Page 65 of My Darling Mr. Darling

There is no one else to whom I can entrust my most precious treasure, John.

I had always hoped to arrange a meeting between the two of you, when Violet was ready to make her debut. I have always felt that, had there been the opportunity, you would certainly adore her as I do. Now, I know that I will not live to see that day at last arrive.

I beg you to forgive me from taking the choice from you. I know you to be an honorable man. I lay my daughter’s future in your hands knowing that you will care for her, that you will protect her, and that you will treasure her as she deserves. May you find in each other that same happiness I shared with my dearest Rosamund.

I entrust to you, John, my beloved Violet, and I am proud to call you, at last and in truth, my son.

Yours Most Sincerely,

George Phineas Townsend

Violet swiped at her eyes, which had grown uncomfortably moist. John had carried this letter on his person for nearly eight years; the last thing she wished to do was mar it with tearstains. Carefully she folded it back into its neat square and offered it back.

He hesitated, his fingers just shy of taking it. “Would you prefer to keep it?”

She shook her head. “It’s yours. It was addressed to you.”

“He was your father.”

“He was yours, too, in a way.” She had had him for seventeen years. She could be generous and share the memory of her father with the man who had loved him, too.

“I wanted him to be,” John admitted. “I felt deceived—furious—when I learned the contents of his will, learned what he had done.” He set the letter aside, safe upon the nightstand, and dragged his fingers through his disheveled hair. “And then, when I remembered the letter, when I read it at last—I felt only shame. That he had entrusted me with you, and that I had failed him. I tried to make it right, tried to bring you back, but it was far too late for that. You had already gone.”

And he had been searching for her ever since. Far from the monster she had thought him, he had been just the same as she—indignant, hurt, and confused. It was onlybecausehe had found her that she might have a future at last, because hewasexactly the sort of man her father had thought him to be.

Perhaps Papa had been even more correct than he knew. Perhaps if he had had the time, he would have introduced them—at a ball, or a musicale, or a dinner party. Perhaps they would have met and fallen in love gradually, just as she had once dreamed.

Perhaps that dream was not out of reach.

∞∞∞

John was not surprised when Mitchell arrived at his office unannounced. The man had been spoiling for a fight for days, and though Violet’s quick, fierce corrections had more than once put him in his place and produced at least a slightly more amiable version of him for the duration of the class, his increasing truculence had left little doubt as to the identity of the family to whom his grandfather had sold him.

It explained everything. Mitchell’s presence in Violet’s class, his snide demeanor, his vague sense of superiority. He had likely been in negotiations with the earl the entire time, secure and smug in the knowledge that he had outmaneuvered John at last. Likely his vindictive streak had delighted in the opportunity to inflict himself upon John, when John was none the wiser as to what awaited him.

Except he had not succeeded, and his attitude of late left little doubt that the earl had reneged upon his promise and informed Mitchell that, regrettably, he had been unable to bring his grandson to heel.

In a fit of temper, Mitchell swept his arm across John’s desk, sending papers flying. “I’ll sue you,” he snarled. “For breach of promise.”

“I wish you luck with that,” John replied, strangely calm despite the sudden chaos that Mitchell had made of his work. “I have promised you nothing.”

“Promises were made on your behalf,” Mitchell sneered. “Money changed hands. My sister expected to be Mrs. Darlingere long. She finds the appellationdarling, naturally.”

John barely resisted the temptation to roll his eyes. “Unfortunately, you will have to take your disappointed hopes up with my grandfather. I would recommend that you reclaim any funds you may have given him quickly, as he is a notorious spendthrift. He’ll run through it swiftly.”

“I doubt even your spendthrift grandfather could run through two hundred thousand pounds so swiftly,” Mitchell bit out.

“Two hundred thousand?” John gasped in mock surprise. “I do believe that would make me the catch of the Season—and it hasn’t even begun yet.” He motioned to one of the clerks lingering outside the open door, and the young man swept in to begin clearing the mess. “While I’m certain your sister is all that is amiable and charming, bigamy remains frowned upon most strenuously.”

“Bigamy?” Mitchell reeled back. “Catherine is entirely free to marry.”

“Lovely for her. I’m certain she’ll take quickly, once she has been given Serena’s—that is, Lady Granbury’s—stamp of approval. However, I was speaking of myself.” John accepted the stack of papers the clerk shoved into his hand and began sorting them into order once more.

“You? You’re not married. I would have known. Someone would have said.” But Mitchell’s eyes had narrowed speculatively, assessing the veracity of John’s claim.

“Likely they would have, if it were common knowledge.” It was spiteful and petty of him, but John took a perverse delight in staring Mitchell straight in the eyes. “In fact, you have already met my wife. Her name is Violet. Of course, you know her asMiss Townsend.”

Mitchell’s jaw had gone so taut that John fancied he could bounce a sixpence off of it. He made a scathing sound in his throat, and his nostrils flared in a manner more becoming of a spooked horse than a man. With an unintelligible roar of fury, he slapped the newly-organized documents out of John’s hand, sending papers strewing about his office once more. Amidst the elegant flutter of assorted paperwork spiraling in sweeping arcs toward the ground, Mitchell slammed out of John’s office in a manner entirely too reminiscent of the earl.