"Who doesn't love love?" Montague questioned cheerfully, "And who could not be taken by the idea of Penrith finally finding it? And with a girl with spirit, not a laced-up Oizys, as I had feared."
"So, you knew that he was listening alongside Dubarry?" Jack queried, quite impressed at Montague's instincts.
"Pfft, of course, I did. I have known him as long as you!"
They strolled on in silence for a while more, rounding the corner of King's Street, where Christie's Auction House was located.
"And do you think Miss Drew will be amenable to Penrith's grand gesture?" Jack ventured, hoping to subtly glean a little advice from Eros beside him. "She was hurt, perhaps even humiliated by Penrith's deception. What hope is there for love, when one of the parties has suffered an injury?"
Montague was silent, as he contemplated Orsino's question. The sound of his cane tapping against the footpath as they walked was the only noise he made.
Jack rather regretted asking the question, afraid that his friend might realise he was really speaking for himself, but then Montague shrugged.
"Ruined love, when it is built anew, grows fairer than at first, more strong, far greater," he offered, his grin evidence that he was proud of having sourced a fitting quote from the rear of his brain.
"But what if Miss Drew is too hurt?" Jack pressed, not wishing to talk of building love anew when he was still smarting. "I mean, she must have been very upset. Humiliated even. No man likes to be made a fool of."
"Well, thankfully Miss Drew is a woman," Montague offered lightly, and Jack flushed as he realised that he had outed himself.
They had reached St James' Square, where Montague paused, as though he wished to speak further.
"I had best hurry," Jack said brusquely, "I am away to Glamorgan for a spell, to check in on the estate."
Montague raised his eyebrows in question at this abrupt announcement of his departure.
"It is imperative that I go," Jack blustered, as he felt a blush creep up his neck, "Ducal business. You will understand when you inherit."
It was a low blow, Jack had to admit, lording his title over his friend, though Montague seemed not to care.
"Ah, what a pity," he said with a sigh, "For I was hoping you might accompany me to a masquerade in a sennight. Never fear, perhaps I shall persuade Penrith."
"Can you not go alone?" Jack questioned.
"Well, I am not technically invited."
"Not technically?"
"Not at all," Montague beamed, "Though we must not dally over a silly ball, Orsino, when you are setting off on your travels to the back of beyond."
Jack frowned at this barb, though Montague did think that the world ended at the boundary lines of Westminster.
"I will offer you one more piece of advice though before you go," Montague continued, before adding with a wink, "Or rather, I shall offer Miss Drew another piece of advice."
"Go on," Jack rolled his eyes.
"He that is proud eats up himself: pride is his own glass, his own trumpet, his own chronicle," Montague said lightly. "Penrith did not intend to hurt Miss Drew, and I'm certain that once she realises this, and casts aside her pride, she will find that he has not left her heart. Well, safe trip, old friend."
Montague doffed the rim of his beaver hat at Jack and set off across the square, merrily swinging his cane. Jack remained where he had left him, for a moment, his mind ruminating over the marquess' none-too-subtle analogy.
It was true that Violet had not set out to hurt Jack; in fact, she had merely fooled him in order to try and save her brother from their father's ire.
But that did not take away from the hurt he felt, he thought stubbornly, as he turned toward home.
No, Jack decided, he would not cast aside his pride as Montague suggested; instead, he would go to Wales, where the mead was strong, and nobody was quoting ruddy Shakespeare.
Chapter Thirteen
"I say," Sebastian said, as he strolled into the drawing-room, "Have you ever heard of someone called Lady Olivia?"
Violet, who had been busy at her easel, poked her head out from behind it in panic.
"Ah," Sebastian grinned, "I take it from your look of terror that this has something to do with your recent escapades."
"Lud, it never ends," Violet groaned, as she downed her paintbrush, "Tell me, was it terribly awkward?"
"No, not at all," Sebastian wore the smile of a Cheshire Cat, "Rather the opposite, in fact. I have never had a lady walk up to me and kiss me, right off the bat."
"She kissed you?" Violet gawped, "What? Where?"
"On the lips," Sebastian hooted, perhaps thinking that Violet had meant something else, "We met on one of the secluded walks in Vauxhall, just last night. She called out "Sebastian?" and when I turned, she said "You are a most difficult man to find" and walked up and planted one right on my lips. I say, Violet, I must have you play me more often, perhaps the next time you pretend to be me, you might land me a fortune, as well as a wife."
"A wife?"
Violet pushed away her childish revulsion at hearing her brother's tale of being kissed to focus on the more pertinent matter at hand.
"Well, yes," Sebastian shrugged, "A woman like Olivia does not fall into one's lap by chance, only by divine intervention. And fate leads the willing, does it not?"
"I would hardly call my dressing as you a divine act," Violet rolled her eyes, "More a moment of lunacy. Are you certain you wish to marry her, Sebastian? You have only known her for an evening."
"But what an evening," Sebastian sighed happily, as he threw himself upon the chaise to gaze up at the ceiling, "Did you know that Olivia adores the theatre? We spent an hour last night, as we walked the gardens, discussing our favourite plays. Then this morning, when I paid a call at her home, we recited our favourite lines to each other over tea. It was marvellous."
"Nauseating, more like," Violet grinned, quickly ducking out of range of the cushion Sebastian flung her way.
"Don't play the cynic with me, sister dear," Sebastian argued, "I have seen the sketches for your latest painting. I know you are not as immune to love as you profess to be. Tell me, have you heard from Orsino?"
"He has left London for Wales," Violet sighed, "Henry tried to deliver a letter for me, but his footman told that His Grace had departed for his Welsh estate."
"We could go after him," Sebastian cried, sitting up with a gleam in his eye.
"Sit back down," Violet instructed sternly, "You forget that I am not a man."
"You're not always a man," Sebastian corrected, and Violet duly responded by flinging the cushion back at him.
Alas, Violet's aim was poor, and the cushion did not hit Sebastian, but the wall behind him, right beside the door which Dorothy had just walked through.
"Och!" she grumbled, "You donas, attacking an old woman only trying to do a day's work."
"I'm sorry, Dorothy," Violet offered contritely, "I was not aiming for you; I was aiming for this addle-pate."
"Well, you may practice harder if that's the case," Dorothy tutted, bending down to scoop up the cushion and lobbing it at Sebastian. Dorothy's aim was true, and the cushion neatly hit the back of Sebastian's head.
"You have to really want to hit your mark, lovey," Dorothy advised, as she began bustling around the room with her duster. "I learned that when I was in India with your dear aunt. Where do you think the tiger-rug in the library came from? It didnae come from a poor shot."
Dorothy winked at a rather bewildered Violet, who could not imagine the elderly Dorothy taking down an enormous tiger. But then, when she thought on it further, she actually rather could.
"Where is my dear aunt?" Sebastian queried, hopping up from the chaise, as Dorothy began to swat it down with her feather duster.
"She's in the orangery," Dorothy said, as she absent-mindedly began to dust Sebastian.
"Right-ho," Sebastian grinned, though his smile quickly vanished as he inhaled one of Dorothy's feathers up his nose.
>
"You must be coming down with a cold," Dorothy tutted, to Sebastian's loud sneeze, "Wait there one minute, and I'll brew you up a nostrum."
Dorothy abandoned her dusting to head for the kitchens, leaving Sebastian and Violet alone again.
"What is it that you need to discuss with Aunt Phoebe?" Violet queried.
"Well, I need her permission to marry Lady Olivia," Sebastian shrugged. "If Aunt Phoebe is amenable to the idea, she might increase my annuity, and when that is coupled from the wages from Whitehall, I will be able to support my wife in the manner she is accustomed to."
"What position in Whitehall?" Violet blinked; this was news. Well, further news.
"Orsino wrote a letter to the War Office, detailing my knowledge of French and the service I had already carried out for the Crown," Sebastian had the good grace to blush, "They called me in yesterday and offered me a position."
"But what of your dream, Sebastian?" Violet asked, feeling slightly tearful, "Don't you wish to follow your path and live the life of an actor?"
"Journeys end in lovers meeting, sister dear," Sebastian replied with a shrug, and his customary lopsided grin, "Playing Hamlet was a dream, but one that I knew must come to an end. How fortunate, that you found me Lady Olivia to cushion my fall back to earth. And not just a wife, but a position in Whitehall as well. Lud, I am deeply indebted to you, Violet. Would you like me to dress as you and see what comes of it?"
"Don't even think of that Sebastian, let alone say it," Violet objected, with a gale of laughter. She reached for the cushion on the Queen Anne and lobbed it neatly at her brother, where it bounced off his head.
"Gracious," Violet grinned, "Dorothy was right, you have to really want to hit your mark for it to work."
"All right, all right," Sebastian held up his hands in surrender, "I promise I shall not don one of your dresses. I rather think Olivia might object, at any rate. And besides, we have a plan for you, have we not? Venice, Florence, the great masters. Give me a year, Violet, and I shall have the fortunes to send you there. You can count on me."
"Oh, Sebastian," Violet smiled, crossing the room to offer her brother the warmest of hugs, "I know you will. Now, go! Go tell Aunt Phoebe that you wish to marry the woman you love."
Sebastian gave a flourishing bow in response and left the room with a very obvious spring in his step. As the door closed behind him, Violet gave a rather wistful sigh. How easy love was for some.
Violet picked up Dorothy's abandoned duster and began to tend to the room. Though she was happy for Sebastian, she could not help but feel slightly morbid about her own love life.
If only Orsino had allowed her to apologise more, she thought, as she flicked the duster across the mantelpiece, before she stopped herself. It was selfish to wish for the duke to have remained so that she might apologise and make herself feel better. He was hurt, and he had every right to be. Tempting as it was to force herself into his sphere, and demand that he forgive her, and love her again, it would not be right.
Violet had erred, and like anyone else who had made a mistake, she had to live with the consequences.
The rest of the morning was spent on cleaning the drawing-room. Violet assisted Dorothy with the dusting and sweeping, before tidying away her paints and easel in preparation for luncheon.
"Your brother has found himself a wife," Aunt Phoebe commented, when Violet arrived, newly washed and dressed at the table.
"Yes, he told me," Violet smiled, "It was sudden and unexpected, but then we wouldn't expect anything less from Sebastian."
"I don't suppose we would," Phoebe commented mildly, as she speared an asparagus, "And it is far preferential to traipsing off up north, to play a Moorish prince."
"He told you?" Violet gawped.
"I knew from the off," Aunt Phoebe grinned, "Nothing happens in this house without my knowing. Now tell me; what is happening with you and the duke?"
Violet, hurriedly tried to swallow the bite of fish-pie she had taken, before she choked on it in shock. She had oft thought Aunt Phoebe omnipotent--if scatterbrained--and now she had her proof.
"I fear that I upset him greatly, and injured his pride," Violet offered, after a pause, "There is no hope there, Aunt, but I am certain I will recover in time."
"Pfft. Men," Aunt Phoebe rolled her eyes, "They are oft so weak that a blow to their pride can be fatal. I had more hope for Orsino, but even I can be wrong. Well then, niece, if you do not think you shall marry the duke, then we must plan for your future."
"Is staying in bed 'till noon and eating copious amounts of French Fancies a satisfactory plan?" Violet mused, to which Phoebe tut-tutted.
"I won't tolerate idleness," Lady Havisham grumbled, sounding decidedly Scottish, "No. I think a jaunt to Florence, followed by Venice, then back round to Paris should be plan enough."
If Violet had been shocked earlier, she was dumbfounded now. How could Aunt Phoebe propose such a trip--which would take at least a year--when their finances were already stretched? And that was without the increased annuity to Sebastian.
"Thank you, Aunt Phoebe," Violet stuttered, "But it is too much. I should not like to be the Havisham who bankrupted the family coffers."
"You shan't be," Aunt Phoebe threw her head back and laughed, "Just because I like to live frugally, does not mean that we are impoverished. I have money aplenty, and a nest-egg that I have been saving for just such an occasion."
Aunt Phoebe heaved herself up from her seat and pottered over to the sideboard, where various miniatures and ornaments were displayed. She picked up a sculpted, wooden elephant, that Violet had seen every day for the past three years, and gave its head a sharp twist.
It opened to reveal a compartment, with a velvet bag inside. Aunt Phoebe scooped this out, tottered back to Violet, and offered her the bag.
It was heavier than it looked, Violet thought with a frown, as she opened its drawstrings to see what was inside.
"Aunt Phoebe," she gasped, glancing up at her aunt in astonishment, "Where on earth did you get this?"
"When I was in INN-JAA," Aunt Phoebe boomed, with a far-away look in her eye, "I met a rather nice fellow called Maharajah."
"Are you certain he wasn't the Maharajah, Aunt?" Violet interrupted, perplexed, but Aunt Phoebe was not listening.
"I had become separated from dear Cousin Cecil, who had accompanied me on my trip," Aunt Phoebe continued, "And I was frightfully worried, for Cecil kept trying to convert the locals, and they weren't too taken by that. Dorothy and I set out on a hunt along the Tapi River, hoping to find him in one of the villages. After a few days, this Maharajah fellow stumbled across us and offered some assistance. He sent several of his fellows off, to find poor Cecil, whilst Dorothy and I rested in his palace. After a week, Cecil was found, but by that time the Maharajah had fallen in love with me--not that I can blame him, I was quite the beauty in my day."
"Of course," Violet agreed; she had seen the paintings which depicted Aunt Phoebe in her youth, beautiful, wild, and untameable.
"Anyway," Aunt Phoebe shrugged, "He begged me to stay, but I could not. I had only just landed in Surat, and there was so much more to see! So as a parting gift, he gave me that."
Aunt Phoebe nodded happily at the ruby in Violet's hand. It was the size of a duck-egg, and a deep, almost flawless, red.
"John Rundell has offered me a fortune for it over the years," Aunt Phoebe grinned, "And now, I might finally take him up on his offer."
Violet was struck-dumb by Phoebe's tale, a fact which seemed to tickle her Aunt.
"Do you know," she continued, glancing fondly at the gem, "I tried to give it to your father when he finished up at Oxford. But he said he had heard enough of my tales of India, and seemed determined to set forth to make his own fortune, so I let him to it."
Aunt Phoebe gave a laugh that could best be described as a cackle and rose from her feet once more.
"I'll put it back in its hiding place for now," she said, taking the ruby back from Vio
let, "But it is there, and once we have decided on our plans, I shall sell it. Now, all this excitement has given me terrible indigestion, Violet; I must go take a nap."
With that, Phoebe returned the gem into its hiding place inside the elephant and took herself off to bed.
Violet, who still had some of her lunch left, remained at the table. She munched through her asparagus and fish pie, still quite taken-aback by Phoebe's revelation.
This is it, she thought, your life-long dream, handed to you on a plate. She should, she knew, be overwhelmed with happiness--and she was, not to mention gratitude to Aunt Phoebe--but still, she felt something was missing.
And that something was big, tall, and built like an ox, so it was no wonder she felt its absence so keenly.
After lunch, Violet took herself back to the drawing-room. She had no plans for the afternoon, and whilst she could have continued working on her newest painting, she felt too lethargic to bother.
Instead, she sat herself down on the chaise longue, to peruse the day's papers. They were still filled with articles about the marriage of the Duke of Penrith to Miss Charlotte Drew, which had taken place two days hence. Penrith's apology--and proposal--had been most romantic, and had involved a very public dip in Miller's Pond for His Grace, which Violet--not to mention half of London--had witnessed.
It was no wonder that the papers were still talking of it, though she did ponder, as she flicked through them if there were no other worthy news items they might report on.
Toward the back of The London Chronicle, there were several pages dedicated to notices--births, marriages, deaths, and the like. Other notices listed items for sale, or positions vacant, while others contained pleas for the return of lost cats or dogs.
Violet perused them with all the interest of one who was simply trying to pass the time, until, that is, a familiar name caught her eye.
Mrs Katherine Greer seeks information on the whereabouts of her husband John, who did not return home on Sunday last. The authorities have been most unhelpful. Small reward offered. Please write to K. Greer at--
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