Dark Surrender (31 page)

“Never.” Her head snapped up, eyes flashing with suppressed fury. “I am a
survivor
.”

His brain overloaded with conflicting messages. Before he could begin to sort out his thoughts, she launched herself at him. Fists first. Caught off guard by her shove, he lost his balance and sailed backward off the bed, thudding arse-over-teakettle in a naked heap upon the cold marble floor. Fire raced up his elbow.

“
Get out,
” she commanded, her bare arm pointed firmly toward the door. “Now!”

He picked himself up, not breaking eye contact. He was searching for the right words to say. He could think of none. Her entire body trembled but she did not break his gaze.

“Goodbye,” she repeated firmly.

Without another word, he turned and strode out the door.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Alistair’s knees banged against his daughter’s new breakfast table. He winced as the silver clattered against the china for the hundredth time in five minutes. He was either going to break his knees or the dishware. It was just a matter of time.

Meanwhile, Lillian was oblivious to his pain, both inner and physical. She’d been beside herself with glee ever since the child-sized breakfast set arrived. The miniature table and miniature chairs might not be designed for someone of his dimensions, but they matched his petite daughter perfectly, allowing her not only to dine in greater comfort, but also to more easily play hostess to guests. In this case, her father.

Fortunately for him, she was so enamored with pouring tea and arranging pots of jam that she scarcely noticed whether or not her father attended to her inarticulate murmurs of delight. He was having enough trouble attending to his own problems. Starting with the events of last night.

He set down his teacup before it shattered in his hands. In love, was he? How could he possibly love a woman he didn’t even begin to know? From his perspective, he’d just yesterday met the true Violet Smythe—pardon, Violet Whitechapel—for the very first time.

And what had he learned? The more he tried not to remember, the more the memories came flooding back. His angel was far from innocent. Far from angelic. She was a sexually cavalier imposter, and he a blind man who saw only what he wanted. Had he fallen in love with a chimera? With an ideal of impossible purity that had existed solely in his overactive imagination? She had never claimed to share his ideals, nor had she ever professed to be innocent or virginal. He had simply
assumed
. . .

“More tea, Papa?” Lillian stared up at him expectantly, the undersized china pot clutched tight in her small hands.

He nodded his assent. If he had learned anything lately, it was not to assume. Else he might never have come to share this moment today, with his daughter. He raised his eyebrows appreciatively as he sipped the tepid brew, making
how-delicious
noises more appropriate to teatime at Buckingham Palace. Lillian beamed in response.

He couldn’t help but smile back. They’d been so lonely for so long . . . As the lemon-and-honey tea slid down his oddly scratchy throat, he gazed across his teacup at his daughter in growing wonder. It wasn’t that he couldn’t recall the last time they’d spent such a pleasant morning together. On the contrary. It was that the pleasant moments began after Violet’s arrival in their lives. Whether or not his counterfeit governess had the lightest skirts in Christendom, there was no denying the very real miracles she had wrought in their lives.

And while he was being magnanimous, was Alistair himself so perfect? Far from it. He’d never claimed to be a saint, but nor had Violet ever laid claim to any proclivity toward godliness. If Alistair were being truly honest, even his beloved Marjorie, martyred in the very act of bringing life to their daughter, had not been the perfect angel he had painted her to be.

Marjorie, bless her soul, had been wholly and delightfully human. She had lived passionately, loved passionately, and fought passionately. At the time, she’d been the girl of his dreams—but that dream had long since concluded. She would forever be the woman who gave Lillian life, but perhaps he’d done his daughter a disservice by overemphasizing her mother’s goodness. In his grief, he may have constantly, if inadvertently, thrown the sharpness of his loss in his daughter’s face.

Lillian had never had a mother, had anyone to look up to, save himself.

Until Violet.

His shoulders tightened as he faced the truth. Violet had never been just a governess. She had certainly never been a mere companion to him or his daughter. Violet was the first new confidante in his life in over a decade. And she was the first friend Lillian had had in her entire life. The first mother figure his daughter had ever known.

No—not a “figure”. Not a substitute, not a mirage, not a substandard stopgap. To say anything of the sort was to devalue the very special and undeniably real relationship Violet and Lillian had built over the past several months. Violet might not be her biological mother, but there was little else to stand in the way of the title. His daughter had loved her wholly and unconditionally almost from the first.

“Papa?”

“Hmm?”

“Tomorrow can Miss Violet join us for breakfast?”

He choked on his tea. Would Violet even be here tomorrow? Could he blame her if she left them both? He had certainly done little to make her stay. He could scarce be surprised if she were even now packing her bags. And when Violet did leave them—whether to face her accuser or flee to Switzerland or live a life of freedom in London town, far away from Alistair—Lillian would be devastated. What would he do then? The loss of Violet in his daughter’s life would hit her equally as soul-deep as the premature loss of his wife had devastated Alistair in his youth. How could he possibly prepare his child for something like that? He couldn’t even promise her breakfast.

“We’ll see,” was all he said aloud. “You may invite her to dine with you whenever you wish, but please do not be . . . hurt . . . if there is a time when Miss Violet cannot attend.”

Lillian laughed as if he’d told a brilliant jest. “She would never say no, Papa. She loves me.”

Love. He opened his mouth to reply, but not a single word escaped. Did he even know what the word meant anymore?

Lillian twisted around in her seat. “Papa . . . may I paint my room?”

“Paint anything you wish, sweetling.”

He pushed his chair back. At least Lillian would have a new love—that of art—to bring color to her life after they lost Violet. His stomach clenched. Oh, how could he let her leave? And yet he could not force her to stay. Only after she faced her past would she be able to consider her future. He and Lily would just have to carry on, as they had always done. No matter how hard it might be.

He had always prayed Lily never need experience the pain of abandonment. For the sake of Violet’s future, however . . . And for the sake of Alistair’s shaken heart . . .

Sighing, he rose to his feet. He was not at all certain what he wanted, and he did not know what to pray for that would provide an optimal solution for all parties. He would turn it over in his mind as he paged through the books in his study.

He rang for a maid and kissed his daughter’s cheeks before slipping quickly and silently through the darkness of the catacombs. But once he was back in the lonely safety of his office, he slumped into his chair and stared sightlessly at a tower of mundane correspondence he’d been unable to bear opening since the tidal wave of the day before. He just couldn’t face it.

Ever since returning from Shrewsbury proper, he had not studied a single essay, nor broken the seal on a single missive, nor slept a single wink. How could he? He could hardly return to his old life when his new life had been so neatly turned upside down. Before, he’d had precisely one focus, and precisely one goal.

Now he had two.

He slid a blank sheet of parchment from the stack in his secretary drawer and dipped his pen into a reservoir of ink. Violet needed help, and Alistair would provide it.

He composed a carefully worded inquiry to his solicitor, authorizing him to spend whatever coin necessary to take care of the problem as discreetly as possible, and to immediately send notice upon success or setback. There, that should do. He pulled a bit of wax and a ring bearing the Waldegrave family crest from the parchment drawer and prepared to seal the inquiry.

He hesitated before heating the ring in a candle’s flame. Was this truly the right path? If he sent this missive, he effectively relinquished Violet to the fates of the courts. When his barrister took her as a client, the case would progress rapidly. Once cleared of all charges, why would any young woman as beautiful and as talented as she give up an entire world of inspiration and beauty for claustrophobic catacombs and windowless chambers?

She would not, he realized, his stomach sinking. No one would.
He
had not chosen this life—God had thrust it upon him, like it or not. His grip on the sealing ring tightened. By ensuring Violet’s freedom, he’d likely also be ensuring she take it. Elsewhere.

So be it.

He jerked his fingers back from the flame and pressed the heated ring into the soft wax before he could change his mind. It was the right thing to do. He didn’t have to like it. Wishing the entire matter out of sight, he slid the sealed missive atop a stack of open medical books and tugged forward yesterday’s pile of unopened correspondence.

He regretted that decision immediately.

Half the letters were from the great minds present at his recent conclave. The other half were from equally great minds, kindly refusing an invitation to attend a future such retreat. And every last one of them held the same message: No.

No, there was no magic tincture. There was no solution in any form. There was no hope for even finding answers to “why” or “how” without extensive in-laboratory study, and even then, no promises could be made. There was not now, nor was there likely to ever be, a cure for such a violent and deadly disease. There was nary a hint of optimism for even ameliorating the symptoms. He might as well have asked them to fly to the moon.

He slumped as if punched in the sternum. Was that it, then? The last chance for hope? It had been nearly a decade. Was it not time to face the truth? Lillian would never get better. Alistair swayed, lightheaded. The life they had now was the one they would always have. Just this, nothing more. Forever.

“Master?”

Alistair’s startled gaze snapped from the blurry letter in his hand to the manservant hovering uncertainly at the open door. In his abstracted state, Alistair had apparently neglected to close the door behind him. Not that it mattered. If he was wasting his time searching for a nonexistent miracle—if he had wasted the first nine years of his daughter’s life chasing an impossible dream—then it was far past time to break free from his office once and for all.

Roper’s scarred face filled with concern. “Is everything all right, master?”

“No,” Alistair answered as he rose to his feet. “Nor shall it be, so it is up to me to make of it what I will.”

“Sir?” Confusion lined his manservant’s brow. “Is there aught I could do to help?”

Alistair paused in the act of rounding his desk. Slowly, he pivoted toward the pile of open books and retrieved the thick inquiry he’d penned to his solicitor. Here it was, then. The moment of truth. Sending this missive was tantamount to sending Violet from their lives, but what else could he do?

He handed Roper the letter. “See this gets posted, please.”

“Of course, master. As you wish.”

The corner of Alistair’s mouth sagged despondently. If only he
could
have what he wished. None of this heartbreak would be necessary.

#

Violet arrived in the sanctuary to find her suspiciously cheerful charge had no interest in visiting the makeshift schoolroom this morning.

“No learning today,” Lily announced before Violet had even had a chance to secure the door behind her. “I am not of a mood for maths.”

“No?” Violet returned, careful to keep her expression blank. She, for one, was never of a mood for maths. “And what, pray tell, would Princess Tiger Lily prefer to be doing with her valuable time?”

Lily clapped her hands with glee. “I want to paint the walls.”

Violet frowned. “Paint them . . . pink?”

“No,”
Lily burst out. “I want to put
pictures
on them. Like in my books, but better.
Color
pictures. Of real things and not-real things. And I want you to help me.”

“You want to paint . . . murals?” Violet asked doubtfully.

“I do if that means pictures-on-the-walls.” Lily’s eyes glimmered with mischief. “Ooh, see that? A new word! I’m learning even
without
maths. This will be positively educational.”

Violet suppressed a smile. “It’s certainly hard to argue with that logic. But I’m afraid I wouldn’t feel comfortable painting a single inch of these walls without consulting your father.”

“First,”
Lily interrupted imperiously, “I already asked him and he said I could paint whatever I want wherever I want.
Second
, Papa wants me to be happy. Putting pictures on the walls will make me happy. So can we start right now instead of doing maths? Please? I promise to study sums twice as hard tomorrow.”

If Violet had found the original twisted logic too humorous to argue with, she could find no quibble whatsoever with this line of reasoning. A day without maths would hardly impact Lily’s future. And her assessment of her father’s desire to see her happy was inarguable. Whether or not he’d specifically agreed to a sanctuary covered in child-created murals was a bit more suspect, but Violet could see nothing wrong with using some of the window planks as canvases until she could clarify the rest with Alistair. After all, the sanctuary had once boasted floor-to-ceiling stained glass. Why not replace art with art?

“All right,” she agreed slowly, stepping forward to inspect the boards’ surfaces more closely. How the ancient wood would hold paint was anyone’s guess, but it would be as good a project as any. “Let’s start with this board over here. What did you have in mind?”