The Countess Conspiracy

“Yes,” she said. And then: “No. I have to take a bath first.”

Her mother looked at her carefully. “Violet, I suspect he won’t care if you smell.”

Violet bowed her head, inhaling. She couldn’t smell herself anymore, and that was a bad sign. If she’d smelled clean, she would have noticed. “I care.”

And so it was almost an hour before Violet walked into her downstairs library and found Sebastian pacing the floor at the far end. They both froze as she entered the door—Sebastian halted mid-step, his body turned half toward her, his eyes lighting, the corners of his mouth curling up in a smile.

And she… Oh, she hadn’t been able to think of Sebastian at all these last days. She would have missed him too much. He’d been mussing his hair as he paced; he looked tired. But then that brilliant smile that she knew all too well took over his face, and all that weariness seemed to flee.

“Violet,” he breathed.

“Sebastian.” She wanted to rush across the room to him, but she still wasn’t sure how he felt. How badly had she hurt him, walking away when he’d begged her not to do so?

He stared at her a moment longer, as if trying to figure out where to start. “I come,” he finally said, “bearing gifts.”

“Gifts?”

“Paperwork, actually. I’ve been acting as your social secretary this last week and a half.”

“Oh.” She felt as if her head was spinning. “Have I been invited to many balls?”

“No, strangely,” he said with good cheer. “Not a one. But King’s College here in London says—well, a great many things, but first, that they’ll waive the residential requirements for receipt of a doctorate, although they will require you to defend a dissertation. Modified versions of your old papers will do.”

She blinked in confusion. Of all the things she had imagined, this was the furthest from her understanding. “Why would they do that?”

“So they can offer you a position.”

“A position! What kinds of fools want to offer me a position?”

“The sort of fools who are trying to build a world-renowned faculty,” Sebastian said with a wink. “Cambridge has also made overtures, although they’ve got a few internal matters to sort out before they can do anything with a woman. It will take them years to figure it out. But there are other choices. Professor Benoit—you know him, he’s from the University of Paris—took a steamer over three days after the news came out. He brought quite a dossier with him, along with an extremely kind letter from the French ambassador promising that in France, the land of liberty, you would never be barbarically jailed for your genius.”

Violet sat down heavily. “He did not say that.”

Sebastian strode to a table and shuffled through a handful of papers. He held one out to her, pointing. “Look. Barbaric. Genius. I don’t need to exaggerate that one. If you don’t like France, Harvard—that’s in America—cabled, and—”

“I know where Harvard is,” Violet said dizzily. “Stop. I can’t understand any of this. I was in prison this morning.” She looked up at her ceiling. “It was so peaceful.”

“Do you want to go back?”

“It was quiet. Nobody wanted anything of me. To go from that to…” She spread her hands. “I don’t know what to do, Sebastian.”

He grew quiet. “Well, if you like, I can hide you in my garret. I’ll slide a bowl of gruel through a slot early in the morning, and we can pretend to have you serve out your sentence.”

She choked back a laugh.

“There, there,” he said. “Isn’t that better?”

“Success is bewildering.” She let out a breath. “Sebastian… About you…”

He looked away uncomfortably, and she felt her heart sink. That was her answer. Of course he was still her friend. Of course he’d fielded the offers. But more than that… A man did not make the kind of plea that Sebastian had and then forgive it when the woman he loved threw it back in his face.

But what he said was, “I’m sorry I couldn’t go out to meet you this morning. I wanted to. But—I’ve been busy—and Benedict…”

Of course. His brother was ill, in addition to all the work that Violet had made for him.

“He’s come around, then?” Violet asked carefully.

“Well.” Sebastian didn’t look at her. “We’re talking. I’m making him laugh. And it doesn’t do any good to bother him about Harry or anything else, so I thought…”

Violet found herself standing. “This world.” She threw her hands in the air. “It is utterly mad. Crazy. Stupid. Backward and inside out.”

He was staring at her with a strange look on his face. “Violet? Is something wrong?”

“Yes,” Violet said. “Everything is wrong. Am I raving? I have earned the right to rave.” She pointed at Sebastian. “Sit there. You have earned the right to sit there.”

He looked even more confused.

“Are you leaving?” he asked in disbelief.

“Temporarily,” Violet said. “Just…wait. Wait here.”

Chapter Twenty-six

VIOLET’S HOME WAS SURROUNDED; a quick peek through the window sufficed to show that there would be no way to sneak past the crowd.

At least… There was no way to sneak out the front.

She retrieved her bag and crept outside, down the servants’ stair and into her garden. The gate behind the ivy opened at her touch, and she slid into the gap between the walls. The roar of the crowd faded, bit by bit, as she inched her way along the passage. By the time she came to his property, she heard only a muted buzz.

The crowds didn’t know the properties were connected, then.

Excellent. There was nothing to do now but for Violet to brazen it out.

She marched around to the side yard where Sebastian kept his mews. His driver stood near a side door, smoking and talking to a footman. They looked up at Violet’s approach. The footman dropped his cigarillo as she approached.

“Your Ladyship!” The driver straightened, tapping the ashes in his pipe out onto the gravel underfoot. “Er… What brings you here?”

They’d undoubtedly heard the whole sordid tale of her imprisonment, but if that was the case, they knew their own master’s involvement in the affair. And they were too well-trained to blurt out anything like What are you doing here? or Are you an escaped convict?