Lady Violet Cunningham

Lady Violet paced her parlor, taking occasional sips from her glass of Irish whiskey. It had been six months since that chit of a niece had left Port Royal. Escaping to sea in that heathenish ship of hers. Well, Violet thought, she was sure to come back, as that Frenchman she had taken up with was still in town. It gave Violet a headache to think how hard she had worked to convince the girl to go back to England, where a very advantageous marriage awaited her. Ungrateful gutter snipe! Her husband, Albert, entered the room. "My dear Violet, are you still fretting over that niece of yours?" She turned her wrath on him. "Of course I'm still fretting! The stupid creature has no idea what she has brushed aside." "Oh, I think she does." Albert replied, pouring whiskey from the decanter. "It's why she left." "Bah! She may think she has outwitted me, but she is sorely mistaken." "You're going to give yourself a fever, wife. Let it go. You cannot force a woman of her nature to do something she doesn't choose to do." Lady Violet stopped pacing and shot her husband a furious look. "Well, I can see I can expect no help from you!" Albert settled into a cushioned chair. "You expect correctly. I am not going to get myself into a pucker over this affair. I have better things to occupy my time. Besides, you're only angry because you lost the battle." "Well," Lady Violet said, "I may have lost this battle, but I intend to win the war. And make no mistake, Albert, war it is!"

Once the members of the debacle had left her parlor, Lady Violet turned on her husband. "You! You were about as helpful as a member of Parliment! And if that were not bad enough, you as good as threatened Devareax with your knowledge of his business. What the devil did that accomplish, other than to anger him more. Honestly, this whole evening has been a complete and utter disaster." Albert gulped down the remains in his brandy glass. "My dear wife, if you had let the chit alone, and given up on this futile quest to return her to the busom of her family—a family which don't want her—then none of this would have happened in the first place. Do not, I beg you, attempt to turn the blaime onto me." Lady Violet filled her glass with whiskey and ignored the brandy. "That woman, if she return to England and marries Seymour, could align us with the crown. Think what advantages that would gain us." "Gawd, woman, is that the nugget at the center of this pit? I am a Duke. You are a Duchess. What closer alignment with the crown do you need?" She fluffed like a riled hen. "The manor house of Thornbures is destitute. Rudd was left with nothing but debts when his father and older brother died. Do you intend to sink money of your own to bring it back from decrepitude? I dare say not. Seymour money could. Unless you prefer to see a prime piece of property cut up and dispersed among a pack of squabbling minor relatives?" Albert shook his head. "No, the property is too valuable to allow that. But...tell me truly, wife, do you honestly think you can get that chit to agree with your little plan, or that Seymour would have her, once he finds out what she has become? No, he won't. He'd only hold the family up to ridicule, and cast her aside. You would gain nothing." She took a large swallow of whiskey, carefully set the expensive glass on a table, then she faced her husband of some thirty years. "Well, can you come up with a better way of gaining over fifty thousand pounds?"

Lady Violet stood in the middle of her empty parlor. Albert leaned against the fireplace mantle, a glass of brandy cradled in his hand. The quiet after the storm was deafening. Yet Lady Violet's mind still raged. She was not used to losing a battle, and there could be no doubt that she had lost this one. "Have a whiskey, Violet, and forget the chit. You did your best." Albert poured her a glass and held it out. She took it, and downed the contents in one gulp. "It's rediculous, Albert. She has no intention of becoming Devareaux's wife. As soon as she's well, she be back with that revolting rabble of a crew, and gone. The whole idea is a travesty. It is not the life for a woman of her quality." Albert, who tended to be more pragmatic than his volatile wife, replied, "Let it go, Violet. Let her go. She has chosen her own destruction, and there is nothing you can do to stop her. Besides, considering what her life has been these past ten years, she is no longer a woman of quality, and no decent man would have her. Write to her brother and tell him the truth of things." Violet poured herself another whiskey. "Oh, I'll write to her brother. But rather than forsake her to a life of further ruin, I will not give up." She turned to her husband, and her voice softened. "If I can not save her, she will die. Either by shot, blade, brutal hand, or hung by the neck, she will die. Do I abandon her to that?" Albert put an arm about his wife's shoulders. "She is already beyond saving, Violet." She shrugged his arm off. "I refuse to believe that. I refuse to allow her to end up in an unmarked grave, or her body tossed into the ocean." Her chin came up, and fire danced in her eyes. "Do you understand? I refuse."

Taking in the volatile scene, Lady Violet, in danger of having her parlor not only shot up, but stained with blood, decided to take matters into her own hands. "Oh for God's sake." Striding purposely across the room, and shoving her way past the Frenchman with the sword, she stood in front of Devareax and reaching out a hand, slapped her unconcious niece across the check. "Wake up, you chit. You created this fiasco, now you must deal with it." Then she turned to the big Moor. "Put that pistol down at once, I say." Then she glared at all the men present. "Put every weapon away this instant. I am a Dutchess, and I will NOT have my parlor shot up by a bunch of ruffians." Albert held up his brandy glass, in salute to his wife. "Here, here. Well said, my dear."

At that precise moment, chaos erupted. To Lady Violet's fury, the sailors from her neice's ship burst into the parlor, the great Moor leading them. The look on his face would have frightened the most stalwart soldier. Devareaux had turned to catch her fainting niece, and his companion, placing himself between Sebastian and the sailors, had pulled a sword. Albert, still in night robe, bellowed at one and all to "leave the premises at once." After the sailors, the Devareaux party rushed in, to the defence of their master. Poor Preston, pushed aside in the melee, slumped against the wall, one hand pressed to his heart, his jaw dropped in fright. The big Moor glared at the swordsman, standing between him, Devareaux, and her neice, who was limp as a fish. Then looking past him, demanded of Sebastian in a menacing voice, "Give her to me." Past all patience, and wishing her neice to the devil, Lady Violet shouted most unbecomingly, "Oh for God's sake, give the chit to him, and let's end this debacle before my parlor is destroyed."

Violet turned flashing grey eyes on Sebastian. Her voice fairly shook with anger. "I don't know what charade you are playing at, sir, but I tell you, it won't work. As depraved a woman as my nice is, I will not allow her to marry into a family of gypsies, no matter how wealthy they appear to be." Her neice rose unsdeadily. "That's enough. I am tired of being bargained for like some nag at a horse market. You forget, Violet, that I am of age. I can choose my own husband, assuming I want one. And quite frankly, Sebastian suites me rather nicely." She gave him a sweet smile. "As he knows only too well." "Please," Albert inturupted, "Let's not dwell on your sordid relationship. Besides, I know fairly well what generates the wealth of the Devareaux's, and I decline to be associated with it, by marriage or any other means." Violet gave Sebastian a look of triumph. "You see. It is of no use. Your bribery attempt has failed. In which case, I feel we have nothing more to disuss."

Lady Violet felt that the whole scene was decending into high farce. She knew the marriage proposal was a sham, and couldn't understand why Devareaux felt he needed to go to such an extream. As for her niece... "Alexandra Charlotte Louis Worthylake, I order you to return to your room at once!" The woman stood her ground, eyes blazing. "And I ordered you to never call me that again! I see you're just as good at taking orders as I am." "This rediculous, charade of a meeting is over," Lord Albert said. "You make take your offerings, sir, and return them to a place of safe-keeping. The chit isn't worth a brass farthing." The niece in question walked to the brandy tray, filled Lady Violet's goblet, took it and retreated to a nearby chair. She took a sip of the liquor, then smiled at the assembled group. "It's so difficult listening through a door. Pray tell me, what, exactly, did my lover offer for me besides that rediculously huge finger adornment?" "Nothing that I am going to accept," Lady Violet stormed.

"Change her manner?" Lord Albert gasped. "You could as easily change the course of the sun. Really, man, it is too preposterous." Lady Violet, no longer amused, slammed her glass back on the tray, nearly shattering the fragile thing. "It's a trick, Albert, devised between the two of them for just such a situation as this. As soon as she is off our property, he'll let her go back to her ship. I'm sorry, Monsieur Devareaux, but I have plans for my niece, and a life in Port Royal, as your wife or otherwise, is not a part of them."

Lady Violet nearly dropped her glass. She wasn't sure what she had expected from this interview, but an offer of marriage for her neice had certainly not been drempt of, nor was it welcome. "Forgive me, monsieur, but, why do you wish to marry my niece? We are all adults here, so I may speak frankly. You know of her dubious lifestyle, for she has lain in your bed, but do you really wish to take such a woman to wife? It seems hardly creditable." Lord Albert, his jaw dropped, sputtered, "Are you out of your mind! The woman is a hoiden, as Violet has so often said. She'd run off to sea again as soon as your back was turned. Really, sir, it defies reason."

"You are too gracious with your gift, and we are all attention, Monsieur," Lady Violet purred. Albert waited with narrowed eyes, and sipped his brandy.

It was all Lady Violet could do to keep from bursting out laughing. Oh, you're good, she thought, you're very good. "I do believe you're right, Monsieur, however, I much prefer a good Irish whiskey." Albert huffed. "Did you come here, sir, to discuss the merits of my brandy? If it will speed this interview along, I will send a bottle home with you, although, I'm sure it no doubt pales in comparison to what is in your own cellar." Violet allowed Albert to ruffle the Frenchman's feathers. It was a useful tactic, on occation, and she knew Albert was doing it on purpose — testing the waters, sort to speak. By the flashing of his dark eyes, she knew the man by the door was becoming angry. So, she thought, the tactics were working on at least that one. "Albert, please, these men are our guests. Let's be civil, shall we?" She turned toward the one called Sebastian. "Let me refill your glass."

Scotts are alway so peevish, don't you find? It must be running around in those short little skirts, with their poor knobby knees exposed and freezing in the cold. And I blush to admit it, but I have been told that most of them wear no small clothes under them either. How distressing that must be on a blustery day. Not to mention the shock of a rain soaked garden bench. Poor dears.

Lady Violet thought she had heard the best of chivalric small talk at court, but this young Frenchman and his blandishments made her smile with admiration. "My, how polite you are, Monsieur Devareaux. Yes, it is a pity that we have never met before, but then, Lord Albert and myself don't spend much time at Trade Winds, preferring to leave the running of the plantation in the hands of our most capable manager." Preston entered the room with a tray on which were four glasses and a decanter of brandy. "May I offer you refreshment, sirs?" Lady Violet said. Albert, not waiting for his guests, poured himself a glassful, and obviously tired of the small talk, remarked, "Can we get to the issue at hand? What is it that you wish to tell us?"

Albert looked to his wife, at the guest, then back to his wife. "Drat, Violet, who is the man and what is he talking about?" Violet smiled, and replied, "We have never been introduced, but I believe he is my niece's paramour. Why, it was only just tonight that she described him to me as 'Young, gallant, lively, alert, agile, bold, adventurous, hight-handed and a touch arogant'. What do you think, dear? Shall we invite him in?" Despite what most people thought on their first aquaintance, Albert was not a stupid man. He peered at the newcomer again, and a cord was suddenly struck. "Why, you're one of the Devareaux's are you not?" At the mention of thier illusive, mysterious neighbors, Violet's smile got wider. "That settles it then. Do come in, sir. We can retire to the parlor and you can tell us what brings you to our door at so late an hour. I'm sure it will be most...facinating." She stepped back, as did Lord Albert. Preston quickly pocketed the coins the man had given him, then bowed formally. "I will bring refreshments, your ladyship, and alert Timmon to fetch the stable boy to care for the gentlemen's horses." Albert, heading toward a set of double doors, remarked, "Well, come in then, but as this is such an informal meeting, I refuse to put that blasted wig back on." Lady Violet rolled her eyes. "Really, Albert, I seriously doubt that your wig, or lack thereof, is of any interest to them whatsoever." She turned to Devereaux, and gestured toward the double doors. "That way, sir, if you please."

Lady Violet, having just come from her niece's room, heard the disruption in the entrance hall and thought it was the sailors come to carry out the kidnapping. She hurried down the stairs, and saw Albert and Preston talking to someone in the doorway. When she reached the landing, she said, "Albert, is it the sailors? If so, I have already dealt with that little bit of...." She stopped dead when she caught a glimse of the figure standing so galaunt in the doorway..."Oh, it's you." Albert turned to her. "I thought you were abed. Since you're not, do you know this man? He says he has business with you, but honestly Violet, I have no idea what he's talking about." Violet's heart beat quicker, as it always did in anticipation of a challenging confrontation. She stepped closer to the door and gazed with utmost nobility at the man before her, but secretly, she was thrilled at the opportunity to cross wits with one who appeared, if not exactly her equal, then at the very least, a stirring opponent. She frowned at her husband. "Oh Albert, I doubt it is me he has come to see." She focused her pale grey eyes back on the man she had last seen at the Royal Grace. "Don't you think it a bit late to pay a sick bed call? In all honesty, I was hoping you would have forgotten all about her by now. So, do tell me, what did you wish to speak to me about?"

Preston paused, impressed by the gentleman's polite demeanor, but still a little nervous. Clearly, the man was of the quality, if one judged his dress and manor of speech, but the lateness of the hour, and the urgency the man spoke of, made Preston hesitate. "What urgency, sir, at such a late hour?" Before the guest could reply, Preston's master, Lord Albert, dressed in lounging robe and without his wig, his face flushed with an excess of Port, exited the study and approached the entrance hall. "Preston, who are these people? What in God's name do they want at this hour?" Preston bowed and replied, "The gentleman says it is a matter of utmost urgency that he talk to Madame." Lord Albert peered at the guests. "What the devil's business do you have with my wife, and why couldn't it wait until a decent hour of the morning? She's in bed, sir, and I'm in no mood to wake her."

At the sound of the peal of the entrance bell, Preston started from his doze by the front door. The aged black man got to his feet, straightened his coat, and cleared the phlem from his throat. He didn't remember the Master and Mistress telling him there would be guests at so late an hour, but then, he thought, his memory wasn't all it used to be. He shuffled to the door, lifted the bolt, and opened it. In the dim light coming from the lantern over the portal, Preston saw strange men. Behind them, horses pawed impatiently at the cobbles. Old bones protesting, Preston straightened himself to his full height, which came just above the newcomers shoulders, and asked in his most officious tone, "Are you expected?"

Lady Violet waited until the big black man had gone, then entered her niece's room. "If you're looking for your clothes, you won't find them. By rights, I should have ordered them burned, considering thier condition. However, they are merely waiting to be washed. If you wish to escape, you'll have to do it in your nightshift." The girl turned, and Violet swore she heard a growl. "You brought this on yourself, you know" Violet went on. "And you can put leaving Trade Winds right out of your mind. Your men will be stopped." The girl stepped closer. "Don't harm any of them. They were just following my orders." Violet waved an arm dripping with expensive lace. "We were prepared for just such a stunt as this. Resign yourself to it, my girl. You are staying here until you are well. If you wish to keep the peace, and insure that your men are not harmed or shot, then desist in any more attempts to escape." There was silence for a moment, then her niece returned to the bed, slipped under the coverlets, then remarked dryly, "Can I at least expect a little bread and water during my incarceration?" "Oh," Lady Violet purred, "I think we can do a little better than that, provided your behave yourself."

Lady Violet sniffed in contempt. "Yes, I know the kind of man you prefer— in your bed or theirs. Did I not see a fine example of such a few days ago in the Royal Grace, glaring at me over your head?" To Violet's consternation, her neice's expression changed to one of...satisfaction, and a smile curved the woman's lips. "Ah, mon amour. Juene, galant, frisque, dehait, bien adixtre, hardi, adventureaux." she said, and the smile became coy and the lapis-blue eyes sparkled. "Haute `a la main et un peu superbe." "More than a little, I suspect," Violet retorted. "And I see he cares for you so much, that he hasn't enquired of your health since you were accosted." "If I'm lucky, he won't have heard of it. He has other, family business on his mind, at the moment." For some reason, Lady Violet found herself becoming angry, a state she rarely allowed herself, as she felt it to be a deplorable loss of control. "The Devareaux's are gypsies. You are nobility. You might as well bed the gardener." Her neices blue eyes went cold and steely. "Personally, I'd rather bed your gardener, than Seymour." Before she lost all dignity, Lady Violet left the room. But it required more than one glass of Irish whiskey to restore her mood to something less volatile.

After Lady Violet had spent a tedious half an hour explaining to her husband just why a half dozen sailors needed to take up residence in the Trade Winds stable, she returned to check on her sleeping niece. The woman was still asleep, so taking advantage of the opportunity, and having no scruples whatsoever, Violet went to the chair where her neice's clothes had been piled in a heap by the servants who had undressed her, and searched them. She wasn't sure what she was looking for, but turned up a nasty looking daggar, a small money pouch with a few coins of mixed origin, a necklace of green beads with some kind of pendant celtic medalion, and a small striking box. And a key. Violet examined the key, thinking it looked very much like the one to her favorite room at the Royal Grace. Then, with a frown, she remembered the unpleasant encounter on the stairs of that establishment, and the arrogant man who had been standing behind her neice, saying nothing. With a gleam of triumph in her gray eyes, Lady Violet pocketed the key.

Having just made her neice comfortable in fine four-poster bed dressed in linen sheets and a silk counterpane, Lady Violet was startled by the abrupt entrance into the quiet room of her husband, Albert. "Violet, there are some very scruffy men in our parlor," Albert said, clearly distressed. "They are sailors, dear." "Why are there scruffy sailors in our parlor?" "They are aquaintances of my niece." Albert peered at the sleeping form in the bed, shrugged, then turned his attention back to his wife. "What am I supposed to do with them?" "I suggest you send them to the kitchen for some food, then find a place for them to sleep." Violet said. "Sleep!" Alberts eyebrows shot up "Surely they are not staying? Why aren't they sleeping on their ship?" "I belive it is being careened at the moment." "Well then, why can't they stay in town? Good God, Violet, I'm sure one is Italian. He was singing some aria or other. Did you know sailors sang arias? I'm sure I didn't." Violet took a deep breath, and counted to ten. "That would be Ludo, I believe. Really, Albert, I don't know why you are so upset. Other than a good scrubbing, they seem to be fairly decent men. Have one of the servants set some cots up in the stable. They will be coming and going at odd hours, so the stable will be best." "Coming and going?" Albert pushed out his chest, and fisted his hands on his hips. "Violet Cunningham, what on earth is going on?" Violet patted him on one flushed cheek. "Come, dear. Let us go have a nice glass of Irish whiskey, and I'll tell you all about it."

Lady Violet was ushered in to the strangest room she had ever seen. The walls were covered with anatomical and astronomical charts, odd bits of notes, and scribbled symbols. Filling the floor to ceiling shelves on the wall behind a cluttered desk, were old volumes, dusty scrolls, numerous bones and rocks, vials of strange powders, jars of stranger liquids, and sealed beakers containing God-knew-what floating in wombs of alcohol — and a ginger cat, glaring down at her with amber eyes. Bunches of herbs, and a set of battered pewter measuring cups hung from the rafters. On the desk were more books, writing instruments, sealing wax held over a spirit burner, an oil lamp, and a jumble of papers. The room smelled of grilled fish, musty herbs, and sulfer. Lying on a cot, and covered with a thread-bare blanket, was her sleeping niece. A man looking like a demented wizard remarked, "I see you got mae note. Took your own sweet time tae get here." Violet's eyebrows shot up, then lowered in a glare. "Do you know who I am?" "Sure, and you're the rich auntie, come tae take this she-devil off mae hands." "Just how did my niece end up in your hands in the first place?" The man thrust out his chin, which was covered in a tangled, faded red beard. "Before this hoyden broke intae mae house, I was left in peace tae do mae work. Since that evil day, I've had naught but trouble — fire, hurricane, soldiers knocking down mae door, nae tae mention a few Frenchman and a demented actress. Then, tae cap things off, three days ago yon blackamoor brings her back, just when I thought I was rid of her for good and all, and she's been stuck like a pig and bleeding all over mae carpets. I've tended her proper, but now it's time for her family tae take her on." One would think, confronted with such a tirade, Lady Violet would had given the old man a good set-down. But as it happened, Violet admired those who stood up to her and gave as good as they got. "Very well, you needn't bother with her any further. I'm prepared to take her to Trade Winds. Have you any instructions on her care?" Obviously surprised that she would ask, he replied, "Weel, I've cleaned the wound proper, and treated it with sulfer. Her lung wasna punctured, and sae far there's nae infection, sae I'd say the only thing she needs is rest and good food. Howsomever, if the wound starts tae smell like a cesspit, or red lines start tae crawl down her arm, you send yon Blackamoor for me, whippety quick. She's lost enough blood already, and I'll nae have some crab-handed doctor siphoning off any more." "Very sensible," Lady Violet replied. "Very sensible indeed." Her neice, carried with maternal care by the big black man, was transferred from cot to cart, made comfortable, and covered with a clean blanket. Lady Violet had followed the lads to the street. The old gentleman stood in the doorway, and before the little cavelcade moved off, pointed at the Blackamoor. "Since yea won't hae a choice, let our big friend here watch over yon lassie. Like as not, when the man who tried to kill her finds out he didna succeed, he'll be back tae try again." Lady Violet nodded and handed the old man a purse full of coins. "Very sensible, I'm sure."

Lady Violet's breakfast of a small squab, stewed mango, sugared biscuits, and tea, was interupted by a knock on her door. Her maid, Kitty, opened it and one of the Royal Grace servants entered, head bowed. "Yes, what is it?" Lady Violet asked peevishly, as she was nursing a headache. The servant knuckled his forehead. "If ya please, ma'am. There's a man downstairs says he has a message for you." "What sort of message? Why couldn't you bring it up?" "Well, the man says he's to deliver the note to your hands directly, but Mr. Spindlethorpe wouldn't let him come no further into the inn, being as how he's the bigest Blackamoor he's ever seen." Lady Violet, suddenly intrigued and always up for an adventure, stood, dumping Sugar unceremoniously to the floor. "A Blackamoor, you say?" "Yes ma'am." "Well, I had best straighten out this little mystery. Go back to the common room and tell the messenger I'll be down directly. Oh, and direct that a small Irish whiskey should be waiting as well. I need something to clear this aching head of mine." The boy bowed again, and left the room. Lady Violet turned eagerly to her servant. "Kitty, what is the proper costume to wear when one is meeting a giant Blackamoor?"

Lady Violet was quite annoyed with her hoyden of a niece. Despite sending word about town that she wished to speak to the woman, so far no one knew of her whereabouts. When she had coerced Albert into inquiring at the docks, he received the same blank looks and shaking heads, "No, your lordship, we aint seen naught of the captain of the Rakehell. But seeing as how that ship is bein' careened at present, her captain is no doubt off enjoyin' herself, ifn ya take my meaning, sir." To make matters more vexing, Albert came home from that assignment complaining that some Irish lout had cheated him at cards and won a sizable sum from him. Lady Violet knew that Albert was a horrible card player, with no ability to compose his face into a blandness suitable for luring his opponents into a rash hand, so suspected the Irishman had won the money fairly. "Albert dear, you know bettr than to play cards with an Irish lout," she scolded, while feeding Sugar a sweetmeant from her plate. Albert scowled. "You keep feeding that dog sweets, and all her teeth are going to fall out. Her breath smells like a cesspit as it is, since half of them are already rotted." "Don't be churlish, dear, just because some Irishman picked your pocket." Albert stood abruptly. "Well, since you find my company churlish, I think I will return to Trade Winds. This business with our niece is nothing but a fiddle-faddle. The chit is never going to return to England, so you might as well accept the fact." "I thought you had to stay for the hanging. You did accuse the man. I think it only fair that you stay to see Sterling strung up." With his face takng on a sudden pallor, Lord Albert replied, "No, no, I'm going back. You've the stronger constitution, Violet. You watch him dangle." And with that parting remark, Lord Albert left the room. With a pleased smile at her victory, Lady Violet fed Sugar another sweetmeat, but had to concede that the dog's breath was quite atrocious.