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Six years ago, on the night his engagement was to be announced to her friend Marie Fredericks, he had kissed quiet Violet Hagen on the shadowed terrace—later claiming he’d mistaken her for Marie as they were both red-haired and wearing blue gowns. Although really one was a sky blue and the other a sea foam, and Marie’s hair was more blond than red. Aside from that, Violet was decidedly taller and not as curved as Marie. His friends also admitted they had challenged him to give his fiancée a real kiss—the kind of kiss a man gives the woman he intends to marry—and had directed him to the terrace where they later swore they truly thought Marie was. There was as well far more partaking of spirits than was perhaps wise. Unfortunately, in their zeal to witness this real kiss, they tangled in the draperies covering the windows overlooking the terrace, ripping them down in the process and directing the attention of everyone in the room to the real kiss currently in progress right outside.
It wasn’t bad enough that he had kissed her but that she had kissed him back with a shocking amount of enthusiasm for a girl who had scarcely been kissed at all up to that point. And really did the hesitant brush of lips she’d experienced previously with two cautious young men even count as legitimate kisses? Admittedly, Violet had thought them rather thrilling until James had kissed her. She’d been shocked when he’d swept her into his arms. Then, with no more than a moment of hesitation, she had wrapped her arms around him, thinking surely he had realized Marie was the wrong match for him and Violet was so very right. When their lips met and his body pressed against hers, she’d discovered a passion she’d never imagined. It was a real kiss, or at least she had thought it was. She didn’t question the why of it. Stupid, as it turned out. She had no idea he had mistaken her for Marie until he raised his head and realized what he’d done. And that was the first crack of her heart.
The second was the shock on his face and he’d uttered, “Bloody hell, it’s you.”
What could she do but slap him hard across his face?
Still, the damage was done. Which apparently, in the more scandal-prone minds of society, was in the intensity of the embrace—just to add yet another layer of humiliation—rather than the slap. All in all it was the Holy Grail of gossip. A man whose engagement was about to be announced found in a compromising position with the friend of the intended fiancée. Her parents had then insisted on marriage as the scandal was such her mother warned she would never make a decent match now. James’s uncle Richard, the Earl of Ellsworth, had left James’s decision up to him but left unsaid the questions of honor and responsibility involved. In spite of James’s devil-may-care reputation, no one had ever questioned his word. Violet had protested—obviously James had no desire to marry her. It was pointed out James no longer had a choice, nor did she. James did what was expected and two days later they were married.
Through the years Violet did wonder what might have happened if she had refused to marry him. If she had stood up for herself.
She certainly did the morning after their wedding night when she learned he intended for their marriage to be little more than a pretense. When her heart had shattered. Violet had truly thought, up until that moment, there was the possibility they might make the best of this. They had been friends of a sort. If she had, in the back of her mind, wanted more, well, that was a silly thought. But she absolutely would not stay with a man who didn’t want her.
A week later, Violet engaged a companion—Mrs. Cleo Ryland, a delightful widow only a few years older than Violet—packed her bags and headed to Paris. James had provided her with the resources she needed to see everything she had ever read about, everything she’d ever dreamed of seeing. If he did not intend to be her husband, she intended to take full advantage of his generosity.
She had earned it.
“IT’S BEEN A long time since we danced together,” James said mildly.
He had danced with Violet any number of times before their marriage as he couldn’t dance exclusively with Marie. There were rules about that sort of thing. Violet and other friends and acquaintances were always with James and Marie and the couple was quite properly never alone. Marie wanted a dashing, handsome husband with a respectable title and a tidy fortune to provide her an unsullied position in society. She was not about to let so much as a hint of impropriety jeopardize that. In Marie’s eyes, James was a perfect fit.
“It’s been a long time since we’ve spoken.” Violet summoned a nondescript smile.
“Pride is a cruel mistress, Violet.”
“One of many mistresses, no doubt,” she said lightly. Regardless of how rarely she was in London, gossip about his numerous liaisons inevitably reached her, thanks to her mother and a handful of well-meaning friends. She’d ignored them for the most part. He had his life and she had hers.
“Regardless of what you might think of me, I meant that with all due sincerity.” He paused. “I am trying to admit to my past mistakes.”
“And then what?”
“Then atone for them.” He met her gaze directly.
She drew her brows together. “I’m not quite sure what you’re trying to say, James, but I am certain the dance floor in the middle of Lady Brockwell’s annual ball is not the best place to do it.”
“On the contrary, my dear.” He grinned and for a moment she saw the man she’d married. “We would make Lady Brockwell’s ball the talk of London.”
“Oh, I’d rather not. I’ve never particularly liked her.”
“Are you staying at Ellsworth House?” he asked.
“I always do.” She paused. “You had warning, I sent a telegram from Lisbon.” Whenever she headed toward London she sent a telegram to Andrews, James’s butler, to give the household notice as to her impending arrival. And give James the time he needed to escape.
“Thoughtful of you as always.” He cast her his most charming smile. “Now, may I escort you home?”
“I’m not sure I am ready to leave.”
“Forgive me if it sounded like a question. It wasn’t.”
She raised a brow. “Is that an order, then?”
He hesitated then grimaced. “Of course not. Sorry, I’ve never dealt with a wife before.”
“Not one of your own, you mean.”
His eyes narrowed slightly, as if she had pushed him too far. Good.
“And I’ve never dealt with a husband. But one dance and then we’re off?” She shook her head. “Won’t that set them all to talking? Why are Lord and Lady Ellsworth leaving so early? What do you think they’re up to? That sort of thing.”
“Probably, but only until the next interesting tidbit comes along. Should be no more than a day or two.”
It really was pointless to argue with him. And they did have things to talk about that were best discussed in private. She wasn’t sure she was prepared to do so tonight, however.
The music ended and he tucked her hand in the crook of his arm and steered her in a relaxed manner toward the door, stopping here and there to exchange a word with acquaintances. As if there was nothing at all out of the ordinary for Lord and Lady Ellsworth to be in the same room together let alone departing as a couple.
Once they had settled in the carriage, Violet let out a resigned sigh. “You do realize my mother will hear of this and will probably be calling on us by morning.”
“My apologies.”
She chose her words carefully. “I’m not sure I would have attended the ball if I had known you were going to be there.”
“Whereas I knew you were going to be there and thought it better to greet you in public.”
“Oh?”
“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” he said abruptly. “To London, I mean.”
“I am here because of Uncle Richard, of course,” she said coolly, ignoring the catch in her throat. “I was so saddened to hear of his passing. I wish I had come to see him again.”
Uncle Richard had never thought it necessary to vacate the premises upon her visits home. He and Violet had spent long hours together during her stays, playing cards or chess, attending plays or lectures, and discussing whatever happened to pass through their minds. He’d been ill for some time but on her last visit a year ago, she’d thought he had improved. He was the only person who had ever accepted her for who she was rather than who she used to be or who she should be. Sorrow stabbed her at the thought of never seeing him again.
“You didn’t come when he died two months ago.”
“It seemed pointless.”
“I assume you received notice from his solicitor about tomorrow’s meeting?”
She nodded. The letter had insisted she return to London as soon as possible, as per Uncle Richard’s instructions. It was followed by a telegram confirming her attendance at tomorrow’s meeting. “Do you know what it’s regarding?”
“Uncle Richard’s final wishes.” He shrugged. “Beyond that, I have no idea.”
“Then we shall both be surprised,” she said under her breath.
While it did strike her as an ordinary conversation, tension fairly bounced off the walls of the carriage. Idle chatter seemed absurd. There was so much of importance to say, issues that needed to be resolved. And yet here and now, she couldn’t bring herself to say anything. What did one say to a husband one hadn’t spoken to in nearly six years? Silence was far wiser at the moment. But it was past time. One of them had to be honest enough to do what needed to be done. It was more than likely to be her. Goodness, hadn’t she been working up her courage for years? Still, it might be better to hear what the solicitor had to say. Another day or two would make no real difference.
James helped her from the carriage and escorted her into the grand house near Grosvenor Square. Andrews greeted them, handed her wrap to a footman and promptly vanished, no doubt within calling distance should he be needed. The butler was the very soul of discretion. Regardless, Violet suspected he and any number of other servants were observing them from some unseen location.
“I usually have a glass of brandy in the library before bed,” James said in an offhand manner. “Would you care to join me?”
“I’m afraid I’ve had a very long day. I would prefer to retire for the night.” She smiled politely and turned toward the stairs. Coward, a voice whispered in the back of her head. A civilized brandy in the comfort of Uncle Richard’s library would be the perfect opportunity for calm, rational discussion. Regardless, she simply wasn’t ready. She’d assumed she wouldn’t see him until they met in the solicitor’s office. She never imagined she’d see him, dance with him, tonight.
“I had hoped we could talk.”
She turned back to him. “Now?” She narrowed her eyes. “Why?”
“It just seems like an opportune time. That’s all.” He paused. “We’ve never really talked.”
“No, we haven’t.” And whose fault is that? She bit back the words and heaved a weary sigh. “It’s been almost six years, James. Surely whatever you have to say can wait another day.”
He gazed at her for a long moment then nodded. “Of course.” He paused. “That was very nice of you. Encouraging Westmont to dance with those girls.”
“I am very nice.” Her gaze met his. “And I know how they feel.”
“Yes, I suppose you do.” He looked as if he wanted to say something else, then thought better of it. “Good night, Violet.”
“Good night, James.” She nodded and started up the grand staircase, refusing to look back at him. She knew he watched her, felt his gaze on her as if his eyes were burning into her back.
Her room was at the farthest end of the hall from his. Aside from a single night, she and James had never before slept under the same roof. That thought alone was enough to keep her from getting so much as a wink of sleep. Add to that, Uncle Richard’s mysterious final wishes and her own desire to at last resolve things between them and move on with their lives and anything approximating true rest was impossible.
Beyond all else, she couldn’t get James’s comment out of her head. Was he truly ready to face his past mistakes? Did those mistakes include her?
And how on earth did he intend to atone for that?
CHAPTER TWO (#udd143778-0894-5eb0-bd50-12ebad7cd5b6)
“AND SHE’S BACK,” Ophelia Higginbotham said under her breath and resisted the urge to slide under the covers and pull them up over her head.
“How are you feeling, Effie?” Persephone Fitzhew-Wellmore sailed into the room like a ray of unrelenting sunshine. She glanced at Lady Guinevere Blodgett, sitting nearby in Effie’s bedroom and currently perusing the obituary section of the Times as she had done every day in recent years. “How is she?”
Gwen didn’t look up from the page. After all, it wasn’t as if she hadn’t been asked the question every time Poppy entered the room. “Much better I think.”
“I am.” Effie nodded in her healthiest manner. “Oh, I am indeed. I feel much, much better. Why, I daresay I’ll be out of bed in no time.”
“I doubt that.” Poppy’s brow furrowed and she eyed the other woman closely. “I think you look extremely pale. Doesn’t she, Gwen?”
“Oh my, yes,” Gwen murmured.
“There, you see? Gwen agrees with me,” Poppy said firmly. “They’ll be no more discussion about it. Although you may read today’s post if you feel up to it.” She set a small stack of correspondence on the tray on Effie’s lap.
“And I do.” Effie voice rang with eagerness. Even invoices would be a respite from the endless boredom of being waited on hand and foot. Still, it couldn’t be helped.
“We’ll see how you feel tomorrow.” Poppy shook her head in a chastising manner. “This is your third relapse of whatever illness has been plaguing you.” She paused. “Perhaps we should have Dr. Wrenfield—”
“No,” Gwen and Effie said at the same time.
“You know how Effie hates to be a bother,” Gwen said quickly. “Besides, the doctor has been here once already and was unable to identify the true nature of her illness.”
“Yes, but I wasn’t here when he called,” Poppy said. “Perhaps if I were to give him my observations, it might help him in determining what the problem is.”
“I really can’t afford another visit,” Effie added.
It was the one thing Poppy couldn’t argue with.
Finances were more and more distressing for the three widows. Their husbands had all died within the past few years—Gwen’s Sir Charles and Poppy’s Malcomb three years ago, followed the next year by Effie’s dear William. The men, who had all lived lives of adventure and exploration and excitement, had been felled by the most ordinary of circumstances—Sir Charles had succumbed to a recurrent bout of malaria, Malcomb passed on in his chair in front of the fire so peacefully it took Poppy several hours to realize he had indeed left this life and Effie’s dear William, having had a long and illustrious career in Her Majesty’s army without scarcely a scrape, fell from a ladder he shouldn’t have been on in the first place. It was scant comfort to Effie that she’d told him not to climb the blasted ladder.
While they were excellent husbands—even if they were scarcely ever present, which, depending upon one’s point of view, might have contributed to their long and happy marriages—they’d not given enough thought to providing for their wives’ financial futures in the event of their demise. Gwen suspected, as they had survived any number of perilous adventures, they never imagined their days would be cut short in the relative safety of home. The end result of their lack of foresight was that their widows were slowly and inevitably running out of funds. The three friends had each saved some money through the years, and Effie did have a small military pension, but they estimated it would not be long before they would all be penniless. Being penniless as well as in one’s seventies was not a pleasant prospect.
“Of course.” Poppy sighed. “We really have to do something about that.” She straightened her shoulders. “For now I shall see if your cook has the broth ready.”
“Oh, goody.” Effie forced a cheery smile. “Broth.”
“You’re fortunate your cook is so skilled at broth.” Poppy cast Effie an encouraging smile and took her leave.
“Mm-mm, more broth,” Gwen said softly, the corners of her mouth twitching in an effort to hold back a laugh.
“I hate broth.” Effie let out a resigned breath. “This won’t be nearly as funny next week when you’re the one in bed.”
Gwen lowered the paper. “Oh, no. We agreed there should be at least two to three weeks between illnesses so as not to arouse her suspicions.”
“I’m not sure I can do this again.” Effie shuffled through the envelopes on the tray. “There’s nothing worse than being forced to stay in bed when there’s nothing whatsoever wrong with you.”
“And who knows better than I?”
It had been Gwen’s bout with a persistent cold that had given them the idea of feigning illness in the first place. It had seemed a brilliant idea at the time. Neither of them had imagined how terribly draining acting ill could be. But it was all they could think of and they had agreed something must be done about Poppy’s melancholy state.
The three had been friends—no, sisters—for more than forty years now, drawn together by the absence of husbands wandering the world in search of adventure. Aside from Gwen’s niece and great-nephew, none of them had any real family nor had any of them been blessed with children. But through thick and thin, for most of their lives, they could count on each other. Now, Poppy needed them even if she would never admit it.
She was the youngest of the three by two years and had always been the cheeriest of the group. Nothing in Poppy’s estimation was so dire it would not ultimately work out for the best. Gwen was the most practical of the trio and Effie had long accepted she was the one more prone to sarcasm, snide comments and an often too-colorful vocabulary. She had once decided the three of them were very much like ancient Greek goddesses. Poppy was the goddess of peace and love and all things bright and happy. Gwen was the goddess of wisdom and practicality. Effie was the goddess of war. She rather liked that.
But the bright light that was Poppy had dimmed since Malcomb’s death. Oh, Effie and Gwen had mourned the loss of their husbands every bit as deeply. One would have thought, as they had lived much of their lives without their spouses, their passing would have been easier. But it was one thing to fear the man you loved might never come home and something else entirely to know that he wouldn’t. Perhaps because Effie and Gwen did not see the world through the rose-colored haze that Poppy did, it was somewhat easier to face whatever life now had in store.
Gwen had thought, and Effie agreed, that it wasn’t just Malcomb’s death that had depressed Poppy’s spirits. Her husband’s passing had been followed that same year by Sir Charles and then William the following year. Gwen had likened it to a plague only without the locusts. She and Effie had agreed, unlike so many widows of their acquaintance, they at least knew how to take care of themselves. Of course, they hadn’t realized the perilous state of their respective finances and they never expected Poppy’s melancholy to linger.
It was quite by accident that they discovered when she was busy, she almost seemed her old self. They had then cunningly guided her into volunteering to reorganize the library and collections of the Explorers Club. That in itself took nearly a year and far more of their own time than they had planned on. Who ever would have suspected Poppy had the talent of a general for barking orders and delegating tasks. Effie had always considered her a bit scattered. When one of the ladies on the board of the club’s Ladies Committee resigned to move to York to be with her daughter’s family, they had encouraged Poppy to stand for that seat. She was universally liked and no one ran against her but the position did not take up nearly as much of Poppy’s time as Effie and Gwen had hoped. Then Gwen had come down with a nasty cold and Poppy had charged in to help with her care, and her friends realized this would indeed give her a project of sorts to fill her time. At least until they could come up with something better.
“We’re going to have to think of something else soon, you know. Something to occupy her days and her mind.” Effie sorted her mail into two stacks—the accounts due she could fortunately still pay, and correspondence of an interesting nature. That stack was sadly comprised of only one crisp, cream-colored envelope.
“I am trying to think of something. I have no desire to take to my bed again.” Gwen returned to her study of the obituaries. “Oh look, that nice Mrs. Hackett died. What a shame.”
“I thought you detested Mrs. Hackett.” Effie picked up the envelope and examined it. The stationery was of excellent quality, the handwriting unfamiliar and a bit unsteady. She turned it over. Some sort of embossed seal was on the flap. How very interesting indeed.
“I did, but now she’s dead.” Gwen thought for a moment. “In the scheme of things, one could say I won.”
“Whoever is left standing wins?” Effie slit the envelope with a letter opener, a replica of a sword her husband had owned.
“Something like that.” Gwen settled back in her chair. “I don’t know why I insist on reading these death notices. It seems there is at least one acquaintance listed nearly every day. Why, everyone we know is dropping dead.”
“These things tend to happen when one reaches a certain age.” Effie pulled several pages from the envelope and started to read.
