Page 25 of My Darling Mr. Darling

How could Violetnotbe threatened by him? If he had elected to bodily remove her from Serena’s townhouse, the law would have been on his side. She had no rights but those he granted her, no personal property—even what wages she had earned in each miserable position she had taken belonged solely to him under color of law.

It added a new, starker flair to the guilt that already scored his gut. It had developed layers, like a cake, towering one on top of the other, and each tier revealed some new unpardonable sin he hadn’t even known he had committed, hadn’t even been aware of—but certainly things that Violet had lived with every day of her life since she’d escaped Mrs. Selkirk’s. And really, though she would not speak to him, he wanted her to know how proud he was that she had done it, that she had been brave enough, cunning enough, to break free of that place.

So why hadn’t he? The answer came swiftly, and he pushed back his chair and stared at the letter resting atop so many other discarded papers in the rubbish bin, the scarlet sealing wax still unbroken.

He had written to her before, after a fashion. And she had even responded, if obliquely—but it had been enough for him to surmise that she had, at least, readthe advertisements he’d placed inTheTimes. Almost as if Violet had never quite curbed that impulsiveness her father had found so delightful—for all the Mrs. Selkirk had done her very best to beat it out of her.

Quite literally.

She might not respond. But he would lay good money on the possibility that she would read.

And so he removed a sheet of fresh paper from his desk drawer, took up his pen, and began to write.

∞∞∞

Friday dawned dreary and with distinct tang of impending rain in the air. The threat of a storm hung heavy over London, and though carriages still wheeled about the streets, passersby were rare—and those that had ventured out despite the ominous weather were cloaked in heavy coats and hats, tucked within shawls and muffs and capes; just faceless bodies shuffling about, eager to arrive at their destinations.

Violet sat tucked into a window seat, awaiting the deluge. There was something so glorious about a summer storm. Cathartic, in fact—like the tempestuous sky reflected her own inner turmoil. To see it spent in a way she could never manage soothed something wild and chaotic that lurked inside of her. The flash of lightning seethed beneath her skin, the crack of thunder rolled in her veins, and the clouds that battled across the sky was the very same maelstrom that had swirled around her heart for so many years.

She relished the frenzied violence of storms, and whenever one blew through outside, she felt quieterinside. A little calmer. Almost peaceful. And peace was a rare enough sensation that it was to be savored at any and every opportunity.

It seemed thatpeacewas not a destination at which one simply arrived after a long journey. She had discovered that swiftly enough upon the elevation in her status; first to lady’s companion and now to entrepreneur. Peace, for Violet, had not been achieved in a life devoid of mundane concerns, nor was it found in fine furnishings or quality clothing. She had beautiful gowns and soft gloves, more hats and shoes than she had ever owned in her life…and yet she had never felt more naked. A feeling which did not precisely lend itself to a peaceful state of mind.

A lonesome droplet pinged against the window, clung for a moment, and then rolled slowly down the pane. Violet traced its path with the tip of her finger, watching its trail devolve down into nothingness. Three more followed—soon enough the storm would begin in earnest.

Already she had chased three inquisitive maids away. They had come bearing gifts of a sort—biscuits, tea, a blanket for her lap because apparently she looked certain to take a chill, pressed up against the cold glass of the window. It was not a secret, precisely, that Violet had come to her position in an irregular fashion. She was fairly certain she had even shared a past employer with one of the downstairs maids, though their tenures had overlapped only a week or so. But it was plain enough that they did not know how to deal with her.

Serena had been easy enough to please, undemanding and genial. Really, she was the ideal employer for anyone in service. She did not shout, or throw things—well, not at the staff, anyway—and she rarely had a cross word to say to anyone. But Violet—

Violet chased the maids from the kitchen to prepare her own breakfasts. She made her own bed, cleared her own dishes, and poured her own drinks. She would have done her own laundry, had the maids not developed a habit of nipping in to retrieve discarded gowns while she slept.

These things had become ingrained in her over the years, and putting someone else to the trouble of attending to her needs—whether or not they were paid a handsome wage for their efforts—sat uncomfortably with her. So they did not know what to make of her, the staff, and often went to strange lengths to gain her approval.

Which they would have in perpetuity, if they would simply allow her to enjoy the imminent rain inpeace. The clouds had shifted to a dark, gloomy grey, and brief flickers of lightning shifted within them, and she wanted only to watch the storm break over the city.

“Miss? There’s a letter come for you.” Davis’ voice held an odd note of hesitance within it, and Violet glanced up to see him standing in the door of the library, a letter held on a silver salver in his hands.

“For me?” Violet felt her brows draw together. She had received letters before, of course, but they had always been from Serena, and if that were the case now, Davis surely would have said. “Who is it from?”

“I’m afraid I can’t say,” he replied. “It was delivered by courier—along with a large bouquet of flowers—but the lad who delivered them did not disclose the sender before he hustled off again. Would you like me to bring you the bouquet?”

Violet stretched her hand out to snatch up the letter. “I suppose,” she said absently, tucking a loose curl behind her ear as she considered the bold scrawl that covered the front face of the folded letter.

Miss Violet Townsend

Miss Mary Winstead

Miss Susan Hargrave

Miss Maude Lipton

Miss Elizabeth Pettigrew

Miss Lucy Johnstone

Miss Kate Danvers

Miss Grace Kincaid