“Their hearts?” Violet asked softly. Although she was speaking to Reginald, her gaze was fixed on Arthur’s face. He gave nothing away from his expression, as usual, but Violet searched anyway.
“Indeed,” Reginald replied. “Caro’s heart is here. I am her protector—and, by extension, yours and all the lady scientists’. And would you look at my hair?”
Reginald whipped his head back and forth, in a vigorous demonstration of the efficacy of Caroline’s invention.
Even Arthur, the most stoic man Violet had ever encountered, had to hide a laugh.
They promenaded back to the public rooms as the orchestra played the first bars of a cracovienne.
Arthur waited until the Pettigrews were distracted, then whispered in Violet’s ear. “Is there a new fashion for large grey shawls, my lady? I thought this a more formal event.”
Violet peeked at him from beneath her lashes. “The doors haven’t opened yet. I am not ready to display my finery.”
“Lady Greycliff,” Letty called to her from across the room.
Before Arthur could pull away, Violet faced him. The pain from their parting mere hours before was still fresh, but something had shifted inside her when she’d donned her new dress. She wasn’t ready to say a final goodbye.
“The orchestra has been told to play a waltz for the last dance,” she told him.
Arthur graced her with a rare smile.
“Well then, consider yourself claimed.”
* * *
AT PRECISELY SEVEN o’clock, the doors of Athena’s Retreat were thrown open, the lemonade was poured, and Lady Greycliff stood in the entrance of London’s first ladies’ social club to welcome her guests.
Newly lit beeswax candles stood at attention in candelabras placed at the side of the dance floor. Two huge tables, covered with fine white linens, were set in the center of the club’s common area. Refreshments stood in tidy piles to greet the guests after the evening’s lecture and before the dancing.
Miss Althea Dertlinger hurried over to greet Violet, her mother trailing behind at a more sedate pace.
“What an exciting evening,” the girl exclaimed. “I don’t remember everything being so fine when we were here last. I suppose candlelight makes it more romantic, doesn’t it?”
“Indeed,” Violet said. “Are you looking forward to the lecture tonight?”
Althea frowned. “Mama says it is the most exciting part of the evening. However, and this is in the strictest confidence, my lady . . .”
Violet nodded her consent and leaned her head toward the young woman. “You may tell me anything, my dear.”
“Well, Mr. Smithfield says—”
“Who?”
Althea blinked. “Mr. Smithfield?”
Violet lifted her shoulders in question.
“Mr. Robert Smithfield? You are good friends with his aunt?”
Right. The boy from the ball. “Oh, yes. Sorry. Dearest Robbie.”
Althea frowned, but recovered her story. “Mr. Smithfield says that Sir Limpenpot has a somewhat . . . archaic view of natural history.”
“Is that so?” Violet asked. She’d never heard Sir Limpenpot lecture, but he sat on the board of the Royal Society. Perhaps more ominous, though, he was the only scientist to reply to their invitation to speak. “Well, let’s hear what he has to say.”
Lady Potts clapped her hands and announced the commencement of the lecture. Althea was snagged by her nervous mama, who settled them in the front row of the small lecture room. So many guests were in attendance that Phoebe, Grantham, and Violet had to remain standing at the back.
“Imagination? Fairy tales? No, oh, no. Dragons, my dear ladies, were real, and they lived right here in England.”
Sir Thaddeus Limpenpot stood at the front, nodding at the shocked gasps following his announcement. He strode out from behind the lectern and positioned himself in a pool of light thrown from the sconces dotting the room, ensuring the flattering illumination of his profile. Behind him stood a rendering of the skeletal remains of a fantastical creature.
“Talking asses, my dear ladies,” Phoebe whispered. “They are real, and they live right here in England.”
“If there are no such things as dragons, what is that?” Grantham asked, pointing to the picture behind Limpenpot.
The skeleton’s skull resembled a lizard’s head, and the spine curved in a sinuous manner. If one was a writer of fiction, it could easily be described as a mythical beast. Sir Limpenpot, however, billed himself as a geologist and an expert on fossil science.
“That is an animal long extinct, not a dragon,” Phoebe said. “Men like Limpenpot spread stories about these fossils in hopes of notoriety, the old fraud.”
“Are you going to challenge him to a duel?” Grantham teased.
Phoebe frowned. “You jest, but he’s making a mockery of years of scientific work. Why can’t women challenge men when they’ve done something unforgivable?”
Grantham’s shoulders tightened, and he broke off his observation of Limpenpot’s prancing. “You are supposed to ask another gentleman to intercede if you need help. Instead, you make a spectacle of yourself.”
“A spectacle because no one will heed me,” Phoebe hissed.
A few heads turned their way.
“If people listened to me,” she said. “I wouldn’t have to go to such outrageous lengths to draw attention to injustices.”
The anguish in Phoebe’s voice broke an invisible tether within Violet. Glancing over at Althea Dertlinger, whose face was pinched in misery as Limpenpot carried on with a disingenuous pile of steaming claptrap, Violet knew something had to be done.
Althea and Phoebe weren’t the only women objecting to Limpenpot’s nonsense. Doris Whitstone, mouth thinned in irritation, was making to rise from her seat. An amateur fossil hunter, she was quite strong from climbing the cliffs and moving rocks and earth. Violet had no doubt who would prevail should a conflict turn physical.
Enough.
Blowing out a breath of courage, Violet walked toward the stage.
If she was willing to let Arthur leave her to protect Athena’s Retreat, then the Retreat should be a place worthy of such sacrifice.
She paused at Doris’s shoulder and whispered in her ear, then made her way to the front as Doris hurried from the room.
Amid the bright lights, Violet’s courage almost deserted her, until she caught sight of Letty Fenley giving her a nod of approval. Willy and Milly grinned madly in their seats, Phoebe and Grantham left off their squabbling to lean forward, and out of the corner of her eye, Violet spotted a tall, solid figure standing, as always, in the shadows.
She could do this.
They could do this.
Sir Limpenpot did not see Violet at first as he continued expounding his theories to the audience. “Indeed, ladies,” he said, “some believe the dragons died out in the great flood, expelled by Noah from the ark.”
“Except no self-respecting scientist would posit such a ridiculous notion,” Violet said. Employing the most luminous smile in her collection, she came to stand next to a startled Sir Limpenpot. “Our distinguished lecturer has done an outstanding job of presenting an outmoded school of thought. He had you fooled, didn’t he?”
A confused murmur rippled through the crowd. Althea turned her head this way and that, then gazed back at Violet with relief.
“I did?” Limpenpot’s eyebrows quivered in confusion.
“You were magnificent,” Violet assured him. “Isn’t he magnificent? It takes a talented mind to play advocatus diaboli as well as you did.”
God bless Lady Potts, who caught on quickly and began a hearty round of applause. In response, Sir Limpenpot’s chest puffed to twice its normal size, and he beamed at the audience.
Violet nodded like a cuckoo and continued. “Why, no one would b
elieve a scientist in this day and age would peddle the same sensationalism as the British Museum did when it labeled this fossil a flying dragon all the way back in 1828.”
Doris Whitstone had returned, a sheaf of papers beneath her arm, and Violet waved at her to join them.
“Of course not,” said Limpenpot weakly. Perplexed, he twisted around to regard the illustration behind them. “But, if it isn’t a dragon, what—”
“A pterosaur.” Doris spread her notes on the lectern and nodded at the illustration. “This particular find was discovered by the great fossil hunter Mary Anning in 1828, and I believe it to be the first of its kind found outside of Germany. There remains still a great deal of controversy surrounding this order.” Doris lifted her head and stared at Sir Limpenpot. “Is that not so, Sir Limpenpot?”
Limpenpot, having by now twigged to the situation, nodded. “Indeed, Miss . . .” He leaned over, adopting a serious mien as Violet whispered in his ear.
“Indeed, Miss Whitstone,” he continued. Flinging his arm to encompass Doris and the illustration, he turned to present his stentorian profile to the audience. “The fair lady will carry on with the conclusion of our joint presentation. Afterward, I will happily address any questions you might have on our subject of expertise.”
Doris squinted with disbelief but showed restraint by clapping politely. After a second round of applause, Limpenpot took a seat, and Doris returned to her notes, delivering a thorough, if less sensational lecture on the order Pterosauria, and a bit about dinosaurs more generally.
Miraculously, Sir Limpenpot seemed to enjoy his new role as devil’s advocate and participated with good grace in the round of questioning afterward, deferring the bulk of questions to Doris.
In fact, to Violet’s astonishment and great relief, the entire Evening of Edification and Entertainment was an unqualified, unmitigated success.
After the lecture, guests descended upon the refreshment tables and exclaimed with delight. The dried-then-reconstituted lemonade was heralded as both delicious and time-saving. Mrs. Sweet’s seaweed canapés disappeared the moment they emerged from the kitchen.
The story of Mrs. Pettigrew and the pink china had slipped out. Rather than making her a laughingstock, she was the center of a crowd of ladies eager to learn about this marvelous invention that could both hold their hair in place and paint a teacup.
Wincing, Violet shifted her weight off her left toe which had been stomped upon during a boisterous country reel. That reel had been the first of many dances she’d enjoyed tonight. Her newfound popularity with the gentlemen must be due to Madame Mensonge’s creation, she guessed. The silk caught the candlelight and threw it back ten times over, setting the tiny crystals in her hairpins sparkling.
Madame’s neckline was as arresting as her materials. More than once during the evening, Violet wished she hadn’t abandoned her shawl. Arthur might not have known what he was letting her in for when he gave her the gown.
Grantham didn’t bother to disguise his opinion when he brought her a glass of lemonade. “Sweet Jesu. Wentworth was going to fall in, the way he leaned over the top of your dress. Where’s Kneland?”
“I don’t know.” The only time she’d caught a glimpse of him tonight had been in the moment before she’d made that mad gamble in front of everyone. The thrill of her bravery still set her heart to beating.
“He should be here right now,” Grantham said.
Violet cocked her head in surprise. “Why’s that?”
“Not my job to fight off your admirers,” he said cheerfully.
Well, here was a surprise. “Tell me, Grantham, what exactly did you lose in the blue parlor yesterday?” she asked.
“My bearings,” he said, depositing the lemonade in her hand before wandering off.
Letty joined Violet sometime later, having spent the evening skulking in corners. Because of Melton, speculation about her character meant that she normally eschewed large events. That she’d worked so hard on the evening anyway was a testament to her devotion to Athena’s Retreat.
“Lady Phoebe has stabbed Earl Grantham with a shrimp fork,” she announced. “Also, there was smoke coming from Reginald’s hair earlier, but Caro fixed it in time.”
A twist of silk by the door caught Violet’s notice as Phoebe stalked from the room, and Grantham stomped off in the opposite direction. Two matrons stood in the corner holding their pink teacups to the light. Althea and young Robbie swept across the dance floor. Milly fetched a plate piled high with tarts for Willy, who was engaged in animated conversation with Lady Potts. The last dance was next, and then they could breathe easier.
All except for Violet.
The instant Arthur entered the room and leaned against the wall, the air became charged. The black of his evening jacket stood in stark contrast to the powder blue stripes on the wallpaper behind him. Violet marveled that the length of floor between them did not burst into flames at the heat in his gaze.
“Are you all right?” Letty asked. Following Violet’s gaze, she sucked her teeth in annoyance. “Why is Mr. Kneland dressed so fine? He can’t think he is a guest.”
Violet pressed a hand against her stomach. Butterflies had taken up residence there as it dawned on her: He knew what she was wearing beneath her dress.
How wicked. How absolutely, amazingly wicked.
Arthur must have read her mind, for a wolflike grin appeared as he leaned forward. A pulse of desire beat between Violet’s thighs, and she ran her tongue over her bottom lip.
“He shouldn’t be staring at you like . . .” Letty’s head whipped back and forth between them. “You shouldn’t be looking at him like . . .”
“Will you excuse me, Letty?” Violet said, her gaze never leaving Arthur’s. “There is a question of security I must discuss.”
“You can’t, Lady Greycliff,” whispered Letty. “Everyone is watching you tonight. What will they say?”
“Why would they say anything?”
Letty stepped back at Violet’s tone but wouldn’t be cowed. “Mr. Kneland is not a gentleman. He isn’t even a parvenu, like me. He is something else altogether.” She paused. “You know what people have been saying: That he let a man die so that he could have an affair with the man’s wife. It’s repellent.”
“It is a lie.” Violet’s voice rang loud and clear. Two women a few feet away from them stopped speaking and turned their heads.
Letty’s cheeks flushed, and she coughed to cover Violet’s words, but it was too late.
“He was part of a mission that failed,” Violet said, “and he’s carried the weight of that failure every day since then. He may not be a gentleman, but he is a good man. A kind man. A decent man, and if you truly are my friend you will never speak ill of him again.”
Across the room, Arthur tipped his head at her, then wandered through the crowd, deftly avoiding the couples trying their best to manage in such a tight space.
“What will Lord Greycliff say?” Letty whispered, peering around the room. “Your reputation is important if he wishes to court a lady from a good family.”
“Grey would tell me that I deserve happiness,” Violet declared. “Even if it is for a short time.”
Hours.
Only hours were left to them now.
Letty’s brows twisted. “Happiness is fleeting. The pain and humiliation of damage to your reputation—that stays with you forever.” Her petite features scrunched with worry; Letty’s unease was genuine. She’d run up against the rules of society and come away scarred.
Violet sympathized—hadn’t she spent years in a futile attempt to impress the same people?
Walking the same path as Letty would mean never taking another risk. It would be safe, but safety wouldn’t ease Violet’s doubts or erase her failures. No matter what path she took, she would be carrying her imperfections with her.
Bette
r to choose a path of joy as a flawed person than to live a life devoid of love in the search for perfection.
“He won’t stay past tomorrow. There are things he must do,” said Violet. “I will not abandon you or the club, but for tonight . . .”
Looking even more miserable, Letty protested. “My objection isn’t on behalf of the members. I want you to be careful of your heart.”
Be careful of your heart.
As Violet skirted the elbows and knees of the ton in her pursuit, the fragile, hopeful little organ beat double time.
It might get battered.
It might even break.
The only way it would stay unharmed was if Violet never used it at all.
24
AS HE EXAMINED the pink cups and saucers lining the refreshments table, the unique scent of wet slate and lilies warned Arthur of Violet’s approach. His throat ached when he greeted her.
Though her skirts shimmered in the candlelight and the jewels in her hair and around her neck nearly blinded him, neither were a match for the radiance of Violet’s smile.
Madame Mensonge might be an extortionist, but that dress was worth every shilling he could scarce afford.
How odd. He’d been waiting for this moment since setting the parcel on her bed this afternoon. What should he do with his hands? Why had he tied his cravat so tight, and was this a huge mistake?
“I wanted . . . ,” she said.
“You should . . . ,” he blurted out at the same time.
They stopped and stared at each other. Arthur might have done something irrevocably stupid at that moment—commented on the crowd size or, worse, gone to check with Winthram to see if all was secure—if Violet hadn’t pressed one hand against her waist. Left hand to the side, little finger angled out. Waiting for an invisible strike.
Not tonight. Not from him.
“Blush,” he said.
A Lady's Formula for Love Page 24