Falling for the Bridesmaid

The plan had many, many merits.

With one last look and a quiet sigh, Violet slipped out from between the sheets, slowly enough not to wake him. She needed to think, and that was practically impossible while in bed with Tom. The man was just too distracting—even asleep.

Grabbing a pair of leggings and a long T-shirt from a drawer, and, giving silent thanks that they’d made it back to her room, not Tom’s, the night before, Violet dressed silently, then crept out of the room. She’d use the bathroom down the hall to freshen up, rather than her own en suite bathroom, then grab some coffee and head to Rose’s study. No one was likely to interrupt her there, at least not for a while. After the late night at the wedding, everyone was likely to sleep in, and Tom...well, he was probably a little worn out too.

She couldn’t help the smile that spread across her face as she thought about it. One thing she had no doubt about—last night had definitely been a good idea.

Now she just had to figure out what happened next.

The study was blissfully cool, quiet and private. Resting her cup of coffee on the corner of the desk, Violet curled up in her desk chair and stared out of the window. There was probably work for the Benefit that she should be doing, but she knew she’d be good for nothing if she didn’t sort out last night in her head first.

He’d talked about his mother, and about the dark side of reporting—as if she didn’t know it well enough already. But he’d got out, and the guilt he carried from his mother not knowing that before she’d died...Violet knew that was strong enough to keep him honest for ever. Tom would never be the sort of reporter Nick was. He’d told her the truth about everything.

This could have been history repeating itself all over again—but it wasn’t. Because Tom wasn’t Nick. And, for the first time in a long time, she honestly found herself hopeful and trusting in her future.

The phone on her desk rang, and Violet frowned at it. Who on earth would be calling so early on a Sunday?

‘Violet Huntingdon-Cross,’ she said, answering it.

‘Miss Cross. It’s Jake Collins here.’ Ah, of course. Only the most offensive manager on her list of acts—who else? Probably looking for a way to get back at her for the rider thing. ‘We’re in Dublin airport right now, about to fly back across to your own fair green isle for the Benefit Concert.’

Well, that explained the early morning wake-up call. But not why he was actually calling. And wasn’t Ireland the fair green isle, anyway? At least he was sounding civil. Almost friendly, in fact. It was enough to make her suspicious.

‘Mr Collins,’ she said as brightly as she could, ‘how can I help you today?’

‘It’s rather more a case of how we can help you, I think. I appreciate that the news isn’t official just yet, but you know how the industry is. There were enough people at that party last night that it really wasn’t a surprise.’

What party? The Littlewood wedding? But the only thing that had happened there... Violet bit back a groan. She’d place money on some camera somewhere catching a shot of her and Tom in the garden. But did anyone really care about that? And what on earth did it have to do with Jake Collins, anyway?

‘I’m sorry... I don’t understand.’ And she wasn’t sure she wanted him to explain it, either.

‘Of course, of course. I totally get that you need to await the official announcement. And, of course, there will need to be the appropriate period of mourning, especially for your family. But no one would want to see the Benefit Concert cancelled, I’m sure. So all I wanted to say was...if your father feels it inappropriate for the Lemons to perform, Olivia would, of course, be more than happy to help out by taking over the headline slot.’

Mourning? Why would they...and what would make them think of cancelling the concert?

‘Mr Collins, really—’

‘Oh, I know, too soon. Too soon. But it’s out there now. I’ll call again at a better time and we can talk. So sorry for your loss. Please, pass my condolences on to your parents.’

The line went dead, and Violet stared at it in her hand for a long moment before a truly dreadful thought hit.

Rose and Will.

Violet’s heart beat treble time in her chest. She had no idea where they were, what the time was there and she didn’t care. Grabbing her mobile with shaking hands, she pressed the speed dial and prayed for Rose to pick up.

‘Vi?’ Rose’s sleepy voice came over the line and Violet’s breath burst out of her in relief.

‘Oh, thank God. I just had the strangest phone call and I thought...never mind. You’re okay. Everything’s okay. Go back to sleep.’

‘’Kay. Call you later.’

Violet hung up. Whatever Jake Collins’s deal was, he was obviously mistaken. Everything was fine. Violet’s heart rate started to return to normal and she reached for her coffee cup.

She only managed one sip before the police banged on the door.

* * *

‘What’s going on?’ Tom asked as he stumbled into the kitchen, wishing he’d taken the time to go back to his own room and find something other than yesterday’s suit to wear. But when he’d woken alone in Violet’s bed, heard voices downstairs then spotted the police cars on the driveway...he hadn’t really been thinking about his own sartorial elegance.

Violet looked across from the coffee maker, her expression tense. There were lines around her eyes he didn’t remember from the night before and they looked puffy and red, as if she was trying really hard not to cry.

Sherry wasn’t even trying. How she managed to still look beautiful with tears streaming down her face, Tom had no idea. Rick had one arm around her, his other hand covering his face. Seb held Daisy in the corner, her face hidden against his chest.

And next to the kitchen table stood two police officers and a man in a suit—utterly incongruous in the Huntingdon-Cross kitchen.

‘I’m sorry, sir,’ the suit said, not sounding at all apologetic. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Trivet. And you are?’

‘Tom Buckley. I’m here interviewing the family.’ Except he’d never felt more like an outsider than at this moment.

‘You’re press.’ The detective’s mouth hardened. ‘I’m sorry, but the family has requested no reporters be allowed in at this time.’

Tom’s heart sank, a dead weight in his chest. Of course not. Whatever was happening, this was for family only. ‘Right. I’ll just—’

‘No!’ Violet said, too loud in the subdued kitchen. ‘Tom’s a...family friend. Right, Dad?’

Rick looked up just long enough to nod. His craggy face looked ten years older, Tom realised.

‘In that case, I’ll tell you just what I’ve told the others,’ Trivet said. ‘I’m afraid that in the early hours of this morning one of Mr Cross’s cars was discovered along the riverbank, halfway between here and London. The man behind the wheel was Jez Whittle.’

The Screaming Lemons’ lead guitarist. But, more importantly this morning, Rick’s best friend.

‘Is he...?’ Tom hardly dared ask. The answer was already written on the face of everyone else in the room.

‘It appears that he died in the early hours of this morning.’

‘From the car crash?’ Tom asked, but Violet shook her head.

‘Mr Whittle died from a fatal overdose of heroin.’ Trivet’s expression was solemn as he spoke. ‘People at the party he’d attended in London confirmed that he had seemed unstable before he left and had talked about needing “something more” to take the edge off.’

‘He’d been clean for years!’ Rick’s head shot up, his distress clear on his face. ‘I mean, twenty years. You don’t just fall off the wagon after two decades. Not without talking to someone first. Without talking to me.’

Oh, God, he shouldn’t be here. This wasn’t meant for Tom to witness. He shouldn’t be watching Violet go to her parents and wrap her arms around them both, tears on her cheeks. Because if he was here...he had to write about this moment. Had to tell this story.

/>

And how could he, now?

‘What happens next?’ Seb asked, his voice low and even. He was family now, even if he’d only married in. He could take charge and ask questions and take care of people. While Tom had to just fade into the background and pretend he wasn’t intruding on this incredibly private grief.

Except he wanted to. He wanted to take Violet in his arms the way Seb had held Daisy, wanted to make this easier for her, any way he could.

‘There’ll be an official inquest, of course,’ the detective said. ‘And we’ll need to ask Mr Cross a few questions about the car and such. But mostly, I imagine, you can expect an influx of paparazzi, and soon. I can leave a couple of uniforms here to watch the door, if you want. Might dissuade most of them from trying anything extreme.’

Like climbing in through windows, harassing the family every time they even looked outside. Oh, God, this was going to be hell for Violet.

Seb nodded. ‘Thank you. And if that’s all...’ The Earl had the aristocracy’s way with dismissal hints, Tom realised, and almost smiled.