Page 11 of Becoming Lady Dalton
“About eleven, shall we say?”
“I, ah...”
Before she could stammer a suitable excuse, Viola was caught by the sound of Dalton’s voice over her shoulder.
“The Runners would like to see you now.”
“Me?” Viola squeaked, feeling as articulate and hunted as a mouse. She had no reason to feel this way. But the thought of magistrates and the sight of scowling men in greatcoats brought to mind unhappy memories of her husband’s arrest and incarceration in debtors’ prison a full day’s journey from Upper Cotwarren. Only the reassuring scent of crisp linen and expensive soap and Dalton’s hand beneath her elbow strengthened her legs enough to stand.
“Yes. They’ve set up a table in the card room and are interviewing everyone who witnessed the robbery.”
“How do they know it was a robbery and not simply a spate of loose clasps?” Viola snapped, casting a longing glance backward at the empty champagne bottle. She ought to have at least finished her coupe. The admiral caught her eye and waggled his fingers.
Oh, no.Viola’s heart sank into her stomach. Had she agreed to see him, or was the man deliberately misunderstanding her reluctance? Either way, there was nothing to be done about it now.
“It’ll be all right. They’re hardly friendly, but they’re not going to arrest you. Unless, of course, you stole the diamonds,” Dalton remarked humorlessly. The grim cast of his mouth said he had not enjoyed his time with the officers.
“I have no use for jewels. I am perfectly content with paste. Why would they want to interview me?” Alarm rose in her throat, tasting of bile.
“They want to speak with everyone, Viola. It’s all right. I won’t let anyone take you away.”
“Thank you,” Viola said simply when she could speak again. “I must warn you that I have inadvertently agreed to be carted off in Admiral Saxon’s carriage tomorrow at eleven.”
“Have you now? Does this mean I have competition for your hand?”
Piers’ words made Viola smile. He brushed her cheek with one knuckle. The room turned very warm suddenly. Only the tips of her fingers inside her satin gloves remained cold.
“You know there is no competition for my hand,” she whispered. But Piers could never know the reason why. Despite her grandmother’s insistence and expectations, Viola had no intention of marrying anyone. Now that Dalton had made his intentions to marry as clear as a winter sky, she had no choice but to refuse his advances. If only he wouldn’t make remembering herself so difficult. Viola turned abruptly and steeled herself to face the Bow Street Runners.
7
No competition.On the one hand, it was a reassuring statement. On the other, it could be interpreted as a backhanded reassertion that he had no chance of winning her hand either.
Without even a proper kiss, Piers knew Viola would be a better Lady Dalton than Lady Margaret could ever be. Her earthy liveliness appealed to him more than a delicate flower precisely because hothouse blooms withered under the slightest adversity, as his first wife had done. Emilia’s ardor had turned into touchy rancor the instant he’d gotten her with child. Nothing he tried had worked to restore the connection he’d believed they had from the moment they’d met. He’d brought her books and offered to read to her when she was tired and listless from pregnancy. After Emily had arrived, she’d sunk into a low state from which she’d never quite recovered. Whether it was the ongoing infection from childbirth or despair that had ultimately finished her, Emilia had lingered in pain and misery for months before succumbing. Left to his own preferences, Piers would never get a woman with child again. Alas, he had a title to pass on. Family duty was his lot. Family love, it seemed, was not.
Half of London had whispered that it was his fault, and in his worst moments, Piers would believe it. Piers came to London for the season solely because rotting in the country only proved the rumors about him true, in the eyes of society. Consider how they treated the Duke of Havencrest, who rarely set foot in town. He was possibly the only person in London more reviled than Piers.
Well, and Edward Northcote, Viola’s new brother-in-law. But his was a special case. Even Richard Northcote, the younger brother who was rumored to have started the blaze that leveled the Briarcliff townhouse, was still considered likable, if particularly fast.
On some days, he wished he could more like his one true friend from Eton, Thomas Belden. He’d studied law. A useful pursuit, that. London had theater and museums and culture, and if Piers was being honest, the endless rounds of shooting and house parties in the country held little appeal. Let the gossips think what they liked—as long as no one said anything to his face. He could act as if everything he loved didn’t wither and die.
Emily hadn’t. For four years, it had been the two of them alone, with only Miss Townsend for a nursemaid. A ragtag little family with an overly indulgent father.
“Did they give you any hope of a resolution?”
Lady Margaret peered up at him with red-rimmed eyes. Her painfully naked earlobes attested to the fact that tonight’s missing jewels were not an accident. One earbob could be explained away, but a matching set of diamonds, an emerald bracelet, two necklaces—though one was only paste—and six brooches gone missing in a single evening could only be the work of a talented pickpocket. Sleight of hand was an art of the street. It wasn’t what one expected to encounter at an invitation-only affair. No wonder the hosts wore furrowed brows and had offered rich rewards for the return of the jewels. Among the intangible losses of the evening were their good names. What sort of person invited a thief?
“No,” Piers replied after a moment. The girl’s elfin face wrinkled up in a near sob.
“They were my grandmother’s,” Lady Margaret sniffled. “She gave them to me for my coming out, for good luck.”
“I’m certain that if they can be located, the Runners will find the culprit,” Piers replied with more confidence than he felt. Where was Evendaw?
Oh, there he was. Dancing with his wife. Despite the way he maneuvered and manipulated to get anything he wanted, Evendaw was the most happily settled man Piers had ever met. In fact, Evendaw was what Piers aspired to be. Settled. Happy. Oblivious, even. The day he was done worrying over getting an heir would be a happy one indeed.
Beside him, Lady Margaret blubbered on about her lost earrings. Immediately, Piers swatted himself mentally for being so callous, even within the confines of his skull. The girl had lost a precious gift and likely felt responsible for an act that had not been her fault. Yet they were only jewels, a replica of which could be fashioned by any competent jeweler.
He would make the suggestion to Evendaw at the earliest opportunity. A replacement pair would go a long way toward restoring her happiness. There was scant difference between bribing Emily to stop crying over a lost toy and Lady Margaret’s public breakdown, in his mind. That alone was enough of a reason not to marry her. Piers’ mind spun idly with ideas for evading her brother’s clumsy attempt at matchmaking. God help him if the gossips caught wind of a prospective.
