by Lauren Royal
Knowing Violet expected it, Chrystabel did her best to look shocked. “Of course not. But I won’t have you miss this opportunity, either.” It was a perfect excuse to get Violet and Ford together without the children—just what they needed to make their budding romance bloom. But Chrystabel knew better than to reveal her strategy. “I know that you’ve dreamed of attending a Royal Society meeting, and I mean to see you go.”
“It’s not a meeting, Mum. Only a social event.”
“And as close as you’ll ever get to your dream, unless you disguise yourself as a man.” She set down the vial, meeting her daughter’s gaze. “Don’t even think of it.”
“Disguising myself? I wouldn’t.”
No, her daughter wouldn’t try that, Chrystabel supposed—even Violet knew she could never pull off such a prank. Her face might pass for a pretty lad, but her body was very womanly.
If only a man—the right man—got his hands on that body, he would never let go. And Chrystabel wasn’t averse to arranging for that to happen. Desperate mothers were sometimes drawn to desperate measures, and she knew for a fact that all would turn out right in the end.
Chrystabel’s instincts were as dependable as dew sweetening a rose. And if sometimes it made her a bit uneasy to trust her intuition where her own daughter was concerned, she reminded herself how accurate her feelings invariably were.
Mothering wasn’t always a comfortable job.
“Father won’t want to leave his flowers,” Violet insisted. Thanks to her agitated pacing, her spectacles had slipped down her nose. She pushed them back up. “He grumbles enough about spending the wintertime in London, although he won’t shirk his duties to the House of Lords. He won’t go in summer.”
Wondering if her daughter was going to wear a hole in the carpet, Chrystabel chose another vial. “Then we’ll go without him.”
“Mum! We’ve never!”
“There’s a first time for everything, Violet.” She added a drop to the bottle she was working with, swirling to mix the fragrances. “Your sisters would love a few days in the City—”
“But we cannot travel without Father—”
“Nonsense. We’ll take a brace of footmen, and I am certain we’ll arrive safe and sound. With Jewel leaving, Rowan will appreciate the distractions London has to offer. And your sisters have been dying to pay a visit to Madame Beaumont’s establishment, to see the newest fashions. It will be a lovely holiday for all.” She made a notation on Mrs. Applebee’s card, then smiled up at her daughter. “Now, have you a suitable gown for this event?”
A nice, low neckline would be suitable indeed.
OF COURSE Violet didn’t have a gown. With all the delays, she had yet to be fitted for new clothing, and a ball gown wouldn’t have been included in the order in any case.
But suddenly it seemed paramount to Mum—and to Violet, though she only admitted it silently—that she look as presentable as possible for the Royal Society celebration.
So the seamstress and her assistant were fetched immediately, and Violet found herself subjected to an hour of measuring and prodding, accompanied by much babbling in incomprehensible French. This was followed by a second hour, during which Madame presented her with a mind-boggling array of fabrics, along with fashion dolls from Paris, all dressed in miniature versions of the latest gowns.
As though she could be fooled into thinking she’d ever look like one of those dolls.
They ended up deciding on a gown in two shades of purple embroidered with gold thread and pearls. The dress would be started today, and tomorrow the women would be back for what promised to be a day full of tucking and pinning. Madame said she would have to “accomplish zee impossible” to have it ready in time for them to take it to London.
By the time the seamstress left, a headache was throbbing in Violet’s temples. She wanted nothing more than to get off by herself for some thoughtful reading.
In the peaceful sanctuary of her lilac-hued room, the pile of new books beckoned. Between Ford’s visit to talk to Rose and the afternoon in the laboratory, she hadn’t found a minute to peruse the titles.
She sat on the bed and ran a finger down the stacked spines. Thomas Hobbes, Human Nature; René Descartes, Discourse on Method; Aristotle’s Master-piece. That was the one. “‘Plato is dear to me, but dearer still is truth,’” she quoted under her breath, smiling at Aristotle’s words, the perfect expression of her own feelings. She couldn’t imagine why she’d never heard of this book, but she was glad she’d found it.
Leaning back against a plump velvet pillow, she sighed and opened the cover. And gasped.
TWENTY-SIX
“NESBITT!” THE next afternoon, Ford hurried down the gravel path to meet his friend. “It’s been entirely too long.”
Three years, he realized suddenly. Sad, how friendships suffered when men’s lives took them separate directions. But Rand’s smile convinced him that things hadn’t changed between them.
Lord Randal Nesbitt swung off his black horse, his dark blond hair glinting in the sun. “This had better be important, Lakefield.” The words sounded serious, but he strode forward to give his old friend an affectionate clap on the shoulder. “So this is the place, is it?” He squinted up at Ford’s house.
“Well, yes.” His gaze following Rand’s, Ford shifted on his feet. “I’m planning some renovations.”
He hadn’t been, not really, since his stay here wasn’t permanent and he couldn’t afford renovations in any case—not without changing his lifestyle. But seeing his home through Rand’s eyes made him wonder how Violet must see it.
The paint had worn entirely off the front, leaving bare beige stone. He’d never noticed before that it was a darker color on the left half, which had been added early this century, and a lighter color on the older half. The windows were different, too—four modern ones on the new side, five mullioned ones on the Tudor portion.
The building was sound, but its aesthetics left much to be desired.
“Rand.” In an effort to draw his friend’s attention from the dismal architecture, Ford touched him on the arm. “I may have found Secrets of the Emerald Tablet.”
Startled, Rand’s steel gray eyes met Ford’s. “That fabled book you used to babble on about? You’re jesting.”
“I’m not. At least I hope not.” He guided Rand up the steps. “I found this book in a shop in Windsor—looked like it’d been there for ages. It has five words in the title and the alchemical symbol for gold on the first page, and it looks exactly as the book has been described. But I cannot read it. Not a word.” He led his friend through the entrance hall and around the corner into his study. “Violet’s sister—”
“Violet?”
“A neighbor.”
Rand plopped onto a faded green chair. “What happened to Tabitha?”
“She eloped with the Earl of Berrescliffe.” Incredibly, it no longer seemed important. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“The way you said ‘Violet’…”
Wishing not to alienate his friend by sitting behind his massive oak desk, Ford dropped heavily to an iron chest that sat against one wall. “I didn’t say ‘Violet’ any special way.”
“Come on, man,” Rand said. “I’ve known you since we were lads. We were at school together, remember?” His quick grin emerged. “I can tell when you’re interested in a woman.”
Ford leaned back against the dark, Tudor oak paneling. “You don’t know me so well anymore.”
A tense moment passed while Rand considered that statement and Ford mentally kicked himself for offending an old friend.
“The hell I don’t,” Rand finally said. When his smile grew even wider, Ford wavered between feeling relieved and annoyed. “What did you want to tell me about Lady Violet’s sister?” Rand asked. “Violet is a lady?”
“She is.” Guessing where his friend was leading, Ford sighed. “And her sister is a linguist of sorts. Her younger sister,” he stressed, noting the interest t
hat lit Rand’s eyes.
He knew Rand every bit as well as Rand knew him.
“How young?” Rand asked, clearly not considering that an impediment. He was younger than Ford by four years—a brilliant student who had entered Oxford early, while, due to his family’s exile, Ford had started a little late.
“Seventeen,” Ford said. “And a sheltered country miss.” Though accurate, the description somehow didn’t fit Rose.
Rand ran his tongue across his teeth, a sign of contemplation Ford remembered from their days at Wadham College. “A woman can marry at twelve with her father’s consent.”
Ford thought of Jewel just six years hence. “A female of twelve is not a woman.”
“Point taken.” Rand cleared his throat. “So what of this sister?”
“She knows a language or three, you see, and she examined the book.” Ford rose, crossing to the desk to retrieve it. “She noticed a word she thought was Italian. For silver,” he added significantly as he opened the bottom drawer.
“And that was enough to make you decide it was Secrets of the Emerald Tablet?”
“You think me so simple-minded?” He handed the book to Rand, then sat again on the iron chest. “The moment I saw this book, I suspected it might be the one. Besides the book’s appearance and the clues on the title page, it includes diagrams that are clearly scientific. Other than that, though, I couldn’t really say why I think this is it. It just…feels right,” he added, suddenly feeling foolish.
He’d always trusted facts over feelings. Until now, at least.
“It does look quite ancient.” Rand turned the book in his hands, then opened it gingerly, reverently, as such an old book deserved. “You know, Old English is so different from what we speak today, it might as well be a foreign language.”
“But I would still recognize a word here or there, wouldn’t I? Rose—Violet’s sister—thought it might be several different languages. And patterns.” His fingers worried the decorative metal strips on the chest. “I’m thinking it might be a code.”
Rand looked up. “What is in there?” he asked suddenly, indicating the old iron chest.
“I don’t know. It belonged to the previous owners.” Ford looked ruefully at the heavy lock. The key was missing, so it would have to be hacked off with an ax. One of the many things he had yet to get around to doing here at Lakefield.
“Don’t you wonder if it holds something valuable?”
“They wouldn’t have left it had it contained anything valuable. Do you see anything else they left around here that was worth keeping?”
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 his friend’s annoying ribbing 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 constant aggravation.” Alban, Rand’s older brother, had been a cruel boy, Ford remembered. Rand had retaliated by constantly outsmarting him. “How is Alban these days?”
“I don’t know, actually,” Rand said, his eyes still on the book. “I haven’t been home in four years.”
“I see.” Reluctant to subject himself to his father and brother, Rand had often spent school holidays with Ford’s family instead. Apparently matters hadn’t improved. Ford hesitated to pry, though, as he knew 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 on short notice?” She walked closer, scrutinizing Rand’s healthy physique. “I suppose you eat as heartily as this one?” she asked, indicating Ford.
“Doubtless,” Rand said with a smile.
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 guest some refreshments. For heaven’s sake, milord, you haven’t offered him so much as a drink.”
“Why do you put up with her?” Rand asked 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 carry 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.
“No, thank you.” Seated at her dressing table, Violet flipped a page of her book.
“You’ve been hiding in there for two days.” Rose sounded typically impatient. “Are your fittings that exhausting?”
“Yes,” Violet called, just as impatiently.
“Violet…”
When Lily pushed open the door, Violet hurried to stuff the book under her bedcovers.
Her eyes narrowed, Rose fisted 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?” Lily breathed. Her blue eyes were round as the moon through Ford’s telescope. “Where did you get that?”
Violet’s heart pounded. “Why? Have you heard of it?”
“Have we heard of it?” Rose all but snorted. “The ladies whisper behind their fans about all its secrets. I vow and swear, Violet, you need to get out of the house. If you came visiting more often—”
“Does Mum know you have it?” Lily interrupted.
“No.” Perish the thought. “You won’t tell her, will you?”
Rose’s lips curved in a slow smile. “We won’t if you share.”
“You’re too young for a book about…” Violet peeked inside at the title page. �
��‘The Secrets of Generation in All the Parts Thereof.’” She slammed it shut, her fingers clenching on the leather cover.
“I’m not so certain Mum would want you reading it, either.” Rose walked closer, and Violet held on tighter. “I think she’d be very interested,” Rose taunted, “to hear where you got that book.”
There was nothing for it. “Come to the summerhouse,” Violet said with a sigh. “We can all read it together.”
“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 glanced around, half expecting to find him lurking behind a bush.
“Ford bought it for me in Windsor,” she admitted finally.
Lily’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 clutched the book to her bodice. “It’s called Aristotle’s Master-piece. What was I supposed to think?”
Rose looked unconvinced.
“Never mind.” Lily’s shorter legs hurried to keep up with her older sisters’ quick pace. “Is it really that shocking?”
“Well, yes and no,” Violet said. “Mostly it’s educational.”
Rose grabbed for the book. “I need an education.”
“Just wait,” Violet snapped, snatching it back. 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.
