Violet sighed. “I believe so.”
Angelica searched her gaze. “You don’t sound certain.”
I’m not.As a matter of fact, leaving felt wrong. Her only other recourse would be to make a stand against two powerful men, both violent in their methods. One with fists and dungeons, the other with words and chains. “I still have some things to consider.”
Like a certain brute.
Imparting the whole truth.
Perhaps in the form of a letter?
The door to the shop opened, bell chiming as a man stepped inside, his cane knocking twice on the floor, drawing Violet’s attention to the black cane. She noted at once his aristocratic posture, the cut of his clothes.
A man from nobility.
Her gaze lifted to his face.
A cold shiver trickled down her spine. Time could have taken Drake and his brothers and honed them into this man. The same bones. The same bearing. The same quality of absolute danger. But where Drake’s darkness had warmth buried somewhere beneath it, this man had none. The only other difference was time. Instead of black hair, it was fair to say only notes of black threaded through a full head of grey.
His cold, sharp eyes moved across her shop.
Violet and Angelica both straightened.
His eyes settled on her.
She had the sudden, vivid understanding of what a mouse felt in the moment before the trap closed. She stepped from behind the counter regardless. “May I help you, sir?”
“Violet Sharpe, I presume.”
“I am.”
He stopped before her, black-gloved fingers resting at the head of his cane. “Sirius Faiththorne, at your service.”
“Atmyservice?” Violet asked skeptically.
“My apologies, Miss Sharpe,” the man said. “Forgive my bluntness, but I had hoped that you may perhaps be of mine.”
Violet blinked. What on earth wasthisdevelopment? “Unless you wish for an arrangement of flowers, I can’t see how I can ever be of service to you.”
“My nephew, Drake Fury. You know him?”
A sense of foreboding passed through her, and the hair on the back of her neck rose. This was not about anything good. “I’ve met him in passing,” she offered vaguely.
One single eyebrow shot up. “Then perhaps you can pass along a message for me.”
“Forgive me, Mr. Faiththorne, but why do you not pass the message yourself?”
“My nephew and I have had our differences, and unfortunately, all my attempts at reconciliation have failed.”
What did that have to do with her? “I’m a mere tenant of his. You’d do best to approach someone else.”
He smiled, withdrawing a letter from his inner pocket before extending it to her. “I understand. I only wish to ask if you can do me the courtesy of passing this along.”
Violet’s fingers curled reflexively at her sides. Every instinct she possessed urged her to refuse. She did not know what the letter contained, but looming unease cautioned, with somber certainty, that it contained no attempt at reconciliation. To refuse, however, would be outright discourteous. A woman who only claimed to have met someone in passing would not recoil from a letter as though it might bite. It did beg the questionthough, why did this man come to her? There would be more appropriate options.
“Violet?” Angelica urged.
Mr. Faiththorne did not press, did not speak, merely held the letter between two fingers, cane steady at his side, waiting for her decision. She pinched the thing between her fingers in acceptance.
