The Countess Conspiracy

Violet felt on the verge of tears. Still, she found herself laughing at that—a giggle that felt like pure relief.

“We protect what is ours,” her mother said fiercely. “And this—this is yours. You’re going to take it back.”

“Yes, Mama,” she said.

“We’ll figure out the best way to proceed. I have ideas.” She frowned. “I admit, it won’t do much for your social reputation—but, bah, who cares about a thing like that? Lily, I suppose.”

“She has reasons, you know.”

Her mother waved this off. “She has no sense of priorities. What is the point of having a perfect reputation if it means you can’t claim something like this? This is going to be a production. We’ll have to involve others to make this come out as best we can. You’re friendly with the Duchess of Clermont. She seems like a good person. Will she stand by you?”

“Yes,” Violet said, her mind whirling. “She’s already involved. We have a plan, in fact.”

“When is your talk?”

“Tomorrow evening.”

Her mother’s eyes widened at this, but she didn’t scold.

“You’ll all be going up to Cambridge tomorrow, then?”

Violet nodded, not trusting her voice.

“Then we have no time to fritter away on useless conversation. Come along, now.” Her mother stood.

Violet felt as if her world had turned upside down—as if she’d opened a cupboard expecting bare shelves, and been showered with all of her favorite foods.

But there was one last thing, one little thing that niggled at the edges of Violet’s mind. She reached out and took hold of her mother’s sleeve. “Wait one moment.”

“There isn’t a moment to waste. We must—”

Violet yanked, and her mother fell silent.

“Wait, please,” Violet said. “There’s another scandal.”

“No, there isn’t,” her mother contradicted. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“There is another scandal, one relating to me. Something that happened in 1862.”

Her mother’s face became suddenly impassive. “I really don’t know what you’re talking about.”

But Violet suddenly did. I will hang for murder, her mother had said. It disgusts me. I have nightmares.

She knew it, and once she knew it, she couldn’t unknow the truth. “Mother,” she said softly. “Mother, when my husband died…”

“It was an accident,” her mother snapped. “We must be going.”

“Yes, of course.” Violet gathered up her nerves. “But…you see, there was something I never told anyone at the time. You see, I had miscarried. I had miscarried a number of times.”

Her mother’s mouth pinched. “You say this as if it might be unknown to me, Violet. I know what a daughter of mine looks like when she is pregnant, and I’m capable of determining that when no baby comes, she no longer carries a child.”

“I see.” Violet swallowed, unsure how to proceed. “I suppose you knew that there was a point when my doctor told my husband that we needed to stop trying for a child because it could cost me my life.”

“Know it?” Her mother huffed. “I was the one who suggested he speak. The stupid man wasn’t going to say anything at all. Wanted to leave it in your hands. I was the one who told him that your life was at risk. Anyone could see it. You were getting weaker and weaker.”

“Ah,” Violet said. “And I suppose you might have noticed that…my husband did not want to stop.”

Her mother’s eyes glinted.

“After we had that warning, I had two more miscarriages. Had he not passed away, there would have been more.”

“Yes,” her mother said softly. “I knew that. Just as I knew that the last time you miscarried, you were in bed for three weeks. I thought I was going to lose you, Violet.”

Violet nodded, unable to speak.

Her mother looked away. “It’s hell being a mother. Not being able to do anything to save the ones you love more than anything in the world. A lady is supposed to protect her own, but how is she supposed to do that?”

Violet grappled for speech. “When my husband died, it seemed like such an unexpected gift. I felt awful for feeling that way—awful and selfish, as if I didn’t deserve to have my life back. I didn’t know…”

And here she’d thought that her mother’s references to hanging for murder were hyperbole.

“Come, Violet,” her mother said, patting her hand. “It was a terrible tragedy when your husband fell down the stairs. It would be unbelievably gauche for us to label that event providential. A lady always avoids the truth, when it happens to be gauche.”

“Mama.” Violet swallowed. “I…I…don’t know what to say.”

Her mother simply shrugged. “It’s the first rule. I protect what is mine.” She set her hand gently on Violet’s shoulder. “And you,” she whispered, “you’re mine.”

Chapter Twenty-two

MEET ME AT CASTEIN’S BOOKS on Euston Road. Your very own servant, Sebastian.

The note had been delivered to Violet’s hand at seven on the next morning. She was to deliver her talk that evening; she’d planned to practice in the morning, and then travel to Cambridge at noon with her mother and friends. But as soon as she saw those words, her heart began to beat in cold fear. She called for her cloak and carriage, and left the house immediately.

It was only when she was halfway there that it occurred to her to suspect foul play. Surely Lily wouldn’t try something foolish to prevent Violet from giving the lecture?

But no. That was Sebastian’s hand, his messy signature.

And your very own servant was part of their code—in this case, it meant come urgently. Lily would never have known to use that.

Indeed, Sebastian met her carriage at Castein’s.

“Good,” he said. “There’s not a moment to lose. Send your carriage away.”

She did. He threaded her hand through his arm and started walking down the street.

“We’re not going into Castein’s?”

“No. That was a subterfuge.”

Her heart thumped. So he did suspect foul play. “Subterfuge from whom?”

He didn’t seem to hear her; he simply marched her down the pavement, ducking agilely through a rush of men who were exiting the train station ahead. He took her past a barber, a money-changer, a newsstand. King’s Cross Station was just down the street, and the streets were thick with traffic. Cabbies were trying to turn horses about, shouting imprecations at one another.