Page 33 of Becoming Lady Dalton
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Piers hatedthe way helplessness crawled through him when Viola pulled away. He’d gone too far, but she didn’t seem angry. She looked sad and fearful. He’d give anything to take back that damned kiss. They finished the museum visit with a stop by the real Rosetta Stone. Viola stared longingly at the key to unlocking a world of knowledge. The children were unimpressed and restless.
“We ought to go,” he said gently.
“Yes. Yes, of course.” Viola shook herself out of her trance.
“Can we offer you a ride back to Baroness Landor’s?”
Viola hesitated. Her lashes raised and lowered like curtains over her thoughts. “I’ve an errand to run. I would appreciate it if you’d drop Matthew home.”
“Draperies?” Piers guessed.
“Yes,” Viola confirmed too quickly.
“Choose the satin, if you like it better. Brocade is harder to match with,” Piers offered. If she’d preferred the brocade, he would have advised the opposite. He wouldn’t care if she dressed the place like a bawdy house as long as she was happy. Knowing Edward, he only wanted not to be bothered with choices.
“Wise advice. Thank you, Lord Dalton. For…everything. Especially for this afternoon.”
He couldn’t unhear the finality of Viola’sthank you.
“I shall take the children outside to run off this energy in the courtyard,” interrupted a harried Miss Townsend.
“Greatly appreciated, Miss Townsend.” He turned back to Viola. “I apologize for kissing you in the library.”
“Don’t, Piers. Please.” She lifted one gloved hand. With the other, she pulled her mantle tight beneath her chin. “It was a wonderful afternoon. Including the kiss. But please understand that I can’t let you court me, much less ever offer marriage. My response will always be no. I was flippant in pressing you to court Lady Margaret. If you do not suit, I shall never press the matter again.”
Piers shuffled his shoes over the polished stone floors. “I admit I am unaccustomed to this much rejection from the fairer sex. First Lady Margaret, then you. It’s enough to unman a … gentleman.”
“I daresay London will be filled with fresh faces in a month or two, and you shall have your pick of admirers. You shall have your heir, Lord Dalton. Good day.”
Despite her customary lightness, Piers detected sadness in her eyes as she straightened her back and swept out the front entrance of Montagu House.
As though she were fighting demons he couldn’t see.
“He’s out.”
The grouch of a man seated at the front desk at Bow Street didn’t appear surprised to find a woman looking for Reed. This time, the waiting room was nearly empty. There were no crying babies. Nor was there an efficient, harried clerk available to manage expectations—just this investigator with alcohol on his breath apparently pressed into service to cover the front room. It might be inevitable, this close to the Christmas holiday. London was emptying out. With few marks attending a dwindling number of events for the season, the pickpocket of London’s best parlors would be hard-pressed to continue the pattern. With the Woolrytes pushing for a conclusion, Viola had the unnerving sense that she ought to flee. She couldn’t explain it. Only the thought of sending Matthew off to Bainbridge in a few weeks with his mother on the lam kept her anchored.
Viola had pawned a few items and managed to cobble together almost eight pounds. It would have to be enough. The coins weighed as heavily on her arm as guilt weight on her soul.
“I’ll wait.”
“Suit yourself,” the man replied.
If Samuel was still alive, he’d likely attempt to extort money out of Gran and, now, Harper. After all, he’d married Viola with the intention of capitalizing upon the long-severed family relationship. She’d been too young and stupid to pick up on his plan, though the man hadn’t exactly been subtle about his intentions.
Yet, if she pretended he didn’t exist and continued on with her life, she would betray fifteen years of commitment. Viola didn’t care to think what would happen to her if Sam had miraculously healed from consumption. He’d been so ill. The thought of returning to live with him made her shudder. But returning to her husband as a confirmed adulteress would be a hundred times worse.
“Mrs. Cartwright.”
Viola whipped around and spotted Reed across the empty waiting room. She picked her way over to him, and they escaped into the smoke-filled hall of offices. “I received your report. The delivery was a little unorthodox,” she said.
“We’re busy. Every pickpocket and murderer in London has turned out this holiday. I suppose you’re here for the complete story.” He waved one meaty fist. “I owe you my gratitude for patching me up. The knuckles are healing up nicely. I’ve taken to keeping an antiseptic kit in my desk. More than the pot of witch hazel, I mean.”
Indeed, the desk was significantly less cluttered than the last time she’d been here.
“Do matters involving fisticuffs often arise in your daily work?” Viola inquired with considerable trepidation.
