“Something wonderful,” he said solemnly.
Yes. She could give him that. Something perfect. Something for tonight, something to remember her by. He took off his coat, his waistcoat. He undid his belt, winking at her as he did. He slid his trousers and smallclothes down, revealing the crumpled tails of his shirt and strong thighs dusted in dark hair, thick-muscled calves. Her mouth went dry.
He lifted his shirt over his head, revealing the planes of his chest at the same time as his thick, hard erection pointing toward her.
He turned away for a moment and then came back.
“Here,” he said, sliding something into her hand. “This is a sheath.”
It was made of a flexible material. Not of animal intestine, as she’d been expecting.
“Vulcanized rubber,” he told her, as if he’d followed the chain of her thoughts, “and if you ask me about the process at this moment, you’ll owe me two ices.”
She couldn’t help but smile in the darkness.
“Here’s my prize. I want you to help me put it on.”
She slid her hand over his penis. It was long and smooth, the shaft firm to her touch.
“It rolls.” His hand came over hers, adjusting the rubber over the head of his cock. It was dark and swollen; she touched it tentatively, and then, when his breath hissed in, with more firmness.
“God, Violet.”
It seemed almost a shame to cover that magnificence—but she did, sliding the material over the head and then down. She reached the end of the sheath—and then realized there was nothing else to do.
Nothing but…
He leaned down and kissed her again, a leisurely kiss, as if they weren’t on the brink of intercourse, as if his limbs weren’t tangled with hers. It was a kiss that made her believe they had all the time in the world.
Lies, those kisses. They had only tonight.
But she let his kisses whisper sweet falsehoods to her. She even allowed herself to believe them—to give herself up to the gentle touch of his hands, the rub of his bare chest against her nipples, the brush of his cock against her hip, then her thigh. She let herself sink into a dream in which this might happen on a regular basis.
Not every day; that bore too much risk. But maybe once in a crescent moon, once in a few weeks. Often enough to shine light into the darkest recesses of her memories and sweep away her fears.
By the time he entered her, thrust after patient thrust, it seemed inevitable. Inevitable that he should fill her so. Inevitable that her pleasure would come so swiftly. Inevitable that they should find each other’s hands, clenching them together. It was inevitable that they should join, his hips seeking hers, hers rising to his.
“I love you,” he whispered to her.
I love you, she told him with her caresses, I love you. Her hands twined with his, her body nestled against his. She hoped he could hear how much she loved him. That he’d remember that in the lonely nights that followed.
He never slammed into her. He took her, rocking against her, pushing, coaxing her along until his every motion elicited her gasps, that spark of pure pleasure floating in the air as if struck by a flint.
She caught fire beneath him. Even then he didn’t speed up. He continued through her every last sob, taking every inch of pleasure from her until she was worn out. Only when she was completely sated did he take her hard, his hands holding her hips in place, his thrusts growing harder, faster, his breath becoming ragged—
He pulled out of her and groaned, his hips still pumping.
She could scarcely think, and he’d done it precisely as he’d promised—wearing a sheath, pulling out before the moment of crisis. Not an iota more risk than was necessary. She’d known that he would. Sebastian would never have lied to her about such a thing.
She couldn’t return the favor.
Instead, she reached out and wound his hair around her fingers, bringing her mouth close so that she might brush her lips against his.
One truth. She could give him one truth, even if he wouldn’t believe she’d meant it come the next morning.
“I love you,” she said.
He kissed her back. “I know.”
IT WAS ONLY NATURAL, Sebastian told himself, that Violet would be a little nervous this morning.
The magistrate’s court in Cambridge rarely saw more than college pranks conducted under the auspices of cheap wine, or thefts from the aforementioned inebriates.
These magistrates had no doubt had more than their share of run-ins with the aristocracy, but this—a charge laid against a countess, and on such grounds—was a novelty, and novelty drew crowds. People lined the wooden benches, chattering amongst themselves. They were packed so close that the temperature in the room was not just summer-morning uncomfortable; it was hellishly hot.
Violet didn’t look at him—not even a hint of a glance, a reassuring flicker of her eyes in his direction. She sat ten feet in front of him, but she felt desperately distant.
The morning started precisely as Sebastian had predicted. The magistrates entered; the crowd rose. Court was called into session, and the eldest of the three men stood.
“While it is true that the Countess of Cambury, a peeress of the realm, is not subject to our jurisdiction on matters of felony charges, the privileges of peerage do not extend to misdemeanors. Upon agreement of the prosecutor, the indictment has been amended to reflect only the lesser charges.”
There was a flurry. A paper was passed to the barrister; Violet peered at it over the man’s shoulder. Sebastian’s shoulders tensed. This was precisely what they had most worried about, after all—that they would choose to charge Violet with something mild rather than allow her to slip through their fingers.
And that was when Sebastian realized that something was deeply wrong. He had known Violet was uneasy—sitting too straight, pinching her lips together. He’d expected her to be even more unsettled by this development. But when the magistrate announced that, she smiled—a tight, fierce smile.
Under the circumstances, it was completely baffling. This was the worst possible outcome. Why was she smiling?
“How does the accused plead?” the magistrate asked.
The barrister beside her blew out his breath. Violet stood.
“As I have just been presented with an amended indictment,” she said, “I should like to make sure I understand the charges.”
This wasn’t what they’d talked about. She wasn’t supposed to say that. She was supposed to blame him, to throw herself on their mercy. It made no sense for her to say that.
Her voice was clear and carrying. It reminded him of the way she’d spoken last night: confident and strong. Her head was held high; her hands were relaxed at her sides.
She looked marvelous, but Sebastian felt a cold pit growing in his stomach. Something was wrong. Horrifically wrong.
“You may ask questions,” the magistrate said.
“I see now only two charges on the indictment,” Violet said. “The first is that I did speak of lewd and lascivious subjects in a public gathering yesterday evening.”
“Yes.”
“Am I to understand, then,” Violet said, “that I am no longer being charged with the lecture that was given here in October of 1862?”
“Yes, Your Ladyship,” the magistrate said with a touch of deference. “You are not.”
“How odd.” Violet raised her chin. “I was responsible for that, too.”
Sebastian felt his heart squeeze. No. She hadn’t said that. She could not have said that. What did she think she was doing?
“In fact, over the years of 1862 through 1867, there were ninety-seven lectures given by Malheur. I am not being charged in connection with those, either. Do I understand that correctly?”
The magistrate leaned back in his chair, looking a little annoyed. “No, Your Ladyship. You are not being charged in connection with those events.”
“Strange,” she said. “Because those were my ideas he presented.”
“Are you trying to expand the indictment?” asked the wigged man to the right in confusion.
“I am merely trying to understand the charges, so that I might appropriately enter a plea,” Violet said.
Sebastian had a bad feeling—a very bad feeling—about what was about to transpire. He squeezed his hands together, but no matter how hard he compressed them, it didn’t help.
Violet glanced down at the paper in front of her. “As to the charge of disturbing the peace. I understand that presenting my work to an audience in Leicester in 1864 caused a near-riot involving a herd of goats. That incident is not included on this indictment?”
“No,” the magistrate responded. “I think you understand the charges fairly well by now, Your Ladyship. How do you plead?”
Violet’s chin went up in defiance. “Are you asking me if I announced yesterday that I had uncovered the mechanism by which sexual reproduction transmits inherited traits? Are you asking me if I showed a crowd a sketch of the male sperm cell, magnified several thousandfold to show the material inside the nucleus?”
“No,” the magistrate responded with a touch of impatience. “I am asking you to enter a plea. You may remain silent, and your plea will be presumed to be ‘not guilty’; you may plead guilty or not guilty. But what you may not do is continue with a recitation of these items. Do so and I’ll hold you in contempt of court.”
“But a plea requires me to consider whether there were mitigating circumstances,” Violet said. “Whether I was subject to undue influence, whether I was the one who instigated these events or if someone else directed me.”
Sebastian held his breath in agony. She had to say it. They’d planned it all last night. He’d sealed her participation with her marble, for God’s sake.
“A plea requires you to say if you are guilty or not guilty,” the magistrate snapped back.
“The answer,” Violet said, “is no.”
Oh, thank God. She hadn’t completely lost her mind.
“No,” Violet continued, “there were no mitigating circumstances.”
For a moment, the room was as stunned as Sebastian was, so quiet that he could hear his own breath hissing in utter, betrayed agony.
“No, nobody but me instigated these inquiries. I was assisted by others, and I will give all due credit when the time is right, but the science of inheritance has always been mine. It was my choice to speak of it last night, my choice to make the presentation. They were my words, my work, and I’ll be damned to hell before I let anyone else take the credit.”
Sebastian let out a staggered, shaking breath.
“You are in contempt,” the magistrate bellowed. “Now, will you enter a plea?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” Violet was standing straight, her eyes flashing. “I’m guilty. Guilty on both counts, Your Worship. I’m guilty, and I’m proud of it.”
Sebastian couldn’t think. He had no idea what to say. Even after everything that she had said, the magistrate paused.
“Are you certain? You are voluntarily entering a plea of guilty of your own free will?” He frowned. “You are aware that there is a term of imprisonment associated with these offenses?”
“Of course I know that,” Violet said scornfully. “But they want to stop me. They want to shut me up—me and everyone associated with my work. If I show fear, they’ll never stop. I shall always be forced to defend myself from ludicrous charges.” Her chin went up. “They need to know that they have no recourse. That I am not afraid of them, not even if they throw the entire weight of the law at me. So yes, Your Worships. I discovered the truth. I told the world.” She straightened and glared at them. “I’m guilty.”
The men withdrew for a moment, murmuring to each other. Sebastian sat frozen in his seat, unable to comprehend what he’d just heard. She’d just… Violet had just…
The magistrates turned back. “Your Ladyship, have you anything to say in your defense?”
“Merely that the years will prove me correct.”
“Then we sentence you to four weeks in prison on the charges in the indictment—and two days for the contempt.” The gavel banged. “This court is adjour—”
The remainder of the sentence was lost in the roar of those present, a hundred throats shouting all at once.
Sebastian stood. “Violet!” he called, but the word was swallowed in the din. He took a step toward her, but the crowd was thick. He couldn’t push close enough to do anything more than take hold of her wrist.
“Violet.”
She turned to him. Her face was alight.
“What have you done?” he asked helplessly.
She set her hand atop his, plucked his fingers from her wrist, and turned his palm over. She mouthed something at him, but he couldn’t hear it. And then, with a wry smile, she placed a blue marble in his hand.
Sorry. He knew her precise sentiment even if he couldn’t hear her words. His nerveless fingers seemed unable to grasp. The marble slipped, spilling off his palm.
She smiled at him—a sad smile—and then turned and allowed herself to be conducted away to prison.
Chapter Twenty-five
VIOLET WAS UNDER NO ILLUSIONS: her stay in prison was substantially more pleasant than the lot of most inmates. She was a countess, for one; she knew a great many powerful people, for another. And most importantly, the manner of her conviction would make her the object of curiosity.
She’d counted on that when entering her plea. She had the benefit of expecting favorable treatment; that gave her an obligation to refuse to knuckle under to the contemptible bullying they’d subjected her to.
She was left alone in a cell of her own—one that had been cleaned for her visit. The straw mattress on the bed was new, the sheets given her freshly laundered and without holes. There had been a time years ago when Oliver had been tossed in a cell on trumped-up charges; he still spoke eloquently of the fleas and lice. But the smell of paraffin oil pervaded her space; if there had once been noxious insects here, they’d been carefully eradicated.
After the second day, she no longer even had a headache from the odor. She was brought water to wash with in the mornings. The warden’s wife lent her a few books, and talked to her about them when she finished, holding her in obvious awe. She was allowed visitors on Thursdays, and although that only included family, it was enough.
She was given an hour to walk in the prison yard each day, so long as she made no efforts to speak with the other female prisoners who walked at the same time. They walked like dark ghosts in their prison attire, heads down to avoid a reprimand from the guards.
She was even fed relatively fresh bread and real meat for her evening meal. She’d read the accounts of prison fare in the newspapers when they’d been investigated a few years earlier, and while she knew there had been some improvement in the meals since those dire reports had been written, she suspected that they didn’t extend to meat and vegetables. After the second day, she began to suspect that the warden was feeding her from his own table. No doubt he feared what might happen to his position if she gave a poor report of the conditions in his prison.
She passed one visit with her mother in relative peace; her mother conveyed no message from Sebastian, nor news from the outside world beyond, “You’ve caused quite an uproar.”
Violet wasn’t sure if she’d expected to hear from Sebastian at all, but she was glad he wasn’t mentioned. She tried not to think of him. If she allowed herself to think of the look on his face when she’d turned from him, of how his skin had drained of all color, the way his fingers had refused to close around that marble, she might have lost her composure.
Her composure was the only thing she had brought with her into this cell; she couldn’t afford to lose it.
She knew only that she loved him—and that she couldn’t regret what she’d done, even if it had caused him pain.
On her twelfth day in prison, the warden came to see her.
“Your Ladyship,” he said, as he unlocked her cel
l, “it would be much appreciated if you’d come with me.”
She’d heard a few of the other prisoners addressed in the yard—sharp reprimands that labeled them brusquely by number rather than respectfully by title.
She stood and smoothed out the uncomfortable fabric of her prison smock. “Where are you taking me?”
“You’re being released.” He paused, shifting from foot to foot, and rubbed his balding head. “I know this has been quite an ordeal. You’ve managed well.”
She looked at him and thought of the women she’d seen at a distance. She wondered what they’d been eating, what insects they had dwelling in their straw mattresses. It seemed foolish to call what had happened to her an ordeal in light of that. She’d had it easy; she knew it. She hadn’t even served out her full term. It made her feel vaguely ill to be praised for simply having survived.
She shook her head. “I suppose the time that has elapsed has given everyone a chance to calm down.” She shrugged. “Now at least I’ll be able to go home in peace.”
The man gave her a bemused look. “Don’t set your heart on it,” he finally said.
Six buildings made up the prison, buildings of dark, greasy, soot-stained brick enclosed by a wall. That, in turn, was encircled by another higher wall. Violet was conducted to a room where her belongings were returned to her. She was allowed to dress in the clothing she’d arrived in, and then she was brought through the inner wall.
That was when she started to hear the noise. At the inner gate, it sounded like a buzz; by the time they’d walked through the thirty yards of green weeds that stood between the two walls, it had grown to a roar.
“What is that sound?” Violet asked.
“That,” said the warden bitterly, fitting his keys in the door that led to the outside, “is your entourage.”
“Entourage?” Violet frowned. “I don’t have an…”
The wooden door swung open onto a narrow dirt road cutting through the moor. That path was utterly filled. Carts and carriages were pulled up haphazardly along the side. There, in front of the prison, were more people than Violet had ever seen in her life. She didn’t recognize anyone at all.
The Countess Conspiracy Page 27
