James felt the faintest flicker of apprehension. It was true enough that despite his drinking and whoring, Randall was still a handsome enough and occasionally charming enough man to turn a lady’s head. If he did manage to utter those damning whispers into the right ears, it could have devastating consequences. His sole purpose in convincing the elder Ramsleigh to go ahead with the deception surrounding Viola’s rumored demise was to maintain their current status. The return on his latest investments had not been what he had anticipated and, as such, their financial survival had been dependent upon gaining access to the money left to his missing daughter. Ramsleigh had been in the same boat himself, though it hadn’t been poor investments that had caused his financial woes. Drinking, gaming and whoring had brought about the other man’s ruin. It wasn’t the first time.
If Viola had truly returned and those funds would have to be produced, he would be unable to do so. “What is it that you require for your silence then?” James demanded.
“Only that you come to Yorkshire and persuade your daughter to take herself back to Scotland and rusticate there before something unfortunate were to happen to her. If she doesn’t, that box in the churchyard will contain more than rocks,” Ramsleigh warned.
“Kill her then,” James snapped. “The world already believes her dead. It’s a much more expedient solution!” In fact, so long as he didn’t have to dirty his own hands, it was the best option for everyone involved.
Randall eyes him coldly. “She’s safely ensconced at Castle Black under the care of the newly-returned Lord Blakemore and his new wife. Suffice it to say, my first encounter with Lord Blakemore did not go well. I will not be welcomed there to sway Viola to our way of thinking.”
“You threatened him? You are a blasted, hotheaded fool!” Daventry reached for the bottle of brandy on his desk and poured a healthy amount into his glass. Before he could lift the glass to his lips, Randall wrested it from his hands and drained it entirely.
When he was done, Randall wiped his mouth. “No doubt if anything were to happen to her, they would not take kindly to it. There are ways to end her, ways that will have no verifiable connection to either of us. But it’s risky and will result in scandal neither of us can afford. Our best bet is to send her packing, and that duty falls to you. As for the threat of putting someone in that grave that bears her name, I meant you, Daventry. If you attempt to burn me on this, I will see you dead.”
“Get out,” James uttered. “I’ll see to her. And you, you wretched beggar, will never darken my door again.”
“Just so she goes, Daventry… I don’t much care how you do it or what you say to her to make it happen. I’m not giving up all that I’ve gained here.”
On that point, they were in agreement. The generous settlement that had been left to Viola by her grandfather had been claimed upon her death and divided equally between himself and Viola’s late husband. His financial woes had not been quite so desperate as Ramsleigh’s, but he would feel the loss of it. Of course, it had always been about more than just the money. It had been the height of insults for it to have been tied up in such a way that it would be forever beyond his reach unless Viola’s husband was generous or unless Viola, as a widow, decided to share the largesse of her grandfather with her own family.
Ramsleigh, with two mysteriously dead wives already and no heirs, hadn’t been chosen at random. James had seen the greed in him. While on a purely objective level, he’d understood that his daughter was beautiful and would appeal to men, he hadn’t understood just how much until Ramsleigh approached him. The man’s desperate need to possess the girl had worked to James’ favor and they’d agreed then to share Viola’s inheritance once she reached the age of twenty-five and the funds would be distributed. But then she’d left, fleeing Ramsleigh’s heavy hands. Faking her death and getting the funds released to her husband had been the only way. For a moment, Daventry considering killing Randall outright. Only the threat of scandal and the possibility of consequences should he fail stayed his hand. It was not worth the risk to himself and all that he had built.
“I’ll talk to her,” Daventry agreed.
“You do that. Because if I have to invoke my plans to get rid of her, it will not be a merciful death,” Ramsleigh warned, before turning on his heel and leaving as quickly as he’d entered.
Daventry watched the other man go. He really didn’t care one way or another if or how Viola died. All he cared about it was appearance. If it came to light that Viola had lived, that she had fled her husband, abandoned him and run off to heaven knew where, it could reflect poorly upon him. Ultimately, that was what he needed to focus on.
How he despised Randall, just as he’d despised his predecessor. They were weak men, controlled by their base urges and their tempers. It was regrettable that he’d ever felt the need to involve himself with them. But shedding himself of his daughter and finding a husband for her who would be willing to give him a portion of her inheritance had been vital at the time. Frustrated and in a foul temper himself, Daventry picked up the glass Randall had taken from him earlier and clutched it in his hand. The urge to throw it and watch it smash into slivers was overwhelming.
After a charged moment where he considered giving in to a vulgar display of temper, Daventry placed the glass once more on his desk and exited his study. He strode out into the corridor, still drafty from Ramsleigh’s exit. His wife was standing on the stairs, her face pale and wan, one hand clutching the banister. It would be easy enough to send her tumbling down them, to see her broken like a doll on the floor. For just a moment, he willed it to happen, but she proved to be steadier on her feet than he wished and the laudanum she was dosed with daily should have allowed. He’d need to have a word with the kitchen staff about that.
“Who was here? I heard shouting,” she uttered in the same, soft, sing-song voice that he’d come to despise. Never mind that it was the laudanum he’d been slipping into her food for years to keep her quiet and compliant that made her such a puppet. It still grated on his nerves.
“It is none of your concern. Go back to your room,” he commanded.
“I heard them mention Viola…” she protested, though her voice trailed off and she looked away, clearly distracted.
“It was the new Lord Ramsleigh expressing his belated condolences on her death,” he lied.
“But why would he go to the trouble now? It’s been two years!” A confused frown marred her face as she tried to puzzle it out for herself.
It was dangerous to let her think. Just because he’d dulled her wits with the drug didn’t mean she lacked them entirely. “You’re overwrought and need to drink your evening tonic lest you have another spell,” he snapped and waved to a footman to escort her back to her chambers. To the butler, he added, “See to it that she gets an extra dose of her special medication tonight, Fenton.”
“Certainly, sir,” the butler replied.
There was no judgement, no censure. The man simply accepted his duty and performed it. James smiled tightly. If his wife had been able to do that, he wouldn’t have had to resort to drugging her. And he would have had a son instead of the useless whore of a daughter who continued to plague him. “And fetch my coat. I’m going out for the evening.” He had a mistress to get rid of.
*
Viola was seated in the drawing room. It was her first day out of her chamber and in company. She found Christopher, Lord Blakemore’s younger brother, to be charming if somewhat jaded for one so young. Lady Beatrice and Lady Agatha, as they’d insisted on being called to avoid confusion, were both delightful. Lord Blakemore was an enigma, however. He was rougher mannered and coarser in his appearance than a titled gentleman typically was. Of course, she knew the rumors about his disappearance from before her own escape—that he’d been lost at sea, presumed dead by most, and now, it appeared, had miraculously returned.
He stood on the far side of the room, drinking brandy and conversing softly with Dr. Warner. The good and much too hands
ome doctor was another enigma, and one that had occupied far too many of her thoughts already.
To herself, she could recognize it for what it was. Attraction. It was not a state she had anticipated finding herself in—to be drawn so to a man. Certainly not after her marriage and the atrocities she’d suffered nearer the end of it. But even then, she’d understood that not all men were like Percival, or Randall, or even her father. She’d seen men who were kind and attentive to their wives and children. She’d known that to be truth not because of the actions of those men, but because she’d seen their wives lean into their touch, their children rush to greet them. All without fear or hesitation. Certainly most of them had been farmers or those working on her husband’s lands. But if such kindness and genuine caring for one another could be had in such low and often arduous circumstances, it only stood to reason it could exist elsewhere as well.
She was seeing that borne out before her eyes in the interactions of Lord Blakemore and Lady Beatrice. They were so obviously, painfully in love with one another that it almost hurt to look at them. Not even in the early stages of her courtship with Percival had she thought herself in love with him. It had been, from the outset, more about making an advantageous match than having a happy and loving marriage. But he’d revealed his true colors on their wedding night and on far too many of the nights that had followed. Any visions she might have entertained of love, of passion, or even of something as simple as contentment had vanished in the face of his cruelty.
Jealousy. Envy. It was an ugly thing to feel for those who had been so kind to her, but feel it she did. She envied their ease with one another, their obvious affection, and when they thought no one else was looking, the passion that burned so clearly in their eyes for one another. What would it be like to feel such things for a man and to have those feelings returned?
“You are awfully deep in thought, my dear.”
The observation came from Lady Agatha. Lady Beatrice had risen and crossed the room to stand next to her husband and Dr. Warner, so impossibly handsome in his dark evening clothes and with his black hair brushed away from his face. “I was just thinking how rare it is and how wonderful for them that they are so much in love.”
“It is,” Lady Agatha agreed. “They both deserve happiness. Graham suffered so much when he was taken from us so young… and Beatrice has always been like a daughter to me. Of course, there are those who take exception to her lack of fortune, who feel that Graham should have married better.”
“And do you think he should have?” Viola asked. It was an impertinent question, one that she should not have asked. But luckily, Lady Agatha did not take offense.
The older woman smiled. “My dear, I believe that there is no better reason to marry than for love… and to those who would think otherwise, I hold them in no contempt. Only pity.”
“I’ve been impertinent in asking… but I feel no inclination to stop just yet. Did you marry for love, Lady Agatha?” Viola asked. Her own marriage had been the furthest thing from it. She’d pleaded with her father not to force her into marrying Lord Ramsleigh, but all of her pleas had fallen on deaf ears. A man thrice her age whose first wife had died from a fall while riding alone with him and whose second wife had tumbled down the stairs in the dead of night with no witnesses. It hadn’t taken very long in her marriage to realize that it had likely been Lord Ramsleigh’s temper that had ended her predecessor’s lives and not their own clumsiness.
“I did not. I married because he was wealthy, charming, handsome and all those things that a young and foolish girl can so easily become infatuated with,” she admitted ruefully. “But I was lucky. My Nicholas was a kind man, with a loving and forgiving nature. I did not love him when I wed him, but I haven’t the words to tell you how much I loved him when I finally had to say goodbye to him.”
Viola turned to look back at the couple. They were standing impossibly close to one another. There was nothing inappropriate in their behavior or vulgar, yet the intimacy between them was a palpable thing. Envy filled her, but not jealousy. She did not begrudge them their happiness and she certainly had no designs on Lord Blakemore, but there was something in the way that they were so obviously connected to one another that sparked longing inside her. What would it feel like to be so close to another person? Other than her son, she had no notion of what it felt like to show simple affection for another human being.
Glancing away, she noted that Dr. Warner had vacated his post to Lord Blakemore’s right and was approaching her. Her stomach fluttered nervously in response.
When he reached them, he bowed to Lady Agatha and then to her. “If you’d like, Lady Ramsleigh, I thought I’d offer to take you for a stroll in the gardens before dinner.”
“That would be lovely. You should join him, my dear,” Lady Agatha encouraged. “Beatrice has taken over the gardens and done some truly marvelous things there.”
“It would hardly be proper,” she protested, “to walk alone with a gentleman and no chaperone.” Because she was too drawn to him for her own peace of mind, because she could not trust herself not to spill more of her secrets and to further build on the strange intimacy that already existed between them.
“Nonsense!” Lady Agatha waved her hand dismissively. “You are a widow, my girl… the rules are very different for you now than when you were a young debutante! And he is your physician after all. What could be the harm?”
What, indeed? Left with no recourse and very little room to wriggle out of it, Viola smiled. “Of course. I’d be happy to join you.”
“Or at least willing,” he chided softly.
She didn’t respond to that goading tone, but offered a baleful stare as she took his proffered arm. As they neared the French doors that led out onto the terrace and the garden beyond, she stated firmly, “I dislike being maneuvered, Dr. Warner.”
“I only issued an invitation,” he replied evenly. “The maneuvering was entirely the enterprise of Lady Agatha. Perhaps your grievance should be directed to her.”
“As I am here on her charity, that would hardly be appropriate, would it?”
“Then it is duly noted. Now, may we not enjoy the mild weather and what promises to be a lovely sunset?” The question was posed with a not insignificant amount of amusement.
“You are laughing at me.”
“A bit,” he agreed. “I understand your reticence but, I assure you, I have no designs on your virtue.”
“I am a widow as Lady Agatha pointed out. My virtue, as it were, is no longer a concern.”
He looked at her then, all traces of amusement gone from him and a dark, almost predatory expression in its place. “I had intended,” he said, “To simply go for a walk with you… I won’t deny my attraction, nor will I deny that I mean to act upon it, but I had not thought to do so tonight. However, pointing out that your apparent lack of virtue is not an obstacle does not help the cause.”
“That isn’t what I meant at all,” she protested.
“So it isn’t. I have complete control of my actions, Lady Ramsleigh, and you are entirely safe with me. My actions will be all that are proper and gentlemanly, even if my thoughts are another matter entirely.”
It was a dangerous game to play with him, and yet she found herself far more curious and far more titillated than was good for either of them. “And what, precisely, are those thoughts, Doctor?”
“Nicholas,” he corrected. “My name is Nicholas. And when we are alone, there is no reason that you should call me anything else. My thoughts, Madame, are too carnal even for the jaded ears of a widow.”
“Are you trying to seduce me, Nicholas?” she asked, her tone direct and revealing none of the trembling excitement or paralyzing fear she felt at the thought. After the hellish torment she’d suffered at Percival’s hands, it was a strange sensation to actually desire a man’s company, much less his touch. But she could admit to herself, even without knowing yet whether or not she would act upon it, that she did desire his touch and so
much more.
“That would depend upon your willingness to be seduced… Viola.”
Viola drew in a deep, shuddering breath and then admitted something to him that was dangerous for them both. “I have not yet decided.”
He smiled. “Then, no. I am not trying to seduce you… yet. When you do decide, kindly pass along the information and I’ll adjust my intentions accordingly.”
With that phrase hanging between them—half-promise and half-threat—they strolled through the garden in a not quite comfortable silence and admired Lady Beatrice’s handiwork.
*
William Wells was in his element—the tavern. Seated at one of the tables near the fire, drinking ale he hadn’t had to pay for, he was well into his cups. He was also retelling, and embellishing, the story of the good doctor’s dashing rescue of a woman who ought to have been a corpse. So long as there was a fresh pair of ears to hear it and a hefty purse to pay for his ale, he’d tell it until he ran out of air.
“Get a rope, he says!” William snapped loudly. “How he saw her, bobbing in that dark water, I’ll never know. Eyes like a hawk the man has! Stripped off his boots, tied that length of rope about his waist and waded up to his chest in water so cold I don’t even know how he survived it. Some thought he’d gone mad… didn’t believe there was a woman out there a’tall. But I knew it. I could see it in his eyes. That wasn’t madness. It were courage unlike anything I’d ever witnessed. Not even in battle!”
Two aged women, traveling together to take the waters at Matlock in Derbyshire, were positively enraptured by the tale. They were leaning forward, their eyes as wide as saucers, their hands clenched so tight on the chair arms that the seams of their gloves were straining with it.
William paused, cleared his throat, coughed a bit, then smacked his lips as if he were as parched as a desert. “I don’t think I can go on, ladies. My throat’s plum dried out on me, it is!”
The Resurrection of Lady Ramsleigh Page 6