The Countess Conspiracy (16 page)

She didn’t want to see her sister squeeze her husband’s hand, didn’t want to imagine the promises that were being whispered back and forth.

“Get on with you,” Lily finally said, holding on to her husband’s fingers. “Don’t you have bills to read? Speeches to write?”

“I always do better with inspiration.” He leaned down to her lips.

Violet’s hands compressed.

Lily simply stepped aside. “Out,” she said. “We ladies have things to discuss.” She shut the door on him, but stood there against it for a moment, one hand on the knob, swaying slightly.

In that moment, Violet hated happy couples. She felt the weight of that emotion, a burdensome, unworthy resentment, one that tugged at her. She’d never begrudged Lily a thing, but sometimes it felt unfair. Lily had so much, and Violet…

Lily smiled dreamily. “I know what you are thinking,” she said. “You’re thinking of Mama’s rules: ‘A lady never contradicts her husband, and a daughter never contradicts her father.’”

Violet exhaled slowly. Lily had never known what Violet thought. It was why Violet loved her so dearly. She took all of Violet’s most horrible thoughts and transformed them into something almost human.

“A wife takes her consequence from her husband,” Lily continued. “To undermine him is to lose her own place in society.”

“That wasn’t the point of that rule,” Violet said. “It wasn’t about submitting to your husband, but about public perception…” She trailed off.

Lily rolled her eyes. “Public, private. How is there any difference? I feel awful. I
have
to tell him no occasionally. If he so much as sneezes in my direction, I get pregnant.”

Violet’s nails cut grooves into her palms. Better that sharp pain, though, than to speak her regrets aloud, to allow them to dig into her heart.

Lily’s eyes jerked wide open. She turned to Violet. “Oh, God.” She reached toward her sister. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have said—I wasn’t thinking…”

Violet chose her words carefully, imagined that each one was an iron block, walling her off from her fierce resentment.

“There’s no need to apologize. If we could not talk of children with one another, we’d have little enough to say.” She took a deep breath, and met her sister’s gaze squarely. “And if you think I was unaware that you caught a child at every turn, you must imagine me the most unobservant sister ever. After your fifth child, it was obvious to even an impartial observer that children came rather easily. As you’ve just managed number eleven…” She managed a shrug.

“True.” But Lily still looked stricken. “Still, there’s no need for me to rub your nose in it. I’m so sorry. I feel awful. I should never have said a word.”

If Lily felt so awful, then why was Violet the one comforting her?
Because that’s the way Lily is.

“Stop worrying,” Violet told her. “If you imagine I’m harboring jealousy about your ability to conceive, I am not. I promise you.”

“But—”

“I promise you,” Violet said, “on our father’s grave. Have I ever lied to you?”

Her sister’s face cleared. “No.”

Violet kept her own face impassive. Quite technically, she
had
never told Lily an outright lie. She’d only misdirected and falsely implied. Lily—forthright, trusting Lily—had never considered that Violet might be withholding…everything. And now that Violet had held back years of dark secrets, there was no way to make it right.

“I don’t weep over my lack,” Violet said, trying for something closer to familial friendliness. “I love your children. They’re enough for me.”

Lily smiled a little sadly. “You don’t weep at all, Violet.”

“Why should I? Nothing makes me sad.”

Lily was sunshine and openness. She was warmth and smiles. She was everything Violet could have been, if only… There were too many
if onlys
in the way for Violet to find herself in her sister. Lily was the warmer version of herself. It would be foolish to say that Violet was jealous of her. Jealousy was so plain, so unforgiving. One couldn’t love jealously, and if Violet knew one thing, it was that she loved her sister. Watching Lily’s life was as close as Violet would ever come to experiencing normalcy: children, affection, trust, family, love.

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?”

V
IOLET 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

S
EBASTIAN 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—”

“I know you were thinking about shipping,” Benedict interrupted. “But it takes months to make money on shipping. Years, even!”

“Well, not my way,” Sebastian said simply. “I thought it would be interesting to try this. I thought that if I did…” He trailed off.

His brother didn’t look pleased. He didn’t look interested. Instead, he shook his head, a frown darkening his face. “What have you done now, Sebastian?”

“Ah. Let me explain.” Once Benedict understood, everything would be better. Sebastian settled into a chair. “I had this idea. When a ship sails, you can purchase a share of the voyage. If indigo happens to be riding high when it comes in, you’ll make a tidy profit. If it falls, you might lose your capital. And if the ship is lost at sea…” Sebastian shook his head. “Well, then you lose everything.”

“Speculation,” his brother said, his nose wrinkling as if he’d smelled something awful. “You engaged in speculation.”

“Only up to a point. You see, there is a point when ships are particularly late coming in where people start to panic and sell their shares. After all, nobody wants to be left holding shares worth nothing. Better to hold on to a little bit.”

“Even worse,” Benedict rubbed his eyebrows. “You engaged in rank speculation.”

“There are all sorts of reasons why ships are late—bad weather, incompetent captains, strange and inexplicable occurrences. Turn the page.” Sebastian gestured.

His brother turned the page and frowned at the sea of numbers that followed.