Lud; what on earth had she done? She had set out to woo Lady Olivia on Orsino's behalf but had succeeded only in pushing her away. Away into the arms of "Sebastian Havisham".
"Don't you start," Violet hissed to Bagpipes, who had begun to squirm in her arms, "You are coming home with me, and there will be no more nocturnal adventures for you."
Nor for me, Violet added silently to herself as she beat a quick path back to Havisham House. For her own nocturnal venture had ended in a farce.
The next morning, Violet awoke with a thumping headache and a heavy feeling of doom. What on earth had she been thinking, she wondered, as she bathed and dressed, before heading downstairs for a much-needed cup of chocolate.
Aunt Phoebe was at the breakfast table, drinking a fragrant tea and perusing the morning's papers when Violet entered.
"La! You look like Prinny after one of his parties at Carton House," Phoebe commented as Violet took a seat, "What on earth has you looking so ill, my dear?"
"I did not sleep much, Aunt," Violet replied, as she reached for a piece of dry toast.
"Try not to stay up painting so late," Phoebe sighed in return before she stood from the table to begin her day, "It plays havoc on the complexion, and in your case, it seems to have brought on a beard."
Aunt Phoebe reached out to stroke Violet's cheek, with a mischievous glint in her eye, before she left the room bellowing for Dorothy. Nervously, Violet reached up to feel her face and found a small piece of her fake beard still stuck in place.
She hastily yanked it off, wincing slightly as the spirit-gum took a little of her skin with it.
She would have to be more careful, she thought, as she concealed the hair-piece in the pockets of her skirts. Her predicament was already troubling enough; she did not need to add to it by appearing at breakfast like a lost animal from Polito's Menagerie.
Nor did she need to add to her troubles by dragging other people into her lies, she thought with a pang of guilt, as she recalled Lady Olivia's smile to "Sebastian".
Determined to outrun her troubles, or at least to stop thinking of them for a while, Violet finished her breakfast and ran to find Henry to ask him to prepare for their trip.
Saville House was located in the bustling hub of Leicester Square, and Henry was forced to circle for quite some time until he found a spot where he might park the carriage. Violet, who was bursting to finally see Miss Linwood's exhibition, sprang from the carriage as soon as it stopped.
"I shan't be more than an hour, Henry," she called over her shoulder, as she raced to the steps of Saville House.
Inside, away from the hustle and bustle of London, Violet found a quiet and calm entrance hall, where a fusty gentleman checked her name against his list before he permit her to enter.
Violet hesitated slightly, before the heavy, mahogany door, which led to the gallery. She had waited for so long to see Miss Linwood's famed works that she was almost afraid to enter. When she finally pushed the door open, she found a long gallery filled with light. High windows ran the length of the room, bathing everything in soft, spring sunshine, and allowing the viewer to truly appreciate the displayed artworks.
Each piece was stitched, not painted, and Miss Linwood's talent was so great that it was rumoured the Tsar of Russia had once tried to purchase one of her works.
Violet gave a happy sigh as she walked the line of the gallery, marvelling at the intricate detail in each of the pictures. How Miss Linwood had managed to create shadow and light so perfectly with a needle was beyond Violet's understanding—but then, she had always been terrible at needlework.
She halted before a reworking of Carlo Dolci's Salvator Mundi, which, it was universally agreed, was the gem of the collection. Violet leaned forward to peer at the picture; the embroidered stitches were so fine that one needed to squint to be certain that it was not a pencil or paint which had created the image.
A little further down the gallery, toward the door, two gentlemen were considering portraits of Napoleon and Lady Jane Grey, which hung side by side.
"Pah," one of them exclaimed, in tones more suited to a tavern than a gallery, "I think her overrated."
"Indeed," his companion agreed belligerently, frowning at the frames, "All this fuss over simple needlework? My dear wife works away quietly on hers in the evenings, without expecting any more recognition than my approval. Here, take a look at this handkerchief she stitched for me, is it not fine?"
Violet closed her eyes against the view of the offending conversation, which was unfurling before her, but unfortunately, she could not close her ears to it.
"Wonderful work," she heard the first gentleman exclaim, "And what more should a woman want than for her husband to appreciate her endeavours? Exhibiting needlework. They'll be asking for us to look at their oil-paintings next!"
Mercifully, the two gentlemen decided to take their leave, so offended were they by Miss Linwood's works, but behind them, they had left an unpalatable taste in Violet's mouth. How very like men, she thought churlishly, as she stalked along the carpet which ran the length of the hall, to think a woman's art should be produced only for the pleasure of her husband.
Violet huffed with annoyance, startling an elderly lady and her maid, who were eyeing a worsted work of a Rubens painting.
"I do beg your pardon," Violet stammered, as she passed them. She slowed her pace, exhaled a deep breath, and tried to focus her attention back on the artworks before her.
Violet spent a pleasant half-hour examining Miss Linwood's works, noting how cleverly the needlewoman had stitched silk into the thread to add light to create perfect replications of famed paintings.
She had just come to the end of the exhibition when an irritated "harrumph" from behind her caused her to turn on her heel.
"Miss Havisham," the Duke of Orsino towered above her, his face a disapproving moue, "What on earth are you doing?"
Violet paused as she tried to ascertain what on earth it was that she had done to vex the duke—he looked positively terrifying. Was it possible that he had discovered her duplicity?
No, she reasoned with herself; if he had, he would surely not confront her in such a public venue.
"I am taking in Miss Linwood's works, your Grace," she finally offered, frowning in response to his green-eyed glare.
"And where is your maid?" Orsino queried imperiously, with a glance over Violet's shoulder, looking for a maid who was not there. Violet had no lady's maid; instead, she shared Dorothy with Aunt Phoebe.
"At home," Violet snipped in response. His proprietary tone was beginning to grate on her; who was he to think he had any business in what Violet did, or where she went?
"So you came here, to the middle of Leicester Square, alone?" Orsino asked, indignantly drawing himself up to his full height, which was not inconsiderable.
"Yes," Violet now matched the duke's glare with one of her own. He was not the only one who could make faces, she thought churlishly, as she knitted her brow into a frown which she hoped looked as fearsome as his. "I came alone, your Grace. It is hardly the Seven Dials; it is an art gallery."
"It. Is. Dangerous," Orsino replied, his thick eyebrows drawing together into a scowl.
"Dangerous?" Violet raised her brow and glanced pointedly around the sedate gallery, which was empty bar the elderly lady whom Violet had almost barrelled into earlier.
Catching her gaze, the woman offered Violet a charming smile and reached into her reticule.
"Boiled sweet, my dear?" she asked, sending the maid over at Violet's nod of thanks, with a paper-wrapped parcel of humbugs.
"Thank you," Violet said sweetly, as she took one and pointedly popped it into her mouth for the irritated duke's benefit.
"Dangerous?" she whispered again, but this time her voice faltered. Orsino's eyes had turned dark and were focused steadily on Violet's lips. The same lips she had so smugly opened just moments ago.
Her mouth went dry as she saw something flash across Orsino's face, somethin
g deliciously wicked and dark. Something which Violet also felt as a pleasurable lurch in the pit of her stomach.
He is the only thing dangerous here, Violet thought nervously, as a queer feeling of longing overtook her.
She sucked nervously on her boiled sweet, so distracted by desire that the ruddy thing somehow lodged itself in the back of her throat. She gave a frantic cough, and Orsino sprang into action, leaping forward to deliver a resounding clap between her shoulder blades which dislodged the sweet—and sent her stumbling across the carpet.
She staggered, but the duke moved quickly, catching her in strong arms before she tumbled to the floor.
"See," he whispered triumphantly, as he helped her right herself, "It is dangerous to go out alone."
Violet longed to contradict him, but his arms were still wrapped around her, and she found that she could not utter a word. Her every sense was heightened. Her skin burned where he touched her. Her heart hammered in her ears. And his overwhelmingly masculine scent—wood, tobacco, and something earthy—threatened to drown her.
For his part, the duke abruptly stilled, as though he had suddenly become affected by holding her in his arms. After a heady moment, Orsino cleared his throat, dropped his arms from around her, and took a measured step backwards.
"If you will allow me to accompany you to your carriage," he said, his voice sounding somewhat strangled, "That is if you thought to come by carriage?"
"Of course I came by carriage," Violet was glad that his words allowed her to feel irritated again, for she could not stand this strange, heady desire which coursed through her veins. It was far easier to feel vexed with Orsino than attracted to him, "I know all about the risks posed by footpads and other villains."
"Good," Orsino harrumphed again, as he began to steer Violet in the direction of the door, "Then I will be glad to escort you safely back to it."
Oh, for goodness' sake, Violet thought, as the high-handed duke led the way outside. Does he think me incapable of making it down a set of steps alone? Her irritation must have shown on her face, for as they reached the carriage, Orsino offered her an apologetic smile.
"Forgive me," he said gruffly, "I was not expecting to find you alone."
"Were you expecting to find me inside, your Grace?" Violet replied innocently, determined to have a little fun with the duke.
"I-ah-I was not," Orsino lied, the tips of his ears burning, "It was a complete surprise to find you there. Alone. But what a coincidence, that you happened to procure tickets for the same day as I."
Violet bit her lip to keep from laughing; the duke was not about to admit that he had wrestled her day's itinerary from her "brother" the night before.
"Are you as taken by Miss Linwood's works as I, your Grace?" Violet queried, quashing the urge to giggle.
"Completely," Orsino nodded, his green eyes catching hers momentarily, and leaving her breathless.
"Tell me, which one is your favourite?" Violet continued, determined to plough on with her fun, for the alternative was to become lost in the sea-green depths of Orsino's gaze.
"Oh, I could not pick merely one."
Violet recognised bluster when she heard it, and Orsino's cheeks had now gone as red as his ears.
"Oh, that's no fun, your Grace," Violet replied, thoroughly enjoying herself now, "You'll have to pick one. I'm simply dying to know which piece you favour the most."
"Oh, look!" Orsino let out an audible sigh of relief, "We've reached your carriage."
They had indeed reached Violet's carriage, where Henry awaited. The elderly gentleman made moves to get down from his perch, but Orsino waved him away with a careless hand.
"I shall help Miss Havisham in," he called, as he guided Violet with a firm hand around the corner and out of view.
"I hope you don't think me presumptuous," Orsino continued, with a smile, "But I fear we might have been waiting a while for your man to get down to assist you."
"Yes," Violet agreed solemnly, "And in the interim, you might then have been forced to offer me an answer."
"Is it so obvious that I do not know a thing about Miss Linwood?" Orsino queried, with a rueful laugh.
"Only a little," Violet shrugged, unable to stop herself from answering his infectious grin with one of her own.
"I know nothing of Miss Linwood," Orsino admitted, dropping his head as he spoke so that some of his wavy hair fell forward into his eyes, "And I knew that you would be here, which is why I am here. I rather fear that as you were not accepting my calls, a little ingenuity was required on my part."
"Oh," Violet flushed at having been called out on her avoidance of him.
"I can't say that I blame you," Orsino ploughed on, "But now that your brother has had the chance to explain matters, I hope that I might see a lot more of you, Miss Havisham."
This was the moment, Violet thought, the moment that she should tell the duke that, in no uncertain terms, she would not be seeing him again. It was the most opportune time Violet would ever have, and yet, as she gazed at the handsome man who towered above her, her resolve wavered, and she could not find her voice.
"I am not the only one who wishes to spend more time with you," Orsino continued, taking Violet's silence for acquiescence, "My sister is determined to get to know you better. I believe she has invited you and Lady Havisham to the theatre this evening. The three Theatre Royals are staging Shakespeare plays concurrently, and tonight Haymarket will be staging Twelfth Night."
"Oh," Violet replied stupidly in response, as she wondered what on earth had happened to all the words she once knew—Orsino's presence and command of the situation had left her stuttering out monosyllables.
"Splendid," Orsino grinned, reaching out a large gloved hand to open the carriage door, "Until this evening, Miss Havisham."
Violet allowed the duke to take her hand and assist her into the compartment. She was not so dazed that she did not recognise the frisson of tension which passed through her at his touch.
"Goodbye, your Grace," she managed to say before Orsino shut the carriage door.
As Henry manoeuvred the vehicle into the traffic of Leicester Square, Violet sat back against the carriage seat, once again cursing her stupidity.
The perfect opportunity to stop Orsino on his stupid crusade to court her had slipped through her fingers because...she had no wish to stop him.
Curses, Violet thought despondently, as she now realised she was fighting on two fronts; against Orsino and her own foolish heart.
The feeling of dismay that she had tried to outrun that morning now pressed doubly down upon her as she returned to Havisham House.
"Oh, there you are, Violet," Dorothy called, as Violet trudged into the drawing-room, "Her ladyship was wondering where you'd got to."
"I told Aunt Phoebe that I would be in Saville House all morning," Violet gave an irritable sigh.
"I don't doubt you did," Dorothy smiled, "Though I didn't know what to say to your caller."
What caller? Violet frowned; social calls were made to ladies of influence, and as Violet had none of that, she never received any.
"Who was it who called, Dorothy?" Violet queried.
"Dashed if I can recall her name," Dorothy replied, "But she did leave a card."
Violet departed the drawing-room for the entrance hall, with Dorothy on her heels. There, in the silver tray which was used to collect cards left by callers—and which was usually empty—Violet found a cream, heavily embossed card, which bore the name of Lady Olivia Cardigan.
"Oh, Lud," Violet whispered to herself, before turning to question Dorothy, "What did she say?"
"Oh, not much," the lady's maid frowned as she tried to recall, "Just that she was keen to make the acquaintance of Sebastian Havisham's sister."
Oh, no; Violet resisted the urge to cover her face with her hands and sob.
"Oh," Dorothy clicked her fingers as she recalled one last detail, "And she said that she wants her cat back. Whatever that means."
Chapter Eight
Any peer worth his salt rented a box in one of the Royal Theatres, and Jack was no exception. Well, in truth, it was Frederick—who had adored the theatre—who had initially leased the box, but Jack had kept it on when he assumed the title.
He did not much frequent the theatre; being so tall, he found the seats small and uncomfortable, and as he was a man of action, he detested sitting still for so long. Still, one needed to make some sacrifices when it came to courting a lady, and Jack did not so much mind the thought of being cooped up in a tiny box if it meant he was cooped up beside Violet.
"Lud, you're fidgeting," Iris commented, as their carriage made its way through Covent Garden toward Drury Lane.
"I am not," Jack objected, resting his hands—which he had been twisting nervously together—flat on his lap.
Despite having nearly a foot on Iris, his sister always managed to make him feel like a misbehaved school-boy. Had Jack the romantic nous to carry out his battle for Violet's heart alone, he would not have asked for Iris' help, for—just like Montague—Iris would never let him forget that it was she who had helped him.
"I do hope you name your first child after me," Iris said, proving Jack's point.
"What if it is a boy?" Jack wondered, before abruptly pulling himself up, "La! Iris, you cannot start naming our children, when Miss Havisham has shown no interest in me. She is only here because you invited her, not I."
"Hush," Iris waved an impatient hand, "She is a free agent, is she not? If she really had no wish to come tonight, she might have cried off with a headache and allowed Lady Havisham to come alone."
Jack paled; he had not thought of that. Iris, reading his mind in the way that only a sister could, gave a tinkle of laughter at his glum countenance.
"She will not cry off, Jack," his sister assured him, "Mark my words. I know that you will insist on comparing yourself to dear Frederick and thinking yourself lacking, but there are a million things to recommend you as a husband."
"Such as?" Jack queried, horrified to find that he needed some words of reassurance.
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