The Countess Conspiracy

Since that time, Professor Bollingall had become a friend. Nowadays, he listened intently to Sebastian’s every word. And today, Sebastian needed his help to end the career he’d helped to start.

The man sat on his chair, his attention fixed attentively on Sebastian, his lips forming a too-eager smile. All that smiling attention was an illusion.

Sebastian glanced around the room. “Is that a photograph of your family?” he asked, gesturing to a frame that stood on a side table. It showed a grouping of five—man, woman, and three children in that awkward, spotty stage just before adulthood. Sitting for a photograph didn’t make them look any better; the children stared blankly ahead, no expressions on their faces whatsoever.

“Yes,” Bollingall said. “Alice made that one—you know she’s made quite a hobby of her photography. She’s become quite good. That one there is also hers—Trinity College from the backs in winter.”

Sebastian nodded, glancing politely at the other framed photograph.

“So, Malheur,” Bollingall said, “what have you come up with this time?”

Sebastian leaned back in his chair. “I’m giving this up.”

That eager smile faded into blank confusion. Bollingall leaned back in his chair. “Giving what up?”

“Scientific discovery.”

Instead of looking startled, though, the professor laughed. “Ah, you’re at that stage of your career, are you? We all feel that way from time to time. When the work isn’t going well. When we’re feeling overwhelmed.” He leaned forward. “You work too hard—that’s your problem. When was the last time you took a holiday? Go to the shore. Engage in a little sea-bathing. Relax for a week or two, and you’ll feel like a new man.”

Sebastian bit his lip. “It’s a lovely idea, but my problem is not that I work too hard. It’s that I do not work enough.”

Bollingall nodded compassionately. “That’s typical, too. There’s always something else to do, some other idea to explore. You can’t put the work down. You think of it all the time and feel guilty every minute you’re away. I only repeat my recommendation: Take a little time for yourself, and you’ll soon feel better.”

Sebastian had been afraid it would come to this. He trusted Bollingall implicitly. But he felt a little sick. He was about to expose himself his secret to a man who had put his own reputation on the line for Sebastian several times over.

“That’s not what I mean, either.” Sebastian took in a deep breath. “I am not weary of doing work. Hypothetically speaking, what would you say if you heard that I did not do all the work myself?”

Across the desk from him, Bollingall didn’t even bat an eye. “Most of us don’t. I have a servant take measurements for me. The point isn’t who performs the actual work—that’s mere manual labor. It’s the intellectual work that matters, after all.”

Sebastian expelled a sigh. “Let us suppose that the intellectual work that I have reported was not done by me. That it was done by someone else.”

Bollingall frowned.

“Let us suppose,” Sebastian said, “that it was done by a woman.”

The other man froze. Only for an instant—just long enough to stare at Sebastian in surprise. Then he exhaled and glanced at the door. It was shut firmly—something Sebastian had made sure of before he spoke. But even the books lining his office seemed to judge Sebastian—hundreds of volumes all penned by men who were not frauds. Sebastian’s pulse quickened, and he braced himself for Bollingall’s disappointment.

Instead the man licked his lips and leaned in. “Well,” he said softly, “that happens, too.”

Sebastian’s mouth went dry.

“In fact,” Bollingall continued in a low voice, “it’s more common than you might think. It’s so common, in fact, that it ought to remain unremarked upon.”

Sebastian’s mouth curled into a grimace. “I don’t know what you mean. Spell it out.”

“She’s a helper, yes?” Bollingall shrugged. “I know a man who dictates all his papers to his wife. She writes them down.”

“I’m not talking about mere dictation.”

“No,” Bollingall said slowly. “But that’s all anyone needs to know. When you are engrossed in a subject, it’s only inevitable that your most intimate relations would be involved, too. Her interest is a subset of yours. Her contribution is a subset of yours. And if she’s married to you…why, it’s essentially you who is doing the work after all. You’re one person in a legal and spiritual sense. Why not in the scientific sense, too?”

Sebastian’s head spun. He could scarcely believe what he was hearing. “But I’m not married.”

“There are quite a few,” Bollingall said slowly, “quite a few of us who operate this way. We never inquire as to the extent, and indeed, no gentleman would raise the question. You’re quite safe.” He shook his head, and then glanced at Sebastian. “Or, that is—you’re almost safe. There’s one thing you really should do, if you want to truly be as one.”

Sebastian felt a confused, dark longing overtake him. His head seemed full of cotton. “I’m not married,” he repeated.

Bollingall—quite pointedly—looked up at the ceiling. “Yes,” he said. “That’s it. Change that, and you have nothing to worry about.”

Marriage to Violet. God, what an awful idea. She drew back from him when he put a hand on her in friendship. She shuttered up when he said he cared for her. His own feelings were immaterial; Violet wasn’t interested in him for any length of time, least of all for the rest of their lives.

And to marry her for such a reason? Part of him didn’t care what the reason was. He’d wanted her so long that this chance—any chance—pierced through him.

Giving her back her work might be the only thing that could drive her to his bed. And for an instant, he imagined it—imagined being able to kiss her into compliance. He might soothe her fears and seduce her into maybe, one day…

He shoved aside heated visions of Violet, with her hair undone, strewn around his pillows.

Maybe, he reminded himself ruthlessly, if he was very, very persuasive, he might one day seduce her into not flinching when he took her hand. He felt as if he’d been offered an apple from a tree: He might gorge himself to sickness on this particular temptation.