by Anna Bradley
“Lord Dare? I beg your pardon, but I can’t account for your presence here today. Have you forgotten we were never introduced at Lord Derrick’s dinner party last night?”
Nick was striving mightily to collect his wits—or at the very least to close his mouth—but for God’s sake, even his stalwart aunt would fall into a swoon if he presented a lady covered in cobwebs as the future Countess of Dare.
But it couldn’t be denied Miss Somerset had a significant advantage over any other potential wives:
She was here, and ripe for the plucking.
Nick straightened his spine and pasted his most charming smile on his lips. “No, I didn’t forget, Miss Somerset, but I was so charmed by your company last night nothing would do but for me to call on you today. I beg your pardon for doing so without a formal introduction. Can you ever forgive me?”
She would, of course. Ladies tended to be quite forgiving of even his most serious transgressions.
Miss Somerset assessed him for a moment, her brows drawn together, but then a tiny grin lifted one corner of her mouth.
Ah, there it was. Where the ladies were concerned, a grin was inevitably followed by a simper, and then unconditional forgiveness. Now, if he could just find a way to rid her of the cobwebs before she met his aunt, all might still be well—
“Tell me, Lord Dare. Does that usually work?”
Nick blinked. “Does what work?”
She waved a hand at him, from the top of his head to his perfectly shined boots. “Oh, you know, the exquisitely tailored clothing, the flattering speech, the charming smile, and so forth.”
She wasn’t mocking him, or asking sarcastically. She seemed genuinely curious, as if she really wished to know, and much to his dismay, her forthright manner startled the truth into leaping from Nick’s lips. “Generally speaking, yes.”
“Oh. How interesting.” She regarded him for a long moment, her head cocked as if she were attempting to measure the impact of his charm, then she shrugged. “It doesn’t with me.”
Again, there was nothing ugly in her tone—no rancor or disgust—she was simply making an observation. Nick’s lips twitched, and for the first time since she’d entered the drawing room, he forgot about the cobwebs. “No? Well, perhaps you’ll change your mind by the time I’ve taken my leave.”
She considered this, then offered him a polite smile. “No, I don’t think so. You may as well take your leave now. Good afternoon, Lord Dare.”
And then with a sweep of blue skirts she was gone, leaving a cobweb floating on the air and Nick, open-mouthed, behind her.
Chapter Four
Several days later
“Violet! For goodness’ sake, child. Must you push your food about the plate in that disgusting manner? William, clear Miss Violet’s place.”
Lady Chase nodded at the footman, who stepped forward and whisked Violet’s plate away while her fork was still hovering over her eggs. Violet blinked, then tossed her napkin onto the table with a sigh. “My breakfast seems to have vanished. I do hope my tea will linger long enough for me to taste it.”
She’d been living in her grandmother’s Bedford Square townhouse for two years now, and should have long since learned to hold her tongue in the face of the old lady’s quirks, but she’d never been as good at it as her sisters were, perhaps because she was far too much like Lady Chase for either of their comfort.
But she had too much to do today to waste time fussing over vanishing eggs, so she gave her grandmother a bland smile and shoved her chair back from the table, ready to flee to the old schoolroom and work on her book, as she did every day.
Before she could escape, however, Lady Chase’s gnarled claw clamped down on her wrist. “Just where do you suppose you’re going, miss?”
“I thought I’d, ah…go to my bedchamber to work on my embroidery.”
Violet had told this lie so often the prickle of guilt she used to feel whenever it left her lips had become nothing more than the merest twinge of conscience, mild and easily dismissed. She did wonder, though, why Lady Chase never became suspicious when she failed to produce any embroidery.
“Never mind that today. I’ve arranged for us to visit my modiste this morning.”
Most young ladies would be delighted to spend the morning choosing silks, satins, and lace to be made up into dozens of beautiful gowns, but not Violet. As soon as she heard the word “modiste,” her mouth went dry and her stomach threatened to disgorge the few bites of egg she’d managed to eat. “Why should you need me to go?”
“To begin fittings for your next season, of course. We must secure Madame Bell before the usual parade of mindless chits descend on her after the holidays. I think pink and yellow for your gowns this year, Violet, with perhaps a pale blue one here and there for—”
“No.” Violet recoiled from her grandmother’s words just as she would from a fist aimed at her face. “No.”
“What, no blue? But it’s so flattering with your eyes—”
“No season.” Despite the deep breath she’d drawn, there was a tremor in Violet’s voice. “We agreed I would be required to endure one season only.”
“Yes, well, I only agreed to that ridiculous condition because I expected a young lady with your pretty face and substantial fortune would secure an earl in your first season, or at the very least a viscount. But here we are, Violet, so unless you’ve got a husband tucked away in the attics, I suggest you reconcile yourself to a morning at Madame Bell’s.”
“No. I don’t want a viscount, or an earl, or even a duke, and a second season isn’t going to change that. I don’t intend to ever repeat that dreadful experience.”
“You will repeat it until you’re married, and no arguments, miss.”
Violet’s temper was rising in tandem with her panic, and both were threatening to burst into a flood of ugly, hurtful words. She gritted her teeth to hold them in. “No. I’ve made up my mind never to marry, Grandmother.”
“Nonsense, you silly girl. Of course you’ll marry.”
“No, I won’t. I don’t like to disappoint you, but there can be no reason for me to suffer through a second season.”
Violet wasn’t a meek or fearful creature, but nothing of her life in Surrey could have prepared her for the malice and derision she’d faced during her one London season. It had been an utter disaster from start to finish, and so hurtful that even the idea of a second one made her shudder with dread. The only thing that had made it bearable was Iris’s and Honora’s staunch loyalty and support, but they were both married now. If Violet let her grandmother talk her into another season she’d have to endure it alone, with no Iris to soothe her feelings when the other young ladies treated her with mocking disdain, and no Honora to squeeze her hand when the gentlemen snickered at her graceless dancing.
No Lord Derrick, with his encouraging smile and kind brown eyes.
They’d been less than a week into last season when it became clear Violet was destined to become a pitiful wallflower. If it hadn’t been quite as awful as she’d dreaded, she had Lord Derrick to thank for it. He’d invited her to dance at every ball, and he’d listened with polite attention when she told him of her studies. He’d been her friend when all the other fashionable gentlemen had treated her as if she were invisible. He’d never mocked her—instead, he’d done all he could to befriend her.
The only thing he hadn’t done—couldn’t do—was fall in love with her.
“Very well, Violet. If you insist on becoming a lonely spinster, I suppose there’s not a thing I can do about it.” Lady Chase gave a careless shrug, but there was a calculating gleam in her eyes. “But I want to have a few gowns made up for the spring for myself. You’ll come with me to the modiste’s, won’t you, dear? Just to help me choose my silks for the season, of course.”
Violet was far too wily not to recognize sneakiness in another, and sh
e shook her head. “I wish I could help you, my lady, but as you know, I’m hopeless with silks and lace. Why, I can’t tell Belgian from Brussels, or jonquil from primrose. Indeed, my temples are throbbing even now, just thinking about it. You’re much better off taking Hyacinth.”
Lady Chase’s face darkened to an ominous shade of red. “Shame on you, Violet! I vow you’re the most stubborn, willful, and headstrong chit—”
Violet didn’t stay to hear the rest, but turned on her heel, escaped into the hallway, and hurried up the stairs until her grandmother’s scolds faded to silence behind her.
She had, after all, heard it all before.
* * * *
Four hours later, Violet tossed aside the paper in her hand with a sigh. She’d been staring at her list for the better part of the afternoon, and she’d yet to come up with a plan to get the sketches she needed to complete her book.
As with everything else, it was a question of access. Through a combination of stealth and wiliness she’d managed to get a sketch of the gallows at Tyburn, and one of Newgate Prison. She’d coaxed Iris’s coachman into lingering on St. James’s Street in front of the bow window at White’s for long enough to get a rough drawing of it, but there were a half dozen locations still on her list, each more unlikely than the last. A respectable young lady didn’t just happen to stumble upon Cockpit Steps after dark, or suddenly find herself standing at Execution Dock with her sketchbook in hand. She didn’t dig about in the dirt at Bunhill Fields Burial Ground on a hunt for the stray bones of plague victims, either.
Violet shuffled some papers about on the long table she’d dragged into the middle of the old schoolroom, and laid out a blank page at the end of the chapter she’d entitled, “The Black Death: London Overrun with Corpses.”
She stood back, her arms crossed, and surveyed the array of papers.
No, it wouldn’t do. She must have the burial grounds.
She ran a critical eye over her finished sketches, and a colored drawing she’d begun the day after Lord Derrick’s dinner party caught her eye. She’d finished it last night, and now she plucked it from the pile, a quiet laugh escaping her as she studied it.
Oh, she’d done him justice, hadn’t she? She’d spent hours on the rakish tilt of his head, the bored, sulky twist of his full lips, the heaviness of his eyelids over his sleepy gray eyes, as if they were weighed down by that thick, dark fringe of eyelashes.
The Selfish Rake.
Violet ran a finger over the title she’d scrawled across the top of the sketch, her grin widening. There was no denying Lord Dare was exquisitely handsome. Rakes and scoundrels generally were, but he was a shining example of the type, and she’d gotten a good, long look at him while he’d had Lady Uplands pinned against Lord Derrick’s bookshelf. Her view had been limited mostly to his back, of course, but one would never know it to look at the sketch.
It was flawless.
How lovely of Lord Dare to appear in London just in time to serve as the model for her “Gentlemen, Rakes, and Rakes who Pose as Gentlemen” chapter. It was rather thin on content—so thin she’d been on the verge of scrapping it altogether—but she’d done a truly lovely drawing of Lord Derrick entitled “The Ideal Gentleman,” and now that she had Lord Dare as her rake, she’d decided the two drawings taken together more than made up for any other shortcomings.
Still, as spectacular as the sketch of Lord Dare was, a dozen drawings of selfish rakes wouldn’t make up for the lack of ghosts and burial grounds.
Violet set the drawing of Lord Dare aside and tapped her quill against her chin, considering. She didn’t like it, but perhaps she could manage without the sketch of Cockpit Steps. But she couldn’t part with the burial grounds—not on any account. If she didn’t get that sketch, she’d have to scrap the pages she’d so painstakingly written on the plague epidemic, and it was one of her best. No self-respecting scholar would include a chapter on a deadly London epidemic and then leave out a drawing of a purported gravesite, but when she’d ventured to suggest to her grandmother she’d like to take some sketches of the burial grounds, Lady Chase had refused her permission, because “corpses weren’t ladylike.”
It was utter nonsense, of course—it wasn’t as if dozens of old corpses were piled on top of each other in plain sight—but she was afraid if she insisted, her grandmother might ask questions Violet would rather not answer.
No, she’d simply have to get the sketches she needed without her grandmother’s knowledge. She could try and wheedle Iris into taking her, but her sister had developed a troubling habit of confiding everything to her husband, and—
Violet froze at the quiet tread of footsteps on the stairs leading up to the schoolroom, then scrambled to her feet and dove for the table. Her grandmother rarely ventured to the third floor, but there was no telling what the old lady might take it into her head to do if she was still in a temper over the modiste.
Violet’s fingers scrabbled frantically over the wood as she shoved her papers into an untidy pile and stuffed them under the cushion of an old chair she’d placed beside the table for just this purpose. Once the papers were secure, she threw herself on top of the cushion, reached under the chair to snatch a piece of embroidery with a dusty, faded image of a vase of roses stretched over the hoop, and pasted what she hoped was an innocent look on her face.
“It’s only me.”
Hyacinth’s face appeared at the top of the stairs, and Violet sagged against the cushion with a sigh of relief. “Oh, thank goodness. I thought for certain it was Grandmother. She’s been threatening to come up here and find out what ‘foolish nonsense’ has me so occupied.”
“She nearly did come this time, but I reminded her how difficult the stairs were with her cane and offered to come myself.” Hyacinth leaned against the edge of the table. “How does the book come on?”
Violet tossed aside her embroidery, leapt up from the chair, and dragged the loose sheaf of papers out from under the cushion.
She ran a careful hand over the title page to smooth it.
A Treatise on London for Bluestockings and Adventuresses.
Her beloved book. She’d written every word herself. It was, from beginning to end, her own creation. She’d even drawn the frontispiece—a lady seated in front of a fire with an open book in her hands and a serious, learned expression on her face.
She’d never shown the book to anyone. Iris and Hyacinth knew of its existence, and they’d both seen a page here or there, but only Violet knew every page by heart.
“The book comes on, but I must have the sketches, Hyacinth. It simply won’t do to leave them out. One can’t have a chapter entitled “Haunted London: Ghosts and Specters Run Amok in the Capital” without even one sketch of a haunted alleyway, or a chapter on the plague without a drawing of the pit at Bunhill Fields Burial Ground.”
Hyacinth made a sympathetic sound in her throat, but she shook her head. “Well, you won’t get it today. We’re off to Iris’s for tea this afternoon, remember? Grandmother sent me up to fetch you.”
Oh, no. How could she have forgotten about the tea?
Violet hugged her book to her chest to try and calm the sudden, painful kick of her heart. Honora and Lord Derrick would be there. They were leaving London in another few weeks to meet Lord Derrick’s family for the Christmas holidays at his country estate in Wiltshire, and they intended to stay throughout the winter.
If she didn’t see them today, it might be months before she saw them again.
Months.
God help her, but the thought brought nothing but relief. That is, relief and a sharp sting of guilt. Lord Derrick had always been kind to her, and Honora was her dear friend. They both deserved much more generous treatment, but at the moment Violet could hardly bring herself to look at Honora, and she certainly couldn’t look at Lord Derrick without a shameful press of tears behind her eyes.
She didn’t blame either of them for her heartbreak. How could she? It wasn’t Honora’s fault Lord Derrick had fallen madly in love with her instead of with Violet. She didn’t want to feel this way—to be selfish and hateful and begrudge her friends their happiness—and yet somehow the logic of the thing faded to insignificance in comparison to the pain of a broken heart.
“I can’t go to tea at Iris’s this afternoon, Hyacinth. I’ve, ah—I’ve got the headache.”
Hyacinth knew very well it wasn’t Violet’s head that ached, but bless her, she didn’t say a word. “You’ll have to come down and tell Grandmother, then. She’ll insist on seeing you herself.”
Violet sighed. “Yes, all right.” She smoothed her papers into perfect order and slid them carefully under the cushion, then followed Hyacinth down the stairs.
Lady Chase was waiting for them in the entryway, her cane clutched between her gloved hands. Violet blinked at her grandmother’s hat—a monstrous black and red creation adorned with an enormous ostrich feather. It was seated squarely on top of her head, and lent a sinister quality to the peevish expression on her face.
“Well, Violet. Here you are at last, but my goodness, what are you wearing? You look as if you dragged that dress out of the dust bin, and your fingers are black with ink!”
Violet looked down at her gown. Oh, dear. She was covered with streaks of dust. She tried to brush it off, but only succeeded in smearing the ink across a fold of the faded blue skirt.
“What’s to be done with you, Violet?” Lady Chase demanded in fretful tones. “You look like a scullery maid. Quickly, go up and change at once. We’ll be late again, but it can’t be helped, and—no, Hyacinth, dear. Don’t try and brush the dust off your sister. You’ll only end up covered in ink.”
“It’s all right, Hyacinth.” Violet caught her sister’s hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze before bravely facing her grandmother. “Do go on without me, Grandmother. I don’t wish to make you late on my account, and I’ve a dreadful headache, in any case. I should rest this afternoon.”
