The Countess Conspiracy (34 page)

And here she’d thought that her mother’s references to hanging for murder were hyperbole.

“Come, Violet,” her mother said, patting her hand. “It was a terrible tragedy when your husband fell down the stairs. It would be unbelievably gauche for us to label that event providential. A lady always avoids the truth, when it happens to be gauche.”

“Mama.” Violet swallowed. “I…I…don’t know what to say.”

Her mother simply shrugged. “It’s the first rule. I protect what is mine.” She set her hand gently on Violet’s shoulder. “And you,” she whispered, “you’re mine.”

Chapter Twenty-two

M
EET ME AT
C
ASTEIN’S
B
OOKS
on Euston Road. Your very own servant, Sebastian.

The note had been delivered to Violet’s hand at seven on the next morning. She was to deliver her talk that evening; she’d planned to practice in the morning, and then travel to Cambridge at noon with her mother and friends. But as soon as she saw those words, her heart began to beat in cold fear. She called for her cloak and carriage, and left the house immediately.

It was only when she was halfway there that it occurred to her to suspect foul play. Surely Lily wouldn’t try something foolish to prevent Violet from giving the lecture?

But no. That was Sebastian’s hand, his messy signature.

And
your very own servant
was part of their code—in this case, it meant
come urgently.
Lily would never have known to use that.

Indeed, Sebastian met her carriage at Castein’s.

“Good,” he said. “There’s not a moment to lose. Send your carriage away.”

She did. He threaded her hand through his arm and started walking down the street.

“We’re not going into Castein’s?”

“No. That was a subterfuge.”

Her heart thumped. So he
did
suspect foul play. “Subterfuge from whom?”

He didn’t seem to hear her; he simply marched her down the pavement, ducking agilely through a rush of men who were exiting the train station ahead. He took her past a barber, a money-changer, a newsstand. King’s Cross Station was just down the street, and the streets were thick with traffic. Cabbies were trying to turn horses about, shouting imprecations at one another.

Undaunted, Sebastian guided her through a thicket of working men in bowler hats, all setting forth to start their days at the banks and counting-houses where they worked.

“Sebastian,” Violet repeated, “whom is this a subterfuge from?”

“No time,” he murmured in her ear. “I’ll explain later.” He guided her inside the station. The acrid smells of smoke and engine oil assailed her, but Sebastian didn’t pause. He led her around newsboys and sellers of pasties, over to a platform where train cars were slowly filling.

He let go of her arm and pulled out a pocket watch. He consulted this, and then the large clock face in the hall, squinting at the time with narrowed eyes.

“Sebastian, are we waiting for someone?”

“Yes.”

“Who?” She took a step closer to him. “What’s wrong? Should I be worried?”

“No, no,” he said absently. “Not yet.”

Not yet
did not sound auspicious.

“Are you introducing me to someone? Your Professor Bollingall? Or—” The thought caught at her and she gasped. “Oh, God, Sebastian, if you’ve brought me to meet Charles Darwin in a train station, I will…I will…”

“Give me more credit than that.” Sebastian smiled at her. “You won’t be introduced to Mr. Darwin until tonight.”

Not comforting. But before she had a chance to begin to work up a good panic in response, the conductor blew his whistle and called out “All aboard!” The engine nearest them roared more loudly.

And—before Violet could quite understand what was happening—Sebastian picked her up by the waist and swung her onto the train.

“What! For God’s sake, Sebastian—”

He stepped aboard himself and slammed the door shut behind them.

“What are you doing?” She pushed at his chest, but he was blocking the only exit.

“My apologies, Violet,” he said with a brilliant grin. “It was a subterfuge from you.”

“What?”

“Surprise!” He beamed at her. “I’m taking you to the seashore.”

“I don’t want to go to the sea! I’m giving a lecture tonight. I have to practice!”

A steam whistle sounded; the train jerked forward.

“No,” Sebastian said. “You
don’t.
I’ve heard you deliver your lecture pitch-perfect four times already. Five, six—it doesn’t matter how many more times you do it. All you’re going to do is work yourself up.”

The steam whistle sounded again; the train was gaining momentum, shifting from side to side as it sped down the tracks.

Violet folded her arms. “Easy for
you
to say. You’ve given a hundred lectures. I haven’t.”

“Yes, you have. Every one I gave, you were there, watching me, knowing each word I said before it would leave my mouth.”

She huffed. “That hardly counts. They weren’t looking at me.”

He bit his lip and looked away. “Very well, then. My motives are entirely selfish. Until this moment, I’ve been the only one who has known what you’re capable of. By the end of tonight, everyone will. Is it so wrong of me to want to spend these last hours with you?”

“Oh.” She paused.

He was giving her his most hopeful look—so innocent and yearning at the same time that even she could not be so hard-hearted as to refuse.

“I suppose,” she started to say grudgingly, but then she caught a triumphant flicker in his eye.

“No! You cad!” She shoved him, but she couldn’t help smiling. “I almost believed you.” She held up two fingers. “
This
close. You almost had me with that
oh, pity me, poor Sebastian
routine. You weren’t thinking of anything so maudlin.”

“True,” he admitted. “I just wanted to make you smile. You’re working yourself into a state.”

“You’re incorrigible.”

“True. But your mother is collecting your exhibits as we speak. You have nothing to worry about. You’re going to be brilliant.”

She tried to give him a really good glare. “You absconded with me. We’re on a moving train to—where are we going, anyway?”

“King’s Lynn. We’ll catch the early afternoon train to Cambridge and arrive with hours to spare.”

“I don’t have my notes with me,” she offered feebly. “How am I supposed to look over them?”

“If you really want, we’ll be changing trains in Cambridge anyway. You can always get off there and wait for your mother, who should be along half an hour later. You can go and sit in our house and make yourself sick with worry. Or…” He let the pause stretch and then gave her a wink. “Or you can pretend I gave you no choice at all. You can walk along the docks and breathe the sea air and enjoy yourself, muttering the entire time that it’s all my fault.”

Violet gave him a level gaze. “It
is
all your fault,” she told him severely. “If I so much as crack one smile, the guilt will be on your head.”

He grinned back and then—very suddenly—stopped smiling. He patted his coat pockets, once, twice, then checked his waistcoat pocket, his trousers. His face turned carefully blank.

“Is there some sort of problem?” Violet asked.

“Let’s play a game,” Sebastian said. His voice was a little too calm, his tone too measured. “It’s a guessing game called—did Sebastian remember to bring the return tickets?”

For just one second, Violet almost fell into his trap—running through a swift calculation of how much those tickets must have cost, estimating the meager value of the coins she’d brought with her.

Then she glared at him. “Very droll.”

“You’re no fun.” He frowned at her. “How did you know?”

She shrugged. “You only pretend to be absentminded,” she said, “but it’s obvious that you planned this to the inch. You’d never have made so ridiculous a mistake.”

S
EBASTIAN MADE HER LAUGH
four times. She smiled every hour—while they climbed to the top of a tower and looked out over the sea, while they clambered down and walked along the docks, watching the masts of the vessels roll up and down with the ocean. Every minute of her happiness felt like a victory that he’d won.

And, as she was the one to institute the no-science rule—he who mentions science must purchase ices for both parties—he suspected that she’d enjoyed herself, too.

The no-science rule was broken twice, both times with deliberate intent. Once had been an argument over whether seagulls inherited begging behaviors or learned them, a debate that became increasingly ridiculous as they walked along the beach and devised potential experiments for the unsuspecting birds. Luckily for the gulls, neither of them had any desire to perform their experiments, so they purchased ices instead.

The second time was when they passed the ice shop again on their way back to the station. Violet eyed the board listing the flavors as they walked past, and then deliberately asked him whether he thought ice was an admixture or an emulsion before it was frozen.

On the return trip, after the ices had been consumed, her smile faded, giving way to furrowed brows and a look of intense concentration. He didn’t disturb her; he didn’t dare. He conveyed her to her home in Cambridge and left for his own house.

His mood grew solemn. He’d not wanted to think of what might happen. But he didn’t know how people would respond to the coming revelation. He hoped for the best; he feared the worst. If the crowd took this revelation badly, who knew what Violet might be exposed to? He wouldn’t be able to protect her from that, and a little trip to the sea wouldn’t cure that harm.

It was in that somber mood that he set off for the hall. It was summer, and so still light out despite the fact that it was almost eight in the evening. He didn’t arrive at the hall with Violet; he came alone.

The crowds were out in force. It had been years since he’d spoken to even a partially-empty room, and with the way this evening had been advertised, tonight was no exception. There were already over a hundred people outside the lecture hall bearing placards.

Down with Malheur.

God, not evolution.

There were also his supporters.
We’re with Malheur
proclaimed a large banner carried by a group of Cambridge students.

Sebastian stepped from his coach, and the crowds roared at him.

“Thank you, thank you!” He bowed, tipping his hat with a flourish.

“Miscreant!” a woman shouted, hurling a turnip in his direction. It sailed a good twenty feet, landing on the cobblestones just before him, bouncing once, twice, before rolling the last few inches to tap his shoe.

Sebastian motioned back to his coach. He’d come prepared for this. A footman came and set a barrel on the ground.

“I see many of you have come armed with vegetables,” Sebastian shouted out. “You’ve no doubt heard of my initiative—save your soul, save the poor.”

This brought blank stares.

“If you’ll be so good as to deposit your food in this barrel,” Sebastian informed them, “we’ll see it distributed to the parish poor.”

A potato sailed out of the crowd directly toward his head. Sebastian extended his arm and caught the offending root vegetable before it struck him.

“Precisely like that!” He dropped it in the barrel. “Thank you for your generous contribution.”

“What? What is he saying?” a woman cried.

“But of course, you don’t need my thanks,” Sebastian said. “You’re only doing what every good Christian does—feeding the poor and the hungry.”

He inclined his head once more and then, before they started up again, strode into the lecture hall.

Violet came in a few minutes later. She didn’t look at him; she and her mother were linked arm in arm. Still, he winked in her direction and marched up to the front.

“Jameson,” he said to the white-haired botanist at the front. “You’re doing the introductions today, I presume?”

“Indeed, sir. Will you be wanting the usual?”

“Actually, I thought I’d do the introduction myself.” Sebastian did his best to smile charmingly.

Jameson frowned. “Introduce yourself? That’s…not done. Just not done, sir.”