Dark Surrender (36 page)

Shoulders tight, she eased open the door to the sanctuary.

“Vi—” 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 do whatever it takes 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
.”

“I want that, too.” The back of Violet’s throat stung. “Be good for me until I come home. And 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 before she could make good on any of her promises.

Determined, she slipped out of the abbey through a servant’s exit and turned her boots toward the road.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

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. Violet couldn’t possibly have known what it was like to be forced to live a lie for so many years that he’d all but forgotten it was a lie. Nor could she 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 was there and gone, sequestering herself in the prayer room with Lillian 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. Lillian 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 be forgiven.

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 Lillian.

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. Lillian 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 Violet, 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 Lillian’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, Lillian 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 Lillian 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 Lillian 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 Lillian’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 Lillian’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.”

#

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 forborn 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. Stopping at the Shrewsbury Inn had been risky, given the wanted bills posted throughout town, 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 they’d 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 in 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—How? To whom?—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 trapped. 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.