The Countess Conspiracy (Brothers Sinister #3)(32)

She sniffed suspiciously. “Why?”

“Because.” He lowered his voice. “I love that I can make you laugh.”

She stared at him, frowning in consternation. She looked away and chose a biscuit from the tray. “Don’t try for stupid things.”

Someone else would think her rude. Someone else might imagine her unfeeling. Someone else might think she was all thorns, no soft, sweet petals. Sebastian knew her better than that.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Violet,” he finally said. “I’m too clever for that.”

Chapter Eight

FOUR BAGS OF MARBLES. Three decks of cards. A bottle of brandy, two of burgundy, a quantity of oranges—Sebastian checked the last item off his list and looked up, making a survey of the private dining room.

Blue bunting decorated the walls and festive trays of food covered the tables. They spilled over with grapes, cheeses, little sandwiches, large cuts of meat, cakes, pies, biscuits, pastries…it all added up to a regular feast of celebration indeed.

There was only one thing missing from Sebastian’s little party: guests. And by the clock, they’d be here—

The door opened.

“Oh, good Lord.” Oliver, his cousin, stopped in the doorway. He ran one hand through his ginger hair and adjusted the spectacles on his nose in disbelief.

Yes, the effect was rather impressive, if Sebastian said so himself. He folded his arms and tried not to preen too obviously.

“Are we really expected to eat all of that?” Oliver asked in hushed tones.

“Not we,” Sebastian said grandly. “You.”

“There is an entire pig on that table. I have to stand up tomorrow morning.” Oliver shook his head. “Also, I would prefer not to vomit during my wedding ceremony. Jane might get the wrong idea.”

“Robert and I will hold you upright. It was his job to bring the bucket tonight. We’ll see if he… Oh, there you are, Robert. Nice of you to join us.”

“Bucketless,” Oliver muttered.

“Bucketless?” Robert shook his head. “What are you two nattering on about?”

“Oh, nothing.” Sebastian smiled. “Come in, then. Come and gawk at the magnificence I have provided.” He stepped aside and let his friends enter the room. Oliver looked all around, impressed despite himself.

Sebastian and Robert had made the sign hanging over the table. “Congratulations* Oliver!” it read in bright, multihued letters. The asterisk after the congratulations led to a footnote, spelled out in tiny black letters along the bottom of the banner.

Oliver stepped close and peered up at the canvas. “On managing to bamboozle an otherwise intelligent, lovely young woman into marrying you, which is quite possibly your greatest accomplishment to date,” he read aloud. But he was smiling as he did. “You’re right. Completely right. I still can’t quite wrap my head around my good fortune.”

“You should have been there when they first met,” Sebastian told Robert. “It was quite an event.”

“You weren’t there when we first met.” Oliver frowned. “Were you?”

“When they second met,” Sebastian corrected himself with a shrug. “She talked him in circles and afterward, he kept glancing over his shoulder and refusing to talk about her. It was love at second meeting. It was obvious to everyone except him; he took months to figure it out.”

Robert snickered. “God, you should have seen him mope about her. It was catastrophic. I thought something awful had happened, and he never even mentioned her name.”

“I am right here,” Oliver announced. “Standing in front of you two.”

A casual glance across the room would not instantly make one think that Robert and Oliver were related. Robert’s hair was blond; Oliver’s was almost orange, and he had a smattering of freckles dotting his nose in contrast to Robert’s pale skin. But beyond those superficial details, they looked so much alike. The same ice-blue eyes; the same sharp nose. They shared many of the same mannerisms. The two were practically inseparable, and had been since they’d discovered they were half-brothers years before.

“Oh, right,” Robert said in feigned surprise. “You are here. I suppose we’ll have to save the gossip about you for tomorrow night when you’ll be otherwise occupied. Tonight, you celebrate the last evening before your marriage in the style that only the Brothers Sinister can provide!”

“Yes,” Sebastian said. “We have here only the most sinister of foods—which is to say that any man who eats with his right hand must be made to drink an entire glass of my famous punch.”

The three of them—and Violet—had been called the Brothers Sinister since their days at Eton, mostly because they’d been left-handed and constantly in one another’s company.

Oliver winced. “Oh, God. No. Tell me you’re not making your wine punch.”

“I have a bottle of thistle spirits for that precise purpose.”

Oliver shook his head; Robert looked mildly ill. Sebastian grinned all the more. The thistle spirits came from one of the tenants on his estate, and they were as bad as they sounded: green, bitter, with bits of plant matter floating on top. They had a bite that snapped one’s head back. Sebastian had practiced for weeks when he was nineteen so that he might drink the stuff without grimacing. It had been one of his favorite pranks at university.