Had thought he’d fallen in love with, he reminded himself sternly. It wouldn’t do to allow one dratted hairstyle to make him go soft in the head.
“Yes,” she said, giving another small cough. “I’ve been feeling a bit poorly since my return from the country”—she, at least, made no effort to disguise the note of reproach in her voice—“but I’m certain it’s nothing to worry overmuch about. I shall be right as rain in another day, I expect.”
James gazed at her intently, pondering—it was unlike Violet to admit to illness until she was delirious with fever. She shifted in her chair as he continued to look at her, her cheeks flushing slightly, causing the book on her lap to fall to the floor with a soft thud.
“What are you reading?” James asked, hastening to pick up the volume before she could lean down to do so for herself. He straightened and flipped the book in his hand so that he could peer at the spine. He read the title, then flicked an amused glance at his wife, whose cheeks appeared to be reddening further.
“Childe Harold?” he asked, handing the book back to her. “Please correct me if my memory is failing me in my advanced age, but did you not once call Byron a ‘floppy-haired fool’?”
“I may have,” Violet admitted, setting the volume aside on the small table next to her chair. “But I thought I might as well see what all the fuss is about. It’s quite good, actually,” she said reluctantly, rather as she might admit that Napoleon’s coat was attractive. “Though I still think he’s a bit of an idiot. All that carrying on with Caro Lamb.” She sniffed disdainfully, and James had to suppress an urge to grin.
“I think he’s rather an idiot myself,” James said, and Violet’s gaze met his, and for a moment it was as though no time had passed. She was enjoying herself—for a moment, just a moment, he could see it plain as anything. There was the look in her beautiful brown eyes that he used to see each time they really got into it about history or literature or anything else they used to debate—the keen interest, the intelligence that polite society found unseemly in a woman. It was one of the things James loved best about her.
Had loved best.
That sobering addendum brought him back to himself, and to his reason for looking in on her. “If you are fit enough to discuss Byron, then I suppose I can rest easy that I don’t need to summon a physician for you?”
“Oh!” Violet said with a start, and an odd expression crossed her face, though it was gone before James could identify it. “No! That is, yes. That is…” She waved her hand, clearly attempting—unsuccessfully—to appear casual. “I shall consult a physician if I am not feeling better soon. You need not concern yourself, my lord.”
And just like that, the distance was back between them. For a moment, as they had discussed Byron, it had felt like it used to, before everything went wrong in their marriage. But just as quickly, with the words my lord, the past four years reinserted themselves. And it was all the more frustrating for the fact that, for a moment, he’d forgotten how things stood.
“Very well,” he said impatiently, angry at her for ruining the moment—for ruining things in the first place, he thought furiously. “If you have no need of my assistance, then I shall take my leave of you.” He hated the sound of his own voice when he was speaking to her, sometimes—never did he sound like so much of a prig as when he was conversing with his own wife.
He reminded himself, as he so often did, that he was not the party at fault in this mess—he had reacted as any man would have upon learning his own wife had manipulated him in so appalling a fashion. The fact that he had to remind himself of this fact at all was itself a dangerous sign—for a good while after their last, final argument, he’d been too angry to think clearly. He’d never needed reminding then.
“I require nothing of you,” Violet said softly, in response to his last statement. And for a moment James wanted to shake her, to demand that she ask something, anything of him—he was her husband, after all, for better or for worse.
But, of course, he could not say that to her. So instead he bowed, and said nothing more at all.
* * *
Violet’s plan was proving to be more complicated than she had anticipated.
“Of course it is,” Diana said impatiently the next day as she, Violet, and Emily reclined in Diana’s barouche outside Gunter’s. “I do believe my exact words to you when you confessed this idea were, ‘Have you lost your mind?’ ”
“And I assured you that I had done no such thing,” Violet said, pausing to take a bite of her ice. It was a warm day, and Berkeley Square was packed with carriages and curricles full of other ladies similarly enjoying ices in the sunshine. Violet spotted at least three different clusters of ladies that she knew, but she did no more than nod in acknowledgment upon catching their eyes. She did not wish to be disturbed.
“However,” she conceded, “this is presenting some difficulties. Do you think your physician would be willing to lie to the son of a duke?”
Diana and Emily both blinked at her, Emily with a spoon suspended halfway to her mouth.
“It’s just that if I’m going to maintain this ruse, I’ll eventually need a physician to say that I’m truly ill, and I know James’s physician won’t do it. So I need to find someone else.”
“And you don’t think he’ll find it suspicious that you’re suddenly consulting a different physician?” Emily asked skeptically.
“I shall just tell him that I want someone who has nothing to do with the Audley family,” Violet said, waving a spoon dismissively. “He won’t question me overmuch after I tell him that.”
“What a pleasant time the two of you must have of it,” Diana said, shaking her head. “Tell me, at mealtimes, do you slice your meat with great gusto whilst staring at your husband menacingly across the table?”
“Only on special occasions,” Violet said, refusing to rise to the bait. “But the fact remains, if I want to give James what for, I’ll need a physician at some point.”
“Or someone who looks like a physician,” Emily said thoughtfully, surprising Violet—she had rather expected Emily to be the one who objected more strenuously to all this.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you’ll struggle to find a physician willing to lie to a lady’s husband, especially when the husband in question is the second son of a duke,” Emily said. She took a bite of her ice. “So you might be better served by finding someone who could pose as a physician.”
“What, an actor?” Violet asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Certainly not,” Emily said, blushing. “The very idea! It would be most inappropriate for a lady of your breeding to even be in the company of an actor, there’s no one who—”
“Wait,” Diana said, her eyes lighting up. “There’s one actor whose company would be acceptable.”
“Who?” Emily asked, her tone highly skeptical. “Violet’s reputation would be compromised if she were seen in the company of anyone involved with the theater. And it’s not as though actors tend to frequent Wednesday nights at Almack’s.”
“Lucky them,” Violet murmured.
“That’s where you’re wrong,” Diana said gleefully. “There’s one who does. Well,” she amended, “probably not Almack’s, because no one in their right mind would choose to go there. But there is one person involved with the theater who has entrée to places we can reach him.”
Violet leaned forward, intrigued. “Diana, I do believe your penchant for gossip is finally proving useful.”
“Indeed,” Diana said smugly. “I take it you two do not recall the scandal of the Marquess of Eastvale’s son?”
Violet took a thoughtful bite of ice. The name sounded familiar, somehow—beyond the routine familiarity every member of the aristocracy had with the families listed in Debrett’s. What was it? She gasped.
“Julian Belfry?” she asked. “Oh, Diana, you are brilliant at times, I must admit.”
“Who is Julian Belfry?” Emily asked, frowning.
“Don’t you reca
ll the story?” Violet asked. “It was a few years ago—during your second Season, perhaps? He’s the second son of a marquess and instead of joining the military or the clergy—”
“Or raising a stable full of horses,” Diana added dryly.
“—he started his own theater with the inheritance left him by a relative. I don’t recall all the precise details,” Violet said, waving her hand impatiently. “But it was quite a scandal—his father hasn’t spoken his name since the day he received word of the purchase of the theater. He was a couple of years ahead of James and Penvale and Jeremy at Oxford,” she said, and then her face fell as a realization dawned on her. “Oh, but Diana, he won’t do at all! James knows him! He’ll see through any ruse in an instant.”
“Are they closely acquainted?” Diana asked.
“No,” Violet said, drawing out the syllable as she thought, trying to recall mentions of him James had made in passing. “I don’t know that they were ever particularly intimate.”
“And Belfry is supposed to be quite the actor, isn’t he?” Diana pressed. “Performs in many of the productions at his own theater? It’s all part of the scandal surrounding him, is it not?”
“Well, yes—”
“Then I don’t think it will be a problem,” Diana said dismissively. “Any actor worth his salt must be possessed of a few clever costumes—and men never see anything other than they’re expecting to. Audley won’t notice a thing.”
“Much as it pains me to admit this, James isn’t entirely unintelligent,” Violet said. “I don’t know if this will work.”
“Well, do you have a better idea?” Diana asked impatiently.
“Not at present,” Violet admitted.
“Then it’s worth a try, I say.”
“It’s rather easy for you to say, when you won’t be the one running the risk of being caught out by your husband in a blatant lie,” Violet said peevishly.
In response to this, Diana played her trump card. She placed a hand dramatically upon her breast, heaving a deep sigh. “Of course, you are correct,” she said mournfully. “What wouldn’t I give to have my own dear husband here, primed to serve as the target of such a scheme?” She blinked as though fighting back tears, though her eyes looked suspiciously clear. “But of course, I am a widow now, and must live vicariously though my beloved friends to fill my long, sorrowful days—”
“Enough,” Violet said, feeling it best to interrupt before Diana really got into the spirit of the thing. “I’ll do it, I’ll do it. But if this all goes disastrously awry, I shall be laying the blame squarely at your feet.”
“Fair enough,” Diana said, serenely taking a bite of ice, all traces of emotion suddenly, mysteriously absent.
“How do you intend to contact him?” Emily asked curiously—she had been observing without commenting for several minutes now. “Sending a letter seems rather risky, and it’s not as though you can just show up at his theater…”
“I think,” Diana said slowly, “that my useless brother may for once prove to be beneficial to me.”
* * *
“I can’t believe I let you convince me to do this,” Penvale said for at least the third time in the past five minutes. It was dinnertime the following evening. The day before, they had proceeded directly from Gunter’s to Diana’s home, where they had sent a frantic note to Penvale at his club. He had appeared less than an hour later, looking mildly alarmed, but his expression had rapidly changed to one of irritation upon joining them in Diana’s elegantly appointed sitting room and learning what was being asked of him.
“Hauled out of my own club,” he continued, setting down his drink and beginning to stride back and forth from one end of the room to the other. “Forced to lure a man I barely know to my sister’s house, and obliged to phrase it all in such a way that he no doubt thinks she’s interested in having some sort of liaison with him—”
“Who says I’m not?” Diana asked, smiling innocently at her brother. “I’m a widow, after all, and I’ve been distressingly well-behaved since Templeton died.” She heaved a heavy sigh, which had the result of displaying her impressive bosom to even greater advantage in her evening gown of crimson silk; Violet personally thought Diana might have saved the effort for the gentleman whose favor they would shortly be attempting to curry.
“Good lord, Diana,” Penvale said severely, giving his sister a stern look. “You might do well to look for someone a bit less notorious, at the very least. You’re new to this business, after all.”
“Yes,” Diana said, batting her eyelashes. “And I’ve a lot of lost time to make up.”
Penvale retrieved his drink and took another hearty swallow. “I regret this already.”
“Well, it’s too late for that,” Violet said briskly, although privately she was beginning to have a few misgivings. Diana’s idea had sounded so reasonable in the bright sunshine outside Gunter’s, safely ensconced in her barouche, all this seeming more like a game than anything else. Now, however, she was beginning to feel rather foolish. Her plan to trick James into fretting over her health had seemed perfectly acceptable when she had fabricated it a couple of days before, stewing in her own anger, but now that she would be forced to confess it to a perfect stranger, she was not feeling quite so certain.
Penvale’s reaction upon learning of her scheme had not been encouraging.
“I am feigning a case of consumption,” she had informed him, with as much dignity as she could muster, when it had become apparent that some sort of explanation would be required to ensure his cooperation.
“You’re what?” he had asked incredulously, staring at Violet as though she had grown another head.
“I am teaching him a lesson,” Violet said. “It’s all down to you anyway, Penvale. Your bloody note started all of this fuss.”
“Had I known how much trouble that letter would cause me, I should have stood stoic and penless even had Audley been bleeding to death before me,” he muttered.
“That is a charming sentiment indeed,” Violet said. “But in any case, I am going to show my husband exactly what it felt like to stand in that coaching yard and have him tell me it was none of my concern whether he lived or died.” She crossed her arms, her confidence bolstered by a wave of renewed indignation. “Men!”
Penvale had put up a few more protestations, of course, as men are wont to do, but when Violet had finally informed him that she would be doing this with or without his consent—and with all sorts of whispered threats from Diana when Penvale threatened to inform James of their plans—he had agreed, albeit with bad grace.
From there, things with Lord Julian Belfry had advanced rather more rapidly than she’d expected. They’d summoned Penvale in order to ask him if he could extend a dinner invitation to Belfry when next he saw him. Penvale, however, informed them that he’d been playing cards with the man at White’s—“before I was so irritatingly forced to depart”—and that if he were permitted to go back about his business, he could no doubt make the invitation that very afternoon. Another couple of hours later, and a note from Penvale had arrived, informing them that Lord Julian Belfry would be pleased to dine with Lady Templeton the very next evening, should the invitation stand.
Fortunately, Diana had already planned to have Violet and Penvale for dinner that same evening, and it was little trouble to inform her cook that one more would be joining them. So it was that at eight o’clock the following day, Violet found herself in Diana’s sitting room, awaiting the arrival of the man she hoped would assist her.
“What did Audley say when his supposedly ill wife set off for a dinner party?” Penvale asked wryly. He ran a hand through his hair, which was the exact same honeyed shade as Diana’s. He was a very handsome man, tall and fit and broad of shoulder, though Violet had never paid him that much attention growing up. He had been Diana’s exasperating elder brother, never an object of her romantic fantasies. And that was just as well—while he was not so much of a libertine as Jeremy (but then, who wa
s?), he still seemed to display little interest in matrimony.
“I had already told him I wouldn’t be home to dine tonight, as I’d be dining with Diana, so I think he arranged to eat at his club. I told him I was feeling much improved this morning, when I saw him at breakfast. But of course, I took care not to seem too healthy.” She gave a slight cough, then another, hoping to give the appearance of fragility and weakness. The effect was spoiled a moment later when she realized that she had forgotten to tuck a handkerchief in her sleeve.
“Blast,” she muttered, patting her arm vainly in the hope that one would materialize.
“A truly convincing performance,” Penvale said darkly. “I can’t believe Audley thought for a moment you were truly ill.”
“I did try a bit harder with him, you see,” Violet protested, abandoning the futile search for the elusive scrap of linen.
She was spared further editorial remarks by Wright, Diana’s butler, who materialized in the doorway of the sitting room. “Lord Julian Belfry,” he announced solemnly.
Violet’s first thought was that she understood perfectly well why Lord Julian should have found success on the stage. The man was devastatingly handsome. His hair was so dark a shade of brown as to be indiscernible from black, cut a bit too long for fashion, which gave him an appealingly rakish air. His eyes were a vivid blue, his face comprised of the strong bones and fine angles that marked him, unmistakably, as an aristocrat.
Beside her, Diana inhaled softly. “Good lord,” she murmured. Violet couldn’t disagree.
“Belfry,” Penvale said, moving forward to shake the man’s hand. “Good to see you again.”
“Your invitation was too intriguing to turn down,” Lord Julian responded, his gaze flicking over Violet and Diana with interest. Diana stood carefully so as to display her figure to its best advantage. Violet resisted the urge to roll her eyes.
“Lady James Audley, Lady Templeton, may I present Lord Julian Belfry?” Penvale said, and to his credit he did not allow any of his exasperation to make its way into his voice.
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