Dark Season (42 page)

She wished she’d discovered cognac sooner. She was close to crying because she hadn’t. Why must men keep all the best things for themselves? Like strong spirits, and boxing clubs where one could purge one’s frustrations, and ancestral homes. God save the King and all that, but Britain’s inheritance laws were horribly unfair. And very possibly, they encouraged insanity. After all, old King George had been given any number of titles, estates, and countries upon his birth, and he babbled incessantly now, talking to dead people. Or so Father had said.

She wished she could talk to dead people. She’d ask Father why he’d mucked up so many things.

Why she was being forced to leave their home.

If little Violet, too, would sit in the window seat of Jane’s bedroom, dreaming of a handsome husband and the blessings of children …

This would not do, this depressing turn in her thoughts. Perhaps another glass—just a tiny one—would return her to the heady state of her initial euphoria. She poured a draught, although the mouth of her glass had shrunk in size, causing some of the cognac to slosh over its sides. Such a loss! But she swallowed its contents nonetheless.

Really, it was marvelous stuff. Perhaps Thompson and Bess would like some? She reached for the bell pull, but they’d be too shocked by her drunkenness to join in. With whom should she share the pleasures of this sin, now that she’d abandoned all propriety? Because one ought to be generous. She’d not forget that dictate.

Someone known for enjoying sin. Someone who’d already proven he had little else worth doing today. Someone well acquainted with the intimacies the wretched Sir Aldus had hinted at.

It took her a moment to find a piece of stationery and yet another to still her hand enough to write the thing. Even if her usually impeccable penmanship had deserted her, she was quite happy with the note when she was done and rang for Thompson. She had an invitation that needed delivering this very instant.

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