The graceful swing of Fiona’s black satin gown glittered under the morning rays of sun, and Violet stood rooted in her spot, watching, wary, until Fiona vanished out the doorway.
It took Violet a long moment to draw air into her lungs.
Unpleasant as that had been, it had needed to be done.
The woman had lied to her. And Violet gave no margin to liars—especially when a liar’s motives were clearly suspicious. That Fiona’s motives appeared to be aimed somewhat against Theo was worrisome.
She would have to ask Theo just what exactly his history was with Fiona. Not that he would necessarily answer her. And she was not about to push for more. Fiona was in his book—apparently thought dead by Theo—which meant she had ties to him from the war. Beyond that, Violet accepted that was all she may ever know of the woman.
A shame she’d had to cut her, for how delightful Fiona was.
Maybe it was all a misunderstanding. Maybe Fiona and Theo knew each other from the war, but had agreed to go about their lives without ever mentioning the past again. It was possible. Theo did avoid the past when he could.
Her right fingers tapped on her hip bone. Maybe she was wrong. Maybe she had just cut Fiona for no reason. But until she knew the truth of their association—why Fiona was in Theo’s book—she could not afford to have the woman in her life.
Ask Theo. She mustn’t forget.
But first, she had to close out the ledgers for the night.
{ Chapter 19 }
The gardens were just as she feared. Gravel strewn into the flower beds. Cracked branches, dangling in death. Spring sprouts ground into the dirt, long leaves already wilting at the tips.
Violet sighed. A double thank goodness Adalia wouldn’t be back in London for months. Longer if that babe in her belly continued to be stubborn and not make a timely appearance.
Even with the unusually bright sun, the air hadn’t warmed in the last hour and she tightened her shawl in front of her chest, covering the last bit of skin open to the brisk morning air as she weaved her way through the garden beds.
Reaching the center of the back wall of tall evergreens, she opened the wrought iron gate, stepping through the arbor to the mews. Directly in front of her, an unmarked black carriage waited with a footman at the ready by the coach door. She would have to commend Theo on his discretion.
“My lady.” The footman bowed his head, opening the carriage door and then holding his hand out to her.
Violet’s look ran over him. Theo must have hired a new footman with Baron Telliton’s repayment of his loan, as she had never seen this servant before.
She set her fingers in the footman’s hand for assistance and moved to the iron carriage step.
In that moment, before her eyes had lifted to the coach’s interior, a hand jabbed out and grabbed her arm, yanking, heaving her into the coach.
This was not Theo’s manhandling. This was pain.
Her shins banged hard into the lower lip of the carriage, shots of agony vibrating up her legs and sending a weak squeak from her throat. Instantly trying to twist from the grip, she was jerked, dragged forward and then thrown onto the bench of the carriage.
Her feet clear of the door, it slammed shut, locking her into the interior darkness of the coach.
A hand, cold and thick, wrapped around her throat as a rag was stuffed into her mouth, cutting her scream. The coach surged forward.
Frantic, Violet blinked again and again, forcing her eyes to adjust to the dimness quicker than they wanted to. Squirming, her fingers attempted to pry away the harsh fingers squeezing her neck. Her sight came into focus.
No.
Not Fiona. It couldn’t be Fiona sitting across from her. Sitting in absolute calm, watching Violet claw at the man’s hand around her throat.
Not Fiona. Fiona was sweet. Funny. Attempting to play a mischievous game with Theo, yes, but not capable of this. Not capable of kidnapping.
The hand at her throat tightened and Violet’s eyes swung to the man next to her. So large, the brute’s neck curved, craning his head downward so he didn’t risk hitting the roof of the carriage with every rut the wheels hit.
She started to talk, to plead, giving no mind to the nasty rag stuffed in her mouth. The brute would understand something—something of her desperation. Coin—she needed to offer him coin.
Her tongue tangled in the cloth, muffling all words. So much so, her own ear didn’t understand her garbled sounds.
“Stop. Don’t sink to pathetic, Violet. I respect you far too much for that.” Fiona waved her hand in the air, seemingly to clear it of Violet’s desperation.
Violet’s frantic tongue stilled against the cloth in her mouth.
Fiona pointed to the brute still pinning Violet by the neck to the back cushion of the bench. “And don’t bother with him. The man knows exactly who is paying him. And he cares far more on that than any sympathy you might possibly conjure.” Fiona leaned forward. “There is no room for those with honor in my employ. Do not make that silly mistake.”
The carriage tilted, taking a hard corner. Fiona’s hand fell from midair to brace herself on her bench.
Yet the brute’s grip on Violet’s throat didn’t falter. If anything, it held her securely in place.
She looked across the carriage at Fiona. How had she ever thought Fiona was sweet? A friend?
How could she possibly be this gullible—again and again and again?
Fiona nodded to the brute and he lifted his free fist to bang on the roof of the carriage. Clomping hooves slowed, angry nickering coming from the front of the carriage.
With an ear-piercing squeak of the springs, the coach halted.
“This is where I leave you, dear Violet. You have been a delight and I thank you for that.” Fiona pointed at the brute as she stood from the bench. “My man will be delivering you to your new quarters.”
The carriage door opened. Picking up her skirts, Fiona stepped down and out of the carriage. Her feet on the street, she stopped to look up at Violet, her cherub mouth curling into a dazzling smile.
A smile Violet knew, without a doubt, came from the bowels of hell.
“God speed, dear friend.” Fiona nodded to the footman and he slammed the carriage door closed.
The brute’s fingers tightened around her throat.
~~~
Not bothering to knock, Theo banged open the heavy oak door. Nearly impossible to track down, why the head of Violet’s guard even had—or could afford—a room at Brooks’s was beyond his curiosity at the moment.
The door slamming open, it crashed into the wall and bounced back at him as he stormed into the room.
A scream, and then a woman scrambled from the large bed, yanking a sheet with her to cover herself.
Hell. So much for the strict rule of banning women at the club.
Already to his feet and naked except for his right boot, Logan advanced, his fist swinging three steps before he reached Theo. His blow—knuckles of steel—landed square on the side of Theo’s jaw, cracking him two steps backward.
Squelching the visceral urge to retaliate—he had just walked in on the man in bed with a woman, after all—Theo threw up a desperate hand before Logan could land another blow. “Stop. My apologies, Logan. But where in the hell did she go?”
Logan’s hand froze in the middle of his next swing. “She? Lady Vandestile?”
“Yes, man. For blasted sake, where the hell did she go?”
Logan’s head swiveled to the woman standing next to the bed, her eyes wide, her cheeks pink. She held no alarm at the scene—only an admiring look as she studied Logan’s backside. Logan motioned his head to the door.
With a remorseful look that lingered on Logan’s rear, she set her head down and scurried out past the two men clad only in the sheet. She resisted glancing at either one of them as she passed.
Logan lowered his right fist, his left hand reaching out to slam the door closed.
“Again, my apologies, Logan. But I need to find her.�
�
Logan looked at him. “I am not her keeper, Alton. I am her employee.”
“No. But you must know where Violet is—or where she left to.”
Logan threaded his arms across his bare chest, not even slightly abashed by his own nudity. “Nor am I going to tell you a single thing. You are an ass and have walked into the wrong den of depravity if you think to gain my cooperation.”
Theo’s hands curled into fists. “You know nothing of the matter between Violet and me.”
“I know that you crushed her.”
“Yes, I did. And I bloody well did it to protect her.”
Logan’s eyes drifted down to Theo’s fists, but he made no motion of defense, his look merely traveling back up to meet Theo’s glare. “From what? I have Lady Vandestile more than well protected.”
Theo had to forcibly unclench his fingers. “Something—someone—that was out of your viewpoint.”
“Nothing is out of my viewpoint when it comes to Lady Vandestile and the Revelry’s Tempest.”
Theo bowed his head slightly in deference. “I don’t imagine so. But this—this is.”
Logan shook his head. “I’m not telling you a thing.”
Theo took a step forward. He would beat this out of Logan if he needed to. “She was supposed to be with me. She was supposed to leave the Revelry’s Tempest this morning with me. Before you even left there.”
Logan’s left eyebrow cocked. “She was to leave with you?”
“Bloody well yes, man. She told me she had just a few items to take care of after the night—an hour at most—and she would be out to my carriage. I went out to wait for her but she never came out.”
“Have you checked her townhouse?”
“Of course I have.” Theo’s hand ran through his hair. “She’s not there. Her staff has not seen her. We checked every room. I went to Lady Desmond’s townhouse. Nothing. We went back to the Revelry’s Tempest. The maids have not seen her—we checked every room there as well.”
“Did you check with Lady Toplan’s household?”
Theo froze, a cold snake of ice curling down his spine. “Lady Toplan?”
“Yes. I watched Lady Vandestile walk out through the gardens to the mews. I believe she entered Lady Toplan’s carriage.”
“Shit.”
A frown set onto Logan’s face, the first signs of true concern etching his brow. He turned from Theo, reaching for his trousers strewn over the back of a wooden chair. “We go there now.”
Theo grabbed his upper arm. “We cannot.”
Logan ripped his arm from Theo’s grasp. “I don’t take orders from the likes of you, Alton.”
Theo attempted to beat back the frenzied rage pulsating in his veins. Logan was not the enemy. He had to remember that. He took a step backward, his voice calming. “I recognize your dislike of me, Logan. And frankly, I deserve it. But you need to heed me on this—I know we cannot just go over there.”
“Why not?” Logan shoved his right leg, boot and all, into his dark trousers.
“You were in the war.”
“So?”
“So you know the atrocities that happened on the continent.”
For a second, Logan’s dark grey eyes flickered unmistakable pain. “Yes.”
“So imagine a woman in the midst of that—Lady Toplan. She knows the atrocities more intimately than most—more intimately than the average soldier. And she is no longer sane because of it.” Theo ran his hand over his eyes, rubbing. “I thought…I thought she had managed to hold on—to escape it. To come out unscathed. I wanted to believe that. Give her that chance. But I was wrong.”
Theo’s hand dropped, forming into a fist that beat into his thigh. “Lady Toplan is after me. And I stupidly thought the best way to protect Violet from it was to cut things with her. If I had nothing to do with Violet, Lady Toplan would want nothing to do with her—could not use her against me. I thought I could protect Violet that way. I thought I could protect Lady Toplan from herself that way—I owed her that margin of mercy from all that happened during the war.”
His trousers buttoned, Logan looked at Theo as he grabbed his white linen shirt. “You owed her from the war? This was some sort of benevolent comeuppance?”
Theo nodded. “I had hoped. But I was wrong. Lady Toplan is too far gone—she cannot be redeemed. And I was stupid for believing in that hope.”
Logan grunted. “Know that I don’t give a damn about whatever atonement you think to achieve, Alton. What I give a damn about is Lady Vandestile. She is the only reason I haven’t pummeled you already.” Logan put on his shirt, his glare landing on Theo. “So what do you propose?”
“Lady Toplan is brutally intelligent.”
“So?”
“We step carefully. Or Violet is going to get hurt.”
~~~
Her body prone, flat on her back, Violet lay in the cold swath of muck, shock choking her—choking into stillness the shivers that had racked her muscles for hours.
She stared up, her neck craned awkwardly to the side so she could concentrate on the few stars she could see through the wispy clouds.
Two days straight and through the night they had traveled.
And this was where the brute had dropped her.
She had stopped screaming for help hours ago. Or what she thought was hours ago. It was still daylight then, her only guide to time passing. Her voice, along with her hope, had faded with the light.
Only the stars now. Only the thin sliver of stars she could see from her angle up through the opening of the mine shaft.
She couldn’t move closer to the mine opening. Stretched as she was, the shackle around her ankle prevented her from getting any closer. But at least she could see it, the opening. The hole in the ground.
He had destroyed the ladder on his way up, hacking at the wooden rungs with an ax. Even if she could free herself from the iron shackle around her ankle, she couldn’t escape up the shaft.
Trapped.
As much as she tried not to think on it, dwell on it, that one thought weighed on her, second by second suffocating any hope she had in her chest.
Trapped. Trapped underground. Trapped in a coffin of rock and mud.
It was an hour before she realized the stars couldn’t help her. The stars could do nothing but twinkle, silent, far-away witnesses to her horror.
The last vestiges of hope dwindling in Violet’s chest, she snatched at them, holding onto them with all of her being before they vanished out of her grip.
She had to get out of there.
She had to not crumble.
Not break.
She had far too much to live for.
Her arms heavy, she pushed herself to sitting. In near blackness, she ran her hands along the wet, muddy stone beneath her. Her forefinger bumped into a rock, her knuckle scraping against a sharp corner of it. It would do.
Back and forth, back and forth. It took time. Lots of time. Clawing at the dirt. Wedging the rock. Until finally, she freed it from the muck and picked it up. Her muscles strained, the rock hefty enough that she needed both hands to lift it. She set the rock to the side as she lined up the shackle’s iron chain between her bent legs. Grabbing the rock, she lifted it high over her head, bringing it down with as much force as she could muster.
A sharp spark flew through the darkness. Her fingers dove down, running along the slick iron links. No impact. Not even a notch in the metal.
Again. Harder. Spark.
Again and again. More sparks.
But the metal would not yield.
No matter. She would do this over and over until she broke the damn chain.
Clawing the rock, her fingernails started to tear off as she beat the chain, swinging without mercy. Sharp ridges cut through her skin.
She could feel the blood on her fingers, slippery. Making her grip impossible.
The rock flew from her hands in the next swing, slamming into her shin, her skirt only marginally softening the blow. The pain s
hocked her body, the horror of the situation magnified once more.
Blackness tightened around her, swallowing her, wrapping around her neck, her chest.
She pushed back at it. Pushed at the air around her.
She knew it was just air, yet her hands lifted, pushing, shoving just the same.
She was losing it—losing her mind—losing it fast.
She had to get out of there.
Had to, before she had no sanity left to save.
Her fingers dropped to the ground, sifting through the mud, searching for the rock.
She had to be smart. If she couldn’t break the chain, maybe she could break it free from the rock it was attached to.
She had no other choice.
She had to get out.
{ Chapter 20 }
“Where the hell is Violet, Fiona?”
The wretched woman didn’t immediately turn from the fire she was standing and staring at, and Theo had to resist the urge to lunge across her drawing room and choke the answer out of her.
Where once, not but days ago, he had pitied Fiona, now only a feral hatred ran through his blood as he looked at the back of her perfectly coifed blond hair.
Fiona turned from the fireplace. Her eyes ran over Logan, assessing him as he stood behind Theo. Dismissing him, her gaze settled on Theo’s face. She smiled. The serene smile. He recognized it well. The one that held a stopper on the numerous monstrous schemes that ran rampant in her head.
“I am surprised it has taken you this long to come to me, Theo. I expected you to show early yesterday morning to make your demands of me. It is like old times, no?” She took a step toward him, her fingers clasping meekly in front of her black skirt. “Do you remember how demanding you were of me? How demanding you were of everyone?”
She was directly to the crux of it, then. Theo’s jaw tightened. “George made his own decisions, Fiona.”
“No.” She took another step toward him, her serene smile fixed on her heart-shaped lips. “You made the decisions, Alton. You made the orders. George followed them.”
“I had hoped you would be past this, Fiona.”
Of Sin & Sanctuary: A Revelry’s Tempest Novel Page 19