by Lauren Royal
Scanning the shabby room, Rand laughed. “You have a point.”
Ford wasn’t at all handy with an ax, and the book was much more important. “Rose said some of the lines are written backwards. And the letters are mirror images.”
“Etruscan,” Rand said, glancing back down.
“Pardon?”
“Etruscan. A dead language. The people who spoke it lived in what eventually became Italy.”
“Raymond Lully, the author, lived in Italy for some time.”
Rand nodded thoughtfully. “The Etruscans wrote left to right and then right to left on successive lines, with the letters facing backwards and forwards.” He kept turning pages as he talked. “Etruscan is phonetic and easy to read aloud, but no one’s ever managed to puzzle out the words’ meanings.”
Ford’s spirits plummeted. “Does that mean you won’t be able to identify the book?”
“Not at all.” Rand looked up with a grin. “Your ladylove’s sister was right.”
Violet wasn’t Ford’s ladylove, but in his rising excitement, he decided to let the annoying quip slide. “Right about what?”
“About it being many languages. I’ve noticed two or three ancient words here—ones I can read. But not together. I believe you’re correct that it may be a code.”
“And we both know how good you are at cracking those, to Alban’s vexation.” Alban, Rand’s older brother, had been cruel to him as a boy. Rand had retaliated by constantly outsmarting him. “How is dear old Alban these days?”
“I don’t know, actually,” Rand said, his eyes still on the book. “I haven’t been home in over a year.”
“I see.” Averse to the unpleasant company of his father and brother, Rand had often spent university holidays with Ford’s family instead. Apparently matters hadn’t improved. But Ford decided not to pry, knowing it was a sensitive subject.
He rose and moved to stand over Rand, leaning down to turn back to the first page. “Can you read the title?”
Rand stared at the words for a moment, then frowned. “If this is a code, it’s a tough one.” He looked up, shutting the book. “Give me some time, man. Can you not feed a fellow before taxing his brain?”
As if on cue, Hilda walked in, holding a folded piece of paper.
“We’ve another for supper,” Ford told her.
“And what makes you think I can provide with no notice?” She walked closer, scrutinizing their guest’s healthy physique. “I suppose you eat as heartily as this one?” she asked, indicating Ford.
Rand grinned. ”Doubtless.”
With an exaggerated sniff, she held out the paper to Ford. “Here, I came to give you this.” When he took it, she added, “I’ll bring your visitor some refreshments. For goodness sake, milord, you haven’t offered him so much as a drink.”
“Charming woman,“ Rand remarked when she had left.
Ford shrugged. “She came with the house. Besides, she’s a kitten under the gruff exterior. Read this, will you?” He handed Rand the paper and went to the cabinet where he kept brandy.
While he poured, Rand unfolded the paper. “‘Dear Lord Lakefield, The Ashcroft family would be honored to have you and Lady Jewel as our guests for supper this evening. If we do not receive your regrets, we shall expect you at seven o’clock. Yours sincerely, Lady Trentingham.’”
Ford handed Rand his drink. “You’ll come along, of course. I’ll have Harry take a note to warn them of the extra guest. Hilda will be relieved.”
“Lady Jewel?” Rand sipped, his glance speculative over the cup’s rim. “Another woman? Lady Violet isn’t enough?”
“Violet isn’t my woman,” Ford said irritably. ”And Jewel is my niece. Long story.”
Rand settled back. “I’m waiting to hear it.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
A KNOCK CAME at Violet’s door. “Don’t you want to come riding?” Lily called through the oak.
Violet’s head shot up. “No, thank you!” Her voice came out squeaky. She cleared her throat. “I’ve changed my mind.”
Rose made an impatient noise. “But you haven’t come in ages.”
“I…I’m just tired, that’s all.”
“Violet—”
When Lily pushed open the door, Violet hurried to stuff the book under her bedcovers.
Her eyes narrowing, Rose planted her hands on her hips. “What were you reading?”
“Nothing.”
“I saw it. It was a little brown book.” She stalked over to the bed. “Let me see.”
Violet pulled it out before Rose could. “Aristotle’s Master-piece. Philosophy. Nothing you’d find interesting.”
“Aristotle’s Master-piece?” Rose’s dark eyes flashed with excitement. “Where did you get that?”
Violet’s heart pounded. “Why? Have you heard of it?”
“Have I heard of it?” Rose snorted. “The ladies whisper behind their fans about its secrets. I vow and swear, Violet, you need to get out of the house. If you came visiting more often—”
“I haven’t heard of it,” Lily interrupted. “And I visit as much as you.”
Rose rolled her eyes. “No one would mention it in front of you.”
Lily pouted. “Why not? What’s the book about?”
Rose turned back to Violet. ”Does Mum know you have it?”
“No.” Perish the thought. “You won’t tell her, will you?”
“Tell her what?” Lily stamped her foot—gently, for it was Lily, after all. “What’s this about?”
Rose’s lips curved in a slow smile. “I won’t tell Mum you have the book, Violet…if you let me read it.”
“Rose!” Violet sprang to her feet, clutching Aristotle’s Master-piece to her chest. “You’re far too young. I simply couldn’t.“ Violet wasn’t even certain she herself ought to be reading it, and she was practically a spinster.
Rose sighed theatrically. “In that case,” she said with an elegant shrug, “I find myself forced to confess all to our dear mother. I’m sure she’ll be very interested to hear where you got that book…” She began moving toward the door.
“Wait!” Violet made a grab for her sister’s arm.
Rose paused and turned back, eyebrows raised innocently.
Violet groaned. There was nothing for it. “Come to the summerhouse.” She cast a nervous glance around the chamber. “Mum won’t hear us there.”
“I’m coming, too,” Lily announced, her expression daring them to argue. “I want to know what’s in that book!”
TWENTY-EIGHT
“HOW DID YOU get it?” Rose asked when they were safely outdoors in the garden.
Violet knew her father was in the study—they had walked right by him on their way from the house—but she was so used to seeing him out here that she couldn’t help but look about, half expecting to find him lurking behind a bush.
“Lord Lakefield bought it for me in Windsor,” she admitted finally.
Rose’s mouth gaped open.
“It wasn’t like that!” Violet rushed to add. “He thought it was a philosophy book. We both did.”
“Of course,” Rose said with a smirk.
Violet’s fingers clenched the leather cover. “It’s called Aristotle’s Master-piece. What was I supposed to think?”
“Is it really that shocking?” Lily’s shorter legs hurried to keep up with her older sisters’ quick pace.
Violet shrugged. “Yes and no.”
She rushed past Father’s blue and yellow flower beds, breathing a sigh of relief when they reached the circular red-brick summerhouse. She yanked open one of the small garden building’s four doors, and the girls scurried inside, shutting it behind them.
They huddled together on a section of the benches that ran along the wall, Rose and Lily on either side of Violet. She placed the book on her lap. Large, arched windows over each of the doors illuminated the brown leather binding, but they were placed too high for anyone to see in.
A perfect place for illicit reading.
Violet looked to her fourteen-year-old sister. “Lily, are you sure you want to stay?”
Lily’s chin jutted out. “I’m staying. I’m only a year younger than Rose. If she wants to read it, so do I.”
“We’ll see about that,” Rose said with a smirk.
Violet shook her head. ”Very well. Here was my first clue that it wasn’t the sort of book I’d thought,” she began, and opened the cover.
“Oh, my heavens,” Lily breathed. The frontispiece plate depicted a seated Aristotle with a bare woman standing beside him. Lily quickly shielded her eyes. ”Is it…is the book really by Aristotle?”
“I’m sure not!” Rose scanned the title page opposite. “There’s no author listed, no printer’s name or date or place of publication.” Even she looked apprehensive now. “It must be truly scandalous.”
“It’s not what you think.” Violet turned the page. “I nearly tossed it in the fireplace myself when I saw the frontispiece, but then I read the subtitle.”
“‘The Secrets of Generation in All the Parts Thereof,’” Rose read aloud. Her brow creased. “‘Generation?’”
Lily peeked from between her fingers. “It sounds like an academic volume.”
“Sort of. It’s more like a manual.” Violet drew a deep breath. “Only the subject is…”
“The marriage bed.” Rose supplied.
Lily’s hands fluttered into her lap. “Oh.” Her blue eyes were round as the moon through Ford’s telescope.
Violet nodded. “Exactly. Now, are you certain you want to stay, Lily?”
She shook her head slowly. “I don’t know. I’m not sure Mum would approve, but…” She looked down, and her hands fisted in her skirts. “But I’m going to find out one way or another, aren’t I? In just a few years, I’ll be old enough to marry.” She lifted her gaze to meet Violet’s. “I’d rather know what to expect in advance than find out on my wedding night.”
“Hear, hear!” Rose cheered.
Violet couldn’t argue with such a sensible way of thinking, so instead she turned the page and regarded the introductory text. “It begins with advice to parents.”
“To parents?”
“Of young girls.” She cleared her throat and began to read. “‘It behooves parents to look after their children, and when they find them inclinable to marriage, not violently to restrain their affections, but rather provide such suitable matches for them, lest the crossing of their inclinations should precipitate them to commit those follies that may bring an indelible stain upon their families.’”
Rose giggled. “Sounds as though Father and Mum ought to make certain we marry before we get ourselves with child.”
“Rose!” Lily’s mouth dropped open.
“Hush,” Violet said. “There’s more.” She swallowed and turned the page. “‘For when they arrive at puberty, which is about the fourteenth or fifteenth year of their age, then the natural purgations begin to flow—’”
“They have already,” Rose said. “For all of us.”
“Rose!” Lily looked past Violet to glare at her.
“Just listen, both of you. ‘…and the blood stirs up their minds to venery: for their spirits being brisk and inflamed when they arrive at this age, if they eat hard salt things and spices, the body becomes more and more heated…’”
Violet’s face was becoming heated just hearing her voice say the words aloud. But remembering Lily’s understandable determination to become informed, she forced herself to continue.
“‘…whereby the desire to c-carnal em-embraces’”—Violet’s cheeks were positively on fire now—“‘is very great, sometimes insuperable.’”
Rose crossed her arms. “So if we eat salty or spicy foods, we’re doomed to become fallen women?”
“How awful!” Lily wore a look of panic, as though worried she might fall at any moment.
“I don’t think it works that way,” Violet said thoughtfully. “We all had salt fish for breakfast this morning. Are either of you overwarm?”
It was comfortably cool in the summerhouse, if a bit humid. They both shook their heads.
“Do you feel insuperably desirous of a man?”
“What does ‘insuperable’ mean?” Lily asked.
“Impossible to overcome.”
“Oh. Well, no.”
“Me neither,” Rose said. “Not at the moment, anyway.”
Violet rolled her eyes. “Well then, it seems we have nothing to worry about.”
Lily’s features relaxed. Rose waved an impatient hand. “If you say so, Violet. Just keep reading.”
“Where were we? Ah. ‘And the use of this so much desired enjoyment being denied to virgins, many times is followed by dismal consequences, as…’” Violet paused, her eyes landing on the next words: Short breathings. Trembling of the heart. Eager staring at men, and affecting their company.
Her stomach knotted.
Her thoughts whirling, she remembered the way her breath caught whenever Ford touched her. The strange trembling she’d felt in her chest that day on the boat. That when they locked eyes, she was incapable of looking away. And that, despite all her grumblings over having to bring Rowan to Lakefield House, she always seemed to find herself in Ford’s company…
She suddenly felt overwarm.
“Violet?” She could barely feel Lily’s hand on her shoulder. “Are you well?”
She wasn’t well. She was very unwell indeed.
She was supposed to be the sensible one! She was supposed to be immune to gentlemen! Enjoying a kiss or two didn’t change any of that—she’d thought.
But what if she was mistaken about her own feelings?
What if they were insuperable?
“Girls, are you in there?”
All three of them jumped out of their skins.
Father knocked on one of the doors. “Willets said he saw you heading this way—”
Violet quickly sat on the book, folding her hands angelically on her lap while Rose went to open the door. “We’re just talking, Father. Do you need us?”
“Do I need what?” Looking perplexed, he scratched his head. “Your mother sent me to find you.”
“Why?” Violet asked.
“Lord Lakefield has arrived for supper. With a guest. Lord something-or-other. I failed to catch the name.”
“A gentleman? A titled gentleman?” Rose practically clapped her hands. “Gemini! We’d better go change our gowns!”
TWENTY-NINE
AN HOUR LATER, Mum set down her goblet. “Violet tells me Jewel is going home tomorrow.”
“Yes.” Ford sprinkled salt on his spinach tanzy and returned the spoon to its little dish. “I hope she also told you I’ve invited her to a Royal Society event at Gresham College.”
“She has,” Mum said, “and she’ll be delighted to attend. Monday evening, is it?”
A tiny gasp escaped Violet’s lips. She’d never given Ford an answer, and she’d wanted to do that for herself.
She nudged her mother’s foot beneath the table, but Mum pretended not to notice.
“Yes, Monday.” Ford took an experimental bite of the rich spinach omelette, then displayed his irresistible smile. “I trust you’ll be in London by then? I’ll need the direction of your town house.”
“More brown sauce, did you say?” Father frowned. “I don’t see any brown sauce…”
Nobody paid him any attention.
“We’re in St. James’s Square,” Mum answered again for Violet. “In the northeast corner, the house of light gray stone.”
“Excellent. The celebration begins at ten, so I’ll be by at half past nine.”
Ignoring Rose’s chatter, Violet stabbed a stewed prawn with her fork, a bit more forcefully than necessary. If her mother and Ford kept planning her life as though she weren’t around to hear it, she feared she might scream.
Seated between her sisters across the table, Lord Randal Nesbitt gave her a sympathetic smile—a smile nearly as charming as Ford�
�s. Those smiles were lethal, she decided. They should be outlawed. She wondered if they’d practiced together at school. Did boys do that? Rose and Lily practiced their smiles all the time.
Perhaps noticing the glance that passed between Violet and his friend, Ford reached for her hand beneath the table.
Heavens, what if someone noticed? She struggled to breathe normally. But she didn’t move her hand away.
Feigning nonchalance, she smiled back at the viscount’s friend. He did seem nice. He hadn’t even mentioned her spectacles. She wondered if that was because Ford had already told him about them, or if he was just very polite.
Violet’s father signaled to the maid stationed against the wall. “Dinah, could you fetch more brown sauce for Lord Lakefield, please?”
His wife plucked a grain of rice from his cravat. ”No, darling, we were speaking of the town house. I told you we’re going to London, remember?”
“Yes, to order gowns for Violet, since she’s finally taking interest.” Father stirred some of the butter sauce from the prawns into his rice. “From that Madame Blowfont woman.”
“Beaumont,” Rose clarified loudly, sprinkling cinnamon on her own rice.
Faith! Did they have to shout about her lack of fashion sense in front of Ford? Out of the corner of her eye, Violet saw him stifle a grin and straighten his smart white cravat.
She wished she could slide beneath the table. And then melt into the floor.
“Gowns?” Mum said, trying to come to Violet’s rescue. “Of course she needs new gowns, but that’s not the focus of our holiday. Everyone knows my eldest daughter cares more about learning than clothing.” She looked to Ford’s friend. “You must forgive my husband. He’s a bit hard of hearing and often misunderstands.”
“What?” Father asked, proving her point.
“Nothing, my love.” Mum’s musical laughter tinkled through the room, a sound of relief. “See what I mean?”
“Violet did order a new ball gown,” Rowan said in defense of his father.
Ford squeezed Violet’s hand.
Rose flashed her most sophisticated smile at Lord Randal. “What brings you to visit, my lord?”
