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 mehere?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. Shehadto 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,thatI 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. Ofcoursethe 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 amnot sorryand shallneverbeg 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 Idofind 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
