To Have and to Hoax

by Martha Waters

  “Penvale has abandoned me to the ladies, I see,” James remarked as he entered, having already handed Violet in.

  “He and Willingham elected to travel separately when it transpired that I needed his seat for Emily,” Diana said serenely.

  “And how, exactly, did you induce your mother to allow you to come?” Violet asked Emily as she settled her skirts around herself.

  “Diana can be very persuasive,” Emily said with a small smile.

  “Lady Rowanbridge was unconvinced of my suitability as a chaperone,” Diana said disdainfully. “But when she learned that you and Audley would be not just attending but in the very carriage with us, she decided that it was acceptable.” She coughed delicately. “I may have taken your suggestion, Violet, and misled her as to which precise theater it is that we will be attending.”

  Emily’s and Diana’s presence went some way toward lightening the atmosphere inside the carriage, which would otherwise have been rife with tension between husband and wife. This was not an entirely new experience for Violet—after all, she and James had had precious little to say to each other for the past four years, but they had taken a fair number of carriage rides together—and yet somehow the silence between them tonight felt entirely different from their usual cool ones. She felt… aware of him in a way that she had not in some time. It was not, of course, that she had ever ceased to find him handsome, or that she had not tossed and turned on more than one night, imagining him sleeping one room away, her mind lingering entirely too long on the question of whether he still slept naked—a question that no respectable lady should devote so much thought to, of course. But Violet felt that she never had been entirely respectable, particularly where James was concerned. When she had descended the stairs tonight and seen him awaiting her, immaculately dressed in black and white evening clothes, she had wanted to rip his carefully tied cravat from his throat and lick him.

  So: not respectable.

  “I was surprised you asked me to the theater this evening,” Emily said, breaking the silence. “I thought you loathed Romeo and Juliet, Violet.” Emily looked much as she always did, which was to say, beautiful. Her golden hair was pulled back neatly, and she was dressed in an evening gown of pale blue silk, the neckline modest enough to be entirely correct for an unmarried lady, and yet offering the slightest tantalizing glimpse of creamy skin.

  Next to her, Violet felt rather more daring. She had been extremely irritated as she dressed, still thinking about James’s orders to keep her confined to her room all day, and had purposefully selected a dress that was several years old, one that he had laughingly told her she shouldn’t wear for anyone but him. In fact, this was the first time Violet had worn it before anyone other than her husband—she had bought it for the purpose of dining à deux on the terrace, as they used to do on summer evenings in the early days of their marriage, and it featured a bodice that was daring enough to ensure that they had never once finished their meal before becoming distracted by more pressing physical hungers.

  Now, sitting in the carriage, she smoothed the violet silk over her knees, casting a quick glance at James as she did so. Her traitorous heart thumped a quick beat. There was not a single gentleman of the ton whose appearance was not improved by the elegance of a well-tailored jacket and a perfectly tied neckcloth, but none of them, as far as Violet was concerned, could match James. His dark hair was combed back, leaving nothing to distract from the strong lines of his face, his arresting eyes.

  Why, Violet wondered in a moment of self-pity, did he have to be so hopelessly beautiful? So beautiful that she still caught her breath sometimes, wondering that she had once caught his attention? It would be so much easier to nurse her anger, to keep it burning hot and bright, if she were not still, on some level, the same besotted girl she had been when she met him.

  Violet was dimly aware of Diana responding to Emily’s comment, but she scarcely heard her, so distracted was she by the man beside her. James had been gazing out the window of the carriage, but he suddenly glanced at her as though drawn by her eyes on him.

  “I’m pleased to see you looking so well, darling,” he said, and there was a sardonic note to the term of endearment that Violet didn’t like. “Do let me know if you begin feeling unwell at any point in the evening, and I shall endeavor to remove you from our box before you commence coughing over all of our companions.”

  Violet narrowed her eyes. He looked at her evenly, without blinking, and she found herself unable to look away. She knew he was angry with her over her refusal to summon another physician, and yet some part of her thrilled to hear the edge in his tone. She hadn’t realized, until the past few days, how much she had missed hearing something, anything, in his voice other than cool politeness. He seemed likely to throttle her at any moment, it was true, but somehow this didn’t concern her as much as it perhaps should have.

  “Thank you, my lord,” she said in a voice of calculated sweetness. “I did bring a handkerchief along with me, so I think I shall be able to manage. Your concern is much appreciated, but—” She paused to stifle a carefully calibrated cough in her sleeve. “—I received plenty of advice and wisdom from Dr. Briggs, and it rather renders your contribution unnecessary.”

  A muscle in James’s jaw twitched, and for a moment he was silent. Opposite Violet, Emily shifted, clearly uncomfortable.

  Before Emily could intervene with some sort of polite inquiry to break the tension, James spoke again. “Very well, darling,” he said, his eyes still on Violet. “I shan’t trouble myself a moment more about you, then.”

  He returned his gaze to the carriage window, and Violet felt suddenly oddly discontent. That wasn’t what she wanted at all.

  She hadn’t long to stew over his words, however, for the carriage soon slowed to a halt and the door was opened. James exited first, then stood waiting, his hand outstretched. This contact—the touch dictated by politeness when entering and exiting a carriage—was often the only physical contact Violet and James had for weeks at a time. Even through the fabric of her gloves and his, she could feel the warmth of his hand, its steady strength. She should not have been so comforted by it.

  A moment later, however, the contact was broken as James unceremoniously dropped her hand and reached up to help Emily down in turn—with rather more gallantry, Violet noticed.

  “It is a shame Mr. Cartham was unable to join us this evening,” James said to Emily, his tone indicating that he felt just the opposite. “But I see it has worked in my favor, as I now have two ladies on my arm, rather than just one.”

  He extended his other arm to Violet without looking at her, his attention still focused on Emily and her murmured reply, and Violet took it with bad grace. She would have liked nothing better than to drop his arm and storm ahead of him into the theater unescorted—well, no. She would have liked that, it is true, but she could think of several things she would have enjoyed doing even more. Near the top of that list was stabbing James’s well-muscled, perfectly garbed arm with a letter opener.

  However, bloodshed did have an odd way of spoiling an evening—and seemed like behavior ill befitting a sometimes-invalid. She paused to spare an idle thought for a time when James had not treated her as though she were a rather inconvenient and recalcitrant sheep, and allowed him to escort her and Emily into the theater, Diana trailing behind them on the arm of her brother, who had arrived directly in their wake.

  The Belfry, despite its scandalous reputation, was a beautiful theater, both outside and within. The building Lord Julian had selected was an elegant neoclassical concoction near Haymarket, and Violet could not help but stare admiringly at the columns framing the entrance as James swept her between them. Inside, the Belfry was even more impressive, sumptuously appointed in velvet and silk in varying shades of blue and green. It wasn’t at all what she had been imagining—she had had in her mind something akin to a tawdry imitation of a brothel—and she now better understood why Lord Julian was so determined to make the establi
shment respectable. Such a space deserved a more illustrious crowd than dissolute aristocrats and their mistresses.

  At the moment, however, that was who surrounded them. Violet recognized half a dozen men she knew, viscounts and earls and, heavens, even a marquess, but not a single one was with the woman she was accustomed to seeing him escort. She tried very hard to seem worldly and bored, but she was, in fact, slightly shocked. She knew, of course, that fidelity was hardly universal among the ton, and that love matches such as hers were exceedingly rare, but to see the evidence of these gentlemen’s extramarital activities was another thing entirely.

  She had married for love—well, love, and because she’d been compromised—but that was a decidedly less romantic explanation, and one that she generally chose to ignore. She and James had discussed it more than once, and he had told her that even had they not been discovered on that balcony, he would likely have proposed within a fortnight.

  “Truly? A fortnight?” Violet had asked on the first occasion upon which this had been discussed.

  “At most,” James said with a masculine grin. He leaned toward her to place a lingering kiss upon her lips, one Violet felt from her head to her toes.

  She and James had made a hash of their supposedly great love match in the end—but that first year had been often glorious. Lazy mornings in bed. Long hours together in the library. Evenings out at the theater and musicales, making occasional eye contact and sharing the knowledge of what delights awaited them upon their return home.

  Oh, how she missed it.

  Yes, she would admit that much—she could not, would not admit to missing James himself, but she was not too proud to admit that she missed what they’d had, what their marriage had once been. It had not been perfect by any stretch of the imagination—James had often infuriated her almost beyond bearing, and yet they had always managed to make it up. Until one day they couldn’t.

  Now, standing here in this beautiful theater, surrounded by men with women who were not their wives, she suffered a small pang of uncertainty. Had James come here before? It had been four years since they had shared a bed; had he truly remained celibate that entire time? She had always assumed he had, had assumed that he was as miserable as she. Had that been naiveté?

  James, with his usual abysmal timing, chose that moment to speak to her.

  “Try not to look so shocked, darling, it’s very unfashionable.”

  Violet resisted the temptation to grind her slipper into his foot. Instead, she smiled sweetly up at him and said, “I’m not shocked at all, my lord. I’m taking notes.”

  She felt the arm beneath her hand stiffen, and a surge of triumph raced through her. Point to Violet.

  James gave her a narrow look but said nothing more, instead turning back to Emily to respond to some unheard inquiry. As he spoke, Emily gazed past him to Violet, raising an eyebrow inquisitively. Violet smiled back at her.

  As they made their way to the box that Lord Julian had reserved for them, Violet could not help but be aware that they were attracting some attention. She had expected this to some degree, of course—three gently bred ladies, one of them unmarried, could not attend a theater with a reputation like the Belfry’s without arousing some notice—but she wondered if they had miscalculated by inviting Emily along. She and Diana had thought merely to give Emily an evening out without her mother watching her like a hawk, or the odious Mr. Cartham’s unwelcome attentions, but she was now second-guessing this decision. Emily was unmarried, and easily shocked. Who knew what the sight of this blatant parade of mistresses would do to her delicate sensibilities?

  “Did you see that lady’s bodice?” Emily hissed gleefully at Violet as James led them down the green-carpeted hallway that housed the theater’s most exclusive boxes. “I don’t know how she even moved.” She cast a not-terribly-surreptitious glance back over her shoulder. “I should like to ask her how it manages to stay up,” she added thoughtfully. “Her modiste must be very clever.”

  “Emily,” Violet said severely, at the same time that James made an odd choking sound that, after a moment, Violet realized was a barely suppressed laugh.

  “I do not think that lady is the appropriate word to use to describe that woman, Lady Emily,” he said a moment later, having somehow managed to school his features into a somber expression.

  “Yes, yes, my lord, I do realize she’s a doxy,” Emily said impatiently, waving her hand as though this distinction were too insignificant to even warrant her notice. “But that gown was some sort of scientific marvel. I should dearly love to see how it was made.”

  “Well,” Violet said, “I expect she shall be taking it off with a fair amount of haste at some point in the next few hours, so perhaps you could follow her and the viscount and snatch it away whilst they are in the midst of a passionate embrace.” For a fleeting moment, James caught her glance, the lines around his eyes crinkling slightly in amusement. In that instant, it was as though the past four years had never happened, as though they were still in the habit of sharing private jokes, of allowing their eyes to meet across a crowded room and reveling in the knowledge that they understood one another better than anyone else.

  It was just a moment, however, and then Violet averted her gaze.

  They arrived at their box at last, and were followed in by Penvale, Diana, and Jeremy, who were close on their heels.

  “Emily, darling, I can still scarcely believe you are here,” Diana said gleefully, dropping her brother’s arm as soon as the door to the box closed behind them.

  “Nor can I,” Emily admitted. “You’re very convincing, I must say.”

  “Your mother shall have an absolute fit if she ever finds out,” Diana said cheerfully.

  “And your reputation could be harmed,” Violet added, more seriously.

  Emily’s mouth quirked up at the corners in a smile that Violet wasn’t sure she’d ever seen before. “I know. And I find myself not terribly bothered by either prospect.”

  At this juncture, Penvale and Jeremy performed the requisite bows and hand kisses before engaging James in conversation, and Violet could not help but be strangely aware of their presence behind her, all of her nerves sensitized. It was as though her very skin was attuned to James’s proximity, in a way it hadn’t been since the early days of their marriage.

  No doubt it was a simple result of having seen him more often than usual of late, she told herself firmly.

  “… that dress, Violet,” Diana was saying, and Violet started, realizing she hadn’t been attending to anything her friends were saying.

  “I’m sorry?” she asked, a trifle guiltily.

  “I said,” Diana said patiently, “that I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you wear that dress before.” She cast it an approving glance. “I must say, I do like it.”

  “Of course you do.” Diana’s own gown, which was a deep shade of green with intricate beadwork on the sleeves, was as daring as Violet’s own—and yet Violet knew it to be far from the most scandalous dress in Diana’s wardrobe. She had to admit that the effect was enticing, however—Diana’s impressive bosom was displayed to great effect, and the green of the gown brought out the green flecks in her lovely hazel eyes. Violet wondered if this was for the benefit of Lord Julian. He had not been as taken in by her charms as men tended to be upon meeting Diana, and yet she could certainly be stubborn. If she had truly decided to take a lover at last, Violet wasn’t sure how well she liked Lord Julian’s chances in the face of Diana’s resolve.

  Further conversation was forestalled by the arrival of Lord Julian himself. He was, just as he had been at Diana’s dinner, very handsome; the black and white of evening attire suited him as well as it did any man, and he wore his clothes well, with the air of confidence that is natural to a man who has been told since birth that he is special, favored above other men. Even when a man cast off that world, as Lord Julian had done, the confidence seemed to linger.

  “Audley,” he said, shaking James’s hand easily, sh
owing no sign of even remote discomfort. “I’ve not seen you in an age, I don’t think.”

  “Belfry,” James said, and there was something ever so slightly odd about his voice as he spoke. Violet looked at him sharply, but there was nothing unusual in his expression—not that that was saying much, of course. “It was good of you to invite us.” Was Violet imagining the wryness to his tone?

  Lord Julian shrugged lazily as he shook Penvale’s and Jeremy’s hands in turn. “I ran into Penvale at dinner the other day,” he said, which was true enough, as things stood. “He mentioned that he still saw a fair amount of yourself and Willingham, and I thought you chaps might enjoy an evening out. Especially with such lovely company,” he said, flashing a winning smile at Violet, Diana, and Emily. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced,” Lord Julian added, and Violet had to fight hard to suppress a smile.

  “My wife, Lady James,” James said, stepping back toward Violet and touching her elbow lightly. In the early days of their marriage, he had always included her first name as well as her courtesy title when introducing her, unlike most gentlemen of the ton—not that any gentleman would be so bold, or rude, to refer to her with such familiarity, but James had done so nonetheless. It was a small breach of social norms, but one that Violet hadn’t realized she’d appreciated until he’d ceased doing so.

  “And this is my sister, Lady Templeton,” Penvale added, with a lazy nod toward Diana. Not that it was necessary—even if Diana and Lord Julian hadn’t already met, it would have been obvious which lady was Penvale’s relation.

  “And their friend Lady Emily Turner,” James finished. Lord Julian, who had bowed over Violet’s and Diana’s hands in turn, redirected his attention toward Emily, who had lurked slightly in the shadows, escaping his interest until now. He paused for a brief second before bowing over her hand.