“Lady Emily,” he said, straightening. “I believe we have an acquaintance in common.”
“Indeed, sir?” Emily’s voice was, as ever, carefully calibrated—not so warm as to seem overfamiliar, not so cool as to seem rude.
“Indeed. A Mr. Cartham, I believe, counts himself among your many admirers?” Violet detected a distinct note of distaste in Lord Julian’s tone at the name, though there was nothing in his expression to betray what his opinion of Cartham might be.
At the sound of Cartham’s name, Emily stiffened almost imperceptibly—Violet wasn’t even certain that Lord Julian noticed. She dearly wished in that moment that the rules of etiquette allowed her to jab an unmarried man she had purportedly just met in the midsection.
“Yes,” Emily said, her tone one of polite disinterest. “I am indeed acquainted with Mr. Cartham, though my admirers are not so numerous as you seem to believe, my lord. I fear you have been badly misinformed.”
“I am never that, Lady Emily,” Lord Julian replied, and Violet watched him with renewed interest. There was something in his manner that struck her as odd; the intensity of his gaze on Emily was out of proportion to anything Violet would expect of a gentleman being introduced to a lady. His expression undoubtedly held appreciation for Emily’s charms, but there was something else, something appraising in the way he looked at her that Violet felt must somehow be related to his apparent familiarity with—and possible distaste for—Mr. Cartham.
“But,” he added, as though he, too, became suddenly aware of the oddness of the moment, “the reports of your beauty, I am pleased to see, are not exaggerated in the least.”
“You are very kind, my lord,” Emily said demurely, but she continued to look at him curiously even as Lord Julian redirected his attention to the group at large, with something in her gaze that Violet couldn’t quite translate. Appreciation of his appearance, certainly—any lady with a pulse would have felt as much. But curiosity, too—and it was unusual for Emily to allow anything as telling as curiosity to show on her face, given her usually perfect composure.
“I hope that you enjoy the show this evening—it’s a production of Romeo and Juliet that I’m quite pleased with, if I may be perfectly honest.”
“Are you not performing in the play, my lord?” Diana asked.
“No.” He shook his head. “We are in the midst of preparations for an upcoming production of Macbeth that I shall be performing in instead, and that has occupied much of my time.”
“A far better choice, in any case,” Violet said briskly. “There is no play quite so silly as Romeo and Juliet.”
“Darling,” James said dryly, “I am not entirely certain one can ignore the silliness of a production that involves three witches surrounding a cauldron in the woods.”
“Macbeth has atmosphere,” Violet said airily. “Romeo and Juliet is a melodramatic cautionary tale warning against the dangers of jumping to conclusions.” The group stared at her. “Not that we’re not terribly grateful for the invitation, Lord Julian,” she added hastily.
“Quite,” Lord Julian said dryly, but he flashed her a quick grin to assure her that he hadn’t taken offense. It was a potent weapon, that grin.
Further conversation was forestalled by the dimming of the lights, indicating that it was time to take their seats. Violet found herself positioned between her husband and Lord Julian, with Emily on Lord Julian’s other side. As she leaned past James to ask a question of Penvale, who was on his other side, she caught sight of James casting a scrutinizing look over her shoulder toward something she couldn’t see.
She glanced behind her, only to discover that what had caught James’s attention was the sight of Lord Julian engaging Emily in conversation, their voices so low as to be nearly inaudible.
After a brief moment of panic that James’s attention to Lord Julian was evidence of some suspicion on his part, Violet relaxed, realizing that James must be concerned for Emily’s virtue—a fair consideration, given Lord Julian’s reputation. She frowned slightly, wishing he would set his sights on Diana instead—she would be a far more appropriate and willing source of entertainment for a gentleman such as himself.
With these thoughts to occupy her, she paid little attention to the action occurring onstage, and it seemed as though mere moments had passed when intermission arrived.
“And how have you found the play thus far, Lady James?” Lord Julian inquired as they all rose from their seats.
“Most illuminating,” Violet said untruthfully. She was fairly certain that the actors playing Romeo and Juliet could waltz into this very box and she wouldn’t be able to recognize them, so little had she attended to the proceedings onstage.
“And what of you, Belfry?” James asked abruptly over Violet’s shoulder. She twisted her head around to stare at him—his tone was so curt as to border on rude. James was many things, but coolly polite was almost always one of them. “How did you find the performances?”
“I think the actor playing Romeo is overplaying the love scene, but otherwise, I’ve no complaints.”
“Of course,” James said, though Violet had the distinct impression that he hadn’t taken a word of Lord Julian’s reply. “I just thought it would be interesting to hear your opinion, as an actor. After all, you must play so many interesting roles.”
“Darling,” Violet said through gritted teeth, reaching back to press her slipper down upon his shoe. “I’m certain you don’t mean to interrogate Lord Julian at his own theater. In this lovely box, which he so kindly invited us to use.”
James smiled down at her blandly. “Of course not, my dear. And such a kind, generous invitation it was, too.”
Lord Julian gave them both a pleasant smile. “I must beg you to excuse me—there is a matter I need to attend to during intermission.”
As soon as he had left the box, Violet rounded on her husband.
“What is wrong with you?” she whispered.
Before James had the chance to reply, however, the door to the box opened once more. Violet turned, expecting Lord Julian had forgotten something before he left, but instead, to her surprise, James’s brother West stood in the entrance.
“West!” she cried, moving past her husband with her hand outstretched. A genuine smile crossed his face at the sight of her, making him appear several years younger and even more like her own husband. The resemblance between the two brothers was stronger than usual, as they were wearing nearly identical evening kit. West leaned his cane against the wall to take Violet’s hand.
“Violet, darling,” he said, and in a tone entirely different from the one James employed when he used that particular term of endearment. “You’re looking well.” From just behind her, she heard the sound of a derisive snort; she shot a glance over her shoulder, only to see James watching her with a look of bland geniality that she was not fooled by for a moment. Not wishing to cause a scene, however, she turned back to West.
“I could say the same for you,” she said, dropping his hands and stepping back to give him an appraising once-over. Completely aside from West’s handsome face, his height, his broad shoulders, there was something simply so entirely masculine about him that Violet had no trouble at all understanding why every eligible and not-so-eligible lady in London paused whenever he entered a room. There had not been so much as a whiff of rumor about a mistress surrounding him since before his curricle accident, however; the ton seemed divided on whether he was merely uncommonly discreet, or whether to view him as something of a romantic figure, mired in the tragedy of his past. The latter speculation was, in Violet’s opinion, unforgivably maudlin, but she did know that he’d had a tendre for a particular lady of the ton before his accident—a lady who had married shortly after said accident, in fact.
“West,” James said, joining them and reaching out to shake his brother’s hand. “What are you doing here?”
“Did you forget that I told you just yesterday that I would be here?” West asked pleasantly. “You wer
e rather in your cups, so I suppose I should make allowances for your memory.”
Violet looked sharply at her husband. James liked to drink, of course, as any gentleman of the ton did, but she had never seen him outright drunk—though she supposed, on reflection, that he could be foxed at his club all the time, and she’d never know a thing about it. The thought upset her.
“I recollect perfectly, thank you,” James said, a definite edge to his voice. “I thought you were joking.”
“And why would you possibly have assumed that?”
Violet knew nothing of the source of their tension, but deciding that some sort of intervention was necessary, she quickly said, “West, you must come to dinner sometime soon. We should be happy to have you. Wouldn’t we, darling?” she asked James, batting her eyelashes at him.
He narrowed his eyes.
She, still batting, narrowed hers in return.
“Is something in your eye, Violet?” West asked politely.
She gave him a radiant smile. “Not at all. But you’ll come to dinner?”
“I’m not sure he should,” James said slowly.
“Whyever not?”
“Well,” he said solemnly, “I’m not certain your health would permit such an ordeal as playing the hostess.”
“Are you ill, Violet?” West inquired, looking concerned. How nice it would be to have her husband look at her with such an expression, rather than the look of vague boredom that currently marked his handsome features.
“It’s nothing at all,” Violet said airily, waving a hand. “A mere trifling cough.”
“That kept you abed for two days,” James said.
“No,” Violet said, smiling dazzlingly at him. “It kept me abed for one day. You kept me abed for the second.”
There was a beat of silence. Violet’s face heated to such a degree that she was certain one could fry an egg on it—not that she knew what was involved in frying an egg. But a great deal of heat was required, she would imagine.
Then, to her utmost astonishment, James slid an arm around her waist, pinning her to his side. It was wildly inappropriate, of course; her mother likely would have swooned had she been present. (But wasn’t that always the case?) She looked up and met his gaze and saw, in the crinkles around his eyes, the telltale signs of barely suppressed mirth.
“I appreciate your concern for my fragile ego,” he said, “but there’s no need to lie about my stamina.” He lowered his voice then, speaking so softly that she did not think even West, closest to them, could hear. “It’s impressive enough without embellishment, as I believe you know.”
Violet leaned closer as well, their faces now mere inches apart. “I am going to stab you with a hairpin if you do not remove your arm from my waist.”
Even as she spoke, however, she could feel it pulsing between them: that wild, reckless energy that had always seemed to draw them together, from the very first evening on that balcony. She imagined herself throwing propriety to the wind and sliding her arms around his neck, dragging his mouth down to her own. The mere thought sent heat crawling up her neck, and she hoped the dim lighting within the box would conceal the telltale flush upon her cheeks.
“Ahem,” West said extremely dryly.
Violet took a quick step away from James, breaking his hold upon her person.
“Yes, well, I am feeling much improved,” she said quickly, as though nothing at all out of the ordinary had disrupted their conversation.
“I should be feeling the same, were I permitted to enjoy an evening out without a nursemaid dogging my steps.” James’s tone was bland, but there was a razor-sharp edge underlying it, and Violet was mildly shocked at his rudeness to West. She risked a glance at her brother-in-law and saw that, far from looking offended, West was eyeing his younger brother speculatively. She would have given a fair amount of coin to have been a fly on the wall at White’s whenever they had met there, but as a lady, she could not even be respectably seen in a carriage on St. James’s, much less within the walls of White’s itself.
“Would you like to join us, West?” Violet asked. “We’ve plenty of seats.” This was certainly true—Lord Julian’s box was spacious, and luxuriously appointed.
West refocused his attention on her, offering her a warm smile. “I should be delighted, Violet. Thank you.”
And so it was that Violet passed the remainder of the play seated between her husband and his brother, aware of the tension simmering between them, and yet unaware of its underlying cause.
All in all, it was a thoroughly vexing evening.
Seven
“What the blazes is going on?”
The following morning, James had awoken at dawn. He had taken his usual early-morning ride in Hyde Park, but the crisp air and sunlight had failed to have their usual invigorating effect upon him. He had returned to Curzon Street only to be informed by Wooton that Lady James was feeling poorly again, and had requested a breakfast tray be sent up to her. James had been strongly tempted to burst into her room again and demand some sort of an explanation, but he held off. He did not entirely understand the game that Violet was playing, but he knew that he did not want to play his next hand without careful consideration.
A reasonable man might simply confront her with the facts as he understood them: she was not ill; she had somehow hoodwinked a dissolute aristocrat into pretending to be her doctor; this was all some sort of misguided attempt to get his attention. Well, if that was her goal, she had thoroughly succeeded; he had not spent so much mental energy on his wife in years. He had a sneaking suspicion that confronting her would lead to a screaming row, and he liked to at least understand what he was rowing about before getting himself ensnared in one.
He directed his coachman to an address on Duke Street. Marriage, he thought, with great disgust. It had its definite advantages, to be sure, but he was beginning to believe that even his favorite evenings spent in bed with Violet had not quite been worth all this trouble.
But then, there’d been that one occasion, on the dining room table…
Lost in happy reminiscences, he was at his destination before he’d expected, and mere moments later he found himself being shown into a masculine drawing room, with walls papered in dark burgundy and filled with heavy oak furniture, by a surprised-looking servant. James assumed the man’s confusion was owing to the unfashionably early hour but discovered, upon entering the room, that the servant’s surprise was likely due to the fact that, despite the hour, James was not Lord Julian’s first visitor of the morning.
“Penvale.” James’s voice was flat, but he found himself less shocked than he should have been. He waited for the door to close behind the footman, who had assured him that Lord Julian would be down shortly.
“Audley.” Penvale, who had been slumped in an armchair, stood up hastily. He pasted onto his face a look of practiced innocence, but James had known the man long enough to see through it. It was eerily reminiscent of the look Penvale had given the authorities at Eton upon being questioned about the sudden appearance of several impressively large toads in the bed of a particularly loathed classmate.
“Fancy seeing you here.” James strolled into the room, examining a painting of a horse rearing on its hind legs and trying to keep his temper in check. “I wouldn’t expect to find you out of bed at this hour—it’s not even noon yet.”
Penvale remained silent. James continued toward the fireplace, resting his arm upon the mantel above the empty hearth.
“I expect it would be too much of a coincidence for you to be paying a simple social call on Belfry at”—James checked the grandfather clock upon the wall—“ten past eleven in the morning.”
Behind him, Penvale heaved a great sigh. After nearly twenty years of friendship, James was familiar with that sigh, and felt a surge of triumph: it was a sigh of resignation.
“What do you want to know?”
James turned. Penvale glanced up at him.
“What the deuce is going on?” he deman
ded.
“I’m going to need you to be a bit more specific.” Penvale tugged at his collar.
“Well,” James said pleasantly, “let me see. Specifically, could you tell me why Julian Belfry showed up at my house masquerading as a physician, informed me my wife had consumption, and then departed?”
Penvale dropped back down into his seat. “When did you learn Belfry was the physician?”
“I don’t know,” James said, mock thoughtful. “Perhaps when he dropped his card into my hand upon departing?”
Penvale’s head shot up. “You knew it was him from the beginning? Why didn’t you say so yesterday?” He paused. “And what the bloody hell is Belfry playing at? Violet shall eviscerate him when she finds out.”
“I’ve little interest in understanding the workings of Julian Belfry’s mind,” James said shortly. “Though I’ve half a mind to call him out—the bastard visited my wife in her bedchamber. Christ.” He felt a surge of anger at the thought. A small, unwelcome part of him asked him what right he had to anger—after all, he’d spent the better part of four years doing his best to ignore Violet. Did that not mean he forfeited some of his right to husbandly outrage? “I’m more interested in learning what, precisely, my darling wife thinks she’s doing.” He speared Penvale with a glance. “And how it is that you’ve found yourself mixed up in it all.”
“The answer to that should be obvious.” Penvale’s tone was dark.
James hazarded a guess. “Your sister?”
“She wouldn’t leave me alone until I agreed to arrange a meeting between Belfry and your wife.”
“She’s your younger sister. I would have thought you could manage to outwit her now that you’ve achieved the age of eight-and-twenty.”
“That is mere proof that you don’t have a sister,” Penvale replied.
James began to pace. “So—and please correct me if I am wrong—you are telling me that you were bullied by a couple of young ladies.”
Penvale paused. James could practically see the wheels in his mind turning, weighing his options, the potential loss of dignity that would result from admitting to being bested by his sister and his best friend’s wife, and then—
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