The sincerity in Sebastian's voice was most believable, though Violet could not tell if it was genuine, or down to his superb acting skills. Still, there had been no need for him to deliver such an earnest speech, for she had already decided she would support him.
"I couldn't care tuppence if you never make it to Whitehall, Sebastian," she replied with a smile, "Just promise me that you will take care of your person; Mama will never forgive me if she returns to find you harmed in any way."
"They use wooden swords in the theatre, Vi," Sebastian grinned, "Have no fear that I will return maimed."
"Just promise me you will return," Violet prodded her brother sharply in the chest, "I will miss you terribly."
"And I you," Sebastian gave a charming, lob-sided grin, "And when I inherit, I shall send you off to Paris, Violet, so that you might learn from the masters. I swear on my life that I shall."
Tears pricked Violet's eyes at his words; if there was one person in the world whom she believed cherished her dreams as much as she did, it was Sebastian.
"Oh, you silly addle-pate," Violet sniffed, as she reached out to pull her brother into a hug, "You do say the nicest things."
After a quick embrace, which involved lots of sniffing on Violet's part, Sebastian made to take his leave.
"I need to pack," he said decisively, when Violet objected, "Not to mention rest. We depart at the crack of dawn."
"Write to me, if you can," Violet said, as she walked Sebastian back to the door.
"There won't be time," Sebastian offered Violet a winning smile, "I shall be back before you even have the chance to notice that I am gone."
On this optimistic note, Violet bid her brother goodbye, her spirits buoyed by his belief that no one of note might look for him.
Unfortunately, only the next morning, Violet's cheerful outlook vanished with the arrival of an order from Whitehall, written by the duke she had tried valiantly to forget.
Mr Havisham,
Your father has volunteered your services as a translator for a very delicate task. I will call at your aunt's house tomorrow night to discuss further your service to the Crown. Do not breathe a word of this to anyone. If all goes well, I hope that I might be able to secure you a position in Whitehall when we are done.
Faithfully,
Orsino
Violet paled as she finished reading the missive, her mind instantly conjuring an image of the dark and forbidding duke. Dash Sebastian, she thought, as she curled the letter into a ball and flung it in the empty grate. For three years, he had pranced about London playing the dandy, and now that something was finally required of him, he had vanished.
Vanished with your blessing, a voice in Violet's head reminded her sternly.
Violet sighed. She had agreed to help her twin live out his dream; she could not now be angry with him for events which neither of them had anticipated.
Violet crossed the room and fished the crumpled page from the grate. She smoothed it out and read it again, though her hands shook as she held it.
This was no laughing matter; Sebastian's future hung in the balance. If he did not assist Orsino with this task, he might be labelled as just another feckless young-blood and might never be offered another opportunity again.
Not to mention that when her father heard of Sebastian's failure, there would be a price to pay.
Violet thought on Sebastian's sincerity when he had promised to send her to Paris. Her twin would, if the roles were reversed, think of a way to make things work. It was only right that Violet do the same.
But how on earth could she make Sebastian appear from thin air? Violet bit nervously on her lip as she pondered the question; she was eager, but she was no miracle worker. As she set the letter down to rest on the mantelpiece, Violet caught sight of her reflection in the mirror.
People often noted how alike the Havisham twins were, despite the obvious difference of their sex. Their height, their colouring, and their striking eyes were perfectly identical. Even their faces were similar; in fact, Sebastian often bemoaned his elfin looks, thinking them feminine.
What a pity I do not have a beard, Violet thought, then stilled as an idea struck her.
It's preposterous, she told herself, but as she glanced down at the menacing letter again, she began to wonder if her idea might just be foolish enough to work...
Chapter Four
Havisham House was unlike any other home that Jack had ever visited. When he knocked, after nine o'clock on Friday evening, the door was opened, not by a servant, but by Sebastian Havisham himself.
"Your Grace," the young man greeted him in a low voice—as though he were afflicted by a cold—before ushering him into a darkened hallway.
Exotic paintings lined the walls, depicting far off lands and strange peoples, whilst a spicy scent permeated the air. Pieces of taxidermy littered the hall; a stuffed fox here, a macaw there, whilst an enormous stags' head was mounted upon the far wall.
"Lady Havisham herself shot that beast," the young man said, as he caught Jack peering at it.
"I don't doubt that she did," Jack commented, thinking on the wily Scotswoman. He could well picture her leading a hunt and petrifying any creature who dared cross her path.
"Would you—" Havisham hesitated, shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other, "Would you like tea, or shall we get straight down to work?"
"Tea?" Jack allowed himself a bark of laughter, "Will you be serving it in the drawing-room with iced fancies and a lesson on needlepoint? Lud, man! The library will do—and something stiffer than tea, if you have it."
Young Havisham flushed beneath his beard, leading Jack to regret his teasing. He forgot, sometimes, that he was a duke, and that his words now carried more weight than they had before.
"This way, so," Havisham said, beckoning Jack down a dark corridor.
Parts of Havisham House were so ancient that they might have been medieval; Jacks' head was in danger of brushing off the ceiling, and several times he had to duck to avoid a low beam. There were some houses which had escaped the Great Fire of London, and Havisham House, Jack guessed, was one of them.
As well as being ancient, the house was tremendously dark—as though Lady Havisham wished to save on tallow. Sconces lined the walls but the candles within burned low and did little to alleviate the shadows.
"Here we are," Havisham said, as he opened a door into the library, though it was unlike any Jack had ever seen before.
It was lined by shelves of books, as one would expect, but Lady Havisham appeared to have collected so many works that she had run out of space. Books were piled upon the floor, in towering stacks which threatened to fall over at the slightest touch.
"Er, try not to knock off any of them," Havisham said apologetically, "You might be buried alive if you do."
The young man lightly picked his way across the cluttered floor, with Jack following, until he reached a small desk beside the fireplace. Within the grate, a small fire burned, and in this light, Jack was able to assess Havisham properly.
He was of smallish height and slight build, though he had tried to disguise this with padding at the shoulders. Valets across London, Jack knew, often stuffed their masters' shirts—and even their breeches—to make them appear more muscular, so he found nothing odd in this.
Havisham's hair, which was dark like his sister's, fell slightly over his eyes, and his young face was concealed by a beard. Facial hair was not much in fashion, but Jack supposed when a man was as elfin as Havisham, he might forgo fashion for the sake of appearing more masculine.
It was only when Havisham glanced up at him that Jack noted the true similarity between the young man and his sibling.
"Gracious," he said, despite himself, "Your eyes are so like your sister's."
"Well, we are twins," Havisham grumbled, averting his violet orbs away from Jack, "Though as I was born first, you might say that her eyes are like mine."
Twins? Jack blinked; he had not known Miss Havisha
m was a twin, though the similarity between brother and sister made more sense now.
"Of course," Jack nodded, "Forgive my surprise, but the similarity is uncanny. Shall we have a drink and get down to work?"
"A drink?" Havisham bit the lip beneath his bushy moustache nervously, "Of course. One moment, I will see what we have."
The young man rummaged through one of the drawers in the desk, eventually pulling out a very dusty bottle of cognac and two glasses. He hesitated, as though thinking before he poured Jack an enormous measure and a similar sized one for himself.
"Chin, chin," he said, raising his glass in a toast to Jack, before tossing it back in one go. Jack winced, as Havisham began to splutter and cough, spraying alcohol down his shirt and vest.
"Steady on, old chap," Jack said, as he took a mild sip of his own drink, "We have work to do."
Havisham nodded as he took out a handkerchief from the breast pocket of his coat and wiped himself down. Beneath his beard, Jack could see that his cheeks were once more flushed, and he felt a stab of pity for the young man. He was obviously nervous and appeared to think that he needed to impress Jack with displays of masculine bravado.
"I'd like to offer my thanks for your agreeing to this task," Jack said gruffly, hoping a few kind words might settle the lad. "You weren't obliged to, and it is much appreciated."
"Oh," Havisham gave a nervous smile in return, "I am more than happy to do my duty—though I still don't quite know what that will entail."
"Well, allow me to illuminate you," Jack replied, placing the glass in his hand on the desk and reaching into his pocket for the scribbled instructions from Nevins.
In a low voice, he explained what they needed to do; the letter was to be addressed to Havisham's mother, written in French, and the first letter of the first word in each sentence should spell out their coded message.
"Lud," Havisham scratched his chin, thoughtfully, "This might take a while."
"I have all night," Jack shrugged, as he placed himself in the chair opposite the desk, "Just make sure that the message instructs your father to send word at once about any dark rumours which concern members of the British delegation."
"As you wish," Havisham replied, as he reached for a quill.
Silence fell between the men, and for a time, the only sound that filled the room was the scratching of Havisham's quill against the page. Jack relaxed back into his chair, content to sip upon his brandy and wait. He cast his eyes around the library, idly admiring the various ornaments and trinkets which lined the shelves. He squinted curiously at some wild and hairy oddity and was just wondering if it was another piece of taxidermy when it suddenly sprang to life and jumped into his lap, hissing angrily.
"What on—" Jack cried, as he sprang to his feet and tried to extricate the claws—of what he now saw was a cat—from his breeches.
The feline, which looked so feral it might have just roamed in from the streets, clung on for dear life, hissing and scratching. It was only with a Herculean feat of strength that Jack managed to prise him away, and when he did, the impertinent thing did not even have the manners to run away. Instead, it set itself in front of Jack, glowering at him through narrowed eyes.
"Well, you are quite the beast," Jack muttered, with grudging respect, as he sat back down. He leaned over to idly stroke the cat's head, but another angry hiss had him hastily rethink that idea.
"That's Bagpipes," Havisham said fondly, glancing up from his work, "He's really a dear, once you get to know him."
"I'm sure," Jack replied doubtfully; the idea that the beast before him could ever be considered in anyway darling was quite unbelievable.
"No, really he is," Havisham said defensively, "He's just wary of strangers. I—I—My sister found him as a stray in Hyde Park; he was missing half an ear and almost starved. She's very fond of Bagpipes."
"Indeed?" Jack's interest in the cat piqued, now that he knew of its association to Miss Havisham. That the girl could love a beast as irritable and mangy as old Bagpipes gave Jack pause for hope. Perhaps she might be able to see past his own frightening exterior, to the man within.
"Ah," Jack cleared his throat awkwardly, hoping that he did not sound too obvious. "How is your sister? I had the pleasure of making her acquaintance at Almack's just the other evening."
Havisham paused but did not look up from his work.
"Violet?" he asked, after a long delay, "She is well enough. I would tell her that you asked after her, but I suppose as this is meant to be a top-secret endeavour, that it would be best if I did not."
"No!" Jack flushed, for his response had almost been a shout, "I mean, there is no need to keep the fact that I called a secret. You can say I called about a horse or some other such nonsense. Er, so you might tell Miss Havisham that I enquired after her if you wish."
"I might," Havisham said vaguely, dipping his quill into his ink-pot with far more vigour than necessary.
It was clear that the young man had no further wish to discuss his sister—a fact that Jack attributed to brotherly concern—but still, Jack could not resist pushing him further.
"Is she at home?" he asked, striving for nonchalance, but falling far short. To disguise his reddening cheeks, he stood up and strolled toward the mantelpiece, where he picked up an ornament to fiddle with. He was usually much more adept at hiding his emotions—a skill which often helped him win at cards—but when it came to Miss Havisham, he found that he could not conceal his nerves.
"Is who at home?"
Again, Havisham was obtuse, and Jack got the definite feeling that the young man did not wish at all to discuss his sister with him. Which irked Jack; he was a duke. True, he was not as suave and mannered as some gentlemen, but he did hold one of the highest peerages in the realm.
"Miss Havisham," Jack tried not to growl with frustration.
"I expect so," Havisham shrugged, his eyes still on his page.
Silence fell between the men and the only sound to be heard was that of Havisham's quill scratching on the page. Jack was at a loss as to what to do next. He had expected to be able to tease a few titbits about Miss Havisham from her brother, but he was meeting with a brick wall. A very stubborn brick wall.
After a moment's silence, Jack decided that a direct approach was what was required.
"I was quite charmed by your sister," he said bluntly, "If truth be told."
Havisham, who had been dipping his quill into the inkpot, knocked the glass jar over in surprise. The black ink began to spread across the table, and Jack rushed forth to mop it up with his handkerchief.
"She is a very beautiful young woman," Jack continued, determined that Havisham's little accident would not distract from his mission.
"Violet?" Havisham queried, rather stupidly, "You think Violet is quite beautiful?"
"Yes," Jack nodded, the tips of his ears burning as Havisham emitted a high, girlish giggle.
The young man cleared his throat, his cheeks as flushed as Jack's own. He averted his eyes back to his work and gave a Gallic shrug.
"Did you know that she's completely bald at the front?" he blurted out suddenly.
"I—what?" Jack blinked in confusion.
"Yes," Havisham gave a mournful sigh, "There was an incident with a candle a few years ago, and that patch of hair never grew back."
"I can't say that I noticed," Jack replied, casting his mind back to the night of his dance with Violet. He had not noticed anything odd about her hair—though perhaps she had had a piece fashioned for her.
"Oh, yes," Havisham continued cheerfully, "She can put one to mind of a boiled egg if you spot her in the right light."
Really! Jack had one sister, Lady Iris Lloyd, and he knew that he would never speak of her in such a manner to a potential suitor—even if he was being protective. Not least because Iris would skin him alive if she found out.
"My own father went bald at five and twenty," Jack shrugged, "As a potential future egg myself, it would be rather hypocritical to
take umbrage with a small bald patch. Besides, your sister is more than just beautiful, she is..."
Jack trailed off; he did not have the vocabulary to put into words just what it was about Violet Havisham that had so entranced him. Her eyes, her face, her fine figure—all these things had, of course, been pleasant to behold. But there was more; a spark of fire when she challenged his manners, the humour in her smile. Even the ugly cat sitting by the table, whom no-one else might love, was a testament to a soft heart. There was so much more to Miss Havisham than just a pretty face, and Jack did not want to do her a disservice by waxing lyrical about her looks.
"She is..?" Havisham prodded him.
"Interesting," Jack smiled; that would have to do.
Havisham hesitated, as though he wished to push him further. Then, he evidently decided against it, for he returned to his work with a shrug.
"Violet is quite the dedicated spinster," he said, after a spell, "I fear that her only love will always be her art, your Grace. I should not like to give you hope, for I fear it would be false."
If his comment was meant to dissuade Jack, it had the opposite effect. Havisham's declaration that his sister was a determined spinster could mean only one thing; no one else had managed to capture her heart. If there was one thing that Jack loved, it was a challenge, and the idea that he might be the man to finally win Miss Havisham stirred something deep within his belly.
"We'll see," Jack replied, his mind already plotting as to how he might instigate himself into Miss Havisham's affections.
An irritable sigh accompanied Jack's answer, and when he glanced up, Havisham was scowling at the page as he wrote. The lad was stabbing his quill so violently, that Jack feared he might end up tearing the paper.
"How goes it?" he asked, with a nod to the letter. He had much experience with angry men, and he realised it was time to move the subject away from Violet Havisham—no matter how much he might wish to linger on it.
Never Fool a Duke Page 5