Page 21 of A Proposition for the Comte
Chapter Four
Violet stepped into the jewellery shop in Regent Street with a sense of trepidation and when the door closed behind her, her fingers wound around the blade that she kept in her pocket.
Just in case.
Her motto for the last years of her marriage turned around in her head. Just in case he hits me again. Just in case I have to escape.
She had come to ask the jeweller, Mr Whitely, to release two sets of Addington family jewellery that Harland had sent in to be valued just before he had died. She had found the docket a few months ago in a drawer at the Chelsea town house, but hadn’t mustered up the courage to confront Mr Whitely directly. However, with her own source of income dwindling, to say the least, the realised funds from the heirlooms was more than necessary.
Whitely met her as she opened up the front door of his shop and the same dislike she had always felt for the man resurfaced as strongly as it had each time she met him. Lifting her chin, she met his eyes directly.
‘Lady Addington.’ He said the words a little too breathlessly and she knew that something was not quite right. ‘I am unable to see you right now. I wonder if I might call on you instead in the late afternoon, say at four thirty at your town house?’
There was a sheen of sweat on his upper lip and the pulse at his throat was fast. She was so good now at determining the inner workings of others that the thought almost made her smile. But not quite. She did not want this man visiting. She did not wish to entertain even one of Harland’s associates now that she did not have to.
‘No, I am afraid I shall be busy then, Mr Whitely.’ She made it a point to look at the large face of a clock behind the desk.
But then another door opened to one side and a man walked towards them. It was only as the gloom of the alcove was replaced by the light that she understood exactly who he was.
Mr Whitely smiled and tried to put the newcomer at ease. ‘If you could just wait for a moment, sir, I shall not be long.’
‘Oh, take as much time as you need. I am in no hurry at all.’
The drawn-out tones of an American accent fell easily over the voice of Aurelian de la Tomber. With a heavy brown wig and moustache, he looked nothing like the dashing French Comte who had ladies from nineteen to ninety in thrall.
But it was not just the clothes and hair. He walked more heavily and the tick in one eye was inspired.
What could he be doing here of all places and in disguise? Even as she thought it the worm of a horror began to build. This was more than coincidence, much more.
Left with them both facing each other, Mr Whitely had no other recourse but to introduce them.
‘Lady Addington, this is Mr Daniel Bernard, newly arrived from the Americas.’
‘My pleasure, ma’am,’ he said, the amber behind thick spectacles darkening. ‘I could not help but overhear Mr Whitely say that he was occupied. If it is my business that holds you up, Mr Whitely, I can easily meet you another time.’
‘Oh. I should not wish you to do that, sir,’ Violet interjected, this day turning out so strangely that all she wanted was to be home. ‘After all, you have come a very long way. Which part of the Americas are you from?’
She saw the muscle in his jaw jump and the quick pucker of a dimple in his cheek.
‘New York.’ This lie was given boldly. He did not flinch from her gaze. ‘Are you also a collector of beautiful things, Lady Addington?’
Straightening herself so that she was not quite so small, she simply smiled. She would tell him nothing else for she had the thought that he was one who could deduce the truth from only a small amount of fact.
‘Her husband, Lord Addington, was the collector, but he was killed in an accident.’ Mr Whitely now joined the conversation and Violet wished he might not have. ‘Unfortunately a horse got loose in the Viscount’s stables and clipped his temple in panic. He had no chance, poor man.’
Fumbling with a handkerchief taken from her pocket, Violet dabbed at her eyes. She had found an outpouring of emotion a most effective way to silence others in their desire to speak to her about Harland. Mr Whitely looked taken aback, but she did wonder if she appeared quite upset enough for there was a gleam in the Comte’s eyes that held a great deal of question.
‘I give you sincere condolences, my lady.’ Whitely was now all solicitous apology. ‘Mr Bernard was just asking me about the marks on gold. He holds a great interest in the subject, it seems.’
‘I am especially keen on the jewellery and ornaments fashioned by Mr George Taylor.’
Violet suddenly wanted nothing more than to escape and she saw that the sweat on Whitely’s upper lip and forehead was beading into noticeable droplets. Could Aurelian de la Tomber understand the danger such a statement placed them all in or was he a part of the deception, too?
‘You collect his work?’ Her voice sounded small and weak.
‘Not yet, but I have seen a statue that I am most taken by.’
Shock kept her still, the undercurrents stronger than ever. He spoke of the Taylor statue in her salon, she knew he did, for he had asked her about it once before. She had wanted to remove it, but felt shackled by its history, the small harbinger of warning a reminder of all that she would never do again.
