Alexander was not so sanguine. It felt as though he would be using her. She had agreed to help him out of compassion initially. Then had been scared off by his reputation. And he didn’t do his case any favors when last they were alone.
Damn these people for their judgment. Those people they look down their noses at are essential to clean their houses, cook their food, work their mills and…sweep their chimneys. But, don’t let anyone catch you actually speaking to such people.
He swallowed his ire, realizing that it was beyond his control.
I have to play the game by their rules. Lady Violet can help me, and in return, I can offer to help her.
Standing, he put out a hand to Sebastian. “Sebastian, you are a good man. If a devious one. I will…set the wheels in motion,” Alexander said.
Then he was leaving the odious place, shoving aside any too slow to get out of his way and masking the pleasure he felt at hearing their outrage.
The last time I can allow myself such an indulgence. I must blend in with them from now on. But first, I must find a way to communicate with Lady Violet.
Chapter 7
The matter that obsessed Violet had still not been discussed. She was beginning to think that Uncle George dangled the prospect of future revelations simply to forestall immediate questions, to give him an opportunity to retreat from the confrontation.
But that future conversation never takes place. He either makes an excuse or simply tells me that we will discuss it on another occasion. And what can I do?
She could not directly confront him. Despite the frustrations that his evasions caused her, he was still very dear to her, as was Aunt Charlotte. Violet would rather die than hurt them. Or at the very least, she would rather continue in ignorance if disclosure of the truth would cause them pain. George had not mentioned the matter upon their return from the Earl of Munster’s coronation celebration for his father. When she had casually and delicately asked as he put his feet up in his private study, Uncle George had yawned enormously and requested that it be discussed in the morning.
The morning had been taken up with plans for the luncheon that was scheduled to take place a week from the Earl of Munster’s ball. Violet had not forgotten, it occupied her thoughts constantly. But the organization of planning a society luncheon, particularly one in honor of the new King, demanded concentration. After the luncheon, she had again attempted to corner Uncle George, only to be defeatedagain.
This time George departed soon after the final guest left, claiming an appointment that he had forgotten about and must not be late for.
Not even a likely excuse. But to challenge it would be to call him a liar.
Violet decided to take herself to the lodge, as she called the modest structure that had been built for her amid the trees at the end of the garden. There she would take her favorite blend of tea, black and unsweetened so as not to lose any of the flavor, and indulge herself in one of her guilty pleasures. A scurrilously overblown romantic novel. The kind that would make a priest blush. Even that pleasure had been denied to her upon discovering the infamous rake, the Duke of Lorchester. Handsome and a remarkable physical specimen, initially she had been intensely excited at the thought that he had been reading the same book.
Her mind had immediately jumped to the more salacious passages, the thought that he knew she had been reading those passages, that she found them appealing. Even now, a day later, she found herself blushing at the thought. It was as thoughhe had seen into her mind, into her deepest fantasy. Now, she walked from the family home in Great Russell Street, south towards Lincoln’s Inn Fields. It was part of London’s famed Inns of Court, the home of its legal profession. Lincoln’s Inn was the home of a particular solicitor used by the Ravendel family.
She crossed Holborn in a break of traffic, busy for the time of day, skipping between carriages and carts. Beyond was Drury Lane, with its royal theater. Queen Street took her to the open green square of Lincoln’s Inn Field, beyond which was the palace-like structure of Lincoln’s Inn itself. She found her breath coming quicker as she stepped within the gates, crossing to the main entrance. A uniformed doorman opened one half of a tall, wooden double door, touching the brim of his top hat as he did so. Beyond was a vaulted room of stone pillars, another set of double doors at the far end, guarded by a clerk before a tall, wooden podium.
He smiled obsequiously as she approached, bowed, and guided her through the doors to the offices of Mr. Octavius Gellert, solicitor. The office was long and filled with three wide desks, at each of which a man worked, referring to large leather-bound books or scrolling through what seemed to be books of accounts. None looked up as she was guided through to a room furnished with cushioned chairs and warmed by a merrily dancing fire.
Presently, another clerk, equally as obsequious, approached and led her back into the long room, past the men behind the desks, and rapped sharply on a door. It was marked with the name of Mr. Gellert, in gold leaf. Violet heard no summons but the clerk opened the door regardless and ushered her into the office beyond. It must have occupied the entire width of the long roomand had tall, floor-to-ceiling windows opposite the door. Pale light streamed in but was the only light source. A desk almost the width of the room sat before the window, two upholstered chairs on one side, one simple wooden chair on the other. No fire burned in the grate and the breath of the man at the desk clouded the air.
Violet realized that the outer room had been equally cold, only the waiting room had been warm. She decided not to remove her gloves as she took a seat, folding her hands in her lap. The man behind the desk was bald and with a wrinkled, kindly face. It wrinkled further when he smiled, seeming to crease. He had liver-spotted hands with large knuckles and ink spots. His black suit looked as though it were dusty. The man gave the impression of great age. His face gave the impression of great wisdom.
“Lady Violet. What a pleasure to see you again. It has been too long,” Octavius Gellert said.
“It certainly has, Mr. Gellert. I cannot think of the last time I saw you.”
“It was Christmas of 1821. I had been of particular service to your father that year and was invited to join the family for Christmas dinner. The occasion still holds a very dear place in my heart,” Gellert said smiling.
“Of course. I remember the toy horses you gave to myself, Lillian, and Clara. I still have mine. It has pride of place on my dressing table at Harrington.”
“I am most gratified to hear it. Now, how may I be of assistance?”
Small talk dispensed with and directly to the point. I have heard that Mr. Gellert is like that. The same reason that he doesn’t have a fire in his office or offer any form of refreshment. Straight to business. Well, I will not hold efficiency against him.
“I hope to employ your firm’s services to discover the identity of my father,” Violet said, responding to his directness with directness of her own.
“Surely, Viscount Harrington is your father,” Gellert said with a slight frown.
“My Uncle. I overheard Uncle George and Aunt Charlotte discussing the matter of my adoption a year ago. They have since confessed the truth. That I was illegitimate and taken in by them as a baby.”
“Forgive me, Lady Violet. But would it not be better to have this conversation with them?” Gellert suggested.
