Page 16 of Becoming Lady Dalton
“Do you think they will find the thief?” Miss Lowry asked coolly in her American drawl.
“I pray so,” was all he offered.
“Lady Margaret is most upset over the loss of her heirlooms,” Miss Lowry said, then twitched her skirt aside. “I ought to see to her. Good day, your lordship. I hope we have an opportunity to enjoy one another’s company again soon.”
She curtseyed. Piers sketched a bow. Without warning, Miss Lowry leaned forward to brush a kiss in the air against his cheek. The scent of lilies teased his nostrils and was gone.
It was the same gesture Viola had made two months ago. Piers touched his cheek. His heart did not beat any faster. He experienced no heady rush of attraction. Miss Lowry didn’t warm him the way Viola’s kiss had. No matter how beautiful she was, Miss Lowry could not move him.
He made his way back to his horses and set them in motion. He wanted Viola. With a crack of his reins, Piers rushed to find her.
10
“Mrs. Cartwright?”the granite-jawed man in the wool overcoat asked by way of confirmation. The butler had answered the door for her and the admiral, who insisted upon coming into the parlor for a spot of sherry, an offer Viola hadn’t heard her grandmother express. Thankfully, Gran winked and hustled him away.
“Come. Let my granddaughter attend to her business in private, sir.”
The parlor doors clicked firmly closed. Viola exhaled a sigh of relief. At least her admiring admiral wouldn’t overhear her conversation with the strange visitor.
Then it occurred to her—the baroness must believe this new arrival was another suitor. After four months of no interest in her from the sterner sex, Gran must be thrilled to have two potential candidates darken her door in a single afternoon.
The thought pinched her heart. The past four months had been the happiest of her adult life. It stung that her grandmother still, after everything they’d been through with Harper and Edward, wanted her married and out of the house.
Later,she promised herself.
“How can I help you, Mr…” She trailed off. He looked vaguely familiar.
“Mr. Reed. Of Bow Street.”
Viola’s body iced over, as cold and stiff as a pond in winter.
“How can I help you, Mr. Reed?” she asked, repeating herself; her body was not her own.
“Mrs. Cartwright, I’d like to speak with you about the theft at the Woolrytes’ ball last night.” The man spoke plainly and without menace. Despite this, invisible manacles locked around Viola’s wrists.
You will not go to prison for a crime you didn’t commit.Viola wished she could believe the inner voice. But she knew as well as anyone that justice in London was more miss than hit. Anyone who doubted it had only to look to the city’s teeming streets and find pickpockets, cutpurses, whores and confidence artists on every corner. It wasn’t just here, either. Even in Upper Cotwarren, Samuel had executed several schemes before he was caught and sent to prison. Which was how Viola knew precisely what awaited her if she were arrested for jewel thefts—she’d already seen it firsthand.
“This way, please,” she said crisply.
Where could she take the man that no one would overhear their discussion? Viola tasted iron and realized she’d bitten the inside of her cheeks. A strange compulsion to laugh was followed by a mortifying terror that she might burst into sobs. She had already paid for her husband’s crimes a thousand times over. Viola sipped air as she led her visitor into the music room and closed the door. Slowly, the urges passed. Once inside, she locked the door and offered Mr. Reed a chair near the window.
Find out what the man wants before you lose control.
Scolding herself proved strangely calming.
“I am keen to assist with the investigation in any way I can.” Viola found her voice as if it belonged to someone else’s body. If she could help them find the real thief, she and Matthew would be safe. Her son wouldn’t go to school in a few weeks with the stigma of a criminal mother hanging over him. Her son would go to school.
“I welcome any aid you can provide, Mrs. Cartwright. Let’s begin with the whereabouts of your husband.” Reed’s deeply lined face was placid. His whiskers bore a tinge of grey. Viola guessed he was in his late thirties—younger than the admiral, older than she.
Much older than Piers.Viola pushed away the thought. His age didn’t matter.
“My husband is dead,” she declared.
“Are you certain? I could find no record of his burial. The last known place of residence was King’s Palisades Prison. He was released a bit less than a year ago, in early 1822, upon the sale of your family farm to satisfy his debts.”
“Yes,” Viola whispered. “All of this is true. The new owner offered to rent the farmstead back to me, and having no other place to go, I accepted. But I couldn’t maintain the property alone, and we relinquished it last summer.”
“For which you owe four pounds, six shillings in unpaid rents. Additionally, there is the outstanding fee to support your husband whilst he was imprisoned.”
