"I don't know where your sister is," Georgette said with a huff, as she stroked—or believed she stroked—her son's cheek.
"She said that she could not bear to say goodbye," Violet replied, keeping her eyes lowered and her voice deep as she lied.
"Ah, my sweet prince, at least Mama is here," Georgette sighed, "Promise me you will write."
"Every day," Violet mumbled, as she fled her mother's hug for the waiting carriage.
"Au revoir, Sebastian!"
It had worked! Violet could not contain her glee, and as the carriage trundled along the road from Hebrides Hall toward Stornoway Harbour, where a boat would take her to Ullapool on the mainland, she let out a shout of glee. Everything was going to plan...
Unfortunately, her triumph was short-lived, for the moment before Violet was due to board the boat, a hand grabbed her shoulder and pulled her from the crowd on the dock.
"Not a word," Waldo cautioned, his face pale with anger.
Behind him, Violet spotted Sebastian, dressed almost identically to her in breeches and a tunic, worn under a green cloak. Her brother's face was stained with tears, and his hands were rubbing his bottom, as though it pained him.
"You," Waldo nodded at Violet, "Stay here. And you, Sebastian, get in line. And don't even think of attempting a grand escape. Your sister and I will stand here until your boat is safely out of the harbour and into the Minch."
Sebastian exchanged a tearful glance with Violet, before nodding silently and following his father's orders. Tears obscured Violet's view, as she stood beside her father and watched as the boat left the dock and the calm waters of the marina, to brave the frothy waves of the Minch.
"How did you know?" Violet queried, as her father led her back to the waiting carriage.
"There are certain things that girls do not do standing up," Waldo answered mysteriously, "And they most certainly do not do it in the flowerbeds."
This cryptic remark was not to be explained to poor Violet, who was returned to Hebrides Hall in disgrace. Both her actions and her hair brought great sorrow to Georgette, who declared herself done with her feral daughter.
"Send for a governess," Georgette wailed, "I need someone to take the child in hand. I cannot control her; she is too wild!"
That it was Sebastian, who was the wilder of her two children was not up for discussion. Violet's protests of innocence fell on deaf ears, and within a few weeks, she found herself imprisoned in the new schoolroom with Miss Thomas, a governess from the mainland.
Roaming the moors, clambering over rocks, or any kind of physical exertion was forbidden. Instead, Violet was permitted only to attend her lessons, practice her stitching in the parlour, or pick flowers in the garden. This would have been tolerable enough, was it not for the yawning chasm in Violet's heart.
She missed her brother.
When Miss Thomas supplied her with charcoal and watercolours for sketching, Violet found that her hand, almost of its own volition, began to draw her brother's face. Miss Thomas, who usually instructed Violet to draw kittens or daisies, was at first frustrated, until one particular day, she gave a frown.
"This is very good," she observed, as she glanced down at Violet's portrait of Sebastian, "Very good indeed."
As their ventures into embroidery, dancing, and flower arranging had met with little fruit, Miss Thomas decided to pursue Violet's burgeoning artistic talent. By the time that Sebastian arrived home, at the end of Michaelmas, Violet's sketching skills had come on in leaps and bounds.
Of course, no one took any note, given that Sebastian had returned with a glowing report from his Eton schoolmasters.
"My son is a genius," Waldo said proudly, from the head of the breakfast table, as he read the missive from the headmaster, "As I had suspected. Whoops—what's that I've spilt my tea on?"
"A portrait I drew for you, Papa," Violet whispered.
"Ah. Terribly sorry, dear. I'm sure you can draw me another one."
Violet felt hot tears prick her eyelids, and she might have burst out crying, had Sebastian not taken her hand.
"I cannot wait to see all your pictures, Vi," he whispered as he squeezed her hand in his.
And so, it was to be that the only member of Violet's immediate family who would ever think her a genius was Sebastian. Luckily, once Aunt Phoebe returned from a jaunt to the Isle of Man—with a taxidermy Fifi, whose long life had finally come to an end—Violet found another champion.
"The girl has talent, Dorothy," Lady Havisham said, as she held up one of Violet's paintings for the lady's maid to inspect.
"Did I not foresee greatness, when the bairn was born?" Dorothy appeared disgruntled that her own part in Violet's talent was going unrecognised.
"If I recall correctly, you foresaw a club-foot," Phoebe harrumphed, and the two ladies descended into gentle bickering. Once their argument had come to an end, it was somehow decided that Aunt Phoebe would pay for a drawing master to come from the mainland to nurture Violet's burgeoning talent.
"I don't think Papa will allow it," Violet said, knowing full well that he would not. Waldo would scoff at the very idea of lavishing any money on Violet when it could be spent on Sebastian.
"Oh," Aunt Phoebe's eyes glistened with amusement, "I don't think your father will remain here much longer to object. You see, since poor Fifi's departure from this world, I have been afflicted with an illness."
"An illness, Aunt?"
"Yes," Phoebe gave a definite nod of her head, "Homesickness. I fear my travelling days are behind me, and that I intend to take up residence in Hebrides Hall on a permanent basis. Something, I know, your father might find trying."
Indeed, once Phoebe declared that she was to stay, Georgette and Waldo made the quick decision to return to town.
"I am needed in Parliament," Waldo sniffed.
"And I am needed in Bond Street," Georgette winked.
"And what about your daughter?" Phoebe queried, her gaze steely.
"Well," Waldo blustered, "There's not much to Violet. And we're not expecting much of her. So—so—so we thought we'd just leave her here."
Her nephew's summation that there was "not much" to his daughter was enough for Phoebe to discern that it was time she took Violet under her wing. Lady Havisham drew up a list of all her notable friends—who were many—and each month, a new visitor arrived on the island, to help expand Violet's mind.
Along with these illuminating visitors, Aunt Phoebe arranged for painting lessons, new books, subscriptions to all the newspapers and periodicals, as well as granting Violet the freedom to roam the islands once more.
The years passed quickly, interspersed with visits from her parents from town, and summers with Sebastian on his break from school. Violet grew into a young woman with definite ideas and dreams, none of which, she knew, would marry with her parents' wishes for her future.
"Mama has written to say that she and Papa wish to take me to town for the little season," Violet said one evening, to Aunt Phoebe and Sebastian, who had returned for the island in August, once Summer-half had ended.
"She wishes me to make my come-out in the season proper, and hopes that I will secure a proposal by next May."
"A proposal?" Sebastian looked aghast, "Why on earth would you want one of them?"
"Well, one usually needs a man to propose before you have the banns read; otherwise, you look quite pushy," Aunt Phoebe replied mildly.
"Marriage?" Sebastian, again, looked aghast. Although the twins had long forgotten their youthful determination to marry each other, they had both longingly looked forward to spending more time together once Sebastian had served his time in Eton.
"Your father," Aunt Phoebe glanced fondly at Sebastian, "Expects you to go to Oxford and take up a position in Whitehall. He is less invested in your sister's future, but no doubt, he expects her to find a suitable husband who will take Violet off his hands."
"I don't want to work in stuffy old Whitehall," Sebastian groaned, "I want to be an actor
. And, Violet has no wish to marry some damp-squib; she wishes to paint. To perfect her craft in Paris, and Venice, and Florence."
"If you were my children, I would allow you both to do as you please," Aunt Phoebe shrugged, "But as you are not, we must wait and see which way the wind blows. If Violet goes to town and finds a man that she would like to marry, then I will not stand in her way. On the other hand, if her father tries to force her down the aisle, I will be more than happy to stand in his way."
Violet was cheered by this thought; though her aunt was small in stature, she was quite wide and more than adept at brandishing her cane at anyone who dared cross her.
Aunt Phoebe decided to relocate from Hebrides Hall to London to assist with Violet's first season. She did not take up residence in Waldo's leased house on Grosvenor Square, preferring instead to re-open the family's townhouse on Jermyn Street.
It was in the house's cluttered drawing-room that Violet found sanctuary during her first few months as a debutante. There, she was free to paint to her heart's content, which helped to ease the anxiety of her most recent failure. Before coming to London, Violet had feared to get married—now that she was here, she was beginning to worry that she might be un-marriageable. She was asked to dance at Almack's by many eligible gentlemen, but few thought to repeat the request and none sought to call on her.
"I don't know what is wrong with the girl," Georgette wailed to Waldo, as the season neared its end.
"Perhaps we expected too much from Violet," Waldo offered, though he was hesitant to use the word "we", for he had never expected anything from Violet. Though his daughter was pretty enough, with an admitted talent for painting, she had no fortune which might entice a man to offer for her hand or make her stand out from the crowd.
A sensible marriage to a second, or third son would suffice for Waldo, and as Georgette's patience was beginning to wear thin, he felt that this might please her too.
Besides, there were other more pressing matters to which Waldo needed to attend.
"My dear," he cleared his throat, "I have been offered another position in Vienna. The government requires my diplomatic tact and language skills."
Georgette was forced to use all her diplomatic tact as she struggled not to snort with laughter at Waldo's remark on his language skills.
"Mmm?" she murmured, pressing her lips tightly together.
"Yes," Waldo drew himself up imperiously, "The war is at an end, and with Napoleon exiled on Elba, the four great powers of Europe will hold a congress to decide the continent's future. Viscount Castlereagh has personally requested that I attend."
"He has?"
"Yes," Waldo flushed, "And he has also offered me a generous pension, a knighthood, and a position for Sebastian if all goes to plan."
Georgette's eyes lit up at the thought of her beloved Sebastian being rewarded with a government position. She doted on her son, who was handsome, charming, and far easier to manage than her daughter.
"It is your patriotic duty to go," Georgette declared, "And as your wife, it is my duty to accompany you. My only concern is...Violet."
"Well..." Waldo cleared his throat again, "If she were going to make a fantastic match, she would have done it by now. We can leave her in Aunt Phoebe's care for a year or two, and perhaps some second son might snatch her up while we're gone. I fear you'll have to decide soon, Georgette, if you are to have a new wardrobe made up by the time of our departure."
A new wardrobe? Visions of balls and dances with various dignitaries and heads of states filled Georgette's mind, pushing out any concern for her daughter.
And so, it was decided that Waldo and Georgette would away to Vienna, leaving Sebastian and Violet in their aunt's care. Waldo attempted to strong-arm Lady Havisham into moving into the far more luxurious Grosvenor Square residence he had leased, but the old lady was recalcitrant.
"There is only one person in this room who is a peer in their own right," Aunt Phoebe growled, as she poked Violet's father in the stomach with the head of her cane, "And I think you'll find that's me. Sebastian and Violet will stay here, or they will stay nowhere at all."
Thus, it was decided that Violet and Sebastian would reside with their aunt in Havisham House, on Jermyn Street. Though this was only settled after the twins made two solemn promises. Sebastian swore that he would not set one foot inside The Gun Tavern, which was a noted hotbed for Revolutionary activity. And Violet promised that she would not seek the company of artists amongst the French refugees who resided in Grenier's Hotel at the top of the street.
"Ah, my dear Violet," Georgette sighed, as the time came to say their goodbyes, "How much I will miss you. Do take care of your brother. He is far more handsome than you, but I fear it has made him arrogant and liable to walk himself into trouble."
"Voyage sécurisé, Mama," Violet had replied, ignoring the veiled barb, "I promise that I shall keep an eye on him."
"And try to find a husband, dear."
"I shall," Violet promised, though she crossed her fingers behind her back as she did so. Love was not something that interested Violet, not now that she was finally free to live her life as she chose.
Chapter One
Wednesday was, in Violet's opinion, the most insufferable day of the week, for it meant one thing:
Almack's.
For three seasons, Violet had suffered through long evenings at the famed cattle-mart, inwardly marvelling at the repetitiveness of it all.
Every week, without fail, the patronesses of the much-vaunted assembly rooms provided their guests with stale cake, bitter lemonade, and dry conversation.
That vouchers for the ball were amongst the most coveted things in London seemed ridiculous to Violet, who found the event to be exceedingly dull. But then, she reasoned, she was not looking for a husband, and if one was marriage-minded, Almack's was the place to be.
As she trailed her aunt into the assembly rooms that evening, Violet found it crowded with flocks of white-dressed debutantes, each vying to glitter more brightly than the girl next to her. Meanwhile, well-dressed gentlemen roamed the room, speculatively eyeing their prey whilst braying loudly at each other.
The girls in their dresses reminded Violet of sheep—fluffy and innocent, whilst the gentlemen put her to mind of wolves. Had she a pencil, Violet would have sketched a quick caricature, but alas one did not come to Almack's to draw--one came to find a husband.
It was a never-ending circle, Violet thought despondently, as she followed her aunt to their usual spot underneath the balcony. Young women blossomed like flowers each season and were plucked by the first gentleman to take a fancy to them, never to be seen again. Unless, like Violet, they were not plucked at all, and were forced to return each year to watch the whole charade play out, season after season.
Thankfully, Violet was not alone in being a weary perennial amongst a city full of bright annuals. As she and Aunt Phoebe approached the seats under the balcony—the unofficial seating place of wallflowers and chaperons—she spotted her good friend, Miss Charlotte Drew, already taking up residence on one of the chairs.
"La, Violet," Charlotte called cheerfully, "Fancy spotting you here."
"An utter surprise, I'm sure," Violet responded, as she deposited herself on the seat next to Charlotte.
Beside them, Aunt Phoebe clucked with disapproval at their dryness, though Violet rather thought she did it for show more than anything else. Her aunt had been tasked with doing her best to find Violet a beau, though thankfully Lady Havisham had decided her best consisted only of the bare minimum—escorting Violet to Almack's once a week.
Violet glanced across the room, where her other friend—Lady Julia—stood beside her parents, Lord and Lady Cavendish. Julia's parents were determined to find her a husband by the end of the season and were painstakingly intent on filling her dance card for the night. Thank goodness Aunt Phoebe was not so forward, Violet thought, as she observed Lady Cavendish push Julia forward to converse with a young man.
&n
bsp; Above on the balcony, the orchestra struck up a tune, signalling the first dance of the night, and the trio fell into silence as they watched the familiar scene unfold.
"Is she?" Charlotte whispered in Violet's ear, a few minutes later, with a nod toward Lady Havisham.
Violet glanced affectionately at her aunt, who had drifted off to sleep on her chair. The ostrich feathers of her turban had slipped, to conceal her slumbering state from the room, and Violet thought it best to leave her.
"I once overheard her tell Dorothy that she always felt revived after a night at Almack's," Violet whispered to her friend, "Now I know why."
The two women giggled conspiratorially together and began to chat between themselves. There was much to discuss; Charlotte's father had recently delivered an edict that his eldest daughter must snare a duke, in order for Bianca—Charlotte's younger sister—to be allowed to make her come-out.
Violet, Charlotte, and Julia had, after much discussion, narrowed Charlotte's choice of available dukes down to one—the Duke of Penrith. He was one of the so-called "Upstarts", a trio of aristocratic friends who were renowned for their power and fortune.
"Thank goodness they never deign to set foot in Almack's," Charlotte said cheerfully, as she reached into her reticule to retrieve some biscuits, which she had wrapped in a handkerchief. Almack's offerings of refreshments were notoriously poor, and Charlotte quite often brought her own to stave off hunger during the long night. "I don't think I would have been brave enough to come tonight if I thought there was a chance I might run into Penrith so soon. I must prepare myself for battle before I attack!"
No sooner had Charlotte finished speaking, than the room erupted into furious whispering. Violet watched with interest as the assembled crowd turned their heads, almost as one, toward the door.
"Gosh," she muttered, accepting one the proffered biscuits with a smile, "I wonder if it's Prinny? I don't know why everyone gets into such a fuss about that man—he's a rake. And worse, he's a poor one. No Mama would think of allowing him to even look at their daughter if he wasn't a prince."
Never Fool a Duke Page 2