“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.
