Dark Surrender (5 page)

“I have had no such problems with mine. I keep their pockets far too well lined for them to risk being disloyal.” He cast a meaningful glance at the skirt-pocket where two gold coins burned against her leg. “You, however, I do not yet trust.”

That made two of them. Violet swallowed. Perhaps the old lady was right about striking a devil’s bargain.
Know thy enemy
, she reminded herself as she considered her new employer. “Is that why you demanded a minimum of one month’s employ?”

“Of course.” Something in his cold gaze indicated he’d been analyzing her more than she’d realized. “And mutual mistrust is what I suspect predicated your demand for wages in advance.” With this casually delivered observation, he released her from his gaze.

She colored. He was correct, of course, but she could scarcely come forth and agree that she’d at first thought him a childless lecher. She still did not feel safe. Now more than ever, she longed to be back at the Livingstone School for Girls. Before Old Man Livingstone had died and left paradise in the hands of true evil.

She hurried to keep pace. Moments after the tunnel intersected with another, the uneven floor finally began to incline. He halted before a scarred wooden door and drew a thick key from his pocket. Yet he paused before sliding the teeth into the lock.

“My daughter,” he began, then stopped to consider his words. The uncharacteristic hesitation was somehow more alarming than all the previous declarations together. “Lillian,” he said at last, “can be difficult. But please know that I will allow no harm to come to her. None. She is my reason for living just as I am her only hope. Having a governess instruct her will be beneficial in many ways, but my desire for her education is secondary. Your aid will allow me to dedicate more time to the one goal that drives me above all others: finding a cure.”

Her brow creased. “I thought you said your condition was incurable.”

“I shall never stop searching,” he repeated as if he hadn’t heard the interruption. His gaze slid from hers as he murmured, “But what we need is a miracle.”

As she watched him fit the key into the lock, her stomach soured with suspicion and remembered nightmares. “Why keep a nine-year-old child behind lock and key?”

He closed his eyes as if her words caused him injury. “Allowed to roam free, Lillian cannot resist the allure of the sun. She escaped into the back lawn when she was but five years old, and very nearly died that same day. I immediately installed automatic locking mechanisms on every door as a precaution. I long to take her out-of-doors at night, but between the dangers of being discovered and Lillian’s propensity to run away, the risk is too great. She is my world, and I cannot lose her.” His eyes opened. He gave the key a sharp turn and the lock disengaged with a soft click. “Other reasons for her solitude, you are bound to discover on your own. Come.”

What other reasons? But before Violet could inquire further, he swung open the door.

He nudged her inside, leapt into the sanctuary beside her, and closed the door behind them with the speed and finesse borne of long practice.

Before her eyes finished adjusting to the oddly lit sanctuary, a white blur flew at them from across the room. Violet dove out of the way with an alacrity learned in London alleyways and nearly re-twisted her ankle in the process. When Mr. Waldegrave’s head smacked backward into the door with enough force to concuss, she realized she hadn’t been the intended victim.

Mr. Waldegrave lifted a kicking and screaming waif by her ribs and contained her far in front of him.

She lashed out with her feet and fists. “Why must you lock everything? I hate you! Let me out!”

He set the child on her feet as if he’d heard none of her shrill accusations, but he was not so trusting as to release her just yet. “Lillian,” he said calmly, as if such a display were an everyday occurrence. Perhaps it was. “You have a visitor. This is Miss Violet Smythe, your new governess.”

“I don’t want a governess.” The child kicked and twisted, unsuccessfully trying to free herself from her father’s grasp.

“Miss Smythe is here to teach you maths and Latin and history, and even has a particular talent for—”

“I don’t care about maths and history! I want to see the sun! Let me go. Let me
go!”
This last was accompanied by a snarl and a nearly successful attempt to bite off her father’s hand at the wrist.

Violet slid her own hands into her pockets. She was fair-to-middling with maths and didn’t speak a word of Latin, but by the looks of things, the likelihood of bending heads over a schoolbook was close on zero. A greater concern would be discovering where in this medieval crypt the Waldegraves kept their battle armor. There was no longer any doubt as to the “evil creature” to which the old woman had referred. Nothing short of hammered steel would serve as protection from nine-year-old Lillian Waldegrave. And, Violet was beginning to suspect, no salary would be worth the scars.

“Lillian, enough. Bid goodnight to your new governess and get back in bed.”

“
Is
it nighttime, Papa? How would
I
know? It’s not as if I have
windows
.” When her father made no response, Lillian ceased struggling and bowed her head in defeat. “I have nothing.”

Mr. Waldegrave’s face twisted in pain, but he continued to guard his tongue. Or perhaps there was nothing more to say.

Violet stood awkwardly to one side, not trusting the apparent truce enough to approach. She took advantage of the moment to observe her new charge.

Lillian, not unlike her father, very much looked like someone who had never experienced sunlight. She was far too pale, too thin. Too . . . small. Her dress and slippers were well made and expensive, but she looked more a child of six or seven than nine. Her slender fingers curved into claws. A tangle of pitch-black hair streamed down her back and covered most of her face, giving only brief glimpses of a pert nose and the curve of a pock-scarred cheek.

“I see the roses have lost their bloom,” Mr. Waldegrave said softly. “Would you like me to bring you some new ones?”

“No,” Lillian whispered. And then slowly lifted her gaze toward Violet.

Violet’s fingers clenched at the abject misery reflected in Lillian’s blank gray eyes. Her actions were vicious, angry, vengeful, but she was not fighting her father after all. She was fighting despair.

This little girl was lashing out only because she didn’t know what else to do. Violet’s throat tightened. She knew despair intimately . . . and hated seeing it in the face of a child. She was at Lillian’s side within seconds.

“Leave us for a moment,” she murmured to her new employer. “Please.”

His incredulous gaze snapped toward her. His strong hands (one of which now bore ruddy teeth marks) fell from his daughter’s thin shoulders. “I hardly think that’s wise. For years, no one but me has been able to touch her.”

How many had even tried? Violet was not afraid of being pushed or bitten. She’d survived far worse over the years. She was more afraid of not giving the right first impression—that of ally, not enemy. But how could she convince Lillian that she was on her side?

Gently, carefully, Violet pulled the child’s wooden body into her arms. As anticipated, Lillian immediately began to buck and fight. Violet simply hugged her tighter, ignoring the elbow jabbing into her belly and the tears in her eyes from her chin being half-shattered by a blow from the back of Lillian’s head.

“Get. Off. Me.” Lillian kicked backward at Violet’s shins. “Go away. I hate you, too!”

“You’re entitled to,” Violet said calmly. “But I don’t hate you. As it happens, you remind me of someone I used to know. Someone I liked very much.”

Many, many someones. Her fellow exhausted children from the workhouse. The skinny mongrels fighting for the same scraps of food in the rubbish behind abandoned food stands. The empty eyes of the world-weary orphans who’d given themselves up for dead before they were rescued by the Livingstone School for Girls. Every single one of them had fought or growled or bit or said “Go away” when what they all really meant was “Come back” and “Stay here” and “I don’t want to be invisible anymore.”

Violet pressed a kiss to the back of Lillian’s matted head. Low, so only Lillian could hear, Violet whispered the words she’d longed for throughout her entire childhood. Words that never came. “You’re safe. Shh, now. You can’t scare me away. I’m here to help. I came for you.”

The fight fell out of Lillian’s limbs. Silent tears rolled down her face.

Alarmed, Mr. Waldegrave rushed forward.

“Miss Smythe, that’s quite enough. I won’t have you upsetting my child.” Holding his arms open for his daughter, he closed the distance between them. “I’m afraid I will have to ask you to leave Waldegrave Abbey and seek employment elsewh—”

Lillian kicked him in the shins.

Mr. Waldegrave froze, his pale lips still parted but his words forgotten. A spark of something that might’ve been hurt or might’ve simply been confusion flickered briefly in his eyes. He held out his hands to his daughter, palms up, in supplication. “Lillian?”

Violet released the little girl. Rather than scramble away or resume her attack against her father or new governess, Lillian wiped her face on the sleeve of her expensive gown and straightened her spine.

“Go away,” she commanded, arms crossed and voice trembling.

“She will, sweetling. I just told her to—”

Lillian leaned against Violet’s torso. “Not her. You.”

This time, the pain etched across his granite face was unmistakable.

Violet longed to say something to ease his hurt, to tell him what Lillian really wanted was for him to stay, that she lashed out at him only because she was hurting and wanted someone to acknowledge her pain. But to do any of that right here, right now, would undermine the fragile bond she’d established with her new charge. And Violet knew girls like Lillian, knew
herself
well enough to recognize that without trust, there would be nothing. As much as Lillian needed her father, what she truly yearned for was to be listened to. Acknowledged. Treated as someone capable of knowing her own mind.

What Violet did say was, “When I accepted this position, Mr. Waldegrave, we agreed upon one month’s contract. Miss Lillian has asked for a moment’s privacy so that we might get to know one another. Please feel free to attend to other duties for a moment. We will be fine.”

Lillian turned and stared up at Violet, pale eyes wide with shock at having been not only taken seriously, but sided with.

Mr. Waldegrave’s open arms fell limply to his sides. “Are those your wishes, daughter?”

Lillian hesitated, then lifted her chin high. “Yes, Papa.”

“Very well.” His dark gaze colder than ever, he turned and quit the chamber without another word.

The door locked tight behind him.

#

After leaving the new governess inside the sanctuary with his only child, Alistair was sorely tempted to drop to the dirt floor, sag against the crumbling stones, and bury his face in his hands.

He allowed himself no such weakness, of course. There was no time to waste sitting about feeling hopeless when he was the only person he could count on to work toward improving their lot. There
must
be a cure. Somewhere. Somehow. And he would find it.

Lillian could not continue this way. Could. Not. The necessary protective measures were killing her as surely as her disease. He would trade his life to improve hers, if only it were an option. He loved her above all else.

And she hated him.

Most days, he hated himself, too. Except for those brief moments when he foolishly thought he was making progress. During those fancies, he was delirious with relief and joy . . . For a time. The truth always caught up with him.
Failure
always caught up with him. God help him, he could not continue this way. But he must. For Lillian.

When he reached the far side of the catacomb, he unlocked the thick door and let himself into an empty hallway. Faint light sputtered from the candle in his fist. He’d forgotten to retrieve a new taper, and now he held but a nub. Not that it mattered. He knew Waldegrave Abbey as well as those who’d built the complex centuries ago. He’d been born here . . . and spent years in its darkness.

He made his way to his office before the candle flame finally died. He tossed the tiny wick into the rubbish and stared gloomily at the pince-nez resting atop a pile of unsent correspondence. It was late. He would post missives in the morning. He needed something else, something mindless, something to keep his mind off of—

Lillian. The roses beside her bed had been slumped crisscross over the lip of the crystal vase, their wilted petals crumbling atop her small escritoire, as they did every week. He retrieved a worn pair of shears from atop his desk and quit the office. He would cut more. Again.

As the automatic locking mechanism clicked back into place, Alistair’s manservant materialized in the shadowed passageway. Roper said nothing—gloriously, he rarely spoke unless he had some important intelligence to convey—but today there was a different quality to his silent presence. As if there were something he wished he could say, and yet, could not.

“Out with it, Roper.”

A hint of pink flushed the man’s swarthy face, discernible only because the gnarled scars across his left cheek stood starkly pale in comparison. “It’s . . . the new governess, master.”

The new governess. Yes. Alistair turned his gaze to the gardening shears in his hands in order to prevent his manservant from reading uncomfortable truths in his eyes. Like how much it hurt to have Lillian prefer the company of a total stranger to that of her own father. Or how guilty he felt to dare hope he finally had someone to share the load.

When he’d seen the young woman lying upon his doorstep, he had believed the wayward “Violet Smythe” a disoriented guttersnipe. Nonetheless, he’d ordered her a bath, ordered her tattered garments washed, and intended to order her back out to the streets after offering her cheese and biscuits and perhaps a farthing or two, which would as likely be spent on cheap gin as anything.