Page 40 of Only a Mistress Will Do

“That’s as I thought, miss. So I was wondering if you’d consider leaving London? Go away somewhere they don’t know you.”

Hope flared, then died. “The ton would know me wherever I went.” She gripped the cup. There was nowhere to run to. “Brighton, Bath.” She gulped the tea. The more she thought of her bleak outlook, the more she needed the brandy.

“Not if you went somewhere the ton doesn’t go. Like Shotesham St. Mary. That’s the village I came from, though I’ve not been back in years.” Susan eased down onto the bed. “It’s in Norfolk, but I’ve saved a bit. I could take you there, introduce you as a cousin or a friend. No one would think anything of it.” She cut her eyes at Violet and hurried on. “There are prosperous farmers in the area who’d marry someone who looked like you, miss, and not think twice. They’d want a woman to take care of their house and bear their children. And believe me, they’d pay no mind as to whether you were a virgin or not, although we could say you were a widow lady. That would take care of that. Someone as lovely and talented as you, they’d be lined up to court you. You could have your pick of the men.”

Violet sipped the tea, the brandy not making quite the difference she’d hoped. Somehow the image of her in a cozy house, surrounded by children and a man who wasn’t Tristan still seemed intolerable. Nonsense to be sure because she hated Tristan. She willed the memory of his face away.

“You think about it, miss. Unless you can find a way to forgive Lord Trevor, Shotesham is likely your best chance.” Susan rose and straightened the covers.

“Forgive Lord Trevor?” Violet jerked upright, upsetting the tray.

The maid dove for it and barely caught it before it spilled over the bed. “Yes, miss, begging your pardon. I did hear his lordship’s explanation and it seemed to me it was more accident he killed your brother.”

“You don’t understand.” Tears coursed down her cheeks. “I loved my brother. He and our cousin were closer to me than anyone, even my grandmother.” Her jaw ached where she clenched it. “When Jamie died, I lost everything. I can never forgive Lord Trevor.”

“Suit yourself, miss.” Susan sniffed. “But it’s my opinion your brother wouldn’t have died if he’d behaved as he should.” With a piercing look, she flounced out of the room.

Violet grabbed the teacup and drained it. Not enough brandy by far. She gazed longingly at the decanter on the desk. If she could summon the energy, she’d fill the cup brimful and down it. The less she remembered about Lord Trevor the better. Still, she needed her wits about her. She needed to come up with a plan.

Susan’s scheme tempted her. It promised security and anonymity. Why not grasp both and be done with it? What did the man matter? She’d never feel about any man the way she had felt heart and soul for Tristan. Lord Trevor. She must remember him as Lord Trevor, by God, nothing but the lying scoundrel she hated.

With a clatter, Violet set the cup on the tray, then pushed it away and curled up on her side, tears starting from her eyes again. If she hated him, then why did her heart hurt so badly? It wasn’t right to feel this ache along with the anger. She should feel one or the other. In Shotesham St. Mary she would likely never have to see him again. Probably the best thing for her. Still, her heart thudded painfully in her chest. Leaving London sent another pang through her.

It wasn’t as if she was without friends in Town. If she paid a call on Miss Forsythe in the morning, she could beg for assistance. She might be refused, but she didn’t think so. Sinking down into the covers once more, she closed her eyes, her mind made up. Tonight would be her last one in Lammas House, with its torturous memories and reminders of the man she could not forget.

* * * *

Hammering on his chamber door roused Tris from the brandy-induced stupor he’d fallen into sometime during the night. Marks had replenished the decanter twice. It rested on its side on the floor, empty. He winced and ran his hand through his hair. His mouth tasted foul as an un-mucked stable.

The pounding increased.

“Stop that infernal noise!” He plastered his hands over his ears. His is own voice tore a swath through his head until he feared it might explode. The drumming on the door ceased abruptly. The thumping inside his skull, however, worsened.

Gingerly, he peeled himself from the chair where he’d been sprawled for hours, and crossed to the door. By God, this had better be good or Marks would be sacked with no notice and no reference. He pulled the door open, about to lay into his butler.

Susan stood at the threshold, her brown cloak covering her figure completely and accentuating the pallor of her face.

“What are you doing here?” He blinked, still befuddled from the spirits and now confused by the presence of Serena’s maid. No, Violet’s maid. Violet.

He grabbed her by the shoulders and hauled her into the room.

She squeaked and pulled out of his grasp.

“Violet? Where is she? What’s wrong?”

“That’s just it, my lord. I don’t know.” Frowning deeply, Susan shifted backward, twisting her cloak.

A bad omen. He’d never seen her so flustered. “You don’t know what’s wrong or where she is?”

“We both know what’s wrong, my lord.” She glared at him.

He shrugged off her censure. “Then where is she?”

“I don’t know!” Her wail pierced both his head and his heart. “When I went to her chamber late this morning, Miss Carlton wasn’t in bed. I checked the house, but she was nowhere to be found. She’d said nothing about going out. She never leaves the house, you know.”

Tris nodded. Violet had only been out a time or two and always with him or Thomas as escort. “Did she take Thomas with her?”

Susan gazed at the floor and wrung her hands. “Thomas is still there. The only things missing are her old satchel and the purple gown she was wearing when she arrived at Lammas House.”