The Countess Conspiracy

No, Violet wasn’t jealous of her sister.

But sometimes, when she was around her, she hated the world.

“So,” Violet said. “About Amanda. I know you want me to talk to her, but… You realize that you might not like what I tell her?”

Lily laughed, as if everything were right with the world again. “Goodness, Violet. Of course I won’t like it. You’ll talk to her sternly and logically. You’ll present all her options. You’ll be rational, as only Violet can be. If I liked the conversation I had to have with my daughter, I would have had it myself. Why do you think I asked you?”

VIOLET FOUND HER NIECE a little bit later, when Lily had finished the conversation. She pulled Amanda into a side room, ushered three of her younger brothers into the hall outside with promises of peppermints, and shut the door.

“I have a present for you,” Violet told her.

“Oh?”

Violet reached into her bag and pulled out a light blue scarf rolled into the semblance of a ball.

“Oh, how lovely,” Amanda said politely. “Did you make it…?” But she stopped as her hands closed around the gift. Feeling the square edges hidden within the confines of the yarn. Her eyes widened. “Did you make it yourself?”

“Of course I did,” Violet told her.

Amanda tilted the scarf and slid out the leather-bound volume.

“Pride and Prejudice,” she said blankly. “But Aunt Violet, you know I’ve already read this.”

Violet didn’t blink an eye. “Not this version.”

“Mmm.” Amanda opened the front cover.

“I did make it myself,” Violet said.

And she had. She was a master at hiding inappropriate reading materials in acceptable packaging. She’d sliced out the pages of Pride and Prejudice herself, gluing these in their place. She’d never liked this version of the book anyway—it was a horrid first edition, one that was credited simply to the author of Sense and Sensibility. That lack of attribution grated at her so. Violet preferred the newer volumes, the ones that had Jane Austen’s name prominently displayed on the cover.

“What is this?” Amanda whispered.

Violet dropped her voice low. “Something you cannot let your mother know about.”

Amanda looked up at her.

“You know how your mother told you that you’re alone in thinking about marriage as you do? That if you speak your mind, everyone will laugh at you?”

Amanda nodded.

“Well, she’s wrong. You’re not alone. You’re old enough to see so for yourself.”

Amanda breathed out. “Oh, Aunt Violet.”

Stupid, perhaps, to give such a gift. Stupid to have spent those hours agonizing over the right book. Stupid to have spent so many hours removing the old binding, gluing this new one in its place.

And no matter what Lily had told her, her sister wouldn’t approve. She expected Violet to discourage her niece, to make her feel that she had no choice. She’d be furious if she ever found out. And yet when Violet looked into her niece’s eyes, she saw the unburdened version of herself. She couldn’t keep quiet or dismiss Amanda’s concerns.

Don’t marry an earl, Amanda. Don’t risk breaking. Don’t become me. It isn’t worth it, no matter what anyone says.

“Don’t tell anyone,” Violet repeated. “Lily will kill me if she ever finds out.”

Chapter Ten

SEBASTIAN WAS WHISTLING as he made his way out to his brother’s home. The sun was shining, the birds were singing, Violet was talking to him again, and his little idea had borne fruit.

He grinned as he left his horse in the stables, nodded cheerfully to the butler and second maid as he passed them in the halls.

“Hullo, Benedict!” he sang, as he was shown into his brother’s office.

His brother looked up. “Sebastian,” he said. “It’s good to see you.” But Benedict didn’t quite smile.

He’d come out to see his brother a handful of times in the last few weeks—once, to beg his help in making sense of the shipping records he’d obtained, another time to ask him a few questions about various manufactured goods. Those afternoons had been nice—no need to talk of the future, no reason to worry about what might come. Just a chance to talk with Benedict man-to-man.

“Do you have some more questions for me?” Benedict asked.

“Not today.” Sebastian tried for a bland sobriety in his tone. “Not today. I told you I wanted you to see what I could do. Well, here’s a little example.”

Benedict blinked warily as Sebastian walked up to his desk and set down the portfolio he’d been carrying.

“Here,” he said.

His brother reached out, saw the seal on the front, and pulled back his hand.

“This is from Wallisford and Wallisford.” Benedict looked up in puzzlement. “Is there a reason you’re showing me something from the family solicitors?”

“I could have just told you about it,” Sebastian said, “but this way, it’s a little more official.”

“Official? We’re being official?”

“Well.” Sebastian tried not to sound too excited. “Maybe.”

Benedict shrugged and turned over the front page. There he saw another seal. “We hereby certify that this is a true and correct copy, et cetera et cetera,” he muttered to himself. He turned another page—this one the copied page of an account book.

Sebastian tried not to let his pride show. He bit his lip, but that smile poked out no matter how he shoved it away.

At his desk, his brother made a choking sound.

Soon, Benedict would ask how he’d done it. They would talk—for hours—and at the end of it all, Benedict would realize that Sebastian was more than the foolish youth he recalled.

His brother turned one page, then another, his brow furrowing.

“Sebastian,” his brother finally said, “this cannot be a true and correct copy.”

“It is.”

“But it says here that over the course of the last seventeen days, you have made twenty-two thousand pounds.”

“Yes,” Sebastian echoed. “That is precisely what it says!”

“That’s ridiculous. Nobody makes that much money so quickly. Not with an initial investment of”—he glanced—“three thousand and two hundred pounds?” He sounded utterly outraged.

“I did.” Sebastian reached out and turned the next page. “I told you I was thinking about trade. I know it’s just a little thing, nothing like what you’ve accomplished. But I thought it was an interesting puzzle. I was thinking about shipping—”