Page 16 of My Darling Mr. Darling
“I thought you said it was easier blindfolded,” Violet snipped as her fingers coasted over the remaining keys. She thought she had felt somethingwantto turn within the lock on her last attempt, but something else had prevented it, so she selected one of a similar shape—two prongs instead of three—and jabbed it in Serena’s direction. “So help me, if you prattle on aboutpatienceeven once more…”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.” Serena said blandly. “Go on,” she said, with a nod at the key. “We’ll be up all night at this rate.”
“What happened to patience!”
“You implored me to abandon it.”
With a guttural growl, Violet jammed the key into the lock and twisted it—and for half a moment, itturned. A cry of surprise turned into a sigh of aggravation, and she wilted back upon her heels.
“They are rarely exact,” Serena murmured. “Sometimes you have got to—well, convince them that theywantto fit. Give it a wiggle, then.”
It took a bit more than a wiggle, in fact, but with some coaxing, and the low squeal of metal abrading metal, at last, atlast, the tool made its full rotation, and the door opened beneath the pressure of her fingers.
“I did it,” Violet said, breathlessly.
“So you did.” Serena stuck out her hand to clasp Violet’s and pulled her to her feet. “Do you know, I think this is the first time thatIhave had something to teachyou.” She was smiling as she said it, in that peculiar, light-hearted way that she had, as if nothing evil in the world had ever touched her. It was the sort of smile that forgave all trespasses, forgot all treachery.
It was the sort of smile that flayed Violet’s conscience to shreds. The sort that stripped every placid line from Violet’s face and wreathed it in misery instead. And she had to turn her face away from the sympathy and compassion that came in the wake of that smile.
“Oh, Violet,” Serena whispered. She wound her arm around Violet’s shoulders and pulled her into a loose embrace. “You’re my very best friend. I hope you know that.”
She did, of course, but that didn’t make it any easier to bear. Some things could be snatched away so easily. Even things that by all rights should have lasted. Home. Family.Love.
But something inside her—something that ought to have died a hundred times before now but instead had withered and shrunk andwaited—compelled her to lift her own arms and carefully, tentatively, return the embrace. She had never stopped wanting this; a real human connection. It would kill something inside of her to lose it.
She swallowed hard and mumbled, “You’re still a fool, you know,” into the soft muslin comprising the shoulder of Serena’s gown. But there was no heat to the words.
Serena merely laughed. “I know,” she said. “I know—you never tire of telling me.” She drained the last of her brandy and gestured with the glass toward the staircase. “Well,” she said. “It’s near to eleven, but Grey knows not to expect me tonight. Do you feel confident enough to risk a visit to Mr. Darling’s townhouse?”
“I suppose so,” Violet allowed. “But you must stay in the carriage this time,” she said as she bent to retrieve the collection of keys, stuffing them within her pocket. Mr. Darling’s earlier suggestion—as if heknew, as if he might beexpectingher—made her uneasy. She could not in good conscience involve Serena any more than necessary. “You’re my very best friend, too,” she admitted. “If worse should come to worst, I wouldn’t have you embroiled in another scandal.”
And though Serena looked as though she dearly wished to argue, she held her tongue. “Oh, allright,” she said at last. “But I want to heareverythingabout your class on the way.”
∞∞∞
Lying in bed with a glass of warm milk—milk, for God’s sake, because his housekeeper, Mrs. Morris, insisted it was better for sleep than liquor, and he hadn’t the heart to refuse it—John stared at Violet’s portrait and tried to determine what expression the candlelight cast over her features this evening. He had expected reproach, somehow, or vitriol, or censure, but the light played over her painted cheeks, imbuing them with a glowing warmth. It highlighted the merry quirk of her brows, amplified the point of her chin, and she looked…mischievous. An impish creature, full of pranks and laughter and devilment.
In the moment, he could see it—that bewitching quality that had made Townsend sound so bloodyproudto call his daughter ‘hopeless’ and mean it as a compliment. She hadn’t the sort of calm, even temperament that would have been prized on the marriage mart…but in all likelihood she would have made a brilliant match regardless, because what shedidhave was more rare and precious.
And it would have had nothing to do with the dowry she would have brought with her. There were women more beautiful, but Violet—Violet, in her element, was a compelling figure. And right now, her stage was the drawing room of Serena’s townhouse, and she had played her role beautifully.
He wondered if she was aware that Mr. Simmons was halfway in love with her already. It had taken perhaps an hour to have the gentlemen of her class eating from the palm of her hand. Simmons especially had looked at her as if she had alighted from the very heavens. John was merely surprised the boy hadn’t taken himself to one knee to recite poetry to her.
Byron, he thought. The boy seemed the Byron sort.
John briefly considered paying a call upon the Simmons family and suggesting that they remove their progeny from Violet’s class. It smacked of elitism; an image he had never attempted to cultivate. But there would still be Mr. Green, Mr. Collins, and Mr. Mitchell to contend with besides, and even if he managed to take care of them as well, should Violet find that four out of five of her pupils had suddenly vanished, she would—correctly—assume that he had been responsible.
Damn. It was an attractive thought, at least—turning the tables on the situation, gaining an upper hand he’d not had in years. If he weren’t careful, he might well end up as Machiavellian as Grey, which would be excessively tiresome. Running a business kept him busy enough, and now with the addition of Violet’s classes three afternoons a week, he hadn’t the energy for plots and schemes, no matter how stimulating.
Violet’s portrait seemed to agree. Or perhaps she was merely pleased to have commandeered so much of his attention. Blast it—her expression seemed to change with his mood, and brooding over a portrait was hardly a productive way to spend an evening.
Leaning over, he puffed out the candle and resolved to give sleep an honest attempt. The house was quiet, dark, settled. Wentworth could sleep soundly this evening, as it hadn’t rained in the past few days, and so John’s efforts to quiet his mind were unlikely to be disturbed by the aged butler creeping downstairs for a cup of tea.
But theyweredisturbed by muffled curse from the hallway, followed by an odd, muted jingling noise. A brief rattle, another curse—someone was in his home.
No, notsomeone—Violet.
He simply hadn’t expected it so soon. He hadn’t expected her to risk a break-in while he washome; not when she and Serena had taken advantage of his absence on their first visit. Possibly she was emboldened now; relying on the certainty that even if shewerecaught, he was hardly likely to notify the authorities.