“The job was sloppy, accomplished in ’aste,” Guthrie said. “The woman was still alive when I reached ’er, though barely. Before she died, she did manage to tell me ’er name, though, as well as that of the man who attacked ’er.” Guthrie took a sip of his coffee and set it aside with infuriating slowness. “Olivia Jones was killed that night by Tremaine, but ’e left the country before I could figure out ’ow to bring charges against ’im.”
“Because he was a duke’s son and you are Carlton Guthrie. It would have been your word against his, and with a good barrister on his side, you never would have succeeded.”
“Quite the contrary, I imagine.”
Henry nodded. “What makes you think this information will bring him down now?”
“I don’t,” Guthrie said. “I’m just tryin’ to explain my reason fer wantin’ to ’elp ye. So if there’s anythin’ ye need, do let me know.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Henry said, even though he had no plan of taking Guthrie up on his offer. After all, Henry was trying to save his own reputation, not make it worse by taking the risk of being associated with Carlton Guthrie. As it was, Henry could only hope that no one had seen Guthrie arrive at his home.
“Thank ye fer the coffee, Mr. Lowell.” Guthrie stood and put on his hat.
Henry stood as well and followed his guest to the door. “You’re most welcome. In fact, it is I who ought to be thanking you. The information you’ve given me this evening may prove more useful than you think.”
The edge of Guthrie’s mouth lifted. “I ’ope so, Lowell.”
As soon as he was gone, Henry went to his office, took a seat behind his desk and pulled out a piece of crisp white paper. He then dipped his quill in the inkwell and started to write, because if what Guthrie said was true, then there was a chance Henry might be right about Beatrice Cartwright. If Robert had killed her as well, then surely there must be some evidence of it, even if it meant Henry had to post a letter to the West Indies in order to find it.
Chapter 15
The next three days went by in a blur. Viola saw nothing of Mr. Lowell during this time. But that didn’t stop her from hearing about him. Not after an article he’d written appeared in theMayfair ChronicleWednesday morning announcing his intention to marry. The headline read, “London’s Most Notorious Rake Reforms.” The piece claimed he had every intention of being faithful to his future bride and that his youthful days of carousing were officially over.
Viola wasn’t entirely sure what to make of the news. Perhaps she’d made a mistake when she’d refused his escort. Perhaps doing so had made him abandon all hope of eventually winning her. Perhaps he’d deliberately had the article published because she’d hurt him and he was now looking to find someone else to marry. Announcing his intentions to the world was certainly an effective way of hastening the process.
She spent the rest of the day regretting the way they’d last parted and hoping he might come to call. When he didn’t, she sent him a note Wednesday afternoon asking him if there was any news from Mr. Steadford. He responded by note as well, informing her that the barrister had located and interviewed some of Viola’s former servants and that the result was encouraging.
The missive contained no other information. No personal comment to suggest he had any interest in what she was doing. It left her feeling more alone than ever before. Because the truth was, she missed him, and she had no one besides herself to blame for the emptiness now consuming her chest.
Not knowing how to handle this unpleasant state of being, Viola busied herself with her work. One of her best physicians, Mr. Haines, proved tremendously helpful, advising her as Florian so often did about the treatment options for the newly admitted patients.
“Are you feeling all right?” Diana asked when Viola returned home Thursday evening. “You look horribly pale and there are dark circles under your eyes.”
“You’re clearly not getting enough rest,” Harriet said. “And you’re obviously working too hard as well.”
“I’m fine,” Viola said as she pulled off her bonnet and shucked her spencer. Both were returned to the hook on the wall were she usually kept them.
Neither woman looked convinced.
“I recommend a hot cup of tea followed by a hearty meal and a good night’s sleep.” Harriet was already heading toward the kitchen door. “I’ll bring everything upstairs and join you in a minute.”
Resigning herself to her friends’ care, Viola followed Diana into the parlor, where a cozy fire burned brightly in the grate. Rex, who’d come to greet her as usual, stayed close to Viola’s side. He curled up on the floor next to her feet as soon as she’d taken her seat on the sofa.
“We’re worried about you,” Diana said while they waited for Harriet. “You’re facing too many problems alone.”
“That’s not really true. I have Haines helping me out at the hospital and Lowell offering assistance with Robert.” Viola sank back against the sofa and offered Diana a smile. “It could be worse.”
“I suppose it always can be,” Diana said. She tilted her head and considered Viola. “He still hasn’t come to see you, has he?”
“Who?”
Diana rolled her eyes. “Lowell, of course. Because we’ve seen you exhausted before Viola, but this is different. You look... heartbroken.”
Tears burned Viola’s eyes as they pressed against them. She would not cry. And yet she could already feel a wet trickle against her cheek. Swiping it away, she straightened her posture and faced her friend. “I think I’ve lost my chance with him.”
The door opened and Harriet stepped in. She was carrying a tray containing a teapot and cups. After closing the door behind her, she took one look at Viola and paused. “Heavens. What on earth did you say to her, Diana?”
“I merely inquired about Mr. Lowell.”
