Wilful Wallflowers Collection: Books 1 - 3

by Claudia Stone

  What would it be like, she wondered, to allow Orsino into her life? She would be protected, there was no doubt about that, but she would also be cherished. Cosseted from any hardship by a wealthy duke with a physique so perfect that it might have been sculpted by one of the masters.

  "Stop that," Violet hissed to herself, pushing away her now empty glass. She could not afford to dwell on the duke's attributes or allow herself to dwell on what her life with him might be like, for there was no future for them. There was no "them". They were two singular beings, one of whom was a peer of the realm, the other of whom was...a liar.

  Violet hung her head in shame, as she recalled Orsino's cracking voice, as he had determinedly declared that he would never sire a child he could not raise and love. His emotion had stemmed--Violet knew--from being thought of as second best. A feeling which Violet could identify with all too well. "Sebastian" had inspired a confidence, which was not deserved, and Violet was now riddled with guilt.

  Imagine how hurt the duke would be, Violet fretted, if he were to find out that she had deceived him. Not to mention humiliated, annoyed, and angry.

  He could, Violet gulped, become so enraged that he might report her antics to her father--which would lead to big trouble for both Violet and Sebastian.

  Orsino had to be pulled off the course he was so intent upon, but how?

  Violet sipped thoughtfully on her wine, as she pondered just how she might distract the duke from his inexplicable infatuation with her. As she sat, staring vacantly into space, Bagpipes rose from his position in front of the fire, sprung to the window sill, and scratched impatiently to be let out.

  "I see you, I see you," Violet called to the impatient cat, who was now mewling with annoyance, "But if I let you out, you shan't get back in until morning--do you hear me?"

  Bagpipes did not deign to reply; he simply fixed Violet with an irritable, amber-eyed glare, and scratched again on the window.

  "Out you go," Violet said with a sigh, as she lifted the sash-window for the cat to make his escape, "But behave, and don't bring back any little presents!"

  The breeze from outside ruffled the hair of Violet's wig as she stood by the window, watching as Bagpipes stalked into the shadows of the night. Despite her warnings, she knew that Bagpipes would return in the morning, carrying the carcass of a dead bird or mouse which he would drop at Violet's feet proudly.

  Although it would be a horrid sight and a very unwanted gift, it was touching to think that Bagpipes thought of her whilst out on his nightly adventures.

  Violet made to close the window, but as she reached to draw the sash back down, light from one of the houses on Brury Street--whose gardens backed on to those on Jermyn Street--caught Violet's eye.

  Lady Olivia!

  The poor lady who had unknowingly caused Violet such distress occupied a house with her parents on that very street! The fact that she was so close felt almost like a sign to Violet. She hurriedly closed the window and stepped back, her mind racing a mile a minute.

  Orsino had agreed to wait for Lady Olivia to make her mind up about his proposal--as an honourable man, he would surely not renege on his offer should she decide that she did want to be his duchess. Perhaps, if Orsino was to make some kind of romantic overture, he might help his lady decide on his proposal.

  But how on earth could she persuade Orsino to put on a show of romance for Lady Olivia, when he was hell-bent on wooing Violet?

  Violet closed her eyes against the dreadful idea which had struck her--Orsino need not do anything if Violet did it on his behalf.

  She was already pretending to be Sebastian, Violet reasoned, as she reached for her quill again, what harm could come of pretending to be a duke?

  Violet's hand moved quickly across the page, as though willing itself to outrun her conscience, which was lagging behind but beginning to make noise.

  It's for the best, Violet told herself, Orsino needs an honest woman to be his wife, not a woman who dresses up as a man. Once her letter was finished, Violet slammed down her quill and stood up from the desk, hoping to leave before she talked herself out of her hare-brained scheme.

  She slipped from the library into the kitchens, where she quietly let herself out the garden door. From there, she stole out onto the night street through the side-gate, leaving it unlatched so she might make a quiet return.

  Violet had never been abroad after dark in London, and as she trod along the footpath, she thought nervously of footpads and thieves. Luckily, given that the hour was not yet past eleven, lights still shone from the windows of most houses, and the only people who passed were those in carriages, off to some grand event.

  Violet turned onto Brury Street, clutching the letter in her hand nervously. She had planned to deliver the letter from "Orsino" to Lady Olivia herself, but as she neared the front steps, she wondered how on earth would she manage that? She could not knock, for no sensible servant would answer the door to an unexpected caller after dark. Nor could she simply leave the letter outside, for anyone might find it.

  No more elderflower wine for you, Violet told herself sternly, as she realised that her brilliant plan was not so brilliant. She paused to survey the magnificent house, which stood three stories high and briefly wondered if she could climb up to one of the open windows.

  I will end up hanging from Tyburn's Tree if I attempt that, Violet thought ruefully, or in Bedlam. Though, she was beginning to think that the latter venue was exactly where she belonged.

  Violet turned on her heel, determined to scurry back home when the sight of a familiar, ginger beast caught her eye and put a halt to her departure.

  Bagpipes!

  The insolent cat ignored Violet, prancing past her with his tail up. He leapt from the footpath onto the railings of Lady Olivia's home, then hopped from window sill to window sill, until he reached a balcony on the second floor. Violet heard him mewling and scratching, and not too long after, she heard the click of a door opening.

  "There you are, you little beast," a soft, feminine voice called, "Where have you been all day, eh?"

  Bagpipes, the treacherous fiend! Violet was torn between indignation that her beloved cat was spending his time between two homes, and excitement that the person speaking might be Lady Olivia.

  She stepped backwards, hoping to catch a glance of the lady on the balcony, but lost her footing in Sebastian's unfamiliar boots.

  "Who's there?"

  Violet's hopes of going unnoticed were dashed, as a beautiful young woman peered over the balustrades down to the street below.

  "Lady Olivia," Violet gushed, as she scrambled back up to her feet, "Forgive me, I did not mean to startle you."

  "And yet you did," Lady Olivia replied, casting a cool glance down at Violet, "Who are you? Tell me now, or I shall call for the Bow Street Runners."

  Lud. Violet paled as she imagined the scandal that would ensue if she were to be escorted--dressed as a man--from beneath Lady Olivia's window by the Runners. The relative anonymity she had enjoyed since arriving to London would disappear, replaced by notoriety no young lady would wish for.

  "I am Sebastian Havisham, my lady," Violet called, unable to think of a faux-moniker in her panic, "I have come to deliver a message from the Duke of Orsino."

  Violet could not be certain, but she could have sworn that Lady Olivia gave an irritable sigh at the mention of Orsino's name. Nevertheless, Violet was determined to continue, so she nervously opened the letter that she held in her hand, and began to read it aloud.

  "My sweet lady," Violet began, trying to keep her voice as low and masculine as possible, "Know that I love you, with adorations and fertile tears. With groans that thunder love, with sighs of fire--"

  Violet had just begun to warm up to her speech, some of which she had appropriated from Shakespeare himself, but Lady Olivia seemed unimpressed.

  "Enough," she called dryly, raising one hand to silence Violet. Bagpipes, who remained tucked under her other arm, purred happily in agreemen
t.

  Traitor, Violet thought, sourly eyeing her cat.

  "I do not wish to hear about how Orsino thunders and groans for me," Lady Olivia gave a shiver, "In fact, if you are acting as a messenger, you might please tell His Grace that I have made up my mind. I have no desire to marry him now and never will."

  Lud, Violet gulped, her plan to woo Lady Olivia had gone horribly, terribly wrong.

  "But, he loves you," Violet called, stepping out from the shadows to plead her case.

  "He does not know me," Lady Olivia replied softly, as she gently stroked Bagpipes head, "He offered for me out of a sense of honour, not a sense of love. Tell me, how can Orsino love me?"

  "How can he not?" Violet shrugged helplessly, "You are the epitome of grace and beauty, my lady."

  "Pah," Lady Olivia was suitably unimpressed by talk of appearances.

  "And--and," Violet grasped for something else to offer, "You are soft of soul. Look at that mangy cat in your arms. Who else could love one as he, except a lady of kindness?"

  "Mr Fluffykins is not mangy," Lady Olivia replied defensively, though she seemed more interested now in what Violet had to say, "Go on."

  "You are a lady who has lost not one love, but two," Violet continued, "The stars have shone darkly upon you, and yet still you glow with vitality and life. What man could not love you? What man would not seek your hand?"

  To Violet's surprise, Lady Olivia gave a wistful sigh at his words. She let go of Bagpipes and leaned upon the balustrades of her balcony, gazing down at Violet with a soft expression.

  "You are a man of sweet words, Sebastian Havisham," Lady Olivia said, after a pause. She then offered Violet a smile which, to her eyes at least, looked awfully like the lady was attempting at being beguiling.

  "They are not my words," Violet hastened to explain herself, "But Orsino's."

  "La! Does Orsino think me such a fool that I can not recognise Shakespeare when it is quoted to me?"

  Violet was spared from having to think of an excuse for "Orsino's" lack of originality by Bagpipes, who had returned to earth and decided that he wished to be in Violet's arms.

  "Mr Fluffykins does not usually like strangers," Lady Olivia called in surprise, as the beast of a cat snuggled into Violet's arms.

  "I am not a stranger," Violet retorted, her patience with her cat--and Lady Olivia--now at an end, "This cat belongs to me, and his name is Bagpipes, not Mr Whatever-it-is-you-call-him. If you are quite certain that I cannot speak on behalf of Orsino, then I must take my leave, my lady."

  "Oh, I am certain that I have no desire to hear anything else from the duke," Lady Olivia replied, standing to a height and smiling down at her messenger, "But should you care to bring me any more sweet whispers, you would be most welcome. Goodnight, Mr Havisham."

  Lady Olivia retreated from the balcony, with a coy smile over her shoulder to "Mr Havisham". As the door of the balcony clicked shut behind her, Violet let out a low groan.

  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 Carlton 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 sta
lked 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."