The Countess Conspiracy (Brothers Sinister #3)(20)
“I understand, Mama.” She managed to say the words without a tremble in her voice. “Why do you think I’ve never talked to you about it?”
“Good girl,” her mother said. “Well, we’ll just have to keep it hidden. It was just a whisper I heard, after all—a sly chance remark that someone made. I don’t think Lady Haffington meant to do anything except stick her tongue out at me. She had no idea how much truth there was in her accusation.” Her mother smiled tremulously. “But you will tell me if you become aware of a…greater danger of this coming out, won’t you?”
“Of course, Mama.” Violet sat with her hands folded. She wasn’t sure what to say. “If it would help,” she finally managed, “you may castigate me. A little.”
Her mother simply looked puzzled. “If I wanted to do that, I would hardly need your permission. Am I supposed to want that?”
Violet looked away. “When it comes down to it, I’ve…accepted what has come as a result of…this scandal with open arms. Without it…I don’t know what I would have made of myself. It has meant everything to me. I feel guilty and so, so selfish.”
“Violet Marie Waterfield, don’t you dare say that you feel guilty.” Her mother’s voice sounded a little hoarse. “Not in my presence. Not for that. Don’t you dare.”
“But—” For a second, all of Violet’s squashed hopes leaped up again. Her mother was proud. Violet had done an amazing thing. She’d be recognized—even a little—by the woman whose opinion she most cared for.
“Don’t you dare feel an ounce of guilt because of this. I won’t have it.”
Violet sucked in a breath. Her lungs burned. She wouldn’t hope. She wouldn’t.
Her mother held up her hand. “Do not say it. Do not ever say it, because if anyone hears—a single, solitary servant—we are at the end of everything. Don’t feel guilty, Violet. Guilt serves no purpose. Just make sure—whatever you do, whatever you say—for God’s sake, make sure that nobody ever finds out.”
No. Hope was pointless. She should never have harbored it, or it wouldn’t be crushing her under this enormous weight.
“Don’t worry, Mama,” Violet said. “I know what it would mean.” Her chin went up. “I won’t let anything happen. A lady protects her own, after all.”
She might have been imagining the moisture that seemed to temporarily cloud her mother’s vision. For a second, she was almost sure it was there. But then her mother raised her chin, and she knew it had been an illusion after all.
Chapter Five
AT PRECISELY NINE MINUTES BEFORE FOUR, Sebastian arrived home, a gratifyingly large stack of paperwork tucked into his briefcase. He’d had one encounter with Violet in Hyde Park already today, and he both feared and anticipated their next meeting. But he had to be ready to brave lions—or Violet. Whichever he happened to encounter first.
Lions would have been easier to convince, he thought ruefully, and less dangerous.
But whether he was meeting a pride of lions or a single Violet, preparations had to be made. He gave his valet the rest of the day off, settled the details of the evening meal with his cook, and retreated to his back garden with strict orders that he didn’t wish to be bothered.
That he had a back garden, and one of this size, had been a matter of the utmost necessity. He had needed space—space where he might retreat and speak with a woman without any of his servants discerning that he had done so. Today, he walked through the gap in the hedge that surrounded the outdoor terrace, whistling merrily. He went past the shed that had been converted into an office, the greenhouse that he used to bamboozle visitors. He slid behind a pair of bushes that nestled up against the back wall. From there, it was a matter of opening the hidden gate and sliding through.
That gate opened onto a dark alley. Calling it an alley exaggerated its status. The space was nothing more than an abbreviated gap between two walls, formed because fifty years ago, one homeowner had wanted a garden wall of brick, while his neighbor wished for one of stone. This gap, scarcely two feet wide, was cluttered with old leaves and—because it had been a while since they were both in London—three months’ worth of cobwebs. Twenty-four yards down this uncomfortable passage, in the other wall—the wall of brick, not the wall of stone—stood another gate, this one overgrown with ivy.
Sebastian made his way there. Ivy creepers had wrapped little tendrils around the iron gate; he clipped the strands free, and stepped into the lion’s den. Otherwise known as Violet’s back garden.
Long ago, they’d chosen a simple code.
Farewell meant I’m not available today.
Until next time meant I’ll be in my garden until three. There were fifty-two other possibilities, and they all came down to the same thing. I don’t have time for you any longer meant that Violet had wanted to meet with him this evening.
What could happen? Sebastian couldn’t guess.
The view of Violet’s house was blocked by a tall screen of lime trees, one that helped preserve their privacy. Violet’s London greenhouse wasn’t as large as the one on her Cambridge property—a few hundred square feet. A sign on the door proclaimed: The countess is NOT to be bothered except in the cases of Death, Disembowelment, the Apocalypse, or the Arrival of her Mother.