"Nearly done. I just need to finish this line, then I will read back to you what I have written."
Jack waited patiently for a few minutes, as Havisham finished up his work. Once he was done, the young man read back to Jack—in a halting voice—what the secret code said.
"Good work," Jack grinned; the boy had got it in one. He had thought that he might be there all night, but only an hour had passed since his arrival.
"What now?" Havisham queried, as Jack took the letter from his outstretched hand.
Jack slowly fanned the page in the air, wanting to be certain that the ink was dry before he folded it.
"I will deliver this to a messenger, who will set out at once for Vienna," he replied, once he was certain that the ink had dried, "Once I have your father's response, I will call again."
"That might take weeks," Havisham gave a sigh that sounded somewhat relieved.
"Yes," Jack frowned; he had not gleaned as much information on Miss Havisham as he would have liked. Nor, had he managed to get her brother onside—rather the opposite, in fact. It would not do.
"I may have other things I need help with," Jack said quickly, keen to leave the door open should he need to return, "If you wouldn't mind?"
"Glad to help."
Havisham sounded anything but glad, but Jack ignored this and offered the lad a cheerful smile, before declaring that he must leave.
"My thanks again, for your help," he said, as Havisham led him back down the darkened hallway toward the door. Many of the candles in the sconces had burned out, indicating that he and Jack were the only people about at this late hour.
For a moment, Jack thought longingly of Miss Havisham, asleep upstairs. He imagined stealing into her bedroom and slipping under the coverlets beside her, and—
"Well, here we are!"
Havisham's voice, which sounded high-pitched and strained, interrupted Jack's thoughts. Which was merciful, for the idea of Miss Havisham in bed was the most exquisite of tortures.
"Until we meet again," Jack held out his hand, and after a moment of hesitation, Havisham took it. The young lad flinched a little, as Jack gave him a bone-crushing handshake—mild retribution for his earlier evasiveness. Jack strolled out the door, donning his hat, but before he descended the steps to his waiting carriage, he paused, momentarily overcome by mischief.
"Give my regards to your sister," he called over his shoulder.
The sound of the door slamming was the only response Jack received—though it must have been because Havisham had not heard him, for no-one would dare slam a door on a duke.
After delivering the letter to the messenger, who awaited him in the Horse Guards' building, Jack found himself at something of a loose end. The night was still young, by London standards, and should Jack wish to, there were a dozen balls, musicales, or other social gatherings which he might drop into. The idea of mingling with toplofty hosts and hostesses held little appeal however, for even when he was in an affable mood, Jack was no social butterfly.
Still, he did not wish to return home, where only an empty bed chamber and his own thoughts awaited. Seeking some sort of company—even if it was just that of the elderly Major Charles, who spent most nights asleep in his chair—Jack set forth for White's.
The club was quiet, as he had expected; the young bloods would be out gallivanting, whilst the married gentlemen had probably been strong-armed by their wives into socialising. Jack cast his eye around the drawing-room and spotted Major Charles, asleep in his chair by the fireplace. Another body, seated by the famed bow window, caught his eye, and Jack gave a cry of surprise.
"Montague," he called, as he tread a path toward his friend, "What are you doing here? I thought you'd be out trying to woo your fair Rosaline."
"Mmm?" Lord Montague glanced up, his eyes slightly glazed as though he had been lost in some very deep thoughts.
Which was a preposterous idea, for the rakish lord preferred to splash in the shallow end of the pond when it came to philosophising.
"I asked why on earth you're here?" Jack waved around the near-empty room as he slipped into the seat opposite Montague. "Surely there are more exciting places that London's most notorious bachelor might be found?"
Jacks' words were meant as a jest; Montague had a reputation as a charmer, and his female conquests—be they real or imagined—were oft hinted at in the gossip columns. Despite his rakish reputation, Montague was a most sought after guest and for a good reason. He cut a dashing figure; tall, with a lithe, athletic frame, which was built to display the latest fashions. He was handsome, in a boyish way, and his face perpetually wore a smile, which oft bordered on mischievous.
"I find I have no desire to gad about town this evening, my good fellow," Montague said, giving a sigh as long as a winter's night.
Jack frowned at this response; it was not like the Marquess of Thornbrook—who was heir to the Ducal seat of Staffordshire—to be so morose.
"Is something troubling you, Montague?" Jack ventured as a footman materialised with a drink for him. Perhaps his father, the fearsome duke, had finally put his foot down and insisted that Montague marry.
"I am out of love's favour," Montague sighed again, as he sipped on his brandy.
"Rosaline?"
Miss Rosaline Bowers was a former actress who had transitioned to the rather more lucrative role of courtesan. The beautiful temptress was under the care of the elderly, but extremely wealthy, Earl of Snowdon, and despite Montague's many attempts to woo her away, she could not be cajoled.
"Rosaline?" Montague frowned, "Lud, no. She was just a young man's infatuation, a distraction from the slings and arrows of this outrageous life."
A footman interrupted Montague's self-pitying monologue to deliver a steak, cooked to perfection by one of the chefs who manned the club's kitchen around the clock. It was to Montague's credit that he acknowledged the rotten timing of his remark with a self-deprecating grin.
"Well, perhaps I do not suffer so outrageously," he offered, as he tucked into his steak with gusto, "Physically I want for nothing, but spiritually my soul longs for..."
Montague trailed off, his eyes once more far away. He looked so distracted that Jack momentarily worried his friend might choke on his mouthful of rump-steak and never get to finish his sentence.
"For..?" Jack prompted, ever impatient.
"Lady Julia Cavendish," Montague admitted, having the good grace to look sheepish at his admission.
Jack stifled a sigh of irritation; trust Montague to yet again fall in love with a woman he could not have. The Cavendish and Montague families had been sworn enemies for centuries; the long-held grudge between them was so old, that few could actually recall why it had started. Not only would Lady Julia have little interest in the son of her family's greatest nemesis, but Montague's own father would disinherit him if he thought that his son might even be contemplating crossing enemy lines.
"You're a complicated man," Jack commented, as he waved for another brandy.
"That's rather an understatement," Montague grinned, "Though I am nothing if not adept at turning a complicated situation into something beautiful."
This was true; Montague had the devil's own luck. He could talk himself out of any scrape, and charm his way into any woman's bed, and had done both more times than he could count.
Jack paused for a moment to think. In matters of love, Montague—who had spent years seducing the ladies of London—had far more experience than Jack—who instead had spent years on the continent in the company of hairy, smelly men. The marquess was the best person to advise Jack on how to proceed with his courtship of Miss Havisham, but pride—and the knowledge that Montague would never allow Jack forget that he had helped him—forbid him to ask for assistance aloud.
Instead, Jack decided that a little subterfuge was in order.
"And how exactly would one ingratiate oneself with a lady who has no interest in being wooed?" Jack queried, mildly.
"Oh, it's easy enough
," Montague's mood had improved vastly, now that they had moved on to his favourite subject, "You just have to be persistent. Some women are more difficult than others, and these are the ones whom you have to grow on."
"Grow on?" Jack raised an eyebrow.
"Yes," Montague grinned, "Like mould. Any housekeeper worth her salt will tell you that once mould sets in, it's impossible to be rid of."
"That doesn't sound very romantic," Jack frowned again.
"This isn't romance," Montague shrugged, "It's war. And in the end, you either win, sweet victory, or you—"
"Die a painful death?" Jack suggested.
"I was going to say you end up with bruised pride and a hangover," the marquess smiled, "But I have had many a hangover that felt like death. Did I ever tell you about the night in Carlton House, when Prinny got so sozzled, he rode a piebald pony down the staircase?"
Montague launched into a tale of his night with the Prince Regent, but Jack was only half listening. His friend's advice might not be very palatable, but given his success with women, Jack could not disregard it.
He must treat his courtship of Miss Havisham like a battle, Jack decided. He must plan a strategy. Mount an offence. He must...
Bring in reinforcements.
Jack bit back a groan, as the realisation that he had one great ally he could call upon to help him achieve his task—his sister.
Chapter Five
Even a day later, Violet still could not believe that she had managed to pull off her audacious scheme. While Sebastian's love for the theatre was what had landed her in hot water, it had also offered a way out. In her brother's cupboard, amongst the many costumes he had collected over the years, Violet had discovered a wig and a false beard. She had used a smear of spirit-gum to affix the beard to her face, and its effect had been alarmingly realistic.
She had then padded out the shoulders of one of Sebastian's coats with buckram wadding and donned a pair of his breeches, and when coupled with her height—which was above average for a woman—she had been unrecognisable as a woman.
Before the duke called, Violet had made certain to blow out a few candles in the sconces, to better aid her disguise, and she had practised affecting a low, masculine voice. True, it had sounded somewhat like she was suffering from a cold, but it had worked.
Violet shook her head again in disbelief, as her mind wandered over the events of the previous night. For the most part, she had remained in character, but she found she was still irritated by the one or two slips that she had made.
Men don't offer each other tea, she reminded herself sternly the next morning, as her carriage travelled the short distance from Jermyn Street toward St James' Square. And they certainly don't giggle girlishly when a duke declares his interest in their sister.
Violet's cheeks flushed at that particular memory. No man had ever taken an interest in her, and after three seasons she had almost believed herself invisible to the male of the species. To find out that a duke, of all people, had decided to take a fancy to her, was near unbelievable.
And utterly impractical, Violet reminded herself. No matter how taken she was by Orsino's green eyes—which were delightful— she could not encourage him to pursue her. Firstly, her scheme to take her brother's place until Orsino was finished with him would fall apart, for he would quickly realise the truth. And secondly, Violet sighed, romance was not in her own grand plan.
She wanted to paint. She wanted to travel. She wanted to learn from the great masters in Venice and Florence.
And none of that would be possible if she were to give in to the strange longing which Orsino inspired inside of her.
Besides, she frowned, the man had only declared that he had found her "interesting". That was hardly a proposal of marriage. And certainly not enough to inspire her to cast aside her lifelong dream.
The carriage soon drew up outside the home of Lord and Lady Cavendish, and Violet alighted without needing assistance. Which was lucky, for no assistance was forthcoming, given that it took Henry, the ancient driver, some ten minutes to get down from his perch.
"I shall be but a short while," Violet called to the octogenarian, who had refused all of Aunt Phoebe's offers to be pensioned off.
"Take yer time, Miss Violet," Henry replied with a lazy wave, contentedly resting back in his perch.
Violet felt a little guilty for having dragged the elderly man out at all. Jermyn Street adjoined St James' Square, and she could have walked the distance in five minutes, but one did not walk anywhere in London.
Well, not during the hours of morning calls, when the chances of being sighted were far higher.
"Miss Havisham," the butler who opened the door of Cavendish House greeted Violet in his usual, perfunctory manner. "Lady Julia had instructed that you might call."
His words contained a thinly disguised hint of distaste, for the staff of Cavendish House were as snobbish as the Marquess and Marchioness of Pembrook themselves. That Lady Julia insisted her friends be given free rein to call as they please—without even having to present a calling card—was, in the butler's view at least, akin to blasphemy.
Violet ignored the man's manners and followed him down the hallway to the drawing-room, where Julia awaited.
"Gosh," Violet cried, once the butler had closed the door behind her, "You look beautiful, Julia. Well, even more so than usual."
Lady Julia was considered the most beautiful girl in all of London. Even after three seasons, hers was the face against which all new debutantes were compared, and usually found lacking.
Today, she was resplendent in a morning dress of rose-coloured levantine, which was high at the neck and trimmed with a wide bouillonné of Irish lace at its hem. Her hair had been arranged loosely into a twist, and a few stray golden tendrils framed her heart-shaped face.
Violet's heart ached a little, as it always did when she was confronted by Julia's beauty. What would it be like, she wondered momentarily, to be so perfectly formed?
This slight stab of longing quickly left, as Violet recalled just what such beauty brought; queues of suitors a mile long, who cared not a jot for Julia's keen mind, but only her face and the triumph of winning her hand.
During their three years of friendship, Julia had received dozens of proposals and had refused each and every one. Like Violet and Charlotte, she had no desire to marry, but unlike Charlotte and Violet, Julia's parents were determined to see her wed.
"Mama insisted on a new morning dress for today," Julia said with a sigh, as she plucked at her skirts with a nervous hand. "I am apt to think of them as mourning weeds, however, for I fear her interference in my wardrobe means that my intended husband will be calling."
"No," Violet gasped, feeling somewhat horrified at how quickly Julia's parents had moved. She had confessed before to Violet and Charlotte, at one of their weekly wallflower gatherings, that her parents had declared that this season would be her last as a spinster. Violet had not thought that they would source a match so quickly.
Though she reasoned, Julia's beauty was coupled with a vast dowry, so perhaps it was not that surprising at all.
"Oh," Julia gave a wan smiled, "Don't fret. If he turns out to have halitosis and three heads, I'm certain that they will allow me to refuse. I am more worried that he will be—"
"Yes?" Violet prompted.
"I'm worried that he will be acceptable," Julia gave a shrug of her shoulders, "For then, I won't have any reason to refuse him. I have always known that one day I would need to marry, and if I am presented with an affable fellow, with good humour and the means to support me, what good will come of refusing him?"
Her statement was most sensible, and despite being in possession of a slight stubborn streak, Violet knew that Julia was at heart, a very practical young woman. The world presented few opportunities for a woman to make her own way in the world. Unlike Violet—who had Sebastian's enduring support, or Charlotte—who was currently working on a plot to earn her freedom, Julia had no fall-back pla
n.
While her parents would never cast her out into the street, they would, Violet knew, find some way of hiding Julia from the world if she disappointed them.
"Mama has said that if I am not married by the end of the season, that I will have to earn my keep and act as a companion to Aunt Mildred," Julia said, confirming Violet's theory.
"I don't recall ever having met your Aunt Mildred," Violet replied, searching her memory but drawing a blank.
"Oh, she's a real diamond of the first water," Julia gave a dry laugh, "One of her tenants was tragically widowed and left near penniless. When the widow's son was caught stealing a pig, Aunt Mildred personally attended court to make sure the lad was transported to the penal colonies and sent the widow to the poorhouse."
"Lud," Violet gasped, "How on earth did you discover that?"
"Because the woman boasts of it, constantly," Julia gave a sigh, "She is a firm believer that the weakest go to the wall."
Despite the sun which poured through the long windows, Violet gave a little shiver of fear. Her friend was truly stuck between a rock and a hard place.
"Perhaps," Violet ventured, wishing to find a solution, "If you were to find a husband of your own before the season ends, it might not be so dreadful?"
"Why try?" Julia shrugged again, "My parents will have put time and effort into researching potential suitors and ensuring that they meet their exacting standards. I know you think them cold, Violet, but they just want to ensure that I will continue to live as comfortable a life as is possible. I am blessed if you think on it. Truly blessed."
Violet bit her lip; Julia's determination to see the best in her situation did not quite disguise the despondency which had affected her spirit. Still, ever the consummate host, she quickly turned the conversation back around to Violet.
"You said you had something you needed to discuss?" Julia asked brightly, referring to the note that Violet had sent earlier.
Oh dear, Violet frowned; she had wanted to confide in Julia about the mess she had entangled herself in, but she could not now burden her friend when she had her own worries to contend with. Nor could she confide in Charlotte, who was dealing with her own meddlesome duke.
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