Page 28 of Becoming Lady Dalton
Viola tried not to let it worry her—after all, she’d never seen a cheerful-looking Runner. Yet she’d seen a few too many men from Bow Street lately to feel entirely comfortable. The sooner she found out what had become of Sam, the better. He’d been so ill in prison. She’d waited, even though Sam had thrown her out, and she’d been expected back at Upper Cotwarren to fetch her son from the neighbors. But he’d stumbled out and no one knew what had become of him. After a few months, she’d come to believe he was dead. Where else would he have gone? In all likelihood, Sam had been too stubborn to come find her, collapsed, and had been buried in a pauper’s grave. Viola pushed away fearful memories and gathered herself.
“Yes. I happened by while this woman was searching for a lost item,” she confirmed. There was no reason for her to lie.
“Mm.” The man scanned her up and down. Viola recoiled. “I’ve a message for you, madam. Wait a moment.”
He consulted with the woman for another few minutes as impatience traced a path over her shoulders. The blond woman glanced at Viola with a frown, and she realized she’d been tapping her slipper on the red carpet, beneath her violet skirt. She forced her body still. Pent-up agitation had her on edge. She started when the man turned to her. He took her elbow—not gently—and steered her a few feet away where their conversation was unlikely to be overheard.
“Mrs. Cartwright, Reed has a message for you. He’s traced your husband from his release at prison to Upper Cotwarren, but he has no further intelligence. He’d like you to meet him tomorrow.”
“Why?” Viola gasped. “Is there anything more he can tell me?” Her blood turned icy in her veins. This was utterly unwelcome news. Her voice sounded high in her own ears, whispery. She cleared her throat, trying to calm herself. “I don’t understand why he wants to see me in person.”
“Money, Mrs. Cartwright. It costs dearly to send an investigator to the North country. Upper Cotwarren is a blighted place, more sheep than people, and the people are a superstitious lot. Our man was obliged to sleep in a barn.”
“He’s there, himself?” Viola asked. She hadn’t imagined Reed would go there.
“Back last night. Point is, he’s about killed himself to track down your husband.”
“I thought I was paying for discretion.” She glared.
“Aren’t no secrets amongst the Runners, madam. He’s found what you needed to know. If you want to know more’n that, bring money.” With a brush of his fingertips to his forelock, the man returned to the blond woman, who was now scowling outright.
This is how it ends.
Her lovely new life was truly in jeopardy. Matthew’s future. Viola stumbled into Gran’s box with legs as shaky as a newborn lamb’s.
“You were gone awhile.”
“I was visiting the pit,” Viola responded woodenly.
Where would she get more money? There were three pounds, five shilling in her purse. She’d meant to spend the money on sundries for Matthew and gifts for the holiday in two weeks, but now that was out of the question. Her mind spun, grasping for solutions, each more fantastic than the rest. Reed had told her to get the extra ten quid, but she’d thought there would be more than a few days to do it.
I’ll kill Sam myself.
Viola would never, no matter how tempting the idea. Now that the initial shock had passed, anger began to fill her. Why hadn’t he written? The man wasn’t illiterate. He’d left her hanging, knowing she would believe the worst. When she’d finally forced him to choose between dying a penniless free man or a penniless imprisoned man, Sam had finally signed the documents ending his claim to the rocky patch of ground that had been their home. He’d cursed her so vehemently the guards had removed her from his cell.
Piss stubborn, that man was. God, she hated him with all her soul.
“Why? The view and the sound are much better here. Did you see the Duke of Havencrest’s box is occupied this evening?” Gran continued, apparently uninterested in the reason for her extended absence.
“No, I hadn’t noticed,” Viola responded automatically. Whoever the Duke of Havencrest was, she was unlikely to ever have the pleasure of making his acquaintance.
Beside them, Admiral Saxon snored loudly.
Viola possessed one pair of her jeweled slipper clips that could be pawned. There was a paste hair comb that might fetch a few shillings. She had a string of false pearls more suitable for a younger woman, selected by her grandmother last fall during her so-called ‘lady lessons.’ No one would notice if it went missing.
Would it be enough? It had to be.
Behind her, the curtain shuffled. “Well, this is better than I’d hoped.”
Frisson raised the hairs on her arms and the back of her neck. Viola shivered at the sound of Piers’ voice. Gran didn’t appear to hear him, for she remained fixated on the performance and intermittently scanning the theater for signs of indiscretions.
“Lord Dalton,” Viola gasped. Embarrassed, she cleared her throat and said with more dignity, “I mean, Lord Dalton.”
He met her gaze sidelong, a half-grin pulling at the corners of his mouth. Everything below Viola’s belly button tightened, then released.
Tell him. He’ll help you.
Whether or not he would was a moot point. If Gran ever found out she’d approached an eligible bachelor for money, she’d be out on the street with nothing but her clothes, three pounds and five shillings, and a growing son who would eat through that sum in a matter of months. Or, worse, she’d be married so fast her head would spin. If she refused, Gran might go so far as to sue to take Matthew from her custody. After all, Gran had once disowned her daughter, Viola’s mother, for eloping with a music teacher. Though their relationship was warm now, it was also contingent upon Viola’s deference to the baroness’ wishes.
