The Countess Conspiracy (13 page)

She let out a sigh and looked away. “That’s the problem. You didn’t do…anything. I sat down and wrote an entire diatribe, and the whole time I was writing, I realized how horrid I was being. Half the reason I was angry was because I knew I was being dreadfully unreasonable.”

She played with the pen on her desk, rolling it uneasily beneath her fingers.

“This is about what I told you the other day?” he asked.

Her lips thinned, but she gave him a jerky nod.

“And let me guess your complaint: ‘You’re my best friend. How dare you care for me!’”

Another nod, but this one came with a flush of color on her cheeks.

“I’m a daring man,” Sebastian said lightly. “An intrepid explorer. I have done many things.”

“Yes,” she responded in almost the same tone. “You braved the wasteland of Violet Waterfield, the dangerous shark-infested waters of her most treacherous coasts. And you lived to tell the tale.”

There was a hard light in her eyes as she spoke.

You’re not a wasteland,
he wanted to say. She’d do anything for the people she loved—anything, except take compliments from them.

So he just shrugged. “I brought tea for the wasteland,” he informed her.

“What? Why? Are you practicing to become a footman?”

“No. I’m practicing to be a pest.”

“You don’t need any practice. You’re already an expert.”

She flushed and looked away—but Sebastian felt a flush of pleasure. If she could tease him, she was beginning to feel comfortable again. “Perfection of all kinds requires constant practice,” he intoned. “Besides, you didn’t have breakfast or lunch. You’re hungry.”

“I didn’t?” She frowned. “I am?”

He waited.

“Oh,” she said in some surprise after a little pause. “I am.”

He crossed the room and uncovered the items on the tray. He’d had experience enough with Violet that he’d made sure to ask for only those things that could survive an hour or so on a tray—cheese, apples, an array of summer vegetables, a selection of bread. A few sweet biscuits and a pot of now tepid tea rounded out the tray.

“It’s dangerous for you to not be on good terms with me,” Sebastian told her. “You’re not eating enough. That’s one of the things I’m good for—making sure you eat.”

“Nonsense.” She reached for an apple.

He took her left hand in his. She stopped entirely as he did so, her eyes looking up at him wide and unblinking. As if she expected him to do something more than touch her.

“Don’t worry, Violet,” he said, a little more sarcastically than he intended. “I’ll hold off on seducing you until tomorrow. I just want to prove a point.” He turned over her wrist and held up his hand. “See?” He slid three fingers between her cuff and her wrist. “This gown used to fit perfectly.” He rotated his fingers, demonstrating. “Look how much extra space there is now. You’re not eating.”

“No, I am,” she said with a frown. “I’m sure I am. I have dinner. And breakfast.” A larger frown. “Most days.”

“You’re not eating,” Sebastian said, “and you’re not even noticing that you’re not eating. Do I have to set your maid on you?”

“Won’t work,” Violet muttered. “Louisa’s too timid. That’s why I hired her.” She refused to look at him. “Damn it, Sebastian. Why do you have to be so…so…”

He waggled an eyebrow at her.

“So necessary?” she finished.

“Oh, Violet.” He grinned at her. “That was almost polite.”

She made a little noise. “A few weeks ago, I told you I wouldn’t even notice if you disappeared. The truth is, I’ve noticed. Every time I look up, I notice.” Her voice was soft. “Every time I notice, I feel awful. And every time I feel awful, I look away. You’re my…”

He leaned forward.

“My best friend,” she concluded. “And I
hate
you for it.”

They’d worked out a system of code over the years—sentences they used to hide their true meanings from the entire world.
I hate you
was not part of their code, but it felt like it: words that Violet used because she couldn’t bring herself to say what she really meant. It had not been lost on Sebastian that when Violet needed codes for
I need you
and
come see me,
she’d chosen phrases that bordered on rude.

“That’s so sweet,” he said gravely. “I hate you, too, Violet.”

She ducked her head, looking away from him. Hearing everything that he’d said in words that nobody but the two of them would ever understand.

“Now eat.”

She did.

“I wish my genius ran to making automatons,” he said. “I would invent one that would follow you around with a tray. It would wait patiently for you to look up from whatever you were doing, and as soon as you did, it would say, ‘Lady Cambury, you must have something to eat.’”

She swallowed her bite of apple. “That would be extremely annoying.”

“I do not consider that a detriment.”

“I consider it a waste of a good automaton. I would modify your invention,” she said, reaching for some cheese. “I’d dress
my
version up in my best silk and send it out to pay morning calls. Oh, how I hate making morning calls. It wouldn’t need much of a vocabulary. ‘Yes,’ my automaton would say, ‘this weather is dreadful, isn’t it?’ In fact, I think that’s how I would do it. Whatever the other person says, it would answer, ‘Yes, it most certainly is, isn’t it?’ My automaton would have perfect manners.”

“Yes,” Sebastian said, “it most certainly would, wouldn’t it?”

“I could be known far and wide for my affability,” Violet said. “I’ve never been known for my affability.”

“No,” Sebastian said. “You most certainly haven’t, have you?”

She looked up at him, her eyebrows rising, but she didn’t remark on his word choice. “And I would use my spare time to think about all the things I want to consider. Maybe this time I would hit on an area of research that you’d be willing to present.”

“No,” Sebastian said, more slowly this time. “You most likely wouldn’t, would you? It’s not the nature of the work, Violet, but the person who does it.”

She looked up at him. “Really? There’s nothing I could choose? No subject at all?”

You,
Sebastian thought.
You. Everything about you.
“I told you earlier. I’m thinking about shipping.”

She made a face. “Ugh. Shipping. That sounds messy. A collection of general principles, true only in aggregate, which any person can flout with impunity just because he feels like it.”

“Yes,” he said mockingly, “it most certainly is awful, isn’t it?”

She rolled her eyes. “God, that is annoying. As much as I hate to admit it, you’re right. I need a cleverer automaton. This one will have me hurled bodily from the houses I visit.”

“No,” Sebastian said. “They’ll have your
automaton
hurled from the houses you visit—and think of the advantages.” He winked at her and leaned in, gesturing her closer.

She leaned forward.

“You’ll never have to visit those houses again,” he whispered.

She smiled. “God, don’t make me laugh, Sebastian.”

“Why not?”

“Because. You’re going to make me forget—make me comfortable—”

He smiled. “That is the entire point. Get your back up all you wish. Rage at me for hours. Feel uncomfortable. At the end of the day, I’ll still bring you apples and make you laugh.”

She sniffed suspiciously. “Why?”

“Because.” He lowered his voice. “I love that I can make you laugh.”

She stared at him, frowning in consternation. She looked away and chose a biscuit from the tray. “Don’t try for stupid things.”

Someone else would think her rude. Someone else might imagine her unfeeling. Someone else might think she was all thorns, no soft, sweet petals. Sebastian knew her better than that.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Violet,” he finally said. “I’m too clever for that.”

Chapter Eight

F
OUR BAGS OF MARBLES.
Three decks of cards. A bottle of brandy, two of burgundy, a quantity of oranges—Sebastian checked the last item off his list and looked up, making a survey of the private dining room.

Blue bunting decorated the walls and festive trays of food covered the tables. They spilled over with grapes, cheeses, little sandwiches, large cuts of meat, cakes, pies, biscuits, pastries…it all added up to a regular feast of celebration indeed.

There was only one thing missing from Sebastian’s little party: guests. And by the clock, they’d be here—

The door opened.

“Oh, good Lord.” Oliver, his cousin, stopped in the doorway. He ran one hand through his ginger hair and adjusted the spectacles on his nose in disbelief.

Yes, the effect
was
rather impressive, if Sebastian said so himself. He folded his arms and tried not to preen too obviously.

“Are we really expected to eat all of that?” Oliver asked in hushed tones.

“Not
we,”
Sebastian said grandly. “
You.”

“There is an entire pig on that table. I have to stand up tomorrow morning.” Oliver shook his head. “Also, I would prefer not to vomit during my wedding ceremony. Jane might get the wrong idea.”

“Robert and I will hold you upright. It was his job to bring the bucket tonight. We’ll see if he… Oh, there you are, Robert. Nice of you to join us.”

“Bucketless,” Oliver muttered.

“Bucketless?” Robert shook his head. “What are you two nattering on about?”

“Oh, nothing.” Sebastian smiled. “Come in, then. Come and gawk at the magnificence I have provided.” He stepped aside and let his friends enter the room. Oliver looked all around, impressed despite himself.

Sebastian and Robert had made the sign hanging over the table. “Congratulations* Oliver!” it read in bright, multihued letters. The asterisk after the congratulations led to a footnote, spelled out in tiny black letters along the bottom of the banner.

Oliver stepped close and peered up at the canvas. “On managing to bamboozle an otherwise intelligent, lovely young woman into marrying you, which is quite possibly your greatest accomplishment to date,” he read aloud. But he was smiling as he did. “You’re right. Completely right. I still can’t quite wrap my head around my good fortune.”

“You should have been there when they first met,” Sebastian told Robert. “It was
quite
an event.”

“You weren’t there when we first met.” Oliver frowned. “Were you?”

“When they second met,” Sebastian corrected himself with a shrug. “She talked him in circles and afterward, he kept glancing over his shoulder and refusing to talk about her. It was love at second meeting. It was obvious to everyone except him; he took months to figure it out.”

Robert snickered. “God,
you
should have seen him mope about her. It was catastrophic. I thought something awful had happened, and he never even mentioned her name.”

“I am right here,” Oliver announced. “Standing in front of you two.”

A casual glance across the room would not instantly make one think that Robert and Oliver were related. Robert’s hair was blond; Oliver’s was almost orange, and he had a smattering of freckles dotting his nose in contrast to Robert’s pale skin. But beyond those superficial details, they looked so much alike. The same ice-blue eyes; the same sharp nose. They shared many of the same mannerisms. The two were practically inseparable, and had been since they’d discovered they were half-brothers years before.

“Oh, right,” Robert said in feigned surprise. “You
are
here. I suppose we’ll have to save the gossip about you for tomorrow night when you’ll be otherwise occupied. Tonight, you celebrate the last evening before your marriage in the style that only the Brothers Sinister can provide!”

“Yes,” Sebastian said. “We have here only the most sinister of foods—which is to say that any man who eats with his right hand must be made to drink an entire glass of my famous punch.”

The three of them—and Violet—had been called the Brothers Sinister since their days at Eton, mostly because they’d been left-handed and constantly in one another’s company.

Oliver winced. “Oh, God. No. Tell me you’re not making your wine punch.”

“I have a bottle of thistle spirits for that precise purpose.”

Oliver shook his head; Robert looked mildly ill. Sebastian grinned all the more. The thistle spirits came from one of the tenants on his estate, and they were as bad as they sounded: green, bitter, with bits of plant matter floating on top. They had a bite that snapped one’s head back. Sebastian had practiced for weeks when he was nineteen so that he might drink the stuff without grimacing. It had been one of his favorite pranks at university.

Here, try this
.

“So,” Robert said. “Remember, only the left hand may be used—easy for Sebastian and me, but those of us odd enough to use either hand with equal utility”—this, with a frown at Oliver— “must make an effort to recall proper behavior. It’s time to start the festivities!”

“Wait.” Sebastian held up his hand. “We can’t start. Violet’s not here yet.”

Robert turned to him and then, ever so slowly, let out a breath between his teeth. “Ah,” he said. “Uh.”

“Robert.” Sebastian took a step forward. “Where is Violet?”