The Countess Conspiracy (Brothers Sinister #3)(59)

“Genus viola,” Sebastian said.

Violet unclenched her hands and smoothed her skirts. This was a case of mishearing. He hadn’t said that it was a talk about Violet. He’d said it was a talk about violets.

She took a deep breath and tried to relax.

Sebastian turned to the draped easel at the front of the room and whipped away the cloth that covered it.

“Here’s a typical specimen.” He folded the fabric as he talked. “The flower that adds color to gardens all around England. This”—he indicated the first card on the easel, a colored drawing—“is viola tricolor violacea, the violet of our country gardens, recognizable by its large, three-colored petals and the palmate stipules of its leaves.”

She could scarcely think for the relief flooding her. She was going to kill him, frightening her like that. Making her think that he was talking about her in front of everyone, when he was merely addressing the subject of flowers.

“Many,” Sebastian said, “think the violet a common flower. That is a mistake, one made only by those who have never subjected it to close study. In reality, the violet is one of the most surprising of blooms. It can be found in woodlands and hedgerows, in alpine desolation and in cultivated gardens. It ranges in color from the flashy gold of viola tricolor lutea to the brilliant white of viola alpestris. Some species of genus viola bloom with flowers the size of my fist; others have tiny blooms, scarcely detectable.”

Sebastian smiled, and Violet felt herself smiling back at him.

“People think viola so common,” he said, “that they judge it unworthy of study. Nowadays, when you see a patch of violets, you look past them, wanting to see flashier flowers. But—as I shall demonstrate—the violet is beyond compare.”

And that was when Violet understood. He wasn’t talking about flowers, even if everyone else in the room thought he was. He was talking about her.

He started by describing the crosses he’d performed between the various subspecies of viola tricolor. But she couldn’t ignore his language. He always had a flair for presentation, eschewing big words and dry sentences in favor of a more colorful, conversational style. This time, his words felt like a caress, not a conversation.

Instead of talking about viola tricolor alba, he called it “beautiful violet.” Viola alpestris became “resilient violet”; viola odorata was “sweet violet.” He was announcing, over and over, to everyone here, how he felt about her.

She’d been avoiding thinking about his feelings in the weeks since he’d confessed them, transforming them into tepid, safe emotions. She hadn’t allowed herself to think it was love. It couldn’t be love. People didn’t love her, not once they knew her.

But he was detailing research—years of research spent faithfully recording every aspect of genus viola—done simply so that he could stand in front of a crowd and talk about violets. Lovely violets. Resilient violets. Clever violets.

She was such a fool. He’d told her that this would reveal his feelings. This wasn’t a lecture; it was a…a… She didn’t know what it was. The closest word that came to mind was seduction.

Every compliment slid around her like an embrace, one she dared not accept. She sat erect in her chair, afraid to move an inch. Afraid to draw attention to herself—afraid that if she so much as breathed too heavily, the crowd would see her laid out on Sebastian’s easels, all her secrets exposed.

But none of them knew. To them, she was a nonentity. If they knew she existed, they thought of her as the Countess of Cambury.

Jane’s hand slid into Violet’s. “Breathe,” Jane whispered. “You have to breathe, Violet.”

Or…maybe, some people would notice.

Sebastian continued on, talking about the crosses he’d performed between species. How alpestris and tricolor violacea crossed beautifully, but alpestris and calcarata refused to cross at all. He went through experiment after experiment: failed crosses, crosses with poor germination, crosses that resulted in stunted plants with flower buds that refused to open.

He ended with a chart of his attempted crosses, a spider’s web of confusing marks that he presented with self-effacing humor.

“I’m sure there is an animating principle,” he said, “one that would explain why some species cross and others do not. But what that principle is, I don’t know. One gets the sense that if only one little fact, one overlooked piece would come to light, we could understand it all.”

I have no solution, Violet thought. Just blades.

“But until then,” Sebastian continued, “I’ll keep looking. Because I would rather fail at violets than succeed at anything else.”

The applause was light, the questions good-humored. God. She didn’t know what he wanted of her. She didn’t know what she was supposed to do. How was she to look at him?

Three seats down from Violet, the woman of the high-pitched voice folded her arms. “There was nothing objectionable in that,” she complained. “Nothing suggestive at all.”

It just went to show. Some people never understood anything they heard.

SEBASTIAN HADN’T HAD AN OPPORTUNITY to talk to Violet since his lecture. They’d returned to his Cambridge home, along with their friends, in two separate carriages, gathering together for a light repast. After, they’d all sat and talked.