy door in order to look into Lillian’s pale gray eyes. Violet gave her an earnest smile. “Very.”

With his brow creased in apparent confusion—and rightfully so, for Violet imagined Lillian was as new to private jokes as her father was to not being privy to them—he pivoted toward his daughter. “What’s this, Lillian?”

“I require a pianoforte,” the girl announced, her tone imperious. Shoulders back and spine straight, she exuded confidence and authority. “And art supplies. Miss Smythe will instruct me in both.”

Mr. Waldegrave glanced at Violet in openmouthed surprise before returning his dark gaze to his daughter. “Dare I hope you shall also be learning to read?”

The coldness in Lillian’s gaze was matched only by the frigidity in her tone. “I have been able to recognize my own name since I was five. How hard can it be to learn to read?”

His jaw worked silently for a brief second. Rather than find humor in his attempt to conceal what was clearly an unprecedented moment of utter bafflement, Violet’s insides once again gave a sharp turn.

She had won the skirmish with her young charge, but in doing so, had she drawn battle lines with her employer? The unfeigned astonishment in his face indicated he’d been aching to hear those words, but the immense relief in his eyes could not disguise the flicker of hurt to discover that a mere governess had gained more headway in one hour than he had in years.

Violet’s stomach chose that moment to growl its complaint.

“It is late. Of course you are starved,” he said, once again sounding perilously close to compassionate. “I should have seen you fed first. And Lillian, you shall have art supplies as soon as you master the alphabet. When you can do sums, I shall consider the pianoforte.” He narrowed his eyes at his daughter as if he still couldn’t quite fathom why his world was so off-kilter. “I will take Miss Smythe to the library in the morning so that she may select a few volumes for tomorrow’s lessons. For now, I owe her a meal and an opportunity to rest. Please bid her goodnight.”

Lillian grinned triumphantly. “Good night, Miss Smythe.”

“Good night, Miss Waldegrave,” Violet returned, as pleased to have been addressed directly as she was horrified that the child hadn’t taken her leave from her father as well. If he did not already regret hiring a governess, by now he would be well on his way to resenting her. She couldn’t help but glance up at him, but his face was unreadable. “We’ll begin tomorrow?”

He nodded his agreement before sending a last longing gaze at his child. “Good night, daughter. Sweet dreams.”

The resulting silence was thick enough to suffocate them all.

Without wasting another word, Mr. Waldegrave fairly swept Violet into the tunnel. The door latched and locked in quick succession. Holding his candle aloft, he strode past Violet and into the gloom.

More grateful than ever for the flickering taper clutched between her hands, she followed him into the darkness.

Chapter 8

Violet sank into a chair at one end of a long, elegant dining table. She felt shabbier by the second. Although Waldegrave Abbey had stood for centuries—and the silver serving dishes presumably handed down for just as long—every utensil was so shiny, every porcelain bowl so fragile, that she could not even bring herself to lift a hand to the table linen for fear of marring the silk with her mere touch.

Having the handsome Mr. Waldegrave seated across from her did little to calm her nerves. How could it? Nothing in her past had prepared her for a situation such as this.

First, he hadn’t spoken a word since they’d left Lillian’s chamber. As a father who by all signs was devoted to the wellbeing of his child, his daughter’s quick acceptance of a governess had to be both gratifying and galling.

Second—and far more unsettling than anything her employer might be thinking—were the confusing thoughts in her own head. From childhood, she had quickly learned to trust no man. All they brought was pain... and worse. The first and only man who had ever treated her like a real person, like a fellow human with thoughts and feelings and dreams of her own, was Old Man Livingstone. For that, Violet had loved him like... like a grandfather, she supposed. He was the closest thing she’d ever had to family.

Mr. Waldegrave, on the other hand, was no aging philanthropist seeking to provide the public with the use of a country manor. He was young. Handsome. A gentleman. Finely boned and finely tailored, even if he appeared plucked from a portrait of yesteryear. He was intelligent. Loving. Determined. And from the first, he had treated Violet with respect.

Was that the source of her discomfort? That she mistrusted his polite behavior and expected him to become a violent, lecherous monster at any moment, thus proving himself to be just like all the rest? By all rights, that should be her precise fear. But it wasn’t.

Her fear was that he wasn’t acting at all. He wasn’t waiting, biding his time for the perfect time to pounce. That he was actually... nice. That she would want to stay. That she would want him. To be part of his home. To be part of a family.

She hoped he did not detect her studying him surreptitiously. Staring at the shadow of his cheekbone, the curve of his lip, the way he gazed off over his cup of tea as if the world about him had disappeared and in their place he was building a brand new future.

If only she dared dream about her own. If only the threat of a hangman’s noose was not just outside every corner. If only... if only she were not servant class and he, a gentleman. She could not stop herself from watching him. The hard planes in his face, the easy grace in his movements, the light, soundless way he settled a priceless teacup atop an equally fragile china plate. Those were not hands that would bring pain or violence. Those were hands that would bring a soft touch, despite their strength. Lips that would gentle as they—

Cheeks steaming hotly, she nearly choked on her tea at the direction of her thoughts.

Involuntarily, her gaze flicked back toward the lines of his closed mouth. What would it be like? To have the heat of lips against her throat, the sensation of a mouth brushing against her own?

Violet shifted in her seat and wished for a fan to cool her face. If she was going to survive in Waldegrave Abbey, she had to think about something else. Anything else.

“Thank you for taking me in.” She reached for the butter with shaking hands. “Many in your position would have sent me away without a thought.”

“Thank you for agreeing to help Lillian,” he returned. Having his eyes focused directly upon her only strengthened Violet’s wayward thoughts. His gaze did not falter. “I have learnt not to raise my hopes prematurely, but this interest in art and music is unprecedented. I trust you will do all that you can to foster a love of learning.”

“Of course,” she murmured, chagrined. She had been thinking about kissing, and he had been thinking about her duties as governess. “I will do my best.”

His smile was rueful. “I suppose my daughter is not what you anticipated?”

“I’m not sure what I anticipated,” she answered diplomatically. Her fork trembled at the slight lift to his brow. Of course he would see through such an obvious platitude. “I suppose I expected a spoiled rich girl with no greater concerns than the cut of her gown. That is clearly not the case.”

He inclined his head as if he appreciated her honesty. “Lillian’s wealth is both factual and immaterial, as it cannot be used to spoil her in the ways a parent might wish. She can have any gown she desires, but no matter how many plates I buy her, she cannot comprehend the pull of ‘fashion’ without context. I shower her with playthings, so I imagine in that respect, she is somewhat spoiled. But since I cannot allow the thing she wants most, what else am I to do but give her everything I can?”

Violet chewed her bread slowly as she debated whether—and how—to respond. Clearly the last question had been rhetorical. On the other hand, being shuttered in an abbey for years on end would make a person eager for conversational partners. Lillian was not the only one suffering in solitude. Perhaps Mr. Waldegrave would come to enjoy Violet’s company as well. The thought terrified as much as it thrilled.

Luckily for her new post, Violet understood little girls very well indeed. “I think Lillian needs something more fulfilling to occupy her time.”

“Exactly.” He beamed at her in satisfaction. “Books. I have read to her for years, but it will be splendid to have someone else to champion my cause.”

She smiled back. “Books are delightful. As is art, and dance, and music. It is one thing to enjoy what others have created, and another to create something oneself. To indulge imagination as much as education.”

“Ah, yes. The paints and the inappropriate melodies. As to dancing... ” His eyes shuttered. The sudden heat in his gaze made her suspect brushes and sheet music were the furthest things from his mind.

Her fingers spasmed around the handle of her fork. Here it was after all, the moment when he dropped his kindly guise and... but no. Mr. Waldegrave didn’t look like he was plotting to ravish her. Rather, he looked as though he were... appreciating her. Analyzing her. Cataloguing every feature. And if the slight flush at his neck were any indication, he hadn’t meant to be caught at it.

Heat crept up her cheeks. Doubly so, because for the first time, the attention had not been wholly unwanted. If anything, she had felt oddly... excited. It was thrilling to know he found her as physically attractive as she found him. It was also terrifying. And confusing. And embarrassing. She could not keep the heat from her cheeks.

He dropped his gaze. “We do not dance, but I will order classroom supplies in the morning.”

That fleeting moment of unguarded interest gave lie to the idea he was unfamiliar with dancing, but she felt it prudent not to challenge his statement. The last thing she needed was fantasies of her first dance, along with her first kiss.

He slowly stirred a bit of honey into his tea. “While I am sending missives and errand boys, should I have someone fetch your belongings from wherever you call home? I can provide luggage for transport, if you have none.”

That broke Violet out of her trance. Her entire body shivered with gooseflesh. No one must ever know where she hid.

“N-no, you needn’t bother,” she stammered. “I have no belongings worth fetching. Thank you anyway.”

His gaze sharpened, but his visage was impassive.

She dropped her fork and wrung her hands beneath the table. A governess with no home or belongings? If he hadn’t been suspicious of her before, he certainly would be now. She forced herself to meet his eyes.

Just as he had done earlier, he recognized her demurral for the evasion that it was, but foresaw no advantage in challenging the statement.

“As you like,” was all he said before giving her a slight nod. “I shall send for some gowns for you as well. I don’t suppose you are particular in cut or style?”

“Not at all. I’ll wear anything.” Violet’s thoughtless words triggered an irrational desire to swirl about in rich silks and satins, whatever was the first stare of fashion among the beau monde this season. But she would never have anything stylish to wear, nor any reason for finery. She’d already improved her lot from a dirty, tattered gown, to the clean, serviceable dresses the maid had provided. The last thing she or her new employer needed was Violet swanning about in clinging satin and plunging necklines.

Mr. Waldegrave, for his part, also seemed struck with a mental picture of her in something a bit more flattering. His lips parted and his eyes locked with hers. Whatever image he held in his mind heated his ebony gaze before he blinked and looked away, jaws locked.

Perhaps he, like all men, couldn’t help but fantasize about sins of the flesh. However, he was the first able-bodied man of her acquaintance to seem uncomfortable doing so. Violet was alarmed to realize she found him devastatingly attractive.

His black hair was shiny and thick, and curled slightly at the nape. His sooty lashes and dark eyes stood out starkly against the pale beauty of his face, but his most arresting feature was the wide, perfect mouth above his strong chin. He’d dressed for dinner in clothes equally as outdated as his earlier vestments, but nothing could hide the fine quality of both cloth and cut, or the leanly muscled figure beneath the costume. His movements were graceful, his every gesture confident and purposeful.

His mouth looked as though it had been carved specifically for the art of kissing. And his hands—

Mr. Waldegrave leapt to his feet. His empty teacup clattered gracelessly against the china. “Do excuse me. I must return to my office. There’s much to be done.”

“I—I—I... ” She gaped up at him, startled. “That is, of course you must. I don’t mean to keep you from your work.”

“And you shan’t.” He strode from the room, pausing at the doorway only long enough to add, “I am accustomed to dining with my daughter. The rest of my time is spent in my office. Don’t expect to see me often.”

Violet nodded. She did not expect to truly become friends, and she certainly didn’t expect her strange fantasies to materialize into anything more than passing insanity. She had more than enough on her mind for the moment, not the least of which was the punishment for murder.

Above all, she needed to stay employed long enough to buy her freedom.

Chapter 9

To Violet’s surprise, Mr. Waldegrave himself appeared the following morning to escort her through the catacombs to the outbuilding housing the library, and then on to her new pupil.

She had assumed he’d be far too busy to deal with a task so easily delegated to a staff member, especially given he so rarely emerged from his office. However, she was beginning to suspect he didn’t delegate many tasks that pertained to his child.

The narrow tunnels ensured their bodies remained a hairsbreadth apart. The hem of her gown rustled against the leg of his breeches. Only her swollen ankle kept their footfalls from perfect harmony.

She dropped behind until he strode an arm’s length ahead. Nothing was amiss, she assured herself. Her discomfiture was due to her embarrassment over thoughts of kissing the night before.

Although, now that she hung back, she was quickly becoming more aware of the catacombs around her. Once they reached the library, she would not be eager to trek back through the catacombs to Lillian’s sanctuary. Without Mr. Waldegrave’s body heat at her side, the chill from the stone-and-earth walls seeped through the worn material of her gown. Instead of seeing his fingers curled about the taper, she could only see his silhouette as shadows danced around them. The more she tried not to think about the bones buried in the walls, the more she regretted falling even a hairsbreadth behind.

When she could no longer withstand the tomblike silence, she hurried back to his side and asked, “Would it be better to have lessons in the library?”

“Absolutely not,” he snapped, startling her. His voice softened. “Yes. It would have been. Not anymore.” His pace slowed. “Once, this abbey was God’s house. There were no locks on any doors, so that believers could enter how and when they chose. Four years ago, I brought Lillian to the library so she could select her own volume of bedtime stories. While I was retrieving favorite authors, she escaped through a side door and into the morning sun.” He shuddered at the memory. “I almost lost her that day.”

“That must have been awful,” she said softly.

“The worst day of my life.” His voice rasped with pain. “The next time Lillian visited the library, she flew into a rage upon discovering the exterior door locked tight. She ripped apart countless volumes I’d hoped would become part of her personal collection and then attacked a young lady’s maid who dared to detain her. Since that time, only I have attended my daughter. And until I am convinced she will treat her surroundings and herself with respect, I shall not lead her into a temptation she cannot resist. She hurts.”

So did he, Violet realized in empathy.

Before she could stop herself, she touched her fingers to his arm to stop his pain. She jerked her hand back to her side as if his sleeve had caught fire, but it was too late. He froze in place, almost as if he’d quite forgotten what he was doing in the catacombs in the first place, and then his hot gaze settled firmly on Violet.

“Yes?” His voice was strained.

“The library isn’t necessary,” she stammered, trying to remember what she’d been about to say. “That is, until Lillian knows her letters, a blackboard and a bit of chalk are as good as anything. I was just thinking that what she really needs is a change of scenery. She’s stuck in that sanctuary all day, every day. Mightn’t she look forward to lessons more if they were somewhere else?”

His eyes narrowed. “She shall not enter any room with an exterior door.”

“I understand,” Violet agreed quickly. The last thing she wanted was to be responsible for any child getting hurt on her watch. “And I agree. But is there no other chamber we can turn into a classroom? Even a small section of another room? It doesn’t matter where, so long as Lillian gets the sensation of ‘going to lessons’ like other children. She will feel less... trapped.”

He thought in silence, then nodded slowly. “Since the abbey is no longer used for religious purposes, most of its outbuildings are empty. I shall have to order another desk and other supplies, but I can think of one room with a bench and a small table.” He turned and continued forward. “I’ll show you on our way to the library, and you can let me know if it’ll do. Most of the abbey is connected by corridors, but only the catacombs provide passage without light. You’ll learn the way.”

Before long, they arrived at a new intersection. Although this passageway was blessedly free of holy corpses, it was therefore thrice as narrow and just as black. She stayed close to his side.

Presently, his long strides brought them to a ragged incline, which split to a dead-end before two ancient doors. A basket of candles hugged the wall near the intersection.

“This outbuilding holds unused prayer rooms.” He selected a pair of tapers and lit one for her before replacing his own dying nub.

She clutched the candle tight. “Thank you.”

“Thank you.” He fitted a key from his breast pocket into the lock, then held the door open for her. “I confess, you have given me hope.”

She smiled up at him as she stepped inside the small chamber. He did not return the smile, but his eyes showed his sincerity. He had probably felt desperation for far too long to remember how to smile. She could certainly understand the feeling.

He gestured behind him. “If this prayer room will suffice, I will have it transformed into a classroom for Lillian with pleasure.”

When Violet lifted her candle for a better view, the smile died on her face.

The prayer room had already been transformed once, it seemed. From a vaulted haven to an empty shell lined with layers of wooden planks. She touched a hand to her throat. How she would’ve loved to see the original stained glass, to stand in a pool of rich color as the sun’s warm rays slanted through the artisan windows. What an absolute horror to have turned an exquisite abbey into a labyrinthine crypt!

She forced herself to traverse the perimeter of the small room. Instead of her soul blossoming open and free—she’d never been particularly religious, but she did enjoy a deep connection to art—she felt more confined and deprived of beauty with every step. This space was awful.

She was not unfamiliar to the unwelcome sensation of hopelessness seeping into her very bones. Free from one horror, trapped in another. Was it better for Lillian to traverse suffocating catacombs just to while away a few hours in an empty coffin of a room? Or was she better off cloistered in her current chambers, knowing there was a key that unlocked her spacious prison, but never being allowed a moment’s freedom, even to visit the tunnels?

Unsure of what to say, Violet slowly turned to face him. The bleak expression upon his weary countenance stopped her dead.

He knew. He knew. He made no attempt to disguise the anguish in his eyes, the tension in his muscles, the defeat in the slope of his broad shoulders. Her heart ached. This room was dreadful, the abbey a monstrosity, but he was a father who loved his daughter and had no other options. He wished to keep his child from harm. He wanted his daughter to live. And if that meant a miserable existence over a painful death, then so be it.

Mr. Waldegrave was no stranger to devil’s bargains and paradoxical emotions, she realized. That was why he’d given her the final say, the power to decide where the daily lessons would take place. He needed her to see that he was doing the best he could do with the hand he’d been dealt. Because there was no right choice. There was no good answer. Only darkness.

Lillian’s impassioned plea that burning alive would be worth a glimpse of the sun must have been a dagger to his heart. There were no more sacrifices that he could make, yet he could not bring her peace.

Violet cleared the emotion from her throat and gave him a brisk nod.

“While I cannot in all honesty praise such a room as ‘delightful,’” she admitted in her most businesslike tone, “it is quite serviceable to our needs. The bench and small table will do until the desk and chairs arrive, and once the chamber is aglow from the light of candelabra, I’m sure Lillian will find it. . . suitable.”

Not exactly fawning praise, but Violet suspected Mr. Waldegrave would value honesty over sycophancy. She believed the approbation he sought had little to do with carpentry or homemaking and everything to do with his attempt to make a safe home for his daughter.

“Very well.” He kept his manner as matter-of-fact as hers, but the stark relief in his frame and face were undeniable.

It must be unbearably lonely to own acres of land but be unable to enjoy it. Being entombed on his own property, expected to govern his staff, his daughter, and himself, without help or relief or the ability to call upon a neighbor for tea... The rank air invading Whitechapel and Spitalfields alleys had never been particularly fresh, but at least Violet had been able to breathe it freely whenever she chose.

“This way to the library.” He led her through the catacombs to another solid door, which he deftly unlocked before motioning her inside.

She expected more dust, more wooden planks, more misery—but as he used his candle to light a pair of wall sconces, she found herself in a library as sumptuous as any in London.

The walls were lined floor to ceiling with rows upon rows of books. A balcony circled the perimeter overhead, allowing visitors a more convenient browsing experience than the typical wheeled ladders. A crackling fireplace nestled in the center of the far wall, flanked on one side by a door partly blocked by stacks of books, and on the other by a half circle of well-cushioned wingback chairs.

She made her way through the spacious aisles. Breathing in the scent of leather-bound books, she ran the tip of her finger along their spines. History, science, children’s tales, biographies, medical texts, legal treatises, even an entire wall dedicated to gothic novels. No wonder he was passionate about this room. It was magnificent.

Laughing, she stared up at him in delight.

He glanced away, as if disconcerted by her unfeigned pleasure. “Not what one might expect in an abbey, I imagine. The medical tomes are mine—there are hundreds more in my office—but all the other volumes are for Lillian. Every time I learn of a new book, I send for a copy. I have no idea what she might fancy once she does learn to read, so my goal is to have them all.”

“I am in awe,” she breathed, craning her neck for a better view of the volumes lining the balcony. “It’s perfect.”

“It is a work in progress.” He bowed and made his way to the door. “You are welcome to revisit this room as often as you’d like. Please, help yourself. Select as many titles as you wish, while I fetch Lillian to her new classroom. Mind the automatic locking mechanism—here, I’ll prop open the door with this stool.”

She bit back a sigh, once again reminded that this library was a splendid oasis within a well-fortified tomb. There must be a way to bring some light, some life, into Lillian’s dark existence.

Violet chose a slim volume of fairy stories, then returned to the prayer room to await her new charge.

Settling atop the wooden bench, she opened the book to the first page and began to read. A handsome prince upon a white stallion had just stormed a witch’s lair when the prayer room door swung open.

Lillian arrived meticulously dressed, as if she were being presented to court rather than sitting through her first morning of lessons. Mr. Waldegrave entered just behind, a blue porcelain inkwell in one hand and a blackboard perhaps a cubit square tucked beneath his other arm.

“I’ve ordered a larger board,” he said before Violet had even opened her mouth, “but I’m hoping this will do in the meantime.”

Violet held out her hands. “It’s magnificent. It also looks brand new.”

“It is.” Lillian set a small basked of candles upon the table. “What could I write, without knowing my letters?”

Mr. Waldegrave’s jaw twitched, as if the comment had scored a direct hit.

Violet, however, was heartened—the remark had been delivered matter-of-factly, with neither recriminations nor self-pity. Lillian was not precisely bouncing on her heels with anticipation of practicing her penmanship, but nor did she appear resistant to the idea. She simply seemed curious. At the Livingstone School for Girls, it sometimes took Violet months to coax new arrivals from despair to curiosity. This was a very good sign, indeed.

He pulled a quill and a handful of chalk from one of his pockets. He laid everything atop the table along with a small sheaf of loose parchment. “If you require anything else, please let me know and I will see it ordered immediately.”

“This will be wonderful for today. Thank you.” She patted the empty section of bench next to her. “Would you like to join me at the table?”

Lillian hesitated briefly before sliding up onto the bench alongside Violet.

“Very good. Now, would you thank your father for the supplies he brought for us to use?”

Two sets of eyes swiveled to face Violet. Mr. Waldegrave’s expression was pained, as if she had purposefully set him up for another public rejection. And his daughter’s face was suspicious, as if she wasn’t sure whether the new governess would cancel all the fun if Lillian refused to play nice.

Just when Violet began to think the awkward silence would stretch on forever, Lillian finally glanced away and muttered, “Thankyoupapa.”

Although her tone was resentful and her gaze never met his, Mr. Waldegrave’s dark eyes warmed. “Thank you, Miss Smythe. And you’re very welcome, Lillian. There’s a bell pull along the wall, should either of you require anything at all. Otherwise, I will return at noon.”

After he quit the room, Violet spent most of the morning at the blackboard, drilling her charge on the alphabet. Once Lillian could write several letters to both her and Violet’s satisfaction, however, she quickly wearied of the squeak of chalk and its endless dust. Upon hearing “I want the feather pen!” for the hundredth time, Violet finally acquiesced.

Ink, however, was a far more challenging medium, and after half an hour of sticky fingers and scratched parchment, the nine-year-old looked a mere breath away from tears—or a tantrum.

“Let’s take a respite from the quill, shall we?” Violet suggested, keeping her voice light and pleasant. “There’s still a bit of chalk to use up. Would you be so kind as to hand me the blackboard?”

Expression thunderous, Lillian glared at the feather protruding from the inkwell, glared at the ink coating her small hands, then glared at Violet with tears in her eyes. Neither of them spoke. After a fraught moment, Lillian snatched up the blackboard and tossed it across the table.

“You can have the horrid—Oh!” Lillian grabbed for the board, but it was already sailing directly toward the inkwell... and Violet’s dress.

Instinct had Violet leaping to her feet, which only served to provide an even larger canvas for the flying ink. She fumbled to catch the porcelain bottle, succeeding, at least, in rescuing the handcrafted inkwell from shattering upon the floor. Her dress, however—her only dress—was irrevocably ruined.

No, not ruined. That was misplaced vanity talking. Stained from mutton sleeve to frayed hem, perhaps, but still wearable. It was not as if she had ever looked particularly radiant in it anyway, she told herself. And at least the ink hadn’t gotten on Lillian’s finery.

At Violet’s assessing glance, Lillian’s lip wobbled and she burst into tears.

“Don’t leave! I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to, I promise. I’ll never do it again. I don’t like ink, anyway. We can use chalk forever and ever. Please don’t go!”

“Oh, honey.” Violet knelt before her. She knew that desperation well. Once she’d arrived at the Livingstone School for Girls, she would’ve done anything, anything, to be allowed to stay. She had been terrified her illiteracy and coarse ways would have her right back on the streets, and had been utterly gobsmacked when kind-hearted Old Man Livingstone had offered her a home. That had been the day—the exact moment—when her life had changed forever. “Lillian, shhh. I’m not going anywhere. It was just an accident. I’m not hurt—see? And who gives a fig about this old dress? It was a wash or two from the rag bin anyway. I’m not angry. I still like you just as much now as before.”

That last shocked Lillian out of her tears. “You... like me?”

“Of course I do,” Violet answered firmly. “If it wouldn’t ruin your pretty gown, I’d hug you right now just to prove it. How about we shake on it, instead?”

Lillian wiped her face with her sleeve. Her wide gray eyes blinked at Violet above ink-stained cheeks. Slowly, tentatively, she held out her hand.

Violet gave an exaggerated shake and, face solemn, kept pumping up and down rather than letting go. When Lillian realized she’d have to be the one to put an end to the interminable handshake, she collapsed into a fit of giggles.

They’d just turned their attention back to the blackboard when Mr. Waldegrave unlocked the door, fresh-cut roses in hand.

“Ladies, I’d like to celebrate your first morning of study with—” Upon taking in the scene, his expression transformed from jovial to horrified. The roses fell from his hands. “Lillian, what have you done?”

“I threw the blackboard, but—”

“That’s outside of enough, young lady. I don’t want to hear another word.” As he stalked into the room, his boots crushed the perfect blooms into shreds. He swung his daughter up off the bench and over his shoulder. “Miss Smythe, my deepest apologies.”

“Mr. Waldegrave, your daughter just—”

“No need to explain. I should never have left her unsupervised.” He swept out the door and into the passageway. “I will discuss Lillian’s behavior with her privately and then make a decision on proper punishment.”

With that, they were gone.

Violet stared, openmouthed, and then leapt up from the bench just in time to catch the door before it swung closed, locking her inside the prayer room.

Alistair allowed the sanctuary door to close securely behind them before setting his thrashing, kicking daughter down in the center of her bedchamber.

“You listen to me, young lady,” he said quietly, but firmly. “You will treat Miss Smythe with respect. It is high time you treat everyone who cares for you with respect, and I—”

“Why should I listen to you?” Lillian exploded, her pale face tinged pink with pent-up fury. “You never listen to me!”

He sighed. Some days it felt like all they ever did was relive the same timeworn arguments. He was so tired of fighting. “I will listen when you speak in words, not with fists and teeth. And the first words I want to hear are you apologizing to your governess for throwing ink at her.”

“It was an accident! I did apologize! It’s you who should apologize. You don’t care about me!”

“Balderdash.” He couldn’t believe his ears. “Since the day of your birth, I have spent every moment of every day doing everything in my power to improve the quality of your life.”

Lillian kicked her chair away from her desk and dropped onto the seat with a huff.

“Your life is more important to me than my own,” he said softly, hoping his daughter could read the sincerity in his voice and eyes. “Don’t you know by now how much I love you?”

“I’ve known you hate me since I was five,” Lillian rejoined flatly, her thin arms crisscrossed over her chest. “I’ve still got the scars.”

“The sun burned you, not me!” he burst out, dropping to his knees before her. “I searched for you everywhere and carried you to safety the moment I heard you screaming.”

“I remember,” she muttered sourly. “I doubt you do.”

“How could I forget? I was terrified I’d lose you. I would have done anything to trade places. I feel guilty to this day that you were ever burned. Why do you think I had locking mechanisms on every door by the very next day?”

Her dark eyes pierced his soul. “To bury me in here, just like you wish you buried me outside.”

“The only thing I pray for is—” he broke off, sudden understanding clenching his stomach and turning his skin clammy. “What did you say?”

Lillian’s lower lip trembled. “Maybe I can’t read, but I know my own name. It’s embroidered on my pillows, sewn into my clothes, and etched right onto my gravestone. You wish I were dead.”

His heart seized. Horrified, he reached for his daughter. “Sweetling...”

She recoiled, nearly upsetting her chair in her haste to avoid his touch. “No. I tried the locks. I heard the whispers. Then I saw the grave. And I knew I could never, ever trust a single word you said ever again.”

His fingers cold and his breathing shallow, Alistair could barely think over the rushing in his ears. For four years, he’d believed his daughter hated him because he hadn’t saved her in time from the sun. He’d accepted her outbursts, her long silences, her teeth upon his skin, because he believed he deserved it. That any man who allowed his child to be harmed was unquestionably a bad father.

But it was ever so much worse than that.

Her burns had never stood between them, after all. The wounds were not those he could see, but those Lillian carried in her heart. For four years, she believed her own father wished she were dead. Whether or not she was too young to understand that love, not hate, had brought about that gravestone, it was far too late to expect her to believe any part of the explanation. But he still had to try.

“Lillian,” he began softly, his throat clogging from the pain evident in his daughter’s eyes. “I have never once wished you away. There are bad people out there who would have tried to take you from me—or, worse, to harm you—if they knew you were alive. That is the only reason for that stone. It means nothing.”

“Bad people like you?” his daughter answered dully, a sheen of unshed tears glistening in her eyes.

“Sweetling, I—“

“No more make-believe.” She swallowed hard but did not lower her gaze. “You may be my papa, but I don’t love you, either.”

Chapter 10

Violet stood in the open doorway, half in the prayer room and half in a dark corridor, and trembled at the unrelenting shadows.

Perhaps Mr. Waldegrave could see in the dark, but she was not so gifted. She turned to grab a candle, only to realize they were over by the table and well out of reach. Nor were there any convenient heavy objects with which to prop open the door.

With a growl of frustration, she spun back toward the hollow tunnel and picked her way through as quickly as she could in complete blackness. Her throat tightened. She did her best to tamp down the familiar panic crawling up her skin. If she had to feel her way in the dark, at least she wasn’t in the catacomb with the dead monks.

She finally reached the intersection with Lillian’s bedchamber. When her knocks went unanswered, she realized she’d have to traverse the catacombs after all, if she didn’t want to linger alone in the darkness.

Desperately modulating each breath to keep panic at bay, she inched down the musty passageway, keeping her mind from the bodies in the walls by concentrating on the many things she’d like to beat into the thick heads of both Mr. and Miss Waldegrave.

The first fable she’d read Miss Lillian would have to be The Boy Who Cried Wolf. Her charge had every reason to feel unfairly accused, but the first step to earning her father’s trust would be to stop attacking him at every turn.

The story she was saving for Mr. Waldegrave was being invented in Violet’s head with every hesitant step and gaining furor each time her ginger ankle unbalanced her into the moldering walls. She was titling this one, Don’t Assume You Know Everything, and it contained an extra chapter called, Where The Bloody Hell Is The Governess’s Key?

By the time she reached the primary structure, sweat dampened her hair and her heart was in danger of imploding. She refused to reenter the catacombs without a pocketful of candles and a heap of keys.

She banged on the locked door loud enough to deafen anyone in a ten-mile radius. It immediately swung open.

Mr. Waldegrave’s manservant—what was his name? Mr. Roper?—stood at the ready. His surprise at discovering her unaccompanied was as clear as his disdain for her state of disarray.

“Where is the master?” he demanded, without stepping aside to let her pass.

“With Miss Lillian,” Violet panted, desperate for clean air. She squeezed past him into the blessedly well-lit hall.

Mr. Roper stared down his nose at her, suspiciously. “Why are you alone?”

“Why am I—” She tamped down a bubble of hysterical laughter. “Do you think for a moment that I wished to be alone in the catacombs?”

His brows lifted. “There is no need to take a tone with me. I have nothing more to say until Master arrives.”

“A tone? A tone? I’m surprised I can speak at all. Your ‘master’ left me behind!”

He simply gazed down at her as if she’d deserved to be abandoned, and had half a mind to toss her back into the tunnels. Dismissively, he turned to close the door to the catacombs.

Recognizing that her panicked outbursts were not endearing her to her employer’s manservant, she closed her eyes and forced deep breaths until her heart rate returned to normal.

“Please,” she said quietly, as soon as she had somewhat calmed. “I would very much like to return to my bedchamber to tidy up. Would you be so kind as to accompany me?”

His gaze was impassive. “No.”

She stared at him. “No? Why on earth not?”

“You are not my master.” He leaned against the closed door as if he did not quite trust the locking mechanism. “He asked me to wait for him here. This is my post, until he says otherwise.”

Violet was starting to see why Lillian had resorted to kicking people. “In that case, may I please borrow your key so that I can get in my bedchamber?”

“Absolutely not.”

Grinding her teeth, she glared right back up at him. “Let me guess... Because I am not your master?”

He lifted a brow. “If Master wanted you to have a key, you would have a key.”

She supposed the logic was sound, but he didn’t have to look so smug about it. As if he enjoyed thwarting her. As if her distress made him feel superior. Well, he wasn’t superior. He was a member of the staff, just like her. A human being, just like her. The disgrace here wasn’t the state of her day dress but rather his utter lack of empathy.

“Mr. Roper,” she said, keeping her voice as bland and sincere as possible. “I understand your position. Do you think, this once, it might be acceptable to—”

He turned to face the other direction.

Her jaw dropped. She had just been cut by a fellow servant.

Eyes narrowed, she pushed away from the wall. He didn’t want to loan her his key? Fine. He didn’t have to. She would simply take it. After all, it was her bedchamber.

“Very well,” she said aloud. “I shall wait quietly at the door until some random soul happens by to let me in.”

His scarred chin lifted slightly, as if he found that to be a splendid idea indeed.

He would. She brushed past him and stumbled, taking care not to land upon her swollen ankle.

Reflexively, his arms shot out to steady her. She rested against him for a brief second, ostensibly to regain her equilibrium. Then she continued down the hall with her head held high.

His snort of derision was just audible.

Not until she rounded a corner did she finally slow. She uncurled her fist to reveal a thin brass key nestled inside. Mr. Roper might fancy himself the most uppity manservant in Shropshire, but he hadn’t a lick more sense than the uppity fools who fell for the oh-pardon-me stumble in London alleyways.

Violet allowed herself a small smile. She’d apologize later—and then demand a key of her own. But first, she needed a bath. An hour’s solitude sounded divine. Her limbs practically melted at the sight of her door. With trembling fingers, she fit the key into the lock, and—

Fit the key into the lock, and—

Oh, God help her. She’d nicked the wrong bloody key. Now what?

She sagged against her stubbornly locked door and sighed. Nothing else for it. She’d have to return the ill-gotten key to that prig Roper and admit defeat.

But he was no longer there.

She hopped down the empty corridor in disbelief. All his palaver about his sacred duty to lounge against a locked door, and the man had up and left not ten minutes later. Perhaps he hadn’t been driven by a manic desire to cleave to the letter of his master’s word after all. Perhaps he simply despised her.

Fists at her sides, she cast her incredulous gaze down one side of the corridor, then the other. Now what? Hunt down Mr. Waldegrave? She tugged on the handle to the door his manservant had allegedly been guarding, then attempted to fit the stolen key into the lock.

It refused to budge. Lovely.

She couldn’t return to the catacombs without a working key. Nor could she return to her chambers. She couldn’t even ring for help without a key, because all the bloody bell pulls were locked inside rooms, not dangling about the passageways.

Had she thought the Waldegraves lived a life of privilege? They lived a life of utter madness.

Perhaps she could find the kitchen, if it were located in this structure. A crust of bread, a dram of milk, a spot of water to dab the ink from—oh, who was she fooling? Her stained fingers would eventually fade to normal, but nothing at all could save her dress. The fabric was barely even sticky anymore. It just happened to boast the world’s largest inkblot.

She paused when she reached an intersection at the end of the corridor. Neither of the attached corridors was lit, and she had no candle with which to light her way.

Of course, the only working sconce behind her was the one beside the locked door leading to the catacombs. She supposed she could wait there for Mr. Waldegrave, but what if he had returned while she was attempting to break into her own chamber? That would explain Mr. Roper’s mysterious disappearance. There was no sense standing around waiting for the arrival of someone who wasn’t en route.

The ill-lit passageway also stretched in the other direction, and branched again. Not to say that one way was more likely to lead to success than any other, given she hadn’t the first clue where to find the scullery.

Then again, any room with a bell pull would do. Which meant all the corridors were equally promising. Or unpromising. With that cheery thought in mind, Violet turned down the closest corridor and began to make her way through the murky shadows. At least there was wainscoting. Without dust and dirt and corpses, this darkness was at least bearable.

She ran her fingertips along both walls for balance, taking care to try the handles of every door she passed. True to Mr. Waldegrave’s word, all the bolts were securely locked. And the key fit into none of them. Why on earth would a manservant carry about a key that didn’t unlock any doors?

After a series of unproductive turns, she began to suspect she would’ve been better off waiting by the door to her bedchamber as she’d sarcastically suggested to her employer’s manservant in the first place.

Then there was light. A single sconce, a small one, with a tiny flickering candle—but light nonetheless.

Close on delirious with relief, she rushed forward as quickly as her ginger ankle allowed.

The passageway dead-ended against a lone door. Violet paused to examine her surroundings. She saw no one. Heard nothing. But there was flame on that candle, which had to mean she was in a populated area. She tried the handle. Locked. Of course. No longer imbued with optimism, she fished the useless key from her pocket and slid the brass teeth into the aperture.

Click.

The mechanism caught and turned as if the key had been forged just for this lock. Giddy with relief, she twisted the handle—and then hesitated.

Her stomach was uneasy in the same way as when Mr. Waldegrave had handed over the two gold sovereigns and her first wary thought had been that the money was cursed. She’d learned long ago to place full confidence in the uneasiness of her stomach. And yet... why be alarmed? It was just a door. Just a room. And her only opportunity to call for help.

Ever so quietly, she eased the crack wider. Enough light spilled in from the sconce for her to realize this wasn’t an empty prayer room, but rather a furnished bedchamber. Which meant there had to be a bell pull inside. There was no telling if the only maid Violet had seen would be near enough to hear the bell, but it was worth a try. Ensuring she still held the key firmly in her grip, she allowed the door to close tight behind her.

The dim lighting remained.

Blinking in confusion, she stepped further into the room. Windows! This bedchamber had windows. Covered with not one but two heavy curtains, only the tiniest sliver of light shone in a narrow line across the ceiling and between the hem and floor. Just enough for her to be able to discern the outline of a bell pull on the other side of a large four-poster bed.

What if the prickles along her skin were because there was someone in the bed? Someone who would be less than pleased to discover ex-street urchin Violet Whitechapel trespassing in his bedchamber?

And yet... what were her options? Make herself known, and hope she didn’t get brained with a poker? Cross the room to ring the bell pull anyway, and risk whomever slept in the bed being startled out of their mind? Tiptoe outside, and enjoy another hour roaming the corridors in search of someone with a key?

She vacillated for a long moment, unsure of the wisest course. Then she unlocked her frozen muscles and silently picked her way toward the head of the bed. If Mr. Waldegrave had entered the classroom at noon, as he had promised, then by now it had to be at least two of the clock. The gentry were infamous slugabeds, but surely by this hour, even the laziest had to have arisen to greet the day. The bed was likely to be vacant.

She tilted her ear as close as possible to the thick tester without disturbing the fabric. Nothing. No snoring, no movement, no signs of life. She backed up until she reached the fold where the edge of one falling section of fabric overlapped the other. Should she? Could she...?

Holding her breath, she slid a shaking finger between the layers of cloth and slowly, gently, pulled them apart.

Empty. The bed was empty. Thank God.

The bed was made, but the covers rumpled, as if someone had recently lain atop the layers of blankets. Unable to help herself, she reached out a hand and smoothed out the largest of the wrinkles. The mattress was so thick. The blankets were so soft. The pillows... smelled of Mr. Waldegrave?

Violet leaned her face closer and took a deep breath. She hadn’t registered the fact that she’d somehow memorized his scent until she realized the pillow smelled exactly the same. Soap, sandalwood... something else, something she couldn’t place.

Oh, Lord, what was she doing standing about sniffing the man’s pillow? Mr. Waldegrave must not always sleep in the sanctuary. She was in his bedchamber! She had to leave right now.

Abandoning the idea of tugging the bell pull and summoning witnesses here, of all places, she straightened the tester about the bed and turned back toward the door—and caught sight of an open wardrobe. Satin dresses. Silk gowns. A pale pink riding habit.

If this was Mr. Waldegrave’s bedchamber, she’d eat the matching pink hat.

She returned to the bell pull and, this time, gave it a decisive tug. There. Someone should be along shortly. In the meantime, she was dying to see if there was a view. As far as she could tell, this might be the sole unboarded window in Waldegrave Abbey.

Recognizing her folly, she clucked her tongue in self-annoyance. The telltale swaths of light should’ve told her it wasn’t Mr. Waldegrave’s bedchamber. He was far too controlled. Despite the pair of impossibly thick curtains, she doubted a man as threatened by the sunlight as he was would take any risks.

She pulled back a section of the heavy fabric. She reeled backward with a grimace, momentarily blinded by sunlight. When her eyes adjusted, her jaw dropped at the view. She had to be gazing directly upon the sanctuary that housed Lillian and Mr. Waldegrave.

The “sanctuary?” Hardly.

The huge, expertly crafted building stood in a pool of direct sunlight. Even the layers upon layers of crisscrossed boards couldn’t hide the beauty in every line of its architecture. Back when the sun’s rays had danced across the exposed panels of stained glass, this bedchamber must have had the best view in the entire abbey.

She closed the curtain, careful to overlap the fabric just as she’d found it. How long would it take a servant to respond to her call? Her fingers drummed against the bedpost. A room such as this would surely be close enough for a request to answer promptly. Someone would arrive any second.

Drawn by morbid curiosity, she found herself crossing to the open wardrobe. The clothes were not his, but the scent upon the pillows indicated her employer enjoyed a fair amount of time within these walls. Who was he spending his nights with? His wife? Where was she now?

Violet paused. If there were a missus, she would not only have been presented to her long before now, but the wife would most likely have been the decision maker with regard to hiring a governess in the first place. Therefore, there must not be a Mrs. Waldegrave.

Mr. Waldegrave must be a widower.

It wasn’t until this conclusion settled the nerves dancing along her intestines that Violet realized a small part of her had actually been concerned about... about what, exactly? Competition? She stifled a snort. He was so far above her status as to make even the daydream absurd. Yet she could not like the idea of him keeping a mistress. The roiling sensation returned to her stomach.

She ran a finger along the endless row of rich gowns, not bothering to deny the jealousy eating her from the inside out. Here she was, dipped in ink and forced to air dry, in the only dress of her possession. And here was Miss Lady of the Night, whose wardrobe was full to bursting with bejeweled finery. Or had been, anyway. Violet’s brow creased as she examined the gowns more closely. This wardrobe was even older than Mr. Waldegrave’s. These clothes had not been stylish in over a decade. She frowned, uneasily recalling the pair of gravestones behind the abbey. Was the owner of this wardrobe buried down below? Or was she locked away in a gilded tower somewhere, just like Lillian?

Violet shook the morbid fancy from her head. Mr. Waldegrave was not so dreadful as that. She would simply ask him for an explanation the next time she saw him.

In the meanwhile... Unable to resist such beauty, she lifted one of the gowns from the wardrobe and held it before her. Such artistry! Even its jewels had jewels. The cut was years out of fashion, but any woman who wore something this glorious to a ball would have her dance card filled within seconds.

She held it to her shoulders and glanced about for a looking glass. She’d never in her entire sorry life wear anything half so fine, of course, but there could be no harm in indulging a quick fancy while awaiting rescue. A mere glance at her reflection would be enough fodder for an imagination as active as hers to fill up the next two decades of tattered hand-me-down dresses, with the memory of the time she’d pressed a real, honest-to-God ball gown to her bosom.

Just as she neared the glass, the door swung open and Mr. Waldegrave strode in.

A horrified gasp strangled in her throat. Her fingers dug into the delicate fabric she clutched to her chest. She stared at him in guilt and mortification. She could think of nothing at all to say that might excuse this transgression, not that her tongue seemed to be working anyway.

Mr. Waldegrave, however, did not suffer a similar loss of words.

“How dare you.” His face paled in anguish. “How dare you step into this room, touch anything you have seen, defile it with your very presence! Get out, get out, get out!”

“I—I—I... ” was all she could manage, her nerves jangled to a mortal degree. She tried to return the gown to the wardrobe, truly she did, but her limbs had frozen as if struck with rigor mortis and not a single joint obeyed her command.

His eyes were wild, as if he no longer saw Violet but rather his own private nightmare. “I have asked you to leave. This room belonged to my wife, and is all I have left to remind me of being young and happy. My wife—”

“Y-your wife?” Violet managed, then flinched as his gaze came sharply in focus.

“Relinquish her gown at once.” He stared almost beseechingly at the bejeweled fabric, as if it had the power to restore his memories to reality. “Hand it over right now, Miss Smythe, or so help me... ”

Her fingers were frozen into trembling claws, her entire body shaking with terror. He was so much bigger than her. He blocked the only exit, and he was so angry. When consumed by this much emotion—

His hand flashed toward her.

Violet screamed. She stopped screaming only when she realized that he hadn’t so much as touched her. He’d simply snatched the ball gown from her hands. Well, most of it. Due to the death grip she’d held on the fragile silk, the gown hadn’t come free in one piece. Indigo threads clung to her stained bodice, and the once-fine gown now cradled in his hands was torn at the seams, the scalloped shoulders in jagged ribbons.

“Destroyed,” he said brokenly, his voice once again distant as if his words were not meant for her. “It cannot be fixed. Nothing can ever be fixed.” His eyes closed, as if in pain beyond all reckoning. “Gone. I can’t even hold on to a memory.”

Although her respiration seemed loud enough to fill the room, she still couldn’t make herself move so much as a finger.

With a tortured sound, his haunted eyes flew open. He ripped the already-ruined dress down the middle, then again, and again.

“Take it. Have all of it. Here.” He threw the torn scraps into her face. “It’s yours.”

With that, he turned on his heel and quit the chamber without another word.

She fell to her knees among the fluttering strips of jewel-encrusted silk, her shaking muscles unfreezing just enough to let her crumple to the floor.

Alistair barreled down the empty corridor, heedless of his path. He was angry. Furious. But mostly at himself, which made him feel like a prize arse. A sensation that only served to make him even angrier.

He’d ruined Marjorie’s dress. The very gown she’d worn the night she’d told him he was going to be a father. The night he was convinced he was the luckiest man alive. The night he was his very, very happiest.

He was a fool to think keeping a shrine to the memory would enable him to keep hold of that happiness. He could never be happy. Those days were gone. That pristine bedchamber had been his one connection to the past, a three-dimensional manifestation of the portrait they’d somehow never had time to sit for.

And now it would always remind him of Miss Smythe... and his own pain. How long had it been since that room had brought him true joy? How long had it been since anything had?

He slammed his fist into the closest wall. Fire shot up his arm. He shook out his throbbing hand as if he could fling off the pain. He told himself his eyes stung because of his bloody knuckles, because of his bruised pride, because of anything, anything, except the loss of his one window into happier times.

And why did it have to be Miss Smythe, who despite her lack of valises or references and the shocking way she’d been hand-delivered to his doorstep like a copy of the London Times, had exhibited nothing short of exemplary behavior up till now. She should not have been there, but neither had she deserved to bear the brunt of his torment. She had wrested at least a sliver of conditional trust from Lillian—Lord knew, Alistair himself had failed to achieve so much—and for heaven’s sake, hadn’t his reason for seeking the governess out in the first place, been to apologize for boorish behavior?

Then he’d passed Mrs. Tumsen, clipping at a dead run down the corridor despite her crooked back, frightened as if spooked by the devil himself. She’d been summoned, she said. To the missus’s old room. Everyone had heard the call.

He’d raced ahead of her with his mind still reeling from his daughter’s accusations, only to discover Miss Smythe in his wife’s bedchamber. Holding that cursed, cursed dress...

He slammed his fist to the wall once more. This time it didn’t hurt. This time he couldn’t feel anything. Nothing at all. It didn’t even feel like his fist anymore, nor did it feel like those were his bloody knuckles, marking up the wall with each strike. His vision swam as if he were trapped in someone else’s body. Oh, how he wished he were in someone else’s body.

But instead he was here, in this godless abbey, slamming his fist into a stone wall—

“Master! Master, come with me. Please.”

Roper. Roper was talking to him. Yes, they should go. Alistair glanced up at the bloodstained wall, then down at his mangled knuckles. Dejectedly, he allowed Roper to lead him away. He was back in his own body, his own miserable life. His hand hurt. He had a dead wife. A daughter who hated him. A governess who probably wished to see him imprisoned or in Bedlam or both.

And what was he supposed to do? All he wanted, all he wanted, was to be a good father to Lillian. Just that. Nothing more.

Why couldn’t he find a cure? He had money. Piles of gold. Whatever he lacked in scientific genius, he could hire. Mostly. He’d invited the sharpest minds in all of England to join him for a retreat, and some of them had even agreed to attend.

He desperately hoped they were men of their word. If ever there was a team who could fix Lillian, it was this group. And then she’d be cured. He’d give his daughter everything. The constellations, the sun, the stained glass he’d waited years to unveil. She’d see he was a good father, after all. He’d say, I love you, princess. I give you the world. And she’d finally say, I love you, too, Papa. They’d travel the world, just him and her, and perhaps her governess—

Oh, Lord, his forthcoming apology to Miss Smythe had just gotten a thousand times more humiliating. What could he say to her? What if she quit her post altogether? Now, when Lillian was showing the first signs of interest in education?

Or had been, before he’d intervened. But what had he been supposed to think? His hand still bore teeth marks from the night before. When he’d glimpsed the ink-stained dress and Lillian’s guilty expression, he’d had every reason to assume the worst.

No, that wasn’t the worst. The worst was knowing the truth about the day he’d rescued his screaming five-year-old daughter from the burning rays of sun. Lillian was correct—all he’d remembered was his terror and her pain. In the ensuing panic, he’d forgotten that he’d found her in the back lawn. That his little girl was standing mere feet from where her mother was buried, unable to read but more than capable of recognizing her own name...

This time, when his daughter had said I hate you just like every other night, he’d actually deserved it. His body shook. Perhaps he’d always deserved it. He ruined everything. With his hands, with his words, with his goddamn seed... everything he touched turned to ash.

“Master? Here’s your bedchamber. Sit in your chair and let me help you.”

He sat. He let Roper dress his wounded hand, divest him of his boots, prepare him a cup of tea.

Some men drank whiskey. Alistair did not. Good fathers did not drink their problems away, like Alistair’s had done. Good fathers focused on their children. Loved them, cherished them, despite any perceived faults. Fixed their problems. Alistair had thus far failed to fix anything at all. He was a terrible father. An even worse employer.

“She was holding the dress,” he whispered. Hopefully its curse had been broken when it ripped in two.

Roper’s scarred countenance twisted in confusion. “My lord?”

Alistair cleared his throat. “Miss Smythe. She deserves an apology for suffering my unseemly behavior. But how did she get into Marjorie’s bedchamber?”

“I can’t imagine, master. That chamber has a different key than the rest of the abbey. The only ones with access are you and—” Roper’s eyes bulged as though he were choking on his tongue. He pressed a frantic hand to his chest pockets, to his pants pockets, to his throat. “It’s gone. I had the key, and it’s gone. How did—” This time, Roper’s eyes squeezed shut and a mirthless laugh escaped his scarred lips. “Miss Smythe is indeed resourceful.” His eyes opened. He shook his head, his lips wry. “I suppose I deserved it.”

“Deserved what?” Alistair looked up from his raw knuckles. “What the devil are you about?”

Roper, for perhaps the first time in the many years of their acquaintance, looked nothing short of abashed. “When Miss Smythe knocked to be released from the catacombs, she asked me to accompany her to her quarters. I said I could not, because I was meant to wait for you.”

“I would scarcely have sacked you for showing a lady to her room.”

“I am accustomed to following your orders to the letter, and I... You are right. It was not well done of me.” Roper paused as if recalling the moment. “Miss Smythe asked to borrow the key to her chamber. She must have... selected... the wrong one. Do not blame her. And please let her know I accept full responsibility.”

“Tell her yourself.” Alistair was not at all convinced he’d comprehended Roper’s convoluted story, but he was in no mood to ply his manservant with questions. “I have my own apologies to make.”

Roper bowed his head. “As you please.”

“Go find her. Make her feel at home. I don’t want her wondering if she’s sacked, or if I’m mad as a hatter, or both. While you’re at it, call her a bath and a hot meal. Damn it all, I should never have left her alone.” He leaned back and sighed. “In the morning, go to town and see if the daywear I ordered her has arrived. If not, see if you can purchase anything that might suit. Mrs. Tumsen can take in hems if need be, but Miss Smythe sorely requires a new costume.”

“Yes, master. I will do my best.” Roper bowed once more, then took his leave.

Feeling both exhausted and horribly empty, Alistair stared at the bandaged hand in his lap. He wished he’d apologized to Miss Smythe immediately, for he certainly couldn’t face her now. Not after ripping his dead wife’s gown from her hands.

With a sigh, he dragged himself over to the stack of science and anatomy tomes piled atop his nightstand, and opened the first to the ribbon he’d placed between chapters that same morning. He’d work, that’s what he’d do. If he couldn’t help himself, at least he could help Lillian. Spend all night studying, memorizing, taking notes, just as he’d done the night before, and the night before that. He slipped on his pince-nez and began to read.

When his team of scientists arrived, he’d be ready.

Chapter 11

Gel, didn’t I tell ye not to bargain with the devil?”

Violet shook her groggy head and swung the door open enough to allow Mrs. Tumsen entry. The old woman may have been right about making bargains, but she was wrong about which Waldegrave was the devil. He had been a madman when he found Violet in his wife’s bedchamber. She sighed and shook her head. A madman who had just lost his last tie to a past he could never regain.

“Here.” The old woman shoved a pile of soft blue cloth forward. “I brought ye this. Hasn’t been fashionable since... well, ever, but Charles tells me ye might find it useful.”

Violet accepted the folded parcel in confusion. “Er... Charles?”

“Memory loss, have ye now? He’s the one that brought ye back to your room yesterday, if ye can’t recall. Although, to be fair, he did say ye were in a bit of a state, and rightly so, I imagine.”

Now she was certain she was still asleep. “Charles” was Mr. Roper, the surly manservant? True, he’d come to collect her from the bedchamber of Mr. Waldegrave’s dead wife, and true, Mr. Roper had immediately apologized for his role in the events of the afternoon. Regardless of any perceived slight, she should never have touched those gowns. Violet had been certain she’d be sacked, and wasn’t quite convinced whether she felt relieved to still retain her post.

She shook out the folds and held the garment out before her. Unfashionable, perhaps, but clean, comfortable, and about as old as—

“Mrs. Tumsen, does this dress belong to you?” Violet asked as she realized the truth.

“Once upon a time, but if ye think it’d fit me now, yer eyes are as bad as yer memory. Charles thought you might like summat new.” Mrs. Tumsen turned toward the door. “Don’t dally, now. Ought to break yer fast before ye enter the cave of horrors.”

With that, Mrs. Tumsen quit the room.

Violet laid the dress on her bed and went to the sideboard to splash water on her face. Blessedly, her ankle was much improved. She tested her foot. No more hobbling.

She wasn’t sure if Mrs. Tumsen’s “cave of horrors” referred to the catacombs or Lillian’s sanctuary or the entire abbey grounds, but now that Violet was awake, breakfast sounded just the thing.

Within fifteen minutes, she was dressed and ready. Another fifteen passed. No one came to fetch her. She frowned. Now that food had been mentioned, her stomach was growling at every interval. Sighing, she leaned against a bedpost to await Roper’s knock.

It was not forthcoming.

Hunger eventually turned into frustration at having been so easily forgotten. Again. She shoved her hands into her dress pockets and stalked toward the bell pull.

Her fingertips brushed cold metal.

She paused midstride as her fingers curled around a slender brass key. She withdrew her hand from the pocket, unable to hide the smile from her face. Clever. “Charles” had given her the perfect peace offering. He would never know that what she appreciated most was not the key itself, but the gift of his trust.

Smiling, she crossed to the door and slid the key into the lock. She swung open the door and found herself face to face with the scarred manservant himself.

“Mr. Roper!” How long had he been out there, waiting for her to notice the key, standing at the ready just in case she never did? She beamed at him. “Thank you.”

He raised his brows as if he couldn’t imagine to what she referred. “Good morning, miss. May I escort you to breakfast?”

“With pleasure.”

Later that morning, two hours into Lillian’s lessons, Violet thanked her lucky stars she’d taken Mrs. Tumsen’s advice and had a fortifying meal. She’d exhausted all her energy trying to keep up with Lillian. Today, there was no inkwell in the classroom, in order to for them both to focus on the blackboard.

Lillian had drawn an almost-perfect circle on the very first attempt. The ease in which the little girl perfectly copied each stroke indicated an artistic facility far beyond anything Violet had imagined.

Violet continued drilling letters until she was convinced Lillian could not only recognize all of them on sight, but could draw each one from memory.

“You’re a quick study, Miss Lillian. It’s a shame you haven’t had a bevy of governesses.”

Lillian shrugged and kept practicing letters. “Papa likes to teach me himself. He comes to my room every day and sings made-up alphabet songs and recites all the kings and queens of England, but I plug my ears and yell La! La! La! so I can’t listen.”

Violet’s sympathy toward him deepened even further. “Every day?”

“Every. Single. Day.” Lillian rolled her eyes. “Alphabet songs in the morning. Picture books on con-ti-nents at luncheon. I cover my face with my hands, like this.” She demonstrated, sending white chalk dust flying into her black hair. “After lunch? Maths. One plus one is two. Two plus two is four. I just plug my ears again and yell La! La! La! until he goes away.”

Violet could not fathom dealing with such determined rejection, day after day. “And after maths?”

“Supper, followed by story time, once I’m tucked in bed. I cover my ears, but I don’t scream.” Lillian glanced up slyly over one shoulder. “I like story time. I just don’t want Papa to know.”

“But why on earth not? It sounds like your father loves you very much.”

“He. Does. Not. If he loved me, he wouldn’t have—” Lillian’s chalk dropped as she crossed her arms and glared at Violet. “I went outside and didn’t die. I could do it again. If he loved me, he would let me get my own flowers. Even if it hurt.”

Violet cocked her head as she gazed at her charge. “Is it possible he won’t take you outside because he does love you?”

“No,” Lillian said flatly. “He hates me. She shoved the blackboard across the table and crossed her thin arms over her narrow chest. “I thought you’d understand. I thought you were different.”

Violet’s lips pressed together as she considered how best to respond.

What did Lillian truly desire? She was blessed with more parental attention in one day than most of the pupils at the Livingstone School for Girls had ever had in their entire lives. Unable to go out-of-doors was indeed a horrible fate, but Lillian both recognized and admitted to the severity of the unfortunate condition she and her father shared. Was the rancor due to her age or to her unconventional upbringing?

“I think we’ve had enough orthography for one day,” Violet announced.

Lillian’s arms uncrossed, her expression startled. “What?”

“Come.” Violet rose from the bench, crossed to the center of the room, and sank to her knees. “Sit on the floor with me.”

Lillian’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “And study what?”

Violet lifted a careless shoulder. “And study what it feels like to dirty one’s backside by placing it upon a marble floor.”

Lillian burst out laughing. She was at Violet’s side within seconds, wiggling expectantly. “I knew you were different!”

The girl wasn’t just angry at her father, Violet decided as she gazed down at the nine-year-old’s infectious grin. Lillian was in want of a mother. But what exactly had happened? And how did one broach such a topic?

At last, she decided upon, “Do you remember your mother?”

Lillian’s mouth tightened. “She’s dead. I killed her.”

Violet gaped, speechless.

Was it true? How could it possibly be true? If it were true, it could explain why servants like Mrs. Tumsen considered the child a monster. But honestly, who could believe such nonsense? Life on the streets might be rough, but Lillian was sheltered… and significantly smaller than most children her age. She might scratch or bite, but she hardly posed life-threatening danger.

“Lillian, I’m sure you didn’t—”

“I did.” Lillian crossed her arms and looked away. “And I don’t want to talk about it.”

Well.

Violet could certainly understand not wanting to discuss the murder of one’s mother. But she couldn’t understand any other aspect of the alleged event.

“Lillian—”

“I said no.”

Violet affected an expression of deep longing. “I just wondered if you would teach me one of those songs. I never had a father to sing to me.”

Lillian swiveled to face her. “You didn’t?”

“Or a mother, either. I had to grow up by myself. I was your age before I even knew the alphabet existed. It never occurred to me to make up songs about it.”

Lillian squinted at Violet’s face for a long moment before apparently deciding that what she saw there was truth.

“All right,” she said grudgingly. “But don’t plug your ears.”

Violet crisscrossed her heart with one finger. “Promise.”

After much theatric clearing of the throat, Lillian began to sing. “A... b... c... d—”

They were still huddled together on the floor when Mr. Waldegrave came to relieve Violet, a few minutes later. The door had opened quietly enough that Lillian, with her back to the passageway, had not yet noticed her father’s arrival.

He clutched the doorjamb as if thunderstruck.

Violet was careful not to break eye contact with her charge, so that Lillian would continue “teaching” Violet the song. She felt it important that Mr. Waldegrave realize that no matter how much Lillian appeared to have resented his attempts at instruction, she had listened and remembered. And enjoyed reenacting her father’s songs with impressive dramatic flair.

When the song ended, however, he slipped back into the passageway as if he’d remembered a forgotten appointment. The door closed softly behind him. Violet blinked at the now-empty space where he had just stood.

A knock sounded. “Lillian?”

“Miss Smythe! It’s Papa!” Eyes round, Lillian leapt to her feet and tried to tug Violet to hers. “Quickly, quickly. Don’t let him see us on the floor.”

Violet allowed herself to be led back to the table. “Why not?”

Lillian stared at her as if Violet were shamefully slow for a governess. “Because if he thinks I’m not learning, he’ll send you away.”

“Ah.” Before Violet could think of a more profound rejoinder, the door reopened and Mr. Waldegrave reentered, this time with significantly more scuffle and noise.

“How was class?” he asked gruffly.

Chin high, Lillian glanced away without responding.

“Lovely, as always,” Violet answered, rising to her feet. “Miss Lillian, enjoy your luncheon. We’ll continue in two hours.”

“If we must.” Lillian stalked sullenly to her father’s side, but made no attempt to attack him with words or fists.

“Miss Smythe, if you don’t mind waiting here for me?” Something in his eyes indicated this was much more than an idle request. “I will just be a moment.”

She busied herself straightening the table. “Of course.”

By the time she’d collected all the pieces of chalk—and brushed what dust she could from her backside—Mr. Waldegrave had returned.

“Please.” He held open the door, candle in hand. “Come with me.”

Keeping her expression impassive, Violet joined him in the passageway. He made no move to continue walking. Nor did he speak. Then:

“Please accept my apologies for the outburst yesterday afternoon.” His voice was low, but sincere. “My behavior was inexcusable.”

“I owe you the greater apology,” she admitted. “Pilfering Mr. Roper’s key was not at all well done of me. Nor was browsing someone else’s belongings. I had no right to touch anything not pertaining to myself.”

His head tilted sharply. “You took Roper’s key without his knowledge?”

“I’m afraid so.” She hoped the passageway was shadowed enough to hide her blush.

He was silent for a long moment and then did the unthinkable. He laughed.

“That explains the change of heart, all right.” He gave her a conspiratorial grin. “Roper doesn’t tend to like much of anyone, but seemed to make an exception for you. You got the better of him—a feat heretofore unprecedented. He cannot help but respect that.”

She smiled back. “I’m not sure I bested him so much as he underestimated me.”

“Same thing, I’d wager. And either way, a wonderful lesson for Roper.”

“And for me, as well.” She took a deep breath. “I am truly sorry about the gown. It was beautiful.”

“It belonged to my wife long, long ago.” He bowed his head. “She was an angel.”

Of course she was. Violet let out a soft sigh. She couldn’t compete with that. No one would ever confuse her with an angel. She’d been fed the forbidden fruit at far too young an age, and there’d been no recovering her halo after that.

“This way, if you please.” He stepped aside to fit a key into the lock of an adjoining room. “What I’d like to show you is in here.”

He swung open the door and waited for her to step inside an enormous room filled with large wooden trunks.

The next thing she noticed was the floor-to-ceiling curtains enshrouding the far wall, and the telltale sliver of light emanating from a crack between two of the boards.

“Stop!” She held out her arms to block him from entering. “I can see light.”

He frowned. “Lillian is tucked safely in her bedchamber. She will never be in this room.”

Embarrassed, Violet returned her arms to her sides. “I meant you.”

“Me.” His expression shuttered for a moment. “I come at night, when only stars are in the sky, and one can scarce make out the faintest glimmer as cloud-covered moonlight filters through.” He glanced away. “I should not allow myself even that pleasure, but when I am at wit’s end it brings me peace. The constellations are beautiful. Nighttime is so calm. And,”—his smile was self-conscious—“I love the stars.”

Her traitorous heart gave another sharp tug. Her artist’s soul could not imagine a worse fate for father and daughter than to be trapped in bodies incapable of visiting God-given nature in all its beauty. Of all the diseases she’d seen people die from over the years, perhaps living with an illness of the skin would be a worse torture still.

He stepped aside. “I am giving you this room.”

“You’re what?” She stared at him.

“It’s yours. I won’t be back.” He looked as though the decision had been painful. “Please, open the trunks. Their contents are yours as well.”

Feeling as if she were trapped in a waking dream, she slowly approached the closest trunk and tugged it open. Paint brushes. Paint brushes! She laughed in delight and fairly ran to the next. Paints! Boxes and boxes of oils and watercolors, and powders for mixing her own paints. The larger trunks were filled with canvases. The smallest, with charcoals and colored pastels. She was in heaven. This room was heaven! There were more supplies than she’d had even back at the school. Oh, she could scarcely wait to introduce Lillian to the world of art! Violet clapped her hands together in anticipation.

“Thank you ever so much,” she gushed, not caring if she sounded a complete ninny. “You cannot imagine how happy you’ve just made me, or how much joy I believe these paints and brushes will bring Lillian. This is amazing. Splendid. Marvel—”

“That’ll do,” he interrupted, a touch of pink to his cheeks. “You’ll inflate my already quite imposing ego.”

“Your ego has met its match,” she informed him with a smile. “Just wait until I start painting. I’m the most talented artist of my acquaintance, and once I turn your daughter into a child prodigy, we will be the most formidable artistic duo in three continents.”

His smile was cautious but pleased, and for the first time since her arrival, Violet felt she’d said exactly the right thing.

“Come,” he ordered with mock severity. “Allow me to escort the most talented artist of your acquaintance to luncheon while there is still time for nourishment.”

After selecting a fresh taper, she allowed him to lead her into the passageway. Before she could allow him to take his leave, however, she needed to know the truth behind Lillian’s matricidal confession.

“May I ask something personal?”

“Anything,” he answered promptly, but his eyes were now shuttered.

She could think of no subtle way to introduce her concerns, so she decided on plain speaking. “Lillian... says she killed her mother.”

He staggered backward. “She knows?”

Violet’s jaw dropped. “It’s true?”

Mr. Waldegrave shoved a hand through his hair. “Who told her?”

“What,” Violet managed to ask, “are we even talking about?”

“My wife,” he answered, his broad shoulders slumping against a dark wall. “We’re talking about Marjorie.”

Violet frowned. Marjorie Waldegrave did in fact have a gravestone out behind the abbey—but so did Lillian, and she was hale and hearty. Could she trust this man to tell the truth? Afraid of his response, she forced herself to ask what happened.

At first, she thought he would ignore the question. But after a long moment, he began to speak.

“We were young,” he said, his tone faraway. “In love. Thrilled to find ourselves on the verge of parenthood, of having a child to shower with all the parental affection we believed ourselves denied.” His voice was wry when he added, “We were children of privilege, you see. We had everything money could buy, and it still wasn’t enough.”

“All children yearn for parents, I imagine. No matter how expensive their toys.”

“Perhaps. In the end, it didn’t matter.” He rubbed his face with one hand. “There was never an opportunity to become a family.”

This time when he paused, Violet didn’t interrupt. She could think of nothing of value to say.

“The pain came early,” he said at last. “The contractions were too fierce, too frequent. By the time the midwife arrived, the morning sun was high in the sky and the bedclothes soaked with blood. Lillian’s head had crowned. Then came her tiny shoulders, an arm, her belly. As the sun highlighted each adorable feature, her baby-perfect skin browned and bubbled and blistered. The baby wailed in agony. Not healthy, newborn screams, mind you, but a wrenching shriek of unimaginable pain, like prisoners being tortured on the rack.”

Without thinking, Violet touched her hand to his arm. She hesitated awkwardly, not quite certain how to show her empathy through physical touch. He did not pull away. He seemed to be grateful to feel her fingers trembling against his shirtsleeve. Somehow, he understood.

“I saw what was happening,” he continued, his voice strained. “I snatched my terrified daughter from the midwife’s iron grip and swung her into the shadows. The blistering slowed, but the damage had been done. Lillian still bears the scars.”

Violet closed her eyes, and pictured Lillian’s exquisite long-sleeved gowns in a new light. The scars on her small face weren’t pockmarks after all, but rather a permanent memento of her birth.

“I dipped her limbs in cool water. Once the maids banished the sun behind thick curtains, I wrapped a cloth about Lillian’s sore flesh so I could bring her tiny face close to Marjorie’s. The baby finally stopped crying. But by then, Marjorie’s lips were blue, her skin pasty, her lungs silent. She never got to lay eyes on our child.” His shoulders twitched.

“What did you do then?” Violet asked quietly.

He stared at the candle flame. “Buried my wife. The midwife said I should bury Lillian as well, told anyone who would listen that Marjorie had died birthing the cursed spawn of Satan himself. Ridiculous, of course, but we are a small town, and most of the villagers believe in superstition, rather than science. A witch hunt was imminent.” He drew a shaky breath. “So I commissioned two gravestones and, God help me, spread word that my daughter had died as well. I am not proud of my actions, but it kept the pitchforks at bay during a time when I could barely fight my own demons.”

Violet trembled with horror. Not for what he had done, but for what he had gone through, what he had suffered. Could anything bring him comfort? Her hand slid up the warm muscle of his arm.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “You did your best.”

He was silent. She could think of nothing more to say, so she gently stroked his arm with her fingers.

“It’s not enough,” he said brokenly. “It will never be enough.”

“No.” She grasped both his forearms, their bodies now just a whisper apart. “You are a good father, Alistair Waldegrave. Anyone can see how much you love your daughter.”

He trembled, but said nothing.

“Whether you believe it or not, she loves you, too.” Violet cupped his face with her hands, her mouth inches from his. How she wished she were bold enough to close the distance between them. To show him just how passionately she meant each word.

“She doesn’t love me,” he said, his breath mingling with hers. “How could she?”

“How could she not?” Violet replied, and pressed her mouth to his.

His response was immediate. Hot. Hungry. Not at all what she’d imagined his kiss to be. Infinitely, infinitely better.

Her entire body thrilled. Incredible. She wondered at her own pleasure. Why was she not recoiling from his touch? Was it because he had somehow managed to earn her trust? Or because he was in pain, and she could bring him pleasure?

She slid her palms from his cheeks to his hair, burying her fingers in the soft curl at his nape. Her mouth opened to his onslaught, devouring his kisses as much as he was devouring hers.

A part of her had wanted to kiss him from the moment she’d seen the curve of his lips and the emotion in his eyes. Perhaps what she’d truly been searching for hadn’t been an excuse to kiss him, but rather a reason for him to kiss her. Either way, it was perfect. Better than perfect. A real kiss, a real man, someone who valued her as more than a possession, someone with whom her body twined because she had done the choosing. And, oh, how divinely their bodies twined...

Without lifting his mouth from hers, he gripped her hips. The taper fell from her fingers. The flame sizzled and winked out before the candle hit the ground. Although darkness engulfed them, she did not panic. His hands were rough, yet somehow gentle—everything she wanted and was frightened to want, all tangled into one. His grip was firm enough to feel, to know, to claim. And yet he wasn’t hurting her, hadn’t forced her, hadn’t done anything but open his heart. She had pulled him close to tell him with her tongue and the press of her body the things that her mind could not make words for. She was safe in his arms, and her only thoughts were of his kisses.

His splayed fingers caressed her spine, her waist, her hips. She reveled in the sensation of being held, of being treasured. Of feeling safe. She abandoned her grip on his hair in order to lock her arms behind his neck, to raise herself on her toes and lean into him so that he was supporting her with his strong body, while she supported him with the emotion in her heart.

He had one hand in her hair, the other at the small of her back. Her arms hugged him tightly, her breasts rubbing against his chest, her pelvis doing much the same against his thighs. Her limbs trembled from pure sensation. She hadn’t known it could be this way. Doubted it even could be this way with anyone except this man, whose big heart had touched her soul. She had to know if there were room in his heart to feel even a fraction of that connection with her, too. If her heart could touch his, and return the favor. The caress of his tongue against hers made her tingle in all the other places she yearned to feel his touch. What would intimacy be like when fueled by shared passion? His kisses were hot and wet and dangerous. And with every kiss, she wanted more.

Panting, he tore his lips from hers, and God help her, she felt the loss in every pore of her body.

“I... We can’t,” he said hoarsely, then claimed her mouth in another long kiss before breaking free once again. “I want to, but we can’t.”

He untwined her arms from about his neck and placed them at her sides. Although it was now pitch black in the passageway, she felt as though he could somehow still see her, that the darkness helped him see straight through her clothes to her core. Her flesh heated at the thought.

Still holding her hands, he pressed a kiss to her forehead.

Violet’s ardor cooled at the gentle touch. A kiss to the forehead was not passion. A kiss to the forehead was good-bye. Her shoulders sagged, her entire body feeling as if it might crumble into a thousand pieces and settle like dust among the shadows.

His warm breath tickling her hair, he whispered, “Thank you.”

She couldn’t even speak. And then he was gone.

Chapter 12

Even a sleepless night fraught with shamefully lurid dreams of compromising positions could not keep Violet from stumbling out of bed to greet the new morning. She hadn’t forgotten the gifts of the previous day. So many paints and canvases awaited that the sheer number and variety of cloths and colors was positively dizzying. She had never been visited by Father Christmas, so she couldn’t say with certainty, but she imagined children lucky enough to receive presents must feel precisely this drunk with giddy anticipation at the prospect of opening every single box.

Art brought her joy. The anticipation of art brought her joy. And with any luck, perhaps she could share a bit of that joy with the solemn Waldegraves.

Violet smiled to herself as she shoved pins into her hair. Dawn was far too early to countenance marmalade or soft-boiled eggs, but it was perfect for art. The moment she was remotely presentable, she was out the door and down the hall. Even the shadows her meager flame cast upon the catacomb walls could do nothing to dispel her spirits. Not when there were canvases waiting!

Within minutes, she was cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by a sea of colorful potential. Soon, her chignon had fallen, her borrowed dress was three shades lighter with dust, but she was happy, truly happy, for the first time she could recall since the death of Old Man Livingstone.

Wryly, she glanced over her shoulder at the soaring wall of boarded-over stained glass. If ever there was a domicile in need of some beauty, it was Waldegrave Abbey. And if ever there were a lonely child desperately in need of an escape, it was Miss Lillian.

Now that her materials were organized, the only question was what to paint first. Violet peered into the largest box of canvases. Mr. Waldegrave had surely lost his mind. With or without frames, there were enough blank canvases to paper the entire sanctuary! What on earth was he—

Her spine snapped straight. It was all she could do not to laugh aloud at the thought. Why not paper the sanctuary? Perhaps there weren’t truly enough canvases to rise all the way to the topmost rafters, but at the very least she could certainly manage eye-level. Miss Lillian might not be able to step outside, but there was no reason at all why Violet could not bring the outside in.

It would take weeks, of course, and every speck of every paint in every box—but, oh, would it be worth it!

Unable to conceal her grin, she rose to her feet. Right now she had a little girl to teach, but tonight she would paint. Tonight, and every night hence. She shook the dust from her skirts and surveyed the room one last time.

Oh, certainly it couldn’t hurt to augment today’s lesson with a bit of art. Surely that would be far more interesting than the endless screech of chalk upon the blackboard. Without wasting precious time on putting together a frame, she rolled the smallest of the unstretched canvases, selected a brush and a small tray of watercolors, and sailed out the door to collect her charge.

Two hours later, she was kneeling in the schoolroom beside a little girl so overcome with excitement that her shaking fingers flung more paint droplets upon herself and the floor than the canvas before her. The promise of watercolors had ensured Lillian acted the model student throughout maths and history, and now that she finally held a dripping paintbrush in her hand, Lillian was in danger of exploding with happiness on the spot.

Slowly, painstakingly, she drew the bristles up, over, down, until the final swish of a berry-pink “n” glistened wetly at the edge of the canvas.

“There. ‘Lillian.’” She lifted her gaze to Violet, her lower lip clenched nervously betwixt her teeth.

“Just so,” Violet agreed with an encouraging smile. “How does it feel to have created something so beautiful?”

A mischievous smile flashed across Lillian’s face. “It makes me want to take the brushes back to my bedchamber and paint every single day.”

“I knew we were two of a kind,” Violet said with a laugh. “I was your age when I nicked my first stick of chalk, and after that there was no going back.”

Lillian’s eyes widened. “You stole chalk? How?”

“I pretended to let a boy kiss me,” Violet said with a conspiratorial grin. “Distract ’em, and you can nick anything.”

Lillian giggled. “I don’t have to kiss boys. Papa can buy anything I want.”

Violet’s cheeks heated. “True enough. And if it’s paint you desire, you won’t have to work hard to convince your father. Once he sees how talented you are, he won’t deny you a thing.” She nodded toward the canvas. “I particularly like the colors you’ve chosen. I see you’ve got pink in there twice. Is pink your favorite color?”

Lillian’s eyes widened, then lowered. “I should not have done the same color twice. I mucked it up, didn’t I? I ought to have chosen red or brown or black or—or anything else. I will next time. I promise. Oh, can we do it again? Sometime, I mean. Please? I’ll use any color you wish. It doesn’t have to be pink. I—”

“Lillian.” Violet grabbed her beneath the shoulders and forced the child to meet her eyes. “The only rule in art is that there aren’t any rules in art.”

Lillian frowned at her. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Art doesn’t have to make sense. You can paint in every color of the rainbow if you so choose, or you can paint in just pink for the rest of your life.”

Lillian blinked damp lashes. “What does a rainbow look like? Is it truly beautiful?”

“Rainbows... ” Violet took a deep breath. She needed to calm the child, not add to her pain. “Honey, what I’m trying to say is that no matter what color you pick, it’s fine. It’s better than fine—it’s you. Which makes it perfect.”

Lillian shook her head. “It’s not perfect. Nothing about me is perfect. If it’s me, then it’s ugly and awful and stupid and should be hidden away forever and ever.” She tried to twist free from Violet’s grasp and, when she could not, lashed out at the table leg with her foot. The corner of the canvas slid over the table’s edge, distorting the final stroke of the “n” into watery pink rivulets. “I wanted it to be better than me.” Lillian’s voice broke. “I wanted it to be pretty.”

“It is pretty. You’re pretty.” Violet tried to envelop her in a hug, but Lillian held herself stiff and unyielding. After a moment, Violet changed her mind and gently let go. “Here. Watch this.”

She rescued the half-fallen canvas and repositioned it in the center of the table. She slid the tip of the brush through a spot of pink in the tray, and began to paint along the border of the canvas. Broad strokes. Delicate strokes. And every one of them in varying shades of pink.

At first Lillian held back, staring suspiciously at the canvas through narrowed eyes. Once she saw the images take shape, however, she stood so close that Violet could barely reach around her to keep painting.

“They’re flowers,” Lillian breathed. “Pink ones. Pretty pink ones. They’re not red, like the ones Papa brings. They’re not like Papa’s flowers at all. They’re—they’re—”

“They’re lilies,” Violet supplied, without pausing the steady strokes of her brush. “This beautiful pink flower is called ‘lily.’ Like you.”

Her breath caught. “They’re real?”

“Absolutely real. Some lilies are pink, and all of them are pretty. But none is as beautiful as you.”

Lillian stared, her eyes wide with wonder.

Violet pretended not to notice, focusing instead on completing the flowery border surrounding Lillian’s name.

“Lilies,” she repeated softly, her eyes transfixed on the canvas. “Like me.”

At last, the final petal was sketched. Violet laid down the brush. “Now what do you think, Miss Lily? Do you like them?”

Lillian choked out a hiccupy laugh and threw her arms around Violet’s waist. “I adore them,” she said into the folds of Violet’s dress. “Thank you.”

“I adore you,” Violet replied quietly, unsurprised to realize it was true. She placed a soft kiss atop Lillian’s dark head. “And you’re welcome. If you concentrate very hard on your sums this week, perhaps I shall even teach you to paint lilies yourself.”

Lillian jerked her tear-stained face away from Violet’s skirt enough to stare up at her in disbelief. “Are you bribing me?”

“Absolutely,” Violet answered with a cheerful grin. “Is it working?”

Lillian giggled and gave her another squeeze. “Absolutely.”

At that moment, a knock sounded upon the schoolroom door.

“Papa.” Lillian ran color-stained fingers over her hair and attempted to straighten her paint-splattered dress. “Do you think he’ll like the painting?”

“I’m certain of it,” Violet reassured her, praying Mr. Waldegrave would not inadvertently crush Lillian’s obvious wish to please. “Come in!”

The door swung open and Mr. Waldegrave strode through, the trio of fresh-cut roses in his hand undoubtedly meant for his daughter’s chamber. “Ladies, I—”

He stopped short at the expression on his daughter’s face. He glanced questioningly at Violet, then followed her pointed gaze to the canvas upon the table. When he turned to smile at Lillian, the pleasure in his eyes was unfeigned. “What a lovely painting, daughter. Did you do this?”

Lillian nodded double-time, then blushed and glanced up at Violet. “That is to say, I painted my name—I picked the colors and everything, and I even picked pink two times, because there’s no rules in art. And then Miss Smythe helped with the other flowers. You will never guess what they’re called!”

His eyes crinkled in amusement, but he paused to consider the canvas as if lost in deep thought. “If I’m not mistaken,” he said after a long moment, “I would have to say they look just like lilies.”

“They are lilies!” Lillian crowed, then turned round eyes up at Violet. “They are real!”

“Of course they’re real, Miss Lily,” Violet answered briskly, busying herself with the cleaning of brushes to distract herself from the strange joy-sorrow tangling in her stomach. “I believe they may even be my favorite flower.”

“They’re my favorite color and my favorite flower! May I keep it? Please? Oh, Papa, may I have it in my room?”

Mr. Waldegrave’s eyes widened. Whether he was more shocked at being personally addressed or at hearing the word “please” fall unbidden from his daughter’s lips, Violet could not say.

“I suppose we ought to let it dry first,” he said with a smile, “and then I don’t see why not. You did a wonderful job, Lillian, and the painting will look splendid in your bedchamber.”

Lillian stared at her father as if he’d offered her a kingdom. “Y-you think it’s... wonderful?”

He stared back at her in surprise. “I can see that it’s wonderful. If you didn’t want it for your bedchamber, I was set to beg it from you for my own.”

“You were?” Lillian blinked at the painting, then raised shocked brows at Violet. When Violet simply raised her own eyebrows in response, Lillian squared her shoulders and returned her gaze to her father. “All right, then.”

His forehead creased. “All right what?”

“All right, you can have it.” Lillian gave her father a censorious stare. “But not until it dries. And I get to visit it anytime I want.”

Mr. Waldegrave lowered his eyes, as if he believed he could somehow hide the vulnerability therein. But the only person blind to the all-encompassing love he had for his daughter was his daughter herself. And he was just as blind to hers. If Violet had managed to lift their suffering for just a moment, for just long enough for them to truly see each other, if only for a second—then the wet scrap of canvas lying between them was the greatest bit of art she’d ever created in her life.

“Deal,” he said at last. “I will cherish it always. Thank you, daughter.”

Lillian shot Violet a smug look and stage-whispered, “Papa never thanks me.”

Violet returned an arch look of her own. “Have you ever tried to deserve his thanks?”

Lillian frowned. “What do you mean?”

Violet lifted a shoulder. “People get to hear ‘thank you’ when they do something nice. Perhaps hearing ‘thank you’ more often is within your control after all. What about your father? Do you say ‘thank you’ to him when he is nice to you?”

Lillian’s lips puckered. She seemed to realize there was not much to be said. Not when all three of them knew very well that she’d spent years doing her best to appear ungrateful. For the first time, however, she seemed to consider how her father might have felt. Cheeks tinged with pink, she gestured awkwardly at his side and mumbled, “You bring flowers.”

“So I do,” he agreed slowly, staring at the roses in his hand as if he’d forgotten their existence. Perhaps he had. “Although it seems I have been bringing the wrong kind all along.” He shook his head as if to clear it from unwanted thoughts, and then offered his daughter a hopeful smile. “Starting tomorrow, I will grow lilies instead.”

Lillian angled her head as if thinking the proposition over carefully before coming to a decision. “Lilies are my favorite,” she said slowly, “but... I like yours, too.”

This time, it was Mr. Waldegrave’s turn to be nonplussed. He gazed at his daughter as if her words held the power to turn dirt into gold.

“You do?” His voice was so soft as to be almost shy. “These are roses. Lilies are your favorite, but roses... Roses were your mother’s favorite.”

Lillian sucked in a breath as if the flowers before her had been imbued with magical powers. “They were?”

He nodded as if he could no longer trust himself to speak.

Lillian looked at the profusion of painted lilies surrounding her name, then back to the three roses dangling from her father’s hand. The blooms were full, the petals perfect. Bright red and fragrant. She stepped forward to take them from him. “They’re my favorite, too. I have two favorites. Lilies and roses both.” She cut a sudden worried glance toward Violet. “I can have two favorites?”

“You can have as many favorites as you wish,” Violet assured her. She’d been trying so hard to melt into the background that it was startling to be suddenly included, as if her opinions were as important as those of father and daughter. “Favorites are like art—there’s no rules at all.”

Lillian nodded gravely. She brought the roses to her nose, her eyes closing as she inhaled deeply. When she opened them again, she had eyes only for her father. “Thank you, Papa. Your flowers are beautiful.”

He flinched, as if her words cut just as much as they healed. Or as if right up until she spoke, he had still expected his gift to be thrown back into his face. He hesitated, then reached one thorn-scarred hand out to his daughter. “Would you like to help me arrange them in the vase?”

Violet’s breath caught and held while they both awaited Lillian’s reply. She doubted he realized that it would take just as much courage for his daughter to accept the offer as it did for him to extend it.

Finally, when Violet was nearly dizzy with worry, Lillian nodded. She kept the roses pressed to her chest with one hand and reached the other one out to her father. His large, strong fingers closed gently around her tiny watercolor-stained hand. They left the room hand-in-hand.

Before the door had even latched behind them, Violet turned sharply away to busy herself cleaning paintbrushes as if she got paid by the bristle. They had touched each other. They had touched her. Perhaps Lillian could begin to heal. Perhaps Mr. Waldegrave would, too.

Violet was gathering the last of the supplies when the schoolroom door reopened, and he stepped back inside.

He stood for a long moment in silence. And then he simply whispered, “Thank you.”

She shook her head without meeting his gaze.

“I don’t know how you managed to convince her I—” The words cut off abruptly. He cleared his throat, then began again. “Do you know how long I’ve waited to feel my daughter’s hand in mine?”

Her hands stilled atop the paintbrushes as she met his gaze. “Years, I imagine.”

“You did this.” His voice was violent. Joyful. Terrified. He stepped forward to grab her hands, then just as quickly dropped them. He ran his fingers through his hair. Laughed. Then stared at her with panicked eyes. “This miracle you wrought, it’s... How can I... There are no words for... Oh, did you see her? She actually—”

He pressed his lips to hers and let his kiss finish the words he could not say.

Violet reveled in his arms. She had ached for his touch ever since their last kiss. She had yearned for the sensations of intimacy, of passion, of being cherished. She had tried to push the encounter from her mind, but she hadn’t succeeded in driving it from her heart.

Hesitantly, she held his face in her hands, silencing his words with the sweetness of her kiss. She lacked the words to express her understanding, but wished him to know, to feel, that the miracle had affected them all. Years of longing for closeness had hollowed her soul, but here, now, she had hope once more. She had him. They had each other. She slid her hands into his hair, tugging, pulling, until his lips parted, and the kiss was no longer sweet, but carnal.

He tasted like hope, like abandon, like desire. And he did not close his eyes. He let her see the tumult within. The vulnerability. The passion. His awareness of her, of them, of their kisses and their bodies and the fire building deep inside that threatened to consume them both.

She locked her arms about his neck, pressing her breasts against the warmth of his chest. Seeing him interact with his daughter, the thousand-and-one ways he showed his unconditional love... She could not help but admire such a big heart, just as she could not help but crave a taste of emotional as well as physical closeness. His hands were unlike any that had touched her before. His were gentle, seeking to give rather than take. They broke through her walls and tempted her to open, to trust. To risk her very heart.

Her every muscle was tense, but with excitement rather than fear. The realization heightened the sensation of every touch, every kiss. Her back was to the wall—had she tugged him there, or had he pinned her?—allowing her to wrap her legs about him as he lifted her higher and leaned his body into hers. She could bask in his arms forever. He, too, desired emotional and physical closeness. She could feel it. She could offer it.

The more she pulled him to her, the deeper his kisses. She clung to him. The tighter her legs clutched him, the harder his hands dug into her rear, grinding his hard length of his shaft against the heat at her core. Confusion nipped at the edges of her desire. She had never felt this... pleasured. This was far more intense than mere kisses. This was her body quickening to his. And she loved it. He swallowed her gasps, drugging her with his kisses and teasing her with the promise of his pleasure until she could no longer withstand the aching need so tantalizingly out of reach.

Although she well knew the mechanics of lovemaking, she had never dreamed she would one day yearn for it. Now it made sense. She ached to feel that closeness with someone who actually cared about her. Someone exactly like the man in her arms, who even now dipped his head to nuzzle her neck. She arched her back, presenting him instead with the swell of her breast. Begging him with actions because she didn’t have the words. Wasn’t certain what to do, how to feel. His mouth latched onto the proffered curve and her nipple immediately responded, straining for his tongue through the now-damp fabric. She shivered, amazed. Every inch of her wanted him, inside and out. She did trust him. And she wanted more.

Her fingers clenched in his hair, forcing him closer, reveling in the desperate groan escaping his throat as his shaft strained against the skin-tight buckskin of his breeches. She wanted to share the pleasure, to give as well as get. She wanted the moment to mean as much to him as it did to her. She slid one hand from his hair, down the angles of his face, the heat of his neck, the hard muscle of his arm, the slim taper of his waist, to the shadowy heat where their bodies touched. She needed him as desperate for her touch as she was for his.

The back of her hand eased deliciously, agonizingly, against her own core even as her palm slid across his shaft, cupping, squeezing, each movement teasing them both until she could no longer tell which gasps renting the air were hers or his. This was the moment when she would finally experience true intimacy. A closeness she had lacked her entire life. He would fill her body with his shaft, and fill the emptiness inside with a sense of belonging. They would share each other. Here. Now. Her entire body trembled, on the verge of explosion.

And then, just as she was about to slide the tips of her fingers behind the folds of his fall to touch the heat of his naked flesh, he leaped away as if scalded.

Her shoulders thumped against the wall. She regained her footing but not her equilibrium. Her shuddering limbs struggled to understand the unexpected loss of his body. Had he not felt the magic between them? How could he not want more?

She reached for him.

He turned from her.

She let her hand, suddenly cold, fall back to her side, limp. There was no togetherness after all. There would never be. No matter how hard she tried to connect, it would always be goodbye.

“I’m sorry,” he choked out, his voice a strangled whisper. “I did not mean—I had not intended—I only wished to thank you.” His head lowered, as if in shame. “No matter how much I—You did not deserve—Oh, damn my hide. I knew you were trying to comfort me. I don’t deserve it. I had just meant to thank you.” He pulled his coin purse from his pocket, upended its contents on the table. Pennies, sovereigns, half-crowns spilled onto its surface. “No amount of money can equal the gift you have given me today. I meant to thank you as an employer, and I could not. I meant to give thanks as a father, and I could not. I could only show you as a man.” He spun to face her, his dark gaze turbulent. “A flawed man, who succumbed to his passion rather than used his brain. I apologize for my behavior, Miss Smythe. It shall not be repeated.”

He shoved his empty coin purse back into his pocket and strode from the room before she could begin to formulate a reply. Or toss the coins right back. She was not a whore to be paid for favors. She had wanted to be in his arms, but she hadn’t wanted… this.

Perhaps he was right to draw a line. Hers were not the actions of a governess. Of a respectable young lady. Of a respectful employee. Those were the actions of a girl who had spent both her childhood and her adulthood starved for affection. She had finally met someone deeply capable of love, and had thought him as desperate to make a connection as she.

She rolled her shoulders and tried to put herself together. The moment had been far too powerful to resist, and she could not—would not—be sorry. The opportunity to experience such closeness might never present itself again.

Chapter 13

Violet didn’t lay eyes on Mr. Waldegrave even once over the following two days.

She was beginning to believe he very well might avoid her company forever. If so, then she was fiercely pleased to have lived fully in the moment the last time they were together. It had certainly not ended how she might have hoped, but she still had the memory of his caress, of closeness, of connecting with him, if only for a short window.

And then, one afternoon after lessons, he appeared at her door without warning. Bearing a stack of large parcels in his arms.

“What is this?” She creaked open her door to stare at him in confusion. “I didn’t order anything.”

“I did,” he said without meeting her eyes.

She frowned. “If this is because of the other night when we almost—”

“It’s not,” he said quickly. “These were ordered weeks ago. Please take them. They’re for you.”

Still confused, she moved aside to give him room to bring in the parcels. When he did not budge, her cheeks flamed.

Of course he would not enter her bedchamber. The realization that she felt comfortable enough to allow him to do so undoubtedly shocked him as much as it shocked her, albeit for different reasons. Until the school for girls, she’d never been offered privacy, much less been foolish enough to take gentlemanly manners for granted. And she’d never once trusted a man enough to have willingly allowed him across her threshold under any circumstances.

Until now.

Heart thudding, she reached out to accept the parcels from him. Twin lightning bolts of desire and sorrow streaked through her when their fingers touched. For the first time in her life, she wished a man to make himself comfortable, if only to talk. And for the first time in her life, this man not only showed no interest in doing so, he showed no interest in her company at all. The moment the parcels settled in her arms, he had already turned to go.

“Wait,” she choked out.

He paused. When he looked back at her, his chagrined expression indicated he felt the suffocating awkwardness between them as keenly as she.

“Wait,” she repeated softly. “At least allow me to see what it is you have brought.”

She glanced about for the closest available surface upon which to settle the parcels and settled for atop the escritoire. The wooden surface was easily large enough, and not much more than arm’s length from the threshold.

He returned to just outside the open doorway, careful to hang back a fair distance for propriety’s sake. Or perhaps because he, like her, was certain to combust if their shadows intertwined once again.

She unlaced the twine knotting the top bundle and slowly unwrapped the parcel. Her first thought was blue. No, not blue... blue-violet. Yards of rich fabric the very color of her eyes. She lifted the material from the paper, allowing the impossibly soft muslin to unfurl. Gasping, she clutched it to her chest and spun to face him, tears pricking at her eyes.

A gown. He’d bought her a gown!

Not just one, but several, and if the sumptuous cut of this one was any indication of the others, she would look every inch the fairytale princess her childhood self had always dreamed of being. Although there were no jewels adorning the neckline, this gown was even finer than the one she—

Violet’s breath caught, her throat suddenly scratchy. Even nicer than the one she’d ruined. Unlike the decade-old dresses she’d inadvertently stumbled across, these were cut in the first stare of today’s fashion. They were expensive. They were beautiful. She wouldn’t remotely resemble a governess anymore. She’d look like someone who belonged.

“Thank you,” she whispered through the tightness in her throat. “This means more to me than you can ever know.”

“It’s nothing,” he said gruffly, the tips of his ears turning pink. “But I’m glad you like it.”

Like it? She breathed in the scent of new, clean fabric and nearly swooned. The second he walked away, she planned to lock the door and try on every single one of them.

“A-are you dining with Lillian tonight?” she asked hesitantly. “If you’d like to dine together, I would love to join you wearing one of the new—”

“I don’t think that’s wise.” He took a step backward, as if she had suddenly become contagious. “The other night... I did not behave as I should. Until I can trust my brain and my body to comport themselves appropriately, I think it is best for us to spend less time together.”

Less time together? Her joy evaporated. She hadn’t seen him in two full days, and they lived in the same abbey. If they spent any less time together, she might as well be invisible. They would never again have an opportunity to share that magical closeness.

Misreading her distress—or perhaps not—he murmured, “I’m truly sorry.”

Then he turned and walked away.

She stumbled toward her escritoire and slumped onto the hard chair.

In a moment of extreme confusion, she had allowed herself to believe he felt for her as she did for him. She was wrong. He was sorry she’d misunderstood. He felt badly. He—the master of the manor, the one who offered shelter when he had no obligation to do so, the one who provided her with more than she’d ever dared to wish for—acted as if he had committed an unpardonable sin by indulging in desires she’d believed they both shared.

It hadn’t felt like sin at all. It had been strangely, gloriously, nice. For her. Twice she had sought to comfort him—to comfort herself—with kisses. And twice he had been the one to stop. To walk away.

Violet stared at the gown in her arms. He wished to thank her. She understood the message. She might belong at Waldegrave Abbey, but she certainly did not belong with him.

She just wished it didn’t make her feel like crying.

Chapter 14

A fortnight later, after yet another lonesome supper, Violet headed toward her bedchamber with the curious sensation that her world was teetering on the brink.

Lillian was soaking up art history and color theory like broth to bread. Mr. Waldegrave had made a habit of spending the least time possible in the company of his governess, but when she did catch him looking, his eyes were both haunted and hungry. And the outside world lurked just outside the abbey walls, ready to gobble her whole and spit her into the fire should she dare to show her face.

Or was she overworrying? Perhaps she was safely sequestered here at Waldegrave Abbey. In the nearly two months since fleeing the Livingston School for Girls, her biggest concern was having developed feelings for the occupants of the abbey. But she could not allow herself to forget that just because she didn’t leave its confines did not mean that the outside world didn’t exist.

“Miss Smythe?” came a deep voice from just behind her shoulder.

She spun around, one hand pressed to her heart. “Mr. Roper! You gave me quite a start. May I help you?”

“That depends.” His gaze was uncharacteristically merry. “Do you play at cards, Miss Smythe?”

She offered a sly smile. “I win at cards.”

The corners of Mr. Roper’s eyes crinkled, and the faintest hint of a dimple peeked betwixt the pink scars marring one side of his face. He offered his arm. “That almost sounds like a challenge.”

“Almost?” Her sense of unreality seemed to double as she placed her fingers on the manservant’s sleeve. “Then I shall strive to choose my words more carefully.”

“If you have half as much talent as you do confidence, then perhaps my efforts are better served convincing you to be my partner, rather than my opponent.”

She glanced up at him. “Partner against whom?”

“Cook and Mrs. Tumsen. For years, the three of us have whiled away the occasional rainy evening taking turns at piquet and vingt-et-un.”

“And you’re inviting me to join you?”

“We are begging,” he corrected with a hesitant smile. “I would have asked sooner, but we are a close group and wished to wait until we were certain you intended to stay. You cannot fathom our paroxysms of delight at finally having a fourth.”

Until tonight, Violet would not have been able to imagine Mr. Roper experiencing delight over much of anything, much less have paroxysms. But it was her own fault for not giving it a single thought. He was right to worry she might leave. She had never stayed put anywhere, and for good reason. Eventually, everything turned sour and escape became the only choice.

As much as she loved the abbey, she’d known from the first it was only temporary. No matter what, she needed to go to London, to face her charges, to clear her name. She would not be staying. But even if she could have confessed the truth, she wouldn’t do so. Mr. Roper’s invitation to join a group of friends thrilled her more than he would ever know.

He led her down a series of tunnels to an outbuilding she had not previously visited. Candlelight glowed from beneath closed doors and spilled directly into the passageway from chambers left invitingly ajar.

This was the servants’ quarters, she realized belatedly. She’d presumed all the inhabitants of the abbey to be as isolated and solitary as the Waldegraves and herself, but what basis had she for that assumption? The abbey was enormous, and the staff must sleep somewhere when they were not cooking meals or cleaning chambers or trimming hedgerows or washing linens. Her status as governess elevated her just enough to be relegated to the empty wasteland between guest and servant. No doubt her sumptuous bedchamber stranded in the abbey center had been meant to entice her to stay, but its very solitude had done her no favors.

Laughter spilled from one of the adjoining chambers. Mr. Roper pushed open the door and ushered her inside.

Mrs. Tumsen and the ruddy-whiskered Cook lounged behind a large wooden table laden with playing cards, tortoise-shell markers, mother-of-pearl counting fish, gilt-edged teacups, and a silver flask.

Violet stared. The value of the carelessly strewn whist markers alone likely surpassed Mrs. Tumsen’s monthly wages. There was nothing to keep such riches—or the servants themselves—from walking right out the door, never to be seen again. Nothing except their own staunch loyalty. Unlike Mr. Waldegrave and his daughter, the staff was not permanently quarantined within this luxurious prison. They stayed day after day, year after year, because they wished to. Because they cared for him and for each other.

Still chuckling over something Mrs. Tumsen had said, Cook lumbered to his feet and held a meaty hand out to Violet. “Roper, you silver-tongued devil. You managed it, after all.”

“Miss Smythe!” Mrs. Tumsen sprang unsteadily to her feet. “I so hoped you would come. Sit, sit! Have some tea. Or rather, have a teacup with a bit o’ Cook’s whiskey to take the edge off.”

Laughing, Violet declined the whiskey and allowed Mr. Roper to seat her at the table. In short order, the chips were distributed, the deck shuffled and dealt, and the noise level at least double its previous pitch. By the time the flask was empty, and the majority of the whist points stacked in Mr. Roper’s and her favor, she was startled to catch sight of the clock’s hands marking half-midnight.

“Have we really been playing for four hours?” she asked in surprise. Her eyelids were drooping, and her cheeks ached from laughing.

“We’ve been playing,” Mr. Roper corrected drolly. “These two have paid more attention to their teacups than their trump cards. As much as I enjoyed having a partner with a head for the game, next time we’ll have to oppose each other if we’re to have any competition at all.”

She jerked upright. “Next time?”

Alarmed, Cook jabbed his empty flask in her direction. “You will return, will you not? At least once a week, you’ll find us right here in this very room. We’d love for you to join us.”

Violet’s insides warmed. “I would be honored.”

Chapter 15

A week later, Alistair still could not scrub the passionate embrace with his daughter’s governess from his mind.

At first, their occasional interactions took place in awkward silence. He, from embarrassment over his shameful behavior. She, for perhaps the same reason, although in her case it was in no way deserved. She was a woman, and he a man. She was a servant, and he the employer. She was a miracle-worker, and he a monster who had taken advantage of the moment. She had meant to comfort. He had wanted more.

He shoved his chair back from his desk with a sigh. What he wanted was not to be had. Until Lillian was cured and his family restored, he had no right to even think about his own selfish desires, much less indulge them. And avoiding the innocent Miss Smythe was hardly beneficial. He knew what living in Waldegrave Abbey was like. By increasing her solitude, he likely had also been increasing her misery.

He pushed to his feet. He had lost his wife, and very nearly his daughter, and if he was not careful, he would soon lose the new governess as well. Perhaps, even now, she was planning to leave. Agitated, he threaded his fingers through his hair.

It had been over a month, had it not? She had surpassed the terms of their verbal arrangement. He had tried to make her stay here as comfortable as possible—and, certainly, he had not pressed his attentions on her anew—but what advantage could Waldegrave Abbey possibly offer over the thousand better situations available to a young woman? Particularly when he could hardly deny her a heartfelt recommendation, should any future employer ask for references. He doubted she could say the same. The barest moment in her company, and he was drowning in the memory of their stolen kisses, lost anew in the curve of her eyelashes or the curl of a chestnut tendril against her throat. He was abhorrent.

What kind of man took such liberties with an employee he was honor-bound to protect? What kind of father mauled his daughter’s teacher? What kind of husband dreamt not of the beloved wife buried out behind his window, but of a woman who mere weeks before had been an innocent stranger seeking only a moment’s shelter?

Yet he had to make her stay.

She had given Lillian something that all his money had failed to buy. Hope. All he had ever managed to bring his daughter were roses. Such a trite, worthless gesture: flowers. When what he truly wanted to give her was a cure. An answer, a potion, a magic trick from Satan’s own hand—he would gladly sell his soul in exchange for the freedom of his daughter’s.

He would not consider himself a success until the day he could finally take Lillian for a walk in the sun. But at least he’d managed to bring something good into her life.

Miss Smythe.

An angel in her own right, the heaven-sent governess was an unceasing marvel, from the moment she blew through the front door to the daily miracles she wrought upon Lillian. The clawing, biting, desperately unhappy child that the superstitious servants of four years ago had feared a witch or a vampire, was now almost eerily well-behaved. She spoke with politesse, did simple sums in her head, and could recite the capital cities and royal families of every country in Western Europe. Even the maids were willing to attend her once again. All because Lillian worshiped the very deserving Miss Smythe.

Alistair quite worshiped her himself.

He consulted his fob. Afternoon lessons should be coming to a close, which would make this the perfect time to let her know about the small hope that still shone on the horizon: the upcoming meeting of minds, here at Waldegrave Abbey. Dozens of invitations had been sent. Less than half had responded. A fraction of those had agreed. But the handful of scientists and great thinkers that had condescended to spend a weekend debating potential remedies for acute sunsickness were among the greatest minds in all of England. Perhaps, this time, a cure could be found.

Perhaps it would finally be his turn to bring about a miracle.

He tossed his pince-nez upon the meager stack of accepted invitations. If he was to maximize the potential of this meeting of the minds, he ought to ensure Miss Smythe’s presence. Although she was no royal physician or renowned scientist, she had more than proven her ability to understand Lillian’s needs.

However, he must take care to remind her that as far as the rest of the world was concerned, Alistair was the afflicted party. The visitors could never learn of Lillian’s existence or the severity of her condition. He would not risk the loss of his daughter to science.

He’d read enough journal articles to know there was no limit to the experimentation performed in such laboratories. Subjects often perished from blood loss or adverse reactions. Those who lived were never the same. Alistair would rather die than see Lillian harmed in any way.

He rose from his chair and strode from his office to the corridor—only to collide with Roper around the first corner.

“My apologies.” He gave a distracted nod and eased past his manservant.

“The apology is mine, master,” Roper returned. “I was in too great a hurry to see you.”

“Me?” Alistair frowned in confusion, then shook his head. Of course, him. Were they not but a dozen paces from the office door? And, upon closer inspection, was that not another missive upon the silver tray? “Thank you, Roper.”

Alistair slid the folded parchment into his jacket pocket and continued on his way. No sense going back to his office just to add another layer to the pile of mail upon his desk. Not if he was still hoping to catch Miss Smythe. Besides, it was likely yet another refusal to his scientific conclave. Bad news could certainly wait. Right now, he needed to focus on how to handle Miss Smythe.

Or, rather, how to handle himself so that he didn’t frighten off Miss Smythe.

Lillian needed her governess, and Alistair required Miss Smythe’s... brain. He would simply take care to be polite, gentlemanly, and—and employerly.

There she was; just stepping from the catacombs. Wispy curls brushed against her slightly flushed cheeks, her blue-violet eyes shining as if she’d just come in from the afternoon sun rather than having only just emerged from the dank tunnels. She seemed almost... happy. He could not ask for a more opportune moment.

“Miss Smythe,” he called. “If I might have a moment of your time?”

When she spun to face him her eyes were so alive, so merry, that his breath caught. The only coherent thought his brain managed to form was that she was an incredibly lovely young woman. The sort who managed to bring sunshine to each day even when there was none to be found.

And then the pleasure in her eyes vanished. One look at him, at the blackguard who employed her as governess with one breath and then attempted to employ her in far more wicked pursuits in the next, and any hint of happiness was gone. Her gaze and face were once again unreadable. The only light in her eyes now was from the reflection of his candle, flickering just as lifelessly as a cold flame upon the glass eyes of a doll.

“My apologies,” he found himself saying for the second time in a row. “I did not mean to startle you.”

She neither accepted nor rejected his apology, choosing instead to tuck her fingers beneath crossed arms as if struck with a sudden chill. “Mr. Waldegrave. May I be of service?”

“If it is no burden, I do have a favor I would like to ask of you.” He tried, and failed, to read her expression. What could he do to bring back that joy? “It is also time to deliver your wages.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly. “For next month?”

He gave a quick nod and reached for his coin purse rather than continue searching her face for clues. Either she accepted her wages—implicitly accepting another month’s employ—or she would make clear her intent to terminate their arrangement, having already fulfilled her half of the bargain.

He withdrew his coin purse. “Here you are, then.”

She hesitated a touch longer than he might have hoped, then unfolded her arms and held out a hand. The palm was stained a deep red, as if she’d been picking raspberries, and the cuff of her sleeve held hints of cobalt and aquamarine. Perhaps she feared chastisement for having gotten ink on one of the new gowns he had purchased. Far from angry, Alistair was more than happy to provide whatever she might need. He’d order a dozen more gowns or a thousand more paints, if they would be of use.

He shook a handful of sovereigns into her palm. When her hands automatically curled to cup the coins, he noticed the edges of her fingernails were tinged a subtle green.

He smiled despite himself. “An art lesson today?”

“No.” She frowned at the pile of coins as if able to determine the value of its contents by weight alone. “This is sixteen pounds.”

“Yes.”

“I earn two pounds per week.”

He shrugged lightly. “You’re worth two people.”

Her hand trembled. “You left plenty of coin the day that we... The last time you were in the schoolroom.”

“You’re worth every cent,” he interrupted, embarrassed anew. “I realize I am not the best employer and, quite possibly, among the worst of men. I cannot apologize enough for my inexcusable attempt to... compromise your integrity. I have sworn not to repeat the offense, and I have kept my promise. Will you not stay another month?” When she did not immediately respond, Alistair took a deep breath. Men did not beg. Yet for his child, he would do anything. “Not for me. Stay for Lillian. Please.”

Miss Smythe’s internal thoughts remained inscrutable. One edge of her mouth quirked briefly, as if tempted to smile, but her eyes looked more haunted than happy.

“Not for you,” she repeated softly. “For Lillian.”

Not sure how else to respond, he simply nodded.

After a moment, she lowered her gaze to the jumble of sovereigns in her hand. Slowly, she transferred them from the right hand to the left, as if not at all convinced sixteen pounds was worth the burden of Waldegrave Abbey.

Just when he was about to offer twenty or fifty or any quantity she might desire, she nodded her agreement. He swore he could hear angels singing.

“Thank you,” he said with a quick smile, his heart lighter than it had been in weeks. She would stay. Thank God, she would stay. “You won’t regret it.”

The fleeting arch to her brows indicated she already quite regretted it, but Miss Smythe blessedly tucked the coins in her pocket without further recrimination. “And the favor?”

“Right.” Alistair tapped the breast pocket containing the latest bit of correspondence. “A half-dozen scientists and surgeons are meeting to discuss potential cures for sunsickness. I admit to being very hopeful we all can finally step from the shadows.”

“But that’s wonderful!” This time, her smile was full and genuine.

“Thank you. In the meantime, I am trying to keep a clear head. Even if genius strikes, I am not certain how long it will be until Lillian is cured—”

“And you, of course.”

“Both of us.” He rubbed the back of his neck. Although not precisely what she meant, she was absolutely correct: the only thing that would cure him was a cure for Lillian. “But I would like someone else present who has Lillian’s best interests in mind. Namely you, if you don’t mind. Just please recall that no one may know of my daughter’s existence, so it is important to always speak as if I alone am the sufferer of the sun allergy. And—”

“Me?” she interrupted with a nervous laugh. “I cannot possibly attend. No, it is much better I stay and take care of Miss Lillian while you are off at your meeting. How many days will you be gone?”

“One weekend. But I won’t be gone. I’ll be here.”

She frowned. “But you said—”

“The cabal is here. I cannot leave Lillian.”

“Here?” she repeated in horror. She glanced over her shoulders as if half expecting the wall sconce to rain scientists upon them. “In Waldegrave Abbey?”

“I am aware it is no castle,” he rejoined stiffly. “But please understand my position. I cannot leave my daughter, nor can I—”

“I know, I know, you cannot withstand the sun,” she interrupted, her eyes closing briefly as if in pain. “I don’t know why I was thinking you’d be traveling to London or somesuch when you cannot even go to market... but dear God. A party? Coming here?”

“Not a party. A meeting of England’s finest minds.”

“From... Town?”

“From all over.”

“All over.” Miss Smythe groaned, shook her head as if arguing internally, then reached into her pockets. When Alistair saw her removing the sovereigns she’d sequestered within, he jumped backward as if they’d been electrified.

“Keep the coins. I will not be accepting your resignation. If you’ve no wish to join me for a few hours in my quest to help Lillian—”

“I have every wish to help Lillian!” she burst out. “I just... ”

He leaned forward. “Just what?”

“We’ll discuss it later. I need to think.” She lowered her eyes and glanced away. “If you please.”

Alistair didn’t please at all, but he held his tongue.

Her eyes as dark and as fathomless as the night sky, she pressed the fistful of coins to her chest and turned to go.

He might have stopped her. He considered it. Wished to, in fact.

But before he could decide if reaching out for her would be unwise and going after her the most foolish act of all, she was around the corner and gone.

His shoulders thumped hollowly against the door to the catacombs. He was still a fool. With a sigh, he reached into his waistcoat for the letter. Perhaps it wasn’t a refusal after all. Perhaps another one of England’s brightest minds would be joining the conclave at Waldegrave Abbey. Lord knew, he could use some good news.

He popped the wax seal with his thumb and unfolded the parchment. A square, unsigned message stood out in stark black letters.

“We know what you’re planning, and we know what godlessness you hide. Stop, or we will send your evil back to hell. You have been warned.”

The edge of the paper crumpled in Alistair’s suddenly sweaty hand.

He had suspected—nay, he had known—that the few madmen amongst the local villagers became more suspicious with each passing year, but this, this was a problem. This was a direct threat. It had reached him here, in his home. Where he was supposed to be safe. Where his daughter was supposed to be safe.

Who had sent it? What was it they thought they knew? And what lengths would they go to stop him?

He turned and rested his clammy forehead against the bleak chill of the catacomb door. God help him. All he wanted was to be a good father. To cure Lillian. To give her the world. Fourteen short days until strangers arrived at the abbey. Would he finally be helping his daughter, or was he putting her at even greater risk?

Chapter 16

Violet quietly let herself into her bedchamber. For better or for worse, Mr. Waldegrave had just handed her precisely what she needed to finally act.

Enough funds to start over elsewhere.

She seated herself at the escritoire. Carefully, she pulled open the top drawer. Beneath the feather, the inkwell, and the dozen sheets of parchment, layers of shiny coins lined the bottom of the drawer.

Thirty pounds, ten shillings, four pence were hardly Croesian riches, but the sum was more than she would have earned in an entire year at the Livingstone School for Girls. Violet hadn’t the least idea how much a good barrister might require to take on her case, but surely this was enough to secure one’s attention.

She placed the blank white sheets to one side of the desk and unfolded a single page of now-worn parchment. Earlier that week, Mrs. Tumsen had compiled a list of London barristers at Violet’s request, no questions asked. Now that the names were in her hand and a growing pile of coin secreted in her escritoire, it was past time to solicit some answers.

First, she must introduce herself and her case as generically as possible. She hoped lawyers would not gossip about their clients’ business, but she was not yet anyone’s client. She required a London barrister partly for the legitimacy it would bring to her case, and partly in the hopes that news from the north had not yet arrived to prejudice their minds against her. All the same, she could hardly pen a dozen written confessions and send them about Town along with her signature and current address. Miss Smythe she would continue to be, until it was time to sign a contract.

Second, she needed to know how much it would cost to secure legal services throughout the handling of her case. Third, how confident the barrister was in his ability to secure an acquittal. Fourth, when they could meet. Fifth, when they could begin. And sixth, how soon could she hope to put all of this behind her? Was there a chance she could stay here at the abbey once her name was cleared?

After finishing the last of the letters, she gathered them in a neat pile and rang the bell pull. Within minutes, Mrs. Tumsen was at the door and tucking the folded missives into a pocket for safekeeping.

“Don’t ye worry, gel. I have an afternoon free in two days. I’ll post ’em then, if that’ll do.”

“Of course.” Violet dropped a few extra coins into the older woman’s palm for her trouble. “Another visit to your sister?”

Mrs. Tumsen grinned slyly. “Can’t go too long without seein’ Ginny.”

Tsking, Violet waggled a finger in mock reproof. “Visiting Ginny” meant Mrs. Tumsen planned to spend the day warming a stool at the hotel tavern down in Shrewsbury proper.

“Sure I can’t bring back a nip or two for ye?”

Violet shook her head. “No, thank you. I like to stay on my toes.”

“You and the master,” Mrs. Tumsen said with a sigh, as if this were further proof of severe character faults. “Won’t even suffer a drop of wine with dinner, that one.”

Violet shot a sidelong glance at the clock upon the nightstand. “Is he at supper now?”

“Thinking about him, are ye?” Mrs. Tumsen gazed at her with shrewd eyes. “He’s in his office, researching. I’m heading that way myself. Shall I ask ’im to join ye?”

“No, no,” Violet blurted far too quickly. She had no wish to continue discussing her presence or lack thereof at the upcoming coterie of physicians and scientists. Besides, she enjoyed sharing the occasional meal with Lillian. Her father being in his office meant Violet wouldn’t be horning in, and she and Lily could have some time to be silly and have fun. “I’ll be in the sanctuary.”

“As ye like. I’ll let Cook know.” With a bob and a crooked wave, Mrs. Tumsen hobbled back into the shadows.

Violet lit a fresh taper and headed to the catacombs. Toward darkness and away from Mr. Waldegrave. What was the true reason she avoided him? She hurried faster once the answer presented itself. It was not that she did not trust him but rather, to her surprise, because she actually did.

At the end of the tunnel, she knocked soundly upon Lillian’s door. The child was seated at the edge of her bed, thumbing through a picture book.

“Come look,” she called excitedly. “Papa was here earlier. See this book? It’s got drawings of every kind of flower in the world! Did you know there are more than just regular lilies named after me? There are even tiger lilies.” Merry-eyed, she bared her teeth and swiped a claw-shaped hand through the air above the book. “Rowr! I’m a tiger lily!”

Laughing, Violet pulled the child-size chair from Lillian’s escritoire and seated herself beside the bed. “What other illustrations are in the book, Miss Tiger Lily?”

“Well, if there are lots of lilies, you cannot imagine the number of roses. Look—an entire chapter of them! Did you know England’s national flower is a rose? Papa says that’s been so ever since the Wars of the Roses four hundred years ago. Except they weren’t fighting about roses. And, look, these ones are pretty, even if they’re not roses or lilies. I’m not certain what kind of flower they are. What’s this say? Here, on top.”

“Let’s see... ‘Hottonia palustris.’ The water-violet.”

Lillian fell backward, laughing until she hiccupped. “The water-violet! Not nearly as exciting as tiger lily. I’m the king of the jungle, and you’re all wet. Not me! Rowr!”

“Imp.” Violet rescued the picture book before it tumbled to the floor. “You knew what that said all along and just wished to tease me. Well, I’ll have you know that water can be very lovely. And besides, it’s not tigers but lions who are kings of the jungle.”

“That’s just jealousy talking,” Lillian countered cheerfully. She grabbed the picture book and flipped to another black-and-white drawing. “I wish we had all of these in our garden so that I could see their colors. They must be beautiful. Papa would bring in a new flower every day if he could, wouldn’t he?”

“More like every hour, if he thought it would please you.” Violet sat back with a start when she realized the words were probably true. Mr. Waldegrave wasn’t simply the “least bad” of all the men she’d ever met—he was completely and truly good. His entire being was focused on caring for someone else—a trait Violet could not help but love, in a man she could not help but respect. “Would you like me to paint one for you?”

“Yes!” Lillian smothered a giggle. “Do the water-violet, so it can be your self-portrait.”

Violet tickled her sides in response.

Supper arrived before they could begin, but as soon as they finished their repast, Violet excused herself to fetch the “self-portrait” supplies from her art room.

The once-empty chamber now overflowed with painted canvases, stacked atop each other and leaning against every surface. If she was lucky, tonight would be her last sleepless night, and in the morning she could finally surprise Lillian with a room covered floor-to-ceiling with the outside world.

If there were a way to surround the child with a real summer garden, Violet would gladly plant every seed herself. Instead, all she could give was art. Words had never been easy, but she hoped the emotion contained in each brushstroke would demonstrate her love, and speak directly to Lillian’s heart.

Violet had filled the largest canvases with close-up grasses and flowers and birds and bees. Horizon lines of heather-topped hills flowed across the medium-size canvases. The smallest of the canvases were every kind of cloud—fluffy white against bright blue skies, thick as dark wool or shot through with lightning, or wispy curls dancing about a shimmering rainbow.

Filled with nervous excitement for the morrow’s surprise, she closed the art room door and returned to Lillian’s chamber. She arranged their easels side by side, placed a blank canvas upon each one, and set a tray of watercolors on a small table beside them.

“And now,” Violet announced in her best penny-theater voice, “the world famous, award-winning, death-defying... water-violet!”

Lillian scrambled to her feet and positioned herself before her canvas.

“First—a quick reminder of the majesty and beauty our brushes shall soon capture.” Violet dipped a feather quill into the inkwell on Lillian’s desk and quickly sketched a copy of the book illustration at the top corner of her canvas. She replaced both ink and brush, then turned to her young charge. “Ready?”

Lillian nodded eagerly.

“Splendid. I’m going to do each step very slowly. I will watch you do the same, and when you are finished, I will continue to the next step. Don’t worry about mistakes—it doesn’t have to be perfect, and I am right here to help anytime you need me.”

Lillian bit her lip, but nodded her agreement.

As promised, Violet performed each stroke, each color selection, each twist of the brush with painstakingly slow precision.

She needn’t have worried.

Lillian copied each move almost as quickly as Violet performed it, but that was not the greatest surprise. No, the true miracle was that without any assistance whatsoever, an exact replica of Violet’s painting bloomed forth on Lillian’s canvas. She had purposefully copied Violet’s every move, yes, but the result was effortlessly identical. Violet would have been hard pressed to identify which of the beautiful flowers she herself had painted, were it not for the pen-and-ink in one corner and the fact that she still stood before her canvas. She marveled at her charge. Violet could take credit in having imparted artistic technique, but no instructor could ever teach natural talent.

Lillian was truly gifted. In time, she would be far more accomplished than Violet could ever hope to be. What an indescribable tragedy for someone with an artist’s eyes and such an expressive soul to be trapped inside a dull and lifeless abbey for the whole of her life.

“What’s wrong?” Lillian’s lower lip trembled. “Did I muck it up? It’s that last petal, isn’t it, the one on the right with—”

“It’s perfect. Almost as beautiful as you are.” Violet set down her palette and brush, then knelt to be eye-level with the child. “I have an idea. Since we haven’t got a garden full of every flower in the world, why don’t you pick one from the book every day, and we’ll paint it together?”

Lillian clasped her hands to her throat. “You can show me how to paint them all?”

Violet smiled. “I don’t see why not.”

“But... ” Lillian’s gaze fell to the open book of illustrations. “What if we don’t know what color it’s supposed to be? What will we do then?”

Violet lifted her palms. “We’ll make it up.”

Lillian glanced up sharply. “What?”

“We’ll use our imaginations,” Violet explained. “If you want orange, we’ll paint with orange. If you want blue, we’ll paint with blue. No rules in art, remember? You can paint flowers with checks and dots if you’ve a mind to, and there’s nobody to say—”

“But I don’t want flowers with checks and dots! I want real flowers, in real colors. I don’t want it to be art. I want it to be right.”

“Tiger Lily, listen to me. It truly doesn’t matter what’s real or not. There’s no such thing as right. If you’ve seen it in your imagination, if you’ve captured the images in your mind’s eye onto paper or canvas, then you’ve made it real, even if it didn’t exist until you thought of it.”

“But how can I use my imagination if I haven’t got one?” Lillian’s eyes welled with tears. “I can only paint what I’ve seen, and the only thing I ever see is this room! What shall I paint a picture of? A wall? A chair? And use my ‘imagination’ to make it green with dots instead of ugly and gray? That’s not art. That’s stupid. I want real flowers! I want the real world! I want—”

With a choking sob, she broke off and tossed the picture book to the floor. She ran to her bed, climbed up on the mattress and, before Violet could halt her, had jerked the thick curtains shut in order to enshroud herself within. Only a faint sniffle could be heard from beneath the heavy tester.

Violet crossed quickly to the bed. “Lillian—”

“Go away,” she choked out. “Go outside and walk in the garden and then come tell me some more about how none of it matters.”

Violet placed her palm against the closed curtains. “Honey, that’s not what I meant. I just—”

“Well, I meant ‘go away’ and I’ll say it again. Good-bye.”

With a soft sigh, Violet lowered her hand back to her side. There was nothing she wanted more than to whisk the curtains aside and envelop Lillian in the biggest hug of her life. But Violet was no stranger to the sensation of helplessness and despair. Sometimes, particularly when one was a child, having one’s every stated wish thwarted by an adult only made one feel smaller and more insignificant. No matter how well meaning, Violet had no desire to add to Lillian’s frustration.

“I am sorry,” she said quietly. “Sleep well, and I will be back in the morning after breakfast.”

“I’ll be here,” came Lillian’s small, resentful voice. “Whether I like it or not.”

Violet’s heart broke for her. “Tomorrow will be a much better day. I promise.”

She would make sure of it.

Alistair awoke before dawn.

Possibly because he’d fallen asleep at his desk and the bent frames of his pince-nez had dug craters into his face. Again. He tossed the spectacles aside and scrubbed his face with his hands, wincing as his fingers stretched the worn grooves left by the pince-nez. Hopefully the marks would fade before he was required to address any members of his staff.

He laid a ribbon along the spine of the open tome and squinted at the clock. Hours yet before the kitchen would be ready for breakfast. Plenty of time for more research, if he could but stay awake. He pushed himself to his feet. Perhaps there was a less sleep-inducing volume on acute hypersensitivity research in the library.

He moved quickly through the familiar tunnels, deep within the bowels of the catacombs He neared Miss Smythe’s art room only to be struck spellbound at a flickering mirage in the shadows just ahead.

Grass.

The walls of the crumbling passageway were lined with thick, knee-high grass so green and so life-like that the guttering of a distant candle lent the illusion of a slight breeze. He could almost smell the heather and wildflowers sprinkled among the lush greenery.

As he stepped closer, he lifted his own taper to better light the way. Rectangular shadows danced behind the patches of grass and flowers. He was looking at paintings. Brushstrokes on canvas. But even the awareness that what he was seeing was several pounds worth of oils in the hands of a skilled artist did not subtract from the unreality of finding himself in a springtime meadow instead of a warren of ancient crypts.

Miss Smythe emerged from the open doorway. She froze at the sight of him. Her slender arms were wrapped about three more paintings, the tallest of which rose past the bridge of her nose, leaving only her eyes visible above the canvases. She did not move.

“You did this.” He stared at her in wonder.

She hesitated before blurting nervously, “For Lily.”

He blinked in surprise. “Lillian asked you to paint these?”

“She doesn’t have the words to ask. She doesn’t know ‘daisy’ or ‘greenfinch’ or ‘rainbow.’ And she feels that loss deeply.” Miss Smythe’s eyes smiled sadly. “When I was her age, I would have given anything to have a little beauty in my life. Years later, when I saw my first painting, I was not only stunned, I was inspired. Art... transformed my world. I’m hoping it can bring life to Lillian’s.”

He wished it would not have been unpardonably rude to ask why she had been so in want of beauty. He could not imagine her as lonely or lifeless. She had won over the entire household in short order, transforming Waldegrave Abbey from a place of shadows into a place of smiles. They were all indebted to her. He stepped forward and took the canvases from her arms. “Lillian has no idea you’ve done this for her?”

She shook her head self-consciously. “Not yet. I wanted to surprise her. I want her to wake up in the middle of a garden, surrounded by birds and flowers and the morning sun. I thought she might like it.”

“She’ll adore it.” He lifted his candle to illuminate the passageway. “Who wouldn’t wish to awaken to all this beauty?”

“I just want her to be happy. To escape.” She flicked an unreadable gaze at the art lining the walls. “This morning, I realized Waldegrave Abbey really is a sanctuary. For me, I mean.” Her dark gaze returned to his. “I just want her to feel the same way.”

“That is my dearest wish as well. How can I help?”

Her answering smile warmed his soul. “Bring your muscles. Just take care not to wake her—I’d like it to be a surprise.”

“Lillian will be thrilled.” He started after her as she bent to unlock the sanctuary door, and found himself admiring more than just the paintings.

Miss Smythe was a lovely person, inside and out. Dangerously lovely. He could not risk opening his heart to her. He had yet to be in a position to have earned his own daughter’s love, much less be worthy of another woman’s.

Good Lord, how was he even thinking these thoughts? He would not allow this... this absurd infatuation with his daughter’s governess to distract him from his goals.

Managing the upcoming thinkers’ retreat, for one. Wherein he would hopefully make real progress toward curing Lillian once and for all. Until then, Miss Smythe was absolutely correct: Lillian was badly in want of cheering. In fact, he could not have dreamed of a better plan himself. The paintings were transcendent. As they placed the vivid canvases edge to edge about the room, he could not help but marvel at the trompe l’oeil of a seamless horizon unfolding around them.

It was as if she had captured a life-size landscape and then cut it up into smaller pieces to carry from one room to another. And yet, despite its verisimilitude to the Shropshire Hills, he swore he could discern bits of Miss Smythe herself in the way the breeze danced among the flowers or the engaging mischief of playful kittens alongside a river. He was astonished to realize that she had poured bits of herself into each brushstroke.

This was not the gift of mere paintings. This was a gift of herself.

No wonder she had looked so disarmingly anxious. She could have no doubt that the paintings themselves were good, but she was hardly concerned about a reaction to her mechanics. Seeing Lillian’s delight in the paintings would be the same as seeing Lillian delight in Miss Smythe herself.

He felt the beginnings of a smile. Miss Smythe needn’t worry in the least. And how blessed was he, to be here to bear witness to the first exclamations of joy when his daughter awoke? If anything, he would have to control stirrings of jealousy when Miss Smythe’s oil paints managed to accomplish what innumerable gifts over nine joyless Christmases had not. And to think, from this day forward—

“Papa?”

Miss Smythe jumped, startled. “Lillian! You’re awake!”

“I’m Lily. Tiger Lily.”

He spun toward his daughter’s voice, his insides already warming happily in anticipation of finally having contributed, however circumstantially, to her pleasure.

“Good morning, daughter.”

“What are you doing?”

Lily’s head was just visible between the parted curtains of her bed, her overlarge eyes dark and glittering from her pale face.

He stepped forward. “Sweetling. We—”

“What are you doing?”

“Tiger Lily, look around you,” came Miss Smythe’s warm honey voice. “Do you know what this is? It’s the outside world.”

Too late, Alistair realized his daughter’s eyes were wild with suppressed fury, not excitement.

Lily clawed the curtains away from her face to better peer about the room. “Why is it here?”

He gentled his voice. “So that you could experience—”

“They’re not real! Take them away,” Lily commanded, her tone flat.

Miss Smythe paused. Hurt and confusion lined her brow. “Oh, Lily, I had so hoped you would like—”

“Remove them at once! All of them!”

Miss Smythe’s gaze dropped. Her features slipped into blank expressionlessness, as if the true Miss Smythe was hidden behind an emotionless papier-mâché mask. “I meant only to please you.”

“Well, you have not.” Lily’s voice rose in pitch and volume with each carefully enunciated word. Eyes blazing, she scrambled from her bed to glare about the room. “Why should I pretend to be like you when I can only ever be me? Why should I wish to gaze upon copies of what I will never see? I hate them. They’re awful and they’re fake. I won’t have it.”

“Lily.” Alistair stepped between them, although whether he was sheltering his daughter from Miss Smythe or Miss Smythe from his daughter, he couldn’t say.

“Get rid of them! I hate it all!” Lily darted past her desk and kicked over the painting with the kittens, then the one with blue jays, then the one with hyacinth. “I hate both of you for trying to make me want make-believe instead of a real life!”

Black rain splattered across lily pads, slanting over hummingbirds and snow-white swans, sprinkling across the canvas with the rainbow as well as the one with the storm clouds before Alistair’s addled brain comprehended that the insidious black raindrops were not figments of his imagination but rather the spray of India ink from the full bottle Lily had snatched from atop her desk.

He raced to grab her, to stop her. But even as he lifted his twisting, writhing daughter away from the paintings, she flung the contents of the inkbottle over his shoulders in poisonous arcs, destroying another row of beautiful landscapes in the process. He fumbled behind him to grab the inkwell from Lily’s hands. Blindly, she threw the bottle over his shoulder, narrowly missing the top of Miss Smythe’s head. The inkwell shattered against the brittle boards covering the sanctuary windows, raining ceramic shards and black mist over the last of the paintings.

Miss Smythe remained where she stood. Had been as deathly still as a piece of petrified wood from the moment Lily had erupted from her bed. And now, as he was wrestling Lily onto her chair, Miss Smythe remained as stoic and unmoving as a corpse. As if she, too, was merely brushstrokes upon a canvas, and not a woman whose selfless gift of the heart had just been destroyed.

He pinned his squirming daughter to the chair. He understood her pain, but he would not allow her to wreak any more destruction. Lily had already damaged far more than could be repaired.

“Apologize,” he demanded.

Lily jerked her head away.

“There is no need for apology,” Miss Smythe interrupted. “Lily seeks the real world and all I can provide is an imitation.” Her voice was no longer warm molasses, but thin and brittle as if iron will alone was keeping it from cracking. “I am a poor substitute for what she really wants.”

Alarmed, Lily’s arms went slack beneath his grip. Her head lifted degree by slow degree, as if the realization that she had hurt more than just the paintings was only now dawning. At last, her gaze sought out her governess.

Making neither comment nor eye contact, Miss Smythe picked up ruined canvas after ruined canvas. The one with the kittens smudged to nothingness as it banged quietly against her hip, leaving bits of ink and specks of color along the creases of her skirt.

Alistair’s heart clenched. A still-wet canvas could only mean Miss Smythe had been up through the night, carefully painting each stroke of the kittens’ fur for his daughter. And now their paws and playful faces were little more than muddy splotches. Miss Smythe stared at the oily mess without blinking, as if she and the ruined canvas were alone in the room.

Lily’s shoulders trembled beneath Alistair’s fingers. He glanced down at her lest she be poised to strike again, but this time, Lily’s dark eyes were full of shock at her own handiwork.

“M-Miss Smythe... ”

“Lessons are canceled for today, Lily.” Miss Smythe’s voice was as devoid of life as the systematic way her tireless arms piled the carefully planned canvases atop one another. “It seems we could both use a holiday.”

Wispy strands of black hair stuck to Lily’s wet cheeks as she desperately shook her head.

But Miss Smythe was not watching for a reaction. Her empty eyes remained unfocused on the paintings before her, as if she were hoping to rid the room of evidence before the moment engraved itself upon her memory forever. Methodically, she staked one atop the other. Each step, each faint clatter of painting upon painting seemed to echo in the cavernous chamber until at last, the stack reached her shoulders. She gathered up as many canvases as would fit in her arms and, without taking her leave, removed both them and herself from the room. The mechanical lock clicked home behind her.

“I didn’t mean it,” Lily shouted at the closed door. “I don’t hate you!”

A long moment passed. The door remained closed. Miss Smythe did not return.

Lily twisted to pin her anguished gaze up at him.

“I don’t hate her.” Silent tears slid down her pale cheeks. “I didn’t mean it. I swear.”

Alistair knelt before his daughter and looked her in the eyes. “She just wanted to do something nice.”

“I know,” Lily whispered.

“You hurt her very much,” he said gravely.

“I know.”

“Then why did you do it?”

Lily’s hands curled into tiny fists. “She’s trying to fix things that can’t be fixed. I can’t be fixed!”

“I will cure you,” he said fiercely. “I will cure you or die trying.”

“I don’t want to try. I want to be normal.” Her eyes filled. “I hate being broken.”

Alistair pulled her into his arms and hugged her tight.

He hated her being broken, too. He was tired of his entire family being broken, of his whole life being broken. But how could he possibly fix any of it, when the only remedy was a cure for Lily?

His daughter clung to him for a long moment before she pushed away in sudden panic. “Will Miss Smythe come back?”

“Not today, I think. She’s right—you both need a day of rest.” He ran the back of his knuckles down his daughter’s damp cheek.

Lily blinked at him as if he were being purposefully obtuse. She grabbed his arms, digging her little fingers into the muscles. “I mean, will she be back? Or did I chase her away forever, like... like Mama?”

He hesitated, shoulders tense. Was there a danger of Miss Smythe resigning her post? In her shoes, would he stay shuttered in with the mad Waldegraves? Or would he walk out of the catacombs and on out the front door without a backward glance?

“You don’t know,” Lily choked out, her distress verging on hysteria. She pushed at his chest, shoved him. “Go find her! Go get her! Don’t let her leave us!”

“All right, all right. But first, listen to me.” He might be a failure at curing his daughter, but surely, he could promise her this. “You didn’t chase away your mother. No, look at me. You didn’t. Sometimes people die, even when they shouldn’t. It’s horrible and terribly unfair, but it is nobody’s fault, least of all yours. God is the only one who can decide when our time on this earth is through.”

Lily’s lower lip trembled. “But if Miss Smythe leaves, it will be my fault. I was beastly to her. I don’t want her to go.”

Alistair slowly rose to his feet. “It’s too early for anyone to go anywhere, sweetling. Besides, Miss Smythe adores you. She would not leave without saying goodbye. She just wanted a moment alone, that’s all. We should at least grant her that courtesy. Tomorrow, once we’ve all had an opportunity to think and to rest, I’ll speak to her. I’ll offer whatever it takes to extend her contract. Will that do?”

“No.” Lily dug her fingers into his arm, eyes serious. “I want her for always. Make sure she never leaves us. Ever.”

Grimly, Alistair’s fingers tightened about his keys. “Never ever.”

Chapter 17

Unable to face the Waldegraves after the morning fiasco, Violet weathered the remainder of the day and all the long evening alone in her velvet-and-gilt cell.

She couldn’t eat. She couldn’t sleep. She just stared up at the tester canopy, imagining Lily doing exactly the same. Day after day. Year after year. Violet might have spoken out of turn, but she’d meant what she said. No matter how hard she tried, she could never be more than a poor substitute. A copy. A fake. And very foolish for ever having dreamt of more.

After dawn the next day, she was scarcely up and dressed before a soft knock sounded upon her door. She sighed. That would be Mrs. Tumsen, ready to drag Violet down to breakfast by her ear, if need be. She hadn’t eaten the day before.

“Yes?”

“Miss Smythe? It’s me. Alistair Waldegrave.”

She shot a surprised glance at the door. Mr. Waldegrave at half-seven in the morning. Knocking at her bedchamber. She mustn’t let him catch her in the doldrums. He’d suffered enough.

She shook a few wrinkles from her morning gown and ran her hands over her hair to smooth any wayward curls—there was no time to muck about with hairpins. Inhaling deeply, she straightened her shoulders and her spine, and swung open the door.

He stood not ten inches from her. Pale. Unsmiling. Tense. His hands were gloved. His dark eyes, impenetrable. As usual, he was impeccably groomed—his cravat rigidly white, his black hair just so, his lithe body clothed in the elegant fashion of yesteryear. The juxtaposition always unsettled Violet’s nerves, as if the man she knew as Mr. Waldegrave was an impostor, a handsome predator disguised as a reclusive widower for reasons she could not begin to fathom. A shiver touched her spine.

And then he smiled. Hesitant, cautious, but soul-wrenchingly earnest. “Good morn, Miss Smythe. I hope you’ve slept well, although I can’t be at all surprised if you have not. I do beg your forgiveness.”

Just like that, the foolish sense of impending danger vanished. Violet released the door handle. She clasped her damp fingers behind her back and regarded him anew. How was it that a kind word and a few crinkles about the eyes managed to transform him from a potential threat to a gracious host? She had learned to trust her instincts long ago, but never before had her gut and her heart been so conflicted.

With what she hoped was a pleasant smile, she dipped a belated curtsy. “Good morning, Mr. Waldegrave. And please, you have done nothing which requires forgiveness.”

“You are too kind. I am on my way to breakfast.” He offered his arm. “Might you join me?”

“I... Thank you.”

She curled her fingers above the crook of his elbow. The muscle buried beneath was warm and firm. The hem of her gown brushed against the black leather of his boot with every step. Although they did not otherwise touch, his body seemed too close to hers. Inches apart, side by side, as if they were two lovers recovering abed rather than two strangers en route to toast and jam.

She did not for a second believe that her bedchamber was anywhere near the route from his quarters to the main dining room. But as they traversed the sparsely lit abbey in silence, Violet felt herself growing less, rather than more, anxious. If anything, Mr. Waldegrave seemed just as tense as she. The realization that she discomfited him in equal measure was oddly empowering. His manners remained gallant and his step did not falter, but his eyes darted infrequent glances in her direction as if he half-expected her to spring at any moment.

In the breakfast room, it was Mr. Waldegrave, and not a footman, who held her chair and got her seated. It was also he who poured tea, and served generous helpings of scones and poached eggs—a far cry from the Livingston School’s unglamorous bubble and squeak, and further yet from the years when a “good” breakfast meant brushing dirt from a scrap of stale bread. Seated at such a fine table laid with silver and china, she could almost imagine herself a lady born, rather than a street urchin in governess’s clothing.

Perhaps therein lay the true danger.

Once Mr. Waldegrave had offered sugar cubes for her tea and discussed the advantages of marmalade to blackberry preserves, a crushing silence engulfed the room. Each soft clang of fork to plate rang with the force of a church bell. The whispering candle flames rustled like a thousand autumn leaves, the crunch of her apple deafening.

She could stand the silence no more. She sat up straight and looked him right in the eyes and said, “The apples are delicious.”

Aargh. She could’ve sworn she had aimed for something a bit more interesting on the witty banter scale.

His startled gaze met hers. No, not startled. Relieved. As if he, too, had been battling the oppressive quiet and had been praying for her to break it.

“I am glad. They are not in season, but... apples are Lily’s favorite fruit.”

“Mine, too.”

There. They were speaking. Or had spoken, anyway. He had done an admirable job of keeping his end of the topic afloat, but the subject of apples and favorite fruits could not continue indefinitely. It was her turn to continue the conversation.

What else might one discuss at the breakfast table? She slowly sipped at her tea. When inspiration failed to strike, she settled for the classics. “Did you sleep well?”

“Yes, thank you. I... ” Mr. Waldegrave shook his head and set down his silver. He gazed at her fully, his expression frank and open. “No. I didn’t. I haven’t slept well in years. I imagine you didn’t fare much better, and for that, I apologize.”

“It was nothing,” she said quickly, cursing her tongue for having led back to the one topic she most wished to avoid. “You need not apologize.”

“Someone must, and Lily... ” He took a deep breath, but the pain in his eyes did not diminish. He placed his hands upon the table, his voice low but intense. “I swear to you, Miss Smythe. She did not mean it.”

“Of course she didn’t mean it.” Violet’s hackles rose. She hardly needed a translator to understand Lily. “You think I don’t know that? Being locked up can drive anyone mad. Not to mention, she’s nine years old. A little girl. Feelings are impossible to control at that age.” Violet turned her attention to her marmalade. They needed a new topic, or she wouldn’t be able to control her own emotions. “Why are there two layers of board over all the windows? Would light be able to seep through a single layer?”

“The first layer had already half-rotted when Lily was born. Adding a second layer was more expedient than ripping off the old before adding the new. Besides, being doubly protected cannot hurt.”

Violet kicked herself. Of course the windows had already been boarded. She’d forgotten that he suffered the same affliction as his daughter.

“Your parents boarded the windows when you were born?” she asked softly.

Brow furrowed, he shook his head. “They’ve always been boarded. Our family owned the abbey, but rarely lived in it. I moved here when I married. We’d planned to turn the abbey into a palace—knock down walls, build a home of our own. But when Marjorie picked out her chamber and we discovered the stained glass, we couldn’t bear to destroy such beauty.”

The gears in Violet’s brain clicked into place and she stared at him in growing excitement. “I can. The Reformation! It’s the only thing that makes sense.”

He blinked uncomprehendingly. “The what?”

“The Reformation,” she repeated, leaning forward eagerly. “When the Church of England broke from Rome in the 1500s.”

His eyebrows lifted skeptically. “Wasn’t that because Henry VIII wanted his marriage annulled and the Catholics stood in his way?”

Violet waved this interjection off. Mostly because her knowledge of British history was limited to exactly one field: Art.

“Virtually all previously church-owned property reverted back to England, but abbey churches could still be used for parish worship. Abbeys,” she repeated emphatically. “Waldegrave Abbey. Your ancestors must have boarded the windows when they first heard the ruling. And then counted their lucky stars when the monarchy didn’t repossess the property.”

“I doubt they counted on luck. Waldegraves prefer to put their faith in the hand of God.”

She wiggled in place, unable to contain her excitement. “Whomever one chooses to thank, do you not realize that this abbey might be England’s best kept secret? All the hubbub with the stained glass renaissance, and never once did I hear mention of an entire abbey left untouched in Shropshire.” She glanced around the shadowed room as if the very walls had been forged from gold. “Do you know what this means? You’ve got priceless centuries-old art safely hidden behind crisscrossed planks of wood. Waldegrave Abbey is a national treasure!”

Rather than come alive with the promise of such a discovery, his eyes darkened with portent. “I’m afraid my humble abode will have to remain secret a little while longer, Miss Smythe. Until a cure can be found for sunsickness, every inch of the glass must stay out of sight.”

“Oh.” Her shoulders sank. “Of course.”

Once again, she had forgotten herself. Or rather, she had forgotten to whom she spoke. Mr. Waldegrave and his daughter were imprisoned inside the most beautiful gaol they would never see. What irony that the country’s greatest exemplar of Renaissance-era religious art would surround the two people who could not enjoy it! Her initial excitement dulled. Make that three people. She wouldn’t see any of the glorious glasswork either. Didn’t it just figure? She’d always dreamed of being surrounded by art. Apparently she should have specified “visible”.

Violet slumped. Her soul yearned to bear witness to the stained glass artistry just behind the wooden boards. No doubt, any loss she felt, Lily and her father felt twice as keenly. But what was a mere window, no matter how marvelous, to someone who could not step into the morning light to see the entire world in all its splendor?

“I’m sure a cure will be found soon,” she said, infusing her voice with as much optimism as she could.

“That is my goal,” he agreed firmly. He met her gaze and held it. “Until then, my daughter has expressed her continued desire for your company.”

She frowned. The words were straightforward. So why did it feel like there was hidden meaning in each syllable? She narrowed her eyes. “What are you not saying?”

“I am stating,” he said, taking care to enunciate each word, “that I intend for you to remain her governess.”

She tilted her head and considered the man as carefully as she considered his words. On the one hand, it was a relief to know for certain that her position and income were in no jeopardy whatsoever. On the other hand, it certainly sounded as though he was willing to employ means much more drastic than a pocketful of sovereigns to keep her there.

“And if Lily’s desire to keep me as governess hadn’t been mutual?” she asked archly.

He did not respond. He slowly swirled the dregs of his tea, gazing into the depths of the cup as if he could read their future upon the leaves within.

“I have no imminent plans to leave,” she pressed on. “But what if I did? Would you have locked me in the sanctuary alongside your daughter?”

At this, his gaze snapped unflinchingly to hers. His dark eyes held something more than torment, something other than mere determination. Her breath caught in surprise and wonder. This was a look she recognized from her youth. Mischief. His eyes were alive with mischief.

Lock the door and lose the key? Why, yes, his eyes said. I absolutely would.

And yet his deviltry was nothing short of inviting. The sight of a conspiratorial air along with unapologetic roguery was a combination she hadn’t encountered in years. Not since London. It was a look she well knew not to trust, of course, but also one she knew to be honest, for better or for worse.

Her shoulders relaxed. She nearly laughed aloud at the idea that unapologetic confirmation of roguery, of all things, would ease her fear. And yet, the cards were on the table, were they not? She knew his goals, his motives, his strategy. And could plan accordingly. He might have expected his honesty to cause less, rather than more, trust between them. But he had been honest. And it had been so long since she had last believed in someone else’s word. That alone was a boon.

She bit back a smile when she realized the first time she had ever trusted someone, he had been wearing much the same expression. She’d have been maybe seven or eight at the time. The boy in question slept in an alley not far from the workhouse, and she had just come upon him trying to jimmy his way into the larder.

You don’t intend to steal from us, do you? she’d asked with the outrage of a child whose dollop of porridge had never lasted through the night. The boy’s grimy, makeshift tools didn’t even pause. He simply grinned at her with eyes full of mischief and replied, Of course I do. If you help, I’ll give you half.

Mr. Waldegrave was offering the same bargain. He would do what he felt he must, regardless of her wishes. But if she helped, he would gladly share everything he had.

The first time Violet had taken that deal, she’d ended up with a full belly for the first time in years... and a new friend. Perhaps it was time to take a chance again. After all, she’d already risked a kiss. She need only catch sight of his eyes or hands or lips to remember in vivid detail. Violet’s cheeks flamed as she realized she’d gone from staring at his teacup to staring at his mouth. Hoping he hadn’t caught her at it, she lifted her gaze to meet his.

His cup had gone still. His eyes lowered to her lips, as if the memory of their tongues touching and their limbs nearly entwined had leapt from her head to his in an instant. When his gaze lifted, his eyes were filled with such heat, her body could not help but instantly respond.

She could not look at him without remembering the feel of his mouth against hers, the taste of his kisses, the warmth of his skin.

The knowledge that he, too, suffered these waking dreams of taking her in his arms again, that he refused to act upon it and yet could not stop himself from desiring her touch—his struggle to keep his distance only served to stoke the fire even hotter. He was looking at her now as if he had every intention of sweeping his hand to clear the table in order to lie with her on its surface. By the runaway quickening of her heart, she had half a mind to let him.

He leapt to his feet in such haste, his chair scraped across the polished floor. “I’m done. Are you done? I should let you get back to Lily.”

“I’m done,” Violet agreed quickly, tossing her linen aside her plate. She must have managed to catch her gown beneath the legs of the chair, for when she rose to her feet the chair tumbled backward with a clatter. “Oh! I’m sorry. I—”

“I’ll get it.” He was suddenly before her, leaning down to lift the chair exactly at the moment she bent to retrieve it.

They froze, their shocked faces arrested mere centimeters apart. His breath was loud in her ears, or perhaps those were her own lungs, breathing so erratically.

She couldn’t move. If she bent any further, her mouth would surely connect with his. And if he continued forward, the same. She should back up. Why hadn’t she backed up? Why hadn’t he backed up?

If this farce of a standoff continued much longer, she’d press her lips to his just to put paid to the infernal anticipation. She thrilled at the thought. And then what? Did she truly think one kiss would smooth the tension? Or would it simply put flame to the wick?

“Leave it be,” he commanded hoarsely, gesturing at the floor.

Violet nodded. She pulled herself upright, expecting him to right the chair.

He did not. He straightened slowly, his eyes locked upon her ungloved hands, her bodice, her face. He tore his gaze away. He drew breath and stepped around the fallen chair. Once again, he offered her his arm. This time, however, his movements were more careful. Slower. As if he wasn’t quite certain what would happen if her fingertips touched his sleeve. “To Lily?”

Not trusting herself to speak, Violet simply nodded and nestled her fingers against his arm for the second time that morning. He seemed even closer than before. Bigger, somehow. Stronger, warmer, as if everything about him had amplified a thousandfold. And from the way his muscles tensed every time her gown slid across his leg or a stray curl brushed against his arm, he was experiencing the same phenomenon.

He guided her faster and faster through the corridors and the catacombs as if he could scarcely wait to lock her in the sanctuary and have done with temptation. But when they finally reached Lily’s door, he made no move to open it. Instead, he turned to her and paused.

The light from the single candle cast strange shadows and an orange glow over his face. A chill permeated the air. The flame flickered, sputtered, and went out.

At first, neither of them moved.

After what seemed an eternity, he shifted in the darkness. Her fingers fell from his elbow. His strong hands closed gently around hers, then released at once.

A second later, his key sounded in the lock and the moment was gone.

Violet blinked into the comparative brightness of Lily’s bedchamber. After the full darkness of the catacombs, the light from a dozen candelabra was blinding. All too quickly, however, the room snapped into focus.

The rest of the unwanted paintings remained where she’d left them, stacked unevenly against a wall. Somehow she’d forgotten them during the walk here, and seeing them piled so starkly before her came as a shock to her stomach. She had felt horrible yesterday. She had tried so hard for so many nights to do something good for Lily, and all she’d succeeded in doing was making the child feel worse. Now there would be awkwardness where there had once been trust, and the illusion of understanding.

It wasn’t until Violet summoned the courage to cross the threshold that a slight warmth disappeared from the small of her back. Mr. Waldegrave had rested his hand there, as if he sought to lend her some of his strength. Violet flashed him a grateful smile. She could use all the strength she could muster.

Not all the canvases were in the asymmetrical heap. She’d disposed of several herself, when she’d first left the room. One lone canvas stood propped on one of the easels. Lily stood right behind it, wearing a paint-splattered smock and a guilty expression.

Violet stepped forward. “Good morning, Lily.”

Lily’s gaze darted from Violet, to her father, back to Violet. A pink-tipped paintbrush trembled in her hand.

“Are you painting?” Violet asked softly. She took another step closer.

Lily stared at the easel before her as if it had popped up from nowhere and caught her unawares.

Brow furrowed, Violet crossed the room in order to peek at whatever was on the canvas that had her charge so on edge.

“I messed them all up,” Lily blurted as Violet got closer. “I got ink all over everything and I wanted to fix it and I couldn’t because I don’t know what anything’s supposed to look like ’cause I’ve never seen it like that and so... and so I painted the only thing I know. Over the ink. It’s stupid. I’m sorry.”

Violet motioned for Mr. Waldegrave to stay where he was and hurried to Lily’s side. Bracing herself, Violet turned to view the canvas. Her jaw dropped.

Water-violets. Lily had covered the ink spatter with water-violets. In the grass, in the clouds, across the sun—water-violets. Everywhere.

Violet did not have to be an expert in youthful intellect to understand that this was Lily’s way of apologizing, of showing she cared, just as Violet had only been attempting to show how much she cared. She also didn’t need to be an art teacher to see that the water-violets themselves were incredible. They were exact reproductions of the water-violet she’d painted for Lily the other day. Over and over again. Violet wasn’t even certain she could paint two flowers so perfectly identical, let alone replicate a cornucopia of identical blooms across an entire canvas.

“I just wanted to fix it,” came the small voice at her elbow. “But it’s still ruined.”

“It’s perfect.” Violet turned to the little girl and dropped to her knees to be on eye level. “It’s the most perfect thing I’ve ever seen.”

Lily’s lower lip trembled. “It’s not stupid?”

“It’s cracking good, honey. It truly is. And you know what else?” Violet took Lily’s hands in hers. “I’m proud of you.”

“You are?” she asked in amazement.

“Absolutely. You tried to do a good thing and ended up doing a great thing. How many people can say that?” Violet gave Lily’s hands a squeeze. “Art speaks to me, it always has. Your piece knows me by name.”

Lily giggled. “I don’t hear anything. What does it say?”

“It says, ‘Viiiolet, Viiiiiiolet… Miss Tiger Lily Waldegrave likes you.’ And do you know what’s marvelous about that? It so happens that I’m quite fond of Miss Tiger Lily Waldegrave, too. In fact, I think she’s just about perfect. Anyone would be proud to be her friend.”

To Violet’s horror, her words did not bring a smile to Lily’s face. Instead, the child burst into tears and threw herself headlong in Violet’s arms.

Startled, Violet shot her gaze at Mr. Waldegrave, who had immediately abandoned his vigil by the door upon sight of his daughter’s tears. He looked just as perplexed as Violet felt.

She gave the girl a long hug, then ran her fingers through the soft tangles at the back of Lily’s head until she stopped crying. “What is it, Tiger Lily? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong.” Sniffing, Lily pulled back in order to look up into Violet’s eyes. “I think I’m happy. I never made anybody proud before.”

From the corner of her eye, Violet saw Mr. Waldegrave halt suddenly, as if he’d just taken an unexpected punch to the gut. Violet could scarce imagine how he must be feeling. Neither had any idea how much the other one loved them. He would sacrifice his own limbs if he thought it would help his child. He wanted nothing more than her happiness. To hear his daughter say she had never made him proud must have struck him right through the heart.

Violet kissed Lily’s forehead, then rose to her feet to address him. “Come look at this lovely painting!”

Hesitantly, as if he feared more traps lay just ahead, he stepped closer.

“I wish I had thought about putting water-violets on from the start,” Violet continued, careful to keep her voice light. “They make everything better, don’t you think?”

“Water violets?” He reached her side and smiled when he saw the painting. “Why, so they are. And beautiful ones, at that. Very imaginative, daughter. How amusing to see them on land instead of on water!”

Lily drew back from the canvas with a horrified gasp. “I told you they were wrong!”

“No, no, no,” Violet assured her quickly. “Remember, art is never wrong.”

Mr. Waldegrave’s expression was stricken anew. “The water-violets are wonderful. I only meant—”

“You only meant, ‘It’s wrong,’ just like everything I ever do, just like everything I am! Why can’t—why can’t you like me?” Lily slammed her canvas to the ground. “Why is everything I ever do always wrong?”

“Lily. Sweetling.” Mr. Waldegrave dropped to his knees and folded his daughter into his arms.

She kicked him. When he failed to release her, she twisted her head to stare up at Violet with swollen, red-rimmed eyes and a wobbly chin. “I won’t speak to him.”

Mr. Waldegrave’s eyes filled with self-reproach.

Violet pressed her hand to her mouth and tried to think of something to say that might actually help either of them.

No miracles came to mind.

“Lily,” he whispered into the back of his daughter’s head. “Nothing was wrong. The thought was lovely. The painting was lovely. I wish you hadn’t overturned your palette on it. The water-violets were splendid. The next time you paint something, I promise—”

“I’m done painting.” Lily struggled to escape her father’s embrace. “I’m done with everything, ever. I can’t do anything right, so why bother?”

Just as she freed herself from her father’s arms, the overturned paint palette began to slide down the still-wet canvas.

Even as his daughter fled to the relative safety hidden behind her bed curtains, he remained on his knees upon the floor, watching the inexorable slide of the overturned palette with an expression of naked self-loathing.

Violet’s heart clenched in sympathy. Her brain was desperately whirring for something to say, something to do. She could think of nothing, and could only stand there and watch his pain.

He stared up at the ruined canvas in silence, flinching every time the falling palette obliterated each precious bloom as if each flower’s demise destroyed another part of his soul along with it.

Chapter 18

Master. Master!”

Alistair jerked upright so quickly his pince-nez flew from his nose to the floor. All that noise hadn’t been the pounding of his migraine after all, from struggling to memorize anatomical diagrams and minute scientific terminology.

“Come in,” he said wearily, then recalled he was the sole possessor of a key to his office. Sighing, he pushed back his chair, rescued his pince-nez, and managed to pull himself upright on sleep-prickled feet. After shaking off as many kinks as he could, he hobbled across the room and swung open the door. “Pull yourself together, man. What’s the meaning of all this racket?”

Far from abashed, his staid manservant eyed him with concern. “Master, you must cease doing this.”

Alistair rubbed the corded muscles at the base of his neck. “Doing what? Researching a cure?”

“Locking yourself in your office for ten solid hours.” Roper’s gaze held steady. “You didn’t answer my knock at noontime or for supper. You won’t do anyone any good if you fall ill.”

Alistair’s hand stilled. “Did you say—ten hours? That must make it...”

“Half-eight, master.”

“Half—” Alistair stepped into the corridor, pulling the office door closed behind him. Half-eight meant he had but an hour to splash water on his face and get to the sanctuary to bid his daughter goodnight. He hadn’t skipped their bedtime story ritual even once in her nine years, and certainly did not prefer “epithelium” and “urticaria” to castles and princesses. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Surprise registered on Roper’s usually impassive face. “Master, I—”

“Look alive, Roper.” Alistair quirked a smile as he strode past his manservant. “I’m just... ‘bamming’ you, to borrow a phrase.”

Roper’s surprise did not diminish. “Bamming me, sir?”

Whether his manservant’s shock was due to Alistair’s use of a slang term or the idea of his master bamming anyone in the first place, Alistair paid no mind. He ducked into the corridor, intent on a quick detour to the kitchens. Now that his stomach had been made aware of time’s passage, he could not go another minute without at least a bite to eat.

He was polishing off the last of a wedge of cheese when his housekeeper bustled in, swaddled head-to-toe against cold weather.

“Good evening, Mrs. Tumsen.”

She started guiltily. “Oh! G-good evening, sir.”

“Have a seat.” He rose to his feet. “I was just leaving.”

“Were ye, now?” Wide-eyed, Mrs. Tumsen took the offered seat. “I... I was just... ”

More than a bit tipsy, if the scent of her breath did not deceive. Alistair retrieved the knife from the sink in order to slice off another portion of bread and cheese. “Enjoy your holiday with your sister?”

“Ohh, did I.” Mrs. Tumsen peeled off her gloves and unwrapped her scarf, revealing flushed cheeks and a suspicious expression. Her lack of siblings was an open secret amongst the staff, and she was apparently just realizing there were no secrets from her master. “Nothing new with good old Ginny, sir, although the town is abuzz with a bit of news from Lancashire.”

“Lancashire!” He set the arranged plate before his housekeeper. “And here I might have thought London, what with the Season underway.”

“Oh, sure, London. Nobs and debs. They’re not even part of the same world as real people like us. Country folk, I mean. That is... ”

Alistair decided to save his housekeeper before she tangled herself up any further in her explanation. “What’s the word in Lancashire these days, Mrs. Tumsen? Has all this rain been flooding the Ribble and the Lune?”

“They wish they’d got rain,” Mrs. Tumsen declared as she attacked the cheese and bread with gusto. “What they got was a fire that took out part of a school, from what I hear.”

“A fire! Are the children all right?”

“The children are fine. Seems there was violence between adults. One’s dead or injured, and one’s missing altogether. Nasty bit of business.”

“Appears so,” he agreed, reaching in his vest pocket for his fob. “All the more reason to be grateful Lily’s safe at home. If you’ll excuse me, I’m on my way to see her now.”

“Of course, of course!” Mrs. Tumsen’s cheeks reddened further, as if she’d just realized she’d been tongue-wagging at her employer. “Good day, sir!”

Alistair wore a bemused smile as he made his way to the catacombs. What had come over him lately? Burying himself in books was nothing new, but teasing his manservant and gossiping with his housekeeper... Now there was a first!

How long had it been since he had shared meaningful conversation with another adult? After Marjorie died, he hadn’t spoken much to anyone at all. That was, until Miss Smythe arrived. Everything had changed after she arrived. Even Lily.

But not in the way that mattered the most. He sighed.

If the past twenty-four hours had taught him anything, it was that his daughter’s belief that she wasn’t good enough was the greatest source of her unhappiness. And his as well. As her father, it was up to him to keep her happy. Once Lily was cured, she wouldn’t be inferior to anyone on the planet. And once he found that cure, his daughter would finally have a father she could be proud of.

Smiling, he fished the key from his pocket and eased open the door to his daughter’s chamber.

Lily was not yet abed. She was cross-legged in the center of the room, knee-to-knee with Miss Smythe—also cross-legged upon the marble floor—and giggling hysterically at some sort of rhythm game involving rhyming chants and the random slapping of one another’s hands.

He leaned against the doorjamb, content to gaze through the crack at a barrier he hadn’t yet managed to cross with his daughter. His heart gave a sharp tug. How lovely it would be to play together... He yearned to join the fun, but had no doubt that his presence would only serve to ruin it. And when was the last time he’d heard Lily laugh? Alistair was more convinced by the day that Miss Smythe was less a miracle-worker and more an actual angel sent from God.

Which was all the more reason to squelch his impulse to touch her, to kiss her, every time they were alone. Curse him for having been born a fallible man!

He sighed just to look at her. So lovely and so pure. She was perfection itself. He would not be the one to spoil such goodness. Keeping a safe distance was best for everyone.

He watched longingly as Miss Smythe easily swung a laughing Lily into her arms and carried her to the bed. For four long years, it had not been thus with him and his daughter. It had been tantrums and screaming and plugged ears and thrashing limbs. Not smiles and tight hugs and kisses on the forehead.

Soon, he promised himself as he pushed open the door and entered the chamber. The upcoming cabal of physicians and scientists would be precisely what they needed to turn their fortunes around. He could feel it.

Miss Smythe paused at his footsteps, one hand poised to release the cord tying back the bed curtain. “Lily, your father is here! Won’t you tell him goodnight?”

All Alistair heard was silence. He did not need to see through the velvet drapery to suspect his daughter had pulled a face at the suggestion. He could only be grateful there was no more screaming.

When he reached her side, Miss Smythe took a step toward the foot of the bed to allow him better access to Lily. His daughter’s eyes were focused on the tester across the canopy and did not move to acknowledge his presence.

“Good night, daughter. I hope you sleep well.”

Silence.

“Lily.” Miss Smythe’s voice was a low warning.

She turned her head away. “I have nothing to say to him.”

He sighed, but did not yet take his leave. Even if she were not speaking to him, his daughter was still the most precious gift he had ever been given, and just looking at the dark lashes curled against her little cheeks filled him with an indescribable joy. Someday, she would be pleased with him, too. Please, God, someday soon.

At last, he took a step back to allow Miss Smythe room to release the bed curtain.

“Good night, Tiger Lily.”

Just as the curtain fell home against the opposite panel, his daughter’s soft voice was barely audible above the rustling velvet. “Good night, Miss Smythe. I love you.”

The wide-eyed shock on Miss Smythe’s face was nothing compared to the meteorite that had just slammed into Alistair’s gut. He was not jealous of the governess. He was not. And yet, how long had he hoped, had he yearned, to hear those words from his daughter’s lips once again?

She hadn’t loved him since the morning she’d seen her own grave. He had not earned it. The governess—Miss Smythe—had succeeded where he had not. Had conquered the war when he had yet to win a single battle. If he had ever been in want of concrete proof of his failings as a father, well, he was in want no more.

She reached out, as if to touch his arm.

He turned away before contact could be made and strode back into the welcome darkness of the catacombs. He had prayed for her help, but he did not need her pity.

She followed him from the room. The door clicked shut behind her, leaving them enshrouded in darkness. She did not move. He did not speak. She waited, without talking. And, by the grace of God, without touching. He could barely withstand his own skin without shattering. He needed a moment to think. To breathe. To remind himself that his feelings, his heart, were not his concern. Only his daughter.

“How is she?” he said at last. “Truly?”

At first he thought Miss Smythe did not intend to answer. Then he feared she was formulating a speech about what had just happened—or not happened—at his daughter’s bedside. At last, he heard a soft sigh, and quiet rustles indicating she had turned to face him, despite the darkness.

“She won’t paint.”

He found himself wishing for a candle after all, in order to read her expression, since he was obviously incapable of comprehending her words. “What?”

“I said, she won’t paint.”

“That’s... alarming?”

“Very much so.”

He frowned. “How can not painting be that bad? Until you arrived, she’d never held a paintbrush before in her life.”

“I’d wager she never expressed herself before in her life, either. Now she has. And now she won’t.”

He snorted. It sounded to him like Lily was expressing herself very clearly. She preferred her governess to her own father. What more was left to say?

“I suppose you have a solution?” he asked, unable to keep the uncharitable edge from his voice.

“I do.”

“Well?”

He heard her inhale deeply. Whatever she was about to suggest must be shocking indeed, if she needed to inhale that much of the dank catacomb air.

“Art comes in part from experience,” she said slowly. “But life, on the other hand, is one hundred percent experience. And Lily has experienced nothing.”

“I fail to hear a suggestion.”

“She needs to see the world. Even if for her, ‘the world’ is only her own back garden by the light of the moon.”

He took an involuntary step backward and nearly cracked his head against the crumbling wall of the tunnel. “No.”

“Let’s take her outside. After dusk, when it will be safe.”

“No.”

“Just once,” she said softly, cajolingly, as if he wasn’t well aware that “just once” was all it would take to lose his daughter forever. “Please. Just for a few moments.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Why not?” she burst out, angrily.

“Given an inch, Lily will run away. She’s done it before, and she’ll do it again. The next time, she could die.” And with that letter he’d received… Alistair’s voice hardened. “The answer is no.”

For a long moment, the silence was so absolute that he began to imagine himself alone in the catacombs, raving like a madman to the corpses sequestered within its walls. And then she spoke.

“With all due respect,” she began, in a tone of such unveiled frustration that even he wasn’t fanciful enough to imagine any respect. “You are keeping your daughter from a potential source of happiness.”

“No,” he returned, his voice carefully modulated. “I am keeping her alive.”

“It’s not mutually exclusive,” she snapped. “Overprotection is counterproductive.”

“Is it?” His fingers shook. She had not been the one to fetch a screaming five-year-old from a patch of sunlight. She had not been the one to soothe patches of blistered skin until the welts faded to angry scars. “What do you know about it? You haven’t stood in my shoes. You’re not her mother. You’re not anybody’s mother. Until you have a child of your own, you can’t tell me how to raise mine.”

She sucked in a breath. He didn’t need a candle to realize his words had wounded far too deeply. When she spoke, her voice was uneven. “You’re right. I don’t know anything about mothers at all.”

Alistair’s hands curled into fists of frustration. Punching a hole in the catacomb wall would likely bring the whole structure down upon them. Not to mention the likelihood of God striking him down for his sacrilege. He forced his white-knuckled fingers to release their tension.

“I don’t think you understand,” he began, as calmly as he could.

“I don’t think you understand,” she interrupted, her voice tight. “It’s not for you. It’s not for me. It’s for Lily.”

“Miss Smythe—”

“I’ll be with your daughter at every moment. We’ll both be with her. And we’ll never let her out of our sight.”

He let his humorless chuckle echo along the packed soil and crumbling saints. “What makes you think mere sight can control her? Look what Lily did to the paintings you worked so hard on. Look what she did to her own painting that she had worked so hard on. We were both right next to her, keeping her in our sight, when she lashed out and committed irreparable damage before either of us could react. Think again, Miss Smythe. How can anyone control Lily if she can’t even control herself?”

A swish, as if Miss Smythe had turned from him in the darkness, followed by the muffled click of boot heels against the ancient dirt floor. She was walking away from him without a word? Cutting him, as it were?

He squinted into the darkness. “Are we done discussing?”

Her footsteps did not slow. “Lily is a child. Children act out. She—”

“She’s not a child. She’s my child.” He pursued the retreating footsteps into the blackness. “It’s my responsibility to ensure she not act out in a way that could cause her harm, much less kill her.”

She spun around so suddenly that her hands had grasped his forearms even before he registered she’d stopped walking. “Lily is special. Did you see what she painted? How she painted? You looked, but did you really see?”

He allowed his hands to settle lightly on her hips, but his tone remained as hard as his resolve. “What are you saying, Miss Smythe? That my daughter would be Michelangelo if only she could travel the world? I know how special Lily is! Why do you think I’m so desperate to keep her safe? To cure her?”

Her grip on his forearms gentled, as did her voice. “Because you’re her father and you love her,” she said quietly, each word another dash of salt into his open wound. “You’d be desperate for a cure even if she couldn’t draw a straight line. You’re a good man, and you’re trying to be a great father. I see that. I see you.”

Trying to be. Wanting to be. But accomplishing nothing. He stood in silence, letting her words fall upon him like dust upon a coffin. Unanswered. Because there was no answer to give.

“The thing is,” she continued softly, her breath ghostly above the folds of his cravat. “When will you find this cure? Next week? Next year? In ten years?” She lifted one of her hands and laid the palm against the side of his face. “What about the quality of Lily’s life between now and then?”

“I’m trying to save her life,” he ground out. “That’s precisely why it isn’t worth the risk.”

She lowered her hand. “What if you never find a cure? What if there isn’t any cure to be found? Would it all still be worth it then?”

“Never say that again,” he said furiously. He gripped her by the shoulders, then pushed her away. He did not want her touching him anymore. He did not want her opinions on childrearing. And he definitely did not want to hear poisonous negativity. His body shook as much in fear as in anger. “I will find a cure. I must. I shall.”

She did not reply.

Even though he could smell the soap upon her curls and hear the faint whisper of each breath, Alistair knew the truth. He was alone. Nothing would change that. Him against the world, against modern science, against God Himself if need be. For Lily.

He would prevail or die trying.

Chapter 19

Violet’s eyes snapped awake in the darkness. Morning or half-midnight, she couldn’t be certain, but something had awakened her. Something that had her heart pounding like spooked horses.

She held perfectly still. No sounds broke the stillness of the night, save the overloud whisper of her own breath sticking in her throat. No light seeped through the double layer of thick wood. Even the sullen orange embers had vanished from the fireplace. Was that what had woken her? A chill?

Not a chill—a dream. A bad one, involving a depraved cracksman with an eye for young girls. Shaking, she propped herself up on her elbows. She closed her eyes and tried to shake the sleep from her head, but only succeeded in jumbling her thoughts about even worse. Why was she dreaming about the Spitalfields rookery? She hastened from the bed. There would be no more sleep tonight.

Why had those terrible memories returned? Her current situation was not at all the same. Trembling, she bent before a large bowl and splashed cold water on her face. Mr. Waldegrave was nothing like the monster who had ruled her childhood. She did not labor here under lock and key. He was a desperate man, but a gentleman all the same. It was not in his nature to hold a guest prisoner. Was it?

She squinted through the shadows at the closed door of her bedchamber. It was locked. Of course it was locked. All the doors in Waldegrave Abbey secured themselves automatically. But she padded across the room and tested the handle to be sure.

The door was locked tight, but she was not trapped inside. She touched her fingertips to her chest. She carried her key on a chain about her neck. Why, she could walk through the door and on out of the abbey if she had a mind to. In fact, she would, just to prove she could.

She jerked her fingers through her sleep-mussed hair. Her pelisse was right over there. If she felt so vulnerable that it was causing nightmares, she should put her theory to the test at once. She shrugged into the pelisse and shoved her feet into her walking boots. The edge of her night rail poked out from below the hem of the pelisse, and the cool brass key lay atop the lapel. Thus attired, she straightened her spine and strode to her door. Seconds later, she stood in the silent corridor.

“See?” she chided herself under her breath. “Not a prisoner.”

She hesitated only a moment before making her way toward the entrance of the abbey. Despite taking care to move cautiously, her footfalls seemed to slap against the marble floor. But no one came. No alarms were sounded. All were abed. As she should be, too. Instead, she stood at the abbey’s front door. She tried the handle.

Locked.

Her heart quickened. Foolish girl. Of course it would be locked. That did not mean she was being held prisoner. It simply meant Mr. Waldegrave had a cautious nature.

She slipped the thin chain from her neck and hefted her bedchamber key in her palm. When she had picked Roper’s pocket, there had been two keys—and she had selected the wrong one. It hadn’t opened her bedchamber. It hadn’t opened the door to the catacombs. It didn’t provide access to anything except the shrine to her employer’s dead wife.

This key, on the other hand, did open Violet’s bedchamber. And the tunnel to the catacombs. And the art room, and the library, and the sanctuary, and the school room... The key slid through her fingers and caught, swinging from her upturned hand in a slow arc upon its slender chain.

She stepped forward and slipped the key into the lock on the entryway door. It fit. Slowly, she turned the key. Tiny clicks ticked in the darkness as the bolt retracted.

The skeleton key accessed the entire abbey! When Mr. Waldegrave installed all the locking mechanisms at once, the locksmith must not have had time to forge hundreds of unique locks. Either that, or it was simply easier for the household to deal with just one key, particularly when one was not accustomed to doors having locks at all.

Now she understood the trust implicit in having been given a key of her own. Roper’s initial reluctance to share made much more sense. She’d been a stranger. One who had all but blown in with a gust of wind. No manservant in his right mind would hand over free reign to a trespasser.

She curled her fingers about the icy handle and turned. The door swung open, briefly blinding her with moonlight. Chilly night air rushed across the starlit lawn to ruddy her cheeks and tangle her hair. She’d forgotten both her bonnet and her gloves in her haste, but for the moment she did not care in the least.

Closing the door behind her, she stepped from the abbey and tipped her face up to the sky. Stars winked down upon her. A breeze tickled her hair. The scent of grass and flowers and recent rain enveloped her.

Freedom. And yet she still felt empty. It wasn’t her freedom she was worried about, she realized slowly. It was Lily’s. The moon was not the sun and the colors of the garden were dulled by shadow, but would that make the panorama any less magical to a little girl who yearned to greet the world at large, if only for a stolen moment? Mr. Waldegrave meant well, but it was wrong to imprison a child.

Dewdrops glinted like diamonds atop the endless green of shrubbery and blades of grass. The abbey was perhaps too remote to discern the rustle of the River Severn as it rushed toward the Ironbridge Gorge, but the night held plenty of other delights. Nocturnal creatures prowling the garden for their supper, the creak of a branch supporting a nest high overhead, the call of an owl somewhere far in the distance.

She took a deep breath, filling her lungs with the crisp, clean air. This was what Lily needed. Violet was sure of it.

Tucking her fingers into the warmth of her pockets, she picked her way toward a stone path. While she was out, she might as well take a turn about the abbey, and imagine the view as Lily might see it.

When she reached the rear of the abbey, a muffled metallic snip pulled her up short. Violet scanned the tree line, the garden, the shadows between the buildings. She clapped a hand to her chest in relief.

Foxes were not the only nocturnal animals taking advantage of the moonlight. There, on bended knee among the roses, was Mr. Waldegrave.

She hesitated. If she continued her circuit about the abbey, she was bound to disrupt his solitude. Perhaps he preferred to be alone with the night, caring for his roses by the light of the moon. Her heart reached out to him. As a man who suffered sunsickness, this was the only time he could tend his garden. She doubted he would be pleased by her interruption. Their conversation in the catacombs had not gone well at all. Perhaps she should turn around and tuck herself back into bed. Perhaps—

“If you’re going to stand there staring at me all night, you might as well come closer and have a clearer view.”

She started guiltily.

He had not looked up, not before nor during his speech, but he had known she was there all along. She shook her head at her own foolishness. She hadn’t expected anyone else to be about at this hour of the night, so she supposed she had not been treading particularly silently. And now that she had been caught, he was right—she might as well join him.

As she neared, she glimpsed the rectangular white stones she’d fallen upon that very first day. These roses were more than mere jewels of his garden, then. They marked his wife’s grave. Did he fetch fresh roses for his daughter in order to bring her some beauty? Or did he frequent the roses so often because he was still mourning the loss of his long-dead wife?

“Good evening, Miss Smythe,” he said as she reached his side. His focus remained on the flowers, but his scissors ceased their rhythmic shearing.

“It is a good evening,” she agreed, seating herself on the dewy grass beside him, the soft blades crunching pleasantly beneath her. “The moon is beautiful tonight. Very nearly full, I daresay.”

At this, he looked over at her with a wistful half-smile. “I’m afraid you’re a day late, Miss Smythe. It was full last night, and beautiful indeed.”

“I did miss it, then.” She took a deep breath before her courage fled with the wind. “You know who else missed it?”

His face hardened as he turned away. “That topic is closed.”

“Not for me, and not for Lily,” Violet pushed on. “She could use some beauty in her life. We all could. Look at you, for example.”

“At me? What have I to do with anything, other than being the one person who wants to keep her safe?”

“You’re outside,” she explained simply. “You are here to keep her safe. And as you’re not affected by the light of the moon, there’s nothing to fear.”

“Nothing to fear?” he repeated with a disbelieving chuckle. “Miss Smythe, there is far more to fear than moonlight. What if my daughter runs away, as she’s done every other time I’ve brought her out? There are gates, but… what if she doesn’t run away, but someone sees her, suspects something afoot?”

“Who would be out here at this time of night?”

“You yourself arrived without warning or premeditation. All it takes is one person, Miss Smythe. Once the secret is out, there will be no more safe haven for Lily.”

“But you took her out once to look at the stars!”

“And I learned my lesson at my daughter’s expense. I no longer take foolish risks.”

“Even if someone catches sight of a girl and her father out admiring the stars, they would have no reason to suspect Lily’s condition. She would be safe. She—”

“As I recall, you punctuated your arrival by tripping over my daughter’s false gravestone, did you not? Everyone who has heard of the Waldegraves is also quite aware that I do not have a daughter with whom I might admire the stars. To see me with a child in hand would inherently put Lily at risk. Perhaps they would think, ‘Who is this young girl with Alistair Waldegrave? He has no daughter—we must rescue the girl at once!’ Or worse, ‘Look, the daughter is not dead after all. What could be so monstrous about the child that necessitates her being kept secret?’”

Violet’s fingers clenched. “Lily is not monstrous.”

He tossed his shears aside impatiently. “I know that, and you know that. But until recently, not even all my staff were in agreement on that score, so what makes you think suspicious neighbors would be any more accepting? Even the scientists and physicians I’ve consulted want to do exhaustive tests in their laboratories. They want to expose sensitive skin to direct sunlight just to document the results. That’s why they all must believe I—”

“That’s why they must believe you’ve lost your daughter,” she finished softly. “I do understand your position. I’m just not certain that keeping her imprisoned is the only option. Here’s an idea. If someone should chance upon us, why don’t we say that she is my daughter? No one in Shropshire knows me, and—”

“Lily,” he interrupted, his eyes distant, “is not your daughter. She is the image of her mother, as anyone who knew her would see at a glance. And, no. I will not allow her to be taken from me. Not by superstitious neighbors nor by laboratory-dwelling scientists. I appreciate your concern for her artistic soul, but my concern is for her health and safety, which must come first. There is nothing to discuss, Miss Smythe. The topic is closed.”

Sighing, she fingered one of the shorn leaves that had fluttered to the ground. Although she couldn’t help but disagree with the execution, she could hardly find fault in his motives. And as he’d pointed out twice now, what did she know of motherhood, least of all mothering Lily? A crude reminder, perhaps, but nonetheless correct. He was right. Some risks weren’t meant to be taken.

“Father does know best.” She gave him a lopsided smile, trying to lighten the moment. “I’m just the governess. I’ll remember my place from now on.”

“You are not just the governess.” He leaned forward and gripped her shoulders, his expression shockingly intense. Her body thrilled at feeling his touch once again, dared to hope for more. “That is not what I meant at all. Your place is here, with... Lily.”

Her heart quickened as she gazed up at him, his eyes mere inches from her own. “I should stay in the sanctuary?”

“You should be here,” he answered gruffly. He pulled her to him and brushed his lips against hers.

Before he could change his mind, she grasped his shoulders, his hair, pressing their bodies ever closer and reveling in the sensation. She had longed for his kisses. Longed for him. Dreamt that he longed for her, too.

If the night held a chill, she no longer felt it. Her senses were flooded with a thousand heady delights. The hard muscle of his arms, the warm breath against her lips, the stroke of his thumb against her cheek. He made her feel like she belonged. He made her feel needed. As if he, too, could not bear to be apart.

She opened her mouth beneath his, letting him taste her, devour her. Anything to stay in his embrace. To feel cherished. With her arms locked about him, she tumbled to the ground, pulling him with her. She was pinned beneath him and still wanted more. He truly was magical.

Hoping he would not pull away, she ran her hands over the breadth of his shoulders, down the small of his back, to the tight curve of his breeches. His lips never left hers. She dreamed they never would. One strong hand softly cradled her head, whilst the other brushed against the lapel of her pelisse. Beneath the layers, her nipples responded, as if they could feel the touch of his fingers through the thin linen of her nightdress and the thick wool of her cloak. How lovely it would be if their clothes could just disappear, leaving nothing between them but their hearts and the night sky.

Perhaps he felt the same. With his mouth still on hers, kissing, licking, he pulled away just far enough to allow passage for his hand to rip open the pelisse and cup the sensitive breast beneath. This was what she had been longing for. She gasped in pleasure. Her back arched, pressing her body more fully against his.

At the sound of her gasp, his eyes flew open in horror. He jerked his hand from her breast and threw himself from her as if she were an explosive in danger of detonating at any moment. To be sure, she had certainly felt as such. She reached out for him before it registered that he was staring at her in dismay, not desire.

Bereft, she fought the tightness in her throat. Her hand fell limply to the grass.

“Forgive me.” He looked away, then just as quickly back to her. “I should not have done that.”

“I did not mind.” She wrapped her arms about her chest and tried not to let him see her distress. For him, nothing had changed. Even though his kisses reached the deepest, loneliest part of her soul. She had experienced a true connection, and her heart yearned for more. For him. But he did not feel for her as she felt for him. He did not want her after all.

He reached for her. No—not for her. For the edge of her pelisse. To cover the bosom exposed by her drooping nightrail.

“I can do it.” She jerked upright, overlapping the edges of the pelisse and securing the ribbon. She could definitely feel that night chill now. The cold seeped into her very bones.

His black gaze glittered in the starlight. “You are clearly not ‘just the governess.’ Not to Lily, and not to me. But that does not give me the right to take advantage of you.”

Violet’s voice shook. “You did not take advantage. You did not take anything I didn’t freely give. Did you not feel me kissing you in return?”

He thumped his chest, eyes flashing. “Of course I did. I feel your lips on mine every time I close my eyes, every time I settle abed, every time I look at you. That’s my problem. One of my problems,” he amended, casting his gaze briefly heavenward. “Your arrival here was quite literally the answer to my prayers. You’ve been nothing short of an angel sent from God. It is my duty and my privilege to protect you, not despoil you.”

She nearly choked. She was the furthest thing from an angel she could imagine—and she had quite an imagination. If he had any designs on “despoiling” her, well, he was about fifteen years too late. And yet here he was, calling her the answer to his prayers, begging her forgiveness. Trying to protect an innocence she’d likely never had.

And yet, foolishly—selfishly—the idea of actually being the pure and innocent maiden he imagined her to be was so beguiling that she couldn’t bring herself to disabuse him of the notion.

She was not, and never would be, up to his standards. That much went without saying. But for as long as the illusion lasted, she would pretend there could be a future.

“I feel very protected,” she said softly, wishing she could touch his face. “I have never felt unsafe with you.”

“And you will not,” he promised. He pushed to his feet and held out a hand to help her up. “My lady?”

His lady. She placed her palm in his and forced a smile to her lips. How she wished it were true. How she wished it were possible to be true.

But he was a good man. Rich, landed, educated. Born on the right side of the blanket. He prayed. His god even answered prayers, sent down angels to help those who deserved it. He was even idealistic enough to believe she was one of them.

She was none of those things. At a young age, her instinct for survival had fast outstripped any concern for ethics. Life had taught her good things simply did not happen to people like her. Hope was always snatched away.

She’d been penniless, homeless, right from the start. Born in a gutter, like as not. Definitely abandoned there. If she couldn’t secure the love of her own mother, how could she even dream of being worthy of anyone else’s love? She was patently not one of God’s chosen. He scarce concerned Himself with her prayers. He’d given her the Livingstone School for Girls and just as capriciously taken it away.

She gazed over at the man who placed more value in her imagined innocence than in his actual desires. Until this moment, she would never have believed such a man could even exist. Violet let out a slow breath. Soon it wouldn’t matter. The Waldegraves were yet another gift she could never hope to keep.

Chapter 20

The following evening, Violet rejoined Cook, Mrs. Tumsen and Mr. Roper for another night of card-playing. Although the trio was full of good humor—Mrs. Tumsen was in particularly rare form, since she had spent the afternoon “visiting Ginny”—Violet’s heart was not in the game. Long before midnight, she excused herself and rose to leave. She was almost to the door when the sound of a scraping chair gave her pause.

“Wait, dear, I nearly forgot!” Mrs. Tumsen called out. She fished a small parcel from inside a cloak pocket and hurried to Violet’s side.

As she pressed a small stack of twine-bound missives into Violet’s palm, Mrs. Tumsen’s bloodshot eyes were oddly serious. “It’s yer... correspondence, miss. Also something else in there ye really oughta see.” Her voice dropped, and her next whiskey-spiced words were faint against Violet’s ear. “I can mind a secret if ye need me to, dear. All of us can.”

Frowning, Violet gave her a quick nod and escaped from the room with her heart beating unaccountably fast. Had Mrs. Tumsen read her petitions? There was nothing to be learned except that she was in the market for a barrister, which Violet had already confided in order to obtain the list of directions in the first place. She had been purposefully vague. So what on earth was Mrs. Tumsen referring to? Had it just been the whiskey talking?

Violet was concentrating so closely on picking apart the knot binding the folded missives together that she nearly bowled over Mr. Waldegrave as he emerged from the catacomb tunnels.

“My apologies,” she stammered in embarrassment. “I didn’t see you there. I was just... How is Lily?”

“Asleep, thankfully. Gave me plenty of time to study this delightful little read.” He indicated a heavy tome trapped beneath his arm. “And you? How was your evening?”

She tightened her grip on the small stack of folded parchment. “Lovely, thank you.”

“It’s actually good that we ran into each other. I’ve been meaning to talk to you.”

“Have you?” she asked doubtfully.

“I—” He stared at her for a moment then let out a self-deprecating chuckle. “I deserved that, I suppose. You’re right. I have been distant. Not because I wish to avoid you, understand. Quite the opposite. But I’m trying very hard to be a good... employer.”

“I know.” She gave him a lopsided smile. “That is who you are. You strive to be a good employer, a good man, a good father—”

“Precisely,” he interrupted vaguely, as if he hadn’t been attending her words. “Which is what I wished to discuss. Do you recall me mentioning having invited the greatest minds in Britain to convene here at Waldegrave Abbey to pursue a cure for acute sunsickness?”

“Oh.” She forced a smile. “Of course.”

What had she expected? That he desired her presence for something other than the improvement of his daughter’s environs?

Even if he were not trying so desperately to be a good man and a good father and a good employer, the chasm between them was more than mere class differences. He required goodness from himself because what he expected from others was nothing short of perfection. He would expect even more from a woman like her. No one would ever take the place of his long-dead angel of a wife, and no imperfect scrap of a woman could ever be good enough for his daughter.

She continued to be amazed every morning she awoke beneath a velvet tester and every month when heavy coins were pressed into her palm. She had no illusions about the impermanence of her stay here at Waldegrave Abbey. Even if she did manage to clear her name, she would never be good enough for him. Even though her foolish heart still longed to try.

“Prepare any questions you might have. The retreat will be upon us before we know.” His voice rang oddly loud among the awkward silence that ensued. “I suppose I ought to get back to my studies. I see you’ve reading material of your own to attend to.”

“What? Yes. These are... letters.” She flipped open the only sheet not sealed tight with wax, intending to feign some friend or relation had penned amusing anecdotes or inquired about her health.

“So I see. I shall leave you to them. Good night, Miss Smythe.”

But Violet barely heard him. Her veins thrummed with fear. Her shaking fingers were almost too clammy to keep hold of the parchment trembling in her hand.

This was not a response from a London barrister. This was a large, hand-inked Wanted bill, with her wild-eyed likeness staring out from dead center.

Her skin suddenly icy, she stumbled backward against the wall and tried desperately not to panic.

How could she not panic? “WANTED FOR MURDER” screamed right across the top, followed by “VIOLET WHITECHAPEL” and “DANGEROUS FELON—£100 FOR WHEREABOUTS OR CAPTURE.”

She had to get out of here. She had to get out of here now.

No—no, no, no. She couldn’t go anywhere. Not one step. If Mrs. Tumsen had picked this up right here in Shrewsbury, it meant Violet couldn’t so much as peek outside the abbey without risking discovery and capture.

It also meant the Livingstone estate was leaving no stone unturned in all of Britain. She might have let the evil Percy Livingstone and his companion die in flames, but that hardly meant he wouldn’t have a passel of equally villainous cousins to seek their revenge on a runaway art instructor.

She had to stay hidden. Well hidden. At least until her face wasn’t affixed on lampposts in every town center, for God’s sake. Had she been so arrogant as to question whether or not the servants ever walked off with tortoise-shell betting chips? She ought to have been counting her blessings Mrs. Tumsen hadn’t turned her in for a hundred pound windfall!

Mrs. Tumsen had said she could keep a secret, hadn’t she? Well, good. Violet was a secret who desperately needed to stay well-kept. As long as she stayed cloistered within the abbey for another month or three, no one would be the wiser. She would have plenty of time to save money and organize her defense. Once Mrs. Tumsen confirmed there were no more fliers posted about town, Violet could head to London and clear her name. She just had to lay low until then. No trips, no new faces, no unnecessary risks. Should be simple enough. It wasn’t as if the abbey was a hotbed of social activ—oh no.

“Mr. Waldegrave!” she shouted, her voice cracking in terror as she raced down the hall after him. “Mr. Waldegrave, wait!”

Startled, he jerked to a stop, twisting to stare back at her in surprise. “What is it?”

“The—the meeting,” she blurted between ragged breaths. “All the scientists and thinkers you invited from all over Britain. When do they arrive?”

He regarded her curiously. “Eight, I believe.”

Violet groaned, hoping against hope that she’d misremembered the date. “Eight... days from now?”

“Eight o’clock. Tomorrow morning.”

Chapter 21

Alistair had planned to awaken at first light but, in his excitement, skipped the time-wasting act of sleeping entirely. He was bathed, dressed, and glued to the front door long before dawn. Today was the day. He could feel it. If not today then tomorrow, which might as well be today, for surely it was only a matter of hours before a cure was discovered, and if not discovered, then at least invented, which was all the same to Alistair so long as Lily was finally cured of her cursed sunsickness and—Good Lord, how many pots of tea had he drunk?

He needed to settle down. If he could barely keep up with his own racing thoughts, how could he expect anyone else to follow along? He should sit back and wait, maybe have some milk and a biscuit. No, not a biscuit—too much sugar. Maybe some nice plain bread. Or a carrot. Or—

Were those hoof beats? It could be thunder, he supposed, but it also could be hoof beats, and if it were hoof beats and not inclement weather, then one could assume the first of his guests was to arrive at any moment. It was time! They were finally here!

He rushed outside and craned his head toward the wind. Definitely hoof beats. Many horses, in fact. Scads. Multiple carriages might mean one of his guests forbore to pack lightly, but it could as easily mean that multiple guests were arriving at once. Oh! Inside. Quickly, now, before he was spied all but clapping his hands on the front steps.

Perhaps this was a good opportunity to rouse Miss Smythe. Wait—what was the hour? Half six? No, no, he ought to let her sleep. A bit, anyway. The more brains the merrier but he needed her rested, not sluggish. Or coffee-addled. Not the best mind frame for critical thinking, as he could attest. He really shouldn’t have had that last cup of tea. Although his guests might appreciate some, he supposed. He strode to his office to ring the bell for breakfast service and gather a few key volumes of medical and scientific thought.

“Master?”

“Roper! Did I ring you? I meant to call the kitchen. In any case, that was exceedingly prompt. I’ve scarcely had a moment to collect my wits, much less—”

“Master,” Roper said again, this time with no small amount of empathy and amusement glimmering in his eyes. “Your first guests have arrived.”

“Oh, have they?” Alistair said innocently, peeking over Roper’s shoulder to verify they weren’t right there, right now, witnessing him prattle like a madman. “Which ones?”

His manservant brandished a pair of calling cards. “Doctor Hughes and Mr. Colin Knightly.”

“Splendid. Please show them to their chambers and ring for anything they might need. Let them know I’ll have the kitchen bring refreshments to the dining area for whenever they’re ready.”

“As you wish.”

As Roper left to oversee the guests’ comfort, Alistair replaced the pile of books in his arms back atop his desk. Had he truly been about to force anatomy and disease theory upon his guests before they’d had a single moment’s repose? Not only would there be plenty of time for discussion after breakfast, his guests were, by design, far more knowledgeable in their subjects than Alistair would ever be. He ought not to let his enthusiasm and his hubris impede their genius.

In fact, instead of spine-creased tomes and technical drawings, what he should bring to the table would be blank parchment and plenty of ink for note-taking. With the quantity of brilliant insights about to bandied across his dining table, he’d best concentrate on committing every one of them to paper.

“I promise you, Lily,” he murmured as he gathered his portable secretary and a vial of ink. “This time, I will not disappoint.”

Chapter 22

By mid-afternoon, Violet was crawling out of her skin.

She hadn’t left the safety of her bedchamber since arriving within its protective walls the night before. The last of the fire’s embers lent the windowless chamber a sensation more of a crypt than a sanctuary. And despite the fragile state of her nerves, for the first time since arriving at Waldegrave Abbey her empty stomach was in danger of consuming itself out of desperation.

For the hundredth time since waking, she pressed her ear to the locked door. Just as before... nothing. No footsteps, no voices, no indication that she was anything but alone.

None of which meant anything, of course. The abbey’s many outbuildings were spacious enough to have rooms to spare. Most likely, the esteemed guests were offered more distinguished accommodations in another area. But where? And for how long?

Her forehead thumped against the solid wooden door. She had no idea. She couldn’t risk being seen—not if her face was posted on bills from Lancashire to Cornwall—but another day or two without fire, food, or water, and prosecution would be the least of her worries.

She stood there for a long moment, listening to the silence and her own uneven breathing. She pushed away from the door and picked her way through the darkness to the bell pull. As a glorified servant herself, ringing for a maid made her feel hypocritical, not special. Particularly since she’d already rung it once this morning, in the hopes of summoning Mrs. Tumsen.

No one had heeded the call.

She warred with herself, then gave the cord a firm tug before she could change her mind. Above all, she had no wish to be seen as the spoiled governess incapable of waiting her turn, but above even that, she’d rather be the obnoxious entitled governess than the incarcerated waif set to hang for murder.

An hour passed. Then another.

Violet’s nerves frayed. This was not like Mrs. Tumsen. This was not like any of the staff at Waldegrave Abbey. Which could only mean that the promised company had in fact arrived, and the servants—sufficient in quantity to keep up the abbey, but bare bones with regard to guests—were currently overwhelmed with preparing meals and heating water for baths and attending to carriages and had not a moment to spare. If they were racing about as frantically as Violet imagined, they weren’t ignoring her at all. More likely, they were all so busy that no one had even been within earshot of the bell when it had rung. Or so many had sounded at once that it had been impossible to discern which summons came from where.

Which meant what? She could not stay locked in her bedchamber until the cabal came to a close. And yet she certainly could not risk showing her face before the guests, despite having promised Mr. Waldegrave to do precisely that.

Lily! Lily was the answer.

The sanctuary was the one place in the entire abbey guaranteed to remain undiscovered by prying eyes, whilst also ensured of being brought fresh food and water throughout. Violet hurried across her room and yanked the mantle from her bed. Folded, it would make a serviceable enough pallet to sleep upon. She’d certainly made do with less. She tossed a nightrail and a few dresses in the center and tied the whole with the rope from the curtain dressing. There. Perfect.

At this hour, she could only assume that Lily had already eaten, but Violet could wait no longer. The only solution was to slip into the kitchen, toss as many provisions as she could into her satchel, and then keep Lily company until every guest had left and the danger of discovery had passed.

Carefully, Violet unlocked her door and waited. No footsteps sounded. Nothing moved. She creaked the door ajar and listened. Silence. She took a deep breath and stepped into the open corridor.

Without a candle to guide her way, the passage was black and thick as India ink. She would have to rely on memory alone... which, after a lifetime of having survived on her wits, was fortunately still the one thing she could count on.

As she made her way through the tunnels toward the pantry, she began to draw comfort from the unending darkness. After all, the guests must necessarily be somewhere, and as long as she stayed hidden betwixt unlit corridors, she was likely to remain undetected.

Sconces flourished and noises grew louder as she drew closer to the kitchens. Clinking, clanking, shouted commands and the scent of smoked fish increased the sense of culinary chaos. From the sound of it, all the guests were sequestered in the furthest outbuilding. The distance helped facilitate their privacy—and hers—but complicated logistics for the kitchen. The cook staff and scullery maids tripping over each other served as its own distraction, enabling Violet to slip in and slip out without raised brows or unanswerable questions.

Almost.

As she was retying the cord about her satchel, she caught sight of a strange boy in an unfamiliar livery staring from the bustle across the room. Just as their gazes clashed, he turned and dashed down the corridor.

She hesitated only briefly, then gave chase.

She caught up with the boy just as he neared one of the servants’ exits. She tossed her satchel to the floor and leapt into his path, spinning them both until she had him pinned, wide-eyed, against the wall.

“Who are you?” she demanded. “Why are you spying on me?”

“I—I deliver ice,” he stammered, his voice cracking. “I saw ye taking bread and cheese.”

“I wasn’t stealing!” She loosened her hold in relief. “I live here.”

“And you eat?” the boy asked in awe.

“Of course I eat. What kind of question is that?”

“I mean... ” The boy’s voice wobbled from high to low, and he flushed. “I mean, you live here, and you’re not dressed as a servant, and you eat.”

Violet stared at him.

“Real food,” he added helpfully.

She released him and rubbed at her arms as if his evident madness might spread on contact. “What the devil are you on about?”

“The facts. I’m from Shrewsbury, mum, and I ain’t ever seen your face. All the schoolboys know about Waldegrave Abbey. We know old man Waldegrave’s a vampire and that everyone who lives here and don’t go into the sun is bound to be one, too.”

Violet nearly choked. She wasn’t sure if she was more horrified that an attractive man at most five years her senior had just been referred to as “old man Waldegrave” or that part of the neighboring town believed him a dangerous bloodsucking monster.

“Stuff and nonsense,” she answered, once she’d found her voice. “Vampires do not exist.”

The boy’s skyrocketing eyebrows indicated he was less than convinced.

“Banbury tales.” Violet stepped back from the boy and crossed to the servants’ exit, which had been temporarily propped open for his delivery. “Watch this.” She tugged the door open fully. Sunshine spilled in, warming her skin and half-blinding her in the process. A brisk wind filled the corridor, lifting her curls from her neck and ruffling her skirt. The scent of summer flowers blended oddly with the scent of smoked fish, but she hoped it at least proved her point. “See? I eat bread. I like the sun. I’m not a vampire.”

The boy’s thin hand latched about her wrist, his voice urgent. “Then you’re in danger. Come with me, mum. Get out whilst you can. For if you don’t, you’ll soon be a vampire yourself... or his next meal.”

She let the door close. “I am not in danger—”

“You’re in mortal danger. You’re a prisoner, mum. He’ll kill you and eat you and maybe not in that order. You’re a canary in a cage. A sheep waiting to be slaughtered. A—”

“I am not a prisoner. Don’t you think I’d know if I were being held against my will?”

“If you’re not, then prove it,” the boy insisted, casting nervous glances over his shoulder. “Let me help you escape. Come with me. Now, before they notice you’re gone.”

She wrested her arm from his grip. “This flimflam has gone on long enough. Listen to me. I can leave anytime I choose. I simply don’t choose to. I’m hardly a sheep waiting to be—”

“What’s going on here?” came a deep voice, followed by heavy footsteps.

The boy’s eyes widened in terror.

“Mr. Roper!” Violet exclaimed in relief. “I was just explaining—”

“What’s this?” He lifted Violet’s abandoned satchel and loosened the cord. The tip of a loaf of bread peeked out of its cloth cover. “You caught him stealing?”

“No.” Violet reached toward the bundle. “It’s not his. It’s mine.”

“She’s coming with me!” the boy cried, tugging desperately at her skirt. “Hurry. Come now!”

At that, Mr. Roper’s face hardened. “She’s not going anywhere.”

Before she could begin to comprehend the sudden change in his demeanor, she’d been hefted over his shoulder as if she were no more bother than a sack of laundry.

“Miss!” the boy yelled back as he darted out the open door. “I’ll be back for ye!”

“Let me down!” She struggled to slide free of the burly manservant’s unyielding grasp. The delivery boy was young and foolish, but his very real panic had managed to unsettle her. And now this! She was an employee, not a prisoner... so why was she being forcibly prevented from exiting, slung over a silent lackey’s shoulder as if headed to a dark dungeon? “Mr. Roper! Mr. Roper!”

As he turned a corner past the kitchen, Mrs. Tumsen stepped from an adjoining corridor. “Charles? What are you doing?”

Mr. Roper’s grip barely loosened at the sound of his given name, but it was all Violet needed to slip free. She twisted, rolling off his shoulder like a stone down a mountain. She landed hard against the marble floor, but was up and running into the darkness before anyone had a prayer of catching her.

Panting, half-shogging and half-hobbling with her heart racing faster than ever before, she finally collapsed against a wall and sank to the floor. With neither food nor water in her belly, her body was incapable of much more exercise. And without an explanation for Mr. Roper’s manhandling—and forcible detainment—her brain was incapable of coming up with a plan.

She rested her forehead upon her bent knees and concentrated on emptying her mind until her breathing returned to normal. Now more than ever, she could not return to her chambers. Although she had lost her satchel in the altercation with Mr. Roper, the sanctuary still seemed the wisest choice... if she could determine how to get there from here. Without a candle, or any reliable recollection of which direction she’d fled, she had no idea where in the abbey she might be.

She pulled herself up and forced her feet to move, slipping noiselessly down corridor after corridor. She was concentrating so hard on finding a path to the sanctuary that she almost missed the small sound coming from behind a door just to her left. She froze in her tracks to listen. Tiny, arrhythmic scratches came from the other side of the door, as if someone were locked inside and trying desperately to claw their way out.

Her heart nearly stopped.

She knelt to peer through the keyhole. Blackness. She could see nothing. If there was someone inside, they had been left there without a candle.

“H-hullo?” she called softly through the keyhole. “Is someone there?”

The scratching stopped.

The only sound in the entirety of the murky corridor was that of Violet’s own heart, and nothing more. She held her breath. Silence remained.

Perhaps she’d imagined it. Surely she’d imagined it. Despite the unquestionable appearance of being kept in the abbey by force, she had arrived here of her own free will. She carried a skeleton key, for goodness sake. If she were not meant to leave, this was surely a recent mandate. Mr. Waldegrave was hardly the sort to go about abducting and imprisoning young girls, despite what the villagers claimed.

Right?

She pulled herself to her feet and stared at the silent door. She reached forward, closed her fingers about the handle, and gave it a twist.

Locked. Of course it was locked. Every chamber in the entire abbey was locked. But she had a key, did she not?

She fished the key from beneath her bodice and slid it into the lock. Before she could change her mind, she slid the bolt free, pushed open the door, and stepped inside.

Empty. The chamber was completely empty.

Not only was there no virgin sacrifice abducted from her parents or chained to the bedpost, there was no bed, no wardrobe, no furniture, nothing. Just a large, empty chamber with thick curtains covering the far wall. Nothing more.

Fingers brushed against her ankle. With a scream, Violet leapt backward.

A loud fluttering thundered past her face toward the curtains.

A bird. A bird. Her choking laugh was tinged with almost hysterical relief. Those hadn’t been fingers against her ankle, but the soft weight of robin’s wings. And of course there were robins—hadn’t she just noted the warmth of the sun and the softly blooming flowers and the distinct scent of outdoors? Why, it was a miracle the abbey wasn’t overrun with robins. God knew, she had never been able to prevent any kind of creature from entering any place she called home. All it took was an open window, and the next thing one knew—

Her breath caught again. This was Waldegrave Abbey. There were no open windows. There weren’t even windows. Just layers of crisscross boards hidden beneath reams of heavy curtains. There was no way a robin could have squeezed through a gap that even sunshine couldn’t slip through.

Slowly, she crossed step by step to the dark curtains hanging on the other side of the empty chamber. A faint hint of light seeped from beneath. Hands shaking, she shoved the curtains apart.

Colored sunlight blasted her in the face. She stumbled backward in surprise.

Iron-framed stained glass stretched from knee height almost to the ceiling. A semi-opaque view of the abbey grounds spread before her, from a height of perhaps twenty feet. Not all the boards had been removed from the windows, but enough had been cleared to allow the smallest pane to be unlocked and lifted. She did so now. The robin seized its opportunity for flight, leaving her alone once more.

She stood there, gazing out an artisan window that should not be visible, until the sun began to set beyond the edge of the neighboring woods.

With his daughter’s sunsickness—and his own—Mr. Waldegrave would never have condoned the de-boarding of a window. But then, neither would a servant dare be so presumptuous. And yet, the room was free of dust, and someone had clearly begun to expose the stained glass design. Even the missing boards had been cleared from the room. But who? And when? And why?

Violet shoved the curtains closed with trembling fingers. Perhaps she and Lily weren’t the sole captives of Waldegrave Abbey after all.

Chapter 23

By the following noontime, Alistair had lost his appetite.

His eyes were streaked red from studying through the night, his fingers were cramped and swollen from copious note-taking during the day, his throat was sore and his voice raspy from shouting over the din of theories and postulations. It should have been a glorious turning point for the future of the Waldegraves.

Except all he was hearing was “no.”

No, they had never come across such a disease in their lives. No, there was no research on the subject, and therefore, no, there wasn’t the faintest path toward amelioration. No, they couldn’t imagine what might cause nor cure such a queer allergy. No, their busy schedules did not permit a second such gathering anytime this year, much less frequent house calls. No, there would be no way to treat an unknown disease through mere correspondence. No, they could not guarantee that experimentation in their faraway laboratories would not exacerbate, rather than solve, the problem. No, they could not study the symptoms without causing additional pain to the subject, or perhaps accidental death. They were physicians and scientists, not miracle workers and magicians. They were not God.

When the subject turned for the hundredth time to whose laboratory and bright young assistants would be more suited for physical research of this nature—despite Alistair’s repeated pleas that they focus on preventing the symptoms, not documenting them—he could bear the frustration no longer.

Rude as it may be, he leapt from his chair and strode from the wall of “Would the reflection of sun on snow deepen or lessen the severity of the burns?” and “Once enough scar tissue had formed, might not a few seconds of sunlight be tolerated?” and into the blessed darkness of his empty office. Silence... but not peace. He collapsed into his chair, crisscrossed his arms over a stack of worthless notes, and lowered his head to his desk.

His prayers had not been answered. He was not on the path to saving Lily. He was destined to disappoint her yet again. And life would trudge on as it always had.

A knock sounded on the office door. “Master Waldegrave?”

His housekeeper. Sighing, Alistair lifted his heavy head. He plodded across the room without registering much of anything and mechanically opened the door. “What is it, Mrs. Tumsen?”

“It’s tea. I thought you could use a pot.” She bustled right past him as if in-office tea service were an everyday occurrence rather than an unheard of presumption.

No one had ever been allowed in Alistair’s office but him. No maid, no housekeeper, no one. His office was the repository of an entire decade of research into his daughter’s sunsickness. Nine long years he’d kept this oasis of knowledge, this haven of hope, sacred. Books, notes, his sweat and blood and essence on every diagram or model or scrap of parchment. And for what? Just to make the bitterness of disappointment all the more severe?

Tea would not erase his woes. Only a cure for Lily could do that.

Rather than return to his desk, he stepped into the passageway and headed back toward the large refectory they’d been using as a meeting room. He did not bother to shoo Mrs. Tumsen from his office or bid her close the door behind him. So what if she spilled tea over nine years of notes or mistook yellowed parchment for forgotten rubbish? He was never going to devise a cure on his own. He needed help. He needed the experts arguing animatedly on the other side of the abbey. While there was still air to breathe, he was not willing to give up.

Nearly to the refectory, he spied Roper heading toward the servants’ quarters. Alistair called out to his manservant, who started as if he’d been caught sneaking biscuits.

“Master! Good afternoon.”

“Not particularly. Is Miss Smythe about? I haven’t seen her, and she promised to lend her mind to the meeting.” He would explain her presence as a visiting relative. “Could you escort her to the refectory for me?”

“She’s... not in her chamber, master.” Roper dropped his gaze suspiciously. “Or speaking to me.”

“What?” Alistair’s eyes narrowed. “Why not? Where is she?”

“She hasn’t left Miss Lillian’s side since yesterday afternoon, master. I’m certain she’s there still.”

Alistair’s stomach dropped. “What happened to Lily? Has she sickened? I must go to her at once. I must—”

“Miss Lillian is fine, master. The problem was not with her.”

His heart still beating rapidly, Alistair raked a hand through his hair. “Then what?”

His manservant sighed. “I caught Miss Smythe by the kitchen exit with a young boy yesterday. She had a gown and a loaf of bread wrapped up in a mantle. He was raving about coming to rescue her, that they were leaving.”

Alistair’s heart slowed to a stop, then sped up twice as fast as before. She had been planning to leave. Abandon him and Lily both without so much as a fare-thee-well. And if that’s what Violet wished to do, how could he stop her? He’d have to let her go. And never hear her voice or see her face again.

With spreading surprise, he realized it wasn’t the lack of goodbye that had skewered him. It was the realization that he did not want her to leave his side. Ever. She was indelibly a part of his life now. A part of his heart.

Even if that made him a monster.

He let out a slow breath. Why did his undeniable affection for Miss Smythe make him feel so guilty? Was it because he couldn’t reunite his daughter with her birth mother?

He had spent Lily’s entire life telling her she was the child of the most perfect angel that ever walked the earth. And now what? He wanted his skeptical daughter to believe her father had managed to ensnare not one but two angels? Did he even believe such a thing were possible?

He would have to puzzle it out later. This might be his last chance to find a cure for Lily, and the hourglass was running low.

“I can’t concern myself with Miss Smythe right now,” he said, ignoring the tumult in his brain. “I cannot afford the distraction. I have a roomful of scientists and physicians attempting to put their minds toward a cure, and that is where my focus belongs.”

“But master... if she should try to leave again?”

Ignoring the thundering of his heart, Alistair forced himself to do the right thing. “Then let her.”

Roper’s usually emotionless demeanor was an unfamiliar mixture of surprise and disappointment, as if he, too, felt Miss Smythe’s attempted departure to be a personal betrayal, and had fully expected his master to employ whatever means necessary to get her to stay.

But what was Alistair to do? Drop to his knees and bare his soul? He wasn’t entirely certain of where, precisely, his heart stood, but he did know where his focus needed to be. Until he could give Lily the life she deserved, Alastair did not deserve a life at all, much less a romance. Only a cure could save them. With his guests leaving on the morrow, the hours remaining to devise a reason to hope dwindled fewer and fewer. And he wanted more than mere hope. He needed success.

With a quick nod to dismiss Roper, Alistair sprinted back to the refectory where the intellectual debate still raged at top volume. When he entered the room, however, the voices stalled.

“What?” he demanded, his skin sticky with foreboding. “What happened?”

“We have drawn a conclusion,” Mr. Knightly announced somberly. “But you will not like it.”

His stomach dropped. “There’s no hope? None at all?”

“There is always hope,” Mr. Knightly corrected with a smile. “But there is only one possibility for success.”

Alistair sagged as relief washed over him. “Anything. Anything at all. Just tell me what I must do.”

“Submit yourself to one of our laboratories for examination. We must have a live subject.”

“What? No!” Alistair’s fingers clenched at the thought of his daughter strapped to an examination table. “Not even for a day.”

“We’re not asking for a day,” Mr. Knightly said softly. “But for life. Or until the disease can be cured, whichever comes first. It’s the only way.”

“There is no cure,” Dr. Hughes spoke up from the opposite corner. “Not without extensive research and experimentation.”

Alistair desperately shook his head. “There will be no experimentation.”

Mr. Knightly rose to his feet and donned his hat. “Then there will be no cure.”

Chapter 24

The following day, Jenny and Elsa—the maids who brought each meal to the sanctuary—also carried the news Violet had been waiting for.

“They’re gone.” Jenny slid her heavy tray onto the top of Lily’s escritoire. “Master Waldegrave is taking his leave of the last one right now.”

“And he is not in a good humor,” Elsa added under her breath as she arranged the milk and tea.

Marvelous. Violet thanked them for the food and bade them good afternoon. As she nibbled at a bite of boiled potato, her gaze was continually drawn to the hands of the clock. As much as she enjoyed Lily’s company—and a warm meal—she could not stay here forever. Visiting his daughter would undoubtedly be Mr. Waldegrave’s first stop after seeing off the last of his guests, and Violet was not up for a confrontation over her conspicuous absence.

She did need to address having been forcibly restrained from leaving the abbey, but that particular argument seemed disingenuous at the moment, given there was nowhere to go. And what did that say about her current turn of affairs? Well, she certainly couldn’t claim to be unwanted.

She snorted softly. “Be careful what you wish for, I suppose.”

Lily glanced up from her meal, one cheek smeared with orange marmalade. “Hrmph?”

“Nothing, Tiger Lily. Except I have to go back to my own chamber now. We’ve been in this room together for nearly three straight days. Aren’t you tired of me yet?”

“Huh-uh.” Lily threw her arms around Violet’s waist and let herself hang on dead-weight, smearing orange marmalade across Violet’s morning dress and nearly toppling her over in the process.

“All right, you,” she chastised good-humoredly as she plucked the giggling little girl from her skirts. “Now I definitely need to bathe and change. Your papa should be by before too long, and I’ll see you soon. Try to behave, please.”

The answering look of mischief in Lily’s eyes lent no hope whatsoever to proper behavior, but Violet secretly could not have been more pleased.

Lily was finally misbehaving as a nine-year-old girl ought. No table manners, a disinclination for mathematics, frequent snits over the brushing of her hair or whether she must eat boiled vegetables—all of these were far more welcome than the frightened animal of a child who had attacked anyone who entered the sanctuary and scratched and bit her own father out of a desperate bid for attention. Lily was slowly maturing. She might never see the sun, but she was blossoming all the same.

Violet kissed the top of Lily’s head before hurrying to her bedchamber.

A long bath helped, at least on the surface. The tea tray that arrived shortly thereafter after also did not go amiss. After toweling her damp hair, she lay back against her pillows. First thing tomorrow, she needed to do some reconnaissance. A chill crept over her. Finding a trapped robin in a room that should have been long since boarded over had well and truly discomfited her. She could not claim to have caught any evildoers red-handed, but something was definitely not right inside the abbey.

She drifted in and out of troubled dreams until a knock upon her door startled her awake. Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, she crossed slowly to the door.

“Yes?”

“Miss Smythe, it’s me,” came Mrs. Tumsen’s familiar voice. “I’ve come to check on ye.”

Violet swung open the door in relief. “The excitement has ended?”

“I’m afraid so,” Mrs. Tumsen answered soberly.

Frowning, Violet took a small step backward. “Did something happen?”

“That’s the problem. It seems nothing has happened. Again. When ye got the master praying for miracles and human gents unable to make any... Saying he’s disappointed is kind of like saying Bonaparte was a mite competitive. If ye pardon the comparison.”

Violet nodded in understanding. Whatever one might say about Mr. Waldegrave, his devotion to his daughter was wholehearted and absolute. If the respected scientists he’d been so eagerly anticipating had been unable to provide any hope whatsoever... Her heart twisted. He would be devastated, and doubtlessly twice as determined as before.

“That poor man,” she murmured.

Mrs. Tumsen gave her an odd look. “Poor gel, don’t ye mean?”

Violet shook her head. “I wish Lily were healthy, of course, but every day brings her a slightly greater measure of peace. I doubt her father has ever experienced such a thing.”

Mrs. Tumsen chuckled. “Ye’d be right about that. Not in the past decade, anyway. Oh, and before I forget, I’ve got that key ye asked for.”

Violet pressed a hand to her unadorned throat.

Mrs. Tumsen nodded, and held out her hand. “I won’t ask why ye wanted another copy, but I hope it was worth the eight pence.”

“Peace of mind is always worth every penny.” From Mrs. Tumsen’s outstretched hand, Violet plucked the worn skeleton key on its chain and a shiny new key forged in its image. If she were truly a prisoner here in the abbey, a spare key would not go amiss if Mr. Roper chose to divest her of her old one. Since it was common knowledge she kept her key about her neck, she’d tuck the new copy deep in her pocket.

“Oh, one more thing, if you would be so kind.” Violet turned toward her escritoire. “Can I give you a bit more correspondence to post for me, please?”

“Of course, dear. None of them barristers worked out for ye?”

“Actually, yes. There’s one who seems both personable and affordable. When the first of the month comes, I’ll have enough saved to engage his services. The preliminary investigations and court fee, I believe it was.”

Rather than congratulate Violet on her impending freedom, Mrs. Tumsen’s face fell. “So that’s it, then? First of the month and ye’re out of here?”

“Just to meet him, and likely sign some sort of contract,” Violet answered, then caught herself. Would she be going anywhere at all if she were physically barred from stepping foot outside the abbey? “You saw what Mr. Roper did the other day, didn’t you?”

“I saw ye tumbling from atop his shoulder, if that’s what ye mean, but I didn’t ask him, and I didn’t ask you. Yer business is yer own.”

“He wouldn’t allow me to leave,” Violet admitted quietly.

Mrs. Tumsen’s expression of surprise was genuine. “He what?”

“He thought I was leaving, and took it upon himself to—well, you saw him. Tell me the truth, Mrs. Tumsen. Am I prisoner here?”

“If ye are, nobody told me,” the older woman said stoutly. But her brow creased in worry. “What did the old goat have to say for himself?”

“There wasn’t much opportunity for conversation,” Violet said dryly. Besides, what was there to say? He must have been ordered to keep her inside the abbey walls at all times. Why else would he have kept her from leaving? Her eyes widened as an alternate explanation sprang to mind. “Did you tell him about... about the sketch?”

“Yer wanted bill, ye mean?”

Violet smiled politely. “That’s the one.”

Mrs. Tumsen shook her head. “Haven’t breathed a word. Of course, I’m not the only one what goes to town from time to time, you know.”

“Of course,” Violet echoed weakly. Keeping a secret that large was truly hopeless. She bade the housekeeper good day, then slumped against her closed door with a sigh.

How was she meant to stay safe? If the only souls who never went into town were herself and the Waldegraves, likely every single servant both above and below stairs had seen her face in pen-and-ink infamy. Which meant leaving Waldegrave Abbey by hook or by crook would end up being the easy part. Getting from Shrewsbury to London without being trussed and gaoled along the way would be the delicate bit.

Violet’s pulse raced. While the Waldegraves might be perfectly happy for her to remain sequestered within the abbey walls—to be honest, she wasn’t sure any brows would rise if she simply never left—she did not want the life of a fugitive from justice. She wanted to stay of her own free will, not out of necessity.

Besides, it was only a matter of time until the news made its way from the servants to the master, and then what would happen? She’d be out on her ear, that’s what. No governess was worth overlooking a murder charge. Once he knew the truth, his eyes would fill with contempt instead of longing.

Until she was cleared, she could not come clean.

Chapter 25

Not long after nightfall, the mystery of the waylaid robin began to prick at the edges of Violet’s conscience. She slid the novel she’d been patently not reading into the secretary drawer and decided to revisit to the room with the missing boards. Right now, before she lost her nerve. This time, she would pay special attention to any sounds she could detect. Try as she might, she heard not a whisper from behind any of the locked doors, however.

Save one.

With her pulse sounding in her ears, she hesitated outside the same doorway that had entrapped the unfortunate robin. Not all the stained glass windows had been exposed, but she had made sure the ones that were had been tightly secured. There was no way another bird had found its way into the chamber.

There was also little chance that a robin would make what sounded suspiciously like a muffled human sneeze.

There was definitely someone on the other side of the locked door. But who, and why? Dare she burst inside to catch whatever might be happening within, or was the wiser action returning to the safety of her bedchamber without further incident? Violet gnawed uncertainly at her lower lip. She slid the skeleton key from about her neck.

Ever so carefully, she slid the key into the slender opening and turned the brass head bit by bit until the lock disengaged. Before she could change her mind, she twisted the handle and shoved the door inward.

She clapped a hand to her throat in surprise.

Although the sun had set, and the new moon kept the room cloaked in shadow, faint stars filtered enough light through the thick colored glass segments to reveal the identity of the person responsible for removing the long-forgotten boards.

Mr. Waldegrave.

If she were startled to see him, he was twice as surprised to have her come upon him without warning. He spun to face her, the claw of a hammer dangling from his ungloved hand.

“What are you doing here?” they blurted in unison.

She almost collapsed in relief. “You first.”

He gestured behind him with the base of the hammer. “Uncovering the glass.”

“I can see that,” she answered, stepping into the room. “But why?”

He shifted self-consciously before meeting her eyes. “For you.”

Her suddenly limp fingers released their hold on the door, and it swung closed behind her with a soft thud. “What?”

“I have you trapped in a windowless tomb,” he answered simply. “It isn’t right. And I’m doing what I can to fix it.”

She stared at him, unsure how to gauge his sincerity. “Mr. Roper told you he thought I was leaving, didn’t he?”

“Yes,” Mr. Waldegrave admitted. “But I’d already begun this project well beforehand. I worked late at night, after the sun was long set. I’d forgotten how beautiful these pictorials are. I just... I wanted to surprise you.”

Her eyes tracked from the pile of recently removed planks against one wall to the large expanse of uncovered stained glass behind him. Now that there was less obstructing wood, the pattern of the reds and blues and yellows lost their abstraction and the meaning became clear. This was a Renaissance-style Bible passage. Three men silhouetted against the sky approached the tail of a star set on high.

Beautiful did not even begin to describe the artistry. And shocked did not even begin to describe Violet’s state of mind. It was true. He had begun this project long before Mr. Roper prevented her supposed escape. She had stumbled across this very room whilst fleeing him.

For no reason except to please her, he had left his daughter’s bedside night after night, hammer in hand, painstakingly removing nails from layer upon layer of thick boards.

That was not something one did out of a sense of employer-to-employee obligation. Spending days and hours toiling with a hammer would not occur to most people, even for a friend. Her skin flushed with warmth. The only reason a man like Mr. Waldegrave would devote himself to tearing down part of his home as a gift for someone like her would be because he cared. Her heart swelled with hope.

He shrugged and glanced away. Clearly mistaking her humbled silence for being unimpressed with his efforts, he tossed the hammer atop the closest board and dug into his pocket for his change purse.

“But here,” he said quickly. “Never mind the windows. I’ve been meaning to give you a bonus, and now is as good a time as any. All I have is... four sovereigns. I—I’ll give you the rest next week with your wages.”

“The rest?” She shook her head, unable to believe her ears. She crossed the room to stand before him beneath the stained glass, hoping the filtered moonlight would help him see the joy in her heart. “How much more money do you plan to give me?”

“All of it,” he replied without hesitation, a sheepish smile curving his lips. “As much as you want. How much would you like?”

“None of it,” she answered without thinking. She glanced away as her cheeks heated. “Are you bribing me to stay?”

“Yes.”

She gazed up at him. “For Lily’s sake, or yours?”

“I don’t know anymore,” he answered hoarsely.

Foolish man. How could she not surrender to such a confession? The most honest gifts came from the heart, not the coin purse. He had ensnared her from the first moment he’d extracted the first nail.

“Money is rarely the answer,” she said softly, and lifted her hands to his chest.

The coins clinked back into his pocket. His hands gripped her hips and pulled her to him. “Then what do you want?”

Was the truth not written in her eyes? She rose on her toes so that her answer would whisper directly into his ear. “You.”

His breath caught and he took her mouth with his, roughly, tenderly, as if he wanted to imbue the moment with romance but was too starved for her kisses to go slow. His hands were in her hair, stroking the still damp curls she hadn’t had time to tame. His tongue made wicked promises that sent a stab of longing from her heart to her core.

She leaned into him, helpless against the onslaught of sensation and heedless of where it might lead. She absolutely, positively, did not deserve him, but his hands and mouth offered a palette of seductions she was powerless to resist.

Not that she wished to stop. She willed the embrace to go on forever. Dimly, she knew that if he thought of her even once as the untouchable governess or the puritanical angel, the moment would shatter like so much colored glass. If she wished him to see her as a woman, as a mate, she would need to show him, to prove to him, his desire was more than reciprocated.

With a self-consciousness made all the more erotic by its very brazenness, she pressed her breasts against his chest. The forbidden sensation tantalized with each agonizingly deliberate brush of erect nipples against thin layers of clothing. Being bold was not something she’d ever had to do before, and the courage it required was as stimulating as it was terrifying.

She need not have worried. He did not recoil from her touch. Instead, he gasped hungrily and slid his hands to cup her buttocks, pressing her to him even harder. She thrilled with the sensation of heretofore unknown power. The proof of his arousal throbbed against her pelvis, and she could not help but rub her body against it again and again. She loved that she was affecting him physically, emotionally, just as he affected her. But how could she let him know she needed more?

She slid her hands behind his head, tangling her fingers in his hair and telling him with her quickened breath and straining nipples that she was his, that she wanted him and wished to give him pleasure, that she was his to command. Hesitantly, she glided her hands from his hair to the musculature of his shoulders, pulling him to her. Although his kisses never lessened, she would need to be bolder still if she wanted more. And, oh, did she want more.

She peppered a trail of hot kisses down his neck, down his chest, intending to show him precisely how much pleasure her mouth could bring. To set his body afire the way hers burned for him.

But before her lips had even reached his fall, he tilted her backwards into his arms. To her surprise, he gently laid her to the floor, cradling her head in one hand. As his free hand sweetly cupped her cheek, his mouth slanted across hers in drugging kisses. Desperate to feel the heat of his bare flesh against hers, she unbuttoned his waistcoat and tugged his shirt from his breeches.

Ever so slowly, he slid his hand from her face, down her neck, along the curve of her bosom until his fingers finally cupped an aching breast. She shuddered with pleasure. His tongue teased hers as his fingertips toyed with her nipple. She had never dreamed she could want someone this much. She arched her back into his touch until she almost screamed with desire. She wanted him to feel the same way.

Her hand sought his breeches, slipping between his fall to the hot skin hidden within. She closed her fingers around his member, first gently, then firmly, and slowly began to stroke.

He nearly collapsed upon her, which only served to align their bodies even closer together, as if they were two halves of a whole finally coming together. The closeness of their bodies allowed the curve of her thumb to brush against her own core with every stroke of her hand along his shaft. The warmth of his kisses and the sensation of his fingers lightly tugging at her nipple caused a whirlwind of need and want pulsing between her legs. Violet could hardly process the heady new feelings as they overwhelmed her senses, she only knew she wanted him and she wanted more.

The combination of kisses and swirling fingers and the relentless stroke of the back of her own thumb stoked her fire until she was certain she would shatter right then and there. Something was happening to her body, something almost painfully sweet, that tightened every muscle with the promise of impending pleasure. Her breath caught. As if sensing her close to the precipice, he lifted his fingers from her breast and loosened his other hand from her nape.

Dismayed by his retreat, she craned her head forward, but he was already moving, baring her breast and fastening his mouth over the nipple still swollen from his touch. Her breath was rapid and shallow. He bunched her skirt and petticoat against her waist. As cool air kissed her bare flesh, she could almost imagine they were out-of-doors beneath the stars. Her heart soared.

As he suckled first one nipple and then the other, he slid his hand down her now-bare belly. Her legs parted and widened of their own accord. Thanks to her hard-luck past, Violet imagined herself the most sexually experienced private governess in the history of Mother England, but she had never, never imagined lovemaking could be anything like this. Her buttocks tightened and rose up, tilting her pelvis into his touch as if unable to withstand another moment of anticipation.

When his finger slid across the moist heat between her legs, she gasped. When that same finger slid inside, entering her in tantalizingly arrhythmic thrusts, she cried out in wonder. This was what she’d been missing. The wanting, the craving, the building pressure infusing her senses with his taste, his touch, his scent. She reached for his hair to lock him tight to her breast, but he was moving once again.

His mouth joined his finger at her core. Bolts of pleasure electrified her entire body. He licked and suckled as his finger relentlessly drove into her again and again. Her hands fell atop her own breasts, the nipples swelling beneath her fingers. Her trembling legs locked about his shoulders, pinning him in place, as his mouth and his finger worked their magical torture. This was beautiful. This was incredible. Her head thumped back against the floor, her eyes closing in anguished surrender.

He slid a second finger in to join with the first, widening her, filling her, as his tongue teased her into a frenzy. He was perfect. He was going to make her—

Helpless, her back arched as her muscles contracted against his fingers. She gasped at the unexpected pleasure, the sudden rush of ecstasy and release as her spasms ebbed and her limbs relaxed bonelessly against the floor.

Only then did he return his hands to her hair and his mouth to hers.

“You’re so beautiful.” The words were so soft, she felt them rather than heard them.

“Mrmph,” she mumbled inarticulately, muscles limp. “And you’re so talented.”

Chuckling, he rolled sideways, pulling her atop him so that he was the one on the floor, and she the one cuddled against his chest. “That was better than boring old gold sovereigns?”

“Mm-hmm.” She opened her eyes to grin at him. “Do it again.”

He laughed at her with his eyes, looking for all the world like a man replete with self-satisfaction, even though it was she and not he whose passion-muddled brain had had the pleasure of release. “Already? Why, Miss Smythe, you are a very strict task-master indeed.”

Wonder filled her. Not only had Violet never previously been in a circumstance where she had even wanted intimacy, he had chosen to pleasure her rather than the other way around. Just because he wished to please her. That alone was an unimaginably erotic sweetmeat she was powerless to resist. She’d be a task-master indeed if it meant sharing more moments like these.

She smiled up at him. “None of that ‘Miss Smythe’ anymore. Employer or not, by now you’ve earned the right to use my given name. Please call me—”

His eyes widened with nothing short of horror as he nearly dumped her on the floor in his scramble to his feet. “Oh God. You’re right. I’m your employer. You should be safely under my protection, not requiring protection from me.” He tore his anguished eyes from hers to the stained glass window, then ripped his gaze away as if the three kings might smite him where he stood. “Forgive me.”

“You didn’t force me,” she reminded him quickly. “I wanted this. I wanted you.”

The worst was that she’d managed to convince herself, for one beautiful moment, that it meant as much to him as it had to her. That they had somehow transcended a mere master-servant relationship. That he felt for her as strongly as she foolishly, cursedly felt for him. Maybe he even did.

But it still wasn’t enough.

Chapter 26

Later that evening, the relentless snip... snip... snip of Alistair’s garden shears finally began to pervade his consciousness. Slowly, he became aware that in his distraction he’d managed to behead most of the roses rather than tend them. He leaned back. Of course he had done that. Everything he meant to nurture and preserve ended up cut short before its time. Sighing, he tossed the shears aside and threw himself on his back to stare up at the stars.

Here he was, then. On the Waldegrave family lands, crouching six feet above one third of the Waldegrave family. Or was he? They had never been three. There had only been he and Marjorie, and then he and Lily.

And Violet, he acknowledged slowly. Now they were three.

Or could be, if he didn’t ruin it. Hadn’t already ruined it. He’d been a fool.

He’d been a fool because he was a fool, and would likely do a thousand foolish things more before his time on this earth was through, but he had not meant to treat her so shabbily.

In fact, very little spoke well of Alistair these days. He thought of his first wife fondly, but more and more infrequently. He spent half of his Sundays thanking God for the miracle of Violet’s arrival in his life rather than saving all his prayers for his daughter. And after nine long years, he still failed to find a cure for Lily.

He glared up at the stars and stabbed the shears into the dirt. God helped those who helped themselves. If he wished himself to be worthy of the gifts he’d been given, then he needed to corral his wandering attention and focus. Mooncalfing over an angel in governess’s clothing would not get him any closer to his goals. Besides, if he wanted Violet to hold him in half the esteem in which he held her, he must first do something to deserve it.

Which meant what? More books? More medical society memberships? More semi-secret cabals with even better and brighter minds? He propped himself up on his elbows. All of that and more, he supposed. There was no excuse for slackening, no rest until his daughter could finally have the life she deserved.

“Master?”

“Roper.” Alistair hauled himself to his feet and brushed an errant leaf from his breeches. “How may I help you?”

His manservant’s expression was strangely solemn. “It is I who wish to help you, master. There must be something we can do.”

Gooseflesh raced beneath the lawn of Alistair’s shirt. Roper had always had a serious disposition, but the grave concern he currently wore filled Alistair with trepidation. “What is it? What happened?”

“It’s the townsfolk, master. They grow restless. I have had another report that the suspicion of your supposed vampirism is growing more and more widespread.”

“Oh, that.” Alistair relaxed. “It’s just schoolchildren and the idle gossip of a few country provincials. Let them think what they like. What do I care?”

“They’re talking about banding together,” Roper insisted, his scarred face sober and unsmiling. “Master... soon they will act.”

Alistair’s blood ran cold. “Act?”

“They plan to drive you from this place.”

“From my home?” He reeled in affront. “They cannot! This property has belonged to my family for centuries.”

“A panicked crowd cares little for legalities. I am told they gathered just last night, and have even appointed the smithy to head the pack should it come to violence.”

“Violence!” He shot an anxious glance toward the sanctuary. Lily must remain safe. “What can we do to stop them?”

Roper’s expression was bleak. “I fear there is nothing I can do that I have not already done. I am not the one they fear. The madmen have not seen your face in the past decade. They have seen pale-faced young maids flee the abbey with fresh bite marks upon their flesh.”

“Only once.” Alistair’s shoulders tensed. “It never happened again. I personally tended Lily every single moment since that night. Maids have now begun to attend her again, and she is comporting herself admirably. There will be no more wild tales from this home.”

Roper shook his head, looking every bit as distraught as Alistair felt. “Her existence remains secret, but the villagers’ memories are long. You employ a sizable staff in a boarded-over abbey and are never seen out-of-doors whilst the sun still shines. Even those without superstition, who have always believed your reclusiveness evidence of having contracted the sunsickness disease the midwife described, have heard of the many visits from far-off surgeons and fear an epidemic of contagion brewing in our midst. A confrontation will happen soon, master. The smithy wishes to storm the abbey. The others may join him... with weapons and torches.”

Alistair blanched. “Over my dead body.”

Roper’s eyes were bleak. “As may well be, if their threats materialize.”

“Never.” Alistair’s hands balled into fists and his voice hardened. “I shall be the first to act.”

His manservant’s brows rose. “How can one man defend himself against a pack of frightened townsfolk driven to violence?”

“By taking away their reason to fear,” Alistair said simply. “You are right. Far too much time has passed without showing my face in town. I will go this week. One afternoon, when the sun is at its highest.”

Could he? He had lived so long in the shadows, he was not certain he could face the sun. He didn’t deserve it. From the moment of Lily’s birth, he’d sworn to live as if they shared the disease. What his daughter could not have, he did not take for himself. He would enjoy sunlight when Lily finally was cured.

“Master... ” Roper’s expression was tense. “I understand where your heart is, but how can you continue the sunsickness ruse to the scientists once word spreads that you were seen in daylight?”

Heart racing, Alistair gazed at the familiar abbey as if it were the last time he would ever see it. This was his home. He must protect it at all costs. “Clearly I will not be able to. More importantly, I need not worry about scientists if my family is set upon by a frenzied crowd. That is the more present concern, and one I am able to quickly address.”

Roper nodded unhappily. “As you wish.”

Alistair frowned in the direction of the main road. He did not wish to do anything less than tramp into town under the full heat of the brilliant sun and spend an awkward afternoon answering suspicious questions with fictitious excuses in order to prove himself a human man of flesh and bone. His time was better spent concentrating on a cure. Why couldn’t the villagers leave him be?

His manservant still stood before him, not speaking, and yet not returning to the abbey. Roper’s gaze slid to the gravestones behind Alistair, then tracked sideways to the decapitated rosebuds and the discarded shears. Roper’s face lined with concern. “Tending flowers again?”

“Not very well,” Alistair replied wryly.

If Roper saw any humor therein, he showed no sign. “Were you... visiting with your wife?”

“Yes,” Alistair lied, pricked anew with guilt for having dwelt upon his unexpected feelings for Violet rather than paying Marjorie his respects. It wasn’t that he cherished the time with his first wife any less, he reminded himself sternly. It’s just that, lately, that life seemed less vivid than it had before. Not less important, just less... present.

Roper’s mouth twisted, as if he was carefully considering his next words. “May I speak frankly, master?”

“Of course.” Surprise and self-recrimination washed over Alistair at the realization that after decades of service, Roper still felt he needed permission. Roper had always been far more than a mere manservant. He was Alistair’s sole confidant, Alistair’s sole friend. The man was almost family... to Alistair, at least. Was he truly so single-minded and unapproachable that after all these years, Roper still could not feel comfortable in his presence?

“Your wife was a lovely person, both inside and out,” his loyal manservant began carefully.

“Er... thank you.”

“But,” Roper continued, “she is no longer among us.”

Alistair gestured at the well-tended grave beside him. “I know.”

Roper met his eyes. “Do you?”

Alistair frowned. “You requested to speak frankly. I bid you to also speak plainly.”

“Very well. Miss Smythe—”

Alistair closed his eyes. Was he so transparent?

“Master, if you do not wish for me to speak... ”

“Not if you intend to suggest I forswear tending the garden in favor of cultivating a romance instead. I cannot. Yes, I loved my wife. She meant the world to me, and was verily my one true love. But more importantly, I have no time for wooing and no right to court anyone. I have Lily.”

Roper’s voice betrayed a hint of a sad smile. “That’s the first time I have heard you speak of your wife in the past tense, master. I, too, cared much for her, but I am pleased to see you setting her free into the past, where she belongs.”

Alistair’s eyes flew open. Roper was right. She had been the light of his life. He had loved Marjorie, past tense. He’d buried his wife long, long ago, and had chosen to live in the past simply because that was the last time he’d experienced happiness. Except that wasn’t true anymore, either, was it? His entire household wore smiling faces these days, his once-dour daughter was nothing short of jovial, and as for himself... Well. His neck heated. If he was not yet in love, it was only a matter of time.

Time he did not have.

He took a deep breath. He could no longer deny his feelings when it came to Violet. He was mad for her. Utterly, absolutely, irrevocably smitten, and no matter how hard he tried to control his passion, he could not curtail his regard. For him, however, love would have to wait.

“Lightning doesn’t strike twice,” he muttered, hoping to curtail the conversation there before his manservant actually took him up on his previous invitation to speak plainly.

Roper’s eyes were serious. “Either a man believes in the existence of true love, or he doesn’t. And if you do, and if you have, then there’s no reason you can’t find love again.”

Alistair shook his head. “I am not looking for love. I’m looking for a cure.”

“Doesn’t matter overmuch,” Roper said with a shrug. “Love has a way of looking for you.”

“I was blessed with that miracle long ago,” Alistair reminded him firmly. “I am fine with my lot. I live for my daughter. Hers is the only future I care about.”

Roper walked past him to stand before Marjorie’s grave. After a moment, he turned and said softly, “Loving someone else wouldn’t mean you loved her any less. It would just make you an exceptionally fortunate man. You and Miss Lillian both.”

“Fortunate?” Alistair repeated, nearly choking on the word. “I lost my wife. I nearly lost my daughter. Since that day, neither one of us has seen the sun. I spend every minute of every hour searching for a cure and have done nothing but fail, again and again. I have lived in misery these past nine years. Despite my best efforts, Lily still has no life. May never have a life.”

Roper’s expression hardened, rather than softened. “That much, I believe, is most certainly up to you.”

Alistair shot him a sour look. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“I shall illustrate.” Roper stepped forward gestured at the engraved stone before them. “Who is in this grave?”

Crossly, Alistair scowled at his manservant. “My wife.”

Roper moved to the left, before the stone that read Lillian Waldegrave. “And who is buried here?”

“No one, as you well know.”

“As do you, master.” Roper’s voice gentled. “Don’t forget it.”

Chapter 27

The next morning, Alistair dressed more carefully than usual. Much as he hated to leave his work, it was past time to pay a visit into town. Even if it was a waste of his time. But first, he wanted to see Violet. He needed to see Violet. He couldn’t get her out of his mind. Every moment not spent with his books, he wanted to spend with her.

After yesterday, he had to believe she felt the same. He should never have rushed out of the room, after... It had been beautiful. She was beautiful. If he wouldn’t have come to his senses right then, he might never have come to them at all. And she deserved better. Soon, he would have to disclose at least one of his secrets. Which was that he was finding it difficult to imagine life without her.

He double-checked his fob. At this hour, she would be instructing his daughter, which meant it plainly was not the moment to burst in with his heart upon his sleeve, but he had put off confronting the inevitable for long enough. He could not leave for Shrewsbury without at least attempting to speak to her. Within moments, he was easing open the door to the converted prayer room.

There they were, his daughter and his... well, he didn’t have a ready label just yet, but there she was all the same, looking fresh-faced and radiant despite the flyaway tendrils escaping her chignon and the bit of green paint upon the apple of one cheek.

“Are you certain you don’t wish to try?” she was saying to Lily. “I stretched an extra canvas, and it’s ready when you are.”

As expected, Lily shook her head. Not sullenly, as she would have last year at this time, but rather impatiently, as if she were far too eager for today’s lesson to permit slowing the pace on her account.

“You’ll have to resume painting sometime,” Violet said, her eyes indulgent.

Lily pointed at her teacher’s easel. “Ladybird! Now!”

Tsking at this impertinence, Violet attacked the canvas with a few deft strokes of red before swishing her brush in a mug of clear water and adding a few artfully placed dollops of black. “That, madam Tiger Lily, is a ladybird!”

“Ooh,” his wide-eyed daughter cooed, impressed.

Supposing this was a good a moment as any to make his grand entrance, Alistair swung open the door and stepped inside.

To say his presence doused the joy from both sets of eyes would be putting the matter lightly. Violet became extremely busy arranging the paintbrushes. Lily rolled her eyes and huffed impatiently.

Alistair cleared his throat, unprecedentedly nervous and suddenly unable to recall a single word of his practiced apology.

“We’re busy, Papa,” Lily said with her old familiar glare. “We’re painting. Go away.”

“You are not painting. You’re merely watching,” he returned before catching himself falling back into their previous routine of sniping at each other instead of speaking to each other. He arranged his face as pleasantly as he could and stepped further into the room. “May I see?”

Pink infused Violet’s cheeks. “Mr. Waldegrave, I—”

“Alistair,” he corrected softly. “I would be honored if you called me Alistair. Please.”

Her startled gaze snapped to his.

“Give us a moment, Lily,” he said to his daughter, as she crossed her arms and glared at him for interrupting. He lowered his voice and turned to address Violet. “I don’t see how it could be possible to forgive me, but if you could perhaps bear in mind that I am an exceedingly stupid man, not only out of practice with the fairer sex but also shamefully out of touch with my own self... I can only beg of you that you give me another chance.”

Violet stood still as a portrait, her mouth a tiny O of surprise. She darted a glance toward Lily, who immediately snatched up the brush and palette and set to ferocious, haphazard painting as if she were not straining to catch every single syllable exchanged.

He would not go into specifics in front of his daughter, but Alistair could no longer stand the guilt of knowing he had hurt Violet. “I am so sorry—”

“Do not be sorry,” she said fiercely. “You may apologize for ignoring me and for leaving, and I hope you will never do such a thing again, but as for what went before... if you do not regret it, then neither do I.” She glared up at him, her eyes tempestuous. “Alistair.”

She’d used his given name! Victory raced through his veins. And relief. He couldn’t tamp down his happiness. Anger and impertinence were both well deserved, and he would gladly take anything she wished to dish out so long as it meant she might forgive him. He would swing her up and kiss her soundly right here and now, were it not for the studiously-not-watching eyes of his daughter Lily. Who gazed up at them in fascination, her errant paintbrush still slapping against the canvas at random. He grinned.

“We should continue this discussion later. Will you do me the honor of dining with me tonight? I can have Cook prepare something special around eight o’clock.”

“Yes,” Violet said with a slow smile. “That would be lovely.”

The tenseness in his shoulders eased somewhat. He knew he had not finished his apology, and that they had many more questions to answer about the future, but her simple “yes” had made him the happiest of men.

“Wonderful,” he said, his mind whirling with romantic requests for Cook. “I will see you then. And, Lily?”

Although his daughter’s eyes looked up at his, her brush continued to attack the canvas with so much vigor that Alistair was at a loss to explain how all three of them weren’t covered head to toe in rainbow splatters.

“Yes, Papa?”

“I am pleased to see you painting again.”

She froze, then burst out in giggles.

Grinning, he turned and shut the door behind him. His step lighter than it had been in years, he slipped his hat out from under his arm and onto his head and made his way to the tunnels leading to the library. It was the one exit he could be certain no servants would be near.

As he entered the library, his steps slowed. He frowned. Something was off. The shelves, perhaps, or the books themselves... That was it, he decided. Violet had likely been making use of the library’s contents ever since he’d first introduced her to his collection, so of course it would look different than he recalled. With a shake of the head at his baseless paranoia, he unlocked the bolt and strode out the door.

Brutal sunlight assaulted his every sense.

Bigger and hotter and brighter than he remembered, the sun beat down on him from every angle. As he followed the main road, light reflected off every pond or hint of river and dazzled his eyes with every step.

Nine years, he mused as he marched forward into town, his hat cocked over his eyes. If it were not for there only being one road leading to Shrewsbury from the abbey, he might have forgotten his way. Should he go straight to the smithy and have done with this farce?

No, he decided with a sigh. The smithy was unpredictable, and Alistair had no wish to be sporting a black eye during this evening’s romantic dinner. Besides, if it had been a decade since he’d wooed a lady, it had been twice as long since he’d last been in a brawl. He’d do best to make this visit casual, to make himself appear harmless. He could visit the smithy another day.

Alistair stopped for a spot of water at the first fountain he passed, then dropped in on the milliner and bought a set of hideous, but expensive buttons. He smiled at every farmer and farmer’s wife that he passed, and tried not to take it too personally when their alternating surprise or blank lack of recognition kept them from smiling back.

He bought an apple from every stand and prayed his stomach didn’t turn on him between now and dinner from consuming each one. He passed the inn, and waved at the tiger watering the post-horses before leaving for the next shire. He paid his respects at the church and was just about to put paid to today’s exercise when he caught sight of a young woman with a flower cart just outside the open door of the local haberdasher. There were plenty of roses at Waldegrave Abbey, of course, but he would love to find an unusual bloom just for Violet.

He made small talk with the flower girl, who only knew him for a stranger. Either word of his arrival in town could not outstrip his meandering pace, or there was little to worry about after all. He hoped for the latter. He thumbed through the flower girl’s collection in search of something special. He finally came across the perfect bloom. Violets. Smallish and slightly wilted, but it was the thought that counted, was it not?

He added a fine cluster of bluebells to his bundle just in case.

He paid for his purchase and decided to take a quick turn through the haberdashery before heading back to the abbey. Perhaps a ribbon, or a nicely scented soap would sweeten the offering. He progressed no further than the creaking doorway before his eyes caught sight of an unusually dressed man directing another to affix a sketched portrait upon the wall. Curious, he stepped inside to look closer and nearly choked when he got a clean look. It wasn’t a portrait. It was a Wanted bill.

Murderess, the headline screamed. Wanted for Felonious Crimes, £100 for Whereabouts or Capture.

Just below, starkly sketched in black ink on white parchment, was Violet’s likeness.

Chapter 28

Having spent the whole of the afternoon debating which garment could be considered her prettiest gown, and spending the subsequent hour and a half struggling with hairpins, Violet entered the dining room with a stomach so wrought by anticipation that she feared she would not be able to consume a single bite.

She need not have worried.

Not a single plate or glass lay upon the table. Not the faintest scent of food spiced the air. Not a single servant stood at the ready, with platters or wine or elegantly folded linens. The only adornment to the otherwise empty dining set was Alistair himself... and by the thunderclouds in his eyes, a romantic dinner would not be forthcoming.

“G-good evening,” she stammered self-consciously, unable to fathom what could have changed his mood so dramatically over the course of a single afternoon.

“Is it?”

His voice was so flat that she instinctively halted in her tracks. The two paces to the closest chair might as well have been miles. For the first time since arriving at Waldegrave Abbey, the darkness emanating from Alistair’s obsidian eyes caused her flesh to tingle in danger.

She debated coming any closer. He was clearly in no mood for company. Perhaps she ought to return to her room and leave him to his demons. Perhaps there was a labor strike in the kitchens, or some scientific discovery had brought disappointing implications or—

His long, gloved fingers began to drum slowly upon the tabletop. No—not upon the table itself, but rather, upon a sun-bleached sheet of parchment caught between the polished rosewood and the heel of his hand. From this angle, only a stark black W-A-N was clearly discernible, but she needed no further clue to solve the mystery of the vanished romance.

A cold sweat pricked at her skin. “I can explain—”

One brow shot skyward. “Can you?”

Could she? She pressed her hands to her clenching stomach and swallowed. She shook her head. “No. I can explain, of course, but I cannot fully exculpate myself.”

“Of course,” he repeated, smoothing the wrinkles from her sketched likeness. “Not fully.”

Her legs near to buckling, she somehow made it to the opposite end of the table before thudding heavily into a chair. It was not her fault, she told herself desperately. But in her case, fault scarcely mattered. It came down to the law. Unconscionable proclivities aside, Old Man Livingstone’s heir had been powerful, moneyed, and her employer, no matter how she felt about it. Until she’d left him to die in a fire.

And then failed to mention a single word while masquerading as a respectable governess in order to gain the confidence of the man who was quite probably the single most protective father in the known universe. Violet swallowed. She had known it couldn’t last. That any moment, she’d awaken from this idyllic dream and find herself once more trapped in a nightmare. But how had he learned the truth? Had someone delivered wanted notices right up to the abbey door?

She gripped the edges of her chair in sudden terror. “Someone came looking for me here? Who? When?”

“I—” He blinked at her as if he had no answers to those questions, then shook his head. “At the moment, no one knows you’re here. But news travels quickly. The sun keeps me from leaving the abbey, but my staff does their best to keep me abreast of the outside world. And I’m told the town of Shrewsbury is papered with your face.” He narrowed his eyes, every line of his body harsh and unforgiving. “For the moment, your secret is still safe from those that seek you, but I will not tolerate deception. Whether I toss you back out into the world depends on how you explain”—he stabbed his index finger atop the incriminating portrait—“this.”

Any relief she had felt at not being hunted at her very door dissipated at the implication she might soon be homeless and vulnerable once again. Not implication... he had all but promised. And how could she blame him? No one wanted a murderess for a governess.

But who would have brought him the news? It had to be one of the staff. She would not ask him, because it didn’t matter. It wasn’t slander. She just hadn’t wanted him to know. She swallowed. Too late for that. By now all the staff must have heard, and regretted ever opening their hearts or doors. She would be back on the streets before nightfall. But to head where? Shrewsbury was not only the closest town, it was the only chance for transportation. It had taken weeks to walk this far, and she’d barely survived. She had to convince him to let her stay, if only until her pursuers continued elsewhere. But how did one defend oneself against charges that were... true?

She exhaled hollowly. “I am not sure where to start.”

“Now, that I most certainly believe. Please, allow me to help break the ice. Let’s pick a point at random... say... the bit about you being a wanted felon. You apparently left that detail out when we met. Just tell me this much. Are you or are you not a murderess?”

She lifted her chin from her chest. Was she? Yes. And she would do it again if she had to. She had merely stepped upon a worm. But now was not the time to quibble about Percy Livingstone’s questionable humanity. This was the moment to tell the truth about herself.

“Yes,” she admitted. “I did what they say I did, although not on purpose. Mostly. Please understand, I bore no premeditated violence against anyone. It all happened so fast, and the next thing I knew—”

“Why don’t you begin with what did happen,” he interrupted, his dark gaze inscrutable.

She took a deep breath and forced herself to meet his eyes.

“Up until that day, I was not Miss Smythe, but rather Violet Whitechapel.” She steeled herself against the betrayal in his gaze. “An art instructor at the Livingstone School for Girls in Lancashire. I loved everything about it. I loved my colleagues, I loved coaxing orphans into developing a sense of self, and above all I loved old man Livingstone for having done the same for me when he gave me an art studio and a position.”

“And then what?”

“And then he died,” she answered simply, unable to keep the sorrow and pain from scratching at her throat. “His worthless son inherited the property and planned to evict all the orphans in order to convert the school into a sanitarium for the rich. When I ‘met’ this paragon and his surveyor, they were abducting one of the damaged young girls right from my art studio. I had never seen the men before in my life, but did I wish to kill them in that moment? Yes. Absolutely. Of course the sight enraged me, and I am not the slightest bit ashamed that my first reaction was to do whatever was necessary to rescue an innocent child from their abuse. They deserve to rot in hell.”

Alistair’s expression had gone from disillusionment to outrage in the space of a breath, but having broken the dam of silence, Violet could no longer curb the flow of her words.

“The surveyor advanced upon me to take me for a spot of ‘fun’ as well. Had I a pistol, I would’ve shot them dead on the spot. Instead, I threw the heaviest objects within reach, and managed to knock the surveyor unconscious with a lucky blow to the head. The Livingston heir moved to strike me. She—that is to say, I—swung at him with the only weapon near to hand: a paintbrush. That stopped him cold. ” She shuddered at the memory. “My revulsion at seeing the wet handle protrude from his eye was nothing compared to the horror of what he’d intended to do to that innocent girl. But there was no time to waste. Flames from fallen candles had already engulfed the studio. I escaped with the clothes on my back and that terrorized child in my arms. If those two whoresons did not save themselves, then I am not sorry and shall never beg forgiveness. I’d sooner die!”

“Violet... ” He rose from his chair and stepped toward her. “Love... ”

The next thing she knew, she was cradled in his arms, shamelessly destroying his cravat and waistcoat with hiccupy sobs and hot tears. He laid his cheek against the top of her head and held her until her tears finally abated.

“I did not know,” he whispered, stroking her hair.

She shivered at the memory of the flames. “How could you? I have learned not to trust anyone, and I feared the trouble I might find myself in if word got out.” She reached for the wanted bill and stared at her likeness. “The trouble I do find myself in.”

He tugged the bill from her fingers and flicked it facedown upon the empty table. “I’m not sure that’s the case. Perhaps things are not as bad as you believed.”

She laughed humorlessly. “No? Being a wanted murderess is a petty concern in your world?”

“Being a wanted murderess would be terrible indeed,” he said quietly, “but I am not certain you have earned the title.”

She frowned, then considered the version she’d emphasized for the London barristers. “You mean because it was unplanned, and an accidental outcome of an unforeseen circumstance?”

“I mean,” he said with a strange glint in his eye, “I am not sure anyone died.”

Her flesh turned to ice. “What?”

“The men posting the bills are strangers. I didn’t see them,” he amended quickly, “but from all accounts, one is badly scarred... and the other wears a patch over his eye.” Alistair lifted a brow. “Doesn’t that sound familiar? You’re no murderess if the supposed victims are still alive. We still have to clear your name, of course, given that bodily damage was inflicted, but at least now we know you need not fear the gallows. It should be straightforward from here. Mr. Livingstone is a liar. It will be nothing to prove it.”

Violet broke out in a cold sweat. Straightforward? Violent men enjoyed violent behavior, and this particular one clearly had vengeance on his mind. If the despiteful Mr. Livingstone had not perished in the fire, criminal prosecution would be the least of his plans.

He’d as soon kill her.

Chapter 29

With Violet still cradled to his chest, Alistair picked up the overturned wanted bill and slowly, decisively, crumpled the sun-brittled parchment into nothingness.

How could anyone have accused her of coldblooded murder? He’d believed in her innate goodness even as he’d ripped her likeness from a board outside the smithy’s on the way back to the abbey. He’d torn down every bill he’d passed in what he’d (rightfully) believed was rage... but he had been mistaken. At the time, he’d thought himself furious over Violet’s deception. But he’d suspected there was a greater evil at play. He just hadn’t suspected how evil. He wished he could rip the men who did this in two. Violet trembled in his arms.

“Percy Livingstone is a monster.” Her voice cracked. “A monster.”

“Violet. Angel.” He tucked the offensive ball of parchment into a side pocket to keep it safe from prying eyes. “I believe you, love.”

Her face lifted and her gaze met his, but her eyes were empty, as if even now she were reliving that nightmarish moment instead of hearing him attempt to comfort her.

Of course she was innocent. Wasn’t her pure heart the one quality that most drew him to her? How she alone could find beauty in everything and goodness in everyone. It was her encouragement and understanding that converted Lily from the wild creature she had once been into a precocious little girl. And it was Violet’s selflessness that unmired Alistair himself from the past and opened his eyes to the possibility of the future.

“Come,” he said softly, tugging her to her feet. “I will have Cook prepare some bread and broth and send it to your room. For now, you need rest. Let me walk you to your chamber and see you settled.”

Violet allowed him to lead her. Sluggishly. Woodenly. As if she were a ragdoll imbued with limited powers of locomotion.

As soon as they’d cleared the dozen paces from the dining room to the main corridor, he swung her into his arms and continued apace.

She weighed nothing. She said nothing. She had closed her eyes, blocking his view of her terror, but nothing could erase the sorrow from her face or the pain from her heart. Her color was far too pale. Reliving the horror had drained her vitality. If he ever came across Percy Livingstone in the flesh, Alistair would snap his neck with his bare hands.

When he reached Violet’s bedchamber door, he gently returned her to her feet.

She made no comment, nor any move to unlock the door. Her face was still far too pale. If she didn’t lie down soon, he feared she would collapse right there in the hallway.

He fished his master key from his pocket. After opening the door, he hesitated only briefly before lifting her back into his arms and carrying her to her bed.

He should not be in her bedchamber. He knew that; of course he knew that. Station and circumstance and gentlemanliness aside, a man as outraged as he over another man’s ill behavior should not be flaunting propriety by turning down bed sheets and carefully settling an innocent young woman atop them.

But what was he to do? Even if he hadn’t canceled the supper orders, Violet would still not have been able to consume a single bite after seeing that Wanted bill and learning of her alleged victims’ continued existence. And their disturbing thirst for vengeance. For he could think of no other reason to exaggerate the charges, other than to ensure the Wanted bill caught public attention and the monetary reward led to Violet’s location.

Alistair closed the door to keep out prying eyes while he got her settled. Right now, she just needed safety. And peace. He perched at the edge of the mattress alongside her prone form and frowned. Was it wise to leave her alone? Violet had completely shut into herself and he could hardly take his leave of her without assuring himself of her wellbeing.

“Are you warm enough, or shall I cover you?” he asked quietly.

When she slowly shook her head in response, he realized how poorly he’d phrased his question. No, she was not warm? Or no, he should not cover her? He glanced over his shoulder. Embers still glowed from the fireplace, but a slight chill had always haunted every room in the abbey.

“I’ll stoke the fire before I go.” He straightened, lingering only to brush a loose curl from her shoulder.

Her fingers latched onto his wrist. “Don’t go.”

His breath caught as her dark eyes finally met his. “What?”

“Stay,” she whispered.

“Violet, love... You have had a violent shock, and it is scarcely appropriate that I—”

“Stay.”

He could not. He should not. But, oh, how he wished to. Just to hold her tight and know that for now, forever, she would be safe. “Perhaps I could pull up a chair and watch over you until you find slumber.”

“Lie next to me.” She tugged him closer. “Please.”

After the briefest of pauses, he lowered himself alongside her, consciously pushing away all thoughts of propriety or hesitation. Right now, Violet needed him. And, he admitted deep in his heart, he needed her, too. For far more than just this moment.

He pulled her into his arms until their legs entwined and her head lay atop his chest. He stroked the chestnut curls cascading down her back while whispering a steady stream of soft words meant to calm and reassure her. He didn’t even know what he said. Foolish words from his foolish heart. When at last her body finally relaxed atop his, he closed his eyes. And just held her.

He had no idea how long they lay thusly, their bodies perfectly intermeshed. She drifted into sleep, but he did not. He pressed his lips to the top of her head and breathed in the rosewater scent of her hair. She felt so... right. His arms were beginning to lock up from keeping their prolonged position for so long, but he could swear he’d never been so comfortable in his life.

He loved her, he realized suddenly, his cheek against her hair. Good God, he loved her.

When had that happened? Days ago? Weeks ago? Months? Had he been blind all this time, or simply deceiving himself about what he felt? How wrong he’d thought it was? There was unquestionably an unequal social and class disparity. That part was still true... yet wholly irrelevant. He loved her. And love trumped everything.

Roper had been right. Alistair was both the stubbornest and luckiest of men. He had found love a second time. God had blessed this abbey with not one but two perfect women. God had spirited the first back to paradise but, in His benevolence, had seen fit to set Alistair upon the path that led him here, to this woman, to this bedchamber, to this moment. The angel in his arms was a gift straight from heaven. An answer to prayers he hadn’t dared speak aloud. Fortunately, God had had the wisdom to listen to a man’s heart rather than his words.

Sending a silent thank-you heavenward, Alistair held her even tighter.

She started, rearing up with a whistling gasp and clamping claw-like fingers around his forearms. Wide-eyed, she stared at him blindly for a long, heart-stopping moment before relaxing her grip and falling limply back into his arms. “It’s you.”

“It’s me.” He hesitated, then pressed a worried kiss to her forehead. “Bad dreams?”

Without lifting her head, she slid her fingers into his hair and sighed. “You cannot imagine.”

“I believe you. How can I help?” He warmed as her arms clung to him, keeping him close. “I cannot undo the past, but I have more than enough money for the hire of a good barrister. I will write my solicitor for recommendations first thing in the morning.”

“I wrote to a few already. The only funds I have are what I’ve earned since coming here, and I planned to put every penny toward my legal defense. Alistair, I... ” Violet propped herself up on his chest in order to meet his eyes. “I wanted to tell you. I did. But I didn’t want you to be disappointed in me, or to cut me from your life. Rightly or wrongly, I decided to wait until after I’d managed to acquit myself of any charges, in order to better prove to you what kind of person I am.”

“I already know what kind of person you are.” He smiled up at her. “Haven’t I said from the beginning that you were a miracle in our lives? You’re an angel from God Himself.”

Her expression was uncomfortable, rather than pleased. “Trust me, I’m hardly—”

“Nobody is perfect,” he interrupted quietly. “I am living proof. But this was not your fault, love. You are not to blame. I can understand not wishing to disclose the details before you knew how the story would end. And now that I do know, I can help. This Percy Livingstone will not win. I swear it.”

The doubt did not ease from her expression, but she nodded rather than offer additional protest. “Thank you.”

His insides clenched. He would fix this for her. Be the guardian angel of his guardian angel. He had promised. And he loved her too much to do anything less.

He caressed her cheek with the curve of a finger. “If there is anything else I can do, please say the word.”

The worry lines slowly left her face as she gazed down at him. A new look came into her eyes. A better look. Hunger. Her fingers tightened in his hair as she lowered her face to his.

“Kiss me,” she whispered.

Alistair did not need to be told twice. He wanted nothing more than to keep her next to him forever.

Cupping her to him, he rolled so that his body was atop hers and her open mouth beneath his. Her mouth tasted like heaven. She gripped his hair and locked her thighs about his as he kissed her again, and again, and again. Oh, how he had yearned for this. For her. He could not help his body’s reaction as his pulse quickened and his cock hardened. Her gasps of pleasure as he slid its length against her core only served to heighten his arousal. She was perfect, and he ached to make her his.

She slid one hand from his hair to her shoulder and tugged at her neckline. His breeches tightened further in response. As an innocent, she wouldn’t be able to fathom how erotic it was to see how shyly she pulled the scooped neck of the gown down over her shoulder. He kissed the bared flesh, then her lips. Keeping her eyes locked to his, she lowered the thin silk inch by inch until one breast broke free of its confinement.

Plump and pale and perfect, the breast exactly molded to his waiting hand. The nipple had sprung to life before he’d even touched it. When he finally gave into temptation she gasped into his mouth at the feel of his fingers caressing and tugging the sensitive bud. He had dreamed of exactly this.

He tore his mouth from hers in order to taste that delicious breast, to feel his tongue rasping across the hard nipple. Her back arched, both her hands tangling in his hair and keeping him locked in his suckling position. She needn’t have worried—he wanted her just as much. Not wishing to startle her, he kept himself propped in place with one hand, and with the other began slowly, slowly, easing the hem of her gown up toward her hips.

Her legs parted without prompting, baring her naked thighs, baring everything to his palm, to his fingers. She was beautiful. Still teasing her nipple with his tongue and his teeth, he traced a light pattern up her thighs, across her belly, circling ever closer to her core without quite touching her center, until her flesh shivered at his touch and her taut legs trembled in the night air. He wanted this moment to be perfect for her.

The next time he teasingly swirled the tip of a finger tortuously close to her cleft, she bucked her hips without warning. Surprised, he bit harder than intended upon her nipple as his finger sank straight into her warm heat.

She cried out, her head arching backward. Just as quickly, she pushed his head back to her breast. He forced himself to take it slowly, to savor each gasp, each sensation. He wished to bring her joy. A memory to cherish. She clutched him to her chest as he drove his finger deeper and deeper within her. Every kiss, every thrust, was his body’s way of telling her how much he wanted her. How much he loved her. Heart thundering, he slid a second finger in to join the first, all the while circling the pad of his thumb across the slick wetness of her clitoris. She was ready, and so was he.

With his teeth, he tugged down the edge of her bodice until he bared her other breast. Slowly, tortuously, he applied himself to teasing that nipple with as much attention to detail as the first. He wished to bring her every pleasure, to hold back no part of himself.

She released her fingers from his hair and slid her hands to the sides of her breasts, trapping his face between them as his fingers jutted within her. He panted, barely able to think. She was everything. He suckled one erect nipple, then the other. As his fingers continued to thrust and to stroke her, he dragged the length of his cheek across both breasts, allowing the roughness of his jaw to graze both nipples before he pulled them back into his mouth one at a time.

Her answering gasp pleased him to his core. His body burned for her. He lifted his mouth from her nipples to suckle her tongue, to devour her with kisses, until she cried out as the walls of her womb spasmed against his fingers.

When the last of the contractions ceased, he eased his fingers from inside her as he slowly pressed a line of heated kisses down the side of her neck, down the valley between her breasts, down the flat expanse of her belly, down to her—

“No,” she rasped, tugging him upward before he could pleasure her as he’d done before. “This time, I want you.”

When he hesitated, she yanked him to her, pressing her mouth to his as her deft hands made quick work of his fall. He gasped against her mouth. Freed from his breeches, his cock reveled in the sensation of her soft fingers closing tight around the shaft. Stroking, tugging, working him until blood rushed his ears and cleared his head of all conscious thought. He had dreamed of her touch, imagined every detail, but nothing, nothing could compare to having her truly before him. He kissed her again, nearly trembling with restrained desire.

“I want you, Alistair.” She parted her legs and guided his cock between her thighs.

He could barely breathe. She absolutely would be his. He slid home in a single shuddering thrust, then froze in horror that he might have hurt her in his passion. She reached for him and nipped at his lower lip.

“More.” She smiled when his cock twitched in reply.

He lowered his mouth to hers in a consuming kiss. He would make this count. He would make it perfect. Ever so slowly, he began to move. He shuddered with pleasure. Lacing his fingers with hers, he withdrew and reentered to the rhythm of his pounding heart.

She wrapped her legs around him, biting lightly at his lower lip as she tightened her inner muscles around him. He nearly died. He cupped the back of her head, claiming her with kisses as his body claimed her with his cock. For he was claiming her. Just as she was claiming him. Her head fell back against the pillow as her spine arched and she climaxed once more, this time with their bodies joined together. He thrust faster, building to a climax that threatened to burst from him at any moment.

“Roll over,” she whispered.

Trapping her mouth with his, he wrapped his arms about her and rolled onto his back. She straddled his body and began to ride him, deliberately, tantalizingly. Dimly, he frowned despite the growing pleasure. She reached behind to cup his bollocks. He nearly swooned from the pleasure. It was as if she knew exactly how to—

His rhythm stuttered as dawning awareness slowly crept in.

She should not have had the least idea that straddling a man and riding him was even possible. Much less to tug at his bollocks as she worked his cock between her legs. She was an innocent. She was his unspoiled angel, for God’s sake. Or so he’d thought. His hips stilled as a rush of facts became obvious. She had kissed him first, had she not? She had met him pleasure for pleasure, and her current position with his bollocks in her hand could leave no doubt.

“You’re not a virgin?” he managed weakly.

Perhaps as rocked by the jarring question as he, she froze in place. A pink flush infused her cheeks with color. She released her hold and glanced away.

His body was suddenly cold. She was no angel after all. How could he have been so wrong about her? Was it not true that a person who deceived about one thing, might deceive about everything? He had yearned so much for something perfect that he had let his fantasies blind him to the truth. How could he love someone he didn’t even know?

He couldn’t.

He answered his own question, then. All his questions. He was making love to a stranger. “This is not your first time.”

She rolled aside. They were no longer connected, in body nor in his imagination.

She took a deep breath. “You’re not a virgin either.”

“Of course not,” he sputtered. “I have a child!”

“Would it have been more acceptable if I had one, too?”

“No!” He tried to make sense of his turbulent thoughts.

She crossed her arms over her exposed breasts and glared at him. “So it’s fine for you, O master of the house, but not for me?”

He jerked away from her in disbelief. “I was married.”

Her eyebrows arched. “You didn’t seem too concerned about marriage a minute ago, when you were attempting to divest me of my virginity!”

“I was wrong.”

He closed his eyes to block her from his sight. That was not what he had meant to say, but it was true. She was not who he had believed she was, but she was still herself. Still passionate. Still beautiful. Still lying naked before him. He rubbed viciously at his face, unable to think. “I thought you were... innocent.”

She scrambled backward against the headboard and clutched a pillow to her bosom. “Well, I’m not. And you aren’t much of a gentleman. Either bedding me is fine, or it’s not. Regardless of the past. I’d say, men who think with their cocks shouldn’t be so quick to judge others. Especially those they’d planned on rogering silly.”

He flinched at her language and colored hotly at the direct hit. “You’re right. Of course you’re right. I just didn’t think…”

“Obviously. Get out,” she commanded, her bare arm pointed firmly toward the door. “Now!”

He picked himself up, not breaking eye contact. He was searching for the right words to say. He could think of none. Her entire body trembled but she did not break his gaze.

“Goodbye,” she repeated firmly.

Without another word, he turned and strode out the door.

Chapter 30

Alistair’s knees banged against his daughter’s new breakfast table. He winced as the silver clattered against the china for the hundredth time in five minutes. He was either going to break his knees or the dishware. It was just a matter of time.

Meanwhile, Lily was oblivious to his pain, both inner and physical. She’d been beside herself with glee ever since the child-sized breakfast set arrived. The miniature table and miniature chairs might not be designed for someone of his dimensions, but they matched his petite daughter perfectly, allowing her not only to dine in greater comfort, but also to more easily play hostess to guests. In this case, her father.

Fortunately for him, she was so enamored with pouring tea and arranging pots of jam that she scarcely noticed whether or not her father attended to her inarticulate murmurs of delight. He was having enough trouble attending to his own problems. Starting with the events of last night.

He set down his teacup before it shattered in his hands. Yesterday, he thought he’d met the true Violet Smythe—pardon, Violet Whitechapel—for the very first time. But had he? She had never claimed to share his ideals, nor had she ever professed to be innocent or virginal. He had assumed instead of simply asking her, then judged where he had no business judging at all. She was the same Violet she’d always been. The woman he loved. It was he who needed to change.

“More tea, Papa?” Lily stared up at him expectantly, the undersized china pot clutched tight in her small hands.

He nodded his assent. If he had learned anything lately, it was not to assume. Else he might never have come to share this moment today, with his daughter. He raised his eyebrows appreciatively as he sipped the tepid brew, making how-delicious noises more appropriate to teatime at Buckingham Palace. Lily beamed in response.

He couldn’t help but smile back. They’d been so lonely for so long... As the lemon-and-honey tea slid down his oddly scratchy throat, he gazed across his teacup at his daughter in growing wonder. It wasn’t that he couldn’t recall the last time they’d spent such a pleasant morning together. On the contrary. It was that the pleasant moments began after Violet’s arrival in their abbey. Regardless of her past, there was no denying the very real miracles she had wrought in their lives.

Besides, was Alistair himself so perfect? Far from it. He’d never claimed to be a saint, but nor had Violet ever laid claim to any proclivity toward godliness. If Alistair were being truly honest, even his beloved Marjorie, martyred in the very act of bringing life to their daughter, had not been the perfect angel he had painted her to be.

Marjorie, bless her soul, had been wholly and delightfully human. She had lived passionately, loved passionately, and fought passionately. At the time, she’d been the girl of his dreams—but that dream had long since concluded. She would forever be the woman who gave Lily life, but perhaps he’d done his daughter a disservice by overemphasizing her mother’s goodness. In his grief, he may have constantly, if inadvertently, thrown the sharpness of his loss in his daughter’s face.

Lily had never had a mother, had anyone to look up to, save himself.

Until Violet.

His shoulders tightened as he faced the truth. Violet had never been just a governess. She had certainly never been a mere companion to him or his daughter. Violet was the first new confidante in his life in over a decade. And she was the first friend Lily had had in her entire life. The first mother figure his daughter had ever known.

No—not a “figure”. Not a substitute, not a mirage, not a substandard stopgap. To say anything of the sort was to devalue the very special and undeniably real relationship Violet and Lily had built over the past several months. Violet might not be her biological mother, but there was little else to stand in the way of the title. His daughter had loved her wholly and unconditionally almost from the first.

“Papa?”

“Hmm?”

“Tomorrow can Miss Smythe join us for breakfast?”

He choked on his tea. Would Violet even be here tomorrow? Could he blame her if she left them both? He had certainly done little to make her stay. He could scarce be surprised if she were even now packing her bags. And when Violet did leave them—whether to face her accuser or flee to Switzerland or live a life of freedom in London town, far away from Alistair—Lily would be devastated. What would he do then? The loss of Violet in his daughter’s life would hit her equally as soul-deep as the premature loss of his wife had devastated Alistair in his youth. How could he possibly prepare his child for something like that? He couldn’t even promise her breakfast.

“We’ll see,” was all he said aloud. “You may invite her to dine with you whenever you wish, but please do not be... hurt... if there is a time when Miss Smythe cannot attend.”

Lily laughed as if he’d told a brilliant jest. “She would never say no, Papa. She loves me.”

Love. He opened his mouth to reply, but not a single word escaped. Did he even know what the word meant anymore?

Lily twisted around in her seat. “Papa... may I paint my room?”

“Paint anything you wish, sweetling.”

He pushed his chair back. At least Lily would have a new love—that of art—to bring color to her life after they lost Violet. His stomach clenched. Oh, how could he let her leave? And yet he could not force her to stay. Only after she faced her past would she be able to consider her future. He and Lily would just have to carry on, as they had always done. No matter how hard it might be.

He had always prayed Lily never need experience the pain of abandonment. For the sake of Violet’s future, however... And for the sake of Alistair’s shaken heart...

Sighing, he rose to his feet. He was not at all certain what he wanted, and he did not know what to pray for that would provide an optimal solution for all parties. He would turn it over in his mind as he paged through the books in his study.

He rang for a maid and kissed his daughter’s cheeks before slipping quickly and silently through the darkness of the catacombs. But once he was back in the lonely safety of his office, he slumped into his chair and stared sightlessly at the mundane correspondence he’d been unable to bear opening since the tidal wave of the day before. He just couldn’t face it.

Ever since returning from Shrewsbury proper, he had not studied a single essay, nor broken the seal on a single missive, nor slept a single wink. How could he? He could hardly return to his old life when his new life had been so neatly turned upside down. Before, he’d had precisely one focus, and precisely one goal.

Now he had two.

He slid a blank sheet of parchment from the stack in his secretary drawer and dipped his pen into a reservoir of ink. Violet needed help, and Alistair would provide it.

He composed a carefully worded inquiry to his solicitor, authorizing him to spend whatever coin necessary to take care of the problem as discreetly as possible, and to immediately send notice upon success or setback. There, that should do. He pulled a bit of wax and a ring bearing the Waldegrave family crest from the parchment drawer and prepared to seal the inquiry.

He hesitated before heating the ring in a candle’s flame. Was this truly the right path? If he sent this missive, he effectively relinquished Violet to the fates of the courts. When his barrister took her as a client, the case would progress rapidly. Once cleared of all charges, why would any young woman as beautiful and as talented as she give up an entire world of inspiration and beauty for claustrophobic catacombs and windowless chambers?

She would not, he realized, his stomach sinking. No one would. He had not chosen this life—God had thrust it upon him, like it or not. His grip on the sealing ring tightened. By ensuring Violet’s freedom, he’d likely also be ensuring she take it. Elsewhere.

So be it.

He jerked his fingers back from the flame and pressed the heated ring into the soft wax before he could change his mind. It was the right thing to do. He didn’t have to like it. He owed her as much. Wishing the entire matter out of sight, he slid the sealed missive atop a stack of open medical books and tugged forward yesterday’s pile of unopened correspondence.

He regretted that decision immediately.

Half the letters were from the great minds present at his recent conclave. The other half were from equally great minds, kindly refusing an invitation to attend a future such retreat. And every last one of them held the same message: No.

No, there was no magic tincture. There was no solution in any form. There was no hope for even finding answers to “why” or “how” without extensive in-laboratory study, and even then, no promises could be made. There was not now, nor was there likely to ever be, a cure for such a violent and deadly disease. There was nary a hint of optimism for even ameliorating the symptoms. He might as well have asked them to fly to the moon.

He slumped as if punched in the sternum. Was that it, then? The last chance for hope? It had been nearly a decade. Was it not time to face the truth? Lily would never get better. Alistair swayed, lightheaded. The life they had now was the one they would always have. Just this, nothing more. Forever.

“Master?”

Alistair’s startled gaze snapped from the blurry letter in his hand to the manservant hovering uncertainly at the open door. In his abstracted state, Alistair had apparently neglected to close the door behind him. Not that it mattered. If he was wasting his time searching for a nonexistent miracle—if he had wasted the first nine years of his daughter’s life chasing an impossible dream—then it was far past time to break free from his office once and for all.

Roper’s scarred face filled with concern. “Is everything all right, master?”

“No,” Alistair answered as he rose to his feet. “Nor shall it be, so it is up to me to make of it what I will.”

“Sir?” Confusion lined his manservant’s brow. “Is there aught I could do to help?”

Alistair paused in the act of rounding his desk. Slowly, he pivoted toward the pile of open books and retrieved the thick inquiry he’d penned to his solicitor. Here it was, then. The moment of truth. Sending this missive was tantamount to sending Violet from their lives, but what else could he do?

He handed Roper the letter. “See this gets posted, please.”

“Of course, master. As you wish.”

The corner of Alistair’s mouth sagged despondently. If only he could have what he wished. None of this heartbreak would be necessary.

Chapter 31

Violet arrived in the sanctuary to find her suspiciously cheerful charge had no interest in visiting the makeshift schoolroom this morning.

“No learning today,” Lily announced before Violet had even had a chance to secure the door behind her. “I am not of a mood for maths.”

“No?” Violet returned, careful to keep her expression blank. She, for one, was never of a mood for maths. “And what, pray tell, would Princess Tiger Lily prefer to be doing with her valuable time?”

Lily clapped her hands with glee. “I want to paint the walls.”

Violet frowned. “Paint them... pink?”

“No,” Lily burst out. “I want to put pictures on them. Like in my books, but better. Color pictures. Of real things and not-real things. And I want you to help me.”

“You want to paint... murals?” Violet asked doubtfully.

“I do if that means pictures-on-the-walls.” Lily’s eyes glimmered with mischief. “Ooh, see that? A new word! I’m learning even without maths. This will be positively educational.”

Violet suppressed a smile. “It’s certainly hard to argue with that logic. But I’m afraid I wouldn’t feel comfortable painting a single inch of these walls without consulting your father.”

“First,” Lily interrupted imperiously, “I already asked him, and he said I could paint whatever I want wherever I want. Second, Papa wants me to be happy. Putting pictures on the walls will make me happy. So can we start right now instead of doing maths? Please? I promise to study sums twice as hard tomorrow.”

If Violet had found the original twisted logic too humorous to argue with, she could find no quibble whatsoever with this line of reasoning. A day without maths would hardly impact Lily’s future. And her assessment of her father’s desire to see her happy was inarguable. Whether or not he’d specifically agreed to a sanctuary covered in child-created murals was a bit more suspect, but Violet could see nothing wrong with using some of the window planks as canvases until she could clarify the rest with Alistair. After all, the sanctuary had once boasted floor-to-ceiling stained glass. Why not replace art with art?

“All right,” she agreed slowly, stepping forward to inspect the boards’ surfaces more closely. How the ancient wood would hold paint was anyone’s guess, but it would be as good a project as any. “Let’s start with this board over here. What did you have in mind?”

Lily squealed delightedly, then raced for the paints. “I want the outside world, but I want it all mixed together. I want to paint the garden and the moors and the forest, but I want it to look like daylight and I don’t know how that should look. I want flowers everywhere. Not just the flowers Papa brings, but every single flower from my book. Even though I know they don’t all grow in the same place at once, I like them all and I want to look at them whenever I want. In color! Lots of colors! And then I want to make birds, but I don’t have a book of those yet so I’m not sure what they look like. Oh, and ladybirds, but that’s more like a bug. I want bugs, too. All the animals. And then after that, I want—”

“Slow down, slow down,” Violet interrupted, this time not bothering to hide her laughter. “We can paint anything you wish, but not all in one day. This sort of project will take weeks. Or more. Did you know it took Michelangelo six years and several assistants to paint the Sistine Chapel?”

Wide-eyed, Lily shook her head. “That’s too long. Is he a friend of yours? Why did he paint his sister’s chapel?”

Violet coughed, then decided to skip a longwinded explanation. “We’ll cover that later. The point is, frescoes and murals are hard work. A cohesive whole takes careful planning. You have a wonderful idea and I approve wholeheartedly, but we cannot just start flinging colors at the walls all havey-cavey. Our imaginations provide the inspiration, but our pencils provide the framework.”

Lily stared blankly. “What?”

“I’m saying, first we draw the outlines and then we paint, starting with the background first and then adding more and more detail.”

Lily’s face fell. “No paints today?”

“Not just yet. First we plan. No, don’t look so disappointed—you get to ‘plan’ directly on the walls. Here, take this pencil and begin sketching what you want, where you want it.”

Lily wiggled excitedly. “Right on the boards?”

“Absolutely.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Sit right here and watch. I am here if you need help, but these are your walls, and you are the artist.”

Lily nodded. “I’ll pretend I’m Michael Angelo painting a chapel for my sister.”

“Am I the sister?”

“The assistant.”

“Very well.” Violet settled onto a small hardback chair. Her knees popped up almost high enough to graze the underside of the table. “What a lovely table and chairs. Are they new?”

“It’s a breakfast set. Papa brought it today before we had breakfast together. Would you like to join us tomorrow?”

Violet’s stomach twisted. She wasn’t sure she’d like to join Alistair, well, ever. She hadn’t seen him since he’d accused her of being a whore and she’d thrown him from her bedchamber. She doubted she could keep down so much as a slice of toast whilst seated across from him. Much less make small talk.

“I don’t think so, honey. Perhaps your papa and I can take turns breakfasting with you,” she suggested instead. “There are only two chairs, and it would be horribly impolite to force someone to sit on the floor.”

Lily sketched for a moment in silence. “You’re saying no because of the chairs?”

Violet shifted uncomfortably. “Er... why else would I?”

“I don’t know. This morning Papa was happy until I mentioned your name, and now you’re acting just as queerly as he was. I don’t think it’s the chairs. When all I had was my too-tall table, you and I always sat on the floor for picnics. Why would you care now?”

Excellent point. Violet plucked at her skirt. “Maybe I would like your papa to see us as ladies and not heathens?”

Lily glanced over her shoulder, eyes shining. “You want Papa to see you as a lady?”

“I... ” Violet bit her tongue, wishing she’d launched into a detailed explanation of the Italian Renaissance after all.

“I’m sure he already does. He likes you, you know.”

“Not anymore,” Violet said sourly.

“Maybe.” Lily returned to her sketching. “Do you like him?”

Violet slanted her charge a hard look. Where the devil was this line of questioning headed? “I respect your father very much,” she answered carefully.

“Do you like me?” she asked, still sketching.

“I love you, you little imp, even when I fantasize about buttoning your lips together so you stop asking so many questions.”

Lily giggled. “Would you say we’re almost like a real family?”

Violet nearly choked. “Almost.”

“Me, too. I wish you were my mother. Not my dead mama—she’ll always be my first mother, plus now she’s an angel in heaven. But wouldn’t it be nice if you were my new mama?” Lily shot a concerned look over one shoulder. “Can people have second mamas?”

“I... ” Violet shook her head, speechless. What was she to do with these questions? “I never even had one mama, so I’m no expert on the topic of motherhood.”

Lily’s eyes rounded. “You didn’t? Did she die, like mine? Did you have a papa instead?”

“I never had either one.” Violet’s chest tightened at the reminder of her childhood. “I was a very lonely little girl.”

Lily nodded. “Then you’re just like me. A girl in want of a nice family. That’s why we’d be perfect together.”

Violet hesitated. “You had a mama and you have a papa. It’s not ideal, but—”

“But we’re not a family,” Lily interrupted. “Not yet, anyway.”

“I don’t think...” Violet took a deep breath. Perhaps it wasn’t too late to switch the topic to the Italian Renaissance after all. “Did you know Michelangelo was an Italian painter in the sixteenth century? Three hundred years ago, Pope Julius II contracted him to paint frescoes—murals done on plaster instead of boards, like we’re doing—in the Apostolic Palace in Vatican City.”

Lily’s eyes narrowed at the abrupt change in topic, but she returned her focus to sketching without pressing further. “Where’s Vatican City?”

“Rome.” Violet counted her lucky stars for having successfully transitioned to an alternate topic. One in which there was actually something to say. Lily couldn’t imagine how badly Violet wished the three of them were a family. A wish unlikely to come true. “In Italy.”

“Was Julius the prince of Rome? Was that why he lived in a palace?”

“Not precisely. Have you heard of the Church of England?”

Lily sent a withering glance over her shoulder. “I live in an abbey.”

“Fair enough. Well, the Pope is the head of the Catholics, who have their own church. And the capitol, so to speak, is in Rome. The palace is sometimes called the Palace of Sixtus V, who was one of the popes. And in fact, the Sistine Chapel is called ‘sistine’ in honor of Pope Sixtus VI, who came right after him.”

Lily put down her pencil. “There was no sister?”

“I’m afraid not. Just popes.”

“If you married my papa, could I have a sister?”

Violet dropped her face in her hands with a groan.

She had hoped so hard that she’d been wrong about where this conversation had been going. She’d also foolishly believed talk of a distant city might distract a little girl from the far more real dramas unfolding betwixt the abbey walls. Most of all, she had no idea how to answer Lily honestly without simultaneously crushing the child’s dreams. Her own dreams were more than a little shaken. It had never occurred to her that Alistair might care about her romantic past. Where Violet was from, people only cared about right now. Not yesterday. Not tomorrow.

Come to think of it, she was surprised she hadn’t been evicted from the house at once, out of paternal fear for the governess’s negative influence upon his daughter. He’d been more than disappointed. He looked disgusted. At her. Well, she couldn’t help her past, but she wasn’t delusional enough to imagine wedding bells in the future. If she even had a future. She’d be fortunate just to avoid bells tolling at her hanging.

“What are you drawing?” she asked, hoping to distract herself from the direction of her thoughts. “May I see?”

To her surprise, Lily started guiltily and lowered her gaze. “You promise you won’t be cross?”

Violet’s eyes narrowed. “Why would I be cross?”

Lily’s careless one-shoulder shrug was more alarming than any words might have been.

Lips pursed, Violet lifted a candle from the table. She cupped the flame with one hand and made her way to Lily’s side, half afraid she’d discover the boards covered in imagery of a flamboyant father-governess matrimony.

Instead, what she saw were flowers. Beautiful flowers. Impossible flowers. Simultaneously picture-perfect and without the slightest attention to perspective. Verisimilitude crossed with the fantastical in bold, sure lines. Daisies towered over roses. An enormous ladybird settled among blades of grass, partially blocking a rectangular stone that reminded Violet of—

“Lily. That’s... ”

“Mama’s grave.” Lily’s voice trembled. “I want her to be here, too. She started our family.”

Violet’s throat closed and her heart dropped. When had Lily seen her mother’s grave? An awful thought struck. Had Lily seen her own grave, as well? “Tiger Lily... When did you see—”

“A long time ago.” Lily’s voice was matter-of-fact, although the glassiness of her blue eyes betrayed her suffering. “Mama’s dead. I don’t mind looking at her stone. But I won’t paint mine,” she added fiercely. “I hate it. I am not dead. I’m right here. Alive.”

“Oh, honey.” Violet pulled the child into her arms. “I’m so sorry.”

Lily latched on tight. “Papa wishes I was dead. Isn’t that why he created my stone while I was still alive?”

“No.” Violet shook her head forcefully, horrified that such an idea had ever entered Lily’s head. “Absolutely not. Your papa has loved you from the moment he first laid eyes on you. Everything he’s ever done is because he believed it was the best thing he could do for you and your future.”

Lily looked unconvinced. “That’s what he said, too. But I don’t believe him.”

She’d asked him if he wished her dead? Violet’s jaw dropped. She could not imagine such a conversation. Hearing such a brutal question from the daughter he loved above all else would have been a dagger straight to Alistair’s heart. And through Lily’s.

“I swear on everything I hold dear that your father loves you more than anything in the world.”

“How can he? He buried me. Right next to Mama.” Lily pulled away to stare bleakly across the room. “And then he buried me in here. I’m living in my grave. It just doesn’t have my name on it.”

“Oh, honey.”

In the privacy of her own mind, Violet cursed Alistair’s noble intentions six ways to Sunday. He only wished to protect his daughter, but... Anyone could see how Lily could feel this way, and Violet couldn’t fathom how to convince her otherwise. Undoubtedly, Alistair, too, had tried. Had spent his life trying to show his daughter how much he cared.

“He loves you,” she repeated firmly. “We both love you, and nobody wishes you were dead. I can safely say that neither one of us cares to imagine our lives without you in it. The rest of your questions should be answered by your father himself. I will mention to him it might be time for another conversation.”

Lily’s gaze slid somewhere behind Violet’s left shoulder and widened sharply.

Violet jerked around, half-expecting to find Alistair watching silently from an arm’s length away, but the chamber was bare and silent, save the sound of their breaths and the soft ticking of the clock upon the mantel.

“It’s noontime,” Lily said suddenly, turning back to her outline. “Time for your lunch break. Don’t forget to pick up books for afternoon lessons.”

“Honey, I am perfectly happy to stay and eat with you. At your new table or on the floor, whichever you prefer. The library is not nearly as important as you are.”

“I’m fine,” Lily said without turning around. “I prefer you to go.”

Violet sighed. She had learned to recognize when there was no sense arguing. “I do love you, Tiger Lily. And so does your father. Very, very much.”

Lily’s pencil continued its skritch-skritch-skritch across the wooden boards.

“I can see you’re busy.” Violet gazed at the back of Lily’s head, wishing there were something she could do to ease her pain. “I’ll be back in one hour.”

The relentless scratch of the pencil was her only answer.

Chapter 32

Alistair was just preparing to enter his library when incoming footsteps echoed from within the nearby catacombs. The door swung open before he could move. Within seconds, he found himself face to face with Violet... for the first time since she’d tossed him from her bedchamber.

“Oh!” She jerked to a stop, barely catching herself from plowing directly into him. “My apologies. My mind is elsewhere. I... I can come back another time.”

“Nonsense.” He smiled at her.

She did not smile back.

He was unsurprised she had no desire for his company. It was up to him to change her mind. “There’s more than enough room in the library for two people. I should like it immensely if you would stay as long as you like.”

She shook her head. “I won’t be long at all. I’m just picking something up for Lily.”

“As am I,” he admitted, fitting his key into the lock. “She asked me to drop off a new book of fairy stories over luncheon.”

“Over luncheon?” Violet’s tone was ominous, as if the words held a portent usually reserved for prophecies of the apocalypse. “She is certainly quite concerned about how we spend our luncheon, is she not?”

“Why would she be?” He disengaged the lock and pushed open the door. “It’s lucky coincidence that finds us both here at the same time. It’s not like she planned for us to—”

An involuntary choke cut off the rest of his words as the door swung open before them. The library... Alistair could not believe his eyes. His library had been transformed into a cozy nook for a summer picnic.

The wingback chairs had been pushed back against the shelf-lined walls. A thick red blanket stretched invitingly across the center of the room. Adorning the blanket was a basket of fruit and cheese, a bottle of wine, glasses, plates, and a platter of tiny sandwiches. A vase of cut roses—identical to those he regularly left for his daughter—completed the milieu. Standing to one side with a now-empty tray tucked beneath her arm was Jenny, one of his daughter’s serving maids.

“There you are!” she said brightly. “Will there be anything else?”

He shook his head. “Just an explanation.”

Jenny tilted her head in confusion. “Miss Lillian reminded me you two would be picnicking together in the library for luncheon, and here you are, right on schedule. Is it not to your liking?”

He glanced at Violet to see if she followed this batty accounting any more than he did, only to discover her staring at the room with an expression not unlike begrudging respect.

She turned to face him, eyebrows arched. “What was that you were saying about coincidence?”

He dismissed the maid before opening what was clearly a formidable can of worms. Violet did not appear amused by the surprise picnic.

She did, however, appear more familiar with the goings-on in his abbey than he himself. Before he could begin a campaign to win her over, he needed to understand what was happening now.

“What,” he said carefully, “is all this about?”

“This, I’m afraid, is your daughter orchestrating a surprise romantic interlude.”

“Orchestrating a what?” He burst into startled laughter. The idea was ludicrous... and brilliant. He owed his daughter a very large favor.

“Don’t believe me?” Violet gestured around them. “Perhaps the bottle of wine stands out as unusual. Or the velvety soft blanket spread across the center of the room. The child wants a mother, and has decided to elect me head of the family.”

His heart warmed at the idea. His daughter was far more perceptive than he’d ever given her credit for. The unexpected picnic had calmed fears he hadn’t even realized he had. The corners of his mouth quirked. “Wouldn’t I still be head of the family?”

Violet pinned him with a look that threatened imminent violence. His smile faltered. She was in no mood to take the situation lightly. He could scarcely blame her for mistrusting him, or his motives.

“Very well,” he conceded and settled down on one corner of the blanket. She couldn’t imagine how much he longed for the ease and romance they’d once shared. But first, he needed to set her more at ease. “Sit. We may as well enjoy the picnic. While I would never have anticipated Lily playing matchmaker, you’ve got to admit... she has a certain flair.”

Violet’s lips pursed, but she lowered herself to the blanket. “When did she ask you to come here?”

“This morning at breakfast,” he answered, impressed at how far ahead his daughter had planned. “When did she tell you to?”

“Just now.” Violet let out a slow breath. “The little minx.”

“Very clever.” He reached for the bottle of wine. Although he didn’t drink spirits, he could at least offer to pour Violet a glass. “I’m just a little surprised she’d go this far out of her way to do something I wanted.”

Violet waved away the offer of wine, her eyes round with shock. “Something you would have wanted?”

“A moment alone with you?” He smiled into her eyes. “That’s something I always want.”

“Me, too.” She reddened and immediately broke eye contact. “At least, I used to.”

Alistair winced. He deserved that. And worse.

“The things I said... ” He paused, searching for the right words. There weren’t any. Not after having said all the wrong ones. He swallowed hard. All he could do was speak from the heart. “I am so sorry, Violet. For everything. I was surprised, yes, but I was also horribly, unpardonably wrong. You are stronger than I would be in your place. I can only hope you will someday forgive my thoughtlessness.”

She gazed at the picnic basket in silence, then lifted her chin. “I’ll think about it.”

He took heart. She hadn’t said no. Nor had she abandoned the picnic altogether when she could have—and that was even before his apology. Perhaps there was hope. He liked hope. He just wished there could also be a future...

“I wish we could have a real picnic,” he blurted, the words spilling forth before he could stop them. Then he had an even better idea. “All three of us, after nightfall. Outside. Together.”

Her brows lifted in surprise. “Why can’t we? I’m sure Lily would adore it. Just say the word. I can be free at a moment’s notice.”

“You can.” Alistair’s dream vanished. He glared at the picnic basket. His idea wasn’t splendid. It was stupid. He’d allowed the romance of the moment to color the facts of the situation. Namely, that one could neither predict nor control Lily. He let out a growl of frustration. How he wished he could trust his daughter not to endanger herself! “Lily is the problem. Rather, she cannot be trusted out of doors. She’s no longer the wild creature she once was, but... I’m her father. I cannot risk my daughter’s life. And she hates me for it.”

“She doesn’t hate you,” Violet protested. “How could she?”

His laugh was humorless. “I don’t see why not.”

“You’re not ‘just’ a father, Alistair. You’re a good father.”

“I’m her gaoler,” he said, hating that he spoke not analogy, but truth. “That’s not a good father.”

Violet placed her hand atop his knee. “Then stop. Let her go outside with supervision. I fully believe she will stay safe. She just wants to live.”

So did he. He prayed to heaven every day for that miracle. “That has always been my dream. Cure or not, we might be closer than ever. At the very least, I believe I’ve calmed the villagers’ concerns.”

“What?” she exclaimed, delighted. “When? How?”

“When they saw—” He broke off, awkwardly fumbling through the picnic basket in search of a distraction. Some other distraction. He would have to tell her the truth someday, but this was not the moment to confess his charade. Not with the tenuous truce just formed between them. She had not yet forgiven him for his recent harsh words. He would not test her with confessions of further sins. He was going to have to lie. Again. His cheeks heated uncomfortably. “I... invited a few townsmen into the abbey chapel. They saw me kiss the cross and place my hand upon the Bible, without ill affect. I need not fear their violence. They realized I am simply a sick man, not a monster.” He hoped.

“But that’s wonderful! And even more reason to allow Lily to breathe fresh country air!”

He tried to imagine the best-case scenario, then shook his head. “How can I let my daughter romp about a lawn bearing a gravestone with her name on it?”

Violet leaned forward and took his hands in hers. “Dig it up. We all regret it was ever a necessity, but you yourself said we need fear no more. And Lily is no longer the impulsive child she once was. You never have to feel like her gaoler again. Evenings out-of-doors could become a special time just for the two of you.”

His heart thudded joyfully at the very idea.

Perhaps... perhaps Violet was right. Lily deserved a second chance as much as anyone. He had tried so hard to organize their lives to maximize safety, but in doing so, had he stripped the life from their lives? He glanced down at his hands entwined with Violet’s. Perhaps not everything could be compartmentalized into orderly little boxes of Shall and Shall Not.

Lily deserved to live her life to the fullest based on her own limitations, not those an overprotective father imposed upon her. He would doubtless be absolutely terrified to see her step one foot out-of-doors even at new moon, but did that give him any right to keep her from it?

He nodded slowly. “You’re right. There’s more to life than just being safe. I can’t protect Lily every second of every day. She’s growing up. She deserves the chance to earn back my trust, just as I intend to earn back hers. She has a right to see the stars.”

“The—what?” Violet gripped his fingers. “You’re saying yes?”

He freed one hand and slowly raked his fingers through his hair. “She started hating me when she was five. The day she saw the gravestones. She couldn’t read her mother’s name, but she could recognize her own. And I never knew. She kept it inside. Can you imagine? All this time, she thought I wished she were dead. She overheard gossip unsuitable for a child’s ear... That gravestone was just supposed to keep her safe.”

“And it did,” Violet said softly. “But as you noted, she’s growing up. And since the villagers are no longer hunting vampires, no one will be about to spy on us. Late at night, the stars high above, the breeze kissing our faces... ”

“And all three of us, together.” His heart swelled as he gazed at her. “I would like both of us to accompany Lily on her first trip out-of-doors in four long years.”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” Eyes shining, Violet blessed him with a beatific grin. “And whether you believe it or not, I’m pretty certain you are the kindest father in the universe.”

He gave her a crooked smile. “Now it’s getting thick in here. Any father would do what I do.”

Violet’s laugh was hollow. “I didn’t even have one.”

“Your mother raised you on her own?” he asked in surprise. Perhaps the loss of a parent at a young age was one of the bonds Lily and Violet had forged.

She shook her head. “I raised myself, for better or for worse. I must have had someone who fed me until I was old enough to toddle the streets in search of scraps, but my only childhood memories are of being alone. Or involuntarily subjected to company, as the case may be.”

His flesh crawled and his gaze darkened. He gripped her hands in his. “You were set upon as a young child?”

She lifted a shoulder as if it were the most trifling of concerns. “I was one of many brats trawling the alleyways in search of food. We were so used to being invisible—or just referred to as ‘You, there’—that I was probably Lily’s age the first time anyone bothered to ask me my name.”

“Good God,” he whispered in quiet horror. It was a miracle she was even alive, much less such a strong, capable woman. “I am so sorry, Violet. For everything.”

Guilt plagued him. To think he had presumed to judge her by his own impossible standards, when she had already fought and survived battles he did not even have the stomach to fathom. He was sickened by his self-righteousness and ashamed of the many times she must have suffered at his thoughtlessness.

“When they asked you your name, what did you say? Did you even have one?”

“I thought I did,” she answered wryly. “I’d been called ‘Violet Eyes’ often enough that I believed it my rightful name. I’d never seen myself, so I hadn’t the slightest inkling it was meant to be shorthand description, to tell one street rat from another. But when the laughter died down, the word stuck, and from that day forth I had a name. Two of them. After my eyes, and the place of my birth.”

“Violet Whitechapel,” he murmured, as the wanted bill sprung from his memory. He had accused her of giving him a false name. He couldn’t imagine not having any other kind.

“Violet Whitechapel,” she agreed with an ironic smile. “And she lived happily ever after.”

Alistair’s stomach twisted. His heart ached for her. He blamed himself for adding to her misery. “What happened to you was unimaginable, and if I could gibbet every man who ever touched you, I happily would. You were right to reprove me for my hypocrisy. I was foolish. I don’t care about your past, Violet. Even if you had willfully and eagerly been the most overworked courtesan in all of London, what right have I to judge you for something that happened before we had even met?”

Slowly, her eyes lost their deadness and gained a glimmer of hope. “Do you mean that?”

“‘Let he who is without sin cast the first stone,’” he quoted in self-deprecation. Amen. He was surprised the Lord didn’t strike him down right there in the library. “For someone who lives in an abbey, I’m not too skilled at soaking up Scripture.” He ran his knuckle down the side of her cheek and let his hand fall back into his lap. He had failed her. She deserved better. “I never had the right to judge you, Violet. I didn’t know your situation and I don’t know your past, but I do know you.”

Violet’s expression was shy, her smile hesitant. “I like to think it’s never too late for anyone.”

He grinned back at her. “Let’s start anew. And let’s include Lily. Will you please join me to dispose of that horrid gravestone with my child’s name on it?”

“Everyone would join us for that,” she returned, sounding almost like her old self again.

“Splendid,” he said and held out his hand. “I’ll arrange the festivities for tomorrow. But let’s ask the little matchmaker if she’d like to join us this evening for a walk under the stars.”

A few hours later, Violet was beside herself with excitement. Lily’s first time out-of-doors in years! She needed to experience the outside world, to taste it and touch it and smell it and see it. To live it. And tonight, she finally would. Magic seemed to crackle in the air.

Lily was reclining on her bed, perusing a book of flowers, when Violet and Alistair knocked upon the door.

“Lily,” he began solemnly. “If you are not terribly busy, would you like to join Violet and I tonight for a turn about the garden?”

Her dark eyes narrowed with suspicion. As soon as she realized two smiling faces could only mean the offer was genuine, she practically tumbled out of the bed in her haste to join them. “Truly?”

Laughing, Alistair crossed the room to assist, and within short order Lily was decked head to toe in boots and spencer and a grin wide enough to drown in.

“Ohhh,” she exclaimed, clapping her pale hands together excitedly. “I can’t wait!”

Violet was close to clapping her hands, too. The eagerness in Lily’s smile warmed her heart not just because it transformed the child’s usually somber demeanor into that of a happy little girl, but because she had lately realized that Lily rarely smiled at all.

To her dismay, Violet suspected she had smiled more on the streets and in the workhouse than Lily did in her opulent prison. It was difficult to enjoy even the small moments when one had never been taught that life was a thing to be treasured, to be enjoyed. That each day was what you made of it, for good or for bad.

The same could be said about Lily’s father. Violet couldn’t resist a quick glance at Alistair. He needed joy, too. And Violet intended to make a difference in both their lives.

With one of Lily’s hands clasped in her father’s and the other small hand tucked into Violet’s, they tramped single file into the catacombs. Candles and muffled giggles chased the shadows from the tunnels, and before she knew it, they were at the front door.

He paused with his hand on the doorknob. “Are you certain you’re ready?”

Lily squealed, shoving at him in her excitement. “Open the door!”

Violet shook her head as Alistair flung open the door and Lily burst forth to test her boots upon the grass. Her smile was beatific. Violet and Alistair shared a grin as their eyes met over the top of Lily’s head. Tonight, they were sharing a precious gift, and forever changing Lily’s life for the better.

One had only to gaze at the rapture upon the child’s face to see the truth.

“Oh, Papa.” Lily turned a slow circle, lifting her arms in wonder. “Smell the air! It smells like—it smells like—oh, look at the flowers! They’re not roses, they’re... Don’t tell me, they’re in my book, I’ve seen them. Marigolds! And look how bright they are! Pen-and-ink drawings are lovely, but I had no idea they might be—Eek! What was that? Did you see it? It moved!”

Laughing, they led her toward the center of the lawn in order to give her a wider view of her surroundings.

Violet knelt beside her. “That, Miss Tiger Lily, was the very ferocious British squirrel. And if you look over there... up higher, see where I’m pointing? That is a tawny owl.”

“An owl!” Lily crowed delightedly, as if Violet had not led her to a shadowed tree but rather to the treasure beneath a rainbow. “Can you paint one for me tomorrow?”

“Certainly.”

Grinning, Alistair held out a hand to his daughter. “Come this way, for there are ever so many treasures just around the corner.”

Lily raced to place her hand in his.

Joy filled Violet’s heart as she watched father and daughter bend their heads together over every corner of the lawn.

She hung back, not wishing to interrupt the magic of the shared moment between them. If she’d had paints, or even a bit of charcoal handy, she would have loved to sketch their excited faces as they eagerly explored grasses and flowers and trees. Perhaps she still would. A private collection, just for her. Just like she used to do, for whenever she felt lonely and wanted to pretend she had a family.

Although she did not truly belong, her heart still swelled to see Alistair and Lily finally find each other. She doubted they would ever lose sight of family again. Violet found a soft patch of grass and settled down to watch.

Two hours later, he finally managed to corral his bright-eyed, exhausted little girl back indoors.

“When can we do it again?” Lily begged her father once they’d made their way back to the sanctuary. “May we go back outside tomorrow? And every single night after? I’ll be good! I’ll be a perfect angel!”

“I’m sure you will,” he agreed with a laugh. He divested her of her pelisse and helped her get ready for bed. “Did you enjoy yourself?”

“Did I!” Lily beamed at him. “It was the most fun I’ve ever had in my entire life. Thank you, Papa.”

Alistair shot a grateful smile at Violet over Lily’s head before returning his pleased gaze to his daughter.

Chapter 33

The following morning, after foregoing both breakfast and maths—Violet was of no mind to contest Lily on the latter score—the pair spent the entire day covering the majority of one of the sanctuary walls with a dreamlike panorama of fantastical, hyper-real flowers towering above each other in splendid chaos, peppered with exotic birds and unreal creatures frolicking among the profusion of flora with little regard to perspective or the constraints of reality.

With Violet’s help, Lily’s imaginatively disproportionate landscape sketched in pencil upon the walls burst into vivid color, transforming the sanctuary from a windowless crypt into a wonderland of extraordinary possibility.

Violet would have happily continued painting until next week, had it not been almost time for the unburial ceremony. She rang for Lily’s bath and then hurried to her chamber to ring for her own. She had just enough time to twist her hair into a chignon and get dressed in her nicest gown.

As soon as she was ready, she joined the rest of the staff at the gravesite on the back lawn. She and Roper exchanged conspiratorial grins as he handed out shovels. Violet was thrilled for Lily and eager to see how this changed the father-daughter dynamic. This night was already a miracle in the making. Alistair had outdone himself arranging an extravagant ceremony in the hopes that maybe, this time, his daughter would finally realize how much he loved her.

Everyone from the abbey was present beneath the stars. Every manservant, every maid, every person that Violet had come to consider a friend. Tonight, they would welcome Lily as family.

Although the moon waxed high in the sky, flickering candles lined the walkways. The women stood before the graves as witnesses, each bearing petals to toss into the air. The men flanked the other side, jostling each other and laughing. Some bore shovels or pickaxes, others simple trowels, but each of them held fast to a tool capable of chiseling stone from dirt.

Hand in hand, Alistair and Lily made their way along the candlelit path. This was no somber funerary procession with sobs and dirges and handkerchiefs. A welcoming smile beamed from every face. Alistair gazed down upon his daughter with fatherly love. The grin lighting the child’s face was brighter than the sun.

When the two finally joined Violet next to the small gravestone at the intersection between the maids and the menservants, Alistair knelt before his daughter and took both her hands in his.

“Lily.” His low voice rang clear and true, carried upon the soft breeze. “This stone bears your name, but this grave marks no death. You are very much alive—to me, to Miss Smythe, to everyone who shares our home here at Waldegrave Abbey. And as you can see, every single member of our extended family has come here tonight to show their support of you and your future.”

Lily gazed at the sea of faces in wonder.

Alistair glanced up over her shoulder. “Ready, Violet?”

“Absolutely.” Smiling, Violet stepped forward and handed him the shovel.

He stood, gripped the handle, and slammed the blade into the soil. He placed his boot on the metal edge and shoved again, well and truly entrenching the shovel into the ground. Metal scraped against stone as he scooped up the first mound of dark earth and tossed it to one side. Everyone cheered.

Violet accepted the shovel from him and did the same, taking great contentment in the spark of blade-against-stone and in the joy upon Lily’s face as she watched Violet add a second scoop of black dirt atop the first.

“Your turn, Tiger Lily,” she said softly, and handed her the shovel. “Show us how the queen of the jungle does it.”

Lily snatched the handle from Violet’s hands and dug up not one but three shovelfuls in quick succession, to much whooping and whistling on the part of the onlookers. Giggling, Lily tried to hand the spade back to her father.

Alistair shook his head with a smile and gestured at the row of men behind them. “Roper is at the ready, and Cook just beside him for his go. We are all here to officially welcome you into the land of the living. To honor your life—and your future—as a family.”

They joined Violet to one side as the men took their turn in succession, followed by the maids. The resulting trench was more than big enough for Roper and Alistair to lift the stone free and set it upon a patch of hard soil. This time, turns were taken with pickaxes and hammers until all that was left of the false gravestone was an unidentifiable pile of rubble and dust. Already the breeze carried away the lightest bits. Soon it would be nothing more than a memory.

“Lily Waldegrave,” Alistair announced as he wiped the back of his arm across his brow. “Welcome home. I love you, daughter.”

Lily threw herself into her father’s embrace, squealing in glee when he responded by swinging her in dizzying circles. “Thank you, Papa. I love you, too.”

Alistair froze with his arms wrapped tight about his daughter, eyes squeezed shut tight, and held her as if he’d never let go.

Chapter 34

After stroking his daughter’s hair until she fell asleep, Alistair hastened from the sanctuary and knocked upon Violet’s chamber door. She swung open the door immediately, almost as if she had been just as eagerly awaiting his arrival. Grinning, he swung her in a circle before collapsing onto the vanity chair and pulling her down with him.

“Lily loves me,” he announced with no little amount of satisfaction. “She said so in front of everyone.”

Leaning back into his arms, Violet turned her face to laugh up at him. “Of course she does, you silly creature. Who wouldn’t?”

He was not so foolish as to believe love came that easily. “She loves you, too, you know.”

Violet’s head tilted quizzically. “And I her, as you well know.”

Yet there was so much he did not know. Starting with the future. “Then do not leave us.”

She blinked up at him. “What?”

He took a deep breath. “I received word this morning that my solicitor has an appointment tomorrow with Mr. Livingstone. I wish to know your plans for the future.”

“My plans?” she echoed with a startled chuckle. “I haven’t any plans. I’ve taken life moment by moment since the day that I was born. I have never successfully anticipated what tomorrow held in store.” She touched his arm. “I thank you very much for engaging your solicitor. No one wishes your man more luck than I do, but Mr. Percy Livingstone is as heartless as he is wealthy, and it’s impossible to know—”

“It’s impossible to know,” he repeated, cutting off whatever else she’d been about to say. He decided he didn’t particularly wish to know her plans after all. He was in far too euphoric a mood to countenance depressing “what ifs” and worst-case scenarios. “You’re absolutely right. We should concern ourselves only with the moment.”

Before she could reply, he lifted her in his arms and silenced her with a kiss. Without separating his mouth from hers, he carried her from the chair to the bed and tumbled backward onto the mattress so that Violet lay sprawled on top.

“Oh dear, you’ve entrapped me,” he moaned dramatically. “I exist solely to satisfy your every desire.” He grinned up at her and added, “Ideally, your desires involve something slightly more interactive than counting sheep and snoring. And I promise not to behave like a horse’s arse.”

“Ladies do not snore!” Violet gasped in mock affront. Her lips curved into a slow, sensual smile. “And I might have a desire or two that should please you.”

He cocked an eyebrow and grinned. “Promises, promises.”

Giggling, she bent down as if to kiss him. When his lips parted and his eyelids lowered in anticipation, she darted to one side and lightly bit the lobe of his ear instead.

His eyes flew open in surprise, their expression mischievous. He flipped her onto her back and caught her wrists against the pillows. “It’s like that, is it? Let’s see how well you like a nibble or two upon your own flesh.”

Starting at the corner of her mouth, he dragged a line of hot kisses down her throat and across her bosom. He took her breast into his mouth, suckling until her nipple strained against the thin silk of her bodice. She gasped as he softly grazed the sensitive bud with the edge of his teeth before laving it with his tongue and bending to suckle once more.

She clutched his hair and held him to her breast, then dragged him upward until their mouths met. Without breaking the kiss, she raked her nails down the length of his back to his breeches. She gave his arse a quick squeeze before bucking gently with one hip, simultaneously arching upward to indicate she wanted him to roll over.

With his hands still buried in the soft ringlets of her hair and his mouth still locked to hers, he docilely allowed her to flip him onto his back. She slid to her side, one thigh still draped across his, and began to pluck open the buttons of his waistcoat. Task completed, she quickly divested him of coat and waistcoat and shirt, then pushed him onto the pillows to tease his nipples with the same bite-and-suckle treatment he’d subjected her to moments earlier.

“Minx,” he murmured when he could breathe again.

She arched a brow. “Just to see how you like it.”

“I love it,” he admitted freely. He reached around to tug loose her ribbons and stays. “Is it my turn yet?”

With a coquettish smile, she allowed him to lift away her gown and her petticoats. He made short work of his boots and hers, then rejoined her upon the mattress.

“Well?” she asked archly, her eyes sparkling. “Now that you have me naked and supine, what do you intend to do with me?”

He widened his eyes. “I, madam? It is you who makes the demands and I who am yours to command.”

“In that case...” She slid free one of the buttons on his fall and then the other. “It is imperative that you be naked.”

“And supine?” he asked innocently.

She nipped at his lower lip. “If you’re lucky.”

He shucked his breeches in seconds, and stretched out on his side beside her. Her smile warmed his soul. Angling her head for a kiss, he cradled her face with one hand, using his other arm to bring their naked bodies closer together. He loved the feel of her breasts pressed against him; the tight little nipples deliciously hard against his chest. He loved having her in his arms, period.

He skimmed his free hand over the curve of her hip and the dip of her stomach to cup one of her full breasts. He teased the taut nipple with his fingertips, alternately caressing and tugging gently until his kisses were met with little gasps of air. Tonight had been beautiful. He wanted the next few hours to be even more perfect.

He eased one of his legs between her knees, parting her thighs. He reminded himself to go slowly. Violet was no stranger to brutishness. He preferred to show her what it meant to make love.

Still cradling her face to claim her with kisses, he released the erect nipple and slid his hand between them to cup her cleft. Slick heat met his fingers. Although she moaned in anticipation, he did not immediately give her what she expected. Instead, he rolled his fingers lightly over her entrance, teasing her clitoris and tantalizing her with the desire for penetration. He wanted her to want him more than she’d ever dreamed possible.

When he slid the very tip of one finger inside, she arched into his touch, driving him deeper even as she gasped. His lungs stopped as their gazes caught. She grabbed his upper arm and hooked her leg over his thigh, tilting her hips for a deeper angle. Slowly, suggestively, irresistibly, she began to ride his finger with her half-lidded eyes open and her gaze locked to his.

He did not need to make the night perfect. It was already perfect.

Heart racing, he slid his wet fingers from her core to his cock, stroking its length and reveling in the sensation of her dampness upon his shaft. He angled the tip, intending to go slow, but she tightened her leg around his hips and forced him all the way inside. She felt like heaven. He would never let her go. As he began to thrust, he brought both hands to her face and kissed her deeply.

When his shallow breaths began to come far too quickly, he rolled onto his back and allowed her to set the pace. Tonight was not about him... or even about her. Tonight was about them.

With her thighs on either side of his ribs and her hands digging into his shoulders, she rose and fell upon his shaft, slowly gaining speed and rhythm. He grinned up at her. The sauciness in her answering smile curled his toes. Her delight in the physicality of their relationship made it all the more special.

No—it made Violet all the more special. Her past made her who she was, and brought her right here to his arms. He craned upward to lick one of her breasts. She leaned forward slightly, allowing him to suckle one nipple and toy with the other. He loved the feel of their bodies, the scent of her skin. She gripped his hair as her muscles began to clench around his cock.

His breath as ragged and uneven as hers, he held her waist with his hands, lifting his hips and driving her harder and harder until she cried out and slumped forward against him. Pleased beyond all reckoning, he lifted her chin with one finger and leaned upward to kiss her.

When her fingers made their way into his hair and her body began to writhe against him once more, he turned her around so that she was nestled in his arms with their naked bodies spooned together on their sides. He parted her thighs and leaned slightly away in order to guide his stiff cock between her legs from behind. He held her tight as he made love.

She arched, simultaneously deepening the penetration and thrusting forward her jutting nipples. His pulse raced. Increasing his rhythm, he lightly squeezed her breasts and tugged gently at her erect nipples. Every sigh, every gasp, swelled his cock as he drove deeper and deeper. He was about a breath away from release, and he hoped he could make her join him.

Still pressing open-mouthed kisses against her bare shoulder and the back of her neck, he lowered his hand from her nipples, across her stomach, to the juncture between her thighs where the tips of his fingers could just touch the slippery wetness of his shaft as it disappeared within her. With his lips still pressed to her back, he slid his fingertips up to her clitoris, circling, teasing, toying, as he drove his cock inside her again and again.

She was his, and he was hers.

When her legs tightened and began to tremble, he increased the pressure, pleasuring her with his fingers as he buried himself within her. She sucked in a sharp breath, her muscles convulsing around his shaft even as he spilled his seed. He shuddered in ecstasy. When their climaxes finally ceased, he wrapped his arms around her and held her tight, until they both drifted into sleep.

He awoke in the wee hours of the morning. Violet was still snuggled against him. He was careful not to wake her, choosing instead to contentedly gaze upon her sleeping face and hold her close. She was an angel. He would never cease thanking the Lord above for sending her into his life. He could scarcely wait to make their union official.

He forced himself out of bed before the maids could stumble across them during morning rounds. He intended to spend the rest of his life with Violet. The others would find out only after she said yes. His skin tingled with nerves. He certainly hoped she’d say yes!

He dressed quietly and pressed a soft kiss to her hair before slipping out the door. Since dawn was only just breaking, perhaps he would plant a rosebush where the stone had stood. Or lilies.

While he was out there, this time he would clip flowers for both his women. And think up the most romantic method possible for proposing to Violet.

He intended to do the honorable thing by her—which, happily, perfectly corresponded with what his heart wished to do anyway. Tonight, he would present himself as the lovesick fool he truly was. She had suffered more than enough disappointments in life.

He needed to do this right.

Chapter 35

Violet was disappointed but unsurprised to discover Alistair gone when she awoke. She’d expected him to return to his chambers before a servant stumbled in on them.

She was astounded, however, when she realized she had slept through the night without a single nightmare.

Buoyant, she hauled herself out of bed and padded over to the small clock. Early, yet. The maids wouldn’t even have started their morning rounds.

After getting dressed and taming her hair, she still had plenty of time to slip outside and select a flower for her hair before breakfast. As she suspected Alistair would likely join her, she wanted to look her best and thought a little accent might be just the thing.

Still euphoric over the previous night, she sailed through the front door and into the morning sun. She was just making her way toward the back lawn when Roper appeared from around the corner.

“Mr. Roper!” She gave him a sunny smile. “How do you do this fine day?”

“Miss Smythe.” His strong fingers latched onto her wrist to prevent her from continuing forward, although she had already stopped to greet him. The rising sun cast his tall form in dark silhouette, making it impossible to read his expression. “What are you doing out here?”

Her brow furrowed as she tried to twist her arm free from his grasp. “Merely hoping to adorn my hair with a flower. If you don’t mind, I’d like to eat before morning lessons, and—”

“Your hair is lovely as it is,” Roper interrupted, his firm grip on her wrist at odds with what should have seemed a compliment. “You should go to breakfast now.”

Laughing uncomfortably in an attempt to diffuse a situation she clearly did not comprehend, she dipped a curtsey. “I thank you. But if you don’t mind—”

“I mind.” Roper’s grip intensified. “Come, I will walk you.”

She tried to pull away. He wouldn’t let her. A chill slithered down her spine. What was wrong with him? He hadn’t acted this way in months. No longer willing to continue the pretense of obviously false pleasantries, she jerked her throbbing wrist free from his grasp and leapt out of harm’s way. “I will return in a moment. First, I shall—”

Three steps. She had only progressed three small steps, but it was enough to clear the corner of the abbey and get a direct view of what the manservant had been trying so desperately to prevent her from seeing.

Alistair. Clipping roses. While bathed in the early morning sun. Violet stared in disbelief as he hummed and clipped without a care in the world.

He was fine. He was fine.

Speechless with the shock of betrayal, she stormed within arm’s reach and glared down at him until she was sure her head would explode. There was no sunsickness! He had lied.

He glanced up at her and smiled. “Good morning, love. How did you sleep?”

White hot rage keeping her from forming articulate words, she jerked a hand into the air and pointed skyward in response.

He frowned only briefly before his cheeks flushed and he leapt to his feet. “Oh.”

At that, she absolutely found her voice. “Yes,” she bit out angrily. “Oh.”

“I—I —I... ” His stuttering might have been comical, were she not five seconds away from stabbing him with his own gardening shears. She couldn’t believe his audacity. She couldn’t believe her stupidity. How had she fallen for his lies?

No wonder not a single scientist had ever heard of the alleged sunsickness disease. It did not exist. At least not to the extent to which Alistair had suggested. Lily might have suffered burns when she was younger, but how long would she have had to be in the sun for that to happen? Alistair was in no danger of catching fire unless Violet set him aflame herself.

How long had this fiction been going on? Were she and Lily the only ones confined to the shadows?

“Do you ever even sequester yourself within the walls of this godforsaken abbey?” she demanded, both her voice and heart cracking. “Or are you outside every day while the rest of us are imprisoned indoors? Please tell me this is the first time you’ve seen the sun and you’re just as surprised as I am that you haven’t crumbled to ash.”

His cheeks flushed with color.

She had her answer, then. Her stomach turned. She couldn’t stand to look at him. She’d trusted him. She hadn’t been that stupid in a long, long time.

He reached for her. She turned away.

“Violet, wait!” He scrambled to his feet. “Please stop and listen. I only went into town because—”

“I don’t care how often your not-sunsick face sees the sun,” she snapped, gritting her teeth together to keep from crying. “I care about how often you looked me in the face and lied.”

His jaw worked wordlessly. They both knew there was nothing he could say to make this right. His expression tortured, he softly whispered, “I’m sorry.”

But it was not enough. Trust, once broken, could not be mended with a single word. Sometimes it could not be mended at all. How could he keep up a lie? After she’d bared her soul to him? After she’d confessed to murder.

Violet’s entire body trembled. Honesty worked both ways. They had both kept secrets in the beginning. But he had continued to lie to her face, again and again, even at this point in their relationship. If they even had a relationship. Her heart thudded at the realization. A man who lied about something this fundamental would have no problem at all lying about a thousand other things. After all, had he not lied to an entire town about the death of his daughter? About his own disease?

Her voice shook with unshed tears. “Just tell me one thing. Yes or no. Do you suffer any kind of sunsickness? Any tendency toward sun sensitivity at all?”

He dropped his gaze. At first, she thought he would not answer. But then his eyes met hers, slowly, painfully, as if he were forcing himself to face the moment with courage.

“No.” His voice was quiet, but he might as well have shouted the word.

Her eyes stung. Even though it was what she now expected, the confirmation still sliced deep. Her breath came shallow. “Have you ever been sunsick?”

He flinched. “No.”

She could not contain her pain any longer. “I should have known. I should’ve known better. Just when I’d finally tricked myself into believing there could be a man worthy of my love, worthy of my trust... I can’t believe you lied to me every single minute since the day I met you. Has anything you’ve ever said to me been true?”

“Everything else,” he burst out, then hesitated. “Mostly. I wanted—”

“You wanted to lie. Well, I deserve better than that. I deserve better than you.” She spun on her heel, nauseous with pain and betrayal.

Without a backward glance, she ran back inside the abbey. He did not follow. Uneven breaths tangled in her throat. Of course he would not follow. He was probably too busy thinking up more lies. Her stomach churned. She’d been hoodwinked by several accomplished liars over the years, but this—this—was far beyond the pale.

She tore through the halls, blind with pain. She had imagined she’d finally found something special. A home. But if they could not trust each other, they had nothing.

She needed to think. Somewhere far, far away from Alistair Waldegrave. Lover. Liar. Madman. Did he truly believe anyone could shrug off such deception? What about Lily? If he had completely lied about his own supposed affliction, he had likely exaggerated his daughter’s condition as well. There was a clear line between protective and cruelty. Her wasted childhood was more than a tragedy. It was unforgiveable. Anyone who caged a child unnecessarily was nothing short of a monster.

Violet’s feet bore her to her chamber. It no longer felt like a safe haven. Nothing did. If a lifetime of bitterly disappointing experiences had taught her one thing, it was to know when to cut ties. And it was time.

She swung open her wardrobe and began tossing garments into a pile. Her hands hadn’t stopped shaking since the initial moment of fear for Alistair’s safety, followed by the shock of betrayal. He might be content to live a lie. She was not.

Now was the time for action, not inaction. She had meant to save money for a barrister, and she had done so. It was past time she face her accuser head-on. Once she settled her own future, she could decide whether she wanted to be part of Alistair Waldegrave’s life. It could be months until the trial. And she might never trust him again.

She hefted her makeshift bundle over one shoulder and headed directly to the catacombs. She couldn’t go anywhere without seeing Lily one last time. Leaving the child behind was already breaking her heart. She would return as soon as the threat of a gibbet was gone, but for now she would have to say goodbye.

Shoulders tight, she eased open the door to the sanctuary.

“Miss Smy—” The smile lighting Lily’s face died the moment her eyes fell upon the telltale bundle in Violet’s arms. “Oh. You’re leaving.”

“I have to.” Violet longed to explain herself, but had no wish to make Lily’s imprisonment any more unbearable than it already was. “Just for a little while.”

“Why? You don’t love me enough to stay? I love you.” Lily’s big gray eyes shimmered with unshed tears. “I love you enough for both of us.”

“Oh, honey.” Violet dropped to her knees and enveloped her in a fierce hug. “I love you more than I’ve ever loved anyone my whole life. I will try as hard as I can to come back to you, Tiger Lily. I promise you that.”

“It’s Papa, isn’t it?” Lily mumbled into Violet’s shoulder, squeezing her midsection harder than ever. “He’s done something awful, hasn’t he?”

The child had no idea. Violet swallowed. She could think of no response that did not involve outright lying, and she did not believe in lying to children. She kissed Lily’s cheeks and then rose to her feet. “Your papa will be here soon to bid you good morning. Try—try to be kind. He’s bringing you fresh roses.”

“I don’t want roses.” Lily’s lower lip trembled. “I want you and me to stay together. Forever and ever. Like a family. Papa said we were a family.”

“You are part of my family.” The back of Violet’s throat stung. “Be good for me until I can come home. I promise to do my best. Never forget how much I love you. No matter what, hear me?”

Lily launched herself back into Violet’s arms. “I wish you were my mother. If you were my mother, you would stay.”

Heat pricked Violet’s eyes as her throat swelled with emotion. Oh, how she wished she were Lily’s mother, too. Violet wished so many, many things. She wished she didn’t have criminal charges hanging over her head. She wished Alistair hadn’t lied. But more than anything, she wished she could stay.

“I’ll be back as soon as I can. And I promise to think about you every second of every day. I already miss you more than I can stand.”

“I do, too. And I hate it.” Lily pulled out of Violet’s embrace and wiped her eyes. Without a backward glance or an audible sob, she crawled onto the foot of her mattress and closed the heavy curtains around her, surrounding herself with darkness.

Her heart breaking, Violet forced herself to lift her bundle and quit the room before she burst into tears herself. She had to stay strong. Focused. She had to make it to London with her head still attached to her body.

Determined, she slipped out of the abbey through a servant’s exit and turned her boots toward the road.

Chapter 36

Alistair speared his shears in the dirt as if driving a stake through Lucifer himself.

There. He’d cut off every bloom to every rose, just like he’d cut off any prayer of earning Violet’s trust. Was he happy now? A tortured growl escaped his throat. No. He was not.

He stabbed the blades of the shears into the ground one more time for good measure. Of course he wasn’t happy. He was an imbecile who’d lived a lie for so many years that he’d all but forgotten it was a lie. Violet could not have known he’d only braved the sun twice in the past decade: once for his daughter, and once for her. Above all, she couldn’t possibly have known that he trusted her more than he even trusted himself. He trusted her with his daughter. He trusted her with his heart.

And why could she not have known any of these splendid facts? He yanked the shears out of the dirt and sprang to his feet. She couldn’t have known because he, master of shadows, had not told her in time.

He pushed his way back into the abbey. Dawn had only just broken, and already he’d ruined his life. He handed the gardening shears to Roper. No time to ring for hot water or bother knotting a new cravat. Alistair had to get to the dining room before Violet sequestered herself in the prayer room with Lily for a nice long day of doing sums and ignoring Alistair.

But she didn’t come.

He hadn’t missed her; the servants hadn’t seen her. So he waited and he waited until it was obvious even to him that she’d rather spend the next week fasting than meet eyes with him over the breakfast table.

He pulled out his fob. Still an hour yet before Violet was due to start lessons. Lily was likely only now considering getting out of bed. Violet would still be in her bedchamber. Not eating. And not speaking to him.

But perhaps he could convince her to listen.

Less than five minutes later, he was knocking upon her chamber door. No answer. No surprise. He knocked again anyway. Not because he thought she might answer, but because he deserved the rejection. He was the one who had wished to go unnoticed. He ought to take more care what he wished for.

Right now, all he wanted was to apologize. To explain. To make sure she was all right.

He stood there in silence for a long time, his forehead resting against door. Wishing he had done a thousand things differently. The road to hell truly was paved with the best of intentions.

Eventually, he forced himself to abandon his post outside her door. She would not come out if she thought a lion lay in wait. Perhaps she wasn’t even inside. It would not be the first time she’d sequestered herself in with Lily. His daughter was the one person Violet would never ignore.

He made his way through the catacombs. Carefully, he eased open the door to the sanctuary. A pair of high-set sconces provided just enough gently flickering candlelight to guide his way to the heavily draped four-poster bed in the center of the room. Approaching as quietly as he could, he edged the heavy velvet tester to one side and gazed upon his daughter’s sweet face.

Her eyes were closed, but she was not asleep. The slight flinch at the soft rustle of the curtain had given lie to the pretense. He smiled at the familiar ritual. Lily was never eager to get out of bed.

“Good morning, sweetling.” He bent forward and pressed a kiss to her smooth forehead. “I know it’s early. I just wanted to see your face.”

At first, she did not respond. Just as he reached upward to open the bedcurtains, his daughter’s small voice slid forth from the shadows.

“Don’t bother coming back. If I can’t have Miss Smythe, I certainly don’t want you. It’s your fault she left us. If you loved her half as much as I do, she wouldn’t have gone.”

“I do love her too,” he bit out in vexation before the rest of Lily’s meaning chilled his soul like a winter frost. Heart racing, he swept the bed curtains back open. “What do you mean, left us?”

“She told me goodbye.” Eyes red and puffy, Lily propped herself up on thin elbows to glare at her father. “She loves me. It’s your fault she left. It’s always your fault. I hate you. You make everyone who loves me leave forever.”

He froze on unsteady limbs and wordlessly returned his daughter’s stare.

“You’re a terrible papa,” she said, her voice cracking on the final word. Purposefully, she turned her back to him and hiked up her bed linen to hide beneath. “I hope you’re sorry. I hope it hurts you even more than it hurts me.”

It was the sturdiness of the canopy posts, and not the strength of his own limbs, that kept him on his feet.

“Go away,” his daughter whispered brokenly. “It’s not you I want.”

Of course not. Who would? He nodded mutely and allowed the thick curtain to fall back down between them. Blindly, disjointedly, he managed to fumble his way out of the sanctuary and through the catacombs. Once he gained the other side, however, he stood unmoving in the empty corridor, as if he were a splinter of wood set adrift in the empty ocean without even a breeze to guide his way.

He was still bobbing rudderlessly in the current when a strong hand latched onto his arm.

“Master?” Roper’s concerned face swam into focus. “Are you all right?”

“Marvelous. Violet left me and Lily hates me. I’m back where I started.” Alistair ran a hand through his hair. “Nowhere.”

“She left?” The lines in Roper’s horrified face deepened. “I thought... I am so sorry, master.”

“I lied to her,” Alistair mumbled, berating himself for not having taken her into his confidence sooner. So she preferred to cast her lot anywhere but with the likes of him. He couldn’t blame her.

“To be fair,” Roper said hesitantly, “you lied to everyone.”

Alistair slumped against the wall. “I am an unmitigated pillock.”

“Perhaps she could overlook that, and you could win her back.” Roper’s voice softened. “She would not be so angry if she did not care.”

Alistair shook his head. How could he win her back if he didn’t even know where she went? She had quite a head start. Plenty of time to catch a ride with the morning post, if that was even the direction she’d gone. Then again, maybe if he—

No. What was he thinking? Even if she had left breadcrumbs, he could not go after her. He couldn’t leave Lily unprotected. Not without knowing where he was headed or how long he might be gone. The quick trip to town had been nerve-wracking enough, and the only reason he’d gone had been to ensure Lily’s safety. He could hardly saddle up a horse and chase after a mail coach that might or might not contain Violet Whitechapel.

No matter how much he wished to.

Alistair pushed past Roper. How would they manage without Violet? How would he mend his heart? How could he ever mend Lily’s?

“Master, where are you going?” Roper called out from behind.

“To my office.” There was still one thing he could do. He’d write a thousand more letters to his solicitor until the trumped-up charges had been cleared from Violet’s name. And then fall to his knees and pray she would return. “Send in some tea... and a bottle of Cook’s whiskey.”

Roper jogged up to his side, frowning. “But, master... you don’t imbibe spirits.”

Alistair’s voice was flat. “I do now.”

Chapter 37

The curtainless frame and lumpy mattress Violet reclined upon was a far cry from the rich comfort she’d grown accustomed to over the past several months, but she was grateful the innkeeper had offered a room at all.

It was impossible to know whether the harried proprietress had done so because the young woman asking was a healthy two stone heavier than the skin-and-bones creature in the wanted bill, or whether she had forborne uncomfortable questions because Violet had confessed to having fled from Waldegrave Abbey. Violet could swear the proprietress’s expression had creased into horrified pity at first mention of her former home.

Violet double-checked the address of the London barrister for the third time in ten minutes. Even with new clothes and a floppy bonnet to hide her face, stopping at the Shrewsbury Inn had been risky, but continuing on foot would have been far riskier. The sun was rising higher by the second and the streets were filling with people. A coach was the quickest and safest way to get to London. Unfortunately, there were none to be had.

The proprietress had explained that although the post carriages did in fact pass by this very inn, she had just missed it. The next coach wouldn’t be by until first light tomorrow morning. Violet would have to spend the day shuttered up at the inn.

She’d accepted the proprietress’s kind offer to send up some broth and a crust of bread, but hadn’t been able to eat. All she’d managed to do was cry herself to sleep, over and over again. Now that night had fallen once again, her stomach was queasy with more than just hunger. She couldn’t get Lily’s face out of her mind.

Or Alistair’s.

Violet had wanted time to think, and she’d had plenty of time to do so. Unfortunately, every last one of her thoughts conflicted. And for the first time in her life, she regretted leaving.

She stared up at the bare bedframe and rubbed her face. She might be wrong about Alistair, but she was right about London. She had to clear her name—or die trying—before she would ever be truly free to live the rest of her life. But no matter how often she repeated this truism to herself... she didn’t want to go. She already missed the Waldegraves more than words could say. There had to be a better way than this.

She groaned and rolled face down onto a worn pillow. Fine. After she and Alistair had both had a chance to sleep on it, she would go back.

She hoped deep in her heart that there truly would be sound logic behind Alistair’s lies, for she desperately wanted a reason to forgive him. She was angry and hurt and confused... but she was still a woman in love. With him. With his daughter.

And her home was at Waldegrave Abbey.

She had just drifted back asleep with a dusty pillow clutched to her bosom when a loud knock startled her ramrod straight.

Constables.

The proprietress had not been sympathetic after all. The woman had gotten word and the constabulary was right here, right now, right outside Violet’s door. With rope and chains and locks that would never reopen.

She tumbled from the mattress and scrambled from the bed to the window. Quickly, she pushed open the curtains and peered out at the dark night.

Three stories down, nary even a specter gave life to the empty street. No horses, no carriages... not even a stray dog provided movement to break up the ghostly stillness. If there were constables afoot, the Shrewsbury set was far wilier than the Whitechapel variety.

“Miss?” came the proprietress’s worried voice from the opposite side of the closed door. “I’m afraid we have a situation.”

Violet left the curtains open wide to ensure an unobstructed view of the streets below and hesitated. She hadn’t so much as smelled the constabulary, but... what if this was a trap? Either way, she supposed she was caught. Nothing for it. She shrugged on a cloaking pelisse and eased open the door the tiniest sliver.

“Yes?”

The proprietress stood not a foot away, her expression grave. Incongruously, the sweet scent of raisin biscuits and hot chocolate wafted through the crack in the door. If this was a trap, it was bloody brilliant.

“I didn’t order—” Violet’s heart stopped when the door swung fully open.

To the right of the proprietress stood a maid bearing the biscuits and chocolate. To the left, one pale hand swallowed by the proprietress’s larger one, stood Lily Waldegrave.

The proprietress raised her brows. “She says she belongs to you. Is that true?”

“Oh, dear Lord.”

Violet sucked in a wheezing breath as her heart kicked back into motion. How in Hades? She fumbled in her pocket for her spare key. Missing. Wonderful.

Distract ’em, and you can nick anything. Isn’t that what she’d thoughtlessly told the girl? Her star pupil had been paying closer attention than Violet had ever dreamed. And she’d been plenty distracted when she’d given Lily a final kiss goodbye. She’d been terrified of never seeing her again. And now here she was. Of course she would look for Violet in the village’s only inn. Lily’s father would be furious.

“What in the bloody hell were you thinking?” Violet exploded. “Are you mad? Nicking a key and—”

The proprietress hissed and drew back. “Is that how you talk to your daughter?”

Violet choked off the rest of her tirade. “My—?”

“Mama,” Lily cried in a little baby voice. She broke free from the proprietress’s hold to throw her skinny arms around Violet’s waist. “Please don’t leave me again.”

Speechless with mortification, Violet slid a pained glance up at the proprietress.

“Is she from Waldegrave Abbey, too?” whispered the suitably nonplussed maid.

Lily lifted her face from Violet’s skirts and nodded. “We were locked up for ages. But now we ran away.”

“Shhh.” Uneasy, Violet swung her up and into the room before any further inappropriate confessions could be made. “Thank you for bringing the refreshments. Once Lily has rested a moment, we’ll be heading back to—”

“I can’t go anywhere.” Lily thumped down onto the floor. “My feet hurt.”

Violet spun around to discover her already tugging off her boots. Swollen blisters dotted both pale heels. Violet closed her eyes. Of course. Lily had been in one room her entire life. If her limbs weren’t accustomed to walking long distances, her feet would certainly not be accustomed to the prolonged chafing of tight shoes.

Violet turned back to the proprietress. “Is there a carriage we can rent?”

The proprietress looked startled at the question. “’Fraid not, mum. You’ve seen Shrewsbury. There ain’t enough of it to bother taking a carriage from one side to the other. Only carriage that passes through regular is the post.”

Violet glanced toward the window. Now that night had fallen, the streets were silent and empty. Of course there was no carriage. “Is there a message boy we could dispatch to the abbey, to ask Mr. Waldegrave to come posthaste in his?”

The proprietress shook her head. “Don’t believe he’s got a carriage.”

“That’s right,” the biscuit-maid put in as she placed her tray upon a small table. “When ’e was ’ere buying buttons the other day, ’e did come on foot.”

Violet exhaled slowly, and did her best to put aside for the moment the reminder that sun-shy Alistair occasionally escaped the abbey for a little town shopping. “Can you at least send him the message that his daughter is here at the inn?”

The maid’s eyes widened. “This is his daughter?”

“He has a wife?” echoed the proprietress, thunderstruck.

“Oh, they’re not married,” Lily put in as she climbed atop the ancient bed. “She’s my governess. And my mama.”

Lovely. Violet tried to keep smiling through clenched teeth, but her fingers clenched the sides of her gown. The proprietress and her maid now stared at Violet in a wholly new light. This might not be the pinnacle of the miseries she’d suffered in her twenty-some-odd years, but it was rapidly becoming one of the most humiliating.

“Can someone please, please, dispatch the message?” she said with what little composure she had left. “Immediately?”

The maid nodded so enthusiastically that Violet had no doubt everyone in a fifty-mile radius would have the news before sunup.

“As you say, ma’am.” The proprietress held out her palm. “That’ll be sixpence for the missive, another for the refreshments, and one and six for the extra guest.”

Fully aware that she was being swindled blind precisely because she was in no position to haggle, Violet jerked her coin purse from her skirt pocket and placed the required half-crown onto the proprietress’s palm.

“Thank you,” she forced herself to say politely. She firmly closed the door in their unabashedly craning faces and turned toward Lily. “What the devil were you thinking, to do such a foolish—”

Violet’s words faded into nothing at the sight of the child fast asleep atop the bedclothes, both boots off and her pelisse still on.

Shaking her head with a sigh, Violet shrugged off her own pelisse before easing Lily out of hers and crawling onto the bed beside her. There would be plenty of time to read Lily the riot act in the morning. And if there wasn’t—if Alistair ripped into the inn like a hurricane—then they both could use a little sleep beforehand.

Chapter 38

Violet awoke to earsplitting screams. Lily.

Light poured through the still-open curtains, cascading over the bare-framed bed and bathing them in the sun’s warmth. Wherever the dawn’s light touched Lily’s bare flesh, the skin pinkened and inflamed before Violet’s very eyes.

She seized the thin bed linen out from beneath Lily and threw the material atop her. Then she raced to the open window, frantically tugging the curtains closed. They were a little too short and didn’t quite meet in the center, allowing an inverted T of deadly sunlight to sear the uncurtained bed. Moth holes in the worn linen bedclothes displayed peekaboo patches of angry, blistered flesh.

Panicked, Violet upended her bundle of clothes and draped gown after gown upon the curtain rod until it began to bow under pressure. She yanked the bell pull until the cord threatened to fray, and then raced back to Lily’s side.

Slowly, nervously, she peeled the linen off the trembling child.

Fortunately, Lily still wore the dress she’d arrived in. Unfortunately, the gown lacked undersleeves and the hem hit mid-calf. The result was horrific.

The heel blisters of the night before were no longer discernible amid the bright red flesh and raw blisters covering her from shin to toe. Her arms and hands were likewise ruined, her neck and face nearly unrecognizable. Silent tears streamed down the once-white cheeks. Violet’s cheeks were just as wet.

She scanned the room for a pitcher of water. Unsure whether she was doing exactly the right but unwilling to let Lily suffer, Violet slowly poured the cool, clean water over the child’s raw skin.

When a serving girl finally answered the call, Violet shoved the empty pitcher into the astonished maid’s empty hands.

“More water,” Violet said in a tone that brooked neither arguments nor questions. “As cold as you can make it, and ice if you’ve got it. I need a doctor or a surgeon or anybody that knows anything at all about children or burns or healing ointments. And I need Mr. Waldegrave here right bloody now.”

The maid’s eyes widened as they took in the burnt child upon the bed. “We sent the message last night. Jimmy’s young and didn’t think to wait for a response. Since the abbey ain’t sent a return message, p’raps Mr. Waldegrave is simply waiting to come at a decent hour.”

“Mr. Waldegrave will simply have to come immediately,” Violet said through clenched teeth. “Send Jimmy back this very second. Tell him to box the man’s ears if he has to. And hurry back with that water!”

“Yes’m. I will, ma’am.” The maid clutched the empty pitcher and scurried for the stairs.

Violet hurried back to the side of the bed and eased one hip carefully down onto the mattress. She hated to do anything that might disturb Lily, but she hated even more being right beside her and unable to help. Violet glanced up at the pile of gowns hanging haphazardly across the window and then gazed back down at the shivering, blistering child beside her.

More than anything, Violet hated being responsible for Lily’s pain. She was the one who hadn’t thought to close the curtains. She would never forgive herself for that. Ever.

“W-what happened?” Lily croaked, her eyes squeezed shut tight and her voice raw.

Violet swallowed hard. “You got burned by the sun, honey.”

Eyes still shut tight, Lily nodded once as if that much, at least, had been expected. “Are you sending me away?”

“Home, Tiger Lily,” Violet promised. “We’re both going home.”

Lily cracked open her eyes. “You’ll stay with me?”

Violet nodded, doing her best not to let Lily see her cry. “Of course.”

Lily tried to smile, then winced from the pain of having stretched her cracked flesh.

“Then it was worth it,” she whispered, clutching the folds of Violet’s gown with her injured fingers. “Please don’t leave me ever again. I love you.”

Choking back a sob, Violet jerked her face up toward the empty bar where bed curtains should have hung and blinked back tears as rapidly as she could. “I love you, too, Tiger Lily. I’m yours forever and ever.”

The pounding on Alistair’s door matched the incessant pounding in his head.

“Go away,” he shouted, burying his head beneath his pillow. If his father had suffered thus after every drinking spell, then Alistair hadn’t been missing a damn thing. “I swear I will vomit if you bring food near me again!”

“Master, come quickly. You are needed.”

Warily, he forced himself to sit up. Roper, who never lost his calm, sounded on the verge of panic. “What is it?”

“It’s Miss Lillian,” came the urgent reply. “We must go. Right now.”

Aggrieved, he held his throbbing head with one hand and forced his feet into slippers with the other. Whatever was amiss, he was certain it did not need to be attended to until at least noon. He stumbled across the room and pawed at the lock until it inadvertently clicked free. Clutching the wall at a sudden attack of nausea-spiked vertigo, he swung open the door.

“What has she done this time?” he demanded. “Tell her to go back to sleep. There’s no class today.”

Belatedly, he realized a diminutive servant boy not much older than Lily herself also stood next to Roper, with Mrs. Tumsen and half the staff hovering right behind.

“What’s going on?” He struggled to clear his thick head. “Why are you all here? Is it my birthday?”

“It’s your daughter,” the boy piped up. “She’s all burnt up at the inn with your mistress.”

The haze evaporated from Alistair’s mind, but the words still did not make sense. “What?”

“Master,” Roper murmured. “You remember yesterday, when you said Miss Smythe had left you?”

He shot a quick glance over his manservant’s shoulder at the gaggle of onlooking staff and decided there wasn’t much point in dissembling. “Yes, I seem to recall something of that nature.”

“Miss Lillian took off after her,” Mrs. Tumsen put in, her voice and hands shaking. “They spent the night at the Shrewsbury Inn, and this morning... well, this morning there was sun. The inn hasn’t got curtains and bed testers like we do. And Miss Lillian... ” She swallowed. “I’m so sorry.”

Struck with bone-jarring terror, Alistair bolted from his room without bothering to fetch his coat and hat or muck with sensible shoes.

“Where are my horses?” he barked, cursing himself for ever letting go his livery. So what if he hadn’t taken a ride in nine years? If he would have been smart enough to have kept stableboys on hand just in case, he wouldn’t be about to waste a good hour chasing his half-wild horses into the barn to be readied. “Has anybody checked the carriage to make sure it’s still viable? How are the wheels? If I have to walk into town and carry her back in my bare hands... Roper, summon a physician. Have him meet us at the inn. Cook, see what you can do for cold compresses. Order every ounce of ice in a hundred yard radius. Mrs. Tumsen, you know where the liniments are. I want to see every single footman carrying buckets of water to Lily’s chamber. It’s too dangerous to travel with her while the sun still shines, but as soon as nightfall hits, I’m bringing her back home. Maids, prepare everything you can think of. I’m counting on everyone to do their part to—”

“Master.” Roper stepped forward. “It’s done. The horses have been readied and the carriage awaits you. There’s a full bottle of ointment and clean linen soaking in ice water between the seats. Everyone you don’t see here before you is carrying water and ice to Miss Lillian’s chamber. Physicians have been notified and Mrs. Tumsen has placed every drop of liniment within arm’s reach of Miss Lillian’s bed.”

Alistair could have hugged him. “Then what are we waiting for? Roper, come with me. The rest of you—” He took in their worried, sympathetic faces. “Thank you all.”

He preceded Roper down the corridor and out the door, then raced to the reins like a man possessed. They flew down the path at a tear, dirt and dust billowing up behind them.

When they arrived at the inn, a crowd had already begun to form. Some of the womenfolk hovered by with expressions of alarm and empathy. A few of the menfolk, led by the smithy, were less congenial. They shouted Bible verses and “Let the devil spawn burn!” as he shoved past them to enter the inn.

The proprietress stood halfway up a curved staircase, gesticulating wildly. “They’re upstairs. Come quickly!”

With Roper on his heels and his heart in his throat, Alistair raced up after her.

The room was pitch black. Someone had seen to that much, at least. After the blinding light of the midmorning sun, it took his eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness. Weak flame flickered in a small sconce. Slowly, the shadows began to make sense. As soon as he could make out the bed, he hurried over and fell to his knees at his daughter’s side.

Hands wringing, Violet leapt to her feet to allow him room. He ignored her. How she could have let this happen...

“Papa’s here, sweetling,” he murmured, suffering at the sight of so many burns covering his daughter’s sweet face. “I’ve got some ointment and a cold wrap here for you, and then I’m going to bring you home.”

“Alistair,” Violet burst out. “I am so, so sorry. I never meant—”

“Be silent.” If she forced him to speak to her, he would only wound them both.

An icy fury emanated from his bones. Had he not told her time and again the horror that would occur if Lily went into the sun? His innocent daughter was in a horrible state, and she had let it happen. These burns were far worse than those Lily had suffered before, and she still bore the scars from last time.

Alistair’s throat closed. People died from burns like these. If he lost his daughter because Violet hadn’t protected her, he would never, never, forgive her.

He thrust an open hand toward Roper, who immediately provided him with shears. Slowly, gently, Alistair trimmed away the sleeves where they might rub against Lily’s raw arms, cut away the bottom third of her skirt where it could chafe her thin, blistered legs. With every snip of the shears, he sliced away another part of his soul.

Lily was hurt. Lily was in pain.

Lily might die.

Vision blurring, he covered her with every drop of the ointment. His entire body shook with anger and fear and desperation. He lifted the large folded linen from the bucket of ice water and carefully swaddled it around his daughter. She winced as necessity forced him to touch and move her, but she made not a single word of complaint. She was so fragile... Her brave stoicism broke his heart.

“I’m so sorry, sweetling,” he whispered brokenly. “Papa doesn’t mean to hurt you.”

Lily met his eyes and gave him a raw half-smile. “I knew it would hurt,” she said quietly, her voice as scratchy and halting as his own. “I knew it would hurt and I didn’t care. I came anyway. It was worth it.”

Alistair shot a disbelieving glance up at Violet. She stood immobile, eyes closed, silent tears streaming down her face. As if she could feel him watching her, her lips formed the words, I’m sorry.

He jerked his horrified gaze back to his daughter. “You knew this could happen? And you followed her here anyway?”

Lily’s eyes were glassy with pain, but her expression was one of determination. “Just ’cause I’ll get new scars doesn’t mean I forgot the old ones, Papa. But Violet was leaving. Somebody had to bring her home. If you weren’t going to, then it was up to me.”

Alistair felt the weight of all eyes in the room upon him at once. There was no time for more words. Even now, time ticked steadily against them.

The physician burst into the room. In less than half an hour, he completed his initial evaluation. Alistair stepped closer, finally feeling hopeful. The physician shook his head. Hope was misplaced. The prognosis was not good.

Alistair’s nerves shattered.

He stood at the ready throughout the long afternoon, watching in heart-twisting silence as cream after cream, compress after compress, were applied to his daughter’s wounds. Violet hovered on the other side of the worn mattress, staring sightlessly with haunted eyes. She did not speak. Good. He did not wish to even look at her. He had eyes for no one except his daughter.

When night fell, the exhausted physician finally rose to his feet. He nodded at Alistair. It was finally safe to bring Lily home. The physician set off first, to ensure everything was ready for Lily’s arrival. The other four would follow in Alistair’s carriage.

Hating that just the act of lifting his daughter into his arms would bring her additional pain, he scooped her up as gently as he could and eased down the steps. A crowd had gathered. Roper and Violet staved off the vitriolic smithy and his disciples, allowing Alistair to climb into the carriage and settle Lily along one padded bench. He perched across from her, wishing to Heaven that he could press a kiss to her hair just one more time, but not daring to risk causing her more pain.

Roper took the reins as Violet slumped onto the seat next to Alistair.

To be fair, she looked as though no torture he could devise would be half as excruciating as the one raging inside her heart and mind. Her face was unnaturally pale, her eyes red-rimmed and swollen and the skin beneath puffy and bruised. Her fingers shook, and her breaths—when they came at all—were shallow and uneven.

But Alistair wasn’t feeling particularly fair. He was feeling like a man whose daughter might die from her injuries. He was feeling like a father who would sell his soul to the Devil in exchange for his daughter’s continued life.

He was feeling like a failure.

Lily was right. He was a terrible papa. He dropped his face in his hands and did his best not to cry. Lily needed strength right now, not further evidence of her father’s faults.

He needed to be strong, to show her his faith, his trust in the Lord that a miracle would occur, and she would somehow be all right. Numbly rocking back and forth, he closed his eyes and prayed. Again and again, the same desperate litany, without changing a single word. God in Heaven, take me if you wish, but please let Lily live.

Every tiny moan that escaped her burnt lips was another dagger to his heart.

When they finally reached the abbey, a double row of footmen waited outside. Violet leaped down from the carriage to allow him room. He gathered his daughter in his arms as tenderly as he could and carried her inside.

With every step he took, Lily winced in pain, and with every wince, another part of Alistair crumbled inside. How he hated that the very act of carrying his daughter to safety caused her to suffer. He hated the world. He hated himself. He hated God.

Watch over Lily. That’s all he’d ever asked. Keep her safe. If he lost her now... Lord above, if he lost her...

Mrs. Tumsen and a dozen housemaids awaited them at the door to the catacombs with apprehensive faces and lit candles in their hands.

“The physician is inside,” Mrs. Tumsen said as Roper unlocked the door. “He sent over another trunk of medications.”

Alistair nodded mutely. He did not trust himself to speak. If he opened his mouth even a fraction, he might scream or sob or do both at the same time, and what he really needed was to get Lily to that physician as quickly as possible.

Focusing as best he could on keeping one foot ahead of the other, he somehow made it from the catacombs to the sanctuary. Dozens of candles flickered around the cavernous chamber, giving life to the fantastical murals that had leapt from his daughter’s head to her walls. Oh, God, was this all he would have left of her if she died? The room that had been her prison was now painted in a dizzying trompe l’oeil to simulate the freedom she found only in her imagination. The freedom she would never have.

Alistair’s body shook. He would never leave her side. He would sit here and rot here and die here if it was the only way he could still be surrounded by his daughter’s memory.

The physician was across the room, gazing up at an improbably large bumblebee flying over a panoply of rainbow-colored lilies. He turned from the wall as soon as they entered the room and hurried to the bed as Alistair tenderly laid his daughter atop the mattress.

“Go,” the physician said with a nod. “I will call you if I need you, or if anything changes.”

“I am not leaving this room,” Alistair said firmly.

The physician’s eyes were sober, but kind. “Then give me the space I need to examine my patient. Join the others over there. Your daughter will never be out of your sight.”

After a moment, Alistair nodded. He still longed to press a kiss to his daughter’s brow. To hold her to his chest and hug her tight. To promise he would never let her go. His feet dragging as if each limb weighed a thousand pounds, he somehow found the strength to back away from the bed and let the physician attend his child.

He did not go to the others, however. Partly because he was wound far too tightly to withstand well-wishes without cracking, but mostly because he wanted to stand beneath the colorful lilies. To feel closer to his daughter.

Minutes ticked into hours.

Violet sat on the floor in the far corner, arms about her knees and Lily’s pelisse pressed to her face. From her tortured expression, she was equally as terrified as Alistair, but he kept his distance. He did not trust what he might do. She had left him. She had endangered his daughter. She had come back home. No, Alistair could not go to her. He didn’t know whether he would clutch her to his chest or push her away. He loved her, but in this moment, he hated her just as passionately. Because of her thoughtlessness, they might both lose Lily forever.

New maids brought fresh candles. More footmen refilled the buckets of ice. Empty liniment flasks lined the marble floor as the physician applied ointment after ointment to Lily’s mottled skin. No one breathed.

At last, the physician rose from the bed, his eyes bleak and his face somber.

No. The edges of Alistair’s vision turned black. He couldn’t lose her. He could not. His pulse raced in his ears, but his skin grew cold. It was too late. It was all over. If Lily died, Alistair wished to be buried with her. Life was not worth living.

The physician laid his hands on Alistair’s shoulder and embraced him as if they’d known each other all their lives.

“She’s going to be all right,” the doctor said quietly. He gripped Alistair’s arms. “You hear me? She’s going to be all right. Don’t give up hope. You’re not going to lose her.”

Alistair finally allowed himself to cry.

Chapter 39

By the next day, the only people who hadn’t quit the sanctuary were Alistair, Lily, and Violet. Alistair had stayed by his daughter’s side all day and all night, too intent upon his task of reapplying ointments to even register the cramping in his muscles or the bruising of his knees.

Violet, for her part, had not moved from the far corner. He had not yet spoken to her, and she had not dared approach. She remained crumpled in a ball; tiny, silent, rocking ever so slightly as if buffeted by an unseen wind.

She should’ve been more careful.

So should he.

He could now admit that the fault was not just hers. She would not have left if he had not driven her to it. And now look what they had done. What he had done. He hated that his lie had ruined what they’d felt between them. Had caused her to feel she had no choice but to leave. Had incited his daughter to chase her. He could blame Violet as much as he liked, but he was drowning in an even greater amount of guilt. He could bear it no longer.

Heart twisting, he corked the ointment and struggled to his feet. “Violet... ”

Lily’s eyes snapped open and the tips of her burnt fingers scratched across the leg of his breeches. “Not her fault, Papa.”

Violet stared sightlessly from across the room, her face small, her eyes bruised and haunted.

Alistair’s gaze returned to Lily’s ruined face. “Should I not blame Violet for leaving? You, for chasing after her? Myself, for driving away both the women I love? All of us are to blame. And it shall not happen again.”

Lily glared up at him for a moment, then brightened. “See?” she called out. “I told you he loved you!”

This was rewarded by a choking half-sob from the corner.

He blinked. It was true. And he should have told her so much sooner. Was there still hope for trust between them? He crossed over to the corner where Violet still sat, hugging her knees. She didn’t look up. Alistair swallowed. This moment would define them forever—and it was up to him. He held out his hand. Whether she took it was up to her.

After a long moment, she placed her hand in his. He gave her a crooked smile when she finally glanced up. His heart was on his sleeve. His love for her was in his eyes, in his face, in every breath he took. The question was whether she wanted it. Awkwardly, she allowed him to help her to her feet. Rather than let go, he took both her hands in his.

“I’m sorry,” they said at the same time.

In another life, it might have been funny. But neither of them laughed. Too much was at stake, and they both knew it.

He squeezed her hands. “You were right. I should have told you the truth much sooner. I meant to, actually. It was just never the right time, or I simply forgot. It may sound unbelievable to you, but I have been living as if it were true since the moment of her birth. After nine years, it’s hard to remember what’s true and what isn’t.” He lowered his voice. “She doesn’t know.”

Her eyes widened in sudden understanding. “Lily thinks... ”

He nodded quickly. “I thought it would be best. I did not want her to feel alone. Or as though she were a hindrance to my life, when in fact she’s the very reason I live. And so I lied. Was I wrong to do so?”

“You were good-intentioned.” Violet’s eyes saw too deep. “I cannot say what I would have done in your place.”

He pressed her fingers to his lips. “Nor can I say how I might have reacted in yours.”

“When daylight broke... ” She shook her head, her body trembling in remembrance. “Words cannot describe my horror. Nor is there enough pain in this world to contain my guilt at leaving the window unshuttered.” Her hands fell back to her sides. “I didn’t mean to. Like you, I simply didn’t think of it. My head was so full of so many other questions... ”

He wished she had not let go of his hands. It was as if she were saying no.

Violet closed her eyes. “When the brightest minds in England had not heard of such a sickness, I began to wonder. When you admitted you had lied to me all this time, I figured you’d lied about everything, or at the very least exaggerated the truth beyond all propriety. If you suffered the same disease as your daughter, it clearly was not as bad as you had claimed. I’d meant to go straight to London, but I’d already missed the post. And with my face nailed on every wall, my head was filled with so many fears of not surviving the night, that I never once considered the dawn.” Her lip trembled, but she looked him in the eyes. “Oh, Alistair. I will never, ever forgive myself for allowing Lily to be harmed.”

“As I will never, ever forgive myself for driving away the two people I hold most dear. If I had not done so, none of us would be in this position today.”

She smiled sadly. “I fault you for lying, but I do not blame you for Lily’s burns. It is not your fault.”

He took her hands once more. “In that case, I cannot blame you for not knowing which lies were based on truth, or for rightfully worrying about your own neck.”

“Where does that leave us?” She held tight to his hands. “Two faulty people, wallowing in guilt?”

“Count again. We’re three faulty people, wallowing in guilt. Three makes a family.” He hoped. He pulled her close. “I’m sorry, love.”

She gazed up at him. “Me, too.”

He tilted his mouth toward hers. “I’ll forgive you if you forgive me.”

“Deal,” Lily shouted from behind her tester.

Alistair jumped. He counted his daughter in all his plans, but had forgotten she was right there, listening. And likely watching.

“He wasn’t talking to you, imp!” Violet called back. Her eyes had regained some of their sparkle.

He held her closer. She would not sparkle if she did not feel something for him, too. This was his chance.

His words hesitant, but his heart buoyant, Alistair allowed himself to hope. “Violet Whitechapel—”

“Smythe!” Lily yelled indignantly.

“Actually, it’s Whitechapel,” Violet corrected with a trembling half-smile. “Sort of. Do you think you could pipe down for a moment or two over there?”

“Sorry!”

“Violet Whitechapel-Smythe,” Alistair began again, unable to hide his smile. A sudden rumble interrupted. He frowned. They both turned their heads to the sound. A rabble of muffled voices could be heard on the other side of the sanctuary walls.

He frowned. His servants never gathered around Lily’s domain. Not to mention the fact that they were undoubtedly hard at work washing linens or fetching cold water.

Something heavy thudded hard against the exterior of the sanctuary. Thunk... Thunk ... Thunk. The noise grew louder. And faster.

Alistair dropped Violet’s hands in alarm. “They’re throwing bricks.”

She stared up at him, her eyes wide. “What? Who?”

“Villagers.” His hands clenched into fists. “Led by that nescient smithy.”

“Why?” She glanced over her shoulder, alarmed.

He sent his gaze skyward to beg his heavenly Father for deliverance. “They think Lily is a vampire, or at least a creature from hell.”

She flinched as another brick hit the wall above her head. “I thought you changed their mind. Don’t the adults at least know vampires aren’t real?”

“They did,” he said quietly, as another brick rattled the covered windows. “Until this morning.”

Her face blanched the moment she put it together. “What are we going to do?”

He thought it over. “Nothing yet. This sanctuary has withstood centuries of English history, so it can certainly withstand an afternoon of village idiots. Besides, there’s so many layers of board between us and them, a battering ram couldn’t break through. We have time.”

“I don’t know,” she said quietly, her expression doubtful. “I have a lot of faith in the ingenuity of evil men.”

Their fingers entwined. They stood together in the dark, side by side, ears cocked for danger. The voices grew louder, stronger. Indistinct conversation was punctuated by the occasional “Stake the demon!” or “Burn in hell!” Perhaps Violet was right. This might not be over quickly. The mob showed no signs of waning.

“Papa?” came Lily’s shaky voice from the other side of her bed curtain.

“Yes, sweetling?”

“I smell smoke. Is something on fire?”

His heart stopped as the acrid scent began to sear his nostrils.

Violet gripped his fingers almost hard enough to snap bone. She jabbed the index finger of her free hand across the room at the boarded-over window.

Tendrils of smoke curled in from fine cracks between the boards. Bits of glass cracked and shattered. The edges of the mural closest to the source began to blacken from the heat and flame.

“Papa!” Lily’s voice took on an edge of panic.

He tugged Violet forward. “Gather all the remaining liniments and tie them together with the cloth.”

Nodding, she ripped a strip of linen to bind one of the folded sheets and did as he asked.

As quickly as he could, he applied a thick layer of fresh ointment over his daughter’s burns before carefully wrapping her in one of the ice-cold linens and lifting her into his arms.

“Violet, can you tie the liniments to my waist?” he asked.

“No... too unpredictable.” She fashioned a small loop with another strip of linen, double-knotted it to the first, and slipped the bundle over his wrist. “There. Now it won’t fall off. What else can I do?”

“It’s too dangerous to stay here... ” He glanced at the billowing smoke and tried to come up with a plan. “I’ll take Lily out through the library. You head to the main wing and find Roper. Have him meet us out back with the carriage.”

“Done.” She raced unlock the door.

Before crossing the threshold, he leaned forward for one last kiss goodbye. Whatever happened, he did not want to die with another missed opportunity on his conscience.

“I saw that,” Lily whispered up at him once they reached the catacombs.

“Good,” he said, grinning down at her. “I hope you see it a lot more.”

They were almost to the library when Violet came racing after them, her lungs heaving.

“Can’t,” she coughed, thumping at her chest. “Fire. Smoke.”

Fear slithered down his back. Roper was resourceful, he reminded himself. Everyone on his staff was resourceful. They were fine. Everyone was going to be fine. Yet panic crawled beneath his skin.

Violet held open the library door then hurried past him to unlock the secret exit. She eased the door open the tiniest crack and peered outside before nodding and motioning him and Lily through.

“They must all be over by the sanctuary,” she whispered, as if the frenzied mob might somehow overhear their voices and come running with their pitchforks and torches. “It’s clear. Hurry.”

He tugged the linens up over his daughter’s face and stepped through the door. By the sudden tensing in Lily’s limbs, the multiple layers of wet cloth were still not one hundred percent capable of shielding her from the slowly setting sun. In another hour, perhaps, the world would be bathed in darkness. But for now, they needed shelter.

“Let’s go.” Hunching over to give Lily as much protection as possible, he pushed toward his rose garden. “Out past the back lawn.”

Violet hurried ahead and glanced over her shoulder with a frown. “I don’t see anything except the woods!”

“Exactly.” He kept moving forward. “The trees will provide shelter, at least until the fire comes too close. If we’re lucky, we may even stumble across one of my overfed horses.”

Actually, he heard horse hooves right now. He paused, spine bent over his daughter, and strained to listen. Perhaps one of his worthless beasts was finally coming to him, instead of the other way around. Smiling, he lifted his head to call out to Violet when the horse burst around the corner.

Not his stallion.

The horseman dug in his heels and sped straight toward Violet. The rider’s blinding white cravat fluttered in the wind, clashing incongruously with the black slash of his eye patch.

“Violet!” Alistair screamed, but the wind whipped his words over the trees.

The rider yanked Violet up by her hair and the back of her gown. He swung her up across his legs and yanked her upright into his lap.

Alistair hobbled forward, unable to move any faster with his injured daughter in his arms but equally unable to countenance the horrific abduction taking place before his very eyes.

With a self-congratulatory smile, the one-eyed knave tipped his hat and rode off with the woman Alistair loved.

Chapter 40

Scalp stinging from her hair being half-ripped from her head, Violet flailed at her captor. Mr. Percy Livingstone had found her at last. There had been no chance of avoiding capture. And now that he had her, he planned to kill her. If she let him. She struggled to break free.

He trapped her arms to her chest and chuckled in her ear. “It won’t be as easy as all that, Miss Whitechapel. I may only be able to enjoy watching with one eye, but I’ve finally got you where I want you.”

Violet slammed the back of her head against his chin. “On a horse?”

“On my lap.” He jerked her to one side, ripping a hole in her gown. “You interrupted my fun with your little student. I intend to finish what I started with you instead.”

Furious, she tried to slam an elbow into his groin. “Good luck. You’ve got to get down sometime, and when you do I’ll gouge your other eye out.”

He tsked. “Why so unfriendly? Surely you’re not saving yourself for your reclusive benefactor.” He laughed. “If so, don’t bother. I whipped those simpletons into such a frenzy that not even a cinder of that abbey will remain.”

Violet choked. “You—”

“Turnabout is fair play, is it not?” Percy Livingstone’s chilling tone set gooseflesh down her back. “Surely you cannot fault me for seeking vengeance. A fire seemed terribly apt.”

She jerked away from him. “The people in that abbey are innocent!”

“Not my problem. Besides, the smithy and his boys are only after the little vampire girl and her father. The rest are just icing on the cake. Aren’t backwater superstitions a delight?”

She struggled against his tight grip. “Why are you doing this?”

“I believe my countenance speaks for itself. An eye for an eye, as they say. And I could hardly forgo a tête à tête once your lover ruined my good name in the courtroom.”

She stilled. “What?”

“Didn’t he tell you? I was informed only yesterday, myself. All accusations ruled invalid. Imagine, me having to apologize to you for vilification of character! And monetary recompense. The very idea. I decided to pay you what you deserved face to face.” He pinched her cheek roughly. “A hundred pounds loosens many tongues. Imagine my further delight to discover the townsfolk more than willing to fight my battles for me. And all I had to do was sit back, light my pipe, and wait for the cockroaches to scuttle free.”

Violet’s mind raced as his meaning sank in. Invalid accusations. Alistair hadn’t told her yet, because Alistair hadn’t known. They hadn’t stepped foot outside the sanctuary since the previous morning, much less inquired after correspondence. His solicitor had won. She was free!

Or would be, if she weren’t trapped atop a horse with a madman.

She had to think. She had no pistol. She had no knife. She had no weapon of any kind except her brain, and if she couldn’t come up with something brilliant soon, she would be halfway to Lancashire before sunrise.

The horse. The horse was the answer! Rather than try to slip free, what she ought to do was knock him loose. But how, when he held the ribbons and she bounced upon his lap?

Slowly, she eased upright. He shot her a suspicious glance, but when she made no sudden move, he returned his attention to the uneven road. She would only have one chance. She would have to do it now, and do it fast.

Violet shot one hand forward to snatch up the reins. She jerked the ribbons from his startled grasp at the same time she pistoned backward with her other arm. Her elbow caught him square in the neck, snapping his chin upward and his head back.

His torso careening off-balance, he windmilled wildly to regain his equilibrium. Before he could do so, Violet swung her shoulder hard into his ribs and her elbow into his groin.

With a tiny “Oof!” he fell sideways off the horse, landing hard on the dirt and gravel.

Concentrating all her efforts on not tumbling off the horse herself, Violet hiked up her skirts and maneuvered her legs until she sat astride. She wasn’t used to riding this way, but as this horse had not come equipped for feminine modesty, allowances had to be made.

As soon as she was able, she turned the horse back toward home. Percy Livingstone lay on the rocky path, holding his groin with one hand and a seeping head wound with the other.

Her words came out strong and deadly. “Consider this moment your formal apology. If you come after me or my loved ones again, I will kill you.”

Before he could respond, she took off at a gallop for the abbey. By the time she arrived, the main structure and outbuildings still stood, but the sanctuary was nothing more than a heap of stone and char. Alistair and Lily were nowhere in sight.

Fortunately, Percy Livingstone had been right about the smithy’s focus—the servants were untouched by fire, but lined the walk with identical expressions of horror.

Violet slowed to a stop next to Mrs. Tumsen and Mr. Roper. “What’s happening? Where are Alistair and Lily?”

Mrs. Tumsen shook her head. “The madmen fled the premises as soon as the sanctuary was as good as gone. Haven’t seen that dear child or her father anywhere. I fear the worst.”

Violet’s anxiety lifted. If they hadn’t been spotted, that meant Alistair had reached the safety of the forest and saved Lily’s life.

Mr. Roper held out a hand to help Violet down. “How did you escape? And where did you get a horse?”

She shook her head. “No time for that. Can you bring a carriage to the woods behind the back lawn? Alistair and Lily are there waiting.”

Mr. Roper sagged in relief. “I am at your command.”

Violet turned the horse toward the rear of the abbey and raced to where she’d last seen Alistair and Lily.

“Alistair!” she shouted into the darkness of the woods as she traversed the boundary where the lawn met the forest. “Alistair! Lily!”

“Here!” came a hoarse reply, at last.

Mr. Roper appeared behind her with the carriage just as Violet spotted the bottom of Alistair’s boots among the brush.

“Over there!” she called, motioning him from the carriage. “Alistair’s propped against a tree, holding Lily.”

Nodding, he crossed through the trees and carefully lifted Lily from Alistair’s arms. After settling the child in the back of the carriage, Mr. Roper came back to help Alistair to his feet before returning to watch over Lily.

When Alistair reached Violet’s horse, he shook his head and grinned up at her. “You won?”

“Of course I won,” she said with mock affront. “I always win.”

“Of course you do. I wasn’t worried for a second.”

She arched a brow. “Not for one little second?”

“Well, if you want to be technical, I was in a state of apoplexy more or less the entire time you were gone.” His mouth smiled, but his eyes were serious as he held out his arms to her. “Never leave us again.”

She swung her far leg back over the side of her mount and slid down into his embrace. “I promise.”

He pressed a kiss to her forehead and held her tight. “As Lily’s parents, we’ll spend the rest of our lives in the pursuit of happiness... together.”

“Absolu—” Violet jerked her face up toward him. “As her what?”

“Violet Whitechapel,” he said, leaning down to steal a kiss. “Would you do me the honor of marrying me?”

Love clogged her throat. There was nothing on this earth she wished for more. Not just a family, but this family. Forever and ever.

She rose up on her toes and kissed him soundly. “I would love to.”

“I have a mother?” Lily shouted from the open carriage, her voice cracking on the final word. “Truly?”

“You have an entire family,” Violet corrected, still in a state of disbelief. “We all do.”

Smiling so wide it hurt, she slid her hand into Alistair’s and climbed into the carriage to join their daughter.

Epilogue

Six months later, Violet stepped from her bedchamber onto a stone balcony overlooking the Waldegraves’ new property. Her new home. A thousand far-off stars glistened overhead. A woman would be hard pressed to find fault with the sweeping Scottish manor overlooking the sea.

Lily’s burns had healed even better than expected, only leaving faint scars behind. The manor boasted plenty of wide, windowless rooms for her to roam during the day. Between the Highlands and the beaches, Lily’s nights were filled with sensory delights.

So were Violet’s.

Her husband approached from behind. Without a word, he slid his arms about his wife’s waist and buried his face in her hair.

“Sorry we left England, love?” Alistair asked quietly.

“Good Lord, no.” Violet leaned into him, allowing the sea-scented breeze to rustle her skirts and tangle her hair. “Are you?”

He shook his head, then pulled her forward into his embrace. His hands cupped her face. He dipped his head to kiss her, his mouth hungry and his gaze full of promise. “The only place I’m sorry we left is our bedchamber. Care to join me for a moment or two?”

“Just a moment or two?” she replied archly, allowing him to take her hand and lead her back inside. “And here I was hoping we might manage to occupy ourselves until sunrise.”

“Just sunrise?” He slid her night rail from her shoulders and pressed a warm kiss to her breast. “And here I was hoping we could do this the rest of our lives.”

“Mmm. Perhaps we could start with this...” She let her mouth and tongue leave a trail of kisses from his bare chest to just below his waist. “Or did you have other plans?”

“I like your plans,” he said quickly, sucking in a breath as she continued the trail with her tongue. “I love everything about you.”

Sinking to her knees, she paused only to flash him a saucy smile. “Allow me to give you one... more... reason...”

THE END

In the Rogues to Riches series, incorrigible rogues sweep strong-willed young ladies into whirlwind romance.

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In order, the Gothic Love Stories are:

Too Wicked to Kiss

Too Sinful to Deny

Too Tempting to Resist

Too Wanton to Wed

In order, the 12 Dukes of Christmas:

Once Upon a Duke

Kiss of a Duke

Wish Upon a Duke

Never Say Duke

Dukes, Actually

The Duke’s Bride

The Duke’s Embrace

The Duke’s Desire

Dawn With a Duke

One Night With a Duke

Ten Days With a Duke

Forever Your Duke

In order, the Rogues to Riches books are:

Lord of Chance

Lord of Pleasure

Lord of Night

Lord of Temptation

Lord of Secrets

Lord of Vice

In order, the Dukes of War books are:

The Viscount's Tempting Minx (FREE!)

The Earl’s Defiant Wallflower

The Captain’s Bluestocking Mistress

The Major’s Faux Fiancée

The Brigadier’s Runaway Bride

The Pirate's Tempting Stowaway

The Duke's Accidental Wife

In order, the Magic & Mayhem books are:

Kissed by Magic

Must Love Magic

Smitten by Magic

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Acknowledgments

As always, I could not have written this book without the invaluable support of my critique partners and my amazing literary agent. Huge thanks go out to Lauren Abramo, Janice Goodfellow, Jackie Barbosa, Darcy Burke, Emma Locke, and Erica Monroe. You are the best!

Lastly, I want to thank my Historical Romance Book Club and my fabulous street team. Your enthusiasm makes the romance happen.

Thank you so much!

Lord of Chance

Disguised as a country miss, Charlotte Devon flees London, desperate to leave her tattered reputation behind. In Scotland, her estranged father’s noble blood will finally make her a respectable debutante. Except she finds herself accidentally wed to a devil-may-care rogue with a sinful smile. He’s the last thing she needs…and everything her traitorous heart desires.

Charming rake Anthony Fairfax is on holiday to seek his fortune…and escape his creditors. When an irresistible Lady Luck wins him in a game of chance—and a slight mishap has them leg-shackled by dawn—the tables have finally turned in his favor. But when past demons catch up to them, holding on to new love will mean destroying their dreams forever.

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Sneak Peek

Lord of Chance

Scotland, 1817

Mr. Anthony Fairfax might not be the lord of a manor, but he was king of the gaming hells. Or had been. Anthony glanced at his pocket watch. He should be resuming his throne at any moment. His luck was already turning back around, right here in a humble inn on the Scottish border. And Anthony knew why. He slid another look toward a certain young woman seated alone in the shadows.

Making her acquaintance was almost as tempting as winning the next hand of three-card Brag.

To feign disinterest in the twitches and tells of the other three men at the card table, Anthony lifted his untouched glass of brandy to his lips and leaned back in his chair. Careful to keep a subtle eye on the other gamblers, he glanced about the inn’s surprisingly well-appointed salon while he waited his turn.

This particular posting house was a bit dear, given the unpredictable condition of Anthony’s purse, but he’d chosen it for that very reason. Rich guests meant higher profits at the gaming tables.

Bored gentlemen—after all, who stopped at a small village on the border between Scotland and England save those on a long, dusty journey?—meant virtually every soul present had wandered into the guest salon after supper to be entertained for a moment or two. Drivers. Gentlemen. Ladies.

For Anthony, the most interesting of all was the intriguing woman in the corner. She drank nothing. Spoke to no one. Seemed uninterested in the bustle of life about her. Yet he knew she was not.

Light from a nearby candle reflected in her eyes every time she looked his way.

Anthony was certain she was the catalyst for his phenomenal luck this evening. A rush of hope filled him. As a lifelong gambler, he was accustomed to both long stretches of near-invincibility as well as dry spells of dashed fortune. From the moment he’d laid eyes on this mysterious woman, every hand he was dealt contained at least a flush or a run.

She was his talisman. His saving grace.

Her moss-colored gown was simple muslin, but the blood-red rubies about her neck and dangling from her ears indicated wealth. A nondescript bonnet bathed her face in shadow. Were it not for a rogue ringlet slipping out the back, he would not have known her hair was spun gold.

“Fairfax?” prompted Leviston. “You in?”

“Absolutely.” Anthony placed a dizzying sum of money on the corner of the table. Thirty pounds was more than he’d seen in months—and far more than he could afford to lose. But with Lady Fortune gazing in his direction, he knew he could not fail.

Mr. Bost, failing to hide his smug expression, tossed his final cards onto the table, face up. Mr. Leviston and Mr. Whitfield groaned as they displayed their cards.

As Anthony had expected, their cards were no match for his. Not tonight. He turned over his straight flush without fanfare.

Bost gasped in dismay. “You are positively beggaring me tonight, Fairfax!”

Anthony gazed back impassively as he tucked his winnings into his purse. He knew a thing or two about being beggared. It was what had chased him from London to Scotland—but only temporarily. He would recover his losses. Every penny.

Beau Brummell might be able to hide in France for the rest of his life, but Anthony had friends and family in England. People he loved dearly and would miss dreadfully. He straightened his shoulders. London would welcome him back with open arms once his vowels were paid. A few more big wins, and his IOUs would be a distant memory.

Tonight was the night. He could feel it. Fate had been on his side from the moment Leviston had suggested a game of three-card Brag. Anthony could not possibly have resisted.

He had always preferred games of chance over strategy. His strength was not in counting cards or doing figures, but in being incredibly lucky. Any gambler experienced periods of soaring highs and devastating lows but, in Anthony’s case, fortune favored him so often that his winnings at the gaming tables had been his family’s sole income for years.

True, he had also suffered agonizing losses but, as any gambler knew, a windfall was always a mere turn of the cards away. Tonight, in fact.

All he needed was one big win.

Whitfield shook his head. “Demme, I should never have believed the rumors of your luck running out. You’re unsinkable! Think you’ll ever retire from the gaming tables and leave a few pence for us mortals?”

“Never!” Anthony twisted his face into a comical expression of horror.

Chuckling, Whitfield gathered the remaining cards and began to shuffle.

Anthony sent a quick smile toward his shadowy Lady Fortune. She was his charm, his muse. Her power was immeasurable. He had won that last round simply because she’d gazed upon him.

“I see our would-be adversary has caught your eye,” said Whitfield.

“She wagers?” Anthony asked in surprise.

“She’d like to,” Leviston answered dryly, “but Bost wouldn’t let her join us.”

Bost drained his brandy and waved his empty glass at a barmaid. “What do women know about cards? She’ll lose her money. Her husband should pay more attention to the purse strings.”

Whitfield’s eyes glittered. “And if she hasn’t got one, she should just say the word. I’d be happy to step in for the night.”

Anthony’s lips flattened in distaste. “Leave her alone.”

“Why?” Bost’s laugh was cocky. “You have claims on the lady?”

“You certainly do not,” Anthony countered icily. His tone served to silence the blackguards.

Good. He needed to keep winning. A brawl over Lady Fortune’s honor would have ruined everything.

“Your wine, my lords.” The harried barmaid refilled the other gentlemen’s glasses, then turned toward Anthony. “Anything for you, sir?”

“Not for me.” Anthony placed a gold sovereign he’d set aside onto her tray. “For you. Everyone deserves some good luck once in a while.”

Her eyes glistened. “Thank you, sir. Thank you.”

Anthony inclined his head. Inn staff would not know him this far north, but he always shared a small token from his winnings. Everyone did deserve good fortune. He couldn’t imagine a worse fate than having to be employed to scrape out a living—not only because gentlemen of his class did not work. Anthony had never cleaved to anyone else’s schedule or demands. Gaming hells were much more suited to his style of living.

In fact, he won the next several rounds. A thrill shot through him each time. Lady Fortune’s presence had made him unconquerable indeed. Tonight’s total winnings were well over a hundred pounds.

“I’m out.” Bost pushed his chair back and stood with a disgusted expression. “If I risk any more, I shan’t be able to afford to break my fast in the morning.”

“Make that two of us.” Whitfield glanced at Anthony as he rose to his feet. “I suppose the gossips also lied when they said all the gaming hells in London had closed their doors to you.”

“London?” Anthony leaned back in his throne with a careless grin. “Try England. Why do you think I came all the way to Scotland to deprive you of your last ha’penny?”

“Scoundrel.” Whitfield shook his head with a chuckle. “Good night, all.”

Bost adjusted his hat with a sigh. “Next time I see you, Fairfax, I’m winning back my blunt.”

“You can try,” Anthony agreed with good cheer before handing the cards to Leviston. “One last round?”

“I’ll no doubt regret this,” Leviston grumbled as he shuffled the cards.

A movement caught Anthony’s eye. He straightened his spine as Lady Fortune rose from her shadowy corner and made her way toward their table. Her very presence dazzled.

“Now is there room for a lady?” she asked in a rich, sultry voice.

“Without question.” Anthony leaped up in deference while she took her seat. She had no chance of winning, not with Anthony’s luck tonight, but he saw no reason not to welcome her to the table.

“Your funeral,” Leviston said to her under his breath. “Fairfax here is unbeatable.”

Anthony was in full agreement. Leviston could bid his last farthing adieu. Now that Lady Fortune was seated at their table, Anthony’s luck would be boundless. He was on the longest winning streak of his life.

“Fairfax, meet Miss Devon.” Leviston began to deal the cards. “Starting wager is ten pounds, pet.”

She placed her bet on the table without changing expression. Either the sum meant nothing, or she expected to win.

Anthony couldn’t stop staring at her from the corner of his eye. He was normally quite gifted at sizing someone up in the briefest of moments—it was the key to reading tables, and knowing when to pass or when to triple his wager—but he couldn’t quite get a fix on Miss Devon.

It wasn’t just the high-necked modesty of her thick fichu being paired with extravagant rubies, or her concealed golden tendrils and pristine white gloves. Now that she was close enough for him to read her features, he still couldn’t do so. Her clear blue eyes were as calm as a winter lake and her pretty, unlined face betrayed nothing.

He was fascinated, tempted to give up on cards altogether in favor of unraveling the far more intriguing mystery beneath the simple, oversized bonnet.

But winning big was his only chance of repaying his debts.

Anthony took the next round, and the round after that. Leviston took the third, only for Anthony to win it back double the following hand with three jacks.

By the fifth round, Leviston’s grip on his cards was white-knuckled and he trembled with obvious anxiety.

Miss Devon turned as if to soothe him. “Breathe in through your nose,” she murmured, “and out through your mouth. It is but one hand of cards amongst many. A moment in time. Feel your fingers relaxing. If you wish to stop, you may do so. It is only a game.”

To Anthony’s amazement, Leviston visibly relaxed as he listened to Miss Devon’s soft, coaxing words. His knuckles returned to their normal color and his hands ceased trembling.

“You’re right,” Leviston said with a rueful smile. “How easily we forget that the turn of a card is meaningless overall.”

Meaningless? Anthony would have laughed if so much wasn’t riding on his continued lucky streak. For him, the turn of the cards meant the difference between eating or not. Between having a roof to sleep under or not. Between being able to look his loved ones in the eyes or consigning them to poverty. Or worse.

Thank God, up ’til now, Lady Fortune had only worked her calming magic on Anthony, or he would not have won a penny. He needed the other players to be on edge. The sight of white knuckles and trembling fingers was his cue to wager big.

Then again, Fate alone dealt the hands. All the subtle cues in the world were useless without the capacity to win.

He glanced down at his cards. Indescribable joy spread through him. He should never have doubted Lady Fortune’s effect. A rush of excitement surged through him. Miss Devon could calm Leviston with as many reassuring words as she wished, because Anthony’s hand was unstoppable. Triple aces. These were truly the best cards he’d ever been dealt in his life. The best cards anyone had ever been dealt.

Leviston was about to go home in tears.

“All in.” Anthony dropped the entire contents of his purse next to the pot. “Seventy pounds per player if you stay in.”

“Curse you, Fairfax.” Color drained from Leviston’s face, but he kept a stiff upper lip and ponied up his blunt. “This is my last hand.”

With her porcelain face as smooth as a doll’s, Miss Devon placed her purse alongside her bet.

A twinge twisted Anthony’s stomach. He felt bad about taking money from a lady. It wasn’t gentlemanly. Once he won, he would return her portion to her and take the rest straight back to London. The other toffs could afford to lose a few pence, Anthony reasoned, but he needed every penny he could get in order to stay out of prison. Two thousand pounds’ worth of pennies, in fact.

It had taken a year of ill luck—and increasingly riskier bets in growing desperation—to amass such mindboggling debt. Because Anthony had always gambled everywhere and with everyone, months had passed before his peers began to realize he had no means to repay them. Not even a few pence. To say they were displeased would be an understatement.

His goal was much higher than repaying his debts, of course. He wanted a pot so full of gold he couldn’t budge it without a wheelbarrow. Not only to win enough never to fear being poor again, but also to win big enough so that those he cared about would never lack for anything. He wanted to be rich. Not just for a few months or a few years. Forever.

With a sigh, Leviston displayed his cards. A low flush. Poor pup. The man had no chance of winning, and likely knew it.

Anthony felt oddly proud when Lady Fortune turned over her cards to reveal an astonishing hand. Three tens. If Anthony hadn’t held triple aces, the mysterious Miss Devon would have swept the table—and the two-hundred-pound pot.

Alas for her, luck was firmly on Anthony’s side. This was his night. His streak was invincible. Finally, he could go back home.

He flipped his cards face up with a flourish.

Leviston covered his face with his hat. “I suspected as much.”

A streak of visceral, hopeless dismay flashed across Miss Devon’s face so quickly that Anthony almost missed it.

“We can play again,” he said. “You might earn your money back.”

“I’m out,” Leviston reminded him with a sigh of regret.

“Not you.” Anthony shot him a pointed look. “Miss Devon.”

Her eyelashes lowered. “I have no more money.”

“You can wager something else.” When her blue eyes widened with outrage, he regretted his unfortunate phrasing. Anthony had meant to be gentlemanly, not offensive. He added hastily, “A lock of hair, perhaps. I’ve just the locket to put it in.”

“Don’t do it,” Leviston advised her under his breath. “This man is why half the members of the House of Lords have grown bald.”

Miss Devon’s lips twitched. “And yet, I am tempted. What, precisely, is the bet? Just seventy pounds? Or are we playing for the entire pot?”

Anthony stared at her. His blood raced at the idea of such a fearless wager. He should reply “Just seventy pounds” and be done. He knew he should. There was nothing to be gained from risking it all. Except for bragging rights when he won the entire pot all over again.

“The whole pot,” Anthony assured her magnanimously. She wouldn’t win—no one could beat him tonight—but he would still be certain to return her seventy-pound portion to her after he won. This way, she would feel as though she’d had a fair shot.

“Very well.” She gave him a brave smile and his insides melted with pride. “I’m in.”

As the most impartial party at the table, Leviston agreed to deal again.

Fifteen years of daily gaming was the only reason Anthony’s body didn’t betray him with even a flicker of satisfaction upon seeing his first card. It wasn’t going to be the same hand he’d held last time—that was a rare enough instance he’d dream about for weeks—but it was close enough to steal the breath from his lungs. His luck was damn near unbeatable.

His first card was breathtaking. And the second.

“I’m afraid you won’t like my hand,” he said when it was time to display triple kings. Twice in a row! What were the chances? His luck was unbreakable.

Leviston nearly choked into his cravat. “How do you do it?”

“And I’m afraid you won’t like mine,” Miss Devon said as she turned over hers.

Anthony froze.

No. She couldn’t have triple aces. The only hand capable of beating his.

It was impossible.

A cold sweat broke out on his skin as his stomach dropped… and dropped… and dropped. The room was spinning, spiraling him down into a void of nothingness and despair.

It couldn’t be. It just couldn’t be.

“I won the entire pot,” Miss Devon crowed with delight. She had destroyed him. “Just over two hundred pounds, is it not?”

Anthony stared at her. He wasn’t breathing, wasn’t blinking. His body wasn’t responding to anything his mind offered. How could it? All Anthony could think was no, no, no. And, this is the end. He needed every florin and crown in his possession order to keep winning.

How could he possibly have lost it all?

“Y-you can get your pound back from the serving wench,” Leviston stammered, clearly suffering just as much shock as Anthony. “A barmaid can’t have expected to keep such a sum.”

“No,” Anthony snapped. “Once I handed over that sovereign, it became hers. The barmaid’s luck was in. Mine will have to come back around.”

Somehow.

He hoped.

Miss Devon motioned toward the pile of purses on the table. “May I, then?”

Every muscle in Anthony’s body shook with fear and desperation. The night was young. There was plenty more money to be won. Just as soon as he got his winnings back. Or at least a few shillings. Something. Anything.

There had to be a way.

Charm, he reminded himself. When his empty wallet got him tossed out through doors, his charm was the one thing that could open new ones.

“Of course,” he replied easily, and pushed all three purses to her side of the table as if they contained nothing more valuable than handfuls of dirt. “Although I’m certain you’ll return the favor and allow me one last wager, will you not?”

Her expression was more than enough answer. And that answer was no.

“Just enough to stay in the game,” he said quickly. “I’m not asking you to wager the full pot. Just give me a chance to win my seventy pounds back. One chance. That’s all.”

She hesitated, her fingertips mere inches from the stack of full purses. Anthony tried not to fall to his knees and beg.

No, she did not wish to return the favor. Who would? But luck was a powerful seductress, promising lies of invincibility too sweet to resist. Perhaps she would succumb to its sway.

“What would you wager? I’m afraid I don’t collect hair,” she hedged. “I wouldn’t want any of yours.”

Relief coursed through Anthony’s veins. He had her. Maybe. He wiggled his eyebrows, affecting a teasing mien. “A boon, that, as I’m quite attached to my mane. Let us wager something far more valuable. If I lose, I’ll offer you my… purity.”

Her eyes lost their twinkle. “I doubt you have any.”

Blast. His ill-advised joke had alienated him even further. Yet there must be something a penniless rogue could offer… Anthony leaned back in his chair, careful not to show his desperation. “Then I shall be your slave for the evening. A servant of any sort you desire. I’ll darn socks if I have to.”

He wouldn’t have to, of course. He would win his seventy pounds. And then he would win back the entire pot.

Lady Fortune sent him an arch look as she picked the heavy purses up from the table. “I might enjoy seeing you muck out a chimney.”

But she didn’t say no.

“Is that a yes?” he asked lightly.

He held his breath as he awaited her decision. Anxiety flooded him. Miss Devon was the most unpredictable card he had ever been dealt. She held all the power. The wisest choice for her would be to leave the cards, pick up the money, and walk away. Then again, gamblers weren’t known for making wise decisions.

The question was… What would Miss Devon choose?

###

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About the Author

Erica Ridley is a New York Times and USA Today best-selling author of paranormal romantic comedies and historical romance novels.

In the 12 Dukes of Christmas series, enjoy witty, heartwarming Regency romps nestled in a picturesque snow-covered village. After all, nothing heats up a winter night quite like finding oneself in the arms of a duke!

Her two most popular series, the Dukes of War and Rogues to Riches, feature roguish peers and dashing war heroes who find love amongst the splendor and madness of Regency England.

When not reading or writing romances, Erica can be found riding camels in Africa, zip-lining through rainforests in Central America, or getting hopelessly lost in the middle of Budapest.

Let’s be friends! Find Erica on:

www.EricaRidley.com

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