The Countess Conspiracy

  There were some boundaries that one dared not cross, and thinking about kissing one’s best friend was one of them.

  Sebastian shrugged and his nose wrinkled.

  “Not that,” Violet said.

  He spoke at the same time she did. “How about we just make up?”

  And then—because they were talking atop each other again, knowing precisely what the other was thinking, Violet found herself smothering a smile.

  She’d been awful. He deserved more than her grumpiest sentiments. She didn’t know how to navigate this new phase of their friendship…but she would never forgive herself if she didn’t make the attempt. She let out a long breath.

  “We must be off.” She glanced at Sebastian. “I don’t have time for you any longer.”

  “Aunt Violet!” Amanda protested, as Violet took her wrist and led her away. “How rude! What would people think of you, if they heard that? Even if he is a rake.”

  Violet didn’t care what Amanda thought. After all, it was her parting sentence that had put that brilliant smile on Sebastian’s face. He knew what she meant.

  There was, after all, no point to using a code if everyone understood it.

  VIOLET SAT IN HER MOTHER’S AIRY BACK PARLOR, perched on the edge of her seat, wishing she were anywhere else.

  She’d come here immediately after she’d returned her niece to her sister, after she’d seen Sebastian. Her mother was worried about some kind of scandal. If her mother knew what Violet had been doing over the last five years, this was not going to be a pretty conversation. If she didn’t, that meant her mother had some other worry on her mind. Still, she’d promised Lily, and once she’d made that promise, there was no point delaying the visit.

  Her mother sat across from her. Her needles clicked at a furious pace; her eyes were trained on the sky-blue wool that flew through her fingers.

  “Mama,” Violet said for the third time. “I had hoped to have a—”

  “Not now, Violet.” The Dowager Baroness Rotherham had a deep, guttural voice, one that could issue commands that made servants and daughters alike jump to do her bidding. “If I lose count, I’ll have to redo the whole row.”

  “It’s important, Mama.”

  Her mother continued knitting, unperturbed.

  Violet sighed. Of course she was less important than finishing the row.

  Her mother still did not look up. Instead, her needles clacked together more loudly. But after another few moments of silence, she spoke. “The Ladies’ Guide to Proper Deportment says, and I quote, ‘A lady does not engage in any of the following behaviors: sighing, rolling her eyes, slamming doors…’ The list goes on, as I am sure you recall. Do you flout the precepts of proper deportment because you wish to put me to the blush, or is it just boorishness on your part?”

  All that, and she hadn’t lifted her eyes from her knitting.

  Violet felt a corner of her mouth twitch. “Mama, you wrote the Ladies’ Guide.”

  An eyebrow rose. The baroness finished one last stitch and then laid her work—a short, blue scarf—aside. “I see no reason to alter my words simply because I committed them to print in the past. Quite the contrary. I labored over them once already. Why should I exert myself to express an identical sentiment in an inferior way?”

  If Lily had been here, she would have a hand on her hip now, a foot tapping. She’d start scolding their mother, and afterward, when she and Violet had left the room, she would have made some sort of comment about how cold Mama was—how she could not even be bothered to greet her own children with pleasantries.

  But Violet understood her mother better than her sister did. For Mama, that had been a warm greeting. She wasn’t the kind of woman who embraced those she cared for with abandon. When she was pleased to see someone, she lectured her. It was just the way she was.

  “You have some reason for coming to see me?” her mother said.

  “I am visiting,” Violet said smoothly. “What reason does a daughter need to visit?”

  “What reason, indeed?” The baroness shook her head. “You were given the gift of speech, Violet. Make use of it.”

  Violet smoothed her skirts and looked down. She wasn’t sure how to broach the subject. No matter what her mother had just said, she wouldn’t appreciate it if Violet simply blurted everything out.

  So, Mother, Lily gave me reason to believe that you know about a scandal. By some chance, have you figured out that I am the most reviled scientist in all of England?

  They were at an impasse. There were six things that every lady was supposed to lie about. One was her own faults, which meant that Violet couldn’t admit what she’d done. Ladies also lied about faults in others—so her mother would refuse to acknowledge Violet’s hidden identity, even if she knew of its existence.

  Her mother’s rules made a great deal of sense, but on occasion, they were also extremely inconvenient.

  “So, Mother,” she said instead, “Lily tells me that you’re teaching Amanda the rules. And the shadow rules.”

  Her mother glanced up sharply, looking around. The shadow rules were not discussed in company. But nobody else was about. “Your sister doesn’t like it much. But yes, I am. Amanda is almost a grown woman, and she deserves to know how to get on.”

  “Lily thinks you’re just being difficult. I think…” Violet licked her lips and looked at her mother. “I suspect you believe that some scandal might fall on us.”

  “Scandal.” Her mother picked up her scarf and turned it over, frowning as she examined her work. “I have no idea what you might be talking about. What sort of scandal do you think there might be, Violet?”

  Another woman might have spoken those words as if they were a question. Her mother gave them a slight twist—the kind that suggested that she wasn’t asking a question at all, but stating a fact.

  If she was going to play games, then Violet would play right along. “I have nothing in mind.”

  “Stuff and nonsense. When people say that it’s nothing, they usually mean, ‘nothing I wish to talk about.’ But I am your mother, Violet. Your wish to keep silent is irrelevant. I wish you to tell me what you know, and so you will.”

  Violet bit back a laugh. So might her mother browbeat anyone. She’d seen it a thousand times. Of late—oh, truthfully, over the last decade—she’d bemusedly watched herself doing the exact same thing. As the years went by, she and her mother became more and more alike. Violet couldn’t wait until she’d earned her mother’s prickly indifference, until the calm, assertive façade that she put on became truth.

  “What’s so funny?” her mother asked, frowning at her. “Are you laughing at me? What have you heard, Violet?”

  “I haven’t heard anything,” Violet said.

  There was a long pause. Her mother carefully stood. She tiptoed to the door, and stood there in silence for a moment, counting out beats. Then, very swiftly, she yanked it open.

  Nobody was there. Her mother poked her head out, peered both ways down the hall, then very softly shut the door once more.

  “I appreciate your discretion, Violet,” she murmured. “And I understand that there are…some things that must not be spoken aloud. But if we are to manage the thing that I hope we will not have to manage, we must come to an understanding. Just as well that Lily is not here; she’d have conniptions.” She looked over at Violet. “You know what we have to do.”

  It was the first rule, the rule that superseded all other rules. “A lady protects her own,” Violet said.

  Her mother nodded. “Even if her own is foolish and forgetful…ah, well. I have no regrets. Come, Violet. Sit. Don’t say it aloud—I don’t believe anyone is listening, but I’d rather not find out that I’m wrong when…” She sighed. “I’m too old to manage this sort of fear. This scandal that you have in mind. Is it a new scandal or an old scandal?”

  “It is an old scandal.”

  Her mother’s nose wrinkled. “What year?”

  “Oh,” Violet said in surprise
, counting back. “It was…1862.”

  “Oh. So.” The baroness’s lips pinched together and she shook her head in silence. “That. Indeed.”

  After a long pause, Violet realized that was all the acknowledgment she was going to get.

  Maybe she’d hoped for more. Some days, she’d idly toyed with mentioning the matter to her mother. Mama would understand if she knew, Violet had sometimes thought. She was her mother, after all, and for all Lily thought her cold and unfeeling, Violet knew better. Or she had thought she had.

  Her mother rubbed her forehead, a gesture of upset and vulnerability so out of place that Violet almost reached for her—until she recalled that her mother would not welcome being touched. Especially not when Violet was the cause of her distress.

  “So,” her mother repeated. “I had hoped… But then, hope never fixed anything.” She sighed and looked up. “Who have you told, then? Did you tell your sister? Because if you did, she will tell her husband, and he’ll think it his duty—he has the most godforsaken theories on what his duty is, that apparently don’t include keeping family secrets—to make a ruckus about it. If that’s the case, we’ll all hang.”

  Violet grimaced. Nothing like a little hyperbole to keep everyone in line. “I’m not an idiot. Lily knows nothing.”

  “Good. Anyone else?”

  “Well, Sebastian Malheur, of course.”

  Her mother snorted. “That boy. I had my eye on him from the moment he was old enough to walk. I knew he’d make trouble. But he has been discreet, at least, and if he hasn’t told yet, I doubt he’ll do it.” She sighed. “Still, the more people who know, the worse it is, no matter how trustworthy you think they are. This is awful. It’s beyond ruinous.”

  Violet tried not to flinch, but still she felt her stomach clench. Some part of her had been hoping for a single whispered word of praise. Even the brief flicker of a smile. But her mother’s eyes looked dark and condemning.

  “I still have nightmares about it,” her mother continued. “Some days, I can’t even make myself believe it is true. It disgusts me.” Her hands were trembling; she set her knitting on the table and rubbed her fingers.

  Oh, Violet had been telling herself lies. Proud? Her mother? No chance of that. Violet was disgusting.

  Violet had always known that she was fundamentally unlovable. That she had to pretend to have any hope of fitting in. When she was younger, it had been a cause of some grief, but she’d straightened her spine and gone on with her life. The only thing worse than an unlovable woman was an unlovable woman who whined about not being loved. She’d killed off all the parts of her that hoped for anything more than tepid acquaintanceship, and she’d made a habit of hiding her most unpalatable parts.

  If she’d ever wanted proof that she’d made the right decision, this was it. Her own mother couldn’t accept who she was and what she’d done.

  Violet swallowed.

  There was a bright side to this all. She was getting better at managing her emotions. She felt only a mid-sized disappointment. Not crushing anguish or teeth-gnashing misery. Her mother was disgusted, and Violet could smile with equanimity as if nothing were happening. She was learning not to expect anything more from life. By the time she became her mother’s age, she might learn to forgo hope altogether.

  “I understand, Mama.” She managed to say the words without a tremble in her voice. “Why do you think I’ve never talked to you about it?”

  “Good girl,” her mother said. “Well, we’ll just have to keep it hidden. It was just a whisper I heard, after all—a sly chance remark that someone made. I don’t think Lady Haffington meant to do anything except stick her tongue out at me. She had no idea how much truth there was in her accusation.” Her mother smiled tremulously. “But you will tell me if you become aware of a…greater danger of this coming out, won’t you?”

  “Of course, Mama.” Violet sat with her hands folded. She wasn’t sure what to say. “If it would help,” she finally managed, “you may castigate me. A little.”

  Her mother simply looked puzzled. “If I wanted to do that, I would hardly need your permission. Am I supposed to want that?”

  Violet looked away. “When it comes down to it, I’ve…accepted what has come as a result of…this scandal with open arms. Without it…I don’t know what I would have made of myself. It has meant everything to me. I feel guilty and so, so selfish.”

  “Violet Marie Waterfield, don’t you dare say that you feel guilty.” Her mother’s voice sounded a little hoarse. “Not in my presence. Not for that. Don’t you dare.”

  “But—” For a second, all of Violet’s squashed hopes leaped up again. Her mother was proud. Violet had done an amazing thing. She’d be recognized—even a little—by the woman whose opinion she most cared for.

  “Don’t you dare feel an ounce of guilt because of this. I won’t have it.”

  Violet sucked in a breath. Her lungs burned. She wouldn’t hope. She wouldn’t.

  Her mother held up her hand. “Do not say it. Do not ever say it, because if anyone hears—a single, solitary servant—we are at the end of everything. Don’t feel guilty, Violet. Guilt serves no purpose. Just make sure—whatever you do, whatever you say—for God’s sake, make sure that nobody ever finds out.”

  No. Hope was pointless. She should never have harbored it, or it wouldn’t be crushing her under this enormous weight.

  “Don’t worry, Mama,” Violet said. “I know what it would mean.” Her chin went up. “I won’t let anything happen. A lady protects her own, after all.”

  She might have been imagining the moisture that seemed to temporarily cloud her mother’s vision. For a second, she was almost sure it was there. But then her mother raised her chin, and she knew it had been an illusion after all.

  Chapter Five

  AT PRECISELY NINE MINUTES BEFORE FOUR, Sebastian arrived home, a gratifyingly large stack of paperwork tucked into his briefcase. He’d had one encounter with Violet in Hyde Park already today, and he both feared and anticipated their next meeting. But he had to be ready to brave lions—or Violet. Whichever he happened to encounter first.

  Lions would have been easier to convince, he thought ruefully, and less dangerous.

  But whether he was meeting a pride of lions or a single Violet, preparations had to be made. He gave his valet the rest of the day off, settled the details of the evening meal with his cook, and retreated to his back garden with strict orders that he didn’t wish to be bothered.

  That he had a back garden, and one of this size, had been a matter of the utmost necessity. He had needed space—space where he might retreat and speak with a woman without any of his servants discerning that he had done so. Today, he walked through the gap in the hedge that surrounded the outdoor terrace, whistling merrily. He went past the shed that had been converted into an office, the greenhouse that he used to bamboozle visitors. He slid behind a pair of bushes that nestled up against the back wall. From there, it was a matter of opening the hidden gate and sliding through.

  That gate opened onto a dark alley. Calling it an alley exaggerated its status. The space was nothing more than an abbreviated gap between two walls, formed because fifty years ago, one homeowner had wanted a garden wall of brick, while his neighbor wished for one of stone. This gap, scarcely two feet wide, was cluttered with old leaves and—because it had been a while since they were both in London—three months’ worth of cobwebs. Twenty-four yards down this uncomfortable passage, in the other wall—the wall of brick, not the wall of stone—stood another gate, this one overgrown with ivy.

  Sebastian made his way there. Ivy creepers had wrapped little tendrils around the iron gate; he clipped the strands free, and stepped into the lion’s den. Otherwise known as Violet’s back garden.

  Long ago, they’d chosen a simple code.

  Farewell meant I’m not available today.

  Until next time meant I’ll be in my garden until three. There were fifty-two other possibilities, and they all came
down to the same thing. I don’t have time for you any longer meant that Violet had wanted to meet with him this evening.

  What could happen? Sebastian couldn’t guess.

  The view of Violet’s house was blocked by a tall screen of lime trees, one that helped preserve their privacy. Violet’s London greenhouse wasn’t as large as the one on her Cambridge property—a few hundred square feet. A sign on the door proclaimed: The countess is NOT to be bothered except in the cases of Death, Disembowelment, the Apocalypse, or the Arrival of her Mother.

  Sebastian ignored this dire warning and stepped inside. The entry was a mere pace or two wide, but there was enough room for him to shrug into a smock, find a pair of gloves, and check himself for insects. When he’d done so, he passed through the second door.

  A set of wheeled shelves stood on either side. These were crammed with hundreds of miniature clay pots scarcely higher than his thumb. Each of them was marked; the ones nearest him read CD101, CD102.

  Sawhorses elevated massive beds of soil waist-high. They stretched from where Sebastian stood down to the end of the greenhouse.

  Violet stood at the far end before one of the beds. She wore a white gardening smock over her dark gown and dark gloves over her hands. Her hair was covered by a white cap.

  She didn’t look up when Sebastian entered. He wasn’t even sure that she’d made note of him, although he hadn’t tried to be quiet.

  They’d done this a thousand times—met in the greenhouse while Violet planted or made markers on orangewood sticks, explaining to him what she was doing and why. In order to play her, he’d had to understand every step she completed.

  Today, she had one of her notebooks open in front of her. She was wielding a needle—a long, thin piece of metal, not so different from the knitting needles she carried in her bag—to transfer pollen from one flower to another. There was a grace to her movements—the quiet grace of a woman performing a task she enjoyed.