“Really, Penvale,” Diana said as he carefully set the tray down on the table before her. “Please don’t send yet another one of my maids into a tizzy, you’ll put her off her work.”
Ignoring her, as he frequently did, her brother flung himself into a chair, then leaned forward to select a scone. “What’s this about, then?” he asked after swallowing his first mouthful.
Diana, who had busied herself pouring cups of tea for them, didn’t look up as she spoke. “Violet’s concerned that Audley knows she’s bamming him.”
Violet, who had expected a denial from Penvale, instead merely received a snort of laughter. “Of course he does,” he said.
“What?” Diana asked, freezing in the act of handing a cup of tea to Violet. “What on earth do you mean?”
“I mean,” Penvale said, speaking with exaggerated slowness, “that Audley isn’t a complete idiot, and he’s perfectly capable of recognizing when he’d being lied to by his own wife.” Penvale’s tone wasn’t reproachful, but Violet couldn’t help stiffening all the same.
“When did he realize?” she asked.
“He recognized Belfry,” Penvale said wearily, taking another hearty bite of scone, “as he was leaving your house that day.” He cast a wry glance at his sister. “I realize you might find all this difficult to believe, given his man-size intellect.”
Violet slumped in her chair. “I knew it,” she said, feeling glum. She ought to feel relieved, she supposed, that she didn’t have to attempt that ridiculous cough anymore, and yet instead she felt oddly bereft. It had been rather nice to have an excuse to speak with James, even if much of their conversation over the course of the past week had involved arguing.
And kissing.
Her lips tingled at the memory of the feeling of his mouth on hers, and she resisted the urge to press her hands to them with great effort. She felt rather irked with her traitorous body for choosing that precise moment to relive the scene in James’s study, when she was so terribly annoyed with the man in question.
And yet, here she was.
“How did you realize?” Penvale asked curiously, having finished his scone and now redirecting his attention to the cup of tea his sister had handed him.
“He summoned my mother to nurse me back to health,” Violet said darkly. “The man knows full well that ten minutes in her company is likely to force me to take to my bed, not cure me. And then there was that ridiculous scene in Hyde Park yesterday afternoon with Willingham and Lady Fitzwilliam,” she said dismissively. “Absurd.”
“I gather he and Jeremy quarreled about it.”
“As well they might,” Violet said severely. “It was frightful.”
“Lady Wheezle was telling some sort of outlandish tale along those lines at Lady Markham’s dinner party last night,” Diana said. “The behavior she described sounded so wildly out of character for Audley that I didn’t believe a word of it, and said as much to the entire table.” She paused, heaving a dramatic sigh. “She probably won’t invite me to her Venetian breakfast this year, but that seems a fair price to pay. Odious woman.”
“She unfortunately more or less has the right of it,” Violet said, turning to her. “James and I went riding yesterday. We encountered Jeremy and Lady Fitzwilliam Bridewell whilst we were out, and James made a cake of himself assuring the lady that he was at her . . . service, should she ever require it.”
Diana’s mouth fell open. “That bounder!”
“Quite.” Violet took a sip of tea. “It was so out of character for him that I felt certain that he was doing it merely to irk me. Penvale has simply confirmed my suppositions.”
“So you’re speaking to him now?” Penvale asked hopefully, in the tones of a schoolboy who has been told that a particularly nasty assignment has been canceled.
“I most certainly am not,” Violet announced, hoping that she did not blush and give herself away. Speaking—only as was necessary. Engaging in passionate embraces—well, rather. “I did give him a piece of my mind this morning before I left the house, though, I assure you.”
“As well you should have,” Diana said encouragingly.
“And now you shall leave all this in the past and carry on as normal?” Penvale asked, ever the optimist.
“Hmm,” Violet said, tapping her chin, pretending to consider it. “No, I think not. I’ve a better idea.”
Lady Fitzwilliam Bridewell lived in a large house not far from Diana’s. Although her late husband had only been a second son, her dowry had evidently been sufficient to keep them in lavish style, and to ensure her comfort after his death. Violet had lingered at Diana’s for the rest of the morning, eating a meal with her after midday before finally departing in her carriage for her next social call. Upon arriving at Lady Fitzwilliam’s, she was led by the butler into a small drawing room, where she sat, rather uncomfortably, on a well-upholstered armchair. What had seemed like a clever move in Diana’s solarium now seemed a bit foolish.
Before she had further time to reconsider, however, the lady of the house appeared in the doorway. She was dressed simply in a gray afternoon gown—Violet knew that she was out of mourning, but this looked like one of her frocks from the months of half mourning that had concluded that period. Her golden hair was pulled back from her face into a simple knot at the nape of her neck, and her features bore an expression of polite curiosity.
“Lady James,” Lady Fitzwilliam said, walking into the room. “What an unexpected pleasure.” Her tone was wary, as well it might be—Violet had never spoken to her outside of a ballroom before, barring their meeting of the previous day, and she knew that for her to call upon Lady Fitzwilliam in her own home was curious indeed.
“Please, call me Violet,” Violet said, abandoning all etiquette as she stood. Her mother would have fainted at this breach of propriety—but then, Lady Worthington tended to swoon at the slightest provocation. Violet secretly suspected that she laced her corsets tighter to ensure said swooning—though, valuing her life (or at least her ears), she had of course never voiced her suspicion to her mother.
“Then you must call me Sophie,” was the reply, and Lady Fitzwilliam—Sophie—crossed the room to take Violet’s hand and squeeze it lightly, seemingly unfazed by how highly irregular everything about this was. “Would you care for some tea?”
“No, thank you,” Violet said, resuming her seat.
Sophie cast a quick glance around the room, as though reassuring herself that they were alone, then said, “Something stronger, perhaps? I’ve some brandy stowed away for special circumstances—and I rather suspect that this is going to be one.”
Violet realized in an instant why West had been so taken with Sophie Wexham. On the surface, she was all that was prim and proper—her hair pulled neatly back, her trim figure clothed in an entirely appropriate gown—but there was clearly more to her that lurked just beneath the surface, and Violet found herself rather intrigued by what, precisely, that more might be.
“Yes, I think that might be just the thing,” she said by way of reply, and Sophie shot her a pleased smile, rather as if she had sized Violet up correctly.