She took her leave, walking to the front door, followed by Uncle George who was calling for a servant.
At least one task will be completed. I shall discover if Ambrose is my father. If he is not and this really is a romantic overture, I shall endeavor to steer him to Lillian. That is the least I can do. And I shall go back to being alone.
Chapter 32
Ambrose Deveraux’s London residence was located on the north-side of Berkeley Square. It was a palatial residence that made the square look like a garden, located there solely for its benefit. It was white, the entire facade consisting of the famous London stucco, intended to harken back to the glory of the Italian Renaissance. Rows of tall windows were separated by ornate string courses and the doors were framed by a porch, supported by fluted columns. A uniformed doorman stood before those doors, resplendent in a semi-military uniform.
As the carriage stopped before it, Violet could not help but gaze up at the building admiringly.
It is certainly commensurate with a man of stature and rank. A physical embodiment of power and wealth. I suppose I should be proud that this man may be my father.
The thought gave her no comfort, however. As she stood looking at the magnificent edifice that might be the home of her true father, she recalled the modest home of Alexander Fitzgrant. She thought of the bare rooms, of breath clouding before her face because of Alexander’s aversion to heat. She smiled to herself as she remembered a boot on a mantlepiece and a Duke walking barefoot about his home.
He told me that he liked to wander the woods and fields of his estates, even to sleep outdoors among the trees. It sounds so romantic. To be in tune with the natural world, not insulated from it by bricks and mortar.
Violet took a breath, dabbing beneath her eyes carefully as she felt tears pushing at the gates of her strength. Alexander had rejected her. That would not be left unchallenged. She deserved an explanation. But in the meantime, she had her own quest to pursue and it took her away from Alexander, towards this man, his enemy and rival. The doorman awaited her approach with patience, as though he were a statue. Stone steps led up to the impressive portico and Violet took them with steady, deliberate steps. As she neared the top, he came to life.
“Good afternoon to you, madam. How may I introduce you?”
“Lady Violet Ravendel,” Violet said, then she thought better of it. “Announce me as Lady Violet Courtham.”
The man bowed from the waist and rapped solemnly on the door. It was opened from within by another doorman in an identical uniform. The outer doorman spoke to the inner,who nodded and then stepped aside, ushering Violet into the house. The door closed behind her. She stood in a long, high-ceilinged hallway of white marble, streaked with gold. The walls were paneled in dark wood, ornamented with oil paintings in flamboyant frames. Each had the look of great age. Chandeliers glittered from the candles held in gleaming sconces.
“May I ask, do you have an appointment?” the outer doorman asked.
Violet produced the letter from Ambrose and handed it to the doorman. It was folded to show the broken seal, which was clearly the Godstone seal. The man opened it enough to see the signature and embossed crest on the paper. Then he nodded.
“Please wait here, Your Ladyship. I will inform His Lordship that you have arrived.”
With that, he strode away, letter held out before him in one hand. Violet had never encountered such formality in a household. The servants of the Godstone house were clearly trained with almost military discipline to observe all the required formalities.
And some that are not required. The rigmarole at the door was excessive. I am all for ensuring that only invited visitors can call upon the Lord of the house. But there must be limits to ceremony and ritual for its own sake.
The thought occurred to her that she may not have felt this way before she met Alexander. His wildness seemed to haverubbed off on her somewhat. For all that she had undertaken to instill a respect for ceremony and ritual in him, the opposite seemed to be happening as well. She saw a chair with a silk embroidered cushion and gold inlaid, carved arms and legs. It was clearly placed there for waiting visitors but she felt no desire to sit, feeling that the furniture, clearly expensive and probably antique, was just too formal to allow her to relax in it.
The inner door man reappeared, walking sedately back to Violet. Upon reaching her, he stopped and bowed.
“His Lordship will see you now, Your Ladyship.”
Violet gave a polite smile and nodded. The man turned on his heel and began to walk away, Violet following.
He will see me now, will he? We are actually of the same rank, he and I. His maleness may make him my superior in social circles but his title does not. This man makes me feel as though I am a beggar being brought before a King.
The walk through the impressive house was longer than she had expected and she wondered if the servant had been instructed to show off the residence. It seemed like there were a few too many twists and turns to be a direct route. But, presently, the servant was knocking at a set of double doors. Upon a voice summoning him from within, he opened one of them and stepped through, announcing Violet.
She entered the room. It was a library and was as impressive as every other part of the house. The room was divided intotwo levels. The upper consisted of a mezzanine, reached by a staircase at one end of the room. Tall bookcases lined the far wall up there and more lined the walls on the lower level. A ring of chaise lounges stood in the center of the room, and a table between held a number of ancient seeming tomes, held open on a wooden stand. Ambrose sat on one of the chaises, running a finger down the page of one of the volumes but looking towards the door.
The tableau had the look of a staged scene, the educated Lord wanting to be seen reading to prove his intellectual credentials.
“Lady Violet. I must confess to being confused at the given name. A joke, perhaps?” Ambrose said, rising from his seat.
“My mother’s maiden name,” Violet said, crossing the room to greet him.
She held out her hand and he took it, kissing the air above it. His clear blue eyes met hers and she felt under scrutiny. The library door softly closed behind her.
“It is a name I am familiar with,” Ambrose said. “Please sit and tell me why you use it instead of Ravendel.”
Violet took a seat on the chaise opposite him. Ambrose went to a side table and took out the glass stopper from a decanter. It contained a glittering, golden liquid.
