The Countess Conspiracy

by Courtney Milan

  “Don’t worry too much about it,” she said in puzzlement. “I usually don’t notice.”

  “So you’ll come downstairs with us?”

  Violet stood and smoothed out her skirts. “Of course I will. What does one do at a gathering of the Brothers Sinister, the night before one of the members marries? Is this going to be entirely proper?”

  “Oh, no,” Oliver replied happily. “Tonight, we’re running a gambling hell. We plan to play deep.”

  Violet raised an eyebrow. “You do?” she asked. “Does Jane know about this? Will you be staking any of her money?”

  “Uh…” A smile played across Oliver’s face. “She won’t mind.”

  Violet shook her head in bemusement and followed along.

  She had never played cards with Oliver, but she had with Robert. Robert was simply terrible at cards. He had the potential to be very good—he kept a count on the cards and had an excellent grasp of strategy—but he would always get distracted by what might happen instead of concentrating on what was likely to happen. He had a tendency to convince himself that his hand was better than it was, that somehow, he could not lose with even middling cards because it would make a better story if he won. He played with great, reckless abandon. Luckily for him, he also never played for money.

  Oliver, on the other hand… She glanced over at him. She suspected that he would be the opposite of his half-brother. He would play carefully. Too carefully. He’d hoard his best cards until it was too late for them to do any good.

  “Oh, good,” Violet said, rubbing her hands together. “I don’t need any more money, but it can’t hurt, can it?”

  Oliver and Robert exchanged amused glances.

  “A little presumptuous, don’t you think?” Oliver said.

  “It’s not a presumption,” Violet said. “It’s a demonstrated fact based on lengthy empirical evidence.”

  Robert snorted. “I have become better since last we played.”

  Proof that he hadn’t. If he had actually become any better, he’d have had the wits to withhold that information.

  They led her to the private dining room downstairs. Oliver made a point of opening the door for her and holding her chair out as she sat. Robert asked what she would like to drink. They were being overly solicitous, and that was when Violet began to get suspicious.

  She fixed them both with her most fearsome glare. “I thought this was a gathering of the Brothers Sinister.”

  “It is!” Robert said, a little too jovially.

  “Then where is Sebastian?”

  He and Oliver exchanged glances. “Not…here,” Oliver finally said. “He’ll be back. I think.”

  Violet folded her arms across her chest. “Oh, you did it again, did you?” she said.

  “Did what?”

  “That thing you do—you two are so tightly in each other’s pockets, and sometimes you don’t notice. You ignore Sebastian—”

  “Ignore Sebastian! As if anyone ever could! Have you ever watched the man?”

  “—and then pretend ignorance after you’ve completely left him out in the cold.” She sniffed. “That’s awful of you. I may be…a little uneasy around him at the moment, but that doesn’t mean we can start without him.”

  Oliver and Robert exchanged a long, meaningful glance.

  “I say,” Oliver finally said, “what are you two arguing about?”

  “Was that an attempt to be circumspect?” Violet answered him. “Because, really, that was awful. It pains me that one of my friends has reached the advanced age of thirty-two without being able to tell a proper lie. How do you ever expect to accomplish anything in politics?”

  Oliver flushed. “I’m better at it when it’s not people I know.”

  Good. She’d managed to distract him. Violet sniffed in disbelief, and then surveyed the room.

  “Sebastian will be back,” Robert said. “He was here earlier.”

  “Ah,” she said, taking in the overly exuberant quantity of food. “Yes, he must have been. I can see that now.”

  “What makes you say that?” Robert asked.

  “He overdid it,” Violet said. “There’s an entire pig and two roasted chickens and besides, I see blueberry-sesame cakes. I don’t suppose either of you remember that those are my favorite.”

  Robert flushed.

  “Don’t worry,” she said. “I don’t hold it against you. There can be only one Sebastian.”

  “Hear, hear,” Oliver said.

  “Now, you mentioned deep play,” Violet continued. “What are the stakes?”

  Robert rummaged about on the table. “Here—ah, yes. Here we are. We have counters.” He took out little bags of glass marbles, each a different color. Oliver took the green ones, Robert the red ones. After some hesitation, Violet took the bag of blue marbles.

  Robert frowned. “You aren’t going to take the purple ones?”

  “Why should I? Because my name is Violet, I’m forced to take purple?”

  “That thought did cross my mind, yes. Also, you wear purple a great deal, and I had thought you favored the color.”

  “I do,” Violet said. “But then I realized that if I took the blue ones, Sebastian would be stuck with the purple ones. It seemed more important to flout his wishes than to indulge my own tastes. And I like blue, too.”

  Oliver laughed.

  “But you haven’t really answered my question. What do these marbles represent?” Violet asked.

  “The only thing of any importance,” Robert proclaimed. “They represent glory. And victory. And honor.”

  “Piffle,” Violet responded. “Nobody wants your honor, Robert. That’s boring. I suggest that they represent favors.”

  “Favors?”

  “Favors,” she said determinedly. “If someone wins your marble, they can ask you for a favor, and you must comply. You could make me jump up and down twenty times, if you wanted, or have a long conversation with your mother.” If he won, which he wouldn’t.

  Robert glanced uneasily at his brother. “But…there ought to be some limit on them. Wouldn’t you think? You could ask for a vote in Parliament, or…”

  Violet waved her hand. “That’s what makes it fun. Only the limit that friendship imposes, don’t you think?”

  “But—”

  “Or do you not trust me?”

  “I don’t wish to offend you, Violet, but when you look at me like that, no. I don’t.”

  The door opened, and Sebastian strode in. He stopped as he caught sight of Violet.

  And then he smiled. His smile was brilliant—a roaring fire of relief and happiness. For one instant, she felt like dry tinder, ready to erupt with him. Her own smile flashed back before she could stop it—one that broke through all her walls. It threatened to consume her.

  She looked away before it could. She pressed her lips together, compressing her expression into flat nothingness.

  His smile tilted, transforming into a rueful shake of his head. “Don’t mind me,” he said. “I’ve returned now.”

  Robert and Oliver looked down, shuffling their feet, and Violet wondered what had happened before she arrived.

  But Sebastian simply cleared his throat. “Serious Sebastian has returned,” he intoned. “Let the party begin!”

  Chapter Nine

  IT WAS FOUR IN THE MORNING when Violet stumbled back to her room. Somehow, she kept encountering the walls, which no longer seemed to be laid in straight lines.

  “Poor Robert,” she said.

  “Watch your head.” Sebastian took hold of her, pulling her back to stand straight.

  “Did you see his face when I gave all his marbles to Oliver as a wedding present? I have never seen him turn quite so white.” Violet heard something suspiciously like a giggle. It couldn’t have come from her; she didn’t giggle.

  But then—her mind caught up with her—that had been her voice. Ah—she had giggled. She was drunk.

  “Damned thiffle…” No, that wasn’t quite right. “Thistfu
l.” Also wrong. “Thistle spirits,” she finally managed to get out. “It’s not fair. I forfeited three times as much as everyone else. It’s not fair that I’m the right-handed one.”

  “And yet you still won at cards,” Sebastian said with a smile. “Here’s your door. Your maid will be down shortly.”

  Violet frowned. “Of course I won.” She felt rather affronted. “Being inebriated makes me better at maths, not worse.”

  “Only you.” This, with a smirk. He opened her door and helped her to a chair.

  She sank into it gratefully. “I’m going to give Oliver’s marbles to Jane. She’ll make good use of them. The only thing that worries me is…”

  No. She wasn’t going to say that aloud. But she might as well have done so.

  “This?” He pulled out a marble from his pocket. In the dark, she couldn’t make out the color, but she knew it anyway. She’d watched it keenly throughout the evening—the only marble of her own color that she’d lost. But he’d refused to stake it after he won it, and all night, that flawed blue-glass sphere had sparkled at her from his side.

  It gleamed with possibility. With it, he might…

  He might bar her door to everyone else. She was drunk enough that she might forget every last reason that counseled caution. For a moment, the vision came to her—a thing of heat and alcohol, of his body pressing against hers, her lips parting for his, skin reveling in bare skin.

  It would be something that happened to another person. Some other Violet would invite him into her room. Some other Violet would suffer the consequences. So long as it wasn’t her…

  But it was her. She wasn’t so inebriated as to believe otherwise. She took a deep, ragged breath.

  The limits of friendship? How stupid had she been to allow for such a possibility? But Sebastian hadn’t been in the room when she’d made the rule, and for some reason, it hadn’t occurred to her to imagine what a man who admitted that he wanted her—wanted her in the least platonic way possible—might do with a favor that had no limits.

  “Violet,” he said softly.

  His hand touched her elbow, and she jerked away from him.

  “You’re trembling.”

  “I’m not,” she insisted. “I’m just cold.”

  He took her hand. “Here.” The marble fell into her palm, warm with the heat of his body. “I’m calling in my favor.”

  She couldn’t help herself. That shiver racked her again from head to toe.

  His hand closed around hers, pressing her fingers around the glass. “Do this for me, Violet.” He took a step closer.

  She could smell his scent. On him, the bitterness of the thistle spirits transmuted into something savory, something green and enticing. “What do you want?”

  “I want you to stop being afraid,” he told her. “You know me better than that. I would never ask you to do anything you didn’t want. Not with a marble. Not any other way.”

  She sagged against the chair in relief. Relief and…

  …And maybe, because she was well on her way to intoxication, maybe a hint of regret as well.

  She fumbled for his hand in the dark. His fingers were hot against hers. How did he stay so warm? It seemed inhuman. Or maybe—worse—it seemed all too human indeed.

  “I don’t understand.” She shut her eyes. “I really don’t understand. Why aren’t you angry with me? If I don’t…” She trailed off, unable to continue her thought aloud.

  But it continued itself in the darkness. He wanted her. He wanted her in his bed, their limbs locked together, his lanky frame coming over hers. His hands would hold her down…

  No. She didn’t want that. She couldn’t.

  “Did your husband get angry with you?” he asked quietly.

  Her throat closed. Her fingers clenched spasmodically around his. But she didn’t say anything.

  “Sometimes,” he said. “Sometimes I do. I get frustrated, because damn it, Violet. I want you so much. But then I remember that we’re friends. And the part of me that is your friend wants to punch myself in the face. I don’t have a right to be angry because you want something different.”

  “But… You have to wish…”

  “I wish every day.” His hand was still clasped in hers. “Every day that passes, Violet. But I watched you during your marriage—and if you’ll pardon me—I don’t think you need another man to get angry with you.”

  She let out a breath and her world righted itself. This was Sebastian, not some horrible demon. She could trust him with that much.

  “Here.” She pressed the marble back into his hand. “You don’t need a favor for that.”

  Her mind was a confusion of images—his mouth on hers, his hand clasping hers. Their hands would come together, drawing them closer until body pressed against body…

  No. Those things were for some other person. Not for Violet when she was drunk. Not when she was sober. Not ever.

  Violet was a stack of papers, dry as dust, each with Sebastian’s name written on it.

  She closed his fingers on the marble.

  “I trust you, Sebastian,” she said. “I always have.”

  So long as he held her marble, he held a possibility—the barest chance that there might someday be more for her. In some other place, some other Violet might get kissed. It was all she knew how to hope for—some other person’s happiness—but she hoped it with every wistful part of her heart.

  Maybe someday, she could let herself imagine that someone could be her. So long as it stayed in her head, she would never be hurt.

  But he smiled as if this Violet—this prickly, difficult, impossible Violet—was enough for him.

  “Friends?” His voice was low, so low that she could almost feel the word reverberating through her chest.

  She pulled her hand away from his. “Friends.”

  MAYBE IT WAS THE WEDDING. Jane glowed at the forefront of the small chapel, laden in jewels the likes of which New Shaling had never seen before. Everyone, Oliver most of all, had been unable to take their eyes off her. Maybe it was the return to London afterward with Robert and Minnie sitting next to one another and holding hands.

  Maybe it was something in the summer air, because from then on, everywhere Violet looked, she saw couples. Couples promenading in the park, with the lady’s eyes cast down daintily, the gentleman beaming at her possessively. Couples on a picnic. Couples driving out together, looking for sharp turns as an excuse to lean into one another. There were happy couples everywhere.

  Her visit to her sister only reinforced that. Violet was shown into the parlor. She was made to listen to her sister recite the happenings of the night before, the details of Amanda’s continuing conquest of the Season, when the door opened and Lily’s husband entered the room. He greeted Violet politely. And then the Marquess of Taltley came up behind his wife and murmured in her ear.

  Violet looked away. She really did. But there was only so far one could politely avert one’s gaze without risking getting a crick in one’s neck, and she couldn’t help but see when his fingers slipped down to her sister’s shoulder.

  Lily playfully slapped at her husband’s hand. “No, go away,” she said with an impudent grin. “And stop looking at me like that. I’ve only been out of confinement for seven months.”

  Violet smiled, but the corners of her mouth felt brittle—as if her face might crack and fall into dust at the slightest breeze.

  Lily stood and took her husband’s arm, ushering him to the door. Violet tried not to notice the way he leaned in to whisper something else in her ear. She turned away so she wouldn’t have to see that faint flush on her sister’s skin, a flush that had nothing to do with embarrassment and everything to do with something far more intimate.

  She didn’t want to see her sister squeeze her husband’s hand, didn’t want to imagine the promises that were being whispered back and forth.

  “Get on with you,” Lily finally said, holding on to her husband’s fingers. “Don’t you have bills to read? Speech
es to write?”

  “I always do better with inspiration.” He leaned down to her lips.

  Violet’s hands compressed.

  Lily simply stepped aside. “Out,” she said. “We ladies have things to discuss.” She shut the door on him, but stood there against it for a moment, one hand on the knob, swaying slightly.

  In that moment, Violet hated happy couples. She felt the weight of that emotion, a burdensome, unworthy resentment, one that tugged at her. She’d never begrudged Lily a thing, but sometimes it felt unfair. Lily had so much, and Violet…

  Lily smiled dreamily. “I know what you are thinking,” she said. “You’re thinking of Mama’s rules: ‘A lady never contradicts her husband, and a daughter never contradicts her father.’”

  Violet exhaled slowly. Lily had never known what Violet thought. It was why Violet loved her so dearly. She took all of Violet’s most horrible thoughts and transformed them into something almost human.

  “A wife takes her consequence from her husband,” Lily continued. “To undermine him is to lose her own place in society.”

  “That wasn’t the point of that rule,” Violet said. “It wasn’t about submitting to your husband, but about public perception…” She trailed off.

  Lily rolled her eyes. “Public, private. How is there any difference? I feel awful. I have to tell him no occasionally. If he so much as sneezes in my direction, I get pregnant.”

  Violet’s nails cut grooves into her palms. Better that sharp pain, though, than to speak her regrets aloud, to allow them to dig into her heart.

  Lily’s eyes jerked wide open. She turned to Violet. “Oh, God.” She reached toward her sister. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have said—I wasn’t thinking…”

  Violet chose her words carefully, imagined that each one was an iron block, walling her off from her fierce resentment.

  “There’s no need to apologize. If we could not talk of children with one another, we’d have little enough to say.” She took a deep breath, and met her sister’s gaze squarely. “And if you think I was unaware that you caught a child at every turn, you must imagine me the most unobservant sister ever. After your fifth child, it was obvious to even an impartial observer that children came rather easily. As you’ve just managed number eleven…” She managed a shrug.