In order to dissuade the papers--not to mention the sycophants and meddlesome mamas who hounded him at every outing--Jack had adopted a fearsome mien anytime he stepped out in public. When this scowl was coupled with his enormous stature, it had a most frightening effect, and soon the papers were referring to him as the Duke of Thunder, whilst meddlesome mamas gave him a wide berth.
This suited Jack perfectly; allowing him breathing room to become accustomed to the new duties and responsibilities which came with the title. It also offered the added bonus of not having to worry about having a dozen debutantes thrown at him each time he stepped outside the door.
Debutantes now fled at the mere whisper of his name, he thought with no little pride.
As Jack cantered along the bridle path which ran along Constitution Hill, he found his mind drifting back to the previous night and a pair of violet-blue eyes.
Miss Violet Havisham had not been cowed by him, rather the opposite in fact. She had seemed to enjoy setting him down for his abominable rudeness, much like her spirited aunt.
Jack recalled, with a slight pang, his idiotic behaviour the night before. He had not been trying to play the Duke of Thunder with Miss Havisham and scare her with his silence--rather the opposite. He had been captivated by her eyes--so blue, they were almost violet--and bowled over by her nymph-like beauty.
The trouble with Jack was that, unlike his two friends--but especially Montague--he had not had much experience with women.
Or any experience, if truth be told.
When confronted with Miss Havisham's unusual beauty, Jack's tongue had become inextricably tied, and his body had felt larger and more cumbersome than usual.
She probably thought him an oaf, he decided reluctantly, and he could not blame her.
Ahead Jack spotted two riders approaching, a lady sitting side-saddle, accompanied by her groom. As they approached, he slowed down, for he recognised the lady.
"Lady Olivia," he called, as he brought Ares to a halt.
Lady Olivia was his late brother's fiancée, a charming young woman of four and twenty. As a couple, she and Frederick had been much celebrated by the papers as a most fashionable pairing. Indeed, today, Lady Olivia, despite wearing mourning blacks for her recently departed brother, looked as though she had stepped straight out from a fashion plate.
"Your Grace," she inclined her head regally in greeting, "What a pleasant surprise."
Despite her words, Jack guessed that their chance encounter was anything but pleasant for the young lady. A fit of honour had inspired Jack to offer for Lady Olivia's hand soon after he had assumed the title, and while her parents had been most eager for this new match, the lady herself was rather reluctant.
Her father, Lord Cardigan, had been at pains to persuade Jack to wait, as his daughter was simply mourning first Frederick, and then later her brother. But as the months slipped by, Jack was more and more certain that Lady Olivia's reluctance had very little to do with mourning and more to do with a complete disinterest in Jack.
Not that he minded; he had simply suggested the marriage for it was the right--and convenient--thing to do.
Today, however, Jack felt a slight jolt of fear that Lady Olivia might soon decide she did desire to become his duchess. This fear was inspired by the memory of a pair of bewitching violet eyes and the longing they inspired within his heart.
"Well," Jack cleared his throat as a feeling of awkwardness stole over him, "I wouldn't like to keep you from your ride."
Lady Olivia smiled with relief, before bidding Jack goodbye in much cheerier tones than those with which she had greeted him. Indeed, Jack felt a similar lightness as he rode away from the woman he had once thought he should marry.
As he continued on his ride, Jack felt the letter from Nevins burning a hole in his breast pocket. The instruction to include young Mr Havisham in his mission felt almost like a sign from above. Jack was not usually given over to superstition. However, as his stomach fluttered pleasurably at the memory of Miss Havisham's bewitching eyes, he decided that there was always a first time for everything.
He would seize this opportunity to get closer to Miss Havisham, and he would battle valiantly against any obstacles which stood in his path. The biggest one being, he reluctantly conceded, himself, and his complete and utter lack of charm and romance.
Chapter Three
A day of duty had left Violet feeling rather tired. It had begun by paying morning calls with her aunt to various society hostesses, while its end had involved a musicale, featuring several dreadful performances given by the many daughters of Sir Rupert Gideon. Each daughter was, it was whispered by the pained guests, even less talented than the last.
There was much relief all round when the performances came to an end as the clock struck eleven. Aunt Phoebe and Violet made straight for their carriage but were delayed by a crush of people similarly seeking to escape, lest anyone called for an encore.
It was just after midnight when the pair returned to Havisham House, and Aunt Phoebe declared that she would retire to bed at once.
"Don't stay up too late, dear," she instructed her niece, as she traipsed up the stairs, followed by Dorothy, her faithful lady's maid.
"I won't," Violet replied, though they both knew she was fibbing; Violet was, like a cat, nocturnal in nature.
Once she heard the door to Lady Havisham's bed-chamber bang shut, Violet stole into the cluttered drawing-room, which was cast in darkness. The dying remnants of a fire lingered in the grate, but after working the bellows for a few minutes, Violet managed to bring it back to life.
She lit a taper from its flames, and traipsed around the room, lighting what candles she could find. Some fine homes--like Charlotte's--had been fitted with newer gas-lights, but Havisham House would not be the recipient of such modern advancements whilst Aunt Phoebe was at its head.
Not that Violet particularly minded, she was quite taken by the romance of candle-light; it made it easier for her to imagine herself in a Parisian garret, or a Venetian Palazzo, or anywhere else rather than London.
Violet then threw open the heavy curtains, to allow moonlight to flood into the room and onto her easel. She had been working on a portrait of Aunt Phoebe, in the style of Marguerite Gérard, and her fingers had itched all evening to return to her work.
She quickly donned an apron, to cover her dress, and began setting out paints on her pallet. She often worked at night; while the light was not what it should be, the peace of the house allowed her to become completely absorbed in her work.
Violet picked up a brush and began working in detail on Fifi, whom she had placed at Aunt Phoebe's feet. She could not say how long she was painting for--it might have been hours--when a noise from outside made her lookup.
It was Sebastian, clambering down from a carriage. She heard him give cheery thanks to the driver of the hackney and watched as he alighted the front steps of the house.
Curious as to the reason for his nocturnal visit, Violet placed her paintbrush down and rushed out to the hall to greet him.
"Why are you calling so late?" she whispered as she ushered him inside. Sebastian, having finished at Oxford, had taken up residence in gentlemen's lodgings close to Covent Garden. The rooms were funded by the small annuity bestowed on him by Aunt Phoebe, and though they were not so grand, they allowed him freedom that Violet envied.
"I needed to speak with you," Sebastian whispered, his eyes--a mirror image of Violet's own--alive with excitement.
"What on earth is so important that it could not wait until the morning?"
"My life-long dream, that's what."
Violet experienced a sinking sensation in her stomach as she followed her brother back into the drawing-room, acutely conscious that something startling was about to be unveiled.
"Violet," Sebastian said, once she had shut the door behind her, "I have been offered the lead-part in a production of Hamlet, which is to be staged in Newcastle."
"W-what?"
&
nbsp; "I know," Sebastian nodded, mistaking her shock for awe, "It's quite the part. I can't tell you how pleased I am."
"But you cannot disappear to Newcastle," Violet argued, as she realised that her brother was not jesting but deadly serious. "Nor can you become an actor. Papa would take an apoplectic fit if he believed you were even thinking of treading the boards."
"Don't you think I know that?"
A scowl marred Sebastian's handsome face; their father's obsession with Sebastian's future was an even greater burden to shoulder than his disinterest in Violet. Waldo was determined that his son would follow him into politics and make something of the family name, despite Sebastian never having expressed an interest in the life of a politico. Waldo would not be best pleased if he were to find out about this venture into the arts.
"I will use a stage-name," Sebastian continued, his words gushing forth, as though he had been holding them inside for quite some time. "And no one shall recognise me up North. I just need your help, Violet, to hide my absence from Aunt Phoebe."
Violet sighed; she had known this midnight visit would shake up her well-ordered life. She also knew that no matter what she said, she would not be able to dissuade Sebastian from his chosen path.
A fire had been lit inside her twin brother, and as one who had known him his whole life--and even before that--Violet instinctively understood that the tempest brewing within Sebastian would consume him unless it was allowed to blow itself out.
"Please," Sebastian pleaded, imploring Violet with wide, hopeful eyes, "This is my one chance. You know how much I adore the stage; I want just one opportunity to live out my dream."
Violet knew full well what it was like to dream of a different life, and felt a stab of pity for her twin though this pity was not so great that it overruled common sense.
"How will I explain your absence to Aunt Phoebe?" she asked, though Sebastian must have taken her question for acquiescence, for his handsome face broke into a smile.
"It shall be easy enough," he promised her, "Just tell her I called when she was out."
It was a simple but perfect plan, Violet conceded, for Aunt Phoebe was always out.
"It will just be for a few weeks," Sebastian continued, as he sensed Violet's hesitation, "And no one else shall ask for me. I don't run with the sets who frequent White's and Boodles'. There will be no gossip columns to comment on my absence."
This was true; Sebastian's circle were not the type to pay morning calls or enquire into his whereabouts. Most of them had probably not seen the morning in many years. There would be no one to note her brother's absence apart from Violet and Aunt Phoebe--and the latter was so scatterbrained that it could take her a year to note that her great-nephew was missing.
"When I return, I promise that I shall put my head down, Vi, and begin working my way into Whitehall. I just need one last hurrah, before I surrender my soul to bureaucracy."
The sincerity in Sebastian's voice was most believable, though Violet could not tell if it was genuine, or down to his superb acting skills. Still, there had been no need for him to deliver such an earnest speech, for she had already decided she would support him.
"I couldn't care tuppence if you never make it to Whitehall, Sebastian," she replied with a smile, "Just promise me that you will take care of your person; Mama will never forgive me if she returns to find you harmed in any way."
"They use wooden swords in the theatre, Vi," Sebastian grinned, "Have no fear that I will return maimed."
"Just promise me you will return," Violet prodded her brother sharply in the chest, "I will miss you terribly."
"And I you," Sebastian gave a charming, lob-sided grin, "And when I inherit, I shall send you off to Paris, Violet, so that you might learn from the masters. I swear on my life that I shall."
Tears pricked Violet's eyes at his words; if there was one person in the world whom she believed cherished her dreams as much as she did, it was Sebastian.
"Oh, you silly addle-pate," Violet sniffed, as she reached out to pull her brother into a hug, "You do say the nicest things."
After a quick embrace, which involved lots of sniffing on Violet's part, Sebastian made to take his leave.
"I need to pack," he said decisively, when Violet objected, "Not to mention rest. We depart at the crack of dawn."
"Write to me, if you can," Violet said, as she walked Sebastian back to the door.
"There won't be time," Sebastian offered Violet a winning smile, "I shall be back before you even have the chance to notice that I am gone."
On this optimistic note, Violet bid her brother goodbye, her spirits buoyed by his belief that no one of note might look for him.
Unfortunately, only the next morning, Violet's cheerful outlook vanished with the arrival of an order from Whitehall, written by the duke she had tried valiantly to forget.
Mr Havisham,
Your father has volunteered your services as a translator for a very delicate task. I will call at your aunt's house tomorrow night to discuss further your service to the Crown. Do not breathe a word of this to anyone. If all goes well, I hope that I might be able to secure you a position in Whitehall when we are done.
Faithfully,
Orsino
Violet paled as she finished reading the missive, her mind instantly conjuring an image of the dark and forbidding duke. Dash Sebastian, she thought, as she curled the letter into a ball and flung it in the empty grate. For three years, he had pranced about London playing the dandy, and now that something was finally required of him, he had vanished.
Vanished with your blessing, a voice in Violet's head reminded her sternly.
Violet sighed. She had agreed to help her twin live out his dream; she could not now be angry with him for events which neither of them had anticipated.
Violet crossed the room and fished the crumpled page from the grate. She smoothed it out and read it again, though her hands shook as she held it.
This was no laughing matter; Sebastian's future hung in the balance. If he did not assist Orsino with this task, he might be labelled as just another feckless young-blood and might never be offered another opportunity again.
Not to mention that when her father heard of Sebastian's failure, there would be a price to pay.
Violet thought on Sebastian's sincerity when he had promised to send her to Paris. Her twin would, if the roles were reversed, think of a way to make things work. It was only right that Violet do the same.
But how on earth could she make Sebastian appear from thin air? Violet bit nervously on her lip as she pondered the question; she was eager, but she was no miracle worker. As she set the letter down to rest on the mantelpiece, Violet caught sight of her reflection in the mirror.
People often noted how alike the Havisham twins were, despite the obvious difference of their sex. Their height, their colouring, and their striking eyes were perfectly identical. Even their faces were similar; in fact, Sebastian often bemoaned his elfin looks, thinking them feminine.
What a pity I do not have a beard, Violet thought, then stilled as an idea struck her.
It's preposterous, she told herself, but as she glanced down at the menacing letter again, she began to wonder if her idea might just be foolish enough to work...
Chapter Four
Havisham House was unlike any other home that Jack had ever visited. When he knocked, after nine o'clock on Friday evening, the door was opened, not by a servant, but by Sebastian Havisham himself.
"Your Grace," the young man greeted him in a low voice--as though he were afflicted by a cold--before ushering him into a darkened hallway.
Exotic paintings lined the walls, depicting far off lands and strange peoples, whilst a spicy scent permeated the air. Pieces of taxidermy littered the hall; a stuffed fox here, a macaw there, whilst an enormous stags' head was mounted upon the far wall.
"Lady Havisham herself shot that beast," the young man said, as he caught Jack peering at it.
"I don't doubt that s
he did," Jack commented, thinking on the wily Scotswoman. He could well picture her leading a hunt and petrifying any creature who dared cross her path.
"Would you--" Havisham hesitated, shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other, "Would you like tea, or shall we get straight down to work?"
"Tea?" Jack allowed himself a bark of laughter, "Will you be serving it in the drawing-room with iced fancies and a lesson on needlepoint? Lud, man! The library will do--and something stiffer than tea, if you have it."
Young Havisham flushed beneath his beard, leading Jack to regret his teasing. He forgot, sometimes, that he was a duke, and that his words now carried more weight than they had before.
"This way, so," Havisham said, beckoning Jack down a dark corridor.
Parts of Havisham House were so ancient that they might have been medieval; Jack's head was in danger of brushing off the ceiling, and several times he had to duck to avoid a low beam. There were some houses which had escaped the Great Fire of London, and Havisham House, Jack guessed, was one of them.
As well as being ancient, the house was tremendously dark--as though Lady Havisham wished to save on tallow. Sconces lined the walls but the candles within burned low and did little to alleviate the shadows.
"Here we are," Havisham said, as he opened a door into the library, though it was unlike any Jack had ever seen before.
It was lined by shelves of books, as one would expect, but Lady Havisham appeared to have collected so many works that she had run out of space. Books were piled upon the floor, in towering stacks which threatened to fall over at the slightest touch.
"Er, try not to knock off any of them," Havisham said apologetically, "You might be buried alive if you do."
The young man lightly picked his way across the cluttered floor, with Jack following, until he reached a small desk beside the fireplace. Within the grate, a small fire burned, and in this light, Jack was able to assess Havisham properly.
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