"A headache," Violet quickly fibbed, though it was not a lie, as such, for her head had begun to throb, "Perhaps from the excitement of it all."
"You do look pale, dear."
To Violet's surprise, Lady Lloyd reached out and took her hand, giving it a maternal squeeze. Her green eyes—rimmed with dark lashes, like her brother's—were kind, as she smiled at Violet.
"I can't deny that I am upset at not having had a chance to talk more," she said, "But now we have an excuse to meet again. The theatre, perhaps; Orsino rents one of the best boxes in Drury Lane. I shall write to let you know when."
Violet muttered a quick thanks, hoping against hope that no invitation would be forthcoming. She had no desire to be trapped in a small box with that great dolt of a duke.
Aunt Phoebe led the way from the drawing-room to the entrance hall, where the butler fetched their cloaks and called for their carriage. Violet's hopes that she might escape without having any further encounter with the duke were dashed when a familiar voice called out her name.
"Miss Havisham."
Orsino appeared, concern etched across his handsome face. Beside her, Violet felt Aunt Phoebe bristle.
"My niece is not the only lady present," Aunt Phoebe huffed, brandishing her cane in an alarming manner. Violet felt a stab of affection toward her aunt who, unknowingly, had lifted Violet's spirits. If only she had a cane of her own to brandish, she thought longingly.
"Excuse me, Lady Havisham," Orsino gave a neat bow in her direction, before returning his gaze to Violet. "I heard you were unwell."
"Yes, your Grace," Violet snipped, ignoring his confusion at her abruptness, "I shall return home."
"Ah," Orsino was obviously wrong-footed by her change of humour, "Might I be of assistance?"
"My aunt has called for our carriage," Violet shrugged, "Though thank you for your offer, your Grace."
Violet was not sure if it was bull-headedness or misplaced arrogance which caused Orsino to ignore her obvious coolness to him, for he persevered against her best efforts at subtle rudeness.
"I am sorry that you are leaving so soon," he said, his gaze sincere, "With your permission, I might call on you soon, to ensure that you are well."
Pah! Violet longed to poke her tongue out at the duke, who had the temerity to ask to call on her when he was promised to another.
Aunt Phoebe had also taken umbrage with the duke's request, for she cleared her throat irritably, and cast him a scowl.
"'Tis I you need to ask permission of, Orsino," Lady Havisham said, in her thick Scottish burr. Despite her diminutive stature, Aunt Phoebe could be quite terrifying. Violet was almost certain that Orsino paled, as Lady Havisham cast him a coolly appraising glance, her blue eyes traversing him from top to toe like a prize-fighter.
"You may call," Lady Havisham decided, having evidently decided that if it came to fisticuffs, she would win. "Then it's up to Violet to decide if she is at home when you do. Good evening, your Grace, our carriage has arrived."
Aunt Phoebe took Violet's arm and steered her toward the door and their means of escape. Violet made a pointed effort not to look over her shoulder as she left, though she could feel the eyes of the duke on her like a flame.
Her momentary happiness at having witnessed Aunt Phoebe put Orsino in his place, soon vanished as their carriage began the journey back to Jermyn Street. Although she had vowed not to encourage the duke in his apparent affections toward her, it still hurt to know that his affections had not been honourable—not even close.
Love is a smoke made with the fume of sighs, Violet thought darkly. She had never been a great admirer of the Bard, but having now experienced the pain of being disappointed in love, she could understand better why so many of his works ended in bloodshed.
Chapter Six
While Jack knew that he had little experience with the ways of women, even he had the nous to realise that something was amiss with Miss Havisham.
On the first day that he had called on her, and she was not at home, he chalked it up to bad timing. When on the second day he presented his card, only to find that Miss Havisham was again "out", he decided that it was sheer bad luck.
On the third day, however, when the wizened gentleman who opened the door told him that Violet was not at home, Jack began to think that, perhaps, something had happened.
"Is she always this elusive?" he queried of the butler—who was so old that surely he was decades late for his appointment with St Peter.
"No," the butler answered, scratching his head thoughtfully, "And she never usually instructs me to tell people she's not at home, for no one really calls except her two friends of a Wednesday."
A-ha. Jack felt a moment of triumph, as he realised that he had been correct in assuming that Miss Havisham was avoiding him, which was swiftly followed by a feeling of gloom. What on earth had he done to earn her ire?
As Jack made his way back to his carriage, he cast his mind back to his evening at Iris' supper. In his eyes, the tête-à-tête that he had enjoyed with Violet—in which he had managed to remove his foot from his mouth long enough to profess his interest—had been the highlight of his romantic career thus far.
Miss Havisham too seemed to have reciprocated some of his desire. Jack was not so blind that he had missed her blushing—and it had entranced him completely. Nor had he missed her slight breathlessness and heaving bosom—though, of course, as a gentleman, he had categorically not been sneaking a glance at her bosom.
Everything had gone swimmingly; he had escorted her to supper—relishing the feeling of having her clutch his arm—and had deposited her at her seat. Her seat beside...
Lud. Jack groaned with annoyance; Violet had been seated beside Maria Grazia.
At the beginning of the season, the opera singer had made clear—on several occasions—her interest in becoming Jack's mistress. Maria had assumed that she was vying for a vacant position, when, in fact, she had been vying for a position which had never existed.
Jack had no mistress. Most aristocratic men did, well the ones with the means to provide for one did, at least, but not Jack.
He had gently—but firmly—informed the beautiful singer that he was not interested, but perhaps she had let slip to Violet her plans for him.
Though, Jack frowned, that was hardly the type of thing one would reveal to a stranger at a civilised supper. His mind wandered, as the carriage trundled from Jermyn Street toward St James' Square—a ridiculously short journey, but the nature of social calls necessitated a carriage. Jack cast his mind back over his few conversations with Miss Grazia until he recalled his last meeting with her.
"No," Jack groaned, dropping his head into his hands with despair. He had told Maria Grazia that he could not take her on as a mistress because he was promised to another—Lady Olivia. The love-life of a duke, especially one sitting at the same table, would, of course, be gossiped about by the guests. Jack groaned again; he had only used Lady Olivia's flimsy promise to consider his proposal as an excuse, though perhaps he had garnished the truth a little to dissuade Maria Grazia from her mission.
Well, perhaps he had garnished it a lot.
Oh, what a tangled web he had woven, Orsino thought darkly, as his carriage drew up outside Glamorgan House. His attempts at using Lady Olivia as a shield against Miss Grazia had inadvertently scuppered his fledgling romance with Miss Havisham. No wonder the poor girl had refused to see him—she probably thought him a rake of the highest order. And worse, there was no way in which Jack might be able to explain himself—at least not without exacting Lady Havisham's ire. One did not speak of faux engagements or would-be mistresses to young ladies unless one was willing to risk a box. And Jack had no doubt that Lady Havisham would deliver him a black eye more surely than Gentleman Jackson himself, if she thought that he had upset her niece.
Jack needed to explain himself and swiftly, but how...
Of course, Jack grinned, he could explain himself most plainly to Sebastian Havisham, who
could then inform his sister—with a much-redacted version of events—that Jack was innocent.
"Grahams," Jack addressed the young footman who had opened the front door, "I shall need you to deliver a note to Jermyn Street post haste."
"Yes, your Grace," Grahams stood swiftly to attention and extended his hand for the letter which was not yet written.
"At ease," Jack instructed him, "I am yet to write my missive. Come to the library in a quarter of an hour, and it shall be ready then."
With a nod to his eager servant, Jack departed for the library, frantically wracking his brain for a valid excuse for calling on Havisham.
Later that night, just after ten bells, Jack knocked on the door of Havisham House. No light shone from any of the windows which faced out onto the street, and as he waited, Jack nervously wondered if, perhaps, no one was at home.
The muffled sound of footsteps approaching soon put paid to this thought, and after much clanking of bolts and locks, the door opened.
"Havisham," Jack said by way of greeting to Sebastian, who stood in the darkened hallway.
"Your Grace," he replied, his tone sounding rather surly to Jack's ear, "Won't you come in?"
Jack ignored his testy host and sauntered into the entrance hall. As before, the candles burned low in their sconces, offering little light and casting deep shadows.
"Thank you for agreeing to see me," Jack continued, as he followed Havisham down the hallway toward the library, "Especially at such short notice."
"Your note did not give the impression that my agreement was optional," Sebastian replied dryly, as he ushered Jack into the chaotic room.
Jack winced; perhaps he had laid it on a bit thick in his letter. His style of correspondence was perfunctory in a military way. Iris often said that she was never quite certain if she was being ordered somewhere, or invited when he wrote.
"I hope I have not interrupted your plans for the evening," Jack replied, by way of apology, "However, this is rather urgent."
Jack reached into the breast-pocket of his coat and fished out the "urgent" missive, which needed translation. The letter was, in fact, a year old, and had already been translated, but Havisham needn't know that.
Jack handed the folded page across to the young lad, who squinted at it for a moment.
"Shouldn't take long," Havisham muttered, before adding as an aside, "Would you care for a drink?"
Jack gave a nod, and Havisham retrieved two bottles from the cupboard. He poured Jack a healthy measure of cognac, before pouring himself a glass from the other bottle.
"Elderflower wine," Havisham said defensively, as he caught Jack's curious gaze, "I find it sits better with in my stomach."
Jack bit his lip to keep from smiling; Havisham was a slip of a man and evidently could not handle spirits as well as larger gentlemen. Jack himself, owing to his size, could drink brandy like water and never feel its effects.
"A man must know his limits," Jack said agreeably, as he reached for his own drink.
This seemed to settle Havisham, who sat down to work. The sound of his quill scratching against the page, as he wrote out the translation, was the only sound in the room for several minutes, as Jack waited for a suitable opportunity to bring up Violet.
"This is rather nice," Havisham said with some surprise, a while later, as he finished his glass of wine, "It does not taste at all like alcohol."
"Have another," Jack suggested, hoping that the drink might lubricate the young man's lips, for it already appeared to have lightened his mood.
Havisham cheerfully poured himself a second glass of wine and took a large sip. Jack waited a little while longer, until the second glass was near finished, before broaching the subject of Violet.
"How is your sister?" he queried, his attempt at sounding casual falling flat, as his deep voice cracked across the silence of the room.
"Eh?" Havisham glanced up from his work, the cheeks beneath his beard rosy-red—though from alcohol or indignation, Jack could not tell.
"I asked," Jack repeated, attempting to keep his voice calm, as frustration overwhelmed him, "After your sister."
From the irritated scowl that Havisham cast him, Jack knew that Violet had confided about him to her brother.
"She is well, thank you for asking."
A curt reply, which left no opening for further enquiries, was exactly what a man who wished to protect his sister from a rake should offer. Jack was torn between begrudging respect for Sebastian's loyalty and sheer frustration at his own predicament.
Thankfully, the army had trained him to master his impulses, and he valiantly ignored the urge to take Havisham by the shoulders and shake him until he offered news on Violet. Instead, Jack cleared his throat in a manner which let the lad know their conversation had not ended, before he spoke again.
"I called on her thrice," he said, keeping his eyes fixed on Havisham, who was staring pointedly at the page before him, "But she was not at home to me. Why do you think that is?"
The wine had obviously taken effect, for Havisham gave a derisive snort—the type one most definitely did not offer to a duke—and cast Jack a surly glare.
"Hmm," the lad said, stroking his beard as he faux-pondered Jack's question, "What on earth could have inspired my sister to refuse the calls of a duke? Could it, perhaps, be the fact that he is promised to another? Is that a reasonable enough excuse for His Grace, or is he so pig-headed that he thinks I—I—my sister should be grateful that he deigns to pay her any attention at all?"
Well. Jack exhaled slowly as he attempted to come to terms with the depth of Havisham's grievance. He could not blame the lad for being angry; had Iris been in a similar position, Jack was certain that he would be similarly apoplectic with rage. In fact, he rather admired Havisham for not having punched him in the face—with a brick—upon greeting him.
"I can explain," Jack began, leaning forward in his chair, "I know that Miss Havisham must be rather confused—"
"Not confused," Havisham corrected him, "Insulted."
"I did not mean to insult her," Jack growled, "In fact, I have not insulted her. I am not promised to anyone. When I assumed the title, I did the honourable thing and offered to marry Lady Olivia in my brother's place. She refused, but her father begged me to wait a while to see if she would change her mind."
"Well, the ton seems to think you in love with her," Havisham grumbled, "And why on earth would you remain semi-promised to a woman who does not wish to marry you?"
"Convenience," Jack was slightly shame-faced as he offered his answer, "It suits me to be thought of as off the market. I have no time for lovers or mistresses, and the only excuse for refusal most women seem to accept, without taking insult, is the love of another."
Havisham's face was now so red that Jack could have warmed his hands on it. For a young-blood, he seemed awfully prudish when it came to talk of mistresses.
"I did not think you a Puritan," Jack said with a laugh, "I'm sure you have half the demi-monde vying for a place under your bedsheets."
"Oh, no," Havisham squawked indignantly, "I have not—I have never—I am a virg—ooh, no..."
Havisham trailed off, nervously wiping his brow with the back of his hand, as he realised he had spoken too much.
Jack blinked; was the lad confessing what he thought he was confessing? If so, it was rather refreshing to hear—especially to Jack—for most men did little except boast of their bedroom prowess and conquests.
"No need to look so embarrassed," Jack grunted, "Wenching is a choice made by men who give little thought to the consequences of their actions. I have no time for it myself."
"Your Grace?" Havisham blinked his big, purple orbs in confusion. Jack could not fault the lad his perplexion; the papers had linked his name with dozens of women since he had assumed the title, yet Jack had bedded not one. Jack, in fact, had never bedded any woman.
"When I was a lad," Jack began, marvelling at how the brandy and the shadowed room had led him to a m
ood of confession, "My father had little time for me. I was the spare heir, and he felt that his time was better spent on educating Frederick in his duties. I was cast aside, and not being a great student, I spent much of my time outside in the stables. There, I was taken under the wing of the head groomsman, Evans. Evans was a proud Welshman, who taught me that honour, responsibility, and duty were what made a boy a man. It is because of him that I joined the army, and it is because of him that I discovered what really matters in life..."
Jack trailed off, shocked to find there was a slight lump in his throat. His childhood had been filled with all the material things a child could want for, but one thing—love—had been sorely missing. His mother had expired from a child-bed fever soon after delivering Jack, and his father had cared only for Frederick, his heir and protégé. Iris and Jack had been left to fend for themselves, and while Iris had found solace in reading, Jack had looked elsewhere and found it in the tiny cottage that Evans and his wife, Mavis, had occupied with their daughter, Gwen.
There, he had witnessed what true family really was. He had seen how Evans doted on Gwen, how she was the centre of his world, and that everything the man did, he did for his daughter.
Jack had seen what a father could truly be, if he cared.
"I could not, in good conscience, father a child and have nothing to do with its life," Jack shrugged, embarrassed by the croak of emotion in his voice, "The world is cold and cruel, and I could not bring a child into it, lest I knew that I could provide it with a home filled with love. Nor could I bed a woman, lest I knew that I could provide her with a home, protection, and my heart."
There was a momentary silence, as Jack finished speaking, and for a moment, he regretted his speech. It was not fashionable to admit to wanting love; Havisham was probably doubled over with mirth at his confession.
"His Grace is a romantic," the lad eventually replied, and Jack looked up to find Sebastian looking misty-eyed as he clutched his glass of wine—which had been refilled during Jack's soliloquy.
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