“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 canexplain, of course, but I cannot fully exculpate myself.”
“Of course,” he repeated, smoothing the wrinkles from her sketched likeness. “Notfully.”
Her legs near to buckling, she somehow made it to the opposite end of the table before thudding heavily into a chair. It wasnother 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.
