Page 43 of My Darling Mr. Darling
“So I should be asking you,” Serena said, clasping Violet’s shoulders. “When John kidnapped you—”
The marquess rolled his eyes. “Mouse, Itoldyou—”
“He didn’t kidnap me,” Violet said, ignoring the speaking glance that the marquess directed to Serena. “Why would you think he had?” A terrible thought occurred. “Have you beenspyingon me?”
“Spyingis such an ugly word,” the marquess said. “I prefer the termreconnaissance.”
“It’s the same thing!” Violet withdrew her hands from Serena’s, stepping away. “Why would you do such a thing?” But she had the horrible, sinking sensation that she knew, and a large lump rose in her throat. “Am I so untrustworthy that you must set spies upon me?” she asked of the marquess, hating the quaver of emotion in her voice. She had, after all, lied to the man’s face some months past when first she had sought a position within his household—and all of London knew that he was not a man to cross. She had never thought her deception had been forgiven, but she had hoped that they had all tacitly agreed to forget it. More fool, her. “I realize that I have not always been honest, but you must know that I would never—”
The marquess held up his hands. “Notme,” he said. “Mouse,tell her.”
“It was my idea,” Serena said in a rush. “Notbecause I don’t trust you—not at all. I just—well, I wanted a bit of warning if you decided to leave. And then, well, with John coming round, it seemed like a good idea to…keep an eye on him.”
The uncomfortable lump in Violet’s throat shrank just a bit. “You were spying onJohn?”
Serena gave a sheepish smile. “Well, it had occurred to me that John can be a bit…intense. Grey says he’s so accustomed to managing things that it hadn’t occurred to him that some people don’t care to be managed. At my request, Grey hired a few Runners who were in need of private commissions to take watches over the house and report any suspicious activity—”
“And I took John to task when I felt the situation called for it,” the marquess said. “Fortunately, public perception still holds with my villainy.”
“Don’t you meanunfortunately?” Violet inquired.
“No,” the marquess replied, not in the least abashed. “Villainy has its uses. And it is far more entertaining to manipulate one’s friends than one’s enemies.”
“How…Machiavellian,” Violet said weakly.
The marquess chuckled, unoffended. “The benefit of having so dark a reputation is that, when one makes threats, one tends to be believed. I told John that, since he’d made the monumental mistake of misplacing his wife, I considered you to be beneath my protection—and that I expected him to conform to certain standards of behavior.” He braced one hand upon the newel post, clearly enjoying himself. “For what it’s worth, I believe him to be basically honorable—or at least as much as a man can be relied upon to be. I did tell Mouse that he hadn’t kidnapped you, but she flew into a tizzy regardless. However, I did manage to talk her down from beating in John’s front door.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Serena grumbled, her lips drawn into a pout. “I would have knocked.”
“Mouse, you were prepared to strangle him with your bare hands—which would no doubt have been fascinating to watch you attempt, but the authorities tend to look poorly upon such things, and, really, garroting is so much more efficient.” He lifted his brows in mock-innocence as Violet stared at him in horror. “What? If one is going to commit a murder, one might as well plan for it properly. Which is not to say that I don’t have the influence to keep my wife out of jail, but it would still be preferable if she did not find her wayintoit to begin with.” He cleared his throat, rubbing one hand over his jaw. “To that end, I would be most appreciative if you were to assure my wife that her murderous inclinations—such as they are—are unnecessary. I have few enough friends; I would hate to lose your husband over so minor a misunderstanding.”
Violet felt her mouth fall open, lost for words. But Serena shifted from one foot to the other expectantly, oblivious to her husband’s soft sigh and faintly pleading gaze behind her. It did not surprise her that, given the circumstances, Serena had hastened over. Itdidsurprise her that the marquess had humored her concern. In her experience, very few gentlemen indeed would have considered their wives’ friends worthy of their concern.
“He invited me to dinner,” Violet said at last. “To see my father’s house again, and the staff. It was—it was really very lovely.” Her voice came out hoarser than she would have liked, choked with conflicting emotions. “He gave me my mother’s portrait, and—and my old doll, Rosamund.” She lifted the small frame aloft and pulled the cloth doll from where it had been tucked beneath her arm.
“There, you see?” The marquess strode across the floor to drape his arm over Serena’s shoulders. “As I said, no harm done.” His speculative gaze landed on Violet. “Therewasno harm done, was there? Or ought I to have words with John?”
“No! No, there isn’t the least need,” Violet squeaked, steeped in embarrassment. She took a deep breath, striving for some semblance of calm. “My lord, I don’t understand why you would go to such trouble after I—after I lied to you.” She swallowed hard, wondering if she hadn’t just made a monumental mistake in bringing it out into the open. Perhaps some things were better off unacknowledged—perhaps, so long as one pretended they did not exist, they could simply simmer beneath the surface in perpetuity.
“Oh, Violet,” Serena sighed, clasping her hands before her. “You really must forgive yourself for that.”
Her sympathetic tone was simply too much for Violet to endure, and she blinked rapidly to stave off the sudden threat of tears, forcing raspy words through the tightness of her throat. “You’ve been so very kind already to not simply turn me over to the authorities—”
“The authorities?” the marquess inquired, baffled. “Whatever for? It’s hardly a crime to live under an assumed name, so long as one is not evading creditors in the doing of it. To my understanding, your only intent was to conceal your identity, is that not so?”
“Yes,” Violet acknowledged, “but I beg you to believe I had no intention of bringing my troubles to your door.”
“Well,” the marquess said, “I brought John to yours—so I suppose that puts it all even, wouldn’t you say?” He offered a crooked grin and a shrug, squeezing Serena close to his side. “You have been a good friend to Mouse. There is nothing more important to me than that. As far as I am concerned, any friend of my wife’s is a friend of mine, no matter what her name may—or may not—be. So, shall we begin again, honestly this time?” He extended his hand to her. “I’m Grey St. Clair. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
He introduced himself to her like one gentleman might do to another; as if they were equals. A horrid little knot of fear deep inside her began to loose itself, just a bit. Shifting the doll to her other hand, she reached out to clasp the marquess’ hand in hers. “Violet,” she said, and this time, it didn’t feel like a mask, or an ill-fitting gown, or even a lie. For the first time, her namefeltlike hers. As if she had truly taken ownership of it once more. “Violet Townsend.”
“There, now,” Grey said, a hint of a smile playing about the corners of his mouth, which surprised Violet to the tips of her toes. “We’ve been properly introduced, and the past is put behind us.”
“Well, that’s all well and good,” Serena sniffed, “but, Grey, youmustspeak with John—”
“Mouse, don’t you think that ought to be Violet’s decision?” he asked of his wife. “You can be as managing as John when you’ve set your mind to something, you realize.” His tone suggested amusement rather than aggravation, and so Violet gathered that he had meant the mild reproach fondly. “What say you, Violet?”
For a moment, Violet struggled against the urge to demur. So rarely had her opinion been solicited—and even rarer still, that the solicitor had desired her honest opinion rather than just to hear his or her own opinion parroted back. She had grown so accustomed to hiding in the shadows that stepping out into the light was terrifying and blinding. A misstep could provoke offense or ire—or worse, the possibility that the fragile friendship into which she had somehow stumbled might be withdrawn.